by John Shors
Boran closed his eyes, praying that she had already started to follow the path to rebirth, that she was headed in his direction.
When he finished praying, Boran turned to Vibol and Prak. “She…died for all of us,” he said quietly. “So honor her by living your lives as she would want. Let her see your joy.”
His sons nodded, their cheeks glistening with tears.
“And she’ll be watching,” he continued. “She always watched over you. Nothing will change.”
The wind stirred, causing the flowers to quiver. He didn’t want them to blow away from her, and so he kissed her once more and stepped back. Vibol and Prak said their farewells, their tears as numerous as his. They held her hand and kissed her cheek.
Underneath the pyre was a mound of dried moss. Vibol went to his knees, carefully dropping some hot coals that he had carried in a stone bowl. The coals fell onto the moss, and he blew against them, causing them to redden and ignite. The moss turned brown, smoked, and he stepped back as a small flame caught.
The fire trembled at first, like a new life emerging from the womb. Then it spread, consuming the smaller twigs, then larger branches. Though the heat was soon strong, Boran remained standing close to the flames. He watched her face, aware that he would never touch another woman as he had touched her. She would return to him in some way, and when he felt her presence he would find peace once again.
He reached for his sons’ hands. He held them with strength, squeezing hard, watching the flames grow. Finally they were forced to step away from the inferno.
Boran had always expected that he would die first, that she’d be the one left with their sons. He had not prepared himself for this moment, for the years when he would be old, when he would care for his grandchildren while his boys and their wives labored.
“Your mother…she taught me well,” he whispered, squeezing their hands again. “I watched her with you both. And I’ll be there for you both.” He cleared his throat, which was dry and seemed filled with soot. “And she’ll be there too. I know she will.”
Prak turned toward him. “You won’t be alone either, Father. I promise.”
The flames rose. Prak raised his flute with trembling hands. At first his notes were unsteady, but he managed to play a song that she had favored. As he played, an updraft of wind sent ashes skyward. Some flowers, still untouched by the fire, were lifted from her body. They swirled above the flames, and though most fell back down to be consumed, one small white orchid dropped between the brothers. Vibol reached out with cupped hands and caught it. At first he didn’t seem sure what to do with it, merely staring at its trembling petals.
Vibol had hardly spoken since his mother’s death, and Boran knew that he blamed himself for her passing. Putting his hand on his child’s shoulder, he asked, “Do you see, my son? She is with us.”
“No,” Vibol replied, weeping.
“She is.”
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“But you’re holding her right now. She wouldn’t go to you…if she blamed you.”
Vibol stared at the flower, reverently touching its petals. He began to shudder, his hands shaking, his chest heaving.
Boran reached for his sons, drawing them against him. They put their arms around him, and he promised them that they would be happy, that somehow the flower gave him hope. He had sensed her presence when he least expected to, when her body was an inferno, when she was being taken from him. Her body was leaving, but she was not. She was within him, within them all.
They wept together, huddled close, seeking and receiving comfort in one another’s grasp. Vibol continued to cradle the flower, to hold it near his chest. “Are you sure?” he finally asked, his voice barely audible.
Boran nodded. Though he still ached and wept, he saw the flower as a sign. She was nearby. A part of her lingered.
He knew then that they would build their home right there, right beneath their feet. They would plant flowers where her body had once burned, and one day laughter would return to them, children would splash in the shadows, and life would grow and blossom.
And then, someday, when all was well with his sons, he would follow her. He would feel himself being carried away by the wind as she had been. He would soar up, looking down on his loved ones, savoring each and every memory, cherishing the bond that would forever keep them together.
His sons were free now. They were safe.
Knowing that, she would rest in peace. And someday he would rest beside her.
Later that day, outside the walls of Angkor Wat, thousands of Khmers celebrated King Jayavar’s victory. Despite the distant commotion, within the Echo Chamber all was silent. Asal and Voisanne stood beside each other, hands together, backs pressed against the stone. They beat their chests, heard the distant bells, and sent their prayers of thanks upward.
