Marshlands (16 page)

*   *   *

The banks of the waterway were thick with giant reeds whose tips met overhead, creating long, creaking arcades. Gus was grateful for the shade, and he admired the way the shifting grasses filtered the light, but after several hours of claustrophobic progress, it was a relief when the tall grass finally fell away, revealing a vast brackish lake.

The paddlers did their best to hug the shore, but there were long stretches of open water. As the sun fell, a stiff wind kicked up from the west. Whitecaps broke across the gunwales. Hamza was in constant motion, bailing with a huge wooden scoop. Fennuk beat a punishing pace on a skin drum; the paddlers, who'd kept rhythm earlier in the day with spirited singing, fell silent, their backs running with sweat.

Gus had weathered storms with the fleet, but never in an open boat, right down in violent water. The Magheed, sensing his discomfort, pointed out a faint glow on the horizon and shouted over the wind, “Nearly there!” Fennuk saw it, too, and promptly fired a few rounds into the air. The paddlers cheered when the shots were answered. Then Hamza started a new song, which carried them all the way to shore.

*   *   *

Gus didn't remember much of that night beyond staggering onto a beach and being led to a bunk. He said he was too tired to eat, but the truth was that he was seasick from the rough crossing. He buried himself in blankets and slept.

In the morning, Hamza was waiting at his door with a tray. While Gus tore into a stack of flatbread, the boy explained that everyone else had gone fishing for barbel. There'd been a great run of them. Barbel were good to eat smoked; they were delicious with rice; you could practically scoop them out of the water with your hand.

Gus felt bad for the little fellow. He offered Hamza the rest of his flatbread and told him to go join the fishing party, but the boy said it was impossible. So, with Hamza moping at his heels, Gus gave himself a tour of the Magheed's village, starting with the building where he'd spent the night: an old granary that had been converted into a clinic. Gus had slept in the surgeon's apartment, which was furnished with sturdy reed furniture and good insect netting. The one false note was the creaking old boxspring. Gus had woken several times in the night wishing for a simple pallet of grass.

The examining room was dusty from disuse, but well fitted with a porcelain operating table and a matching cabinet full of fresh, military-grade supplies. There was no lock on the cabinet, which Gus took as a sign of the Magheed's absolute authority in the village. There was a decent surgical lamp, a bench with an electric burner, and an old-fashioned stovetop autoclave.

Hamza took him out back and proudly showed off the clinic's generator, which sat on a skid stenciled with the words
PROTECTIVE SERVICES
.

The only other generator in the village was at the Magheed's house, a modest brick bungalow identical to the countless tax houses Gus had seen along the canal, with one exception: a wall of ornate foreign windows facing the lake.

They wandered down to the beach, where the chief's canoe lay drying in the sun. The lagoon was too bright for pictures, which was a shame; its surface was a flawless mirror of clouds and beating wings. Judging from the herons stalking hundreds of meters offshore, the lake was scarcely deeper than a wading pool. Gus felt foolish for having been so scared during the crossing.

Beyond the lagoon, at the edge of a barren mud flat, was a brickyard. The kiln was huge and conical. Its glowing peak belched smoke. Hamza told him that in the dry season it was fired for weeks on end. Gus marveled at the genius of the design: by day, the kiln was for cooking bricks; by night, it was a beacon for storm-tossed boats.

The highlight of the tour was the reed guesthouse. Gus had seen pictures of guesthouses, but pictures didn't do justice to the soaring arched ceiling, or the sense one felt, standing just inside the doorway, of being in the belly of an antediluvian beast. The structural ribs were so well bound they looked monolithic, the individual reeds having been compressed into a smooth mass like ivory. The hanging brass lanterns were brightly polished; the hearth neatly raked. The rugs that lined the floor wouldn't have looked out of place in an admiral's quarters.

Gus wasn't sure he was welcome, so he stood back until Hamza pushed him in and marched him over to the hearth, where a toothless old man was grinding beans.

Coffee
, Hamza said.

