For the Sake of All Living Things (10 page)

“Here we are,” Chhuon continued. “Khmer and Jarai, part of Cambodia, but often our children go undernourished, our debt grows. The elite in Phnom Penh grow fortunes in paddies of corruption. Our sweat, our blood, are their fertilizer. North Viet Namese tax you. Viet Minh tax us.”

“Not just tax,” Y Ksar said. “Attack. And across the border South Viet Namese troops attack Jarai saying they help the enemy. American reconnaissance teams ambush us. Death to them all! A typhoon has swooped down upon the mountains. In one lifetime we have moved from separate villages that have never known outside control, never a mountain kingdom, to villages everyone from the outside wants to control. Now in FULRO we’re as the fibers which make a single tree. We must have autonomy. Freedoms we knew in isolation are gone. To be free in a forest of foreign armies, we must be strong.

“My “Brother,” Y Ksar went on, “here we want what all Khmers have. We want our schools to be the same system as the rest of the country. Not frontier schools. We want the rights of citizenship; passports if we want. We want the province officials to be Mountaineers, not Khmers. We want our defense forces to be recognized as semiautonomous. We’ll support Phnom Penh if they supply us. Let us keep foreign armies off this land. We want to be able to trade with merchants from Lomphat and Stung Treng and Pleiku because that will bring us a better life.

“Royal troops are the same as yuons. NVA attack one village, Sihanouk another. They want nothing but to slaughter us. But we will grow back ten times as strong.”

While Y Ksar gave an embellished account of the government attack to rid the basalt plateau of Mountaineers, Samnang worked to raise the rice beer. Finally he swallowed a large mouthful. He forced back the impulse to vomit and held his breath as he heard his father say, “Evil. They’ll be destroyed. They must be destroyed.” In his entire life Samnang had never heard his father say anything so blasphemous.

“Our soldiers protect us,” Y Ksar said. He too was feeling the numpai. “Americans make fools of the yuons.” The old warrior laughed loudly. “They send SOG teams. Ha! The yuons think they’re safe in Cambodia. They say, ‘International law will protect us.’ Ha! Jarai and American teams ambush the yuons. Ha! International law! This is a Mountaineer nation. Umph! What international law protects us? Not a single nation recognizes us. Upon ourselves only can we rely.”

“That’s best,” Chhuon said emotionally. “The best way for a man, a family, a village, a nation. Self-reliant. Anyone who harms you or your village is evil. How can anyone ever forget what Royal troops have done? For all eternity our blood will call for revenge. Blood for blood.”

“To forgive them,” Y Bhur piped up, “would be a sign of weakness.”

“It’s better to ignore the fact they’re human,” Chhuon said. “To act the way they have acted is to renounce their humanity.”

Samnang passed the straw to Y Ksar. Never before had he drunk alcohol. Never had he seen his father more than sip from the jar. Much later he would become very cruel to anyone caught drinking alcohol and he would never again drink himself. But he also would never forget Y Ksar’s tale of how Royal troops and yuons treated and slaughtered Mountaineers. And he would never forget his father’s words.

Late that afternoon, with the truck unloaded, Chhuon prepared to leave Plei Srepok, alone, for a trip halfway down the mountain, back toward Lomphat. From a small Rhade village sawmill he would buy a truckload of rough-sawn teak blocks which would eventually be made into either busts of Norodom Sihanouk or statuettes of Buddha.

It’s quarter to five, Chhuon thought as he checked the truck’s tires. I can be to Buon O Sieng by five-thirty, loaded by six. Then back here by six-thirty, no, quarter to seven....That’s too late. I must be there by five-fifteen, leave by five-forty. Then I can be here to pick up Kdeb and Yani by six-fifteen. We’ll leave by six-thirty. I must drive quickly if we’re to reach home before dark....The yuons will have a roadblock. Maybe they won’t keep me long. The Royal troops will have pulled back and probably be asleep. Stress is bad for children. Another roadblock and Yani’ll become ill. Y Ksar’s wise. I’ll leave them here, then drive back all the way on 19.

“Children,” Chhuon called.

“Yes Father,” they both answered.

“You must be ready when I return.”

“Yes Papa.”

“And...and...” Chhuon reached out and pulled his offspring to him. He hugged Mayana and then Samnang. He held his boy at arm’s length and said, “Take care and watch over Yani. Never forget our family legacy or the Path of the Elders. Remember our family, our village and our people.” Chhuon untied the yellow-checked krama from about his waist and pushed it into Samnang’s hands. “If anything should happen to me...remember how you want to go to school in Stung Treng. Become all you’re capable of becoming. Whatever happens—
do not cry
.”