Both smiled.
“I am blessed,” Voisanne said, “that so many of Chaya’s friends are still alive. She’s overjoyed to be with them.”
Asal nodded, still disbelieving that everything had led to this moment, that his dreams had come to fruition. He had expected to die, either with Voisanne or without her. Yet now he stood holding her hand, trying to convince himself that all of it wasn’t an illusion, that somehow he had emerged from so many horrors and miseries into a place of beauty and contentment.
“As I told you once,” he said, speaking quietly, “when I first came here, I looked up at Angkor Wat, and was so…so swept up in its majesty and its magic that I knew Khmers must be a good and noble people. To create such towers, such wonders, one would need a pure heart.”
“It’s true.”
“But what I did not know, my lady, what I did not expect, was that I would fall in love with a Khmer, with a woman who would make me feel more alive than I ever had.”
She brought his hand to her lips, kissing it. “And what are we to do now that the war is over?” She kissed his hand again, then gently bit the knuckle of his thumb. “Will you grow bored with me now that you don’t have to save me?”
“Perhaps,” he teased.
Voisanne laughed, pushing against him. “Is that all you can say?”
“No.”
“Why are you suddenly so quiet? Where has my brave Cham gone?”
His heartbeat quickened. He started to speak, stopped, and then smiled. “I’d like to ask you something. A question I’ve never asked before, nor do I expect ever to ask it again.”
“What?”
He took her hands in his own, facing her. “It pleases me to call you ‘my lady.’ But it would please me much, much more to call you ‘my wife.’ Will you share your life with me, Voisanne?” He bowed his head to her. “Nothing would make me more contented than if your face was the first and the last thing I saw each day.”
She rose to her tiptoes, pulling herself up against him, kissing his lips. “But I’ll be the last to close my eyes. I won’t want to leave you. Not even to sleep.”
“So it’s ‘yes’?”
“It’s ‘yes’ a thousand times over.”
Without another thought, he picked her up so that she still faced him, his arms wrapped around her thighs. She felt so light in his grasp, yet she was the most powerful force in his life. He would die for her, devote the rest of his life to her.
“I want to shout,” he said, grinning. “To shout my thanks to the Gods.”
“So do. Let them hear you.”
He stared into the blackness above, aware of something building within him, a surging joy the likes of which he had never felt or imagined. Its strength was more potent than the rage of battle, the fear of death. It continued to build, gathering within his soul, igniting unknown fires within him. The joy lifted him upward, bringing him closer to the Gods than he had ever been.
And he didn’t need to raise his voice, to shout out loud, because the Gods knew what he thought, what he felt.
They rejoiced in the heavens together.
Near the top of Ang
kor Wat, Jayavar and Ajadevi stood beside each other and stared out at their city. Khmers of all backgrounds and ages had come to the immense grounds outside the temple to celebrate. People feasted, sang, prayed, and banded together to pull down any trace of the Cham occupation. The banners that had accompanied the victors to battle hung from many homes and even the towers of distant temples.
Ajadevi glanced toward the utmost summit of Angkor Wat, which glowed in the setting sun. Her gaze traveled in all directions, taking in the temple’s wondrous sights and then falling to the moat, settling on throngs of people who lined its shores or swam in its waters. She sensed the unity of her people, and her pride in them swelled.
She turned to Jayavar, who wore the golden sword of his father and a colorful hip cloth that depicted a variety of flowers set against a green background. Precious jewels dangled from his neck and wrists. He hadn’t wanted to dress in such a manner, but she had insisted. To rule as a king, he must look like a king.
The platform that supported them was empty of any other person. Soon they would join in the celebration, but for the moment, they wanted only each other’s company. They stood facing the setting sun and holding hands.
“The Chams are gone,” Jayavar said, nodding toward the north, remembering how he had led his army back to Angkor, seized the war elephants, and driven the remaining Chams from his land. “Our scouts tell me that the few Chams who survived our attacks have fled in disarray.”
