Temple of a Thousand Faces (46 page)

Asal lifted her from the horse, then sat on a boulder, holding her so that she could see the temple. In the afternoon sun it seemed to shimmer with fire, its towers like blazing mountaintops. She didn’t think the temple had ever looked so beautiful, not even under a full moon or bathed in the colors of dusk.

“I am…unafraid,” she whispered, then smiled as he kissed her brow again. His eyes glistened, and she understood, for the first time, why Voisanne cared so much for him. “Go to her,” she added. “Love her.”

“Save your strength, lady,” he replied, stroking her forehead with his good hand.

“I have…no such thing.”

“Your strength, not mine, brought us here.”

A breath seemed to catch in her throat. She struggled, winced at the pain, and finally drew in air. “Where should I look,” she asked, “for my loved ones?”

“They will come to you, lady. You needn’t look.”

“But how…how will they find me?”

He started to speak and then stopped, brushing his eye. “If you wish, I shall bring them to you.”

“How?”

“I shall…send them a signal. And they will come. I promise you that they will come.”

“You’ll…burn me?”

“Yes, lady. If that is what you wish.”

“It is.”

He kissed her forehead again, and she smiled at his touch. Even now, in the midst of her pain, it felt good to be cared for. It had been so long since someone had touched her with tenderness.

The colors of day seemed to fade. The distant temple beckoned to her. It ebbed and flowed. Her ancestors were coming, he promised. They were moving faster than the light of dawn. Their voices were songs, their faces golden. Soon she would be with them again, and with that union would come the joys of youth, the beauties of a world seen through new eyes.

She believed in his words. And as they began to transform from words into truths, she squeezed his hand, wanting him to know that he was right, that she would never be alone again.

fter he had built a funeral pyre, laid Thida’s body on it, prayed for her, and lit the dry wood, Asal climbed onto his horse and rode hard to the north. Behind him smoke billowed upward, and he hoped that his promise was being granted, that her loved ones were following his beacon. He would have liked to have stayed beside her longer, until the flames had finally died away, but with Voisanne in danger he had to ride forth.

He found her trail not far beyond Angkor Wat and followed it northward. With a horse he had the advantage of speed and yet was far enough above the ground that he often had to drop down to inspect the dried earth. To his dismay, he realized that a group of five or six men was also tracking her. They made no effort to conceal their tracks and clearly were not concerned about being followed. He couldn’t tell how far behind they were from Voisanne and her sister but guessed they would catch them soon.

Because of his relentless haste, on several occasions Asal lost the trail and was forced to backtrack. These instances were maddening
as he could ill afford such delays. Part of the problem was that his left eye was still swollen partially shut. His ears also rang. His body ached, though his surging emotions masked some of his pain. On his left hand, his thumb and first two fingers were bloodied, throbbing, and useless. Yet his smallest fingers were undamaged and so he could grip light objects when necessary.

As dusk arrived, Asal slid off his horse and, leading it forward, followed the trail on foot. He walked with only a few breaks to quench his thirst, using a series of makeshift torches and the light of the moon to make his way. In the middle of the night he came to a burned area of jungle and found remnants of a message that Voisanne had left for him. He was able to read only a few words, for many feet had trampled the area, but he recognized her writing. And with that recognition came both joy and dread. She had been alive a short time ago, but her pursuers were surely getting closer.

Asal lingered at the site for only a moment and then pressed forward with renewed vigor. In the barren wasteland the tracks were easy to follow, and he rode his horse as fast as he dared, covering a large distance before dawn. His torn fingers started to bleed, but he didn’t pause to bandage them. Instead he continued onward, thankful for the wasteland because the men he followed were on foot, and with each passing moment he must be gaining on them. If he reached them before they caught up to Voisanne, he would simply ride around them and go to her. But if he was too late, then he would have to somehow best five or six men with only one working hand.

As dawn finally arrived, Asal sensed that he was nearing his foes. The wasteland ended, and, fearful that he would lose the trail in the dense underbrush, he slid off his horse and pulled it behind him, his gaze rarely leaving the ground, his feet soon gouged and bloodied. He made no attempt to move with stealth,
for that would slow him down. Birds squawked and took flight, announcing his approach. He did not eat, and rarely drank, running as he never had, pushing himself through his exhaustion. Only when his knees buckled and he suddenly collapsed did he rest, his lungs heaving, his legs trembling. He soon climbed back on his mount and rode on, leaning down so that his good eye always remained as close as possible to the trail.

For the most part, Asal focused on following footsteps. But when they were obvious and required no thought, he prayed, beseeching the Gods to grant him speed and strength. He begged them to protect Voisanne and her sister, saying that they were innocent and should be spared. His prayers included Thida, as he hoped that she was already reborn and in the company of her loved ones.

The farther Asal rode, the more something unfamiliar and sinister grew within him. He had always fought for his people and his future. His sword had never been bloodied because of hate or revenge. But now, as he prepared for possible battle, rage filled him—fueled by the unjustness of Thida’s death, the prospect of Voisanne’s demise, and memories of the bamboo being forced beneath his fingernails. So much unnecessary suffering was mostly the work of one man—Indravarman. To conquer an enemy was the right and expectation of any warrior, and Asal found no fault with the invasion of Angkor. It was the occupation that enraged him, because despite all of Indravarman’s musings and philosophies, ultimately he was nothing more than a greedy, unjust ruler. His greed demanded that Thida be at his side, and that same greed had ruined her. His unjustness ensured that he sent men to bring Voisanne back to him, when he could have easily let her go. What purpose would her capture and suffering achieve other than to punish him, Asal, who had served Indravarman faithfully for many long years?

