by John Shors
Asal had asked her to dine with him because he had good news to share. But he wanted her to eat first, as she was thinner than most women her age and he worried that if dysentery was to strike her down, as it did so many Khmers and Chams, she wouldn’t have the strength to survive.
While musicians plucked at harps, shook bells, and blew on conchs from somewhere distant, Asal sipped his wine. He watched Voisanne finish her fish and then wash her fingers. She moved with the grace of a court dancer. Everything about her seemed elegant, and he wondered how she must see him—with his bulk and muscles and scars. He must appear as a brute, as out of place beside her as an elephant next to an orchid.
“I’ve been thinking, my lady, about your sister,” he whispered at last, setting down his wine cup.
She looked up.
“I want to see you reunited. You both deserve that. And I think I know how to bring you together.”
“How?”
The music stopped. Silence seeped into the room as candles flickered in the corner. Asal shifted on the mat into a kneeling position, drawing closer to her. “At first…I thought that I’d steal Chaya away. But I’ve come to know her master, and he’s an honorable man. So there is no need to steal what can be bought.”
Voisanne leaned toward Asal. “You could buy her?”
“Why not? I think that honesty would be best in this circumstance. I could tell him that you’re my…companion and that it would please you to be reunited with your sister. If I ask him for a favor, I think he will grant it.”
Reaching forward, Voisanne took his hands in hers. “And she would live with me?”
“No, my lady. Because anyone who lives in that house is too close to Indravarman. We should keep her far from him. As my slave, she’d take care of my horse. She’d live with other slaves. But you could see her often, and I would be good to her. She would be free in all but her title.”
“When, Asal? When might you do this?”
He smiled. “What about tomorrow?”
Her hands tightened around his and she embraced him, her breasts pressing against his chest. She looked up, then kissed him, her lips warm and full against his. “You give me…life,” she whispered, kissing him again. “I thought mine was gone…yet you gave it back to me.”
“I want…”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You, my lady. I want you.”
“Then you may have me.”
“But not like this.”
She pulled ever so slightly away from him. “What do you mean?”
He looked down at her, saw the richness of her eyes, smelled a trace of her perfume. “When I’m with you, I feel…as I did when I was a child,” he replied.
“How so?”
“Because, my lady, the world with you in it…seems new. And beautiful.” He traced the contours of her upper lip with the tip of his forefinger.
“So why do you hesitate?”
“Because I want you to want me, not to feel indebted to me. Now you’re indebted to me because of Chaya. And so you come to me. You offer yourself to me. You offer a gift that I’ve dreamed of, longed for. Yet I want to receive that gift only when you’re a free woman, when you’re indebted to no one.”
She kissed his fingers. “You’re a gift too, Asal. After a long drought I feel that the Gods favor me with blessings of rain. They brought you to me and for that I’m so very grateful.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
They continued to talk as the candles burned low, sharing their pasts, their hopes for the future. Finally, when the sun’s approach had hidden the stars, he helped her to stand. He walked with her through the sleeping palace, through the still city, toward her quarters. Near the end of their journey, as they passed a dark pond full of lotus flowers, he took her hand. Warmth spread between them, causing them to linger near an ancient garden, to smile in the darkness.
They reached her quarters. Though he didn’t want to leave her or these new, wondrous feelings she inspired, he said farewell, bowed, and turned.
His pace was slow as he walked away.
He looked for her footprints on the path they had followed.
Rebirth
Kbal Spean, Early Dry Season, 1177
everal days of difficult travel to the north of Angkor Wat, the land gradually began to undulate, like the surface of a sea. Valleys, hills, and outcroppings of rock dominated the area. A series of streams and lakes supported a variety of trees, flowers, animals, and fish. Even in the dry season, the landscape was lush.
Nowhere was this abundance of resources more evident than at Kbal Spean. Set deep in the jungle, Kbal Spean was a religious site created by Hindu priests. A small river ran through the area, and it was there that the priests had left their mark. Hundreds of ancient carvings could be seen in the bedrock beneath and beside the river. In places the clear water ran over images of Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma; over lotus flowers, cows, crocodiles, and Sanskrit writings. These had been carved decades earlier by priests when the river was almost dry. The boulders that bordered the water were also covered in carvings, as were the walls of small caves and the faces of stone overhangs. The sacred images were still well defined, as if they had been recently created.
Having left Angkor more than a month earlier, Ajadevi and Jayavar sat beneath a waterfall, which must have roared in the wet season but was now just a steady, soothing cascade. The pool beneath the waterfall was the length and width of several spears. Immense trees drowned out most of the sun, though patches of light illuminated the ground like large, glowing leaves. A head-high anthill perched on one side of the pool. Other spaces were filled with flowers, bushes, stalks of bamboo, and thick vines that dropped from the canopy. The air was moist and full of rich scents.
