Temple of a Thousand Faces

by John Shors

  Everything changed for Voisanne when she finally glimpsed Asal. She saw his sword rise and fall like a farmer’s hoe as he battled Indravarman. The Cham king reeled backward. A smaller man leapt at Asal, and Voisanne cried out when he and this new foe struggled, then fell into the water and disappeared. Without thought, she jumped overboard, an arrow still in her right hand. She swam with all of her strength, frantic with worry. She imagined Asal in pain, in darkness, and the thought of his terror propelled her on, past the limits of her own exhaustion. Though pieces of smoldering wood bobbed on the surface, she kept pushing her way ahead, calling out his name between breaths of air.

  She neared the boat. The water in front of her was thrust up as a stranger’s head appeared. He gasped for air, then went under again. Voisanne kicked as hard as she could, opening her eyes underwater. Though everything was dim, she saw a flash of steel. Asal’s face appeared next, his mouth open, his teeth bared. She could see more clearly now and realized that the two men were fighting over a knife. Asal was beneath his adversary, pinned deep. Voisanne swam toward the back of the slighter Cham. She neared him, unseen. Holding the shaft of the arrow, she thrust it forward with all of her strength. The steel-tipped point bit deeply into the flesh beneath his right shoulder blade and she heard a muffled shriek. The knife twisted in her direction, but she didn’t defend herself from it, continuing to push harder on the arrow, to thrust it deeper into her enemy. Asal lunged for the knife, turning it away from her, changing its direction and plunging it into the man’s side. He screamed as the water turned red. He tried to fight, but Asal was stronger, and the blade struck again and again. The Cham shuddered and shrieked, bubbles escaping his mouth. His eyes widened; his movements stilled. He convulsed one last time, then seemed to turn into a statue, sinking down, his pained features frozen and unchanging.

  Voisanne pulled Asal after her, kicking hard toward the surface. They broke through, into the light. He coughed, gagged, and was finally able to draw air into his lungs.

  She held his face in her hands, told him that he was finished fighting, that he was coming with her. He didn’t resist, and she pulled him away from the madness, toward a place where the swells seemed to shimmer.

  Though Soriya was no warrior, she could see that the battle was reaching its climax. It seemed that men on both sides fought with renewed fury. Boats collided and capsized, men struggled against one another in the water, and war cries were exchanged. She prayed for the safety of Boran and Vibol, and then saw an arrow slicing through the air, heading directly toward Prak. Instinctively she leaned in front of him and grunted as the arrow slammed into her chest. The pain was ferocious, but she opened her eyes, worried that Prak had also been struck. Yet he hadn’t. His skin was unmarred. His face bore no pain.

  She slipped to her knees, grunting.

  “Mother!” he cried out, dropping down beside her.

  A burning agony tore through her, as if someone had poured hot oil down her throat. She wanted to run from the pain, to find a place of shelter, but each breath added to her misery.

  “No,” Prak muttered, his hands following the arrow to her chest. “No, Mother. It can’t be. Please, no.”

  She heard the terror in his voice, which pulled her from her pain and into his. “It’s…nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing! You’ve been hurt! I can feel your blood!”

  “My blood…your blood.”

  “What are you talking about? What are you saying?”

  “You’re…my son. My beautiful boy.”

  “Stop!”

  She tried to control her thoughts, her words, but struggled to breathe. A haze seemed to envelop her. She glimpsed the sun, then his face. “It…hardly hurts,” she lied.

  He ripped up a piece of cloth and pressed it near where the arrow emerged from her chest, trying to stop the bleeding. “What should I do?” he asked, desperation in his every word. “Tell me what to do!”

  “Just…hold me. As I held you.”

  His mouth moved, but for once she didn’t focus on his voice. She knew that her time was short. Whatever she said next would have to matter, would have to last, because he would carry her words for the rest of his days.

  And so she thought as the sights grew dim around her. She thought about what to say.

