Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  Voisanne walked through the entrance, following Asal down a long corridor. To her right, through a series of ornate openings, she could see the city of Angkor far below. She felt as if she were atop a mountain, as the temple’s architects had intended. Nothing within sight rivaled the height from which she stared. Everything else was below her, further removed from the realm of the supreme soul.

  The group stepped past a massive set of teak doors, turned to the left, and walked into a large chamber at the base of the lotus-shaped tower that rose from the middle of the terrace. The chamber was open on all sides and held an immense bronze statue of Vishnu, to whom all of Angkor Wat was dedicated.

  A devout Hindu, Indravarman walked up to the statue and knelt before it. So did Thida and Asal. Voisanne remained standing, not because she didn’t believe in the God, but because she felt defiant. While the men bowed their heads and prayed, Thida studied Vishnu’s face and Voisanne looked out into the countryside. From so high, she could see what had long been a great empire. The terraced platforms of Angkor Wat fell away like steps that a giant might climb. Outside the temple grounds, the city thrived with innumerable people, horses, and war elephants. The huge, square moat surrounded the city, and in the distance, older temples rose from the tops of hills and the crooks of streams. To the far south, the Great Lake spread out toward infinity. She could see its beginning, but not its end.

  The men continued to pray. Voisanne wondered why Indravarman had summoned her and Thida to accompany him to the top of the temple. Voisanne had heard stories of past kings enjoying women atop temples, and she knew that if he made such an intention known, she would run and throw herself to her death.

  Indravarman stood up. “Why,” he asked, “do the faces of women dominate this site?”

  Asal and Thida also rose, though no one answered.

  “Is it because Khmer men are weak?” he continued. “They chisel their memories and beliefs into stone while their women toil far below.”

  The wind whistled through an unseen gap in the sandstone.

  Voisanne was tempted to reply, to defend her father and lover. But she sensed that too much boldness would kindle Indravarman’s interest in her, and she would rather have him remain entranced with Thida’s beauty.

  Indravarman shook his head. “Your empire cannot be rivaled when it comes to wonders such as Angkor Wat. You’ve made the Gods proud, and that’s not easy to do. That’s why, when many of your men fall so easily and act so meekly, I wonder if they’ve truly fallen. Could the men who built this place bow to me so quickly? I think not. I think defiance runs in your blood, a defiance toward mortality, toward me. And that’s why I’ve brought you here, to ask you what I should do about such defiance. How do I put out a fire that has yet to burn?”

  Thida glanced up. “Why us, Lord King?”

  “Because your men celebrate your beauty, your wisdom. They celebrate it in their carvings. They guard their temples with visions of you, and so you must have more merit than it would at first seem.”

  “We may, Lord King,” Thida said, “be of—”

  “Ten of my warriors were found dead this morning!” Indravarman suddenly yelled, his voice booming, hurting Voisanne’s ears. “Their throats were cut and this is why I speak of defiance! Because when I find ten of my warriors dead, floating in the moat, I know that your men aren’t as meek as they appear. And a fire threatens me. A fire that’s strong enough to consume my land.”

  Voisanne thought that he was the fire, burning without control, but, once again, she said nothing. The combination of his bulk and anger seemed to dominate even the large statue of Vishnu. Of the two figures, Indravarman was far more imposing.

  “Since our playthings have lost their tongues, what do you advise?” Indravarman asked, turning to Asal.

  “Kill ten Khmers, Lord King. Ten of your prisoners. And let their fates be known.”

  “Ten warriors?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think, fool, that the men who built this place care about the fate of ten warriors?” Indravarman shouted. “Your sword arm may be strong, Asal, but your suggestion invites our foes to rise up against us. If you wish to remain by my side, you’d better learn how to make men fear you.”

  Asal bowed. “Forgive me, Lord King. I only wish to—”

  “Take ten Khmer families out into a courtyard, for everyone to see. Execute them all. The men, the women, the children.”

