Temple of a Thousand Faces (61 page)

“We’re all dust, Jayavar. The Gods blow us from place to place.”

“And had you let my children live, I would show you mercy. I would let the Gods blow you where they wish.”

“Your children had to die. You know that.”

“I know nothing of the kind,” Jayavar replied, biting his lip, the faces of his loved ones blossoming before him. “But they’ve come back to me. I feel them now. I sense them now. Who will you go to, man of dust, once you’re dead?”

Jayavar turned to several of his warriors, who were battered and bloody. “Take from him whatever he took from you.”

Indravarman shouted as the Khmers fell upon him. He shouted for help that did not come, and later, for mercy that made no appearance. In the end, when he could do nothing but whimper, he was held up to show his countrymen that he was vanquished. Then the warriors threw him from the boat.

Khmers around Jayavar began to cheer, prompting the battle to ebb. A few Cham officers on other boats tried to rally their troops, but with Indravarman gone, no leader had enough authority or respect to take control of the remaining warriors. Chams began to flee the fighting, swimming toward unbroken vessels still captained by their countrymen. The Khmers let these warriors go, continuing to celebrate, shouting triumphantly and holding their banners high. The Cham officers were killed, their pleas silenced.

Jayavar’s knees almost buckled. But he forced himself to stand tall as he scanned the horizon for Ajadevi, searching for the one person who would make this victory complete.

T
he pain in Soriya’s chest subsided even as her vision blurred and the world grew dim. The sound of cheering drifted to her, echoes of celebration. Prak held her head on his lap, careful of the arrow still sticking from her chest as he cradled her. He explained that the Chams were retreating. He wept as he spoke, blaming himself for her injury, certain that if he had been able to see he would have warned her of the danger.

“You’ve seen…your whole life,” she whispered, holding his hand with her own, her mind clear even as her body shut down.

“But the arrow. It should have hit me. I—”

“A mother…should die before her son.”

“Why?”

She thought about bringing him into the world, about holding him to her breast and smiling at his hunger. “Because my hopes, my dreams…they lie with you.”

“We should never have traveled here. Vibol was wrong.”

“No. He was right. We’re free. And I…I’d trade my life for your freedom.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Someday…when you’re a father…you’ll understand. You’d do the same.” She shifted on Prak’s lap, thinking about how she had held him so many nights, just as he now held her. “I’ve always been poor, my son,” she whispered. “But you’ve made me feel rich.”

His tears fell to her face. “You should save your strength. Father and Vibol will be here soon. They will find us.”

“I know. They live. Tell them…of my love for them.”

“You tell them. Please.”

Something seemed to stick in her throat, and she found it hard to bring enough air into her lungs. She reached for his face, tracing his features, recognizing herself and Boran within him. “Death…should be sad. But when I see you…I’m happy.”

“Please don’t die, Mother. You can’t die.”

“My perfect boy. My son. How you make me proud.”

He bent down, holding her against him, weeping freely now, his sobs mingling with the distant cheers. “You make me proud,” he replied.

She smiled, needing to rest, her breathing more difficult, her
thoughts more disconnected. She saw herself as a girl, running through the jungle, chasing someone. How had the years passed so quickly? How had she traveled so very far? Would she now journey to those who had gone before her?

“I’ll come back…to all of you,” she whispered.

“How…how will we see you? What should we look for?”

“Listen.”

“To what?”

“To whatever sounds…you hold most dear. And play your flute. Let me hear you.”

He hugged her again, his tears falling on her cheeks.

For a while longer she saw him, but soon he started to fade. She whispered his name, then the names of Vibol and Boran, envisioning each of their faces, reminding herself of their beauty so that she could find her way back to them.

Her journey began.

C
linging to a wooden plank not far from an undamaged boat, Voisanne and Asal watched in disbelief as the Cham army retreated. On the nearby vessel, Khmers and Siamese warriors celebrated. Some hugged one another while others cast aside their weapons and leapt into the water.

Voisanne didn’t trust her own eyes. Surely the battle could not be over. The Chams would soon regroup and attack again. “Where…where are they going?” she asked, her forearm touching Asal’s atop the plank.

“Home.”

“But they will come back. With more men.”

He shook his head. “Perhaps someday. But most of my people didn’t want this war. Indravarman willed us to come here. With him gone…I think the others will stay within our borders.”

She reached up to touch a shallow wound on his cheek. “When I saw you fall…I saw my world collapse.”

“You saved me, my lady.”

“No, I only helped.”

He put a cupped hand to his lips and drank. “You did more than that. You risked everything for me—your former captor, your former enemy.”

Thinking of him fighting against his countrymen, she bit her lower lip. “How can you be so gentle and loving…and so ferocious?”

“Because of you.”

“Me?”

“All I want is you. But to gain you, I needed ferocity.”

“But what about power? Or wealth? Men seek such things.”

He smiled. “Not I, my lady. I covet you and you only.”

“And daughters. I know you want a daughter.”

“Daughters and sons. A family. Why would I need anything else? If the Gods grant me such blessings, I shall be forever grateful.”

She leaned forward to kiss him. Their lips touched and the world disappeared. She didn’t hear the cheering or feel a cut on her hand. But she imagined things. She saw him as a father, saw herself weaving the stem of a flower into their daughter’s hair.

