In the Shadow of the Banyan Read Online Free PDF Page B

couldn’t tell who was who among the dead. I knew enough of the tales to know that the rest of the Reamker was like this, that ogres could often turn themselves into beautiful creatures, and that Preah Ream could transform himself into a being as scary-looking as Krung Reap, with multiple arms and fangs and weapons. One entity could manifest as another, and if you didn’t know who was who to begin with, then how were you to recognize the devas from the demons?
    I continued reading: At the time our tales begin, Ayuthiya was ruled by King Tusarot. Of the four princes born to the king, Preah Ream was noblest—
    Suddenly I heard voices shouting in the distance: Open the gate, open the gate! I put the book down and stilled my thoughts to listen. Victory! Victory to our soldiers! Welcome, brothers, welcome! The voices were getting louder, as if they were just around the corner, Open the gate! Leave! But I couldn’t be sure. There were other noises—horns, bells, sirens, and countless engines—all competing. Then the ground rumbled. Something enormous heaved and rolled toward us. The air turned unnaturally hot, laden with the odors of burnt rubber tires, heated tarmac. The reverberation became deafening, and around me the leaves and flowers trembled. A monster, I thought. A monster with rolling metal feet! Children screamed, “Look, look! More of them!”
    As they rumbled past, these monsters with diesel breath, grinding the tarmac with their feet, cheers and applause broke out high in the air— Welcome Revolutionary soldiers! Welcome to Phnom Penh! Welcome! A few carnations landed on the walls of our gate, like birds falling from the sky, followed by a chorus of voices singing, muffled and crackling through some sort of loudspeaker:
    A new day has arrived, Comrade Brothers and Sisters.
    Carry your Revolutionary flag with pride,
    Lift your face to the glorious light of the Revolution!
    The procession of monsters and voices moved farther up the street, until the loudspeaker’s harsh bellowing softened to an unintelligible din. I heard the sounds of doors and windows being closed as people went back into their homes. Motorcycles and cars, which had stopped for the procession, seemed to be starting again, and bicycles and cyclos resumed their journeys, bells ringing incessantly. Then, after a while, all the noises faded, until our street was as completely quiet as before.
    I waited to see if there was more to come, my ear pressed to the stucco wall. But there was nothing. No one. Where was Milk Mother? Maybe she got lost in all the commotion. Maybe she was trying to get back but couldn’t make it through the dense traffic.
    Then all of a sudden I heard loud banging a few houses away. My heart skipped. The banging continued, followed by the urgent squeaks and rattles of gates being opened, along with voices talking, shouting and arguing: Who the hell are you? Get out! No, you get out! This is our house! BOOM! Something exploded. A gunshot or maybe just a car tire, I couldn’t tell. More banging, louder and nearer now, and before I had time to figure out what to do, someone was pounding on our gate, BAM BAM BAM! I jumped back a step or two, and one of the carnations that had been teetering on the wall fell to the ground near my feet. Just as I was about to pick it up, a voice commanded, “OPEN THE GATE!”
    I looked around the courtyard, but not a soul was in sight, not even Old Boy. I knew the rule—no grown-up, no open gate. At least when there had been war. But now there was no war. My heart pounded, my breath quickened.
    “OPEN!” again came the voice. “OR I’LL SHOOT IT DOWN!”
    “Wait!” I croaked. “Just wait a minute!” I looked around and spotted a footstool partially hidden under a gardenia bush a few feet away. I brought it over and, standing on top of it, pulled back the latch—
    A column of smoke burst in. He was all black—black cap, black shirt, black pants, black sandals. He stared down at