I must pray, he thought. I shall pray. I shall pray like Papa. He tried to clear his mind, to practice perfect attention, but the complete emptiness, the total void, instead of making it easier allowed thousands of thoughts to slip loose of their moorings and cascade into his consciousness. The rapid bombardment of images horrified him. A thought stuck and he leaped for it. Bodies are made of water, earth, wind and fire. He chanted it within his mind. Water earth wind and fire. Water earth wind and fire. He chanted it silently again and again. In thought he offered the Enlightened One his own body, his own water earth wind and fire. For hours he repeated the chant and offer into the constant cool black void.
He slept again. Woke again to nothingness, to total sensory deprivation. No pain. No feeling. No time. He thought of his father. “...a lackey of Pech Lim Song,” Bok Roh had screamed. “A lackey liquidated by the people...” He tried to cry. He could feel his eyes jittering beneath their lids, beneath the cloth and the weight of the soft earth. Dirt particles ground his eyeballs as they skittered below the lids. He could not cry. He cried inside for not being able to cry. He attempted returning to the chant but he could not make his mind hold the words. He saw images of home, wat, school, friends. He saw his mother, Vathana, Samay, Peou. Then the series of roadblocks replayed and that released images of Plei Srepok. Water earth wind and fire. Water earth wind and fire. He did not wish to see Plei Srepok. “Come here,” his father says. “Take care and watch over...” “Yiii...” the giant screams. Waterearthwindfire. Waterearthwindfire. “Never forget our family legacy...” father says. His voice blends with the perfect constantness of the void. “...or the Path of the Elders.” Waterearthwindfire. Fire. Total village immolation. Total blackness surrounding immense flames within his eyes. Within his eyes, head ears scraping naked body. He is blind. He believes he is blind, has been blinded by the sight he has witnessed. Nothing could be so totally black. Empty. He cowers. Tied. Tied to the stake of Plei Srepok. Mute. Dazed. “For all eternity our blood will call for revenge.” Yes Father. “Do not cry.” Yes Father. “Become all you are capable of becoming.” Yes Father. “...watch over Mayana.” Yes...“Yiii-KA!”
Water. Earth. Wind. Fire. Blackness. Trembling. Complete emptiness. Isolation. Void. Nothing. He urinates. The urine feels warm but soon cools and blends with the zero, the hunger, the disorientation, the mystical acceptance. Nang sleeps, wakes. I’ve disappointed Papa, again. Papa, don’t leave me. It wasn’t my fault at school. Please don’t blame me. I won’t disappoint you ever, ever again. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me. Samnang cries, bawls, whimpers himself to sleep. Nang wakes totally numb, totally lost in space, time, emotions. Totally acquiescent.
“What does he say?” Voen whispered to Vathana. Everything inside the Cahuom home was being washed, polished, straightened or freshened. “I...I haven’t asked.” Vathana hung her head concentrating on the flower arrangement. “He’s been so...”
“I know,” Voen said. “Your poor mother. She endures the loss and she has to endure his silence. Still, he is your father. Ask him.”
“But Auntie...” Vathana began, stopped.
“When we were little our father used to make him concentrate on his lessons. More than any of us. ‘Chhuon,’ Pa would say. ‘You’re not the oldest. You’re not the strongest or the biggest. You must be the smartest.’ And he would be silent and think his deep thoughts for weeks. Then he’d come out of it with some new understanding and Pa would shower him with attention.”
“Auntie...” Vathana murmured.
“Um.”
“Would you...” Vathana’s fingers worked nervously at the arrangement, “...ask him for me?”
“No, Vathana.” Voen came, stood behind her, gently straightened Vathana’s hair with her hands. “This is something you must do.”
Vathana said a prayer for her father, her sister and brother. Then she entered the second room. “Father,” she called sweetly. It was the day of the third and last gift-giving ceremony. Mister Pech and his wife had arrived in Phum Sath Din the day before with an entourage of aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters. And with Pech Chieu Teck, second son of the wealthy merchant, Vathana’s betrothed. The village was alive with the news, alive with the rumor that the bride’s father had not greeted the lesser guests. Vathana had never been so anxious. How she wished she could again whisper with Yani, giggle about this man who some said looked like the Prince, tell her little sister how she, Vathana, was now afraid to talk to their father.