“We won,” she whispered, still kissing him. “I don’t know how we did it, but we won.”

“Yes, my lady. We did. A Khmer and a Cham. We won together.”

T
wo boats approached each other. Both were full of the dead, but also of the living. Covered in blood, bowed but not broken, Ajadevi sat near one craft’s bow holding a crude bandage against
a woman’s forehead. She watched Jayavar’s vessel approach. He stood at the bow, both hands wrapped around a staff that supported the banner of Angkor Wat. The banner fluttered in the breeze, unsullied by the battle.

Though Ajadevi tried to hold back her tears, her relief at seeing Jayavar alive was too much for her. She shuddered, quietly weeping, amazed and honored that they both still lived. How he had survived was nothing short of a miracle. Her prayers must have been heeded, her longings heard and fulfilled. The Cham officer was a gift from above, she knew, for she had watched him fight, had seen how his sword had changed the course of the battle. She could live a thousand more lifetimes and still lack the time to fully repay him.

The bows of the two boats touched. Khmers cheered as their king and queen were reunited.

Ajadevi thanked their audience for their sacrifices, meaning each word. Then she stepped forward to embrace her battered husband, holding him tight and not letting go.

B
y the time Boran and Vibol found Prak on board a heavily damaged boat, the lump on Boran’s head had shrunken. His thoughts were again clear, his stance steady. He held on to Vibol with vigor, but when he saw the look on Prak’s face, he knew immediately what had happened. He suddenly felt as if he were falling, as if a gaping hole had opened up inside of him. His knees buckled and he dropped to the deck.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, trying to find her, to sense her. But all he felt was the terrible emptiness within him.

She was gone.

day and a half later, as the air warmed in the midmorning, Boran, Vibol, and Prak stood on the shoreline of a wide river. A cove provided flat, calm water ideal for lotus flowers, and they grew in abundance, their reflections in the water as graceful and colorful as the flowers themselves. The cove wasn’t far from their old home and had been one of Soriya’s favorite places. She’d once swum among the flowers, rested on the shore, and watched her sons play in the shallows.

Remembering these moments, Boran studied the lotus flowers, a tear rolling down his cheek. In many ways, this place reminded him of his wife—its simple and understated beauty, its quiet strength. They had also come here as young lovers and spoken eagerly of the days ahead, of their dreams of having a home and family of their own. He hadn’t been able to promise her wealth or comfort, but she had not asked for such things. She had wanted only to live a peaceful, contented life.

Turning to where her washed and perfumed body lay atop a
pile of nearby branches, Boran wanted to fall to his knees and weep. But he had to stay strong for his sons, and so he walked, trembling, to her side. She was positioned at waist level, and he reached out, his fingers tracing the contours of her face. He couldn’t imagine her face leaving him, vanishing from his life like raindrops on a warm stone. His fingers paused at her lips, and he suddenly wished that he had kissed them more often, that he hadn’t wasted so many moments away from her. He’d been a fool.

Though he tried to keep his emotions under control, he wept as he felt her face, the curves of her shoulders, the frailty of her hands. His sons moved to either side of him, but he felt only her, touching her as he wished he could every day for the rest of his life. He found it hard to breathe, to stand.

Leaning forward, he kissed her brow, then adjusted the iris in her hair, his tears falling to her cheeks. He and his sons had scattered flowers over her entire body, offering her one of the few gifts that she had ever given herself.

Boran closed his eyes, praying that she had already started to follow the path to rebirth, that she was headed in his direction.

When he finished praying, Boran turned to Vibol and Prak. “She…died for all of us,” he said quietly. “So honor her by living your lives as she would want. Let her see your joy.”

His sons nodded, their cheeks glistening with tears.

“And she’ll be watching,” he continued. “She always watched over you. Nothing will change.”

The wind stirred, causing the flowers to quiver. He didn’t want them to blow away from her, and so he kissed her once more and stepped back. Vibol and Prak said their farewells, their tears as numerous as his. They held her hand and kissed her cheek.

Underneath the pyre was a mound of dried moss. Vibol went to his knees, carefully dropping some hot coals that he had carried
in a stone bowl. The coals fell onto the moss, and he blew against them, causing them to redden and ignite. The moss turned brown, smoked, and he stepped back as a small flame caught.

The fire trembled at first, like a new life emerging from the womb. Then it spread, consuming the smaller twigs, then larger branches. Though the heat was soon strong, Boran remained standing close to the flames. He watched her face, aware that he would never touch another woman as he had touched her. She would return to him in some way, and when he felt her presence he would find peace once again.

He reached for his sons’ hands. He held them with strength, squeezing hard, watching the flames grow. Finally they were forced to step away from the inferno.

Boran had always expected that he would die first, that she’d be the one left with their sons. He had not prepared himself for this moment, for the years when he would be old, when he would care for his grandchildren while his boys and their wives labored.

“Your mother…she taught me well,” he whispered, squeezing their hands again. “I watched her with you both. And I’ll be there for you both.” He cleared his throat, which was dry and seemed filled with soot. “And she’ll be there too. I know she will.”

Prak turned toward him. “You won’t be alone either, Father. I promise.”