by John Burgess
‘Give thanks to Heaven, children,’ I added. They were finding Nol’s expansive mood unsettling, and so was I. I wished that I could sit between them to give reassurance, but for now my husband would not like that. The children put hands together as directed and murmured thanks. Their father smiled, told them how it passed that we would be rich, then looked to them, inviting reaction. But they said nothing. How could a child be anything but confused?
Nol chided them: ‘What, Sovan – you want a life of canal dredging, then? I’ve been teaching you how to shovel silt, but now you’ll become my apprentice in the craft of the parasol and fan. You’ll work alongside me in the prince’s parasol pavilion.’
‘Yes, father. I’m very glad.’
That was not the enthusiasm Nol was after, so he turned to our daughter. ‘And Bopa – You will wear your hair in a bun, like palace girls do. You will paint your palms and the bottoms of your feet with red dye.’
My girl’s face lit up at these practical examples. She touched her hair and then turned a palm up, looking to see if the dye was somehow already there. My husband beamed too. Finally someone was showing the right attitude.
He announced that to mark the occasion, we would drink tea from the Chinese set. I didn’t like the idea, thinking it might be the last time, but Bopa and I dutifully laid out pot and cups. We drank and Nol talked more about the future, this time the obligations.
‘We must all work hard. We must stand straight, and use only the politest of language. We must make the prince proud we are in his service. We must remember that from here on, everything we do reflects not only on us, but on him and his palace.’
Nol stood up again and resumed that private reverie. I wondered how the children would take it.
By now it was dark, too late to rouse Bronze Uncle from his sleep for a prayer. We in our family went about our evening household routines, as if nothing had happened. Sovan went below to bring up charcoal. Bopa and I cooked rice and strips of catfish.
Nol ate, never leaving his reverie, then left the house. He was carrying a straw bag. I tried not to think what must be in it. Instead, I got the children settled on their sleeping mats, in the light of a single lamp’s flame. Bopa refused to close her eyes. She lay back, whispering question after question. That red dye in particular – would she wear it every day? I answered as best I could, trying not to betray my own apprehensions. Sovan lay silent, looking to the thatch of the roof. He had always been a boy who thought more things than he said.
It took time, but Bopa’s questions died out. I sat over the children until the deep breath of sleep took over. Then I turned to our household shrine affixed high on the wall, a tiny box with a flower for an offering. I said a silent prayer, asking that Sovan would continue to watch over his sister in this new life, whatever form it might take.
Then – I could not help myself – I rose quietly and went to the wooden box. The tea set was gone. I shut my eyes, frowning. Put aside those feelings! It was only a thing.
I went slowly down the steps, careful not to disturb the children, and bathed in the darkness at a jar below the house. Back inside, I knelt at the shrine again and whispered another prayer, then blew out the lamp.
The shrill song of a mosquito sounded near my ear. I wondered, had it been sent to mock me?
My husband returned two hours later, as I lay on our mat, unable to sleep. Even in the darkness, I could see that he did not have the bag.
Presently he took his place next to me.
‘Husband,’ I whispered after a moment, rolling to face him. ‘You have always protected me when danger came, putting yourself at risk for me. I thank you for what you did today, before we knew the reason the Brahmin had come. I don’t deserve a husband who is so brave.’
He said nothing, but I knew he was smiling with pride in the darkness.
‘But,’ I said, and for a moment I felt I should abandon the thought, ‘I wonder, perhaps these sparrows should not try to be swans. We have been very lucky, living here so long with no one coming to trouble us. Wouldn’t it be wiser just to move away? There are other cities. They all have markets and I could set up an egg stall in one and we would…’
‘Please, please!’ He let out a deep breath. ‘Find some calmness in yourself. If this is all you can say, please go back to sleep.’
‘I wasn’t asleep, husband. How could I sleep now, with so much to think about? You’ve always said we mustn’t call attention to ourselves. Going to live at a palace would be doing exactly that.’
