by John Shors
Asal wasn’t worried about himself as he followed Indravarman through a bamboo thicket. Instead, he occasionally glanced backward, wondering about Voisanne’s location and how he might protect her if they were attacked. Though it was unlikely that Khmers would intentionally harm her, in battle anything was possible. A stray arrow could single her out. A warrior filled with bloodlust could deem her his prize.
Asal’s duty was to stand by and protect the king. But if wave after wave of Khmers came, would his feelings for Voisanne overcome his sense of duty? Without question, if he left Indravarman’s side, after the battle was over he would be seen as a coward and a deserter. No mercy would be shown to him.
Several days earlier, when Voisanne had beseeched him to allow her to join the expedition, he hadn’t been pleased. For the first time since he had known her, he’d been frustrated with her. Yet he had kept his tongue in check, aware that she was trying to placate Thida. Instead of voicing his displeasure, he had counseled her on what to do if they were attacked—how she should hide beneath a shield or a cart, how she should present herself to Khmers or Chams, depending on who won. He might not be able to come for her, and she would have to fend for herself.
Asal wished that they weren’t in the midst of an army, but back at the Echo Chamber. In that moment, he had felt fully alone with her, as if Angkor Wat encircled and protected them from all eyes and ears. Even within his room at the Royal Palace, he didn’t feel safe with her. At any instant, Indravarman might summon either one of them or split them apart forever. Asal was aware that his king knew that he cared for her, and this knowledge made him leery. It didn’t help matters that earlier, as they had left Angkor, he’d seen Po Rame studying Voisanne. If left to his own devices, Po Rame would hurt her to get to him.
Careful not to be seen doing anything unusual, Asal tilted the inside of his shield toward him. With his free hand he searched for Voisanne’s note and unfolded a square piece of deerskin. On its underside she had written: In the Echo Chamber I prayed for myself. I prayed that I am so blessed as to have you for my own.
He traced her words with the tip of his forefinger. Then he folded up the hide and tucked it beneath the iron rim of his shield. He still found it hard to believe that she seemed to long for him in the same way that he coveted her. In so many ways they were as different as sky and sea. She was a Khmer; he was not. She came from wealth; he did not. She was beautiful and gracious, while he was known for the strength of his sword arm and little else.
Asal had been loved by his mother and knew what such affection felt like. And while he had expected to find a woman, to give her sons and daughters, he had never anticipated caring for her beyond a sense of duty. He would provide, protect, and perhaps share a smile. But never had he expected to think about a woman’s face as a battle drew near, to wish that he could touch that face while candles burned low.
In so many ways, Asal was surrounded by enemies. Indravarman would gut him if the mood struck. Po Rame surely planned his death. Equally dangerous, hundreds of Khmers were within a few days’ march.
The only person Asal trusted was Voisanne, yet by merely trusting her, by allowing himself to be consumed by thoughts of her, he was placing his life in greater danger. She represented love and goodness and hope—gifts that he coveted more with each passing day. But such gifts, he knew, would come at a price.
Asal didn’t want to fail his countrymen. He was proud of his heritage, of his ancestors. The Khmers had inflicted as many grievances on his people as had been done to them. He was a Cham and would always think of himself as one.
Yet he was falling for a Khmer. And he could not stop falling despite the perils created by their union.
Soriya and Prak sat at the edge of a long and narrow clearing. An immense ficus tree had recently toppled, creating a swath of space in the deep jungle. Standing on the tree trunk were five Khmer warriors whom they had met the previous afternoon. The men had been headed away from Angkor, and Boran and Soriya had decided to travel with them. The Khmers were scarred, kind, and well armed.
Since dawn, the warriors had been awake, practicing their swordplay on the broad trunk of the fallen tree. Boran, Soriya, Vibol, and Prak had watched, fascinated, as the men faced one another, one pair at a time. Maintaining wide stances on the tree trunk, they swung and parried, using heavy bamboo poles instead of steel. The thump of wood against wood rang out, unsettling birds and silencing other creatures. The men fought until one was struck down or forced from the tree.
