Most of Sopeap’s books contain no pictures. However, the first one she pulls out today has a hard cover with an illustration on the front that almost reminds me of Nisay’s book.
“Are we reading another children’s story?” I ask.
“Some may call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
Sopeap considers my question. “I would call it . . . remarkable.”
I think her pause was for dramatic effect, and it has worked, because I am reaching toward the book to get a better look. She moves it away and I surrender, letting my hands fall to my side.
“What is so remarkable about
this
story?” I ask.
“It was written in Cambodia many years ago. But more important, it comes from a rather distinguished family of stories—sisters, if you will, that deserve discussion.”
I wonder if sometimes Sopeap tries to confuse me just for fun. I pretend to understand and move on. “What is the name of today’s story?”
“It is called
Sarann.
”
“Sarann? Who is Sarann?”
“Sarann is a Cambodian girl. Now, before you can ask any more questions, let’s read it.” She lets the cover fly open and begins. Her words are beautiful, and I am soon lost in the story as well.
*****
Many centuries ago, when the Khmer Empire of Cambodia stretched from the farthest tip of Thailand to the costal shores of Vietnam and was regarded as the strongest kingdom in all of Southeast Asia, there lived, near the kingdom of Angkor, a wealthy rice farmer and his wife, with their only daughter, Sarann.
The family lived on the edge of the great river, Tonle Sap, in a beautiful home built on stilts to protect it from the seasonal rains that caused the water to rise. Since her father owned fields along the river and employed many servants to plant and harvest rice, Sarann had never lacked for any of life’s comforts. Yet in spite of their wealth, she wasn’t a spoiled child. Instead of thinking only of herself, as many children do, Sarann would help her mother carry food to her father’s servants as they worked in the fields. At home, when her mother was tired, Sarann would sit by her side and brush her mother’s silky hair; and if a family less fortunate in the village ever needed shelter, clothing, or food, Sarann would volunteer to help out, as best a young girl could.
While most days brought contentment, the moments Sarann cherished most came each year when her parents took her to the Water Festival, an annual celebration that began when the waters from the great lake reversed their course to flow back down the river, the only place on earth where such a phenomenon in a river occurred. It was a celebration that also coincided with the full moon of the Buddhist calendar month of Kadeuk.
In addition to plentiful food, magnificent dancing, and sacred ceremonies, competing villages would race elaborately decorated dugout canoes, each carved with an ornate prow and stern that curved toward the sky. When a winner was declared, the king himself would present the prize, a ceremonial oar emblazed with the king’s seal. Often the king would then take a ride in the winning canoe, bringing luck to the triumphant village.
It was at the Water Festival that Sarann’s mother and father purchased her most prized gift, a silk
sampot
[a formal skirt], embroidered all over with beautiful threads of silver and gold. It was a special
sampot,
one that she would save until the day she married, and it came in an ornately carved box with a secure lid. It was presented to her at the festival and provided a moment she would never forget.
An afternoon rain had just passed as an eager sun poked out through the clouds to create a sash of rainbow color that draped across the sky. Sarann and her parents sat together by the river and unfolded the skirt. To Sarann, it meant that her parents realized she was growing up. It was a gift that also came with fatherly words of admonition: “My daughter, as you blossom and grow, always look for ways to serve others, and most important, never lose sight of your dreams.”
But dreams, like rainbows, can be fleeting, for just after Sarann’s fourteenth birthday, a fever swept through the village and both her father and mother were taken gravely ill. Within three days, her mother died, and her father would have followed had it not been for the hours Sarann spent by his side, replacing clean cloths that helped cool his head and whispering words of love and encouragement into his ear.
Even though he eventually recovered, the sickness had weakened his heart (and, some said, his mind). Fearing that the fever would return and take his life, thus leaving Sarann alone, he decided, in haste, to marry a widow who had recently moved to the village with her daughter. Even though she was regarded by many as the most beautiful woman in the village, others with perhaps more sensitive eyes regarded her as mischievous, cunning, and ruthless.
In spite of people’s gossip, Sarann hoped the marriage would bring her father peace. Besides, she would finally get a sister—or at least a stepsister. Unfortunately, just a few short months after the wedding, her father’s heart gave out and he died silently in his sleep. After his passing, the stepmother’s true nature emerged. With her newfound wealth, she became obsessed with her own beauty and began to look down upon anyone who threatened her status—especially Sarann.
The vain woman spent fortunes seeking out astrologers, sorcerers, and magicians who would concoct spells and potions to preserve her beauty and help her remain looking young—but envy is hard to cover.
The stepmother greatly resented Sarann’s natural beauty, and every day she would give the girl difficult and dirty chores—feeding pigs, shoveling sewage, digging for special mud in the jungle that was said to make one’s skin radiant. But it didn’t matter how filthy the job, because the radiance of virtue is equally hard to cover. And though Sarann’s stepsister didn’t condone the treatment that Sarann received at the hand of her mother, she did little to stop it.
As the years passed, life became more difficult for Sarann. Her skin became rough, her hair thin, and her cheeks hollow—yet she worked hard to remain cheerful. She would begin each day by opening her hand-carved box (which she hid in the wall of her room) to admire the golden threads of her
sampot
and remember the goodness and love of her parents. Silently she would repeat her father’s admonition: “Always serve others and never lose sight of your dreams.”
