Temple of a Thousand Faces (4 page)

Vibol splashed his father and brother, who were both laughing. He turned his attention forward once again, reaching for the net, pausing as a group of starlings rose suddenly from a distant tree’s canopy, filling the sky with their dark bodies.

Boran and Prak stopped laughing. While the father peered into the distance, the son closed his eyes and listened.

“A tiger?” Vibol asked.

Boran shook his head. “Birds have no fear of tigers.”

“A leopard, then? A leopard that climbed into a tree?”

“No.”

“Be silent,” Prak said, his eyes still closed. He was almost immediately aware that the jungle had grown unusually quiet. The day was still—too still. At first he thought that other fishermen
were encroaching upon their water, but the wind soon brought unusual scents to him. He smelled cooking fires and dung. A few heartbeats later, he heard the faint neigh of what sounded like a horse. The voices of men found his ears next, only these voices were foreign. “Father,” he said, “I hear men. But…but they aren’t Khmers.”

Boran strained to listen, but heard nothing. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. And they draw closer.”

Staring ahead to where the river they’d been fishing intersected with the much larger waterway, Boran heard a horse’s neigh. The skin on his back tingled. “Cut the net,” he whispered. “Cut it now.”

Vibol drew his knife. “But, Father, we—”

“Do it.”

The net was severed and dropped into the water. Boran quietly paddled their boat toward a massive ficus tree that had toppled into the river, almost cutting it in half. He positioned their craft in the midst of the thickest branches, which lay between them and the main waterway. “Be still,” he said softly.

“Why?” Vibol asked.

“Because I fear we’re no longer the hunters here.”

Time passed slowly, lingering like clouds on a windless day. The voices drew nearer. And yet the larger river remained unburdened, shimmering in the heat. A carp flopped in their basket and Vibol drove his knife into its spine. The father and sons hunched lower as other birds, much closer than the starlings had been, took flight.

Several small boats came into view. They were manned by warriors dressed for battle, and Boran felt as if he had tumbled from a high perch. The royal barge came next, immense and brimming with men and stallions. Even in Angkor, Boran had
never seen such a craft. He glanced toward their distant home, where his wife would be mending nets, unaware of the impending attack.

Barge after barge passed within their view. There seemed to be no end to the Chams, and the image of the royal barge began to feel like an old memory. Though Boran was used to seeing formations of warriors in Angkor, these thousands of Chams struck fear into his heart. They seemed more numerous than all the fish he’d ever caught, than all the dawns he’d seen.

“We have to warn them,” Vibol whispered. “We can do it. The streams will take us to Angkor faster than—”

“And your mother?” Boran asked. “What are we to do about your mother?”

Vibol closed his eyes, only then realizing that their home lay in the path of the Chams. “No,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t—”

“They would,” Boran replied, his voice still low. “And we must go to her. Now.”

“Put me ashore. I can run ahead. I can reach Angkor faster than the Chams. Those barges are slow.”

“Not slow enough. So we stay as one.”

“I can outrace them. And I’ll find you. After I’ve—”

“After you’ve been killed?”

“But the city! We have to warn them.”

Boran clenched his fists, knowing that his son was right, that somehow his countrymen must be warned. But doing so would leave his wife alone and unaware. And he understood what fate would befall her when the Chams reached their home. She would be killed, raped, or enslaved, and no such fate could he endure.

“Let me go,” Vibol persisted.

“No.”

“Put me ashore and let me run.”

“You’ll stay with me. I need you.”

“My people need me!”

Boran placed his hand over Vibol’s mouth, fearing that his words had carried. A pair of Cham barges passed. Sunlight glinted on their armor and weapons. The men appeared to look in their direction, but eyes did not meet eyes. The barges disappeared.

Cursing himself for wasting too much time, Boran picked up his paddle and carefully maneuvered them out of the sagging branches. He turned their boat away from the Chams, heading for a maze of streams that would carry them home. Though they tried to keep as low a profile as possible, a shout went up in the distance. Boran didn’t turn, didn’t falter. His paddle fell deep into the water and he yelled at his sons to throw their catch and supplies overboard. Vibol and Prak did as he demanded, then began to paddle. An arrow splashed into the water beside them, followed by another. Boran imagined his sons impaled by the shafts, and this image gave him great strength. He began to shout, warning his countrymen of the invaders, hoping that his voice would travel.

