The monk smiled. “I should be honored to be thought of so highly.”
“Should I surrender to their demands?” Chhuon asked.
“When a tree falls on a man his knees buckle and he surrenders to its weight,” Maha Vanatanda said. “This is a surrender which is not a surrender.”
A wave of anguish flooded Chhuon’s mind. Maha Vanatanda has not grasped what I say, he thought. Vehemently Chhuon said, “They hold us prisoner.”
“Time passes,” the monk said. “Do not be trapped in time. This authority will pass as have all others.”
“We’re being enslaved!” Chhuon was exasperated. “We’re prisoners!” He tensed. His knees flared with pain, his stomach burned.
“We hold ourselves prisoners,” the monk said. “If our bodies toil for them, then our bodies are enslaved, but we are not our bodies. If we let them con