  “No!” Voisanne said, dropping to her knees. “Please don’t—”

  Indravarman reached for the hilt of his sword, but Asal was quicker, kicking her hard in the stomach. “Silence, woman!”

  Gasping for breath, Voisanne fell to her side, her eyes tearing. Indravarman laughed. “And so she does speak,” he said. “She dares to speak when not asked a question.”

  “I’ll deal with her, Lord King,” Asal replied. “And she won’t enjoy it.”

  “Do.”

  Voisanne started to cry, imagining the fate of the children who would soon be killed. She thought of her siblings, wondering how the beauty of their lives could be extinguished so easily by the cruelty of strangers.

  As Voisanne continued to weep, Asal asked himself how he could save the lives of the innocent. “Lord King?”

  “Yes?”

  “You speak of a fire that’s yet to burn.”

  “It smolders.”

  “But the death of the young might make it burn more quickly.”

  “So what would you have me do? Ten of my men are dead! Slain outside my palace!”

  Asal bowed. “Kill ten of their priests, Lord King. A public execution. Ten of their highest-ranking priests. The sight of ten dead priests will sap their spirits. The sight of dead children will inflame them.”

  Indravarman grunted, then rubbed the iron buried within his belly. Though troubled at the thought of offending the Gods by putting priests to death, he suspected that Asal was right—better to kill the old than the young. “But cast the bodies into that moat, Asal, and let the Khmers know that I’ll turn its waters red with their blood if there’s another attack on my men.”

  “Yes, Lord King.”

  “Red with the blood of their children!”

  Asal nodded as Indravarman whirled away. Thida followed him. Though Asal wanted to help Voisanne to her feet, to tell her that he had kicked her to save her, he could do nothing of the sort. Instead he shouted at her to follow, and when she hesitated, he dragged her up, pulling her after them. She beat at his side, shrieking.

  Indravarman yelled at Asal to hurry, and Asal thrust Voisanne forward. She slapped him hard on the face and would have slapped him again but he caught her wrist. He was pleased that she continued to struggle against him, because Indravarman would not be easily duped, and if Asal’s compassion for the Khmer woman were ever known, she would be put to death.

  Fearing Indravarman’s guile, Asal cursed Voisanne as he dragged her down a long corridor. He passed carving after carving of the smiling women, who looked so at peace. A distant memory unfurled. He saw his mother grin. He wanted to see more, but then Indravarman shouted for him and the memory was gone.

  Jayavar could tell that the river had fallen since the peak of the monsoon season. A nearby bamboo thicket, five feet above the water, had once acted as a net of sorts, catching debris that had floated on the river’s surface. The bamboo trunks, so close together, held driftwood, leaves, and an old rope.

  Gazing up and down the sandy shoreline, Jayavar looked for a flat stone about the size of his palm. He soon found what he required, retrieved the object, and carefully placed it atop the pile of stones that he had already stacked. Needing two smaller stones, he waded into the water, searching and discovering.

  The finished pile was taller than his knee. He touched the stones, which had been sculpted by the passage of water and time. Each was beautiful. Jayavar believed that his pile would remain standing until the monsoon rains came again. Then the river would rise, lap at the bottom stone, climbing hi
gher until it toppled his creation. The stones would scatter, yet remain near one another, perhaps unmoving for centuries.

  A gibbon screeched overhead. Jayavar glanced up, looking for the monkey. He saw nothing, but leaves drifted downward, fluttering like feathers. Some of the leaves landed in the water and were carried downstream, green vessels that might make it to the sea. Jayavar felt a pang of regret as he realized that his youngest children had never visited the coast. He’d planned to take them, to watch them run into the endless swath of blue, to hear their laughter as they leapt over waves or chased crabs on the beach.

  His eyes watered, but no tears fell. Ajadevi and his small band of warriors were nearby, and he didn’t want anyone to see his anguish. They had been riding through the jungle all morning, and the closer they got to Angkor, the more eager and hopeful everyone seemed to become. Everyone but him, that is. Though Jayavar often spoke to his men about hope, about the future, he felt further removed from his children, as if he had already said good-bye to them.

