Spice

SPICE

Robert A Webster

Darkness will settle on the people of Cambodia

There will be houses, but no people in them.

Roads, but no travellers

Barbarians with no religion will rule the land.

Blood will run so deep as to touch the belly of the elephant.

Only the deaf and the mute will survive.

Ancient Cambodian Prophecy

SPICE

Written by Robert A Webster

Copyright © Robert A. Webster 2014

Cover design © Robert A Webster 2019

Revised edition 2020

All Rights Reserved.

The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. Thank you for respecting the work of this author

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Table of Contents

-Chapter One-

-Chapter Two-

-Chapter Three-

-Chapter Four-

-Chapter Five-

-Chapter Six-

-Chapter Seven-

-Chapter Eight-

-Chapter Nine-

-Chapter Ten-

-Chapter Eleven-

-Chapter Twelve-

-Chapter Thirteen-

-Chapter Fourteen-

-Chapter Fifteen-

-Chapter Sixteen-

-Chapter Seventeen-

- Chapter Eighteen -

-Epilogue-

-Appendix-

-Meet the Author-

Novels by Robert A Webster

-Chapter One-

Fear and Loathing

Rotha peered out of the hut’s doorway. She smiled, pushed strands of black hair behind her ears, went down the wooden steps, and over to her sons. “Ravuth, you and your brother go get the *tror bek for supper,” she said.

The teenager looked up from where he and his younger brother sat playing and groaned.

“Now, Ravuth,” said his mother, wagging her finger.

“Okay, come on Oun,” said Ravuth standing, and holding his brother’s hand they headed towards the jungle.

The air felt humid and Ravuth wiped his arm across his moist forehead. He turned back towards the village and looked up at the Cardamom Mountains. “I wish I was a bird and could fly above the mountains, it would be cool up there,” he said, smiling at Oun.

The year was 1975, and unbeknownst to the secluded village, Cambodia was in turmoil. The country was at the end of a war but the beginning of a nightmare, leading to a period of genocide affecting every Cambodian.

Pearls of perspiration now trickled down Ravuth’s face. The sores on his hands stung pitilessly as the salt in his sweat rubbed against the worn handle of his machete. Once again, he lifted his aching arm and hacked into the foliage. His thirst raged and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, but he had to keep going for the sake of his younger brother.

“We’re lost, aren’t we Ravuth?” The fear in Oun’s voice made it tremble.

Ravuth glanced back at the small dirty face behind him. It was his fault they’re lost, and should never have wandered off the trail. His mother told him repeatedly never to leave the recognised paths, but he thought he knew better.

The boys knew the jungle surrounding their secluded village where their family had lived for generations, living off the diverse plants and animals found around their jungle domain. Collecting fruits and vegetables from the jungle was a daily task that the teenage Ravuth and his younger brother, Oun, had carried out for years. The route was always the same. However, today the boys decided to explore and maybe discover a new area that may contain more vegetables.

Ravuth and Oun had been roaming around lost for over an hour in this dense, unforgiving undergrowth. With his last ounce of energy, Ravuth hacked through a thick vine and the two boys emerged into a glade. Ravuth smiled, “We’ll be fine,” he said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel. “We can rest here and then retrace our steps.”

“Look at that Ravuth,” said Oun, pointing to a strange plant nestling between small rocky outcrops. “And look at that hole near the rocks. It could be a cave entrance.”

The boys went over to the plant and Ravuth bent down and peered into the cave.

“What’s in it? How big is it?” Oun asked.

“I don’t know, It’s dark so I can’t see far inside,” said Ravuth with his head and shoulders inside the cave entrance. “I can squeeze in and look.”

“No way,” said Oun panicking, “Let’s just go, we don’t know what’s inside.”

Ravuth, heeding his younger brother’s warning didn’t enter and stood.

