Temple of a Thousand Faces (45 page)

His forefinger was gripped. Again the pain came, enveloping him in an overwhelmingly acute sensation of agony that exploded within him. He screamed. He fought. He raged.

In the end, he tried to think of Voisanne, to imagine her running into his open arms with joy and love etched on her face. He called to her, pleaded with her. And she appeared for a glorious instant, filling him with light.

Then she was gone.

He screamed until the pain simply became too much, shutting
down his mind and his body, plunging him into a place where not even dreams existed.

“
I
t’s not much of a fever,” Soriya said quietly, placing a piece of honeycomb between her son’s lips, “but I want you to rest all the same.”

Vibol looked up at her, thankful for the sweetness of the honey. He lay within their sleeping quarters, a three-sided bamboo and thatch structure. The four of them had built it not long after arriving at the Khmer base and finding an open space near the narrow river. They felt relieved to be near water once again, and faced with the decision of where to build, the choice had been easy. The interior of the structure was nondescript save for a small bouquet of flowers that Soriya had set in each corner.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she added. “How in the world did you get so many bruises?”

“We practice with wooden swords.”

Soriya shook her head, all too aware that real blades would do more than darken flesh. “But there are so many. Why are there so—”

“I left more on others than I received. A lot more.”

“But these on your belly. Why aren’t you protecting your belly?”

He glanced away and then returned her stare. “Those are from wooden spears. It’s hard to block them with a shield.”

She started to speak but instead rubbed a paste with healing properties on his injured flesh. “When the fight comes…please stay away from the spearmen.”

“I’ll fight whomever I have to, Mother.”

“Then get a bigger shield. Do something.”

“Fine.”

Nodding, she continued to apply the paste. “I’m glad that this fever is a gentle one, and yet it’s slowed you down.”

“Only for a day. Then I must return.”

“A day for me to heal you. I can do that.”

A group of Siamese warriors passed in front of their shelter, each as colorfully dressed as the next. They laughed, arms around one another, and walked along the river.

“They’re strange soldiers,” Vibol said as he lay with his head supported on a rolled-up deerskin.

“How so?”

“Sometimes they sing when they fight. And their singing makes them strong.”

“Maybe you should sing.”

“Khmers are already strong. We don’t need to sing.”

She saw that his elbow had been bloodied at some point and began to coat it in her paste. “Tell me about last night. You were all gone for so long.”

“Father didn’t tell you?”

“He did, but maybe he forgot to mention something.”

Vibol wiped sweat from his brow. “We had a war council. The king and queen were there. So were a score of Khmer and Siamese officers.”

“And you?”

“And us. Thanks to Prak’s plan. At the beginning of the council, the king asked Prak to explain his plan about the fire and then for us to describe the area. And the queen, she asked nearly as many questions.”

Soriya smiled at the thought of her loved ones talking with such people. “What is she like?”

“Smart…no…more like wise. She seems very wise.”

“Why do you say that?”

Vibol scratched at a scab on his shin. “She has a way of speaking that…that makes you think she’s as old as the mountains.”

“And the king?”

“I’ve seen him practice with his sword. He’s fast…though he seems to tire.”

Soriya nodded, then stood up and stepped outside their shelter to where a small pot was perched above a fire. She removed the pot, poured some steaming liquid into a bamboo cup, and returned inside. “What about his mind?” she asked, then blew into the cup.

“He understands war. He took Prak’s plan, which was simple, and talked about ways to make it better.”

“And they treated you well?”

“Yes, Mother. They treated us well. Very well.”

She smiled again and handed him the cup. “Sip on this. It will help with the fever.”

He did as she asked, then grimaced. “It tastes like dirt.”

“I know. But it will help. My mother gave me the same drink when I was young and ill.”

After finishing the tea made from roots and leaves, he handed her the cup and closed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll sleep.”

“Let me put out the fire. It’s too hot.”

“No, it feels good. I’m cold.”

She leaned forward and rubbed his brow. “I know, Vibol, that you’re a man. But for today I can treat you like a boy. And that makes me happy.”