  * * *

  Jayavar had shouted out to Asal in the moment before the tall Cham had attacked. Though his warning had saved Asal from the initial strike, it hadn’t come soon enough to keep him from being forced overboard. Jayavar had wanted to rush to his aid, but Indravarman was badly wounded, his thigh gushing blood. The Cham king would never be more vulnerable than he was at that moment.

  Raising his sword, Jayavar rushed forward, desperate to attack Indravarman before his men regrouped around him. The Khmer’s blade whipped down but was cast aside at the last instant by the shaft of Indravarman’s axe. Yet Jayavar had the advantage of surprise, and he reversed his sweep, bringing his sword back, dragging it along Indravarman’s side. His blade sliced through the king’s quilted armor and bit deeply into his flesh. Indravarman roared in pain. He swung wildly with his axe, trying to decapitate Jayavar, but the Khmer king ducked beneath the blow, attacking again, aware that the fate of his kingdom rested on this moment. He brought the hilt of his sword up, striking the underside of Indravarman’s chin. Again the blow was not fatal, but blood flowed, and Indravarman stumbled backward, trying to protect himself, to flee from the Khmer’s sword.

  On another day, against another man, Jayavar might have asked his adversary to lay down his weapon and surrender. But not on this day, not against this man. He pressed ahead, swinging and striking. The axe fell from Indravarman’s fingers. With one last, frantic motion, the Cham king smashed his shield into Jayavar’s chest. The blow sent Jayavar stumbling backward, but even so, he brought his sword down with all of his strength and focus, its end biting deeply into Indravarman’s shoulder.

  The Cham fell to the deck, weaponless and defenseless. For a moment it seemed that his men would rush forward to protect him, but the remaining Khmers beat them back with a sudden burst of fury. Sensing the inevitable loss of their king, several Chams, rather than fight to the death, leapt off the side of the boat. Those remaining regrouped and tried to battle toward their king, but Jayavar shouted at his warriors to keep them back. Men fought, screamed, and died. Aware of their looming victory, the Khmers attacked with vast strength and resolve, driving the Chams away. A space cleared around the two kings. For the moment, their confrontation was uninterrupted.

  Jayavar stepped toward Indravarman, his sword leveled. “You’re no man,” he said, his chest heaving. “You put my children to death. And that makes you less than human, less than an animal—a mere thing to be stepped on in the jungle.”

  Indravarman spat out blood. “Yet I took what was yours…and made it mine.”

  “Like a common thief.”

  “I’m a king!” Indravarman roared, trying to get up.

  Surprised by his enemy’s sudden defiance, Jayavar leaned forward, the tip of his sword pressing against Indravarman’s neck. “Even now, your men desert you,” he replied, motioning toward Chams who were jumping off the boat and swimming away. “Men don’t desert true kings.”

  “You’re weak, Jayavar. You shall always be weak.”

  Jayavar shook his head. “I shall make war on no kingdom that doesn’t make war on me. Perhaps that makes me weak. But I care not. My people will be free. Your reign here will be remembered as nothing more than a speck of dust against an infinite sky.”

  “We’re all dust, Jayavar. The Gods blow us from place to place.”

  “And had you let my children live, I would show you mercy. I would let the Gods blow you where they wish.”

  “Your children had to die. You know that.”

  “I know nothing of the kind,” Jayavar replied, biting his lip, the faces of his loved ones blossoming before him. “But they’ve come back to me. I feel them now. I sense them now. Who will y
ou go to, man of dust, once you’re dead?”

  Jayavar turned to several of his warriors, who were battered and bloody. “Take from him whatever he took from you.”

  Indravarman shouted as the Khmers fell upon him. He shouted for help that did not come, and later, for mercy that made no appearance. In the end, when he could do nothing but whimper, he was held up to show his countrymen that he was vanquished. Then the warriors threw him from the boat.