Oun’s attention then shifted to the plant, which he uprooted. The top of the plant was a gold-coloured round bulbous seed pod with a corrugated disc top. Its long slender stem surrounded by large green leaves appeared similar in shape and size of Chinese lettuce with a small, carrot-shaped white root. “I’ve never seen this plant before, what is it?” Oun asked and handed the plant to Ravuth.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen one either. I will take it home, mother will know. Perhaps it tastes good,” he said, sniffing the plant’s top.

From what his parents taught them at an early age about identifying poisonous plants, Ravuth knew the plant was safe to eat. “It tastes bitter,” he said, chewing a leaf and grimacing, “Maybe it will taste better cooked.”

Suddenly, they heard several twigs crack and the surrounding foliage shook. The boys felt terrified as a young male tiger crashed through the undergrowth and stopped several feet away from them.

Indo-Chinese Tigers roam the jungles surrounding the Cardamom Mountains. They distanced themselves from humans as much as possible as they considered them annoying and did not appear as if they would taste good. However, two of these small beasties had disturbed this tiger’s favourite sunshade spot.

Ravuth stuffed the strange plant into his pocket and he and Oun raised their machetes, pointing them at the young tiger.

The tiger growled and paced back and forth in front of the boys.

Back away slowly,” Ravuth ordered with every muscle fibre, every sinew alive and ready to react to the moment.

While watching the tiger pace around growling and looking at them with disdain, the terrified brothers backed away towards the thick undergrowth.

With the humans away from his cave entrance, the tiger walked to it, cocked his leg, and sprayed his domain with his scent. He glanced at the boys and then crawled into the cave.

Ravuth and Oun watched the tiger going into the cave and rushed into the jungle.

Stumbling through jungle terrain for twenty-minutes, they came upon a clearing covered in familiar vegetation. They stopped, caught their breaths, and smiled. “Tror bek! Great, I know where we are now,” said a relieved Ravuth.

“Good, let’s just get some and go home,” said an even more relieved Oun.

The bedraggled boys reached their village late in the afternoon. They expected to receive a scolding from their mother. Instead, they noticed that all the villagers gathered inside the large wooden communal hut in the centre of the village. Confused, Ravuth and Oun sneaked past the large hut and went home. They knew that their father had gone to *Koh Kong early that morning to sell his trinkets and did not expect him back until the following day. However, when they reached their wooden stilted shack, they saw their father’s bicycle outside. They went up the steps, walked inside, and saw a square black canvas bag on the table. Unsure what was happening, they put the strange plant along with the vegetables into a bowl and headed for the communal hut.

“What’s happening?” asked Oun.

“I don’t know. I am confused too. Why’s father home so early and I wonder what’s in that bag on the table?” Ravuth asked.

The brothers made their way to the large communal hut. From the doorway, they saw their mother sitting on the floor. Their father, with tears running down his grimy face and with a look of terror, addressed the shocked looking villagers. Ravuth and Oun sat on the floor beside their mother.

“What’s wrong mother, why does father look so afraid and covered in scratches, and why is he speaking to everyone as the village chief instead of Ren?” asked Ravuth. He looked at his frightened mother, who whispered,

“Ren’s dead and your father’s telling people about what happened in Koh Kong, so be quiet, and listen. He’s almost finished and we will explain to you later.” Although afraid, Rotha tried to appear calm for the boys’ sake.

Bemused, Ravuth looked around the gathered villagers. Ren’s children huddled around their weeping mother on the opposite side of the room, consoling one another, along with other families whose relatives had not returned. Ravuth and Oun had missed most of what their father had told the villagers, but seeing the faces of those present, they realised that it must be something serious. Once finished, their father made his way over to join Rotha and the boys.

“What happened father?” asked Ravuth.

“We all have a lot of work to do,” said their distraught father, Tu. “Let’s go home and I’ll explain.”

The family left the communal hut as the others inside dispersed and went to their homes.

The siblings and their father sat on a Kam-ral, a straw rug, and while Rotha tended to his cuts, Tu related his horrific tale to his sons.

“I went with Ren and the others to the Thai-Cambodian border to sell the trinkets we have been making. Everything seemed normal at first. We stopped behind the border post, where we usually leave our bikes.”

