The King’s Last Song

The General stares heavily and says nothing.

They’re showing us their faces; they don’t care if we see them. That’s bad. Before he can stop himself, Luc looks up, eyes now adjusted to the light. He sees the face of an older Cambodian man. Luc’s eyes dart away, but not before he realizes that he knows the face. From where?

The older man berates him in English. ‘Barang. Welcome to the real Cambodia. Lots of mosquitoes. No air conditioning. Real Cambodian cuisine.’

Unceremoniously, a whole burnt fish, small and bony, is pushed into his mouth.

The man has a competent face, the face of an old, tough businessman. He looks like he runs a shoe factory. He’s wearing half-moon spectacles and Luc tries to remember where he has seen those before. The eyes are wide, merry, glistening, yellow splotched with red. The teeth are brown and broken, framed in a wild smile. It’s not a face I’ve seen smiling. That is why I cannot place it.

Luc feels sadness for the world. This is a world of roses, forests, rivers, and wild animals. It is a world of mothers and children and milk. How do we get so wild-eyed, so anguished, and so cruel?

Luc, you are already a dead man.

‘Chew it, barang, the fire’s burnt all the bones. They break up in your mouth. It’s more than we have to eat most nights. It’s New Year. A celebration.’

The old man switches to Khmer. ‘You too, General. Without us, you wouldn’t have a job to do. Eat!’

A head appears through the trapdoor and warns, ‘Lights!’

The smile drops and the face settles into its usual immobility. It looks numb; the mouth swells as if novocained. The staring, round eyes are encircled by flesh. Fish Face, Luc thinks.

Fish Face says, ‘Ah, make a lot of noise, wave the fish at them, wish them Happy New Year.’

With the smile gone, Luc recognizes who it is.

‘If they don’t go away, shoot them!’ Fish Face jabs a casual thumb in Luc’s direction. Then he sniffs and pushes the tape back over their mouths. Luc needs to spit out the bones and can’t. He can’t swallow either. The bones and half-chewed fish plug his mouth.

Fish Face wrenches himself round on his haunches and as if levitating shoots up and out through the trapdoor.

Luc remembers the farmer in whose fields they found the Book.

Luc tries to remember everything Map had told him about the man. He had been Map’s CO for a while.

They are in the hands of ex-Khmers Rouges.

Luc hears the chortling of an engine. Fish Face seems to be going. So what’s he done with the Book?

That damned Book. I should have left it with the Army and walked away. Even if it was stolen, melted down and lost forever, I should have made sure that it was the Army who carried the Kraing Meas.

Instead, you made sure that you did. From now on, Luc, the Book is number two. You have to be number one.

I wish I had a God that I could pray to. I wish I believed in miracles, or had enough faith to find comfort in eternity. Hell. I want my mother.

My trousers are full of shit, I need a drink of water and my mouth is taped shut. I need to wash, I need a friend nearby, I need more courage than I have.

The only thing you can do, Luc, is regard this as an opportunity.

Luc decides to listen to the birds. They flute and warble as dawn approaches.

Birds and lapping water, so many things, are beyond the reach of guns.

April 1147

Jayarajadevi read books.

This might be harmless. The girl would sit cross-legged on cushions, as perfectly poised as a long-necked samsoan marsh bird.

There was nothing idle about her reading. She clicked the palm leaves over as regularly as an artisan weaving cloth. Indeed, some people said: she reads like a man. She thinks if she reads she will grow a beard and become a Brahmin.

Jayarajadevi was beautiful and of royal stock and would beyond doubt marry a prince. She was a Rajanga, a person of the highest degree, and the name Jayarajadevi was also a noble title. For everyday use she had a Khmer name, Kansri, which meant Beautiful or Happy.

Jayarajadevi Kansri was an especial devotee of the Buddha. Her mind could flick through the arguments for Buddhism as purposively as her fingers flicked through the leaves of her book. She had the art of presenting these arguments to her teachers while showing no disrespect.

Kansri had caught the attention of the great Divakarapandita, Consecrator of Kings. His title Dhuli Jeng, Dust of the Feet, meant he was the King’s deputy, at least in religious matters.

