“What of my family?” he asked. “Tell me what has happened to my family.”
“I’m only a—”
“Tell me!”
The Cham looked away, momentarily closing his eyes. “There’s…a rumor, lord.”
“What rumor?”
“They say…that you’re the only one left of your line. That Indravarman put your family to the sword. I’m sorry, but—”
“Who says this?”
“Everyone, lord. That’s why he’s set a price on your head. Because only you remain to claim the throne.”
Jayavar nodded. Though he had dreaded and expected such news, his legs felt weak. He walked away from the Cham and leaned against a nearby tree, imagining the faces of his children, faces too young and innocent to know the pain brought by steel. How he wanted to trade places with them, to give up his life in return for theirs.
“He could be wrong,” Ajadevi whispered in his ear, her hand on his shoulder.
“You know he’s not.”
“I’m sorry, my love. So very, very sorry.”
A cicada buzzed in the treetops. Jayavar looked up, his eyes glistening. “If they’re reborn, why don’t I feel them?” he whispered. “Why have they not come back to me?”
“They will. Give them time. They’re young, and the young always need time to find their way.”
Jayavar prayed for their return into his life, asking also for the strength to go forward, to honor them by reclaiming their land. He then stood straight and returned to the Cham. “Release him,” he said to his men, who started forward but stopped, unsure of their action. “I said, release him.”
The Cham was freed.
Stepping close to the prisoner, so close that their noses almost touched, Jayavar shook his head. “Your king was wrong to murder my children.”
“Lord, I—”
“Wait here for five days. Then return to Angkor. Tell Indravarman that I’m coming for his head. And before I take it, I shall take other things from him as well. Things he will not want to part with.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Five days. Leave any earlier and you risk my wrath.”
The Cham bowed low.
Jayavar gripped the man’s topknot, pulling him up. “Tell him that my children were better than he shall ever be, that they’re bathed in light, while he shall dwell forever in darkness.”
“I’ll tell him…these things.”
“And after you do, you should flee to your homeland. Because soon every Cham in Angkor will be dead.”
Jayavar released the man and then walked into the jungle. His horse was where he had left it. After mounting and assisting Ajadevi up behind him, he kicked his stallion forward, toward his city.
Please, Buddha, he prayed, please let the journeys of my children be swift and uplifting. Their actions, their minds, were noble and good. Their karma was good. They were stars that could be seen on a stormy night. They were beauty in an ugly world. Please reward them for their beauty.
A tear rolled down Jayavar’s dusty cheek. Because he knew that his men were behind him and that for their sake he must remain resolute, he sat tall, resisting the sorrow that came at him like an army.
One step, he told himself. One step followed by another. That’s how I shall endure. That’s how I shall honor them.
Asal walked past rows of Khmer homes, which were built mainly of thatch and bamboo and supported by tall stilts. Perhaps one structure in four had been burned to the ground during the invasion. Of the undamaged homes, many were now occupied by Chams, though Khmers were also numerous. In the shade beneath the dwellings, slaves labored, dogs rested, and hammocks swayed in the wind. The homes were mostly of one or two rooms, and clustered around communal bathing ponds. To the west, Angkor Wat sprawled in all its glory.
Though Voisanne’s directions on how to find her home had been explicit, Asal had become disoriented by the seemingly endless groupings of houses. He followed a wide and well-kept boulevard filled with Cham warriors, horses, and war elephants as well as Khmer priests, farmers, and children. Asal wasn’t one to be shocked by his surroundings. In his homeland he’d seen officials carried on jeweled palanquins and live snakes being skinned. But some of the sights in Angkor surprised him. A Chinese trader quietly asked about the availability of a slight male prostitute. Khmer workers chiseled gray sandstone blocks as if no invasion had occurred. Young children ran from him, laughing and hiding behind their unsmiling mothers and fathers.
Stepping off the boulevard, Asal headed north, trying to recall Voisanne’s directions. He was expected to report to Indravarman soon and so increased his pace. As usual, he carried a shield and a sword. Most Chams wouldn’t dare to wander on Angkor’s byways without a companion, but Asal was not worried. A bloody death would likely befall him eventually, but that death would come on a battlefield, not in some alley.