“Yet you shall have to prepare for their return.”
“Yes, but what do the signs tell you? What do you see in our future?”
She looked toward the sun. Its face wasn’t the hue of blood, but a much lighter color, almost the shade of gold. “I see a potent Khmer army. I see strength. I also see peace and prosperity.”
“Good,” he replied, smiling. “Because we’ve wasted enough of ourselves on destruction. Now it is time to build.”
“Tell me what you will build.”
“Roads and hospitals, temples and gardens. I want to feed our hungry, cure our sick. I long for our land to be remembered throughout the ages as one of the noblest that ever existed.” He smiled again, laughing at himself. “Simple tasks, I know.”
“And you? What do you covet for yourself?”
“What I covet, I already have,” he replied, his eyes locked on hers. “All my other desires are for my people—and for you.”
She traced the outline of a silk bandage on his forearm. “And your heir?”
“If an heir is born, Nuon shall raise him. But you and I shall teach him. We’ll teach him and love him.”
Nodding, she repeated his last words to herself, feeling warmth spread within her. “We should go. The people await you. And Bona has asked to take you hunting.”
“He makes me happy.”
She started to turn, but Jayavar reached for her hand.
“Wait,” he said. “Just until the sun sets.”
“Why?”
“Because it shall be beautiful. And I want to share all such beauty with you.”
A smile graced her lips, and she moved closer to him. The sun touched the horizon, swelling, spreading its colors across rolling hills, upon faraway towers. The colors grew richer, almost as if a divine spirit was painting the landscape.
“Stay with me forever,” he said.
“I shall,” she replied, reaching for his face, knowing that she would.
Author’s Note
While much is unknown about those who inhabited ancient Angkor, this much is true: In 1177, the Cham king, Jaya Indravarman IV, led a surprise attack against the Khmers. Though Jaya Indravarman’s victory was resounding, Prince Jayavarman VII and his beloved wife, Jayarajadevi, avoided capture. For the sake of my story, I simplified their names and condensed their time spent in hiding. In reality, it took them four years to gather an army.
After defeating the Chams in an epic battle on the Great Lake, Jayavarman and Jayarajadevi returned to Angkor, where they oversaw an unprecedented revival and ultimate expansion of their empire. Roads, hospitals, and canals were built, as well as Bayon, a marvelous temple dominated by carvings of Hindu Gods and the smiling faces of Buddha.
To this day, Angkor Wat remains majestic and noble, dominating the landscape as if it were the mountains that its builders tried to re-create. From Angkor Wat to Kbal Spean to the Great Lake, one can still walk where Jayavarman and Jayarajadevi walked, exploring the gifts that they left to the world, imagining times long since past but not forgotten.
Acknowledgments
Temple of a Thousand Faces is my sixth novel, and in some ways it was the most difficult to write. Everything about Angkor Wat is epic, and my book needed to reflect those dimensions, to reincarnate a story that was nearly lost in the passage of time. Yet precious little historical record was available, so I had to rely on my wanderings within Angkor and my imagination to create this novel. I hope I’ve done justice to the people and culture that thrived so long ago.
The opportunity to create Temple of a Thousand Faces would not have been possible without the steadfast support of my wife, Allison, and our children, Sophie and Jack. I’m so proud of each of you, and am blessed that you comprise such a large part of my life.
I’d like to express my gratitude toward my agent and friend, Laura Dail, who encouraged me to once again create a piece of historical fiction. Ellen Edwards, my superb editor, worked tirelessly on Temple of a Thousand Faces, enhancing the plot and the writing. I’m also grateful to my parents, John and Patsy Shors; my brothers, Tom, Matt, and Luke; as well as Mary and Doug Barakat, Bruce McPherson, Dustin O’Regan, Amy Tan, Sandra Gulland, Pennie Ianniciello, Pheng Pouk, Sery Sok Thea, Darlene Smoliak, Serena Agusto-Cox, Louise Jolly, Dom Testa, Julie Dugdale, Jon Craine, Brigitte Bednar, Beth Lowe, Shawna Sharp, Bliss Darragh, Diane Saarinen, Chris Doyle of the Adventure Travel Trade Association, and the delightful staff at the gorgeous Heritage Suites Hotel in Siem Reap.