Divakarapandita enjoyed her interrogations. She was not at all frightened of him and he enjoyed the way she listened and responded.

Jayarajadevi would sit with him beside the four pools, high in the upper storey of the Vishnuloka. In the shaded gallery, they would debate. Sometimes her even more formidable older sister would join them.

Today, thank heaven, it was just her. The two sisters together were too much even for a Consecrator of Kings.

‘It is of course permitted to be a devotee of Gautama,’ Divakarapandita granted her. ‘No doubt he passed onto us the greatest possible insight into how to escape the toils of this world. But he is not a god, and devotions to him must be balanced, no not balanced, outweighed, by actions of devotion to the Gods.’

Jayarajadevi considered this and she was like water dripping from a rock garden, steady and in relaxing rhythms. From all about them came the whisper of brooms sweeping.

‘But, Teacher, Gautama was so wise that he taught the Gods themselves how to attain Nibbana. If gods so privilege his teaching, then surely so must we? Especially if he speaks the language of a human and shows us the limits of what humans can achieve.’

Kansri made Divakarapandita smile. She is so tenacious! Kansri will always, always argue that the Great Soul is the only true Way. Divakarapandita answered, ‘His words are notable. Powerful expression is like the wind, it wears down mountains of resistance. In the end. But the Gods do not talk the language of words. They make facts. Due observance of their powers is necessary.’

‘Oh indeed.’ Jayarajadevi sat up even straighter, slightly outraged perhaps at the implication that she was saying the overlords, Siva, Vishnu and Brahma, should be neglected. ‘Though these powers seem so alien and strange that some of our devotions to them come from terror not from love.’

Divakarapandita considered, and smiled. ‘The Gods are not responsible for the quality of emotion we bring to them. If people approach the Gods with terror in their hearts, then terror will be returned to them. Gods make facts, men only speak words, even the Buddha.’

Kansri’s answer was ready. ‘But we need words to explain what is righteous. Without words, we just burn.’

Divakarapandita said, ‘Do not misinterpret this, but I think that is a certain kind of wisdom. It is the wisdom of the feminine principle. To listen and express, to take the hard fact and surround it lovingly. The male principle is the making of facts. In human beings male and female are divided. Only in the Gods are male and female conjoined.’

Jayarajadevi scowled. ‘Then why do we split the power of Siva up again, into the yoni and the lingam?’

It was such a pleasure, such a privilege, to see a fine young mind blossom like the lotus. It was a noble thing to find you could discuss the holy significance of the male and female parts with a young woman whose mind was so clear that there was no embarrassment.

‘They are split in our realm precisely because we are split, and the hard fact of godly power must take different forms when working on us. A woman seeking pregnancy will drink from the lingam. A man seeking a still heart and a calm mind will drink from the yoni.’

Jayarajadevi nodded and smiled. Something in that idea pleased her, or solved something for her.

‘What we need,’ she said, ‘is men who are also partly women.’

Divakarapandita smiled to himself. Oh no, he thought looking at her determined face. That is what you need. He thought of how very lucky or very unlucky her husband would be.

‘Two great winds blow through our souls,’ she said. ‘The winds of war, and the winds of peace. We do not conjoin them.’

Mulling it over later, Divakarapandita realized that this girl had said that what they needed was a different kind of king. And he, Kingmaker, Consecrator, at least in part agreed with her. Had not he and the Sun King long ago made Vishnu a new focus of worship for just that reason?

The princesses would gather to watch the training.

It was a piddling annoyance to the old sergeant, but there was very little kamlaa people such as himself could do about it.

If the King’s female cousin eight times removed wanted to make a fool of herself, giggling and prodding other girls and looking at handsome young princes wearing only battle dress, who was a category person to tell them no?

It was saddening to see the Lady Jayarajadevi caught up in the craze. It did not matter that she strode across the training ground with the mature elegance of a married woman. It did not matter that she was accompanied by her older sister the Lady Indradevi who was just as beautiful and accomplished as she was. They were still reviewing potential husbands, like the King looking at his elephants.

There were crazes for particular princes. The favourite now was Yashovarman, the son of the King’s nephew. He’d already been selected to succeed old Suryavarman who had no children of his own. The boy then married one of the King’s nieces and promptly got himself a son, also lined up for inheritance.

