by John Burgess
‘He has been banished, Lady Sray,’ said Mr Narin. ‘I would guess that when he stopped to see you he was on his way out of the city.’
I recalled Darit’s gentle smile, the request that any merit from his charity be allotted not to himself but to the patients’ accounts with Heaven. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘perhaps he has had a change of heart. Heaven’s wisdom has entered him.’ I did believe it.
‘Let us hope so, Lady Sray. That is always a possibility. Your blessing, even if you bestowed it reluctantly, could only have a good effect.’
I walked back toward my house. At the gate, a servant conveyed word that the Brahmin Subhadra was inside, waiting to see me. In the next hour, he asked question after question about Darit’s visit.
That evening, a messenger arrived at the house with some more troubling news: the previous night, thieves had broken into the elephant corral near the road to the port. They had tied up Sadong and another keeper and made off with not all but just one of the beasts.
54: The country pilgrim
The next morning, I went to the shrine of Bronze Uncle to say special prayers for Darit and the elephant Kumari.
I have not told you – the shrine was quite different from the old days, unrecognizable, I would say. Bronze Uncle now inhabited a chamber in a stone tower. His door was protected by a pair of sculpted lions. One priest or another officiated in his presence all day long. I had paid for all of this; if I could not come to say devotions every day, I could at least show my reverence in other ways.
The attending priest welcomed me when I arrived in my oxcart. Then I knelt before the god for close to thirty minutes, seeking his pacifying intervention in whatever untoward events lay ahead concerning Darit and the holy animal.
When I stood up, the priest had a question. ‘Lady Sray, would it be too great an inconvenience if you stepped to our pavilion for a moment? We have prepared refreshments.’ My mind was still troubled, but I could not say no. So I allowed him to show me along a paved path to this pavilion.
Ahead, a group of men and women rested on mats in the shade of a banyan tree. Aged pilgrims, they looked to be. The shrine was now a stop for many who made the holy journey to the Capital.
There was a general shuffling and putting of hands together as I approached and in me this kindled an old sense of undeservedness. Blessings were murmured, and I returned them under my breath. I was just passing when my eyes fell on a white-haired man who sat on his haunches by the trunk of the tree. He was looking toward me in a curious, sympathetic kind of way.
He had grown old, but I recognized him immediately. He was the cart driver Sao, the kind man who had brought me from the home for girls without parents to the estate where I was first married.
It had finally happened, then. So many years, and no one from that old estate, until now.
I hurried on, terrified. In the pavilion, it was all I could do to keep my composure while I drank cool water put out by an acolyte and traded pleasantries with the priest. When it was time to leave, I returned to my cart by a way that did not pass the pilgrims. I climbed aboard, then said to the priest, in a voice calmed as best I could: ‘The people beneath the tree – they look quite fatigued. They must have travelled a long distance.’
‘Why, yes, Lady Sray. It’s the late years of life for them, as you can see, so they make the effort.’
‘Yes. And would you know where they are from?’
‘From a province to the west, Lady.’ I waited. Would he say more? Out it came. ‘Some of them, I am told, had a connection to His Majesty in his youthful days, service on his birth estate. So it’s quite an honour that they visit us.’
When I got back to my house, I hoped that the sight of familiar people and things would settle me, but they did not. I sat in silence on my terrace, as a servant told me that things were ready for my bath. I scarcely heard.
My husband was away, so I did not have to put on an act for him. I devoted my full attention to replaying the encounter at the shrine in my mind. It was over almost as soon as it began, so, surely, there was no time for the man to recognize me, assuming that at such advanced age his mind was clear enough to recognize anyone. He must have been well past his seventieth year. Perhaps his eyes were bad, or simply held on anything that moved. Or maybe he remembered, but not who I was, just that I was someone who had had some presence in his past. Or his mind was so feeble that even if he remembered me and made a mention to others, they would pay no attention.
Surely the ghost had planted in his mind the idea to come on this particular pilgrimage, knowing its course would intersect with mine. Did this ghost also have the power to bring clarity to his old mind and make him remember and act on what he saw? I could not say.
I slept badly that night, and when I awoke I said prayers at the shrine in my room. A maid brought rice and water spinach. I ate, but after a few bites the food turned sour in my belly.
I sat before the unfinished meal, and a thought arose: cart driver Sao was very old – whatever the ghost intended, he might drop dead before he could say anything.
I closed my eyes, suddenly weeping. I had wished death on a man who had shown me only kindness, who had sensed my sorrow on the long ride that day to the estate and from his own purse had bought me a coconut.
55: Martial games
For weeks after that, I was sure that soldiers would come and take me away. I passed every waking moment wondering, what if it happens now? But day after day, the soldiers did not come, and I began to calm down. My mind turned elsewhere. But I paid scant attention to the approach of an event that would set in motion drastic changes for me and my family, and, I should say, for the Empire as a whole.
