The Beloved Undertaker
There was a time when Siam began forming alliances with France. In those days, the kingdom grew accustomed to foreigners blue-eyed, golden-haired, strikingly palendressed in fine fabrics adorned with tassels and intricate detailing, tailored with the ceremony and refinement of Western fashion.
For the exchange of culture…
for trade between nations…
and for the preservation of goodwill.
"They've arrived—there, that one, and the one beyond it. So many of them. Those Farang are pale as chalk, with golden hair and high noses. How strange they look."
Junk after junk made its way into the inner capital, filling the waterways with noise and commotion as boats and Siamese townsfolk crowded both banks of the canals.
The situation in Siam was far from secure. Many nations used the region as a passageway in their pursuit of colonies, seizing territories with ease. That Siam still stood proud was not because it resisted outright, but because it yielded without breaking, choosing not to clash head-on with the great powers. Thus, the Westerners were received with formal courtesy.
The townspeople were abuzz with excitement, for the authorities proclaimed this a favorable sign that Siam now counted a great power among its allies. Yet among certain factions of Siamese, displeasure took root from the very first sight.
"P' Din, aren't you going to see the French Farang? Their hair is pale as if bleached white, yet their faces are smooth and fair like newborn babes. And their eyes bright blue, gleaming like glass marbles. Their noses are long and sharp, like… like what, I wonder?"
A breathless youth came running, shirtless and darkened by the sun, clad in a chong kraben, his feet pounding the black earth as he reached the edge of the burial grounds. There, a group of young men lingered bare-chested, wearing sarongs and chong kraben, each cradling a fighting cock beneath one arm, their manner unruly in a pack.
"What would they look like? Like ghosts, that's what! And there's no 'Seth Farang,' you fool!"
Laughter burst out. A broad-backed youth sat astride a fallen log, a magnificent rooster tucked in his arms. His solid frame bore sacred tattooed scripts across his long back. Muscled legs folded beneath him, chong kraben hitched high as he crouched, laughing loud and rough with the hot-blooded recklessness of adolescence.
Though they appeared like hooligans, they were sons of wealthy families within their faction.
"Hahaha! It's French Farang, you idiot, Daeng!"
"Alright, alright, that's what I meant. But they don't look like ghosts at all. The ones who came are as beautiful as statues in the palace. Their clothing is unlike anything I've ever seen—finer than any I've known."
"Foolishness. Why lose your wits over a handful of rebel Farang? Soon enough they'll be hauling our treasures back across the sea."
"I don't think so, P' Din. The officials said.." He cleared his throat theatrically. "Ahem~ These are honored companions of Siam. They must be received with proper hospitality."
The messenger's exaggerated imitation of a high-ranking noble earned him a damp cloth used to wipe down the fighting cock flung straight at his head.
"Let whoever wishes to welcome them do so. I will not. You know they've taken the cities surrounding Siam. In their minds, there can only be one desire left—to swallow ours as well."
"There's rumor that France has sent a son of twenty to be stationed in Siam. That must be why the welcome is so… elaborate."
"Twenty? The same age as I am? I would like to test myself against this Farang and see just how capable he truly is."
His reputation preceded him renowned for his noble bearing, striking handsomeness, and martial skill. He carried himself with credibility and restraint, never behaving crudely or flirtatiously toward the Siamese, earning the governor's favor. So much so that wagers were placed, and land opposite Wat Pasutha Khongkharam was offered as residence, along with permission to construct a chapel for the French who had come to settle.
No one in Siam did not know the name Jean Chérie. A soldier of rare courage and unmatched skill graceful, proud in the manner of high nobility, yet astonishingly courteous and refined. Whether with fist, blade, firearm, or crossbow, he seemed to surpass even the sons of aristocrats.
His prowess was displayed before Siamese eyes on the very first day of his arrival, as though to quietly assert that France possessed more than diplomacy and trade alone.
Pasutha Khongkharam called Din was a sharply handsome young man of twenty, the favored grandson of a powerful minister within the inner court.
On the day the two were made to sit facing one another in the royal hall for a formal introduction, one side held the tall Westerner, broad-shouldered and upright. He wore puffed sleeves and delicate lace in unexpectedly soft hues. His lightly waved golden hair had been brushed back with perfumed oil, revealing a long, fair face with striking features clear blue eyes beneath finely arched brows, a high prominent nose, and full lips faintly flushed by the tropical heat.