So he wasn’t as dull in the court as he was on the battlefield.

Yashovarman had the physical qualities of a bull; he was somewhat short with strength bunched up around his shoulders and springing out of his calves. He had a warlike heart but was impatient and easily distracted. The women liked him though. Many of the princesses threw flowers at him even knowing that he was married.

Other princes found favour, too, all handsome and skilled with sword and shield and bow.

Like the quiet one, the curious favourite on whom the King had also bestowed his love. Some of the girls liked him a lot, too.

He had a woman’s beautiful face.

He had a moustache.

This was the damnable thing, a hard fact that made even his enemies acknowledge he had the blessing of the Gods. All the great teachers of Kalinga had beards or moustaches. Gods like Yama had moustaches. This prince was only sixteen years old, but he already sported a thick, unmistakable and unpainted line of facial hair on his upper lip.

He was not perhaps a man’s man and certainly was not destined for kingship. He was small, slight in the shoulders, and perhaps also slightly plump.

So he was not strong, but he never made a false move. He would nip up the side of an elephant unassisted, barefoot. He strung and sprung the crossbows, not by brute force, but by knowing how to stroke things into place. He made the weapons work by loving them.

Yes, he was a good soldier.

The old sergeant saw him scamper up a balding beast, finding footholds in the creases of her skin. The old sergeant approved of this lack of wasted motion, for he had served under generals who moved by sheer force. Without this neatness, they sometimes lacked strategy. They would march you into a swamp of blood. You survived, but your comrades had been opened up to the sun, transformed into abandoned corpses that only the floods or scavengers would remove.

The old sergeant saw the Prince tuck himself into the howdah. Again, he did it almost invisibly. If you blinked you would miss him doing it. The old sergeant saw him look up, and under his black lip, his white teeth suddenly glowed. Life warmed the old sergeant’s heart, he who had seen so much death. The old sergeant followed his gaze.

Oh, ho ho, it was the Lady Jayarajadevi who had caught his eye. It was a young man’s fiery heart seeking what it needed. Oh yes, there was competition among these young hawks, these young elephants.

Still smiling at beauty, the Slave Prince turned, dipped at the knees and pulled his young training partner up into the howdah.

Responsible. That was another thing a commander needed to be. He needed to know where his men were and who they were, who needed help, who needed to be chastised and beaten. His young partner was willing but unsteady. The Slave Prince did not mock him or complain that his partner was dragging him down. His job was to make the most of his young partner, and he did. He pulled his apprentice up onto the platform and steadied him on it.

And then he glanced again at Jayarajadevi. Oh, he aimed at the stars that one.

‘’Sru, who is the short fat one?’ asked Jayarajadevi.

‘Oh, you know him,’ said Indradevi, her sister. Her Khmer name was Kansru, which meant Well-Shaped. The sisters nicknamed each other ‘Sri and ‘Sru.

‘No I don’t.’

‘You do, ‘Sri! He is a great favourite of the King. He is the one they call Slave.’

‘Oh yes. So that is him.’ Kansri did not quite like the knowing look in her elegant sister’s eyes. ‘’Sru! Careful.’

‘His father was a Buddhist,’ said Indradevi. ‘His father and his brother are now dead, so he is in name a little king. Only, he doesn’t seem to be bothered about being consecrated or taking a title.’

‘Perhaps he is showing indifference to the world.’ Jayarajadevi Kansri meant to be mildly sarcastic. Indradevi was always looking out for her.

Indradevi pretended to take her seriously. ‘I was wondering the same thing.’

The sisters held each other’s gaze and suddenly both started to laugh. ‘We all must look to our futures,’ said Indradevi Kansru with a gentle, teasing smile.

‘Look after your own! I only asked who he was. I did not recognize him because of the moustache.’

‘You only like him because of the moustache.’

Jayarajadevi saw how it looked to her sister. ‘It does give him the air of a holy man, and it is foolish of me to think that. But then I am young and foolish.’

‘At least he looks like a man who does NOT regard women as if they were elephants.’

‘Fortunately some great princes are beyond our ken.’