Tu winced as Rotha put a stinging balm on a deep scratch and then continued.

There was no military at the post. Instead, several young men and women dressed in kheaw aeu chout and krorma (black pyjamas and red and white checked scarves), stood at a large barrier under construction at the checkpoint. They carried rifles and ordering workers to build a fence. I saw Thai armed soldiers stood at the Thailand border looking anxious, so I stayed with the bicycles while Ren went over to find out what was happening and the others went to wait for the tour bus. I saw Ren approach a boy who, upon seeing him, aimed his rifle at his body.

Ren looked scared as the boy yelled at him and said he was a *Khmer Rouge soldier, and now in charge of Cambodia.”

Tu looked at his sons and told them,

“The boy looked around the same age as you, Ravuth.”

Oun and Ravuth saw their father trembling as he said, “Another young Khmer Rouge soldier shouted as a bus approached and the Khmer Rouge scurried around, waited until the bus stopped. They shoved a group of terrified foreigners off the bus into the waiting Khmer Rouge, their belongings hitting them as they threw them off the bus. The foreigners grabbed some of their belongings before the Khmer Rouge pushed them over the Cambodian border into no-man's-land. I saw the Thai soldiers aiming at the approaching party of foreigners, Khmer Rouge, and our villagers who went to help, so I stayed where I was.”

Tu took the black bag from the table and said. “I saw several items left by the tourists, so I went over to the empty bus and rummaged around the scattered items. I have seen similar ones to this carried by tourists.”

He opened the bag, pulled out a Polaroid camera, and showed it to his inquisitive sons.

“I walked back to my bicycle, strapped the bag to my handlebars, and continued to watch what was happening at the border. The group neared the Thai soldiers and stopped. The Khmer Rouge pushed the trembling foreigners forward and shouted at the Thais, but I could not hear what. The tourists ran to the soldiers, who, still aiming at the Khmer Rouge, let the foreigners through and they ran behind the soldiers. All the Khmers turned around and marched back through no-man's-land and back into Cambodian territory, laughing and joking.”

“Are you okay dad?” asked Ravuth as his father went silent and rubbed his eyes.

Tu nodded and told them,

“Ren and the villagers now seemed to get on well with the Khmer Rouge. They laughed and joked with one another as they walked back to the Cambodian side of the border. I felt relieved and was about to join them, hoping that they had not seen me taking the camera.”

Tu, with a quake in his voice, then told them, “My relief turned to horror as the young Khmer soldier walking behind Ren, put the muzzle of his rifle to the back of his head, and pulled the trigger.”

Ravuth and Oun gasped.

Tu shook his head, “Ren knew nothing; he was talking to another Khmer Rouge when his face exploded. I saw the bullet exiting his head and his body falling to the ground,” said Tu and wiped away tears.

Rotha brought them over cups of water and put her hands on her husband’s shoulder.

Tu gulped the water, composed himself, and continued,

“I hid behind the border guard’s shack and could hear the Khmer Rouge soldiers laughing and chattering, with our friends and neighbours now pleading for their lives. I knew I had to get away from there, even though it meant leaving them,” he sighed, “But there was nothing I could do.”

Rotha went outside to the kitchen area as Tu continued, “Wheeling my bicycle a few yards away from behind the border guard shack, I ripped my trinkets off, and peddled as fast as I could. I hadn’t gone far when I heard people behind me, yelling at me to stop. Terrified, I ignored the shouting and carried on riding. I heard a shot, and a bullet whistled past my ear.”

The boys looked at one another, and then at their distraught father, who continued. “Pedalling frantically, I veered off the road, and headed across fields, and into the jungle. I rode until the track became too rugged for the bicycle, and ran into thick undergrowth and hid behind a clump of trees. I waited for what seemed like ages. After not seeing any sign of the Khmer Rouge, I retraced my steps, picked up my bicycle, and rode home.”

“What’s the Khmer Rouge? Ravuth asked.