After they had clashed against one another several times, one of the warriors asked if Boran and Vibol wanted to try. Boran had shaken his head, but after some uncertainty, Vibol had stood up and climbed the tree trunk. He’d listened carefully as the warrior gave him instructions, then picked up a heavy pole. At first his clumsiness with the weapon was apparent to everyone, but Vibol was strong and swift, and he began to swing the pole with ease. To his parents’ surprise, he smiled, then asked his father to engage him in a mock battle. Boran agreed, and father and son stood apart. Soon they swung, strained, and sweated, urged on by the warriors.
Vibol had won their fight, and now, as Prak sat on a boulder beside his mother and played his flute, he asked himself if his father had let Vibol win. The other men must know, but Prak could only guess. And he guessed that his father had fallen on purpose.
His mother shifted next to him, her fingers dipping and twisting a needle as she mended a hole in Boran’s extra hip cloth. “Do you wish that they’d asked you?” she said quietly, a necklace of jasmine flowers covering much of her chest.
Prak started to shake his head but stopped, not wanting to lie. “I wish,” he replied, “that my weaknesses weren’t so obvious.”
“We all have weaknesses.”
“Maybe. But some are hard to see and others are hard to miss.”
“Would you join them…if you could?”
“If they asked me.”
She sighed, setting down her needle to reach for his hand. “I’m no warrior, Prak, but it seems to me that a mind can also be a weapon. Your ideas are worth a hundred swords. The men up there…if they saw a weakness, that’s because they didn’t see the real you. They don’t know what you’re capable of.”
“But you do?”
“Of course I do. And you can do as much as anyone.”
He smiled, believing her words though sometimes he worried if a woman would ever commit to becoming his wife, to bearing his children. Then he wondered what his mother might like to hear. She had endured as much as any of them—a witness to the destruction of their home, to her son’s capture and beating. “When the war is over, what do you want?” he asked, setting aside his flute, aware of the sunlight on his face.
“Me?”
“Yes, Mother. You.”
“I want it…to be over. For my loved ones to be safe. Nothing more than that.”
“Just dream. For a moment, allow yourself to dream.”
A man fell, laughing, from the tree trunk. The others, along with Boran and Vibol, encouraged the vanquished warrior to climb up and renew the fight.
“I want a home,” she replied. “Near the water.”
“But not the Great Lake?”
“A stream would be nice. A stream near a river. That way your father could still do what he does best.”
Prak thought about how water had been as important to his mother as it was to his father. She constantly used it—whether to wash, cook, or bathe. In the past, she’d always walked to a stream and filled her heavy wooden containers. Aware that she had slowed, that she wasn’t as strong as she once was, Prak asked himself whether he could ease her future burdens. “Water is heavy, Mother. You’re already stooped from carrying it.”
She laughed. “Are you going to invent a lighter water?”
“No, but what if…what if we built our new home so that a stream flowed beneath it? I could line a small stream with smooth stones, so that it wouldn’t get muddy. And this stream could go under
a room. When you needed water, you could lower a gourd into the stream, then pull it up with a rope. You’d never have to travel for water. It would be with you always, and you’d even hear its trickles as you went to sleep.”
She squeezed his hand. “I…I’d love to have such a home, Prak. But could you build it?”
“I see no reason why not. As long as we were careful where we built it, and stayed away from areas that flood. You could have your water…and Father could keep his boat nearby.”
“How happy that would make us both.”
“I want you to be happy, Mother.”
“I know. That’s why you sit with me, why you play your flute when you could be doing something else.”
“I like to play.”
“And I like to listen.”
Prak smiled, his expression changing as Vibol grunted in pain. “The warriors up there say a battle is looming.”
Soriya nodded but made no reply.
“And if a battle is looming…maybe we should be going,” Prak added.