A short walk downriver sprawled the Khmer encampment, which now boasted nearly five thousand inhabitants. Since Ajadevi and Jayavar had returned from Angkor, groups of Khmers had been appearing on a daily basis at Banteay Srei. These groups were carefully screened by Khmer officers and, once approved, led to the secret base at Kbal Spean. Though most of those who undertook the long trip were warriors who had escaped the Cham attack, ordinary citizens—farmers, priests, weavers, cooks, and children—had also made the journey. A contingent of seven hundred Siamese mercenaries was also present, with more expected any day. Though the Khmers and Siamese were old enemies, promises of gold had served to strengthen the unlikely alliance. Jayavar had convinced the Siamese leaders that victory was possible, and with victory would come great riches.
A pink butterfly fluttered above the pool, prompting Ajadevi to rise from a boulder and step forward. The water was cool against her feet. She saw that scores of circular, patterned balls called lingas had been carved into the bedrock of the river and she wondered how the priests had accomplished such an extraordinary feat. The lingas, she knew, were phallic in nature and represented the essence of Shiva. Careful not to step on a linga, she moved into deeper water and sat down, then splashed herself, washing away sweat and grime.
“How long will we wait to attack the Chams?” she asked her husband, not eager for the fight but aware that Jayavar was.
He waded into the water and lowered himself beside her. About to respond, Jayavar paused when a sentry posted in a nearby treetop called out that a contingent of new arrivals was approaching, carrying the right combination of banners. Once this visual code was verified, shouts were exchanged, and the newcomers were given instructions.
“Each day I expect to hear that the Chams have found Banteay Srei and are marching on us,” Jayavar replied. “Our strength grows with every sunrise but so does the threat of discovery.”
“We’ve taken precautions. It would be hard for them to surprise us.”
“Yes, though they did so once before and it cost us our empire.”
She nodded, studying the stone lingas, wondering why the female pedestal, the yoni, wasn’t present. “The Siamese elephants have been a blessing. And the horses.”
&n
bsp; “Indeed. Indravarman will not expect any of us to be mounted.”
How long would it take to carve a linga? Ajadevi asked herself, marveling at the patience necessary for such a task. A month? She imagined a priest carving a linga in the middle of the dry season and then watching as the river rose higher, submerging his work speck by speck. Did the rise and fall of the linga symbolize the wheel of rebirth?
Though Ajadevi venerated Buddha and his many teachings, she admired Hindu priests and what they could create. Angkor Wat was the culmination of infinite dreams and aspirations. And so was this small, almost unknown river with its ever-changing images of Shiva and Vishnu.
“We must attack him in a place of our choosing,” Jayavar said, rubbing his foot. “He shall outnumber us, and somehow we must counter that advantage.”
“What do your officers say?”
“That we should raid the Cham homeland and draw him out of Angkor.”
Ajadevi considered the strategy, still looking at the lingas. “To do that would make us no better than him. And would it not greatly prolong the conflict?”
“It would.”
“Better to fight him near Angkor. Fight him there and end this struggle.”
He sighed, pausing to stack stones. “If we march toward Angkor, will you do something for me?”
Her gaze swung from the stones to his face, and she eyed him with suspicion. “What?”
“Stay here. Now that Nuon may be with child, she will require your counsel. And if a son is born, he shall one day need guidance.”
Ajadevi bit the inside of her lip, wondering how much Nuon pleased him. The woman was young, beautiful, and seemed eager to laugh. In another time and place, Ajadevi would have considered her a rival, and treated her as such. But here in the jungle with the empire at stake, Nuon and her child must be nurtured and cherished.
“I shall train her each and every day,” Ajadevi replied. “But then I shall ride with you.”
“Why? Why must you ride with me when you know the outcome is likely to go against us?”
“Because I belong with you. And if you’re to die, then I wish to die beside you.”
He shook his head. “You pretend otherwise, but you’re a stubborn woman.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do your signs tell you as much? That we should be together?”
“My heart tells me. Do I need more than that?”
“If Indravarman captures you, he will—”
“Claim me for himself?”
“Yes.”
“Then he would die. One night he’d awaken choking on his own blood. And then wherever you were, into whomever you’d been reborn, I would find you.”
“You would find me. I know you would.”
She turned to him, touching a scar on his knee. “Our love gives us solace, which gives us strength. And so we must share that same faith with everyone. We must inspire them before they go to war. Better yet, we must bind Khmers and Siamese together.”
“I’m trying. I conduct war councils and make efforts to encourage people in camp. I spend time with the Siamese and with our countrymen. But how can I achieve more?”
A monkey screeched from somewhere above. Ajadevi thought about the simple ceremony they had recently conducted to crown Jayavar their king. She had advised staging a more extravagant event, but he’d refused, saying that it would have been wrong to bask in personal glory while so many of their people were suffering.
“I think we should celebrate the Festival of Floats,” she finally replied. “Could a more perfect place for it exist?”
Jayavar smiled. The Festival of Floats was held to honor nature, to ask forgiveness for polluting the earth and water. Ever since he was a child, it had been one of his favorite celebrations. “Yes,” he replied, smiling. “That will give the children something to do. As we prepare for battle, they can make the floats.”
Ajadevi stroked his old scar. “You must make a float too, Jayavar. Our kings have always made floats and you must be no different.”
“I will. Though sometimes I don’t see myself as a king. Perhaps fate does, but why should fate be so omnipotent? Why should I have this power when others are born as slaves?”