“Um,” Chhuon grunted. He sat on a sleeping mat, staring at a blank spot on the wall. His grief had not tempered. He was withdrawn, argumentative, irritable. Only a month had passed from the ceremony for his father and young children to the occasion of the first gift-giving, and only two weeks more. For days he had stooped silently in paddies, weeding, moving handfuls of mud meaninglessly. With his hands in the mud he had felt he could almost touch his son. Inside he screamed. Nights he dreamt of Kdeb and Yani. Mayana was at peace. He could sense it. Kdeb’s spirit was hurt, lost.
“Teck’s sister and brother have brought bolts of English linen and Thai silk. Mama, Grandma and Aunt Voen have prepared a very special meal and everyone is dressed so beautifully. Even cousin Sam and Ry and Great Aunt Moeun have come. Please Papa, smile. For me.”
“Yes.” Chhuon’s answer was simple. A smile wrinkled his face. He looked up at his daughter.
“Papa!” Vathana cried.
“We’ll have a good talk,” Chhuon said. “We’ll plan everything as it should be. When we’re finished eating I’ll come and ask you to meet our guests. You know how very distinguished Mister Pech is, eh? Ah, but I think still, you’re too beautiful for his son.”
Vathana laughed, at first a small titter, then a bigger giggle, then a sustained gleeful laugh. It was the first time in seven weeks Chhuon had joked with her, with anyone, had given her any indication he was aware of the wedding plans. Vathana went to him, knelt beside him. She grasped his callused hands. Chhuon squeezed her hands briefly then said, “Now go. Let me get ready.”
Blossoms and candles made the central room of the Cahuom home feel as elegant as the dining room of the best French restaurant in Neak Luong. Mister Pech and his wife were expected within the hour for the connecting-word ceremony, a serious conversation about the couple’s future, a bountiful meal, and a time for Vathana to meet, for the first time, her betrothed. On the morrow the four parents would go to the khrou for advice on picking a lucky day for the wedding.
That Vathana had never spoken to Teck was not unusual.
Nor was it unusual that he had seen her only in a photograph. Uncle Cheam had made the preliminary arrangements and he was trusted by all. Pech Lim Song knew that Cahuom Chhuon’s family was a good family, if rural, and Chhuon knew that the Pechs were of excellent ancestry. To the parents, nothing more need be of concern.
Chhuon washed, dressed in his best clothes. He stopped every few minutes to kiss his statuette of Buddha seven times. His hair had grown an inch long since the hundredth-day ceremony for his father. One did not shave one’s head for the death of a child. To keep the bristles from standing straight out, Chhuon oiled them lightly and combed them to one side. He could not help but feel empty as he checked himself in a mirror, and he could not rejoice at the thought of Vathana’s wedding. Tiny Phum Sath Din, he thought, raising children to populate the cities. Samay had moved to the monastery to begin Sangha training. Vathana would move to Neak Luong. No...he could not repeat their names again. Only Peou will be here, he thought. Only Peou.
After three days, Met Hon lifted Nang from the coffin. He hugged him. He held the boy for a long silent moment. Nang’s body hung limp in his arms. “Tonight you’ve been reborn,” Met Hon whispered. “You are as an infant in my arms. We will care for you and nurture you all the days of your life.” He lay Nang on a sleeping mat over soft earth, untied his wrists, unwrapped his fingers. The boy’s body was cool, cold, clammy. His eyes seemed disconnected within their sockets, falli
ng to different angles in the dim light of late dusk. Met Hon left. A pang of fear whisked through Nang’s chest, his only emotional capacity. Met Hon returned with hot tea, lifted the boy’s head and gently let him sip the liquid. “You shall be one with the Movement,” Hon whispered, “and we shall usher in an age more remarkable than that of the Angkor kings.”
Hon pulled the boy onto his lap and held him for an hour. His body heat warmed Nang. Slowly the stiffness dissipated from the boy’s limbs. He moved his shoulders, then fingers, ankles, knees. “I’m hungry,” he said.
“Then you shall feast,” Met Hon answered. He helped Nang roll to his knees and stand. The boy wobbled. “You are very strong,” Hon praised him as he led him to a small bamboo table at the center of the camp. “You must obey all orders of the Movement. Then you’ll be allowed whatever you need.” On the table were sandals, fresh clothes, a sleeping blanket, and three beautiful bowls of food—a noodle dish with chicken, a river fish cooked in banana leaves, and a huge rice pot.