‘The thing that happened, well, it happened a long time ago and we can stop worrying about it now. It won’t matter if people notice us. We have the prince’s protection. And we’ll be prominent in our own right. People will come to us asking for things, seeking favours, not trying to arrest us. And, dear wife, I will have silver to buy you lots of nice things.’
In the years we had been together, Nol had never stopped trying to prove his devotion through gifts, through things, because I had failed to make him understand that he had proven himself for all time in the very first minutes we had come together. No, my husband was always trying to follow up. His work earned him very little, of course, but sometimes he managed what in his mind were important achievements in his effort, bringing home a ring with silver plating that tarnished in a week or a length of gaudy fabric. They were always presented to me with touching earnestness, and I accepted them quietly, all the time wishing he would recognize that I already had what I wanted. If I lived with a man who was less than perfect in body, and inept at those times when husband and wife draw together at night, it was a small price to pay for the many other things with which I was blessed. Really, the only thing that I wanted was for our existence in this little settlement to go on, for Nol to find contentment in it. But he never had. I had sensed from the beginning that an indefinable anger resided in him. It was rarely openly expressed, to me, at least, but it collared his view of life. Many times I had prayed for it to depart but without effect. I had given up trying to understand it, taking to skirting it like I would a scorpion on a forest path. But now the Brahmin had provided insight. My husband had lost a place in a palace and become a canal dredger.
In the darkness, I looked to the ceiling, conscious he was awaiting my response to his pledge of wealth. Suddenly I had a thought: If we did come by some real money, I could increase my offerings to Bronze Uncle. And I could not just clean his shrine, I could have it repaired. The first job would be to replace its four foundation posts, which had begun to rot and split as termites made their homes inside. Any day, the posts might give way, spilling everything to the ground, god included. New posts, then, and perhaps new roofing as well. I could go to the market and make arrangements with the thatchers there to...
Then I put a stop to those thoughts. I was spending money that was not in hand and likely never would be.
So I said: ‘A lot of silver? Husband, please don’t talk that way. We can’t see the future. Only Heaven can. We must expect nothing.’
‘For a woman who spends so much time in prayer, you seem tonight to have very little faith.’
‘This does not concern faith in Heaven, husband, but faith in people, who like you and I are prone to deception.’
‘But this is a prince.’
I let that thought sink in, and presently I began to find some comfort in it. It is taught that Heaven is just with its rewards, that the wealth and power that princes possess flow from lives past and present lived in virtue. Most princes, at least.
I said nothing more. Nol lay still and I could sense that I had slipped from his thoughts; his mind, I guessed, was churning through some list of preparation tasks. Then he put that aside too. My husband had a way of finding sleep instantly. Presently he was puffing out heavy breaths. I lay back, relieved he had not chosen this night to put hands to me.
I remembered again just then that I had failed to go give thanks to Bronze Uncle.
The little shrine presented itself again in m
y mind’s eye. Perhaps, perhaps, Heaven would forgive my vanity if for just a few more moments I contemplated how I might repair it. Posts and thatch – I had no idea of the cost, but I knew that craftsmen in the market would charge less than if the materials were for a house, because this would be Heaven’s work and bring merit for the next life. And perhaps I would see also to a wet-season garment for the god. Yes, of course – the rains had begun, and Bronze Uncle might be feeling chills.
He would be cold no more. I knew a place that stitched such things.
3: The princely compound
I had intended to go straight to Bronze Uncle the following morning, but my husband did not allow it. There was no time, he told me as we both rose well ahead of the sun. ‘You heard the priest. We are to go to our master’s palace, and from there Sovan and I will depart for the parasol village.’
Whatever things I did not know about serving a prince, I did know how to prepare food for the road. I fanned my brazier’s slumbering coals back to life. I grilled strips of catfish. These I placed with rice in banana leaf wrappings, and this leaf bundle I placed in a krama cloth, folding its lengths to fashion a bag that Nol would carry over his shoulder. By now the children were up too. The splash of bathing carried up from the jars beneath the house. The food prepared, I went through our family’s garments by lamplight and brought out those that were in best repair. We all dressed, me fussing over the two children. Nol was the first to be ready.