Y Bhur pulled Samnang back under the longhouse. The sun had begun its descent yet cloud-filtered sunlight still streamed in from the southwest and filled the canyon. The air was heavy with the smell of cinnamon and pig shit.

“No,” Y Bhur said. At twelve years old he was only one year Samnang’s senior but he was both large for his age and the product of a culture where boys take over men’s duties earlier than in Khmer society. “That’s backwards. Let’s retie it.”

Samnang put his crossbow on the ground and unwound the long strip of cloth. Earlier he had removed his sandals and clothes and had tied the loincloth as he thought it should be tied. As he had emerged from beneath the house the cloth had begun to unwind.

“Between your thighs like...yes, that’s right.” Y Bhur tugged at the cloth in back. “Around you it goes three times.” He chuckled. He made sure it was tied properly before they emerged again to where Mayana sat with Sraang. Each girl had a quiver of arrows and a bushhook, a short-bladed scythe with a three-foot bamboo handle.

“Ha,” Y Bhur laughed good-heartedly. “You almost look Jarai—but you’re too thin.”

Samnang hefted the crossbow and smiled back. He said nothing. He felt strange and exposed in the tribal dress and he felt uncomfortable before Y Bhur’s sister, Sraang. Sraang was as tall as he. Her black hair was combed straight and it caught the southwest sun and glistened. She had adorned herself with additional bracelets and a bead necklace which lay at the top of her breasts, and Samnang wondered if she had added the ornaments for him.

Mayana remained in Khmer dress. She tugged at her brother’s arm and said, “We have to be here when Papa comes.”

“Don’t worry,” Samnang reassured her. He drew himself up to full height and puffed out his chest. “We’ll return from our expedition long before Father does.”

At that the small force set out. They crossed through Jaang’s garden and through the courtyard of the adobe commonhouse to the village watering spot which was a small natural pool at the base of the canyon-terminus cliff. There, long ago, Jarai women had pounded thick bamboo tubes into the cliff at head height. The natural hydrostatic pressure within the mountain released into the tubes. Instead of water trickling down the rocks or bubbling up from a spring below the pool, a shower flowed continuously from the bamboo.

Playfully Y Bhur led his patrol through the water, across the shallow ford and up the east slope to a small plateau. Older, sweat-shiny women bent over dry-rice stubble, their bodies and hand scythes swinging monotonously. Y Bhur gazed upon the women with an air of disdain. To him their sweat was a totally undignified condition, at least for a Jarai man. Samnang looked at the field. “One moment, Brother,” he said to Y Bhur. He walked into the field, knelt. The stubble felt sharp against his bare feet, feet not unaccustomed to going without shoes but not peasant feet used to such rough walking. He inspected several uncut rice stalks. “With more nitrogen,” he said authoritatively, “the stalks would be stronger and the grain fuller.”

“Ha,” Y Bhur laughed, and smiled in his sincere yet jocular, hillbilly manner. “Just like your father.”

They continued their climb up a narrow path to a second plateau where village buffalo and cattle were grazing. Y Bhur led, followed by Samnang, Sraang and Mayana. “When we return,” Sraang said, “we must herd the animals back to their pens.”

“Can’t they stay here?” Yani asked.

“Oh no,” Y Bhur answered for his sister. “If we leave them their smell will attract the tiger.”

“Or the yuons?!” Samnang said it softly, hesitantly, both as a statement and as a question. They continued to climb, now into the forest, along a steep trail. Y Bhur halted on a false peak. The trail ended. He looked into the forest then back down the trail. The vegetation was thick. Through breaks he could see the roofs of the longhouses below. Samnang was thirty feet back. He had stopped to give his hand to Sraang who feigned finding one steep rock difficult to negotiate in her long skirt. Yani was another twenty feet below, spunkily trying to keep up, afraid of being alone in this unknown forest yet telling herself, Afraid of nothing.

“Here we must stay close,” Y Bhur said as the column closed. “We should have a chicken to sacrifice to the Spirit of the Forest.” He spoke solemnly. “Here the Cloud Forest begins. Here the Spirits live.”

“Is it here where the yuons camp?” Samnang asked quietly.

“Yes,” Y Bhur said. “But the Cloud Forest is vast. They camp at the Canyon of the Dead Teak, which is half a day’s walk. We’ll walk the ridge and I’ll show you where to find small game. Now that you’re Jarai, you must be a good hunter.”

