The King's Last Song

by Geoff Ryman

  "I can't change that."

  "You could look at me."

  "Don't I?” The King sounded small and fragile.

  "No."

  The King rocked back and forth. He looked at Rajapati's hand again. “When you were born, your mother and I were living in a Wat by the sea, and neither of us have ever been as happy again. And when you were born we looked at your face and said what a beautiful baby."

  Rajapati managed to speak. “I hate emotion."

  The King chuckled. “It's pretty generally a bad thing.” He breathed in again, and was calm. “I need your help. I have a task for you."

  Rajapati hissed. “I knew we'd get around to what you need reasonably quickly."

  "You are good with words. And I need to tell the world that the Queen is dead. Could you write the letters for me? No, Rajapati, please understand. These letters have to come from someone high up and they must be written swiftly and Vira...” The King sighed. “Vira is excessively formal. He'd compose an ode. You write like I would write if I could. I know that you write letters to everyone. It was one way you tried to make yourself king."

  "Don't worry. It failed."

  "It would fail as soon as they saw you."

  It really was that simple. “Yes, it did."

  "So write to them all. Well and truthfully and simply. Tell them I grieve."

  He stroked Rajapati's hair and, damn him, it worked. Rajapati was moved.

  "I could do that, Father, yes."

  "I have another long task, that I never thought could be done. I have a long story to tell, Rajapativarman."

  Their eyes met finally. The King said, “Could you tell it for me?"

  * * * *

  The park in front of the terrace was full of people and candles and prayers.

  The King walked to the edge of the platform to acknowledge them.

  On the deck, before a statue of Yama, the pyre burned. Silken banners danced alongside the flames. The people chanted her name.

  Jayarajadevi! Holy! Holy! Holy!

  Cremation was a long process. The royal household sat on the deck, quiet and respectful in the hammering sun. Heat from the fire billowed over their faces. All of the King's many sons and daughters were on the terrace. As First Queen, Rajendradevi sat in the very first rank and had the satisfaction of seeing her son and the King sitting in meditation together by the fire.

  Even Fishing Cat was there, disguised as the handmaiden of the Queen-elect.

  "I don't know if I can bear it,” Princess Indradevi murmured to Cat. Her face was both plump and collapsed. “Why couldn't he just leave the situation as it was and let Rajendradevi stay First Queen?"

  Cat answered, “He wishes to reward you. And his kingship depends on him having a holy wife. The people know you. They will be reassured that they have another Jayarajadevi. It will do good for the Kingdom."

  Indradevi's shoulders seemed to dip under a heavy weight. “Policy, policy. It leaves no space for people."

  Fishing Cat regarded her. She had never been as close to Indradevi as she had to Queen Jaya. But over time, they had become allies. “This policy allows you to fulfil a royal destiny. It allows you to continue to lead your people along the Path."

  Indradevi looked up at her, her eyes dead. “I loved him for years. Now finally he has offered, and I find it is the last thing in the world I want. He is not the young man I knew."

  "It is not for me to advise, but Princess, I would say: marry him. Become Queen. There will be no need to look happy; quite the reverse. If you looked happy, people might say: see how she rejoices in her sister's death. Look sad, and no one will begrudge you. They'll say: thank God she was there to take over."

  Out in the park, the chanting had changed.

  Indradevi! Indradevi! Indradevi!

  Cat smiled. “You see? You are beloved. Your people need to know you are still here."

  The King turned around, smiling, and held out a hand towards his sister-in-law. The hot air wavered, as if from uncertainty.

  Indradevi said wistfully, “If I go, it will mean I have accepted him."

  Cat considered. “Yes. But think. You are not one to starve yourself to death."

  The Princess's eyes flicked back at her. “You are right there,” she said. She took in a deep breath. “All right, Sister.” She squeezed Cat's hand and stood up.