More arrows bit into the water, and he turned down another stream, trying to put trees between them and their pursuers. Glancing back, he saw that one Cham boat was still after them—a fast boat captained by strong men. Though he was tempted to paddle to shore, the thick jungle would slow their flight. They would be overrun. No, wiser to stay in the boat, to live or die on the water that he knew better than the Chams did.

Though still far from home, Boran began to call out to his wife. He told her to hide, to wait for him. An arrow hummed through the air, nicked his leg, and slammed into his boat.

Prak shouted an insult at the Chams, and Vibol followed his lead. His sons’ defiance resonated within Boran, and his love for them seemed to double. He couldn’t watch his sons—or his
wife—die. Better to cast himself against his enemies and let them hack him to pieces.

The skin of his palms splitting, Boran paddled as he never had. He smelled smoke. He heard distant screams. And he wondered if this was the moment when his world would collapse.

T
he third and final day of her wedding had been Voisanne’s favorite. Already her family and friends had celebrated some of the most important parts of the ceremony—the groom’s processional, the call to ancestors, the priests’ blessings, and the cleansing rites. Now, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Voisanne and her husband-to-be, Nimith, were in the midst of a ritual that honored their parents, as without parents neither could have been brought into the world, could have favored the Gods, or could one day produce children of their own.

Voisanne held a silk umbrella over her mother, and Nimith did the same for his mother. The umbrellas meant that after years of being sheltered by their parents, now the bride and groom became their protectors. Married couples formed a circle around Voisanne, Nimith, and their parents. Anyone not married stood outside this circle. As a woman sang about parental duty and the sacrifices necessary to raise honorable children, three candles were passed around the circle, and each time a candle came to a person, he or she pointed it at the bride and groom and silently sent a blessing their way.

Voisanne was naked but for an elaborate silk skirt cloth. One end of the cloth was pleated and tucked in at the waist. Her skirt cloth depicted jasmine flowers set against a red background. The same flowers hung from her neck. Like the other women present, she wore her black hair up, tied in a tight knot atop her head. Silver armbands, bracelets, and rings encircled her arms and fingers. The
soles of her feet and the palms of her hands had been dyed red. To onlookers her beauty had never been so pronounced. Her face appeared soft and feminine, her body lean and sculpted. Women were happy for her, jealous of her. Men were happy as well, though their jealousy was directed toward Nimith, who was only a middle-ranking officer in the Khmer army but had managed to attract Voisanne. He stood, muscled and proud, a sword falling from his waist, holding himself so that his shadow fell upon her.

She glanced up, appreciating his intention, adoring him. Like most Khmer couples who entered into marriage, they had already savored the delights of each other’s bodies. They’d shared an intimacy of the mind as well. She knew of his desires, strengths, and fears, just as he understood her innermost thoughts.

As the woman continued to sing about their parental duties and the candles went from hand to hand, Voisanne wondered if and when she would become pregnant. Many Khmer couples never experienced this blessing. In fact, Prince Jayavar and his chief wife had not brought a child into the world, though he’d fathered sons and daughters with his other wives. Voisanne knew that Nimith wanted a boy to train as he had been trained, and she yearned to give him such a gift, yearned so much that every day she went to stand inside Angkor Wat and pray that she would be as fertile as the river, as the nearby fields.

Throughout her life, Voisanne had known more happiness than not, more comfort than most. And yet today she felt enveloped by a sense of bliss that she had never experienced. She was marrying a good man who loved her. Her parents and siblings were nearby, all watching with smiles on their faces. After almost three days of festivities, they were still with her, as much a part of the ceremony as she was. And their commitment to her, to this union, seemed to strengthen her own belief in the sanctity of what was unfolding.

The woman stopped singing. A priest began to speak as Voisanne’s mother and father brought colorful ribbons into view. The ribbons would soon be tied around the bride’s and groom’s wrists, another symbol of their approaching union.