‘For … tune … ate … leeee,’ said Indradevi Kansru and rattled the tips of her fingers on her sister’s arm. Between themselves they called some of the highest princes in the land the Oxen. Among them, Yashovarman.

But oh, even the Oxen were beautiful young men. They wore their princely quilted jackets, all gold embroidered flowers, and were finely built and swift of movement. That gave low pleasure but also higher pleasure. If lotus flowers were a symbol of divinity for their colour, their form and their life, then surely the same could be said for beautiful young men?

Though the lotus had the advantage of not trying to be beautiful, or being arrogant about it.

Kansri had indeed heard of the Prince who called himself Nia. She wondered why this favourite of the Universal King would do himself such an injury as to be named after the lowest category of slave. He could be consecrated as a little king and take a noble title, but he still called himself Hereditary Slave.

Jayarajadevi Kansri knew why she would give herself such a name. She would do it to show that the titles of this world were meaningless, that compassion was owed to the lowly.

Was it possible that in this palace of warmongers there was a man who would give himself that name from the same motives? Possible that he would regard slaves as being worthy of attention, simply other souls trapped in samsara? How wonderful it would be to find a man with whom you could talk about such things, who would take such thoughts and man-like turn them into solid facts.

Such a possibility. A dream, like the cloud-flowers that everyone hoped to see and never did.

So this happy prince – and he does smile beautifully – helped his younger comrade up. He was neat and quick; and he explained so patiently to the little boy about the double crossbow on the beast’s back.

He pointed out the weapon’s thick arms and showed how to pull them back. He made it look easy. He guided his charge’s hands and together they pulled back the nearest bow. Then he nipped out of the howdah down into the bamboo cage that clung to the side of the beast.

Jayarajadevi Kansri heard the sergeant cluck his tongue. The old female elephant trotted forward, creased and whiskery like a granny.

The little one in the howdah was having difficulty. He wavered as he pulled back on the bow; he wobbled as he knelt on the platform; he squinted into the sun. The Slave Prince half stood, balancing on the bamboo struts of the cage and encouraging the boy.

The little boy looked cross. The elephant’s motion jostled him. The crossbow veered dangerously.

Without warning the bolt sprang forward, as long and heavy as a spear. It plunged deep into the elephant, just where the rounded dome of its head met the hunch of its neck.

The old female screamed, and broke into a charge. The Slave Prince pulled himself back into the howdah.

Some of the Oxen roared with laughter. Jayarajadevi Kansri sent tiny blades out with her eyes: oh it is so funny to see a beast in agony. Oh it is so robust to laugh when someone might be killed!

Bellowing, the old female stumbled into the high fluttering banners, scattering category people. She dropped down onto her knees and shook her head as if saying no, no, no. The sergeants ran to secure her again. The howdah jerked from side to side. The Prince grabbed the boy’s hand and turned to jump free. Just as he launched himself, the elephant shrugged and he lost hold of the boy.

The Prince was dumped heavily onto the scrub earth. His knees gave way, but he caught himself with his hands and he scuttled forwards out of the way. He jerked himself to his feet and twisted around, to see the elephant lower herself onto her side. The side basket crackled as her weight crushed it.

The boy clung to the low sides of the howdah. ‘Jump!’ the Prince called up to the boy and held out his arms to catch him. His charge hung back, weeping. The Oxen laughed.

The elephant began to roll onto her back. The little boy screamed and flung himself free, hurtling down onto the Prince, who fumbled him, held him, and staggered backwards, pulling the boy out of harm’s way.

The elephant, nearly on her back, kicked her legs and shook her head, trying to scrape the bolt out of her neck. She drove it deeper in. The balustrades of the howdah collapsed under her with a sudden thump.

The keepers edged forward with spears. Ducking and fearful, they tried to grab the harness around her body and shoulders. The bell around her neck clanked and clattered.

There was a gasp from the onlookers. The foolish Prince had run up her ribcage. He looked as though he was climbing rocks in the river, only these rocks shifted underfoot. The Prince grabbed the thick shaft of the spear in the elephant’s head. The old beast cawed like a giant crow and kicked and the Prince was swung out over the ground, still holding on. Then the shaft swung back. He found his footing, and hauled out the weapon. He jumped free from the beast and flung it away all in one motion.