  Oh! thought Fishing Cat. Indradevi has been trained since birth for something like this and does not even know it! The way she casts her eyes down, the way her feet take tiny, delightful, rustling steps. Her unfeigned modesty, the way she cannot help looking gracious, reaching out for the King's hand.

  He held hers aloft. Yes! The people jumped up and danced and waved. Oh, they loved it; they would love this marriage; they would love this stability, this restoration, and this seeming victory over death. Their voices came in waves.

  The King took the hand of Prince Indravarman on his other side, and the sound of the crowd redoubled.

  The air shivered, the flames were hauled straight up into the air. The revelation in the heat of the fire, in the collapsing logs, was that the pyre already contained nothing. Everything had already been burned.

  * * * *

  Finally, as dusk descended, the King signalled that it was seemly for them to leave.

  The household stood, making soft, suppressed cries as stiff joints straightened. They all went separate ways. Prince Indravarman was taken to a meeting of ministers and officials. Prince Rajapati was borne away on his bier to the library. Cat got herself to the kitchens to make sure there was food. The Queen-elect sat until the end, staring into the cooling grey pile of ash, already being stirred by evening breezes. Her skin felt stretched from sunburn, and was greasy and gritty from ash. She wanted to wash; she wanted to sleep; she wanted to break out into a run. All her wants cancelled each other out. She sat.

  Stars came out. Insects and lizards made night noises. Just as they had done when she and her beloved sister were children, and had slipped out in the evenings. The stages of life: childhood, beautiful adolescence, then the wonderful task, building the City of the Eastern Buddha. Their real home.

  How like a fire was life. It started small, with just a spark. It fanned to a mighty flame. Then it greyed to ash and cooled.

  The night grew chilly and damp. Finally, Indradevi stood.

  She retreated to the upper floor of the palace, where all was polished, bathed, and scented. The musicians made idle tinklings like waterfalls or bird cries. A cousin from Mahidharapura came to offer condolences, and tried to settle on the cushions for a long session of family grief. Indra made it plain she wished to be alone. From down below came the scent of roasted meat. Food! Who could eat? The day was ending like any other.

  It was not enough.

  With sudden determination, the Queen-elect spun around on her cushion and stood up with a sweep. She scooped up the taper and shuffled through the darkness to a library area. The gold curtains were lowered against insects. She held the taper up, found an oil lamp and lit it.

  Prince Rajapati was also scratching away at palm leaves. He had a job at last. Indradevi thought of his mother, and whispered a friendly greeting to him. She got a pleasant smile back. My goodness. Everything was changing.

  Dropping down into a lotus position, she snatched up a steel quill. She patted surfaces, trying to find palm leaves ready for writing. She only found an old letter. She flipped the hardened strip of leaf onto its back and began to write.

  She wrote with an uncharacteristic gouging motion of determination. She wrote in the high holy language of the Brahmins.

  He had for his First Queen Sri Jayarajadevi...

  They will not forget you, Sister...

  By the rivers of her house, the Queen would walk, practising asceticism....

  I will make a new thing. It will look like it honors the King, but it will honor you, it will tell your story.

  Her beauty was burned by asceticism, but it was not destroyed or diminished, bu
t made instead a thing of wonder, like a temple hidden in a forest...

  I will have this carved in stone and set up in the temple of the Aerial Palace. It will be longer than any other inscription. And more truthful.

  She planted the eminent seeds of the spirit, and waited for the opportune rain of the spirit, and the husbandly act of the gardener of the soul. She obtained the fruit of wisdom and grace.

  For what is the self but words? And what are words when they are set in stone? They become a kind of eternal self. Oh, Kansri, my sister, your star will shine bright for ever. The words will burn.

  The cripple Rajapativarman worked as well.

  He had gathered up all the treated palm leaves to himself. He was writing letters to minor officials now, people for whom getting any kind of personal communication at all, even after the cremation, would leave them indebted. Sweet-voiced, skilled Rajapati cut and carved.

  I write to your grace on the King's behalf as he is stricken with grief. He asked me to make sure you had been informed personally by the family of the death of the matchless Sri Jayarajadevi and the observances that were made of it...