To everyone in Cambodia who made me feel so welcome—thank you.
And finally, please know, dear reader, that I also greatly appreciate your support. In honor of you, and everyone else who has helped me, a portion of the funds generated from Temple of a Thousand Faces will be donated to the Jayavarman VII Children’s Hospital. This wonderful hospital, only a few minutes’ drive from Angkor Wat, provides free treatment to children in need.
John Shors is the bestselling author of Beneath a Marble Sky, Beside a Burning Sea, Dragon House, The Wishing Trees, Cross Currents, and Temple of a Thousand Faces. He has won numerous awards for his writing, and his novels have been translated into twenty-six languages.
John lives in Boulder, Colorado, with his wife and two children, and he encourages reader feedback.
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A CONVERSATION WITH JOHN SHORS
Q. Temple of a Thousand Faces is your sixth novel, and yet it most closely resembles your first book, Beneath a Marble Sky. Why did you decide to return to historical fiction?
A. Many readers asked me to write a sequel to Beneath a Marble Sky, my novel about the building of the Taj Mahal. I certainly considered writing such a book, but at the end of the day I decided that I had already brought the Taj Mahal to life, as I had intended to. The story that I had wanted to tell had been told. However, the concept of once again writing about a special place and culture intrigued me. I started exploring possibilities and ultimately learned about the remarkable tale of Jayavarman VII and Jayarajadevi. I knew that I had discovered a story that excited me.
Q. Can you describe your experience at Angkor Wat?
A. Angkor Wat is a magical place. It’s located just a few miles from Siem Reap, Cambodia—a small city that has sprung up to accommodate the tourists who travel to Angkor Wat. Siem Reap is less than an hour’s flight from Bangkok, and is easily
accessible. The landscape around this vibrant city is lush and tropical. One can get from Siem Reap to Angkor Wat in a car or bus, but many tourists opt to ride on a motorcycle taxi of some sort, often behind the driver or in a comfortable cart attached to the back of the motorcycle.
Angkor Wat is extraordinary in so many ways—its sheer size, the vast number of statues, and the intricacy of the carvings are all quite compelling. The temple is in remarkably good condition, a testament to its engineers and builders. Though one is free to wander about without having to worry about rules and regulations (a philosophy that has its drawbacks since not all tourists are respectful), the site does attract a lot of visitors, so in order to deeply understand the spirit of the place, and to imagine my characters there, I explored the temple when most tourists were back at their hotels—mainly during the heat of the day. The hotter it was, the fewer people were there, and the happier I became. A few times it seemed as if I were the only person present. That’s when the temple came alive for me. I stood in the Echo Chamber, where the amplification of every sound created the impression that I was listening to my very thoughts. I climbed to the temple’s summit and beheld the beautiful landscape spread out below me. And I imagined what I was seeing as it might have been nearly a thousand years ago.
Q. How important is hands-on research to your writing process?
A. I certainly could not have written Temple of a Thousand Faces if I hadn’t explored the Angkor region on my own. I had read about certain places there—Kbal Spean, for instance—so I had an idea of where I wanted various parts of the novel to occur. But seeing things with my own eyes enlightened me in so many ways. Again, using Kbal Spean as an example, traveling into the Cambodian countryside to visit the site changed my perspective in many ways. I walked through the thick jungle to find Kbal Spean, which was discovered only a few decades ago, and felt as if I were on a movie set. Standing below immense trees and listening to monkeys scurry about the heights, I studied how the small river flowed over the ancient carvings. As time passed, I increasingly appreciated the wonder of the place. I hope that this appreciation can be felt by readers. My goal is always to bring settings to life on the page, to in a sense turn a setting into a character. Studying a place firsthand is an integral part of that process for me.