The man nodded and started banking the coals as if the order had come from the Magheed himself.

*   *   *

When the barges arrived that night, the return to the village was marked with a great feast. The centerpiece of the meal, borne by four strapping marshmen, was a gigantic platter of rice topped with a whole roasted calf. Gus was among the first served. He was installed in a place of honor with the Magheed's inner circle; the villagers, on the other hand, cycled through the guesthouse in successive seatings. It was many hours before the last marshman was fed.

Afterward, the Magheed walked him back to the clinic. “Tell me,” he said, “when do you have to report back to the fleet?”

“In five days, I'm afraid.”

“If it could be arranged, would you like to stay longer?”

“Absolutely.”

“In that case,” the Magheed said, “leave it to me.”

3

Gus found it hard to believe that a marshman could influence fleet deployments, but two days later, Hamza woke him from a deep sleep, whispering,
Master, a foreign soldier is here
.

Gus dressed quickly, grabbed his bag, and followed the boy to one of the long communal stables near the brickyard. It was an hour or so before dawn. Mist overhung the lake, but the air in the village was cool and dry. A front had blown through during the night.

In his rush out the door, Gus had draped a thick headcloth over his shoulders like a cape, but the chill cut right through it. The odor of smoldering dung from the kiln mingled with the funk of rising water. Someone was cursing a buffalo for giving poor milk. Cries of migrating geese echoed across the lake.

The soldier was waiting for him at the stables, leaning against the arched doorway. He was dressed as a marshman, with a rough-spun tunic, a checkered white headcloth, and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He had the lanky build of a marshman, as well, but he was too tall for a native, and his tangled beard was too light. He was smoking an acrid local cigarette. There clearly wasn't much pleasure in it.

“Major Curtis,” he said. “Protective Services.”

Gus was suddenly aware of his appearance. He regretted the headcloth on his shoulders, which seemed to suggest that he didn't know how it was meant to be worn.

Curtis led Gus into the depths of the stables, where a young marshman was writhing on a blanket. His hands were bound behind his back. A filthy hood stifled his moans.

“This might be easier at the clinic,” Gus said.

Curtis shook his head.

“How about some light, then?” Gus said.

“Not yet. He doesn't see your face.”

Gus dug into his bag for a surgical mask; Curtis covered up with two expert winds of his headcloth.

“Okay,” Curtis said, training a flashlight on the marshman while Gus removed the hood. The light made the prisoner flinch. His left eye was grotesquely swollen. His cheeks shone with fluid.

A rag had been stuffed in his mouth. Gus pulled it out as gently as he could, but even so, the bad eye quivered like a shirred egg.

“It's been like that for a couple of days,” Curtis said. “Can you save it?”

Gus examined it briefly. “No. How did it happen?”

“We caught him with a crate of stolen assault rifles,” Curtis said. Gus waited for more, but Curtis didn't elaborate.

Gus propped the marshman's neck with the folded headcloth. At first the man resisted, but Gus whispered some calming words. At the sound of them, the marshman's good eye filled with tears.

“I'll leave you lovebirds alone,” Curtis said.

A drink of water revived the marshman. Gus continued his examination by flashlight. In addition to the ruined eye, there was a suppurating ring of lacerations across the man's brow and around the back of his head.

Gus asked the marshman how he'd gotten into such trouble.

The marshman wept. He said he was a fisherman, not a smuggler. He was moving the rifles for a cousin. The foreign soldiers ambushed him at one of the locks of the canal. They yelled at him and made him kneel, then wrapped barbed wire around his head and pulled it tight to get him to talk. One time, a metal splinter got in his eye. The pain of the splinter was worse than anything. They refused to let him pluck it.

What did they want to know?
Gus asked.

Where to find my cousin
.

Tell me now
, Gus said.
It's not too late. I can help.

The marshman went silent.

In the interest of sparing the man another interrogation, Gus gave himself permission to tell a white lie.
The punishment for moving rifles
, he said,
is the same as for stealing them.
To emphasize the point, Gus reached around him and squeezed one of his wrists.