“Tell me your name,” Met Hon whispered quietly.
“Cahuom Samnang,” the boy said.
“No!” Hon barked viciously.
Samnang startled, trembled, fell to his knees cowering.
“Tell me your name,” Met Hon hissed angrily.
“Nang?” the boy whimpered.
“Met Nang,” Hon corrected.
“Met Nang,” Nang said.
“You may dress. Eat your fill of rice.” Hon spoke flatly, with neither respect nor ridicule. To a guard he said, “Take the other dishes away.”
Nang scooped a handful of rice into his mouth. He dressed in the clothes of the Movement as he chewed, then he ate more greedily. After he stuffed himself, he retched. He rushed as quickly as his stiffness allowed from the table but vomited onto a muddy path which led through the camp.
Hon pounced on him. He screamed, grabbing the boy’s slender shoulders, shaking him, “How dare you vomit food the Movement has provided. See what greed produces. Ingrate! Eat it!” Hon shoved Nang’s face into the vomit and mud. “Eat!” he screamed. He held Nang roughly by the back of the neck as the boy licked the ground. “Good,” Hon said, relaxing his grip but not letting go. “Ah, much better, Comrade. You see, you can obey the Movement. Tonight you shall rest. Eat as you wish. Prepare yourself. Strengthen yourself. At dawn we commence our march.”
Nang was led back to his coffin and left. The guard gave him no instructions, no indication if he was allowed to stand, sit, lie, sleep, walk about. Again he was alone. He looked into the darkness hoping to find something, anything, on which to center himself, on which to pin this new, strange reality. He squatted beside the coffin, wrapped the sleeping blanket about his shoulders, shuttered in the cold night dampness and the residual chill from the grave. Again there was radio music. Two guards passed on the trail. In the light of their lantern he saw they were heavy, thickset, strong. He heard their speech and he thought, rural. From villages so isolated they must be without pagodas or schools. Their strangeness frightened him.
Nang thought carefully about what he had seen of the camp.
The site repulsed him. The guards were slovenly. Except for Hon. Hon was immaculate, educated. Hon, he thought. He was no older than Samay, sixteen, yet he seemed to be in command. Who is Hon? he thought. In the darkness and stillness the question convoluted. Who is Nang? Quietly he began to sob. Nang, son of Chhuon who has been liquidated. He said a prayer for Chhuon’s spirit and wished it a peaceful journey and quick progress to its next re-creation. Then he thought of escape, of Nang rising and walking silently into the jungle, but Samnang, he thought, has no knowledge of where he is, of where he should go, of how to survive in the wild. Nang has no light, he thought. Y Bhur would know. The name awakened images that made him tremble. Fighting back the nightmare he thought, Tomorrow I’ll find Y Bhur, Y...No. Met Ur.
Nang lay on the coffin. Again he cried. He was alone, isolated now even from Hon, isolated by Hon’s violent burst of anger. Alone, withdrawn, withdrawing, his only friend and companion the half-developed consciousness of an eleven-year-old boy which seethed in darkness behind eyes, which was repulsed and disgusted by the vile scenes its own core demanded to repeat...to repeat...to repeat the cleaving. He sees Samnang, tied, trussed, forced to watch. He sees Bok Roh swing, hears the giant scream, sees the massive cleaver enter, the head part, the right half fall on the shoulder of a body not yet realizing it has died, the left half for a fraction of a second looking like a drawing, for a fraction seeing the mystery before the surface seeps a thousand drops of blood and cloaks the drawing red, sees the machete wedge into the bone at the midback, sees the giant kick his sister’s body from the blade. Sees nothing in the dark nightmist, nothing in the deepest of darknesses within.
First light penetrates the jungle canopy. Met Nang opens his eyes. He is surprised at the size of the complex, at the number of small shelters. He sits up. There are at least thirty two-man sleeping positions, perhaps more, plus a dozen hammocks, and half a dozen coffins. He does not move. From the coffin lid he can see a single delicate filament strung to a leaf perhaps ten feet away. Mist has settled on the web and formed a series of miniature pearllike droplets. They are beautiful, he thinks. He shivers. He is afraid to move. Others in camp are up. He stares at the pearls, stares into the jungle. There are thousands of filaments with minute morning pearls reflecting almost imperceptibly the hint of light beneath the vegetation. Whoever Nang is, he thinks, there is still the spider, the web, the glass beads.