Our sudden rise in society seemed somehow to be known now by everyone in the neighbourhood. When we left the house just before sunrise, a small crowd had gathered. Some people stood silently, palms together, as if they hoped that they would absorb some of our good fortune merely by being close. Some called out blessings, some whispered hopes that day work might be sent their way, it didn’t have to be anything much. Some of these people my husband ignored, others he greeted in a way that suggested they might in fact be remembered. He was more than comfortable with this attention. I was not.
On the road we turned west, toward the royal sector. Nol led; I was just behind with a hand to the shoulder of each child. You know, with my daughter I think my purpose was to hold her back – she was already excited about this new life, and kept trying to rush ahead in a way that made me uneasy. With my boy, my hand was meant to urge him on, to do his duty toward his father. Even at his young age, Sovan had the same misgivings as I.
We passed the market where on normal days I sold eggs. I imagined myself stopping to buy fish, then heading home. Why did I torment myself that way? Presently we crossed the stone bridge that spans the Capital’s main river and I sent a silent prayer in the direction of the seven-headed Naga serpent that guarded it. Then, before I knew it, Nol was leading us off to the right down a side lane that ended at a door in a tall bamboo wall. A soldier-guard there called out to us to stop, but Nol answered confidently, not even breaking his stride, that we were on the business of Prince Indra, holder of the Third Rank. That silenced the guard. He opened the door and all four of us passed through, just like that.
I later found out that this was an entrance for retainers to the royal sector. But inside there was no gleam of gold or precious stones, just a path leading through some woods. It soon brought us to a road, alive with people who looked to be those retainers. We were directed first this way, then that, along walls and canals and over footbridges. We walked quite a distance. Finally we came to a wooden gate. It was stout and solid, but not particularly adorned, a bit rough-hewn, in fact, still bearing the scent that saw and chisel draw from fresh wood. Nol looked to us significantly to convey that this was the main entrance to our master’s compound. It was not for us to use, of course. We made our way around to a rear wall and stepped through a small door there. Inside I expected to finally behold the glitter of gold. But instead we found ourselves among a collection of wooden houses. I was surprised that they were small, and not built on tall stilts, as was ours back in the settlement, but stood just thigh-high on bamboo supports. They looked new, yet not of good construction, as if thrown together in a hurry by workmen seeking quick wages. Thatch was missing from some of the roofs; here and there, rainwater had already stained sideboards.
Nol kept us moving, past men and women who variously ignored us or eyed us silently. We came to a grand wooden building. Now this was more my idea of princely glory. Its walls were made of finely carved teak, its roof of red tile bright as fire. Enclosing it was a gravel path marked every few paces by a shrub with blossoms brought out by the recent rains.
Just ahead was a courtyard. There the travelling party had assembled to await the prince. My eye was drawn to the glint of the palanquin he would ride. It was for now resting on the ground, but nearby stood six slaves who would carry it. Retainers were milling about: team foreman, gong player, cook. There were also two parasol bearers, hired by the day from the market, I later learned, because my husband had yet to begin his service. There was an oxcart for baggage, and a driver. And a comely young woman who looked to be a concubine. She was holding out her right hand, to which a maid was applying red powder. Little Bopa’s eyes went to that.
The Brahmin was present too, standing by a mare. He caught sight of us and motioned that we should come forward. At least that’s what I thought he meant. I took a few steps, and then he was mouthing the word ‘no,’ to me. Only the males of the family were required. I blanched. Already in this place I had committed a breach of etiquette.
Nol and Sovan stepped forward to the priest, who positioned them by the palanquin.