  At last I am getting towards the end of them, Rajapati thought. There have been hundreds of letters. And each one of them bore my name too. I have my princely head and my thin active hands, and I will be known for something even yet.

  That very morning, in the midst of all the funeral plans and acts of statecraft, the King had taken time to sit with him beside the small family reservoir. To begin their secret project.

  "I have no idea how to begin,” the King had said.

  "I should say who you are and what you intend to do,” said Rajapati.

  "I want to bring the past to life."

  "Then that's what we'll say."

  And they began their new adventure. The words were beautiful.

  There was a cough behind him. Rajapati turned. There was the boy, smiling, looking a little uncertain. “Am I disturbing you?"

  Rajapati wanted to say something like: no, I only have twenty-five letters to write; you do know how to write, don't you?

  Then he thought: it might be wiser to play the kindly uncle.

  "Not at all,” he said to the boy, and patted a cushion. “Sit here."

  * * * *

  Fishing Cat chatted with the other slaves, collecting up the reed bowls and the enormous urns in which the noodles were carried to the tables.

  One of the old kitchen maids, who had followed the young Jayarajadevi from their old home, broke down in tears and hid her face in her shawl.

  Fishing Cat comforted her. “She was a good, good woman."

  "Yes, indeed, Lady. It has been a long story, Lady."

  "Indeed,” said Fishing Cat. “Indeed it has."

  Cat and the woman collected up a tray of dirty bowls and shuffled with them back to the reservoir. There weren't many vessels to wash. Grieving people don't eat. This had not been the usual sociable funeral feast. There had been little exchange of gossip and connections, and no need to excuse laughter by saying, oh, she would have wanted us to carry on with life.

  Cat and the woman climbed down the stone steps to the water and began to scrub.

  How grateful I am for simple chores. Indradevi sits and frets and worries. I clean bowls. Somehow that puts everything in place. Crickets chirp. Stars glow. The world comes and says: here I am.

  "You go on, Cat, there's not much else to do,” said the other slave.

  "It will all be there to do again tomorrow.” Cat said it with anticipation.

  "Oh, yes, we can always rely on our work,” said the slave.

  "I'll start on the upper floors. I'll take these clean things with me,” said Cat, carrying one last burden into the kitchens.

  Then she climbed the stairs up into the royal house. She could hear the entire family writing, scratching away behind lowered curtains.

  Cat didn't disturb them. She knelt and dusted the floors. Top floors first, then the lower floors. The lamps drew moths, but the smoke discouraged mosquitoes. She looked out over the City, most of it blocked by the terrace, but even so, the sky swelled with light from many fires. In the distance, the canals were outlined with thousands of tiny fires, reflected on water. How large and grand it is, how many people live here, countless people.

  See, Sister, she said to the spirit of Jayarajadevi, how many people come here to live in the kingdom you inspired? Can you see what you achieved?

  Cat went downstairs to the cisterns to rinse her cloths to dust again. She stepped back into a long corridor on the ground floor. Night sky was reflected on its polished surface.

  And Cat remembered. A little naughty running prince, sliding across her floors. Long gone. That house had long ago been abandoned and then burnt, and all her polishing wasted. But a new floor had taken its place. And this one does look like the surface of a lake.

  Cat looked around, and threw the cloth down on the floor. She stepped back and ran and jumped and skated again across the palace floor, skirts fluttering. She grinned.

  Cat walked on to her little ground-floor slave's room. She whisked back the curtain. The King, round-faced, exhausted, looked up at her in silent need, eyes ringed with concentric ripples, fanned with lines. His wife had died. He was an old man who had a kingdom to run, wars to fight, a new religion to drive into the hearts of his people. He was bereft, a failure, a god.

  Cat lowered the oil lamp to the floor and silently took the man into her arms.