Again they set out. Below them the longhouses fell to shadow but on the west slope of the east ridge, light remained. Above them, the mountain peak alone was shrouded in mist. Y Bhur led them deeper and deeper into the Cloud Forest. As they walked Samnang first pretended he was hunting roebucks, then tigers. Then he imagined he was leading Sraang to a beautiful valley which was theirs. Finally, as they entered the lower mist, he saw himself as a soldier out to kill the hated yuons or the corrupt Royal troops. For all eternity, he thought, our blood will call for revenge.

“ssshh.” Y Bhur held up his hand. He stopped. Ahead there was a clearing. He crouched. Froze. His eyes did not blink, did not for an instant leave the scene before him.

Almost by instinct the other children also stuck fast in their tracks. Slowly, ever so slowly, eyes still fixed, Y Bhur backed to Samnang. Samnang said nothing, whispered nothing. Without moving his head he scanned the vegetation about the small clearing, about his own position. Sraang silently crept up behind him. Two uniformed soldiers were setting up aiming stakes before a metal tube. They made little effort to be quiet. Mayana, immobilized with fear, remained fifteen feet back. She had not, could not, see the clearing but was certain they had come upon a tiger. Her face puckered, squinched. Her eyes shut tight. Inside she whispered a prayer to the Blessed One. Then Sraang tapped her hand. Mayana’s eyes opened wide. She was about to speak but Sraang’s look strangled her as effectively as if someone had tightened a noose about her neck.

Sraang tapped lightly and pointed to the quiver of arrows Yani carried for Y Bhur. Yani blinked. The arrows and Sraang were gone. She blinked again and the Jarai girl was leading her silently back toward the village.

Quietly, ever so quietly, the boys settled back and watched as the soldiers and their porters set up a radio and a landline telephone. Y Bhur recognized the tube but he did not know its name. He counted the soldiers—only four—and the porters, who seemed to number at least eight. He counted the rounds of ammunition as best he could but he lost count at forty-five. He looked for other weapons but saw only one rifle and one pistol.

Samnang squatted just behind his friend. He did not count. At first he was afraid to notice anything, but the longer they sat the more comfortable he was watching the soldiers and the more secure he felt they could not see him. He noticed other details. The uniformed men spoke Viet Namese. The coolies, the few who spoke, spoke an unfamiliar mountain dialect. He was sure it was not a language of any of the tribes of the Srepok Forest. Perhaps, he thought, they are Lao. Perhaps...His thoughts wandered. One moment he imagined he was watching fish in a basin; the next he looked at the sky and thought, Even if we leave now, it will be dark before we reach the village. If I’m not there when Papa returns, I’ll disappoint him. I always disappoint him.

Y Bhur cocked his crossbow. He glanced at his lowland brother. Suddenly Samnang’s arms shook. His chest tightened, his legs felt leaden. Y Bhur’s right hand slipped a second arrow from Samnang’s quiver. He turned it up in his hand indicating they should fire, reload and fire again. Samnang, as if the fibers and fragments of this day had finally spun into a single strand, understood. He cocked his crossbow. Y Bhur raised his weapon, aimed. Samnang raised up the stock. The bow ends caught in branches to his sides. His arms shook. He forced the stock up. It leveled and the man with the pistol was small at the tip of the arrow. He shut his eyes, heard the cord of Y Bhur’s bow spank forward. He squeezed. He fumbled for the second arrow. Rifle shots cracked.

The village and canyon were dark with shadow but overhead the clouds were still gray. Y Ksar pulled his blanket more tightly about his neck and shoulders, sucked harder on his bent pipe. Where are the children? he thought. Chhuon will be here soon. He looked at the sky. A lone blackbird swooped down from the cliff, effortlessly glided the length of the village street, winged over, flapped and glided back to alight on the roof of Y Ksar’s longhouse. The bird cawed loudly once. Then it seemed to jump from the roof and slide through the air to the roof of the new commonhouse. Then it disappeared. Y Ksar shook his head. Everything which blooms...his thoughts began, but before they could be completed they were halted by Sraang’s and Mayana’s shouting from the cattle pasture.

The girls were breathless as they ran to the courtyard. Y Ksar, Jaang, Chung, Mul and two dozen villagers gathered about them.

“Breathe deep,” Y Ksar said. “Then your words will come.”

“There are soldiers...” Sraang gasped in Jarai.