As Voisanne watched her father, delighting in the pride etched in his face, a dog barked in the distance. Such noises were not uncommon, but soon other, odder sounds drifted across the land. Voisanne glanced up, noting the distant but still-magnificent presence of Angkor Wat. Smoke rose from near the temple—the thick billowing smoke of burning wood. It was every Khmer’s duty to help put out fires, and despite the importance of the moment, Voisanne touched Nimith’s arm and gestured toward the temple. His brow furrowed. He shook his head. And then the nearby jungle exploded into horror as warriors poured forth, shrieking in a strange tongue, sunlight glinting off their shields and weapons.

Nimith thrust Voisanne behind him, drew his sword, and called to his men. They quickly formed a circle around the wedding party, but they were a force of ten, and hundreds of Chams burst into the open like bees erupting from a hive. The Chams swept forward, raising their axes, aiming their spears. Voisanne screamed Nimith’s name as he stepped ahead, toward his foes. He ducked beneath the sweep of an axe, thrust his weapon into the belly of a Cham, and was knocked backward by a shield’s iron edge. He rallied though, twisting and thrusting and killing two more Chams.

A spear flew through the air. Voisanne saw it coming and screamed a warning. But the weapon was faster than her words, and buried itself in Nimith’s chest. He toppled backward. She tried to run to him, shouting his name as her father held her back. Before she knew what had happened her father was dead, then her mother. Her siblings began to fall and Voisanne reached for a younger brother, pulling him against her chest. She tried to
shield him with her arms, but another spear darted forward and he went limp in her grasp, like a water pouch pierced by steel. An image flashed in her mind of him holding her hand at night when he was ill. She screamed, still clutching him, telling him that he was safe, that she was with him, and that he would never be alone.

Rough hands tried to pull her from him, but she continued to cling to his small body even as the Chams kicked and beat her. She called his name, again and again, fighting as she never had, desperate to hold him as his soul traveled forward, believing that if he was thinking of her, of his parents, he would be born again into their same family. She shouted out her love for him and said the names of their family members, still trying to direct his soul, knowing it could go in so many directions at the moment of his death.

The shaft of a spear struck her forehead. She seemed to choke on her words, to stumble over them. Still holding her brother’s hand, she fell on top of him, her body pressing against his, her thoughts going dim.

She saw him then. She imagined his smile.

Then the Chams carried her away.

F
or generations, the city of Angkor had flourished. Its temples and palaces stretched from east to west, as if inspired by the path of the sun. Glorious and gold-covered bas-reliefs adorned the sides of the grandest structures while imposing statues lined roads, bridges, moats, and parks. Equally impressive, Angkor’s citizens had populated the landscape with abundance and grace—praying, bathing, and working together.

Neither the passage of time nor the often inclement weather had ever diminished the wonders of Angkor. And yet now, as
stretches of the city burned, the Gods that had protected Angkor seemed to have abandoned it. While remnants of the Khmer army battled the invaders and horsemen galloped away for help, ordinary citizens fled into the jungle—some escaping, others finding only death or despair. Screams rose above even the tumult of warfare—the striking of axes against shields, the trumpeting of the few Khmer war elephants properly mounted and capable of battle. The Chams in their strange, inverted-flower headgear appeared to be everywhere, swarming forward in massive packs. For each Khmer there seemed to be two or three Chams. And while the Khmers fought ferociously for their homes and their families, most were unprepared for conflict. Few wore armor and even fewer had found their officers and formed into proper battle groups. Despite the enormous size of the Cham army, its presence had remained undetected until it was too late to save the city.

Not far from Angkor Wat and the Royal Palace, at a temple called Bakheng, Jayavar and Ajadevi fought for their survival alongside several hundred Khmer warriors, citizens, servants, and slaves. Though Bakheng stood atop a hill, rising like a stepped pyramid and lined with immense sandstone lions that snarled and stood proud, it was the Khmer warriors who were driven back. Jayavar, naked but for his hip cloth, held a Cham axe in one hand and a Khmer shield in the other. While some of his men had fled to save their families, Jayavar had stood his ground, fighting in front of Ajadevi, struggling to protect his wife as Cham after Cham, goaded forward by the sight of her silver and gold bracelets, lunged in her direction. Ajadevi had since removed her valuables, but the Chams knew that she was highborn and still sought to capture her.