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Vibol can’t live with himself, or with us, if he thinks…deep down…that he’s a coward.”
“But what if he’s hurt? What if Father’s hurt?”
She squeezed Prak’s hand harder, staring intensely into his eyes. “You can’t fight, Prak. But as I’ve said many times, you can think. So, please, use your mind. It’s a gift from the Gods. You’ve listened to your father talk about the Chams; you understand the strengths and weaknesses of their base. Please think about more ways to defeat them. Your idea about starting a fire is a good one. It’s a beginning. But what if the battle is fought in Angkor? What if ten Chams burst into the open right now, their swords held high? You must answer these questions, because I…I know what I can do and what I can’t do. And try as I might, I can’t think of how to defeat the Chams. But you can. And perhaps that’s why the Gods stole your sight. Perhaps they stole it to give you another sort of vision, a vision that can save us all.”
Prak nodded, his mother’s words seeming to echo in his mind. Sensing her needs, her longing for reassurance, he promised her that he would think of a plan to protect his family.
But he had already tried throughout many days and nights to do just that, and no matter how many times he envisioned the intricacies of the future, he always saw his brother rushing off into battle and enduring a hideous death.
If Vibol died, then the spirit, the life force, of their entire family would die. Prak’s parents would walk on dead feet, think with dead minds.
Whatever needed to happen, whatever sacrifices must be made, Prak had to ensure that such a future never came to pass.
Sitting alongside the river that comprised the core of their encampment, Ajadevi gazed at Nuon, the woman who had married Jayavar in a simple ceremony and whom Ajadevi believed carried his child. In many ways, the river and Nuon seemed alike. Both were beautiful and vibrant. At only nineteen years of age, Nuon reminded Ajadevi of her own youth, creating a sense of nostalgia that the older woman rarely experienced. Ajadevi remembered falling in love with Jayavar, all her senses heightened as he sat beside her. How grand their dreams had been.
Fortunately, Ajadevi still saw the world as a collection of miracles. A tree was no more or less than the sum of the thousand trees that had stood in that same spot before it. A child was a cup containing the memories, hopes, and delights of both the present and past consciousnesses.
The miracles that she saw every day sustained Ajadevi, giving her strength in times of darkness, fulfilling her when she was reminded of her empty womb. And Nuon was such a reminder. Without a moment’s thought or prayer or yearning, Nuon had done what Ajadevi could not—create the possibility of an heir.
When thinking about Nuon and the gift that she would someday give Jayavar, Ajadevi reminded herself of Buddha’s noble eightfold path; of how, through releasing her own attachments and desires, her spirit could finally reach Nirvana. Her supreme goal was to find Nirvana, and she knew that she must force away thoughts of jealousy and self-pity. Yet at times she could not, which disappointed her for many reasons, just one of which was her failure to follow Buddha’s path.
For much of the day Ajadevi and Nuon had stayed near the river, talking about Nuon’s future duties. The younger woman understood her unique circumstances and was wise enough to listen carefully to Ajadevi’s advice. Now, as they sat on a fallen log with their feet in the water, they ignored their surroundings and focused on each other. Women collecting water were hardly seen. An ancient carving of Vishnu was more like a shadow than a work of art. The clang of sword upon sword as warriors trained made no more impression than the wind in the trees, an elephant’s trumpets, a child’s laughter, or the buzzing of cicadas. Though thousands of Khmers occupied a relatively small area of the jungle, to Ajadevi and Nuon it seemed that only the other was present.
“But are you sure, my lady?” Nuon asked, her palms against her belly as if it were already swollen and needed support. “Maybe I’m not with child. Maybe I’m just sick.”
Ajadevi had gone over the signs a dozen times. She was almost certain that Nuon was pregnant. “It’s good to feel ill,” she replied. “A sour stomach means that your child is strong.”
A half smile crept across Nuon’s face. “What if…the child is a girl?”
“If you have a daughter, you shall do two things.”
“What?”