He rounded a corner and paused as an unusually large home caught his sight. The structure with its small balcony was as Voisanne had described. A tidy thicket of bamboo rose from beside a nearby pond. A stone statue of Vishnu stood next to the path leading toward the home. Suddenly certain that he was looking upon her house, Asal slowed his pace. Five slaves labored amid the stilts. Women weaved while men chopped wood. Asal studied the slaves but saw no one who resembled Voisanne. These people were fierce and strong, likely captured from the mountains to the north. None were Khmers.
Feeling that he had failed Voisanne, Asal stopped at the statue of Vishnu. Voisanne had said that her father had helped carve it, and Asal pictured her as a girl watching him work. He could tell by the way she’d spoken about her father that her love for him was strong. Wishing that he’d been older when his parents died, Asal tried to remember them. His father was a serious man who often prayed. His mother had been much more carefree—laughing with Asal, holding him on her lap, and surely adoring him. Yet she seemed so distant, as if part of a dream.
The slaves glanced at Asal, and he started to turn away. Then a girl climbed down the ladder that led from the living quarters. She was thin, long legged, dressed as a Khmer, and he guessed her age to be eleven or twelve. His heartbeat quickened, and he stepped forward, peering at her face. At first she turned her back to him, but he moved closer, ignoring the slaves’ stares. The girl’s face was fine featured and beautiful. In many ways, she looked like Voisanne. Asal was now several paces from her. He started to speak, to pretend that he was lost. But only a few words had escaped his mouth when he saw a birthmark on her chin—a thumbnail-size mark exactly where Voisanne had said it would be.
The girl bowed to him, avoiding his eyes. She seemed preoccupied, and he wanted to tell her that her older sister was alive, that he could bring them together. But a Cham woman shouted from the home above, and the girl stiffened. She hurried to retrieve a nearby bolt of silk and then started up the ladder.
Asal watched her disappear. He turned to the statue of Vishnu, offering a prayer of gratitude; then he walked quickly away. Though he longed to run to Voisanne’s quarters and tell her the news, he couldn’t afford to be late for Indravarman, and so he headed toward the Royal Palace, unaware of the sights that had previously engrossed him.
Voisanne’s little sister was alive. If he could reunite them, perhaps he could right a wrong that had been done to them, and perhaps Voisanne would no longer see him as a Cham, but as a man whom she might someday consider a friend.
Soriya’s dream had a tenuous hold on her, like a spiderweb that has temporarily snared a cicada. She saw herself nursing Vibol, milk dribbling down his fat cheek, gathering in the folds of his neck. Humming, she stroked his head, enjoying his soft black hair. He withdrew from her nipple, and she lifted him up, placed him against her shoulder, and began to pat his back. The warmth generated between their bodies made her smile. Nearby, Prak lay on a deerskin, awaiting his turn, patient for the time being.
Shouts arose in the distance. Smoke drifted upward. She looked for Boran, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sudde
nly people were running past her. She picked up her two sons and was soon fleeing alongside strangers, calling out for her husband. The jungle was on fire. Men and women fell and writhed. An ominous presence loomed behind her—a darkness. She tripped on an exposed root, still gripping both boys as she stumbled. The darkness descended on her, cold and foreign. She screamed.
Awakening from the dream, Soriya blinked at the midafternoon light. She lay in an abandoned home within a fishing village, a home built on stilts and perched above brown water. Boran and Prak still slept. Vibol had left his position by the ladder, but his axe was still there, so he must be nearby. None of them had slept the previous night, as they’d come upon several Cham scouting parties. The pressure had been too much for her, and she’d pleaded with her sons to flee the Great Lake, to go as far as possible from the Cham stronghold. But Vibol and, to a lesser degree, Prak had resisted her, and in the end, she’d given up trying to convince them that their duty was to stay alive, not to help their countrymen. Angry at Boran for not siding with her, she had hardly spoken with him for much of the day.
