POSTED by Susan L De Miller
SIGN by Marcus Tan
In a narrow temple the shape of a bell turned on its side, a tour guide tells me to ball my fists up. He taps on his chest and says, “hand on heart.” There isn’t anyone in the sandstone chamber except for the two of us, still air wrapping around us like dust in an old cup.
I curl my fingers into my palm and knock on my ribcage. “Harder,” he says. I tighten my fist and pound it on my chest. The stone walls pulse in low shudders. I pound again, finding a rhythm with my hits. The chamber kicks away like a distant boom box. He smiles, and we both know I’m listening to the sound of my own beating heart.
I remind myself to dig the Lonely Planet guide out of my bag later. I don’t remember reading about those acoustic chambers—it must have been something I’d missed. I step out of the temple, and the tour guide takes me around the rest of the Angkor Wat. He bows his head before entering every chamber, doing the same when he leaves. I follow suit, of course. That’s the first rule of travelling—or so the Lonely Planet guide tells me.
We climb a series of narrow steps streaked with moss, and we reach the highest possible point of the main temple. Behind me, a pair of students wearing their summer school t-shirts are taking selfies with a young Cambodian monk. They put their arms around him and tilt their faces towards the sky, backs arching in pose. The monk’s feet are dusty from walking all day, orange robes falling over his calves in folds. He lifts his chin and smiles wide, teeth blackened in spots. The camera flashes. He bows and walks away.
The peak of the temple flares downwards in arches of chipped stone, spreading out towards a square peppered with tourists and rubble. The tour guide points at its slopes and says, “the steps, small, so you forced to bow.” Below, a group of teenagers are on their hands and knees trying to scale the tapering stone, sandals scrapping along its dusty surface. They are careful not to trip over the rope with the sign on it that says, “do not enter.” They are sweating under the scarves they bought to cover their bare shoulders, dark clouds forming under their arms.
The low murmur of chanting vibrates through the temple walls. The crowd prepares to leave, taking their last photographs before the light fades. A man crushes a can and wedges it into a crack in the wall.
As I walk away from the temple, a young Cambodian girl comes up to me, dirty hands cupped into a bowl. I smile and continue walking. She shuffles after me, mumbling and reaching her hands towards me. I stop and turn around. She taps the back of her fingers against her open palm, sign language for “money.” I reach for my wallet, but I hesitate, remembering something I read in the Lonely Planet guide about drug rings and children forced into begging.
The girl is tugging on my shirtsleeve, her voice arching low to high as if asking a question. It may be my ears playing tricks on me, but I hear a resonant rumble washing over the temple as she taps her palm onto her chest, sign language for “please.”
Previously published by Kepulauan, an Ethos Books anthology.
Marcus Tan‘s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prime Number Magazine (Issue 181), No Contact Magazine (Issue 6), and Ethos Books anthologies Kepulauan and Unhomed. He grew up in Singapore and currently resides in Hong Kong. Tweet him @marcustan_ or visit him at marcus-tan.com.
A native of Chicago Illinois, Susan L De Miller now lives in a small town in Eastern South Dakota with her husband and dog. She is fond of gardening, photography, weaving, yoga and meditation. Her work has appeared in Rose City Sisters, Spillwords, Blue Lake Review, Flash Fiction Friday, Mooky Chick, Silver Birch Press and Plum Tree Tavern. She is currently at work on her first novel.