It was the annual martial games, a week of competition in swordplay, elephant duels, horse and chariot racing, the casting of spears, the shooting of arrows. For the King, lacking a war, there was nothing closer to the excitement of combat – not a few of the competitors expired on the field. For Crown Prince Aroon, I think the games were something different, a chance to ride with his father and demonstrate progress in martial skills. He would take part in two events of horsemanship. And he would see, for the first time, the estate where the rise to power had begun, because the honour of hosting the games had fallen to Chaiyapoom this year.
We all had heard that this choice had been enabled through pledges of silver by the estate’s young lord to the private charities of certain palace Brahmins. This was a common-enough method of securing the games. Each lord of the realm of course stood to gain from the resulting recognition, the flowery mentions in court. And having the ear of the King for an extended period allowed for the talking-up of private agendas. Nol suggested to me that the young lord, having gotten nowhere with his appeals to us that day, planned to plead to the King that because the cost of hosting the games was so high, his estate should be exempt from the new levees for construction of the mountain-temple. He would not volunteer that these would amount to three to four times the expense of the games. His Majesty wouldn’t know – he never took interest in details like that. And in any case, Nol said, the King would be distracted watching for Darit. The Upper Empire was the region to which he’d been banished, and there was wide speculation that he might show up at the games to seek forgiveness from his father. No one expected Darit to remain banished for long.
The departure for the games was a great ceremony in itself. Following tradition, King and Crown Prince mounted horses, then led a cohort of two hundred royal guardsmen in parade before the palace. The column passed the reviewing stand, which was crowded with retainers, and kept right on going, heading for Angkor’s north gate.
Falling in with the column after it left the palace vicinity was the usual tail of retainers, cooks and washerwomen. And the oxcart of my daughter Bopa, designated concubine for the four-week excursion. She was sleeping, tended by Yan, as the cart rattled through the city’s avenues. Nol was not to be seen – those aches in his bones had continued slowly to increase and limited hi
s duty to the Capital.
Ten days’ travel brought the column to the boundary of Chaiyapoom’s lands. By a marker stone, four horsemen in the red sampots of the games waited. My girl eyed them through slats in the cart’s side, relieved that the estate and its cool-water comforts – she had heard there was a waterfall – must now be near. Yan cooed sympathetically. She produced a damp cloth to moisten her mistress’s forehead.
Finally, the caravan reached the estate house. King and prince were received by the young prince of Chaiyapoom. Bopa and Yan watched from the edges, then an estate retainer showed them to a small guesthouse.
The next morning, an estate retainer appeared at the guesthouse with word of where and when the games would begin. Presently the two women walked the forest path he had mentioned. They emerged into the sunlight of a large open field. Ahead was a newly built bamboo platform, a forest of red royal parasols over it. His Majesty and the Crown Prince were there already, seated on a gilded double dais, tended by the estate’s prince. A phalanx of the King’s guard surrounded the pavilion. But its members knew Bopa and her maid, and so they stepped aside to make way. Bopa took a place behind the King, Yan beside her.
On the field ahead, lines of soldier-competitors, all in the special red garments of the games, stood waiting. Behind them were ranks of war elephants and horsemen. Near the pavilion, referees, guardsmen and servants all hurried about making last-minute preparations.
More rows of men in red sampots, more war elephants, moved into place, from every direction it seemed. Finally there came a general quietening – opening rites were about to begin. The young host rose and the guardsmen made way to allow him to the centre of the field. There he stood a moment, facing the pavilion. But he did not announce the start of the games. Instead, he gave way to a man of broad shoulders who stepped from the ranks.
Everyone recognized him immediately. Darit.
The whole world has heard of what came next; there are many versions of what happened. I will tell you what I know direct from the mouths of Yan and Bopa.
‘Fellow Khmers of the palace guard, welcome!’ Darit shouted. ‘You have travelled a week to be here. We salute you!’
Yan knew that no matter how he’d come to be here, Darit should not be acting as master of ceremonies. She felt uneasy. But not the King. He listened, smiling, his pride plain for all the world to see. He was just a father now, delighted that a long-lost son had reappeared. He seemed the only person who failed to notice that Darit had not crossed his arms at his chest in salute.
‘You are highly skilled in war arts,’ Darit continued, ‘We know how far you throw your spears, how straight you thrust your daggers, how fast you run and ride. I saw it many times during my years in the Capital. So many times we practised together, do you remember? There is no military force like you in the world.’
His Majesty put hands to mouth and shouted: ‘Perhaps you’d like to concede all the prizes right now?’ He thought that was a wonderful joke.
Darit paid no attention, yet still the King’s suspicions weren’t aroused. ‘We have come here to confront you, fellow Khmers of the palace guard. But the truth is that we would rather not. We have come here not for sport, but to save the Empire. The current reign has surpassed all limits of respect! It has squandered the bounty of Heaven. All over the Empire, in your own home villages, people are oppressed. You face demands for so much rice that your families go hungry. You face quotas for so much building material that you are left with nothing to honour the deities of your own districts.’
The King was on his feet, staring, finally understanding.
‘We will fight you if we must,’ Darit continued, looking again to the guardsmen. ‘But we will win. Because we have the support of Heaven. Here is the proof!’
He gestured toward a far-off tree line. There, out of arrow range, stood an elephant, a rather old one, draped in white, its tusks in gold sheathes.