“Love her more than you do yourself. And become pregnant once again. Because while a daughter will give you countless joys and blessings, our empire needs a son. Without a son, without an heir, we are doomed.”
Nuon nodded, her round and pleasant face covered in a sheen of perspiration. “But if it’s a boy, my lady, I won’t know how to train him.”
“That’s why I am here. To help you.”
“But I’m only an untried woman.”
“You are whoever you want to be. Why do you worry about your age, when you have already lived so many lives? As a Buddhist, I’m certain that your karma must be good to have brought you here, to have blessed your womb. Surely you’ve done beautiful and wondrous things. You’ve already been a mother, a son, a leader. So why not draw upon these lives to do what must be done?”
A horse neighed in the distance. Nuon glanced toward it. “But I…can’t feel these lives.”
“Do you feel your mind?”
“I’m not aware of these lives. I’m aware of my mind.”
“Do you dream of things that you’ve not yet experienced?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you think dreams come from, if not from your previous consciousnesses?”
Nuon shook her head, her hands clenching into fists. “But how, my lady, can dreams help me raise a future king?”
Ajadevi stood up. “Let’s walk.”
The two women stood and started upstream, toward the larger carvings. Ajadevi pointed out images of the Hindu Gods, explained each of the God’s attributes and the symbolic elements of each carving.
“Unlike you, I’m not a Hindu,” Ajadevi said. “And yet both Hindus and Buddhists believe in rebirth. And you and I both see these carvings and are inspired by them. We both…share the same husband. In some ways, we’re more akin to sisters than not.”
“I’d like to be your sister.”
“And as your sister, I shall help you. So don’t burden yourself with unnecessary worries. We shall train your son together. He shall be a fine man, an excellent ruler.”
They continued to walk, rising higher, flanked by the river on one side and trees on the other. Khmers of all ages dominated the immediate landscape. Women repaired shelters, weaved, cooked, and skinned game. Men spoke about and practiced the art of war. Children were mostly left on their own.
From time to time, Ajadevi glanced at the golden bracelet that graced Nuon’s wrist. It was exquisitely made, inset with alternating precious stones—small sapphires and emeralds. The bracelet could
have come only from Jayavar, who occasionally accepted gifts from newcomers to their camp. Ajadevi remembered when he had given such treasures to her. She didn’t long for them as she once had, but wondered about the manner in which he had presented the bracelet to Nuon. He might have offered it to her from a sense of duty, or a newfound devotion, or a combination of the two. The gold looked lovely against her smooth brown skin, suiting her perfectly. He had chosen it well, which proved to Ajadevi that he thought more about Nuon than he claimed.
The younger woman looked up, and Ajadevi glanced away from her wrist. They continued to walk, skirting a group of archers that was practicing rapidly notching arrows and firing at distant targets. Though most of the arrows struck home, a lone archer was chastised by a commanding officer for his inaccuracy. The man lowered his head in shame.
“May I tell you something?” Nuon asked when they rounded a bend in the river and found themselves alone.
Ajadevi stopped. “Of course.”
“King Jayavar…when he comes to me,” she whispered, “he’s kind to me.”
“He is a kind man.”
“What I mean to say is that he’s kind to me…but he’s not with me. I think…I think he is with you.”
Ajadevi glanced around, then settled her gaze once again on Nuon’s face. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never been in love, my lady. I don’t know what it means to be in love. But when I mention your name, something changes in his eyes. A light comes into them. And his voice…it quickens. He’s with me, but he leaves me at those moments, and I think travels to you.”
“He cares very much for you, Nuon. I know he does.”
“Yes. But he loves you, my lady. Maybe you’re right that I should listen to my past lives. Maybe they do tell me things. Because they tell me that he loves you in the most beautiful way, that he’s with me only because he has to be. And I’m happy for you. To feel such love, it must carry you to wonderful places.”
Ajadevi nodded, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “It makes me…feel light on my feet. Like I’m not a woman, but a spirit that rises up into the sky.”