And then one day, a sorcerer came to the door to inform the stepmother of a rare flower with a yellow center and purple petals, with just a touch of white at each petal tip. It was a flower that grew only in the deepest, most dangerous part of the jungle. Men had tried to retrieve it, but none had. In fact, few had ever returned, most likely devoured by wild and ferocious beasts. It was said if the petals of the flower were rubbed against one’s skin, they would draw such radiance and stunning beauty to the surface they would make the person irresistible.
With each passing day, the stepmother grew more delirious with envy and greed, wishing to have the flower for herself—so much so that she devised a wicked plan. She would send Sarann deep into the jungle to search for the flower. If she returned with the petals, it would be wonderful. If Sarann were instead eaten by ravenous beasts, it would be almost as wonderful. What plan could be more perfect?
Sarann was not so thrilled. She feared the jungle and understood its dangers, having been warned of them many times by her father. And so she refused to go. Her stepmother ranted, screamed, and threatened. She even hit Sarann several times across the face, but nothing would change the girl’s mind. For there were no dirtier jobs she could be given than those she was already doing. She couldn’t be made to work more hours, as there were only so many in a day. Quite simply, there was no punishment that she wasn’t already receiving.
Then one morning, her stepsister (at the command of the stepmother) hid herself beneath a mammoth pile of clothing that was stacked in Sarann’s room, waiting for mending. The stepsister watched Sarann remove her secret box from its hiding place in the wall, admire the embroidered skirt, and then whisper words of remembrance and love toward her parents. It was a scene so touching that the stepsister should have been moved to tears—but she wasn’t. Instead, she dutifully reported to her mother what she had witnessed, then went about her own selfish business.
Later that day, when Sarann returned from slopping the pigs, she was horrified to find her stepmother calmly holding the open box above the noonday fire on which Sarann would cook their meal. “Please, have mercy!” Sarann screamed, but the stepmother knew no mercy.
“You will go into the jungle and return with the flower, or I will burn your precious
sampot
and the last memories of your pathetic parents forever.”
Sarann left early the next morning, heading into the wild jungle in the general direction the sorcerer had pointed. She hiked until no more sounds of the village could be heard and no remnant of the initial trail remained. With every rustle ahead, she was certain she would meet her end and be devoured alive by wild beasts. But she wasn’t, so deeper and deeper into the jungle she trekked.
When the night came, she found a tree and slept in its branches, though she was really only dozing off for a few moments here and there until the sun rose once again in the morning sky. Though she was incredibly hungry, thirsty, and tired, she continued on, getting farther and farther away from home with every step, constantly scanning the dense vegetation for a yellow-centered flower with purple petals that showed just a touch of white at each petal tip.
Soon her hands and feet, lacerated by the sticks, thorns, and sharp edges of the jungle’s plants, became swollen, red, and bloody. Her neck and face, covered in bug bites, itched and burned.
By late in the afternoon, just when she doubted her ability to take another step, she looked toward a dark green thicket of spiny foliage. And there they were—the most vibrant and wonderful flowering vines she had ever seen, each displaying scores of yellow-centered blooms with deep purple petals tipped with brilliant white.
Even more peculiar, when she got close, she could see, perched on a vine next to one of the blooms, an Asian Fairy-bluebird, almost as vibrant and colorful as the flowers themselves. The bird was not alarmed by her presence, and it even looked as though it wanted to smile but couldn’t because it only had a beak. Instead, it sounded a pleasant chirp and then flitted away, leaving her alone to admire the spectacular blooms.
Fearing she might be suffering the delusions of jungle fever, Sarann reached out to touch the flowers, just to see if they were real. They were, and she plucked a flower from its stem, which proved more difficult than she would have expected, and rubbed its velvety petals between her fingers.
She was still very hungry and thirsty, but the thrill of finding the flowers was so exhilarating that she forgot her pains and began to gather handfuls of the vines to take home. Then she realized that carrying them would be impossible because, at times, the vegetation in the jungle was so thick and matted that to pass through it took both her hands to bend back the leaves and branches. She would never be able to make her way back home carrying the flowers.
Then an idea blossomed. Though the blooms looked delicate, they were very hardy, and the vines were surprisingly wiry. She wove some together into a sturdy but lovely wreath. When she placed it on her head, it fit so perfectly that she felt just like a princess. Even better, the petals of the flowers were soft and soothing against her skin.
When she was ready she looked for the path out, but the jungle all around her appeared the same, making it impossible for her to remember the way she had come. Then she again saw and heard the bird that had been perched on the vine when she arrived. It seemed to be calling to her, bidding her to follow, and so she did.
Even though the trek out of the jungle was equally as tiring and treacherous as her hike into the jungle, she no longer seemed to notice or care. Just when she was certain that she must be nearing home, a handsome young man emerged from the brush. He looked as surprised to see Sarann as she was to see him.
With his eyes locked on hers, he tried to speak. “Hello. My name is—” But that’s when he stopped, and it seemed peculiar to her that he’d forgotten his own name. It was several moments before he could continue. “Forgive my bad manners. What I’m trying to say is that my name is Kamol.”
She was about to tell him her name when she realized, with embarrassment, how she must look and smell after hiking for so long in the jungle. She wanted to apologize for being filthy and scratched and red and swollen, but as she looked down, she realized she wasn’t any of those things at all. The bites that had itched on her face and neck were gone. The cuts on her hands and feet that had throbbed as they left trails of blood had vanished. Her skin was instead smooth, soft, and radiant. And the terrible thirst and hunger that had plagued her—well, she hadn’t been hungry since heading toward home. That’s when she remembered the gentle and soothing flowers of the wreath that had been rubbing against her head. The sorcerer must have been right—the flowers had a powerful and magical effect.