Opposite him sat Din, heir of the host land and beloved grandson of the minister. He held himself straight-backed in dignified Thai attire, jet-black hair smoothed immaculately. His sharp gaze fixed upon the foreigner of equal age. Chest lifted, chin high, expression composed and unmoving like a statue. When the breeze drifted through the hall, it carried with it an unfamiliar fragrance.
Strange… deeply strange.
"It has reached my ears that Monsieur Jean excels in combat. Siam, too, has a young man equally skilled. They are of the same age, it seems even born under the same zodiac year. Perhaps this is an auspicious sign that our two nations, each possessing merit, have crossed seas to meet. I would be most honored to witness the abilities of the young gentleman from the West. Do you all agree?"
The high-ranking official tasked with receiving foreign envoys spoke with a genial smile befitting Siam, the Land of Smiles.
The visitor to Siam on this occasion was no ordinary neighbor from across the river, but a young French soldier of striking appearance unlike any the Siamese had known.
A group of Farang had arrived in the name of "Phasutha, will you duel with the son of Khun Moon the foreign noble?"
The elderly minister turned toward the Siamese man summoned to receive the visiting dignitary, chosen for his well-rounded abilities.
"I have no objection, sir."
The broad, powerfully built, sharp-featured man knelt and bowed, accepting the request of his grandfather's old companion.
"Very well. Then let us set the rules and offer a prize to heighten the merriment. What do you desire, Monsieur Jean?"
"I desire a place to rest body and soul. As I am a Christian, our customs differ from those of Siam. I humbly wish to request the land opposite the temple for worship and residence. Would that be possible?"
A long murmur rippled through the hall.
Voices rose in surprise. Some faces clearly showed displeasure Din among them staring unblinkingly at Siam's honored foreign guest.
Ill-fated from the start, though born in the same year.
"Was that land not intended to become a place of learning instead of temple schooling?" Phasutha, stern-faced, lifted his hands in a respectful wai above his head and voiced his objection in the middle of the assembly. The elders' ever-smiling composure made the hot-blooded young man uneasy.
"Then let it be so. Since Monsieur Jean has set his heart upon that place from the beginning, we shall grant that land to the victor. Agreed?"
"Yes, sir."
Not everyone welcomed the French settling in the heart of Siam. The temple was the spiritual center of the people. If there were a place nearby dedicated to educating children, parents would surely rejoice.
Previously, there had been orders to build a school on the land opposite the temple, as formal education was beginning to take shape and would help ease the temple's burden of constant ceremonies and funerals. Those within understood well that Siam had little choice open hostility toward Western powers was unwise.
But a man like Phasutha would not yield Siamese soil to anyone so easily.
The golden-haired foreigner was not adept at bare-knuckle combat. Driven back repeatedly, he reduced the force of incoming blows by grappling the sturdier body, restraining him from delivering heavy punches to vital points.
After taking several blows, pale skin blossomed with vivid red and purple bruises. The charming curve of his lips split at the corner, blood seeping faintly. No matter how skilled he might be, none had ever surpassed a Siamese fighter.
Phasutha was the first Siamese to taste the foreigner's fists an unfamiliar style. Not rigid. Not meeting punches head-on. Not striking back with brute force. Instead, there was strategy: yielding ground, clinching to lessen impact, quick hands seeking advantage. Such methods were not the way of Siamese fighters.
Two solid bodies white and dark contrasted sharply. Overconfident, believing the foreigner ignorant of Muay Thai, the Siamese man panted heavily, sweat soaking his frame.
His desire to win and claim that land weighed just as heavily as the sensation of a pale arm looping around his thick neck, a breathless face drawing close, hot breaths fanning beside his ear.
The heat radiating from that fair body burned fiercer than flame, stirring a dangerous warmth beneath darker skin. The foreigner's scent was intoxicating at such proximity; the sharp bridge of his nose pressed and grazed against warm flesh.
For a fleeting moment, he faltered distracted by the smooth, fragrant body so near that goosebumps rose along his skin when their forms brushed too closely.
But the other man thought only of victory, heedless of how intimately their bodies pressed together. To obtain what he desired, the golden-haired, blue-eyed foreigner did not fight as cleanly as he should have.
From afar, nothing seemed amiss to the onlookers.
Yet that fight was far from ordinary.
The Siamese man's neck was yanked downward; a knee drove into him, forcing him to bend and gasp against the tightness in his chest. Then long, slender fingers thrust into his mouth, pressing at the base of his tongue. A bitter pressure seized him. Before he fully understood what was happening, he staggered forward straight into a pale fist that struck up beneath his chin.
Darkness claimed him.
He had been defeated… already.
..