Soriya closed her eyes, remembering what it was like to be a young mother, unconsciously humming a song that she used to share with her boys, a song that Prak had learned to play on his flute. It seemed that when they were young she was forever tired, and yet the joy of motherhood had given her a deep sense of fulfillment. All her life she had been poor. But two beautiful boys now belonged to her. She cared for them with love and delight, protecting them from the elements, remaining always near them and reveling in such proximity. Though she’d never been as good as other women at mending nets or manipulating her husband, she excelled at being a mother. Her babies thrived, provoking a secret sense of pride in her abilities. And for this pride she loved them even more, as they’d given her what no one else ever had or could.
Something splashed below them, and Soriya opened her eyes. She called out quietly for Vibol but heard no reply. Sitting up, she shook Boran’s shoulder, whispering that Vibol had been gone for some time. Prak awoke as well, rubbing his eyes, squinting as the world came into partial focus.
“Where is he?” Soriya asked, and then moved to the ladder and looked down.
Boran knelt by her side. “When did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
They called out to him again in hushed voices.
Prak crawled to them. “His axe…it is still here?”
“Yes,” Boran answered.
“What about the food?”
Soriya rushed to the corner of the room where they had piled up their dried fish and several fresh mangos. She could tell immediately that some of the food was gone, and her heart seemed to drop like a stone. “No. He…he wouldn’t leave us. Please, no. Where would he go?”
“The Chams,” Boran muttered, biting his lower lip.
Soriya grabbed her husband’s arm. “No, that’s impossible. He’s not that—”
“Foolish?” Prak interrupted. “Yes, he is. I think that’s exactly what he’s done.”
“Why…why do you say that?”
“Because last night,” Prak explained, “when we saw the Cham fires and were hiding, he was whispering to me, asking me what it was like to have my eyes. I thought it odd that he chose such a time to ask how I walked, how I made my way through the jungle. But you know Vibol—he’s always restless, always moving and asking. So I told him as much as I could.”
Soriya shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would he ask you such things? Why then?”
“Because, Mother, I think he knew that he couldn’t get close to the Chams carrying an axe. I think he went looking for them, and when he’s close, he’ll pretend to be blind. He’ll stumble like I do, but he’ll see everything. And somehow…somehow he’ll get his revenge.”
Soriya clutched her arms against herself, as if she were once again holding her baby boy. “No. That can’t be. He can’t be gone.” She started to cry.
“I know my brother,” Prak said. “He’s gone. He’s trying to do what he thinks is right. But he’s never been blind and he’ll fool no one.”
Boran imagined Vibol stumbling toward the Chams. Though his neck had been aching, he no longer felt the pain. Though a fish jumped below, he didn’t hear its splash. “Then we’ll have to go get him,” he said. “Before he finds the Chams we’ll have to find him.”
“How, Father? How will we do that? He must have swum to shore and is probably walking toward them as we speak.”
“We can’t follow his tracks and stroll into the Cham stronghold,” Boran replied, trying to think clearly even as panic threatened to overwhelm him. “They’d butcher us. But we could paddle close to shore. Perhaps we’ll find him before he arrives at their camp. And if we’re too late, we’ll have to devise a way to meet them and to make them need us. If they need us, if we provide a service they must have, they won’t kill us. And we can look for him.”
“What about fish, Father? We could catch them fish. We could fill our boat with it and sell it to them. Two poor Khmer fishermen won’t be seen as a threat. And if we give them a good price, they’ll want us to catch more fish. It must be hard to feed an army, and I don’t think they’ll harm us.”
Nodding, Boran reached for a wall, steadying himself, thinking about what to do if the Chams had captured his boy. Yes, while selling their fish, they might get glimpses of the Cham encampment; they might even locate Vibol. But if they saw him pretending to be blind or in chains, what could they do? How could they rescue him among thousands of their enemies?
“I should go alone,” Boran said. “If anything should happen to either of you, I’d never forgive myself. Or Vibol.”
“But, Father—”
“I know you could help me, Prak. But for my sake, for your mother’s and brother’s sakes, please do as I say. Let’s fill our boat with fish and I’ll go to the Cham encampment. I’ll sell fish, find Vibol, and bring him back.”
“Mother and I would be no safer here. If the Chams found us alone we’d be at their mercy. Think of that, Father. Wouldn’t it be better to have us with you, helping to sell fish? Who would bother us?”