  Khmers around Jayavar began to cheer, prompting the battle to ebb. A few Cham officers on other boats tried to rally their troops, but with Indravarman gone, no leader had enough authority or respect to take control of the remaining warriors. Chams began to flee the fighting, swimming toward unbroken vessels still captained by their countrymen. The Khmers let these warriors go, continuing to celebrate, shouting triumphantly and holding their banners high. The Cham officers were killed, their pleas silenced.

  Jayavar’s knees almost buckled. But he forced himself to stand tall as he scanned the horizon for Ajadevi, searching for the one person who would make this victory complete.

  The pain in Soriya’s chest subsided even as her vision blurred and the world grew dim. The sound of cheering drifted to her, echoes of celebration. Prak held her head on his lap, careful of the arrow still sticking from her chest as he cradled her. He explained that the Chams were retreating. He wept as he spoke, blaming himself for her injury, certain that if he had been able to see he would have warned her of the danger.

  “You’ve seen…your whole life,” she whispered, holding his hand with her own, her mind clear even as her body shut down.

  “But the arrow. It should have hit me. I—”

  “A mother…should die before her son.”

  “Why?”

  She thought about bringing him into the world, about holding him to her breast and smiling at his hunger. “Because my hopes, my dreams…they lie with you.”

  “We should never have traveled here. Vibol was wrong.”

  “No. He was right. We’re free. And I…I’d trade my life for your freedom.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Someday…when you’re a father…you’ll understand. You’d do the same.” She shifted on Prak’s lap, thinking about how she had held him so many nights, just as he now held her. “I’ve always been poor, my son,” she whispered. “But you’ve made me feel rich.”

  His tears fell to her face. “You should save your strength. Father and Vibol will be here soon. They will find us.”

  “I know. They live. Tell them…of my love for them.”

  “You tell them. Please.”

  Something seemed to stick in her throat, and she found it hard to bring enough air into her lungs. She reached for his face, tracing his features, recognizing herself and Boran within him. “Death…should be sad. But when I see you…I’m happy.”

  “Please don’t die, Mother. You can’t die.”

  “My perfect boy. My son. How you make me proud.”

  He bent down, holding her against him, weeping freely now, his sobs mingling with the distant cheers. “You make me proud,” he replied.

  She smiled, needing to rest, her breathing more difficult, her thoughts more disconnected. She saw herself as a girl, running through the jungle, chasing someone. How had the years passed so quickly? How had she traveled so very far? Would she now journey to those who had gone before her?

  “I’ll come back…to all of you,” she whispered.

  “How…how will we see you? What should we look for?”

  “Listen.”

  “To what?”

  “To whatever sounds…you hold most dear. And play your flute. Let me hear you.”

  He hugged her again, his tears falling on her cheeks.

  For a while longer she saw him, but soon he started to fade. She whispered his name, then the names of Vibol and Boran, envisioning each of their faces, reminding herself of their beauty so that she could find her way back to them.

  Her journey began.

  Clinging to a wooden plank not far from an undamaged boat, Voisanne and Asal watched in disbelief as the Cham army retreated. On the nearby vessel, Khmers and Siamese warriors celebrated. Some hugged one another while others cast aside their weapons and leapt into the water.

  Voisanne didn’t trust her own eyes. Surely the battle could not be over. The Chams would soon regroup and attack again. “Where…where are they going?” she asked, her forearm touching Asal’s atop the plank.

  “Home.”

  “But they will come back. With more men.”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps someday. But most of my people didn’t want this war. Indravarman willed us to come here. With him gone…I think the others will stay within our borders.”

  She reached up to touch a shallow wound on his cheek. “When I saw you fall…I saw my world collapse.”

  “You saved me, my lady.”

  “No, I only helped.”

  He put a cupped hand to his lips and drank. “You did more than that. You risked everything for me—your former captor, your former enemy.”

  Thinking of him fighting against his countrymen, she bit her lower lip. “How can you be so gentle and loving…and so ferocious?”

  “Because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “All I want is you. But to gain you, I needed ferocity.”