  “You used eleven stones.”

  He turned, surprised to see Ajadevi standing only a few paces away. He’d never met anyone capable of moving with such stealth. She might as well have been a part of the forest. Though his wife had always been talkative with him, she was quiet with everyone else, preferring to dwell within her own thoughts.

  “A stone for each of your children?” she asked.

  He looked at his pile. “Yes.”

  “Come. There’s something I wish to show you.”

  Cicadas screeched from unseen places as he followed her upstream along the riverbank. She walked about twenty paces and then pointed to a pool of water that had been separated from the river. Within the pool were six or seven fish the size of Jayavar’s hand. They were perch, one of the most delicious fish to be found near Angkor. The pool also contained a large soft-shelled turtle that was almost as big as a shield. Jayavar wondered if the trapped fish knew that freedom was so close. Soon the pool would dry up, and when it did, they would be eaten by the turtle or alligators or ants.

  “You should release them,” Ajadevi said.

  “Why?”

  “Because release is good.”

  He studied the fish, which darted about the pool, seeking escape. “You think I should release my children? That I hold on to them too tightly?”

  “I’m sorry, my love. But yes, you should release your past. You should release yourself.”

  “You think I’m trapped? Like these fish?”

  She sighed and then touched the wound on his hip, which, thanks to her care, was healing quickly. “Your bond to the past makes your connection to the present more tenuous. In that way you are trapped.”

  “The past defines me.”

  “And the present will define the future of your kingdom.”

  He turned away from her. “You ask the impossible, as if I have a heart of stone instead of flesh.”

  “But, Jayavar, your men see your despair. It’s etched on your face. And you’ll never free your people, never free the memories of your children, if you plant seeds of despair. You have to plant what will grow, not wither.”

  “You know nothing of what you speak! Of my loss!”

  “Because…because I’m not a mother?”

  “My bond to the past shall always be a part of me. It will define me more than the present, more than the future.” A mosquito landed on Jayavar’s arm, and he crushed it with the palm of his hand. “You push me too hard, Ajadevi. You want me to abandon hope when I cling to it as if it were a final breath of air that I might draw into my lungs. Until we reach Angkor, until I hear for certain of their fates, I shall cling to hope. And if my men see my despair, then they shall also see how I remain faithful to my duty even in the face of such grief.”

  Ajadevi bit her bottom lip. “They were my children too. We didn’t share the same blood, but I always considered them my children, and my pain is more than you’ll ever know. But I hide it, Jayavar. I hide it because I must. No one sees my tears except me. No one hears my whimpers except me. So don’t act as if you’re the only one among us who has suffered. I’ve most likely lost my parents, my siblings, and…our children. I don’t ever expect to hear the voices of my sisters again—voices that made me smile but, because of my station beside you, have surely been silenced. I, like so many, have suffered, and yet we each go forward. Not because we want to but because we must.”

  Jayavar reached for her, but she spun from him and walked downstream along the shoreline. She stopped at his pile of stones, kneeling beside them, her hands against her face. She seemed to shudder, and he looked past the bamboo thickets, ensuring that his men were not near. He saw no one else, and so he turned back to her, watching her until she regained her composure. To his surprise, she began to construct a pile of stones next to his. She worked with care, never looking in his direction.

  Only when she finished her pile did he turn his attention to the fish. In a week or two the pool of water would dry up. Though he would never release his children, never accept their fate, he bent over, scooping away the damp soil between the pool and the river. He worked with determination, glancing at the fish, wanting them to be free. Soon he created a channel between the bodies of water. He deepened the channel, then stood up and walked to the far end of the pool, herding the perch forward. They entered the channel, swam into the river, and disappeared. Though he doubted that the turtle needed his help, he picked it up and placed it also in the river.

  Ajadevi remained near the two piles of rocks. For the first time in several days, Jayavar considered her losses. Some of her loved ones might still live, but others had certainly died, and he chastised himself for being selfish. Sometimes her strength was so apparent that he forgot about her grief.