The elephant kicked once more and then went still.

The keepers advanced on her with lances.

‘No, no, no!’ the Prince cried aloud, holding out his hands.

The dazed old elephant lifted up her head. She snorted out breath as if in relief. Very suddenly she kicked herself back onto her feet. She stood still and blinked at her keepers who warily approached.

‘The bolt just went into the flesh of her neck,’ the Prince said. As if treading across thorns, he slowly crept towards her. The old animal lowered her head and shuffled backwards. She associated him with pain. He backed off as well and instead turned to his young charge.

The little boy was standing at stiff attention. His face was dusty and tracked with tears, but he was not crying now. Poor thing, he thinks he will be punished, perhaps even sent back to his mother, who knows?

Jayarajadevi Kansri leaned forward, turning her head sideways to hear, aware that her sister Indradevi was looking at her and not at the Prince.

‘You were not strong enough to use the bow,’ said Prince Nia. ‘You will get stronger if you work. Will you work?’

‘Yes!’ said the little boy, nodding hard.

‘I will help you get strong,’ said the Prince and touched the boy’s arm. Then he saw the keepers approach again with spears.

‘No, no, no!’ he commanded them. ‘She will live. No! She can carry things!’

‘Well,’ said Jayarajadevi settling back. ‘He is certainly not one of the Oxen.’

As soon as people got wind of the potential attachment, they took sides.

Indradevi Kansru wound her way through the palace routines until she could sidle up to the Slave Prince. ‘You are a popular man, Prince.’

‘Am I?’ He had a nice open smile.

‘Oh indeed. You have found favour in the eyes of a certain lady. You are a lucky man to secure such favour. This is a high-born lady of the greatest beauty and accomplishment.’

He beamed in measured pleasure. ‘That is very pleasant to hear.’

‘May I tell the lady that?’

‘I cannot think which lady it may be, but if she is as you describe then only a fool would not be grateful.’

‘Hmmm. And I think you are not a fool. I will tell you, ah? Oh, this lady is special; she outshines all others. She is a friend of mine. No one knows her as well as I do, and she has such a good heart, such a fine mind. Oh! If only I were so adorned.’

‘What is her name?’

Indradevi finally whispered it in his ear, carefully gauging the warmth and tenderness of his smile. She was not unpleased.

But another girl came and said, ‘Oh Prince, everyone speaks well of you, everyone says you have a good heart. I have come to warn you. Oh! There is a certain person who gives herself airs and graces. She knows you have the attention of the King, and seeks to climb your virtues like a monkey climbs a vine. She has a bad reputation that one, for a cool head and a cold heart.’ Then, in a whisper, ‘Some say it is the King’s bed not yours she seeks.’

Nia’s loyal friends, who like him were good on the field and well behaved in the royal house, clustered around him. ‘Oh! Lucky man, the Lady Jayarajadevi is so beautiful. When are you going to have the courage to present yourself? Oh, you must be quick, such a prize as that will not go unclaimed for long.’

The Oxen caught him off guard as he washed. He was nearly naked and defenceless. Yashovarman looked scornfully down at his less bullish body. ‘You are a small slip of a thing to think that you can claim the attention of high ladies. You should know, before you get into trouble. The Lady Jayarajadevi is spoken for. She is a king’s wife, not for semi-peasant like you.’

‘Prince Nia!’ one of the Oxen laughed. ‘What title will he take, do you think. Niavarman, Slave Shield?’

They all laughed. Prince Nia stayed calm. ‘Until she marries, no one is spoken for. And I think she speaks for herself.’

‘You cannot speak for her, that is certain.’

‘Neither can you. You should know, before you get me angry, that she calls you an Ox. You are unsubtle and don’t know that women do not measure a man’s worth by the thickness of his thighs.’

‘No, but the world gives to the man who takes, and to take one must be strong.’

‘And smart. And fearless. And not easily led. Oxen are strong and bear the world’s burdens, not its prizes. Unless you want a fight now, Ox, I will finish washing myself. You should try washing some time.’

Nia had just enough love of war. The strong ox Yashovarman hesitated, and in hesitation made his ground unsteady. ‘I have warned you!’ he said, but retreated.