Boran looked at his wife. “What do you think?”
“That we should stay together.”
They were about a half day’s walk from the Chams, and Boran wondered if they might be able to catch Vibol before he arrived there. He’d had a good start, as they had napped all morning and surely he’d left as soon as they had fallen asleep.
Boran imagined his son captured by Chams, and despair welled up from somewhere deep within him. He pushed the despair down, struggling to think straight, aware that his decisions had led to Vibol’s departure.
I’m so sorry, my son, he thought. I’ve failed you. You’re rash and young, but you’re a man and I should have treated you as such.
“Boran?” Soriya asked, once again squeezing his arm. “Did you hear me?”
A bird squawked. Their unseen boat thumped against the home’s stilts.
“Gather our food,” Boran said. “We’ll stay close to shore, looking for him as we go. If we can’t find him, we’ll catch some fresh fish and head into the Cham camp.”
They collected their few possessions, leaving the axe where it lay. After situating themselves in their boat, Boran and Prak began to paddle. The waters of the Great Lake were brown and still, hiding whatever lurked below.
As her loved ones paddled, Soriya thought about her dream, wishing that she could once again hold Vibol in her arms. He had been such a happy baby. He’d smiled, laughed, and rarely cried. She had felt as tethered to him as a tree must feel to the earth.
Yet now she felt so far from him. The love between them was tempered by disappointment and conflict. She longed for reconciliation, to look into his eyes and say that she respected him and would support him. He didn’t need to run away, to distance himself from her. They had shared too many smiles in the middle of the night, when all the world except the two of them was asleep.
“Come back to me,” she whispered, tears obscuring her view of the shoreline. “Please come back and make me whole.”
Discoveries
he Cham encampment was even larger than Vibol had expected. Boats of all kinds had been beached along some mudflats beyond the camp, as well as tied to several bamboo docks that stretched far out into the Great Lake. A half dozen of the biggest vessels were anchored in deeper water. The low, gnarled trees covering the shore had been cleared, but were unsuitable for building. Instead, Chams used elephants to drag heavier timber to the site. While officers sent scouting parties into the jungle or set up patrols, craftsmen built bamboo shelters, kitchens, and latrines. Horses were tied to bundles of teak logs. Prisoners stood in cages too narrow for them to sit.
Vibol had climbed to the summit of a hill dense with foliage after rolling on top of a dead carp at the water’s edge. The stench was terrible, but he hoped to convince the Chams that he was a blind beggar. Lying atop the hill, he studied their camp, guessing that at least two thousand Chams were present. Boats were constantly arriving, unloading supplies and then picking up items wrapped in thatch or cloth. Metal, perhaps gold, glimmered, and Vibol wondered if precious Khmer statues were being plundered. Though he’d never spent much time gazing at such works of art, he was enraged that the Chams would steal them. His homeland was being raped. He was a witness to this crime and felt shame rise within him again. These were the men who had savaged his friend, a young woman he’d shared many smiles with while paddling past her home, and recently, whom he had kissed in the moat. She was why he’d liked to travel to Angkor, for her home was along the way, and often their fathers spoke while she and Vibol exchanged glances. In the chaos of the Cham attack, he had forgotten about her and had finally made his way to her home long after the Chams had left. At first he’d run from the sight of her ravaged body, but he had returned later to place her in her father’s boat and push it out into the water, too full of grief to even pray.
Now he studied the enemy camp but was still too far away to discern any weakness in its defenses. Picking up his walking stick, he stood up and began to move down the hill, pretending to be blind. Though his eyes were open, he stumbled through the low, thick jungle, cutting himself on thorns. He paused often, cocked his head, and listened. The stench of the carp nauseated him, but he dared not wash it off. Several times he purposely tripped and fell, muddying his legs and arms. Though the Cham camp was hidden by foliage, he could hear men shouting and the strike of steel against steel. His heart began to race. He thought about his parents, regretting any pain he had caused them but hoping they’d be proud of him. Once he returned with information about the camp, they would finally treat him like a man. More important, all of them could then travel deep into the jungle, find the Khmer forces, and describe the Cham camp.