Tu shook his head. Unaware of events happening in Cambodia, he only knew they should be afraid and make themselves scarce, so replied, “I don’t know son, but we need to stay hidden until we could find out what’s happened. We will be safer deeper in the jungle and tonight we can organise our belongings and find a new site. In the morning we will break down our dwellings and rebuild elsewhere,” said Tu. The boys could see how concerned, confused, and afraid their father appeared.

“What’s this?” interrupted Rotha, holding up the plant that Ravuth had placed on top of the tror bek.

“I don’t know mother. We found it along the track and thought you would know. Maybe we could eat it, right Oun?” said Ravuth, looking at his brother for backup.

“Yes,” said Oun paying scant attention and looking inside the camera bag.

“I’ve seen nothing like this before,” said Rotha, who held the strange plant and inspected it.

Rotha went ignored; the two youngsters seemed more interested in the instruction and demonstration their father was giving on the Polaroid camera.

Rotha went over to their clay rainwater trap, filled a bowl of water, and placed it alongside a bubbling pot containing vegetables and a small broiling chicken. She studied the plant and knew by the leaves shape and colour that the plant was edible, so she plucked a leaf, tasted it, winced, and put the rest into the boiling pot. She pierced the gold seed pod and it oozed a milky white sap which she tasted. Rotha couldn’t understand why it tasted sweet and delicious with the leaf tasting so bitter, but she would experiment with it later. Rotha noticed that the round seedpod had a strange sheen and its gold colour appeared as a lustrous mosaic of vivid shades; the effect created with motor oil on water.

Disturbed by a sudden bright flash, she looked up to see the smiling faces of her two mischievous sons and her even more mischievous husband holding the Polaroid after taking a flash photograph of her. The camera’s machinery whirred as a film popped out of the front. Tu removed the photograph, peeled away the first layer of film, and put the picture on the table to develop.

Rotha glowered at her husband as he once again focused, pressed the button, and took another snapshot of her, and repeated the development process. Tu then motioned them all to get together to take a picture of the three of them. They alternated and took turns at taking pictures until they finished the six remaining films in the camera’s cartridge.

They watched the photographs developing under their solitary light bulb and looked amazed as the images appeared. The family gazed at the first photographs they had ever seen, forgetting for a moment about the tragedy that had befallen the village. Rotha removed a banana leaf woven box from a shelf and placed it onto the table. Everyone in the village had several of these boxes. These interwoven strips of dried banana leaf, coated with a resin from the sap of palm oil bark, gave the box a hard-wearing varnished sheen. The small shoe size boxes, apart from selling to tourists, the villagers used them to store knick-knacks and anything unusual. She opened the box and placed the photographs inside.

“You can look at these again after we have eaten. Ravuth, get the dishes ready and I will serve supper,” she said.

Rotha was about to close the box’s lid when she saw the plant on the table. She cut away most of the stem and put the golden-brown pod into the box, closing the lid.

The family sat down to eat. Rotha served the strange plants leaves in a broth and they all agreed it tasted horrible, it was too bitter. Fortunately, the chicken and tror bek went down well, and after supper, they packed away their meagre belongings for the next day’s move. The village’s noisy two-stroke generator went off at 8:00 pm., whereupon they went to bed.

Shouting and gunfire abruptly woke the family at sunrise.

Panic ensued, Tu, Rotha, and the boys went onto the balcony and saw a group of young Khmer Rouge soldiers marching through the village, firing AK-47s into the air and hollering at the villagers. They stomped to the dwellings, whose residents now stood either on their balconies or at the foot of their steps.

A girl, about the same age as Ravuth, came to the foot of their steps and yelled for them to come down and go to the village’s communal hut. She pointed her rifle at Tu.

“Immediately!” she screamed.

The family did as ordered and went to the communal hut along with the other frightened villagers, and commanded to kneel. A Khmer Rouge soldier, who looked around 18-years-old, walked to the front. The villagers gasped. Dragged along on a rope leash was Dara, a middle-aged villager who had gone into Koh Kong along with Tu and the others to sell trinkets the previous day.

