A Bridge Between Realms: On Imagining Khmer Myths
Author’s Introduction to The Serpent and the Star
The stories in this series are not scholarly translations, nor strict retellings of preserved Khmer folktales. They are something quieter. They are offerings.
Some rise closely from ancient soil—from tales once whispered in temple courtyards, woven into court dances, or carved along sandstone walls. Others are newly imagined, drawn from the deep wells of mythic feeling that still linger in Angkor’s shadows. But all are shaped in the spirit of Khmer cosmology, sacred symbolism, and the unseen world that flickers just beyond the veil.
Each story has been written with poetic care and reverent joy—not to replace the old, but to walk beside it. Like incense beside stone, or mist upon still water. They are voices that echo—not always exactly, but faithfully—what the naga, the apsara, and the temple may remember.
The first story—The Serpent and the Star—is not part of any recorded Khmer legend. And yet, when I walk beneath the towers of Angkor Wat, or stand by a lotus pond beneath moonlight, I feel its truth everywhere. A naga rising in silence. A celestial being drawn to earth. A temple shaped from longing.
These tales are meant to enchant and to invite—to stir memory in those who have visited these sacred places, and wonder in those who have not. They are bridges between realms, written for spiritually attuned adults and the children who read beside them.
With devotion and joy,
Lucas Varro
Angkor, Cambodia
Also in Library
Multiplicity and Mercy — The Face Towers of Jayavarman VII
A new vision of kingship rises at the Bayon: serene faces turned to every horizon, shaping a world where authority is expressed as care. Moving through the terraces, one enters a field of steady, compassionate presence — a landscape where stone, light, and time teach through quiet attention.
Stone That Dreams
Bayon wakes like a mind emerging from shadow. Its many faces shift with light and breath, teaching that perception—and the self—is never singular. In walking this forest of towers, the pilgrim discovers a quiet multiplicity within, held together by a calm that feels both ancient and newly understood.
The Still Eye — Craft, Meditation, and the Listening Camera
In the darkroom, silver begins to breathe—and a morning at Bayon returns. The essay moves from tray to temple and back, tightening its centre around a single vow: consent, not capture. A butterfly’s tremor, a lintel at dawn, a print clearing in water. Craft becomes meditation; the camera, a quiet bowl for light.