‘It is the holy elephant Kumari, favoured beast of the former, rightful King.’
Cheers and the mass shaking of weapons sounded from Darit’s lines. The King’s hand went to his dagger. Yan’s hand went to my daughter and pulled her to her feet. ‘We must go!’
Bopa was up, trying to comply, but she was stopped by Darit’s next words: ‘Kumari, my fellow Khmers, has remained alive these years through the courage and benevolence of the great holy woman of the Empire, the Lady Sray, endower of hermitages, feeder of the poor, healer of the sick. It was she who on the day the usurper seized the throne led Kumari out of Angkor to safety, because she knew that in the beast resides the spirit of legitimate rule. Before I left the Capital, I called on the Lady at her village retreat, and she blessed me and all who would join me. Anyone who does not believe may ask my retainers, ask the villagers there.’
You see, then, his purpose in calling on me that day! What wickedness, to use me in the spilling of blood, the advancing of selfish ambition.
Now the King bounded forward, right through his guards’ line, sword in one hand, dagger in the other.
The soldiers’ ranks, so straight and organized, dissolved straightaway into the confusion and din of combat. Men swung swords wildly, shouting, cursing. Some quickly fell bleeding, their souls already departing. A war elephant pushed close to try to ram the King’s pavilion. Arrows and spears pierced the roof and sides.
It was only due to Yan that my daughter got out of there. The maid held her firmly by the wrist, pulling, pulling, not letting anything stop them. They ran right past grunting men swinging blades at each other. Ahead was the forest, which would provide cover. Just as they entered it, Bopa looked back. Men in red sampots were inside the royal pavilion now; His Majesty was to the side of it, still with sword and dagger, half a dozen enemies closing in on him. And Prince Aroon – bravely standing firm, right there with his father. The last sight she saw, before she turned and ran headlong down the trail, was a royal parasol falling.
Somehow they reached the gate of the estate house, exhausted, their garments splattered with mud and water. The retainer they’d met that morning ran up to them, in a full panic. Don’t gather your things! Just get out!
Even here, everything was happening too quickly to comprehend. Three soldiers in red sampots suddenly appeared. ‘Look at this!’ cried one, seizing Bopa by the arm. ‘I get my prize before the fight’s even over!’
Yan stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. He sputtered in rage and reached for his knife, but then arrows were striking all around – the ground, the gate, the thigh of the blustering soldier. Bopa ran again, but fell face down after a few steps. Tasting dirt, she rolled over. Fire arrows were streaking across the sky toward the estate palace. Then Yan was pulling my girl up again and together they fled the compound. There was smoke in the air. And then ahead, their oxcart. The two beasts were hitched to it, but there was no sign of the driver. Yan hurried her mistress aboard, then seized whip and reins and got the animals moving. From behind, the din of fighting carried in through trees and brush, seeming to chase them. Bopa pleaded that they go faster, but Yan replied that oxen know just one pace.
Horsemen appeared ahead. They were no threat – they were flying the standard of the King’s guard. They passed, offering no protection, just shouts of slogans of loyalty to His Majesty. Bopa felt better on hearing that, but a minute or two later the cart passed two of those same King’s men lying dead in the track, eyes vacant and mouths open. She looked away and mumbled a prayer.
All morning and afternoon, Yan and Bopa bumped along this jungle road, passing unfriendly spirits, meeting no humans. Bopa worried they were lost. At dusk, they reached the crest of a hill and saw that ahead the jungle ended – there was grassland, a stream, and on its banks, where the road crossed the water at a ford, a small fort built of logs. Yan argued for going right on past. But Bopa said no, they should stop. There would be food and water, and protection. As it happened, they had no choice. The fort’s commander, seeing that this was a palace vehicle, ste
pped into the road. He voiced an elaborate welcome, showing no surprise at the strange sight of a woman driving an oxcart. One of his men stood behind with bowls of water. Clearly, word of the rebellion hadn’t reached this far. Yan whispered to her mistress to stay in the cart and say nothing. But Bopa sat up and blurted out the news. She began weeping, pointing at her torn sampot and speckles of mud still on her arm. Shocked, the commander helped her down, then questioned her, like a servant, it seemed to her, right there by the cart, and at length. Yan got the same treatment. A dozen or more men emerged from the fort and pressed close, weighing every word, fingering their daggers in a way Bopa found frightening. The promise of water was forgotten; no one seemed to care that the two women had almost been killed.
Later they did get their water, and some food, by lamplight in the commander’s hut. They ate hungrily, though the meal was coarsely milled rice and the flesh of a mole. Soldiers whispered in the shadows among themselves, and Bopa felt afraid all over again. Later, four of the men grudgingly cleared out of a hut and turned it over to the women, but took its only lamp with them. Bopa lay down in the darkness. The mat stank of old sweat, and all night her mind replayed the leering soldier and his grip on her arm. And the things that Darit had said about me. None of it made sense.
When morning came, she was offered rice and more of the mole. The men eyed her like they had the night before; she turned away, recalling again that grip on her arm.