  Leaf 151

  My father, whose name in death is Parama Saugatapada, lay himself down to die by the fountain of Rajayasri (Neak Pean). An orchestra of wounded soldiers, lame or blind, played music that freshened the air and made the water dance. The old soldiers wept, playing last songs for the King. The people came to Rajayasri, the temple my father had made for them so that they could wash away their sins. The people formed a line to say farewell to him who was still Universal King. Chakravartin they called him, bowing. Prince Nia they called him, or Catch-Him-to-Call-Him. I tell you this line extended from Rajayashri to Nagara Jayasri. This line of people extended all across the perfect city, from the Eastern Gate and all the way beyond the western reservoir. All categories mingled within it, united in grief. It was a line of one million people.

  Leaf 152

  Love is invisible, but it turns the sky and mills the rain and holds up the mountains. The people came to say farewell to their King, whom they loved. This was not a ceremony, prescribed in ritual. It was not a thing to be repeated. It was like the flocking of birds. It was like the rising of the waters. It was like the clouds at dawn. It was like the turning of the cloud-flowers, always spinning, sensed but never seen. The mourning of the people was like a mother setting eyes on her child. It was a recognition. No text directed it. No banners preceded it. There were no elephants or candles or gongs. The people whispered their love and covered their faces and King Jayavarman raised a hand in blessing for each of them. There never was a more beautiful thing in all the history of the City.

  Leaf 153

  Father, I read these leaves and you are restored to me. I see you by the reservoir walking back and forth with your heavy tread and telling me simple and undeniable things that I turned into swirling cloud-flowers of words.

  Oh, Father, I wish you were here. I wish it in the dawn. I wish it at high noon. I wish it in the evening when colors swirl like fire on the lake. I wish you and my slave mother were here to do simple things and reveal their importance. I wish you and your wives were here to make sense of the world and destroy sin. For I love you, Father, Saint, King. As your people will love you forever. I sit with my brother Indravarman in the candlelight and we talk about the old days. Indravarman has been my last and final lesson, Father. Can you read these leaves?

  Leaf 154

  The beautiful Indravarman started to drag his feet. Hard, unhealing sores appeared. One day he cut his thumb and did not notice and I realized the appalling thing that had happened. A king had become a leper. Hi
s hands twisted into useless curls. He did not once complain. He did not make one bitter or angry joke. His words were soft and kindly and healing. You have been the best of all to me, Rajapativarman, he said, for you understand. I wept two whole days afterwards in remorse. I sent him to Ceylon for prayer, for a cure. He came back unable to walk, his skin looking like lichen on stone. I help him rule. I do not do it badly. I write letters.

  Leaf 155

  Father, there are people who use us against you. Sri Jaya Mahapranjana says our misfortunes are the wrath of untended gods, the result of cross-category marriage. My brother and I are alone. They have started to cut your thousand Buddhas down from the City walls, and I fear for your images, and all your inscriptions. So I copy these leaves onto gold, which knows no decay and which no animal devours. I will wrap the golden words in orange cloth and seal them in pitch. Like a good farmer, planting the seed, I will put these words in your name into the earth. They will bear fruit. The words will come again, when your people need them most. When they cry out, tormented and disrespected, this book will flourish to shade them from the sun. But more than that, to love them.

  Love, which is acceptance.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A Reality Check on

  The King's Last Song

  People who have enjoyed this book might like to know how much of it is fact and how much fiction. Jayavarman VII holds such a central place in Cambodian culture that failing to differentiate historical fact from my own (Western) imaginings would be disrespectful. I also owe it to readers and to the Cambodians themselves to show where some of my information for the modern story comes from.

  My Fictional Jayavarman

  There is no doubt that King Jayavarman VII retook the city of Yashodharapura from a Cham conqueror in 1181. We know from an inscription on the Phimeanakas temple that he had an ascetic and religious wife called Jayarajadevi, that he spent some time in Champa, and that he waited a long time before becoming king. We also know that he married his wife's sister after her death, and that she is the credited author of that inscription on which much of our knowledge of him is based.