The marshman started shaking violently. Finally, he spoke.
His name is Jahaish. He's hiding with his in-laws, who sell smoked fish out of a houseboat on the lake.

The betrayal drained the tension from his body. He began pleading with Gus.
I told you everything
, he said.
Now save my eye. I know you can
.

Gus told him it couldn't be saved.

The marshman was prepared to hear that. He cried harder, but there was a new calculation behind his weeping.

Curtis came back in. “Good,” he said. “You got him talking.”

Gus told him what the marshman had said, then added, “He wants to be paid for the eye.”

“Sounds about right. Can he travel?”

“No, it needs to come out. Those lacerations on his head need some attention, too.”

“Fine,” Curtis said. “Just don't give him anything that'll make him sleep. I need him awake. Also, I could use some breakfast.”

“There's food at the guesthouse,” Gus said.

“I mean real-people food. Can your boy cook me some eggs?”

Gus shook his head.

“Anyway, come find me after you fix him up. You and I need to have a little chat.”

*   *   *

Gus could have gotten by with a local, but he gave the fisherman a mild sedative to make the procedure easier on both of them. The eye came out cleanly. He was curious about the splinter but left the eye intact. He'd read that marshmen liked to bury their flesh in the family plot, so he wrapped the eye in wax paper and tucked it in the empty wallet that hung around the fisherman's neck.

After washing up, Gus left his patient sleeping on the table and stepped outside. He lingered on the stoop, taking in the fresh air. It was a great relief. The fisherman stank, and the windows had been shut tight against a gritty breeze.

A table had been set for Curtis in the shade of a nearby acacia tree. He was just finishing breakfast. “Look what your marshmen did to me,” he said, dropping a bright yellow biscuit onto his plate. The tin plate rang out like a cymbal.

“That's pollen cake,” Gus said. “It takes forever to gather pollen from the reeds. You should feel honored.”

“Is my guy ready to go?”

“As a matter of fact, he's sleeping.”

“I told you not to do that,” Curtis said.

“Judgment call. Those wounds on his head were worse than I thought. He said something about being interrogated with a wire.”

“The locals call it the
liar's headband
. We only use it on hard cases.”

“He didn't seem like such a hard case.”

“Maybe that's because we used it on him.”

“Does the Magheed know about this?”

Curtis rapped a pack of cigarettes on the table, then fished one out and lit it. “Know about it? Who do you think these smugglers work for? I've been trying to nail that guy for months.” Then he stood and wrapped his hands around the acacia's trunk, deftly avoiding the thorns, and leaned in, stretching his powerful calves. Even gaunt and exhausted, he was a handsome man. He wore his wind-whipped headscarf like a crown.

“Why would the Magheed steal guns? His men are well armed.”

“To buy loyalty from the other chiefs. Gifts, bribes. Call it what you will. Do you really not know these things?”

“Enlighten me.”

“No. You enlighten
me
. What's your outfit?”

“I'm with the fleet, but this isn't a posting. I'm a guest.”

Curtis laughed. “Oh, a
guest
!”

“Aren't we all?”

Curtis took a long drag on his cigarette. “I don't expect you to understand what goes on out here. But I am short on language skills. My translator took a bullet in the neck two weeks ago. I could use someone who knows the lingo.”

“And these people could use a doctor.”

“They should have thought about that before they shot the last one. Here's the thing. Our footprint in the region is changing. I've been told to police up our ordnance—all of it, including the rifles. Do you suppose these marshmen are going to like having their teeth pulled?”

“Probably not,” Gus said.

“Which is why I was against arming them in the first place.” Curtis took a final drag, then crushed the cigarette with the toe of his boot. “What's your name, anyway?”

Gus told him. Curtis wrote it down, along with his rank and serial number.

“Well, you seem all right, Lieutenant, other than being a prick about the anesthesia. Welcome to the marshes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don't thank me yet. This isn't a free ride. You're going to be my eyes and ears in this village. And you will translate for me as needed.”