The Map of Lost Memories

by Kim Fay

  Chapter 20

  The Sacrifice

  “This is a good sign,” Louis said and then added with a resigned smile, “or at least as good a sign as we could hope for in such a situation. Not that I’ve ever been in such a situation.” He waved the spark of his cigarette toward their Brau escorts, who were standing at a distance down the path, watching the members of the expedition as they gathered around Irene. “If the chief was positive we were lying to him about Ormond sending us up here to retrieve the scrolls from the temple, or if he’s protecting that temple for himself, he would have stopped you, Irene. And he never would have let us follow you. Don’t you agree, Clothilde?”

  “Based on what the chief told Xa, the village doesn’t have any interest in the temple,” Clothilde said. “He’s under orders from Ormond. He couldn’t risk trying to detain you, in case your story is true. Plus, he couldn’t be sure of what a band of greedy foreigners with guns might do if provoked. So his men are going to keep an eye on us while he sends someone to Stung Treng to consult with Ormond and find out what’s really going on.”

  “Even if the scout travels alone and on foot,” Louis interrupted, “it will still take him more than a full day to go there and back, and another to catch up with us. By then we should have reached the temple, if your estimate is correct.”

  Kiri was asleep on Clothilde’s hip, and with one hand cradling his head, she said, “It’s not an estimate. I visited the temple half a dozen times for holy festivals when I was a girl, and I made annual visits to Kha Seng to see my aunties when I was living in Stung Treng. Same road, same number of days.”

  Louis said, “That will give us a bit of time to look for the scrolls.”

  “Irene?” Simone said. “I should have been at your side.”

  “Not now, Simone,” Irene said and then asked Clothilde, “If the scrolls are up at the temple and Ormond sends someone to stop us, what do you suggest we do?”

  “You should be asking me,” Simone whispered, gnawing on a ball of sticky rice she had taken from her knapsack.

  The group had become adept at paying no attention to Simone’s mutterings, and Louis said, “We can deal with that later. All I know is that I want to keep going. Hell, Irene, that was incredible!”

  Irene noticed the speckles of blood on her sleeves from smashed mosquitoes. She didn’t feel incredible. She felt cold to the bone, and she was grateful when Marc took her hands, rubbing them between his palms, melting the deep chill of her residual fear. “And you?” she asked him. “Do you still want to go through with this?”

  He studied her with a questioning look. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  Sensation was returning to her numb limbs, a tingling in her calves and upper arms. “Too many things could go wrong,” she said. “If you’re doing this just for me—”

  “That’s a part of it,” he said, kneading her fingertips. “But we all have more than one motive, when it comes down to it. If we didn’t, this jaunt would be a hell of a lot easier.”

  “I think we should talk to the Brau.” Simone forced her way into the conversation. “We should find out what they really want.”

  “The chief told us he wants to ride in a motorcar,” Marc said.

  “And to see a skyscraper before he dies,” Louis added.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Simone said, swatting at May-ling as she grabbed at the rice with her black paw.

  “We know what you mean,” Irene said, once again looking down the path at the Brau, standing in an orderly row, one behind the other, their expressions impossible to decipher, their presence—and their muskets—impossible to ignore.

  Clothilde rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you what they really want. They really want to chew their hemp and be anywhere other than here right now.”

  Annoyed, Simone said, “You would know best, wouldn’t you?”

  Within the jungle’s deepening heat, with the Brau men watching the expedition’s every move and Ormond’s coolies warily watching the Brau, the hours seemed to leapfrog and backtrack, intermingling like the liana vines that climbed the banyan trees from the forest floor. Was it on the second day of the trek, or the third, or the first, that sunburn singed the exposed backs of Irene’s hands? She could not remember a time when they were not submerged in flame, a time when she did not wince as she walked on blistered feet. Edging her way past the spiraling blades of pandanus trees, she felt her fatigue as if it were a weight she had been ordered to carry on her back.

