The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  Indradevi Kansru came bearing a wide bronze tray piled high with rice and fruit.

  "Oh, look,” said Jayarajadevi. “Food. Beautiful food."

  The little boy held out fat greedy hands, like flowers opening.

  Like life.

  * * * *

  The new King of the Chams was simply dressed.

  He wore a jacket, but it was not quilted and embroidered. It was silk, but brown, and he wore no crown or tiara, or anything wound into his hair. It was simply pulled back into a bun.

  Jayavarman was allowed to rise up onto his knees.

  "I am sorry you have been so badly treated. We did not know that you were Rajanga, or we would not have sent you to the fields.” The Cham King made a circular gesture with his hands: turn around, sit cross-legged, and be comfortable.

  Jaya found it difficult to shift himself and to assemble words. “I....My commander wanted me dead so he tried to put twelve parasols all around me, to attract attention. I sent them away and dressed like a common soldier."

  "A good survival technique,” said the King. “Except if you're captured.” His intent was fixed and his mouth firm in a half-smile. Sanskrit gave both the Chams and the sons of Kambu their formal titles. The language permitted subtlety of thought, expression, and treachery.

  "Was that commander called Yashovarman?"

  Jaya's face felt heavy and soft like old fruit. All he could do was nod yes.

  "Ah."

  Jaya prodded himself: think. Quickly.

  The Cham said, “Suryavarman is dead."

  It was news Jaya had been expecting. Suryavarman had lived too long and became foolish in his old age. God should not let kings get old.

  Then Jaya remembered the old King, as tall and skinny as a mantis with his smart clicking brain and his knife-point eyes. Always making buildings and schemes, and never loving. Marrying a Cham for alliance, never fathering a child, putting his wife's brother on the throne here. Poor man.

  Jaya needed time to think.

  He asked about the fate of the previous Cham King. “What happened to Harideva?"

  "Oh.” The new King's voice was mild. “I killed him. I used to be called Harirajadeva."

  One of the warring princes, Jayavarman remembered, the head of a faction.

  "But now I am called Jaya-Harideva. We both like that word, Jaya, perhaps.” Victory. “I've managed to stop the Chams fighting each other and unite them. Champa is not part of your kingdom any longer. It is not even an ally of Kambujadesa."

  Jayavarman nodded. “And Yashovarman is now Universal King. And you need to know more about him."

  The King smiled. “I'm sorry, I appear to be offering you the chance to become a traitor to your Lord, which nobody of any merit would welcome. You're a Buddhist, I understand?"

  Blackmail, threats, inducements?

  "Champa's relationship with Buddhism is different to the one your people have; we're closer to it. We were a Buddhist kingdom for a while. So, you might find that we understand your beliefs better than many of your allies."

  "If you are about to offer me a chance to depose Yashovarman, you need to know that it is unthinkable that a Buddhist could become Universal King."

  The Cham held up an intervening hand. “I am offering you an easier life here. It's ridiculous wasting a man like you hauling rocks or transplanting rice. We'd like to give you a chance to study in one of our monasteries."

  Jaya waited.

  The Cham shifted suddenly where he sat. He thrust himself forward. “My friend, the Khmers under Suryavarman marched against the Siamese. They marched south to Malaysia. They tried to make us join their wars against the Ammanites and now most disastrously the Dai Viet. They have been catastrophically defeated by the Vietnamese, and Suryavarman is dead. I need to know. Will the Khmers continue to march against all their neighbours under Yashovarman?"

  Jaya's mind churned like mud. He felt off balance, saddened, tears bristling in his eyes. All of this was alarming. “I have been trying not to think about my people,” he said. “Or my past. When you live as a slave, remembering another life as a prince produces only pain and anguish. A troubled mind."

  The Cham went still. Suddenly, in his eyes there was a humanizing light. “You will be more powerful if those memories have no power over you."

  The Way.

  Yes, Jaya, you could refuse to think, and go back to being an ox in the mud, which is the fate Yasho would wish for you. You could end your days by eating mud to block your own breathing.

