Monkey Paws

I didn’t want to go to Cambodia. Humidity is my enemy, and the jungle has big bugs, snakes, and mean macaques. If it were a mild climate, I’d enjoy the wildlife, but I hate slogging through tall grass with a soaked, smelly back. I can’t call it perspiration; it’s just funk, thick and sour.

My damned editor, Amanda, sent me here on assignment. I suspect she's not fond of me, perhaps because I’m prettier and smarter than she is. I also have a boyfriend who is always mistaken for a famous beloved movie star. Added to that is the fact that I am 30 pounds lighter than she is, 4 inches taller, and have more contacts than she does. But the real kicker is that she may dislike me more because I work for a living when I don’t have to. Kind of like Anderson Cooper, you know?

The assignment: reach Beng Mealea, a 900-year-old temple deep in the jungle. The ride was long, bumpy, and hot. Our contracted photojournalist, Silas, was supposed to meet me, but he didn’t show. I hired a donkey cart, and within a mile, my linen shirt was sweat-glued to my back, and I wanted to shave my thick hair off. Instead, I twisted my tresses under a sunhat. I was warned to wear long pants and sleeves, a broad-brimmed sun hat, sunscreen, sunglasses, and pack water. Sunglasses helped little in the tropical sun. Tan linen pants, a pale green long-sleeved linen shirt, cotton underwear sticking to my buttocks and uncomfortably in my crotch, made me wonder why people favored linen and cotton in hot climates. Fool that I was, I didn’t pack breathable and quick-drying travel clothing. The straw hat with a green band helps to shade my eyes from the blinding sun. Binoculars beside me, a camera in hand, my neck jerks with each bump. It is April 4, 1994.

I pitied the donkey, trudging head down. When the driver reached for his whip, I grabbed his wrist, hard. He didn’t attempt the whip again. I believe he decided the strange white woman in fancy clothes didn’t care how long the trip took. I did, but I cared more for the donkey.

Twenty-four miles isn’t long by auto, but by donkey cart, it is two days. After six hours, we stopped for a rest; the donkey drank from a stream, macaques hollered from the trees, and tossed fruit our way. As nightfall closed in, the driver signaled he would find a place for us to sleep; I nodded, ready for the next phase of this horrid journey.

He began clearing a path with a machete, leaving the dirt track behind and heading into the jungle. Gesturing for me, he waited as I climbed down. Hot and thirsty, not thinking, I followed him away from the cart. Once I stepped off the path, the jungle closed in behind me. There was no sign of where I’d entered or of the driver.

Panic set in as I called out, but got no answer. I turned and pushed through the vegetation, searching for the dirt path to the donkey cart. Fear tangled with frustration as I wandered farther, still calling. Rounding a curve, something huge slithered into the shrubbery, and I froze, watching. Is it a black mamba? No, those are in Africa. What snakes are here? Are there crocodiles in the jungle? Where is that cart driver? I will kill him! I’ll shred his ass and feed it to the macaques.

My anxiety peaked at a snort overhead. I looked up: a large black snout, brown eyes fixed on me. The sun bear licked ants from a branch, only mildly interested. I pressed on, nerves jangling, trying to find the dodgy donkey driver, as daylight faded.

After what felt like hours of aimless wandering, exhausted and very thirsty, I stumbled into a clearing. Off to the left was a beautiful but tiny waterfall. I deemed the water safe; after all, what choice did I have? The donkey driver had left me, and I was parched and dehydrated from sweating so much. I rolled up my pants and walked into the pond in my brand new Teva waterproof sandals. I bought them in a lovely teal color. The pond was shallow, so I sat for a bit under the waterfall, cooling off, occasionally opening my mouth for the stream to land on my sandpaper tongue.

That fucking Amanda. She must have paid the driver to dump me in the jungle. I will kill her too.

Dark clouds loomed overhead, and a downpour ensued. At first, I didn’t mind; the rain felt almost comforting. But then I started shivering from the sudden cold, and my relief turned to fear as lightning almost struck near me, five times. Panic set in as I jumped out of the water, uncertain where to stand. Under a large tree? No, too dangerous. I froze, surrounded by towering jungle shrubbery, anxiety mounting as the jungle floor filled with water, rising fast. I ran, dodging bolts of lightning, feeling pain as my face got scratched and my shirt sleeves shredded. Bursting through the thicket, I was shocked and relieved to find a fire burning on the temple's ruins.

“Cora, you finally made it. I was worried; it’s almost dark.” It was Silas.

I rushed up the crumbling stairs toward his open arms and punched him in the nose.

“Ow, what is wrong with you! Why did you do that? I think you broke my nose!”