I expected a lengthy wait, because for what do retainers exist if not to wait? But before I knew it, the thud of firm footsteps came from inside the palace. This prince of ours was bounding down wooden steps I could not see. Then he came into view, striding away from us toward the palanquin. The travelling party, Nol and my boy, Bopa and I, we all went to a crouch. The priest did not, of course.
One is meant to keep eyes to the ground in the presence of nobility, yet I found myself stealing a look. Because I was to the rear, I had no view of our new master’s face. But what I could see suggested a man of near perfect construction. He had broad shoulders, well-muscled arms and the tautest of calves. His hair was pulled back in the style of royalty; the lobes of his ears hung low from the weight of jewelled insets. He wore a heavy silver neckpiece, armlets, a silver diadem and around his waist an embroidered blue sampot garment. It was quite a load of jewellery but none of it had a chance of distracting from the body it adorned.
I cast my eyes toward my husband. I will admit it – my mind entertained an unkind comparison. But I quickly put it aside. This was Nol’s moment, and I did feel pride for him. He touched his forehead to the dust three times at the prince’s feet. My boy Sovan did his best to imitate. The Brahmin gave an introduction that did not carry to my ears. Nol raised his head just slightly and voiced what was no doubt a declaration of loyalty. The prince barked a word or two in response. Then Nol and Sovan withdrew, walking backwards in a crouch.
That was it. The prince bounded onto his palanquin. From this first sight of him, I learned that he never simply moved, he bounded.
The foreman voiced an order to the slaves, who hefted palanquin and prince smartly to their shoulders. The bearers stepped to the side of the conveyance, holding twin parasols overhead. The priest climbed atop his mare. A gong sounded once, twice, three times, and to its rhythm the journey began.
Soon the procession had passed out the gate. I relaxed a tiny bit.
Nol approached. ‘It’s quite a prince we serve, don’t you think?’
I said yes, ours was quite a prince.
Nol looked about, still savouring the moment. ‘Well, then! It’s time for me and our son to take our leave as well.’
That was the cue for my boy to present himself. I gave him a tearful embrace. ‘You must be careful in this new life,’ I whispered as we held close. ‘You must listen to your father, and remember that everything you have, no matter how much or how litt
le, is a gift from Heaven.’
How I wished the boy could remain with me. I knew I would want his comfort in the days ahead. He had been a child who remained in his mother’s lap long after the age at which most get to their feet and amble away.
My good-bye to my husband was more formal. I put hands together in farewell, and he did the same, quickly. I could sense that, though he was loath to express it, he felt, right there, a new surge of devotion to me. If only all women could have as faithful a man as I did.
So, off went my husband and son. I stood watching, wondering how I would make my way alone in this place.
Then a young, slightly built man came up to me, squinting.
‘Mrs Sray, my name is Narin. I am scribe to our master’s Brahmin. May I welcome you to the prince’s household? You will find this place to be a good home.’
A hint of kindness in this place, at last. I began an elaborate expression of thanks. The young man heard me out, then said: ‘Come – I’ll show you and your daughter the place where you will live.’
From behind, Bopa giggled in delight.
Mr Narin walked us back toward the retainers’ houses. I grew bold to ask a question, then another. Could he please tell us where we would draw water? How far away was a market? He listened attentively, treating each question as just what he would have wanted to know. He seemed not to notice a fray on my sampot’s hem or my stumbling use of palace terms.
Bopa, always impatient, ran ahead of us.
‘A delightful, beautiful girl,’ remarked Mr Narin. ‘Surely I’m not the first to notice that she looks remarkably like her mother.’
‘You are kind. But if she does, it is no great asset.’
I felt eyes on me from windows and doors as we passed houses. But each time I tried to turn and give greeting, those eyes disengaged.
The house at which we soon stopped was as small as any here. I said a quick prayer to its resident spirit, then followed Mr Narin up the steps. I was met inside by the smell of spilled wine. The floor was warped and littered with rice husks and the skins of fruit, as if its previous occupants had been itinerant men living on their own. Soldiers, perhaps. Even the house’s own shrine looked untended.