  As for the others, Marc was physically fit and emotionally tough, an ideal combination for the jungle. Clothilde did not tire as easily as Irene did, despite all of the time she had been away in America, and Louis was clearly accustomed to trudging about in swampy heat. He, of all of them, had the strongest instinct for what a situation required. He knew when to hand a canteen to someone, and when to stop for a break. He was attentive to their surroundings and individual needs, even Simone’s—especially Simone’s—despite his shattered feelings for her.

  Although Irene had given up hope that Simone might prove useful, she came to admire the woman’s incredible stamina, especially when the group woke from their day of rest after leaving the village of Leh and discovered that Simone was not well. All of them were sweating all the time, but there was a strange grayness to the sheen on her skin, and she was shaking. Louis suspected malaria, but when he tried to talk to her about the symptoms, or convince her to drink one of the teas she had brought from the Chinese pharmacy in Saigon, she refused and insisted it was the mild flulike malaise that was typical in overly humid weather. If she suspected that the expedition was taking a break for her sake, she would forge ahead.

  Three days into the pilgrimage, with one more day’s walk to the temple, they were still using the narrow hunting and trading path. But it was much less traveled than the section that had skirted the river. The horses whinnied in protest as they were prodded through the entangled leaves of giant ferns. The leather gloves that Louis had given Irene were too thin, and the pads of her palms were bruised and constantly bleeding from grabbing vines to pull herself along the most overgrown portions of the trail. The coolies had to force the oxen and carts through brush so dense that it was inconceivable to imagine the ancient Khmer dragging thousand-pound stones across such terrain.

  Hoisting herself over shoulder-high, moss-glazed logs, Irene understood how Cambodia’s first travelers could have believed that Angkor Wat was built by gods or monsters. The woolly trees screeched and scratched like living beasts. The only signs of humanity were the occasional villages, scruffy and as unsettling in their indifference as Leh was in its watchfulness. With their aging chiefs and tall bamboo towers for keeping lookout for tigers, each cluster of huts was more primitive than the last. It felt as if, in their approach to the temple, they were traveling back in time—a journey made even more disorienting by the restless truce between the expedition and its Brau keepers, as each group waited to see what the other was going to do.

  ——

  “How much hashish could they have brought with them?” Marc asked, unable to hide his fascination with the Brau. “There’s not a minute in the day when they’re not chewing on it. And where the hell do they store it? They don’t have a single pocket among them. They’re starting to unnerve me. They’re high all the time, and yet they still manage to keep an eye on us. I was watched in Shanghai, but never like this. They don’t even blink.”

  “At least Ormond’s coolies chat among themselves. I haven’t heard the Brau speak since we left Leh,” Louis said. “Have you?”

  “Not a word,” confirmed Marc, who was perched with Louis and Irene on fallen logs in an open space on the side of the trail.

  They had stopped so that antiseptic could be applied to the morning’s newest injury, a bloody gash on one of the coolie’s shoulders from the unanticipated whip of a vine. While Xa spread a melting cream over the man’s torn skin, Irene wriggled her toes inside her boots, her feet sticky with sweat and antifu
ngal powder. As Marc and Louis discussed the enigmatic demeanor of their Brau wardens, she looked around for the man on guard duty, for there was always one taking a turn, while the rest gnawed on hashish, sharpened knives, dozed, or skinned the squirrels they caught in the woods, giving the fuzzy brown tails to Kiri, to add to the collection tied to a leather strap draped over his shoulder. Watching the assigned guard was a way for Irene to remind herself of what she had done in Leh. Of what she was capable of doing.

  She located the day’s watchman, his cheeks speckled with tattoos. He was standing on the trail behind Kiri, who was passing the time batting at leaves, sucking nectar from flowers, and shaking a string of cans to scare off tigers and ghosts. She told Marc and Louis, “I try to put myself in their heads. I try to imagine what they could be thinking—”

  But before she could pursue this train of thought, Clothilde approached and said, “Irene, could you come with me for a moment?”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s something I want to show you.”

