* Author : Effie Seiberg

* Narrator : Jen R. Albert

* Host : Matt Dovey

* Audio Producer : Pria Wood

*

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PC 470: The Thirty-Seven Faces of Tokh-Bathon is a PodCastle original.

Rated PG.

The Thirty-Seven Faces of Tokh-Bathon

by Effie Seiberg

I’ve counted eleven thousand, six hundred and fifty-two tiny soldiers carved in marble relief on the outer walls that ring the temple, though I’ve only named seventeen of them. Each one has a pointed headpiece, a carved cloth sampot, and at least one weapon. In preparation for the Reason Ritual I must polish them all, Baaun Oupom had said, and I cannot afford to anger him again.

He clamps my shoulder from behind, startling me with the pricking pain from his thumbnail on the raw stripes of flesh crossing my back. He walks so quietly on the grass.

The head monk pushes his wattled face towards the carvings. “You are sloppy, Chananthay.” His breath is stale. “It is disrespectful to the Faces. You are by far the most useless Temple Child I’ve seen.”

I stay silent and concentrate instead on cleaning Kiri, the soldier in front of me, his spear up in service to the Faces. Kiri is surrounded by one hundred twenty-seven smaller soldiers, fifteen horses, and one mountain. I’m never alone when I have Kiri around.

Baaun Oupom moves his head away from the imagined mote of dirt on Kiri’s foot. “You will clean this entire carving again. Today. You will still prepare the flowers and wax for Baaun Khemaban before morning.” He increases the pressure on my shoulder, where his lash had hit only yesterday. I must not cry out, which I will do if I think about the pain or the amount of work left to do. I count in my head instead—the fifteen horses have fifty-one visible hooves and seven spiked rondels. Baaun Oupom turns away, padding silently on bare feet as he turns onto the stone steps that lead from the carved walls to the temple.

The sun is already only one fist’s height away from the horizon—only a few hours left until nightfall, and recleaning the wall will take longer. The flower preparation is also a lengthy task. I suspect Baaun Oupom would not hesitate to re-open my back.

When I first came to Temple Tokh-Bathon, I told Baaun Vichekh, the nicest of the monks, about the names and stories I’d made up for the soldiers. Kiri was Kiri because he was tall like a mountain, and next to him stood Kothal-the-clever, because he had tricked the demon next to him into backing into a corner, and this one was Sopoya, because he had a friendly smile. Baaun Vichekh said that the Temple Child, of all people, must not be illogical and upset the balance of truth and lies, and stopped slipping me extra pieces of mango at festivals.

Baaun Vichekh and Baaun Khemaban walk out of the temple, arms full of bottles of saffron for the candles used in the Reason Ritual. As they pass me they too give disapproving looks.

“…heard from Baaun Oupom she tried to run away again,” mutters Baaun Khemaban, crinkling his forehead. He shakes his head as he mutters something else to Baaun Vichekh, and they walk across the grass to the candlemaking workshop in the monks’ quarters.

My back flares in pain, and I attack Kiri’s foot with vigor.

Hello Kiri, I imagine myself saying.

Hello, Chananthay, I pretend he says back. How are you today?

I’m well. I’m going to pick flowers and help my mother make dinner. Would you like to join us?

I would love to join. Will I be able to fit in your house? I’m big as a mountain you know.