  “But what about power? Or wealth? Men seek such things.”

  He smiled. “Not I, my lady. I covet you and you only.”

  “And daughters. I know you want a daughter.”

  “Daughters and sons. A family. Why would I need anything else? If the Gods grant me such blessings, I shall be forever grateful.”

  She leaned forward to kiss him. Their lips touched and the world disappeared. She didn’t hear the cheering or feel a cut on her hand. But she imagined things. She saw him as a father, saw herself weaving the stem of a flower into their daughter’s hair.

  “We won,” she whispered, still kissing him. “I don’t know how we did it, but we won.”

  “Yes, my lady. We did. A Khmer and a Cham. We won together.”

  Two boats approached each other. Both were full of the dead, but also of the living. Covered in blood, bowed but not broken, Ajadevi sat near one craft’s bow holding a crude bandage against a woman’s forehead. She watched Jayavar’s vessel approach. He stood at the bow, both hands wrapped around a staff that supported the banner of Angkor Wat. The banner fluttered in the breeze, unsullied by the battle.

  Though Ajadevi tried to hold back her tears, her relief at seeing Jayavar alive was too much for her. She shuddered, quietly weeping, amazed and honored that they both still lived. How he had survived was nothing short of a miracle. Her prayers must have been heeded, her longings heard and fulfilled. The Cham officer was a gift from above, she knew, for she had watched him fight, had seen how his sword had changed the course of the battle. She could live a thousand more lifetimes and still lack the time to fully repay him.

  The bows of the two boats touched. Khmers cheered as their king and queen were reunited.

  Ajadevi thanked their audience for their sacrifices, meaning each word. Then she stepped forward to embrace her battered husband, holding him tight and not letting go.

  By the time Boran and Vibol found Prak on board a heavily damaged boat, the lump on Boran’s head had shrunken. His thoughts were again clear, his stance steady. He held on to Vibol with vigor, but when he saw the look on Prak’s face, he knew immediately what had happened. He suddenly felt as if he were falling, as if a gaping hole had opened up inside of him. His knees buckled and he dropped to the deck.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, trying to find her, to sense her. But all he felt was the terrible emptiness within him.

  She was gone.

  Rebirth

  day and a half later, as the air warmed in the midmorning, Boran, Vibol, and Prak stood on the shoreline of a wide river. A cove provided flat, calm water ideal for lotus flowers, and
they grew in abundance, their reflections in the water as graceful and colorful as the flowers themselves. The cove wasn’t far from their old home and had been one of Soriya’s favorite places. She’d once swum among the flowers, rested on the shore, and watched her sons play in the shallows.

  Remembering these moments, Boran studied the lotus flowers, a tear rolling down his cheek. In many ways, this place reminded him of his wife—its simple and understated beauty, its quiet strength. They had also come here as young lovers and spoken eagerly of the days ahead, of their dreams of having a home and family of their own. He hadn’t been able to promise her wealth or comfort, but she had not asked for such things. She had wanted only to live a peaceful, contented life.

  Turning to where her washed and perfumed body lay atop a pile of nearby branches, Boran wanted to fall to his knees and weep. But he had to stay strong for his sons, and so he walked, trembling, to her side. She was positioned at waist level, and he reached out, his fingers tracing the contours of her face. He couldn’t imagine her face leaving him, vanishing from his life like raindrops on a warm stone. His fingers paused at her lips, and he suddenly wished that he had kissed them more often, that he hadn’t wasted so many moments away from her. He’d been a fool.

  Though he tried to keep his emotions under control, he wept as he felt her face, the curves of her shoulders, the frailty of her hands. His sons moved to either side of him, but he felt only her, touching her as he wished he could every day for the rest of his life. He found it hard to breathe, to stand.

  Leaning forward, he kissed her brow, then adjusted the iris in her hair, his tears falling to her cheeks. He and his sons had scattered flowers over her entire body, offering her one of the few gifts that she had ever given herself.