  The men continued with their discussion while Irene followed Clothilde into the forest off the opposite side of the path. Behind the immense trunk of an evergreen tree, Simone was on her hands and knees, vomit pooled in the scrub in front of her. Instantly, Irene thought of her overdose in Saigon. “Simone, what have you taken today?”

  “No pills, Irene.” Her voice was feeble. “I promise.”

  “She was sick last night too,” Clothilde said.

  Simone scowled at her.

  Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, Clothilde asked, “Can you sit up? Here, let me help you.”

  But as Simone scooted back from the evidence of her suffering and leaned against the tree, she pushed the cloth away and snapped, “Don’t touch me.”

  “Clothilde,” Irene said, “ask the cook to make some rice. And a pot of weak black tea.”

  As Clothilde rushed away, she passed Marc and Louis, who were wandering over to see what was going on. The moment Louis saw Simone, he crouched in front of her, laying the back of his hand over her forehead, as if she were a child. They sat together like this for a minute, each of them looking miserable, until Louis said, “You have a fever. I knew it, I knew this would be too much for you. Simone, what am I going to do with you?”

  Simone lowered her head, and if Irene had not known her better, she would have thought she saw shame on her face. Nearly inaudible, she said, “This is her fault.”

  “What are you talking about?” Louis asked.

  Simone eyed Clothilde already hurrying back, carrying a wet towel and a tin of crackers. “This is your fault. You’re ruining everything. If you weren’t here, I’d be in charge.”

  “No, Simone,” Louis said, with resolve, “you can’t blame Clothilde for this.”

  Rather than lash out, Simone stared up at him, her eyes sunk into their sockets. She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, and with this defeated gesture Irene realized that it was more than dislike, what Simone felt for Clothilde. It was jealousy, and Irene understood it, because it was warranted. With her knowledge and her loyalty, with the mere fact of her stability, Clothilde had taken the place that Simone had hoped to occupy—a place Irene had wanted Simone to occupy when they first met. Irene was saddened by Simone’s disgrace, but she did not know how to mend the situation, for Simone was in no shape to take charge of anything, not even herself.

  Morosely, Simone said to Clothilde, “I still don’t even understand why you’re here. This has nothing to do with you.”

  Clothilde examined each person in the group in turn before handing the towel to Louis. For a moment it seemed that she was going to walk away. Then, with her eyes on no one, she said, “Do you think I want to be here? I’m doing this for him, because he saved my daughter. He saved me. He gave me a normal life, or as normal a life as a woman like me can expect. Do you really think I’m taking pleasure in any of this? Do you think I enjoy watching the way you treat my country? I should leave you to fend for yourselves.”

  With this outburst, Irene recalled the beginning of the expedition and how coolly Clothilde had talked of using Kiri. That indifference was such a contrast to her words in the hut in Leh, and to her anger right now. “Please,” Irene said, “we need you, don’t go.”

  “I can’t.” Clothilde looked beaten. “Everything he’s promised me, everything I need for my daughter, it’s all in your hands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. It’s in his will. He’s left me a trust, with you in charge of it. It’s up to you to pay me if I follow through with his plans.”

  “And what are his plans?” Irene asked.

  Drumming her thumb against the lid on the tin of crackers still in her hand, Clothilde did not appear to have heard Irene’s question. “He warned me that you would all be difficult, but I didn’t realize how serious he was.” Her gaze cleared a boneyard of toppled tree trunks, settling on the sentinel Brau who had followed them into the woods. He had lowered his musket and aimed it, as he always did when he was the one on duty, idly sighting them down the barrel. “I never imagined the jungle would be the least of my worries.”

  Louis wanted Simone to ride on one of the oxcarts, but she refused, saying, “I need to walk.” Finally, he accepted that she was going to have her way, and the expedition started off again. But they had made it no more than another hour up the trail when Xa raised his machete.