The memory of the king’s boasts about what he would do to Voisanne fueled Asal like nothing else. Only now, as he rushed forward, did he realize what a powerful weapon hate was, because it allowed him to push himself harder than he ever had. He loved Voisanne and he wanted to fight for love, and yet it was hate that drove him. The men he tracked had been sent to hurt and humiliate her. Though they wouldn’t ravish her, as Indravarman surely demanded such spoils for himself, Chaya’s immediate fate would be something else altogether.

Remembering how Thida had suffered in his arms, how she had wept, and how, despite his desperate longing to help, he had been unable to stop the life from flowing out of her, Asal rode faster. Though his fingers still bled, he did not feel them. Though his eye was still swollen, he could see. The footprints below him seemed fresh. Propelled by the belief that he was nearing the men who would dare to take his loved one away, he smashed his good hand against his horse’s flank, urging it ahead. Branches tore at his shoulders. Animals fled before him. And onward he went, dominated by thoughts of vengeance and welcoming the powers brought by his rage.

O
f the six Chams, five were warriors and the other excelled at tracking. Though the tracker’s quarry took precautions so as not to be followed, the two women left many signs of their passage for him to follow. He saw where their feet had turned over rocks on a stream’s bottom, where they had bent branches away from their faces. Their footprints were smaller than those of the man who guided them, and the Cham saw many more of these lesser indentations. It seemed that the group traveled with speed rather than with stealth. They wanted to reach the Khmer base as soon as possible, for there lay safety.

The Cham tracker hadn’t slept for a full day and night but wasn’t overly tired. He had been promised gold if he returned the women to Indravarman, and now, as he drew closer to them, new strength surged through him. He whispered to his comrades that soon they would see their prey. They were to kill the Khmer guide and return the women to Angkor without pause. The women were to be frightened and humiliated, but left physically unharmed.

The breeze shifted, blowing from the north, and the tracker paused. He could detect the faint presence of perfume in the air, and this new sign prompted him to smile. The women were close. They still tried to maintain speed but must be winded and exhausted. Someone not used to such a journey would be near the breaking point by now.

To his surprise, the breeze caught and carried a sound—a woman’s cough, perhaps. Suddenly fearful that his prize would be saved at the last moment by a group of fellow Khmer travelers, the tracker turned to the men behind him, whispered that he would run and they were to follow him. He told them to ready their spears.

The cough came again, and the tracker stepped forward, walking, then running, his arms swinging back and forth. He avoided dead branches and fallen twigs, his bare feet striking the dry ground. The men behind him ran with much less stealth, but for once, he didn’t mind. The women had impressed him in many ways, covering much more ground than he would have thought possible. But they hadn’t been fast enough. In the end, they had faltered.

Thinking of the gold that would soon weigh down his hands, the tracker increased his pace, no longer even trying to be quiet. The best part of a hunt was the final, desperate moment when his
quarry realized it had been caught. And that moment was about to unfold.

H
olding her little sister’s hand, Voisanne wearily led Chaya forward, wishing that her cough would stop. They’d been eating dried fish while walking, and in her exhaustion and haste Chaya had choked. She had gagged and retched, heaving as she tried to draw in air. The piece of fish had finally fallen free, but Chaya couldn’t seem to clear her throat. In the dense, quiet jungle her coughs seemed unnaturally loud.

“We must hurry,” Voisanne whispered, then helped Chaya over a fallen log.

“No.”

“But, Chaya…we’re almost there. Another half day’s walk is all.”

Their guide hissed at them to stop speaking. He stepped to his left, off the trail, and proceeded down a slight hill to where a stream gurgled. As they had many times before, they began to struggle up the stream, water splashing against their shins. Voisanne patted Chaya’s back, trying to reassure her that everything would be fine when, in truth, Voisanne felt as if her world were crumbling. She was increasingly convinced that somehow Asal had been caught. Perhaps he’d waited too long for Thida, or maybe they had departed together but were overtaken by Indravarman’s men. The thought of Asal in chains seemed to steal the breath from her lungs. They should have left as one or stayed as one. Something as precious as love could not split in half and be expected to survive.

Her foot slipped on a mossy rock and she fell to her hands and knees. She tried to stand, but her limbs seemed to be made of
lead instead of flesh and bone. A profound weariness gripped her. The water was cool, and she wanted to lie down and let it carry her where it liked. Why was she going north, she asked herself, when Asal was to the south?

Their guide hurried back downstream and lifted her out of the water. She started to protest and he cursed, pulling up on her limp arm.

The jungle changed then, from a place of quiet subtleties to one of movement and noise. Men ran shrieking from the undergrowth. The Khmer guide thrust his spear toward the first attacker, but his weapon was deflected by a shield. He whirled, swinging his spear over the water, trying to keep a pack of Chams at bay. But they encircled him, drawing closer, taunting him as they poked and prodded with their own spears. His fate was obvious to everyone, especially to him, because he suddenly screamed and charged at one man, flicking his weapon forward. The spear point struck the Cham’s shoulder and he staggered, but the other warriors howled in rage and plunged their weapons into the Khmer. He fell, dying, and they stomped on him, forcing his head underwater until his lungs drew no more air.