He started to protest but relaxed as she gave him another piece of honeycomb and then massaged his pains away. “Tell me a story…of when I was a boy.”

Continuing to rub his forehead, she thought back through the years. A long and thick millipede crawled across the floor of their shelter, and, knowing it was poisonous, she used a stick to
flick it into the fire. “Do you remember Prak’s pet turtle?” she asked.

“A little.”

“When he was eight, your father brought him a turtle. We made a pen for it at the edge of the river. You and Prak would go down every day and play with that turtle. And though you liked it, Prak loved it. He talked with that turtle. He fed it. He even slept with it once.” Soriya paused, then used a damp cloth to wipe sweat from Vibol’s face. “But one night, something got into that pen. An old tiger, maybe. For it was a big, hungry beast, and it gnawed at the turtle until only its scarred shell was left.”

“I remember.”

“Prak wouldn’t stop crying. Father and I were comforting him and you just slipped away. One moment you were there and the next you weren’t. Father went looking for you while I stayed with Prak. It wasn’t long before you came back. You’d caught another turtle, and when you gave it to your brother I don’t think I’d ever seen you smile so wide.”

The corners of Vibol’s lips rose. “I used one of Father’s nets to make a trap. There were some turtles sunning themselves and I chased them right into it.”

“Well, whatever you did worked, because Prak was so happy. And he had that turtle for a long, long time. As you can imagine, he built a perfect, safe pen for him.”

Vibol nodded and opened his eyes. Soriya continued to wipe his face, still smiling at the story. “I’ll stay away from the spearmen,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I promise, Mother.”

She nodded, bending down to hug him.

He reached for her, and suddenly it was as if the years had gone backward. He was simply a boy who needed the comfort of his mother, of the person who had brought him into the world
and who understood the beauty of turtles and memories and togetherness.

T
rembling, Thida shuffled through a dimly lit corridor of the Royal Palace. She carried a tray that held the simplest of meals—a bowl of rice and a cup of water. Walking was difficult, and she had to pause often, leaning against a wall as she tried to gather her strength. Something inside her was broken, she knew, shattered that morning when, in a fit of rage, Indravarman had beaten her unconscious. Ever since she’d awoken from that horror, breathing had been a tortured affair. Blood had seeped upward, into her mouth, nauseating her.

She came to a stairway, almost fell, but collected herself and proceeded down the wooden steps. It was even darker belowground. Through her swollen nose she detected the presence of dampness and decay. She coughed, producing a searing pain in her lungs. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to cry. But tears came anyway, spurred by the thought of the previous night, of how she had failed Voisanne. Now that same friend was being tracked and would soon be captured. Equally horrible, the man who had tried to free them both, a good man by all accounts, had been tortured in the chamber below. Indravarman had told her as much just before he beat her. He had called her unspeakable names, enraged by her betrayal. In the end, she had simply collapsed.

The lower level of the Royal Palace was used for storage. The corridor through which Thida passed was lined with rooms containing weapons, foodstuffs, fabrics, carts, timber, rugs, deerskins, cooking supplies, and bound scrolls. Thida hadn’t been here before but knew that Asal was locked in the very last room, protected by a single guard. Indravarman had said so and more.
He had bragged about Asal’s screams, about how remarkable it was that a bamboo splinter could produce such pain.

Thida set her tray down on a small table, then wiped her face free of tears. Raising her hand to her face made her wince in pain. She coughed again, spat blood, and closed her eyes. Still shaking, she picked up the tray and shuffled forward, worried that she might fall at any moment. She wanted to fall, to let darkness come to her, but she wouldn’t allow herself such a release—not yet. First she had to undo the misery she had caused, if such a thing was possible.

Thida felt that she’d failed so many times in her life. She still lived only because of her beauty, because of what her mother once said was a gift but Thida saw as a curse. Without her beauty, she might have been killed when the Chams first arrived. If so, by now she’d have been reborn, hopefully full of strength instead of beauty, with hope instead of fear.

