Nang lay on the coffin. Again he cried. He was alone, isolated now even from Hon, isolated by Hon’s violent burst of anger. Alone, withdrawn, withdrawing, his only friend and companion the half-developed consciousness of an eleven-year-old boy which seethed in darkness behind eyes, which was repulsed and disgusted by the vile scenes its own core demanded to repeat...to repeat...to repeat the cleaving. He sees Samnang, tied, trussed, forced to watch. He sees Bok Roh swing, hears the giant scream, sees the massive cleaver enter, the head part, the right half fall on the shoulder of a body not yet realizing it has died, the left half for a fraction of a second looking like a drawing, for a fraction seeing the mystery before the surface seeps a thousand drops of blood and cloaks the drawing re