  There is no safety for you anywhere and little honor; all courses of action are treacherous. But if you are ever to be anything else, you will have to walk away from those fields.

  So. You talk.

  Jaya remembered Yashovarman the Ox. Bullying, demanding, but also slow and steady. He had seen Yashovarman with the greatest possible deliberation marry Suryavarman's niece. He had even fathered children with deliberation. Jaya remembered Yasho's face, never smiling, always....always...

  Always afraid. Yashovarman the Ox was fearful.

  Jaya's mouth spoke and what came out of it was surprising. “He is cautious. Cautious and slow and methodical, and the disasters of the last years of Suryavarman's reign will"—here was another surprise—"frighten him. He is personally fearless, but I think he believes people are innately stupid. All his friends are stupid, blunt people. He shines among them—which must be a matter of policy too—and when he talks to you, he listens to you as if he expects you to be stupid. So. He will not trust Khmer troops to fight and to win."

  Something in Jayavarman quickened and he looked up. “I think Yashovarman will stay at home. He is no Suryavarman. He will have plenty of trouble at home."

  The Cham King dropped his head with relief and then looked up again. “So, we may have a time of peace?"

  "You may. I fear Yasho may have to devote more of his energies to controlling his own people.” Jaya found he knew something else. “He will turn out to be smarter than anyone expected. That will cost him."

  Jaya looked up and felt something frank and honest shared in the space between them. That was dangerous.

  "We have not made good use of you, Khmer who is a Buddhist.” Suddenly the Cham King looked playful. “Have you ever seen the ocean?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  April 15, 2004, part one

  Map does not look pleased.

  "I can bicycle,” he says.

  His captain replies, “With those hands?"

  Map looks at them, turns them over. Rectangular patterns of red and yellow have soaked his gauze bandages. “My hands have been cut up most of my life."

  The Patrimony Police all stand in ranks; everyone can hear what Map is saying; all their faces are turned towards the ground. William feels ashamed.

  The Captain glances at Sangha. “Map. You have a choice. You can stay and guard the temple or you can go out and help question people. But you don't have a motorcycle, we don't have motorcycles, and the army is holding your bicycle hostage. If you want to help find Ta Barang, and I know you do, you will ride that motorcycle."

  Map rolls his lips back in and nods, once.

  "Mr. Tan Map,” says William, bowing with a sompiah. “I am happy to work for you."

  "How much are they paying you?"

  "Map!” exclaims the Captain and turns to Sangha and Yeo Narith. “Please accept my apologies for this behaviour."

  Sangha is chuckling and shaking his head. “We all know Map. He has a big mouth.” The other policemen chuckle. “William is getting his contract price, seven dollars a day, when he works."

  "I only get twice that for a whole month,” says Map, and turns and walks away, out of the ranks.

  They all breathe out, shaking their heads.

  The police village is on the eastern side of Angkor Wat, at the end of a causeway that crosses the moat. Single policemen, or policemen working away from their families, live in a terrace of wooden rooms, on top of a small rise. The rooms have no
doors. Some are entirely open on one side. In one room, a rank of canvases leans against a wall—stylized, repetitive paintings that one policeman tries to sell to the few tourists who enter Angkor this way. A sign in hand-lettered Khmer offers professional haircuts; someone was once a barber. There is a hand pump that they all wash from, soaping all over, wearing their kramars or shorts, and pouring water from a tin pan over their heads.

  On the other side of the causeway is the Captain's house, somewhat finer, resting on solid pillars, with a painted gable. There is a small café and bar, and behind all of it, a lopsided laterite wall. A gopura leads to tracks through the forest to the temple.

  Map doesn't sleep in the policeman's village. Nobody is too sure where he does sleep. This morning he came strolling down the road from the direction of Banteay Srei. The other men were already all lined up. Map gazed at the tree-tops, stopped, and lit a cigarette—to demonstrate that the Patrimony Police did not own him in the mornings.