  Somehow Irene knew, they all knew, simply by the way he motioned, carving into the air with the blade of his knife, not to move, not to make a single noise.

  The cobra glided onto the path in front of them.

  The naga spirit of the Khmer, the serpent gatekeeper of Angkor, slithered out of the myths only three feet from Xa’s son. It rose, its fan unfolding slowly, its hood flaring until its sloped eyes gazed out from a brown cape. Kiri’s scrawny target of a chest was bare. The snake was nearly his height.

  With a single snap of its venomous fangs, the cobra could kill an elephant. Blood rushed to Irene’s head, blurring her vision, but still she saw the muscles tense in Xa’s mahogany arms and the tattooed serpents strain up his back. His grip tightened around the handle of his machete, and for once Irene was able to interpret what he was thinking. Could he act fast enough? Was there any such thing as fast enough? She would have looked away, but it felt as if the slightest movement could kill the boy, and even blinking seemed a dangerous thing to do.

  “Oh,” Clothilde gasped.

  Beyond the cobra stood one of the Brau, a bony man with the face of an ascetic. His body was still as death. Irene had not heard him, she had not felt him, but he had bypassed all of them and was behind the snake, within reach of it, his own machete lifted. His eyes were ferocious, and she shut her own as the snake lunged and metal slashed the air. The thud was blunt and sickening. Kiri shrieked. Simone screamed, and Irene saw her kneeling on the ground holding the child tightly in her lap.

  “What do we do?” Irene asked, seeing the despair on Xa’s face.

  “The first aid kit!” Louis shouted.

  Marc was already running back to the oxcarts.

  But Kiri was struggling to free himself from Simone, and the stunned adults realized that what could have happened had not. The relief would take hours to sink in. Scooping up the two pieces of the dead snake, the Brau carried them back to his fellow villagers. Clothilde dug out the thermos of lukewarm tea and passed it around, everyone drinking from the same cup as they waited for Xa to regain his composure. But he was in shock, staring blankly at the ground where the snake had been.

  As Clothilde started toward him, Simone touched her arm. “Let me. Please.”

  Clothilde nodded.

  Simone went to Xa, whispering, soothing. He whispered back.

  “What’s he saying?” Irene asked.

  “If we’re serious about keeping Kiri safe, then we’ll take him out of the jungle with us when we go.” Although Simone appeared to be weaker than ever,
there was a steadiness to her words, as if by being sick she had purged herself of some degree of instability. “And if we do that, Xa will continue to play our game and pretend to believe our story.”

  That Xa understood the situation did not surprise Irene. She watched the boy dancing after the Brau, hissing triumphantly at the severed snake. “Tell him we want to do whatever we can for his son.”

  “Do you mean that?” Simone asked.

  Xa was looking at Irene expectantly, and she saw in the old man’s expression the same helplessness that had been in her father’s face during the months after her mother died. She understood for the first time not only the burden that had been accepted by Mr. Simms but the relief that her father must have felt in being able to count on his help. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  Early that evening, as the sun descended, clouds dispersed into a metallic froth over the darkening sky, and wind whipped the treetops into a frenzy. An unseasonable night storm was coming in, and it would be imprudent to try to take on the ever-narrowing trail in a downpour. In an overgrown resting area, the coolies cut away long grasses and tramped on the remains before setting up camp. The day had been tiring in more than just the usual ways. It had been emotionally punishing, and the group was worn down, all but Simone, who had miraculously improved. Though she was not well, she was not incapacitated, which was the state Irene had expected her to be in. She had even managed to make a batch of gintonics and was carrying the glasses around on a tray.

  Sitting in a canvas chair, as Marc applied Unguentine to the crosshatch of scratches on her cheek and neck, Irene watched the Brau. They had started their own fire in a clearing behind the tents. Ragged strips of the cobra’s skin were strung on forked branches over the flames. As usual, one of the men stood sentry, squatting on an oxcart with a musket in his arms, his eyes fixed on the foreigners.