  Walking farther upstream, Jayavar headed toward a ficus tree that had fallen over the water. Dozens of purple orchids grew along the rotting trunk. Jayavar removed several of them from the damp wood and then pulled off their petals, dropping them into the water. The petals drifted toward Ajadevi, reminding Jayavar of lotus flowers in the moat around Angkor. Ajadevi saw the petals and looked toward him. He lowered his head, bowing to her, acknowledging her pain. Though he wanted to go to her, he also needed to respect her moment of mourning.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  Then he turned away and headed into the bamboo stand, toward the men who longed for him to lead, to carry them forward with his belief in the future. He would have to find inspiration from his wife and bury his grief, deep down, where others couldn’t see it.

  In the darkness of night he would honor his loved ones. But in the light of day he would honor those still living, those who rode by his side and who would soon fight for a better tomorrow.

  The afternoon had passed quickly for Asal. He’d heard a rumor that Jayavar was raising an army to the north of Angkor and, followed by a hundred good men, Asal had searched a wide area. His force had found several dozen scattered Khmer warriors, and brief skirmishes had ensued. But no one knew the whereabouts of the prince. The Khmers all believed that Jayavar was alive and would return, yet it was as if the jungle had swallowed him up.

  Asal had endured Indravarman’s displeasure at the failure of the foray. The king was tired of rumors. He wanted facts. And when Asal had had no facts to give him, Indravarman had smashed his fist onto a dais and waved his advisers away. Asal had bowed and left to find ten Hindu priests to execute—the task that Indravarman had given him.

  Though Asal wasn’t a deeply religious man, his father had been, and he wished that the priests didn’t have to be killed. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his plan spared the lives of children, but he still felt empty as he climbed the steps of Angkor Wat, heading for the summit of the temple where the oldest priests tended to congregate. He paused, gazing toward his homeland in the north. Suddenly he missed the sea. He’d been born in a coastal village and remembered hunting in the shallows for horseshoe crabs with his brothers. His mother
had always set the crabs on embers, cooking them whole, making her children eat their pungent eggs for extra nourishment.

  Of all his loved ones, her death had pained him most, because she had seen her children die and her misery had seemed without end. She hadn’t been able to protect them from the cholera, a failing that killed her with greater swiftness than the disease. She had thought that Asal would die as well and had clutched him against her chest as she took her final breaths, trying to sing a song that he’d always liked.

  Asal had lain against her body for two days until he finally recovered. Then he’d dragged the bodies of his family members to a field overlooking the sea. As was customary among his people, he didn’t bury or burn them, but left them in the open, so that nothing would impede their path to rebirth.

  At the top of Angkor Wat, having reflected on the death of his family, Asal thought about the priests, about their memories and regrets. He didn’t want them to be executed and mused over how he might help them while still fulfilling his duty. An answer of sorts came to him, and he found an old priest. They spoke in hushed tones. They nodded and prayed. And then Asal returned to the Royal Palace, where he asked one of his men to bring him Voisanne.

  While Asal sat in his room, he looked over the dinner that a slave had prepared for him. Like everyone of high rank within the palace, Asal ate from golden bowls and plates. The bowls contained rice, slices of mango, and fish sauce. The plates held eight sets of skewered frog legs that had been grilled. To protect the food from flies, squares of red silk had been draped over everything.

  Waiting for Voisanne, Asal used a narrow bamboo tube to sip rice wine from a silver flask. He didn’t drink often, but alcohol soothed the aches of battle, the memories of seeing a foe die on his blade, and let him sleep for at least half of any night. After he had taken another man’s life, he always settled down and asked for rice wine. He wasn’t alone in this practice.

  Asal had made certain that there was ample food and drink for Voisanne. Though he was hungry, he neglected his food, continuing to wait patiently for her return. He wanted to apologize for kicking her, for dragging her down the long corridor. His man must have struggled to find her from amid the five thousand concubines in the Royal Palace, for by the time she arrived, the meal was cold. She glared at him as he thanked the warrior, who shut the teak door behind him.