  William scans that road now, anxiously. The pickup trucks are late. He is saddened to think that the boys he recruited might miss the meeting; that no one will know what he has achieved. The Director of APSARA and the Captain stand side by side. They are worried that the attackers will strike at the Wat or other temples, so most of the Police will still guard those. Some, the best behaved, will represent the Patrimony Police at army roadblocks.

  Map sits by himself on a tree root, smoking.

  A pickup comes along the moat, its reflection flickering around pond weed. It could be any pickup. William focuses. No, no, it's Ea, he can see the army uniform on the arm resting outside the window. William waves.

  The APSARA director breaks off his briefing. “Here come our friends from the army now."

  Map laughs aloud and springs to his feet.

  "Ah! We are going to have karaoke! Music from AK-47s!"

  The ranks stir.

  Does William hear the click of a safety?

  "They're not the army,” says William. Sangha turns to him. “They're people from the town. They want to help."

  "Until there is any trouble,” says Map.

  "There will be no trouble,” says the Captain, and Map just laughs.

  "They don't know who did this, and they need to find somebody fast, and they want it to be me. That makes trouble, doesn't it, guys?"

  The other policemen murmur yes.

  The Captain's eyes boggle. Sangha shields his eyes, and shakes his head. He works with Map every day; he knows him well; he likes him.

  The police like him. Why? Why does everybody like Map? William needs to know.

  The pickup turns and jostles along the unpaved causeway, white dust billowing behind.

  They wait.

  "They're all kids!” says Map.

  William says, “There are also many older people in the town who want to help."

  Sangha steps closer to him. “Did you do this, William?"

  "Yes. I thought they could help your investigation. Sorry."

  "When did you do this?"

  "Last night, after I drove you to the Phimeanakas."

  Sangha raises his eyebrows. A second pickup is now following the first.

  The police and APSARA wait until both pickups swing around and stop. The boys stand up, looking a little wide-eyed at all the policemen. They have been taught to avoid policemen.

  Map is laughing. He strides forward. “Deputies!” he calls them, laughing at them. “Fall into ranks.” The boys look sheepish. “Come on, come on."

  "Map,” says his Captain. “What are you doing?

  William intervenes. “These are all good boys, sir. They all want to help the police find the Book and bring back the words of Jayavarman. They can go and look in many places. They can ask many people, all over Siem Reap, what they have seen. They feel angry that a foreigner has been kidnapped in their town."

  All the right things to say. The boys nod. The APSARA director chuckles. “We seem to have more investigators than we thought."

  Map says to them, “Kids, this isn't a game.” He holds up his hands. “I got this climbing over razor wire to get away from the army. They were going to beat me up. You want to face the army?” Scars, spots, lumps, the punched-in nose, fingernails like claws—Map is so breathtakingly ugly that the boys stare in silence. They can see; this is history talking.

  Captain Prey intervenes. “The army is working with us, Map."

  Map ignores him. “Do you want to help?"

  The boys all nod.

  "Okay, so get down out of those trucks and tell me what you've heard.” Grinning at themselves, at their own daring and clumsiness, the boys jump down.

  Map's the only one, William realizes, who is accepting their help. He looks everybody other than me in the eye and talks to them without false politeness. But he does the right thing and everybody respects and likes him.

  What is going on here that I do not understand?

  The boys say that one of their grandmothers saw a foreigner in a punt on the river, that an uncle saw a busload of Thais leave that morning very quickly. One lad tells them, “My grandfather says everybody in Leung Dai knows the old cadres there took it."

  When he hears that, Map's eyes shrink back into themselves, shivering. Only William notices.

  Later, Map walks off in the direction of the main road and steps into the forest. He comes back out of uniform.

  He wears an old T-shirt, a squashed green cloth cap, shorts, and the thick gloves that farmers sometimes use to clear scrub. They hide his bandages. “Okay. Let's get moving."

  William sompiahs. “Yes, Sergeant. Where do you want to go?"