“Dara’s alive, Rotha,” whispered Tu. “I thought they’d all been killed.”

With swollen cheeks and eyes, dried blood staining her lips and nose, Dara looked badly beaten. The villagers watched as the Khmer Rouge commander tugged her like a dog. The other Khmer Rouge paced back and forth behind the audience as their commander spoke.

He explained about Pol Pot: Brother Number One, their leader, and how the Khmer Rouge now controlled Cambodia, saying, “Every *Khmer citizen now belonged to Angka, (The Organisation.) You are our property and if you want to live, you must prove your value.”

He told them about their children’s role within this new order and would be trained and taught by Angka to become soldiers for the organisation and honoured by all. They would no longer need parents, as adults were menial workers, therefore beneath them. Angka would now be their family. The commander continued for over an hour with his well-rehearsed speech.

The terrified villagers listened but felt bewildered by this indoctrinated youth. Dara swayed as she struggled to stand up in front of him. Occasionally, the boy tugged at her rope, and she snapped back to attention.

Once the commander finished, he focused his attention on Dara and said to the villagers.

“This woman led us to you. She is weak and we do not accept weak.” He tightened the noose around Dara’s neck and dragged her towards him. Taking hold of the knot, he lifted her chin to extend her throat and sliced it open with a small sharp knife. Dara was too weak to put up any fight, and as sputum, blood, and air gurgled from her throat, she went limp. The commander threw her body to the ground, bent over, and wiped his knife on her clothing before sheathing it. He shouted orders to his soldiers, pointed to Dara’s corpse, and issued a stark warning to the villagers,

“Obey Angka or die!”

The villagers stared in horror as the other Khmer Rouge screamed at them to get their belongings and to meet back there.

The stunned villagers left the communal hut and went to their respective residences to pack, with the Khmer Rouge buzzing around the terrified families, hurrying them along.

Rotha, Tu, Ravuth, and Oun went into their hut. Tu spoke to Rotha, who, although shaken by the events, agreed with him. Tu, his voice quaking, told the boys

“You two need to escape and hide in the jungle. When we’ve gone, come back, and stay here. When we find out what is going on and when it’s safe, we can return for you,”

The boys, although frightened, agreed, and hoped it would only be for a short while.

Rotha looked outside, saw a Khmer Rouge walking away from their hut to check on another family, and she could not see any others close by.

“Quick, Ravuth! You go first,” she whispered.

Ravuth gingerly made his way down the steps and ran the short distance to the jungle, hiding behind the first clump of trees and looking back to await his brother.

He saw Oun at the foot of the steps, but marching towards him was a Khmer Rouge soldier, who stopped at Oun’s side. The boy waved his rifle towards Rotha and Tu, ordering them to come down immediately. Ravuth’s heart beat wildly and he hid behind the thick tree trunk.

The Khmer Rouge shouting faded, so Ravuth peered out. He saw his mother, father, and brother led away with the others to the communal shack. Realising that he had gone unnoticed, Ravuth skirted around behind the village, using the jungle trees and foliage for cover as he observed what was happening within the village.

The villagers stayed inside the communal hut for another hour before emerging and corralled outside the hut.

The Khmer Rouge went into the crowd of people and dragged out four elderly villagers. Ravuth hoped that they would let them remain in the village. He thought they would take care of him until his parents and Oun returned.

The commander smirked as his soldiers pushed the four elderly villagers to the ground and shot them in the head.

The villagers screamed as the Khmer Rouge pointed their rifles at the panic-stricken crowd, screaming. “Silence or die!”

The commander addressed the crowd, “Be quiet!” he yelled and waiting until he had their attention. “These people were old so cannot produce anything for Angka. Their lives are of no benefit to Angka and their deaths are of no loss.”

Trembling and afraid, the crowd appeared a dejected and broken group of refugees. They shuffled along the trail that led to Koh Kong to join the exodus of the rounded-up populace to be processed and sent to work camps.

The Khmer Rouge let the villagers carry their meagre belongings, which they would take off them at the end of their journey.