“You bastard! You were supposed to meet me, not leave me to find a donkey cart with a driver who ran off and deserted me.”

He burst out laughing, and I kicked him in the shin. While he was hopping around on the other leg, I grabbed the food he had grilled and chowed it down, watching him try to ease his pain.

“This is where we were to meet, Cora. The donkey driver had instructions to lead you here. I don’t know where he went, but you made it. Now let’s get some rest because tomorrow we have a long hike.”

Early the next morning, we set off again, trusting Silas's supposed expert navigational skills. Hours later, it became clear we’d veered off course. We had reached a temple, but not the legendary Beng Mealea we’d intended. This was just another unexpected detour in this relentless humid jungle trek.

“What is this place?” I asked him. He shrugged. “You don’t know where we are? You idiot! Don’t you smile, it’s not funny.”

The temple began gleaming as the sky darkened. Lightning shot from the sky at us, and the temple shook while an eerie wail wove around us. We ran to the entrance to escape the lightning, but the porch flipped us backward into the mud surrounding the temple. I heard splashes in the mud. What sort of creature splashes in mud? I was in free fall, mentally exhausted and emotionally distraught. Suddenly, I saw movement beneath the mud, slithering toward us, and screamed. Silas looked back and grabbed my arm. The macaques were scrambling through the trees, screaming, screeching, and throwing coconuts and fruit at us. Lightning hit the ground near me, but the mud was deep and absorbed the shock and fire. Silas pulled me to the temple, and this time, the door repeatedly opened and slammed shut in our faces. We couldn’t enter. I counted as the door slammed. Ten times.

“What does ten mean in Cambodia, Silas? Does ten have significance?”

“Nine is luck. Are you sure it was 10?” I nodded. “Then, we are doomed.” I slapped him hard twice, then snapped his head back to look in his eyes.

“Get us out of here!” I pulled him, but he didn’t move. I followed his gaze and saw it. The largest monitor lizard one could imagine. It was coming at us with the speed of an angry dog. This one was a monster. I estimated it to be twenty feet long; its eyes were orange, and its body was grayish-black. The feet were like a yearling elephant’s, unbelievably enormous. Terror gripped me, but I kept fighting total panic.

“That is the monster they talk about. Konveal Neak protects the forest and temples. But…”

“But?”

“I think this one is mutated from all the wars and chemicals dropped. Look at its gleaming orange eyes. He is gigantic.”

I sucked in my breath. “Let’s run.”

So we did. We ran away, but we chose the wrong direction. The temple laid a trap for all who found it. Like us.

We sprinted through the blind tangle of vines and roots; suddenly, there was no ground beneath us. Both of us crashed into a pit below. As realization dawned that we’d fallen into a Siamese crocodile den, I noticed a dark tunnel ahead: our only way out. The temple’s trap caught us, and now a new ordeal, lesson, or … death awaits us.

Hooking arms, we entered it. I covered my head when the snakes began hanging down from the ceiling; Silas swatted their heads away until a giant one latched onto his arm, then twirled itself around it. “Cora, my fingers are numb.” He shook his arm, but the snake wouldn’t budge, its muscles visibly contracting.

I screamed, but not at that. Rough and strong monkey fingers, tan and black, were holding my ankles from below me, climbing my shins one hold at a time until one paw grabbed my knee. I shivered and hit the paw. It let go, but another latched on.

Thick, spinach-green and vibrant eggplant-tinged vines hung from the tunnel ceiling, slowing forward movement. The snake was constricting Silas’ arm, pulling on him, and all of his attention was on freeing himself. I couldn’t help until I spotted a bejeweled sword stuck in the vines. I grabbed it and smacked the snake across its midsection. It immediately peeled back, its head reeling toward me, jaws wide. I shoved the sword down its throat, twisting the blade in a circular motion with all my strength. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as the mossy-green guts spurted out and sprayed my face. Silas was free, his arm useless.

And then the monkey hands overtook us. So many. Gripping our arms, our legs, covering our mouths, poking at our eyes and ears. Succumbing to overwhelming fear, I screamed in panic and the fingers began first teasing, then squashing my tonsils, until the scream died in my throat. I fell to the ground, and hundreds of them leaped downward onto me, squashing me. I heard, but didn’t see Silas. Trapped beneath a swarming mass of monkeys, I sank deeper into the sucking mud. It filled my ears, and I was helpless. I could do nothing to stop the slow creep of the odorous gush into my mouth and nostrils. I watched in silence as the vines crept over me, the monkey paws holding my shoulders down. Finally, the macaques quieted, and I rested in silence.

Copyright © 5/19/26 by Andrea O. Corwin

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