Her fingers paused. “But through rebirths, slaves can become kings. So you should see yourself as others do. I see a man who has celebrated all of life’s festivals with me, who has celebrated the festival that is life. And whatever the Chams have taken from me in the past, whatever they may take in the future, they cannot steal the imprint of you from me. Just like the river cannot remove these carvings from itself, no one can pull you away from me, or me away from you. That is our destiny. Do not question it, Jayavar, but embrace it. You are our king. Not because of fate, but because your past lives and deeds have made you so.”
Boran had never been so far north of Angkor. He walked ahead of Soriya, Prak, and Vibol, leading them through the jungle. Two days earlier they had left their boat, hiding it amid clumps of ferns and then setting out on foot, each loaded down with heavy slings full of supplies. Boran carried the Cham axe, which they had retrieved after saving Vibol. He eyed it from time to time but did not want to wield the weapon.
As Boran made his way along a game trail, he thought about Vibol, wishing that he would laugh as he once had. The Chams had injured his spirit more than his body; the bruises and cuts had healed, yet his mind remained in a dark and distant place, inaccessible to those who loved him. Boran didn’t know if his son was afraid, humiliated, or angry at himself. Perhaps all three emotions swirled together. Vibol had so desperately wanted to be a man, but his first foray into manhood had ended in disaster. Unsure what to say to his son, or how to make him laugh as he once had, Boran felt helpless and frustrated.
For the past several weeks Boran had sold fish to Chams while Soriya, Vibol, and Prak had stayed behind. Boran had studied the Cham camp and gotten to know the officers in charge of gathering supplies. His prices were cheap, and the Chams had come to welcome the arrival of the Khmer, hurrying out onto the long dock to greet him. And while Boran threw fish after fish to his enemies, he had counted the ships, men, horses, and elephants. He had also made note of defensive positions, arriving troops, and the well-being of the men. Each morning Prak asked for more details, and each evening Boran returned with information. While their father traded, Prak and Vibol caught fish and their mother mended nets.
Once Boran and his family had heard about Khmers gathering in the north, they faced a difficult decision. They could stay and further befriend and spy on the Chams, or they could try to rejoin their countrymen. In the end Soriya had come to Boran and whispered that it would be best for Vibol if they left the Great Lake and went far from the place of his capture and beating. Though Boran knew that if they left the lake they could never return as fishermen and could not directly poison the Chams, he agreed with his wife. Near the water, hiding from the men who had nearly killed him, Vibol had become a shadow of his former self. He would not emerge from this shadow until something in his life was different. Soriya believed that the right young woman or the sight of his people might heal him. But something must change.
Boran had spent years in the jungle, but he didn’t know these thick woods. Following nothing more than rumors and his instincts, he headed due north, eager to rendezvous with his king’s forces. Sometimes the family traveled with other Khmers, but often these groups split apart so as to more easily avoid Cham patrols. The days were long and the nights longer. The farther they got from their home, the more fear gnawed at them, turning their stomachs sour, making them imagine dangers when the jungle was quiet.
Though Boran had usually considered himself to be their family’s leader, the deeper they moved into the jungle, the more he turned to his wife and sons. Soriya understood Vibol better than anyone, and Prak was adept at planning. Aware that his family was being tested as it never had been, and that they were all succeeding, Boran’s pride in his loved ones swelled to new dimensions.
Now, as he stepped over a fallen log, he let Soriya and Prak pass him. Vibol’s eyes were downcast, as usual. Boran reached out and held Vibol’s arm just long enough for Soriya and Prak to take several steps ahead. Sighing, Boran rubbed his sore neck, then offered the Cham axe to Vibol. “Would you carry it, my son? My body aches.”
Vibol started to shake his head but then stopped himself and reached for the weapon. He set its shaft on his shoulder. “This won’t frighten the Chams, you know,” he said quietly, walking ahead.
“I know.”
“Then why do we carry it?”
“Because it’s a good weapon, and you can give it to one of our warriors.”
Vibol made no reply, skirting an immense anthill that rose from the middle of the trail.
Boran didn’t see any ants and wondered if it was occupied. Sometimes a dormant anthill could survive for many seasons. “If we don’t save Angkor,” he said, “its buildings will be as quiet as that anthill. Our people will disappear.”
“We were never a part of Angkor, Father. Angkor is for the rich.”
“But we swam in Angkor’s baths; we walked its streets. Of course we were a part of it.”
“We were guests. It wasn’t our home.”
“You always wanted to go there. After every catch, you wanted to visit.”
“I was a fool. I am a fool.”
Boran reached out to Vibol, who moved away from his outstretched hand. “Why do you say what isn’t true?”
Vibol shook his head. “I’m not going to talk about it.”
Boran followed his son, hating to see him so beaten down, wishing that his faith could be restored. Somehow, he must be made to realize that everyone made mistakes, that misery was a common experience. “Because I’ve wanted to protect you,” Boran said, keeping his voice low, “I’ve never spoken of my failures. My biggest failures, that is. But like you, I have them. Everyone does.”