Because her whole life had been defined by weakness, Thida was determined to die doing something noble; at the very last moment, she would redeem her many years of feebleness. She prayed for fortitude as she approached the room that held Asal. She prayed that the knife she held beneath the tray was as deadly as she believed.

Thida knocked on a thick, wooden door and said that she was commanded to bring food for the prisoner. A rough voice answered, and she was tempted to turn away. Then the door swung open. Ten paces in front of her sagged Asal, tied to a column. He was bloody and beaten, and she almost called out to him. Instead she muttered hello to the guard and stepped inside. He shut the door behind her, and as soon as he had locked it, she turned to him. She was trembling, and he asked her what was wrong. The tray tilted in her hands, falling to the floor, the bowl of rice shattering. The guard looked down, and with all the strength that she
could summon, Thida lunged upward with the knife, plunging it beneath his chin and into his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, and she shrieked as he fell backward, clutching at the knife. He toppled to the floor, pulled the blade from his throat, and thrashed about, his feet striking the wall. Gasping, he clutched at the wound, but soon his eyes glazed over and he was gone.

The sight of the dead man caused Thida to reel. She spat out her own blood and tried to steady herself. Each breath she drew seemed to bring more acute pain. Tremors ran up and down her body, causing her to breathe too fast and deep. She bent down, picked up the knife, and struggled toward Asal. His eyes were open. He said something, but she didn’t comprehend his words. With trembling hands she cut the ropes that bound him. After pulling them off, he held her up, and it seemed as if suddenly he were rescuing her instead of the other way around. She wept against his shoulder, and he stroked her back with his uninjured hand, trying to soothe her.

Though she still found it hard to breathe, though blood continued to gather in the back of her mouth, she nodded to him. “Thank you,” she said.

“What has he done to you?”

“He…he broke something in me. I bleed inside.”

“We must find you help.”

She shook her head. “No one…knows you’re imprisoned. Just walk out of this place.”

“I’m taking you with me.”

“No. Go alone.”

He picked her up, cradling her in both arms. She cried out at the pain the movement brought and told him to stop, but he paid her no heed. Instead he struggled over to the guard, awkwardly pulled the dead man’s sword from its sheath, and then unlocked
and opened the door. She continued to cry, and to her surprise, he kissed the top of her head. “It will be all right,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”

She felt his feet moving beneath her as he limped forward, and the corridor began to drift by. “Tell Voisanne…that I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“There’s no need for that. And whatever you wish to tell her, you can do so yourself.”

Unable to help herself, she spit out more blood. She didn’t want to think of herself as dying, and so she tried to believe him. She watched where he went, noting that he must have known the Royal Palace well as he shuffled this way and that, staying belowground until the last moment, at which point he managed to climb a teak ladder and exited the building through a narrow doorway.

Outside, the sun seemed brighter than ever. Giant trees stretched upward, as if trying to touch the Gods. Many people were about, but strange sights were not unusual, and no one seemed to take notice of them. He was simply a wounded Cham warrior who was carrying his Khmer plaything. Indravarman had been so pleased, she remembered, to tell her how Asal’s imprisonment and torture were a secret, how his men would not be given the opportunity to choose between their king and their friend. Perhaps it was because no one knew that Asal had been confined that no one bothered to question him. He went wherever he wanted to, all the time whispering to her that she would be fine, that he was going to get a horse and take her to a healer.

In time he did find a mount, and with her positioned in front of him, they headed into the jungle. He did not ride to the north, as she asked him to, but to the west. Nearby, he promised, was someone who could help her. He thought her rib was broken and that it was cutting into her lungs, but he swore that such wounds
could be healed. She wanted to believe him, tried to believe him, yet she knew she was dying. Breathing became arduous, then nearly impossible. Suddenly she didn’t want to be on the horse, but on the ground, in a beautiful place. She begged him to grant her request, and finally, after much debate and pleading, he did as she asked, stopping atop a hill that provided a view of Angkor Wat in the distance.