They can have him, he thinks. He does not think clearly, verbally. He sees his body as a mass of glutinous rice capable of being tamped and shaped by the blade of a knife. Nang’s body rises, rolls the sleeping mat and blanket. Outside, he is obedient, withdrawn, pliable, yet at the core there is a being still intact. Whether, he thinks, the vessel is Samnang or Met Nang makes no difference.
For eleven days Nang marched with the long patrol, marched through jungle and over mountains, seemingly not in a single direction but in circles, or perhaps in an expanding spiral or simply in meandering curves with a general destination but no constraint of time, marched toward the first segment of his formal training. Each day Nang marched more easily, each day he ate better, each day he became stronger and each day Met Hon instructed him in hygiene, jungle and camp life, cooking, sanitation, even sleeping, resting, sitting on one sandal with feet on the other so as not to muddy one’s clothes. Each day Hon instructed him in proper thought and action. Each day he punished him for improper behavior.
“No crying,” Hon seethed the third night.
Nang had dreamed Chhuon’s spirit was beseeching him. “But my father...” Nang began.
Hon snapped. “There is no father.” He dropped his anger. “There is only the Movement. The man who sired you only did his duty for the collective good of Cambodia.”
On the fourth day Nang asked, “May I speak to Met Ur?”
“He is ill,” Hon answered.
“But he marches with us. I’ve seen him at the rear of the column.”
Hon spit, disgusted. “Why do you concern yourself with him?”
“He’s...” Nang’s face contorted. “He’s my friend.”
“He’s a burden to the Movement,” Met Hon rasped. “The Movement is your only friend.”
“I could help him. He’ll help the Movement.”
“Ah. So you’re that strong, eh? Then you’ll be responsible for him. If he doesn’t keep up, you’ll be beaten.”
Y Bhur, Met Ur, was wretched, sick, pathetic. Nang himself felt dirtier than a sweat-coated mountain woman cutting dry rice in the hot sun, but Met Ur’s countenance was vile, repugnant. Nang’s smell was that of the unwashed; Met Ur’s that of decay, mummification. Under Hon’s eyes Nang forced himself to behold Ur, forced himself to near his friend, to touch him, to offer him a hesitant repulsed hug.
“Met Ur,” Nang whispered, “we’re...we’re to march again. I’ve come to”—Y Bhur glared at the boy through sunke
n hollow eyes, the skin below them so drawn and the eyeballs so shrunken and glazed, Nang could see the yellow inner tissues of the sockets—“I’ve come to help you.”
“May their spirits depart in peace,” Y Bhur muttered in Jarai. “May they never return.” Nang froze. He had lost his father and sister. He had not thought of Y Bhur’s loss. “Spirits.” Y Bhur coughed. “Do not retrace your steps.”
“Stop him from muttering that cluck,” Met Hon descended upon them. “Make him march.”
Nang gripped the boy who had once been his friend, who had once been much larger than he, gripped his flaccid arms and pulled him up. “You can do it,” he said. “You must...” He cowered beneath Hon’s glare. “His...his leg’s bad,” Nang mumbled. “It should be treated.”
“If the Movement wished to treat him,” Hon scowled, “he would be treated.”
Throughout the day Nang urged Y Bhur to walk faster, to try harder. “Do all you’re capable of,” he said as sincerely as his father had once said it to him. “Don’t cry.” When they came to steep inclines Nang half carried him. When they rested by a stream Nang unwound the leg bandage. The stench revolted him. The sight of the festering raw meat horrified him. He forced Y Bhur to sit in shallow rushing current where he, Nang, scraped the surface of the wound with a sharp stone as he’d once seen the khrou clean an abscess from his father’s foot. Nang beat the swollen thigh with the butt of the rock until the oozing yellow-green fluid turned red. Then he washed the bandage and reapplied it.
They moved again. Hon marched before them, several guards behind. “At our next rest,” Nang turned and whispered to Y Bhur in Jarai, “I’ll get you a walking stick.”
He turned back forward into Hon’s flying fist. The punch sent him sprawling. “Speak Khmer!” Met Hon spat angrily. “Or you’ll be killed.”
On the fifth day and again on the seventh and eighth the size of the column increased. Nang didn’t know the extent of the unit but he’d seen five more who he took to be, like himself, conscripts. He estimated there were at least three guards for each newly selected child.
For the Sake of All Living Things Page 11