  "Leung Dai,” Map says, as if to the air.

  "You mean where the Book was found. We'll have to go through an army roadblock."

  "You drive, don't try to think,” says Map.

  Heading out past Mebon, they come to a row of vehicles waiting in front of army jeeps.

  They coast to a halt. An old farmer, his face rumpled and bright red, continues cycling and the troops shout at him. Confused, he blinks, stops and sompiahs as an army officer strides towards him.

  Another officer walks up to William's motorcycle. Map calls the soldiers “sir” and takes out his family ID card. Map says he is going to help a friend clear scrub. The officer scans the card, folds it up carefully, passes it back to Map, and lets them go.

  "How did you do that?” William asks.

  "You're not paid to ask questions, either,” says Map.

  They make the rest of the drive in complete silence.

  Seven dollars a day, William counsels himself, and a chance to help find Luc.

  * * * *

  Luc hears Fish Face, Arn, come back.

  He calls the boys idiots, but exuberantly. “There is not a tourist in all of Siem Reap!” he shouts. The engine revs and the boat swings around and away. The sound of the water changes from a relaxing gurgling beat to an exhilarating shoosh. After hours of nothing, any change feels good.

  Neatly, quickly, the old man thumps down into the hull.

  "I have newspapers, barang. We are famous."

  The old man tears the tape off Luc's head and holds up the English-language Phnom Penh Daily. “What's this say, barang?"

  un dig team head kidnapped shots fired on lake

  Luc tells him.

  The old man laughs, pleased. “You see, General, the barang don't care you're here too."

  Gleefully, he pulls away the tape from the General's face as well and thrusts the newspaper at him. He pulls out another one and holds it up for both Luc and the General. It says in round, red Khmer script:

  kidnapping in siem reap there must be no return to the days of war

  The color photographs show the New Year panic, the dour-faced mass of people caught in flashlights. In the crowded airport, tourists waited, heads slumped onto their hands.

  The old man bounces on his knees. “All the tourists have gone. Think of all the money you are losing, General! I drove through An
gkor to get here. There wasn't one tourist. All those APSARA guys in their blue uniforms sitting there like this.” The old man mimes head-in-hands desolation and inactivity.

  Luc thinks of William. “Many poor people make their living from tourism."

  The old man looked pleased, ready for this. “No, they don't. They get, what, two dollars a day? The biggest room in the Grand Hotel costs two thousand dollars a night! The people who sweep the floors walk hours back to their houses to eat a bowl of rice their families grow for them. The rich run their hotels, the tourists have their air-conditioning, and poor people can no longer afford to live in the town."

  Luc tries to mollify him. “All of that is true."

  "Nobody wants the Khmers Rouges back, but the things that created them are with us again. People with regional accents go to university only to find they are mocked once more. Gun runners, drug dealers, corrupt people of all kinds come to Siem Reap and look down their noses at honest farmers."

  "I'm sorry to hear it."

  "You hear what I say, General?” The old man gives him a kick. “You can't live on corruption all the time. You can't sell the whole country to the Thais or the Singaporeans without us knowing it!"

  "You are a Khmer Rouge?” the General asks. He sounds aged and frail.

  The old man barks at him, “What is coming will make you yearn for the Khmers Rouges. The Pol Pot clique were educated men. They had too much education, they were crazy from it, but they had an ideology that you could understand and argue with. The kids now have guns and and are on drugs and have never been to school. You are lucky it's me and not them."

  Luc has never heard talk like this before. “What do you think they will do?"

  "Shoot up tourists at Angkor Wat. Maybe hold them hostage. Not because they expect any good from it. Just to stop people like this man."

  The old man gives the General's knees a slam with the side of his foot. The General squeals and tries to sit up.

  "People like Yimsut Vutthy, they look down, moel ngeay on the country people. They are always evaluating us as inferior, an."

  The old man drops the newspapers in Luc's lap and works his way back on his haunches into the prow of the hull. He settles with a gun in his lap. “So. Read me what they say in English."