Free Marshlands by Matthew Olshan Page B

says.
    I’m not looking for a wife , I say. The girl can’t be more than eight years old.
    He shrugs. The shrug is universal among the marshmen, a gesture with infinite subtle inflections. Here, it means, Often a man doesn’t know what he’s looking for .
    A virgin , he says. See for yourself.
    Father , I say, I’m troubled about the rice farmer. Surely his people miss him .
    He frowns. I’m being difficult. The matter of the dead farmer will not be advanced by a foreigner’s impatience. His grimace exposes a mouth empty of teeth except for one monstrous yellow canine. Her mother is very fertile. She has five brothers . He holds up three fingers, all that remain on the right hand, and supplements them with two fingers from his left. His withered arms tremble from the effort of holding up his hands.
    Instead of marveling at the size of the girl’s family, I thank him for the meal.
    But he’s not done. With the sour expression of a man who has been forced to play a valuable card prematurely, he leans in and confides, Naturally, you want to know about the dowry .
    There’s a commotion outside the guesthouse. Chigger appears, beckoning me with exaggerated gestures, so the villagers outside will have a clear idea of his influence.
    A relative has been found , he says. A cousin. The cousin has requested you .
    Requested me for what?
    A consultation , he says.
    I want to ask what there could possibly be to discuss, but I suppose I already know.
    I apologize to the headman, then follow Chigger to the landing, where they’ve laid out the body in the sand. The cousin squats by the corpse, smoking nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot like an inexperienced merchant rehearsing the price of his goods.
    Here he is! Chigger announces.
    On cue, the cousin pulls back the green army blanket, revealing the young man’s ruined face. A nearby charcoal fire mercifully suppresses the odor.
    The cousin rocks back and forth, puffing away with a disturbing air of detachment. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s waiting for a pronouncement that will help set the blood price—not that one is warranted. This was an ordinary death, not a military one. No payment is due; nevertheless, here is the corpse, and here am I.
    This is a side of life in the marshes that I understand, but despair of. What’s really needed is to clean the young man and make him as presentable as possible before wrapping him in a winding sheet. All of this would have been automatic if it weren’t for my presence.
    The general hush is broken by a splash in the darkness, followed by an indignant snort. A child has thrown a stone at one of the wading buffalo. The animal churns the shallows in outrage, its broad back slick with moonlight. The boy laughs. Several of the elders scold him. There’s even a halfhearted chase, but the boy is too nimble, and the men are confused by a foreigner in their midst.
    Suddenly I feel the exertions of the hunt. My body aches. My face burns from long days of exposure. Without asking permission, I pick up the corpse and stagger with the stinking burden to the doorway of the guesthouse. If need be, I will clean him myself. But before I can enter, my way is barred.
    Chigger explains the situation. Apparently, a single drop of the boy’s blood has the power to render the reed structure ritually impure, and, with the recent conscriptions for levee work, there’s simply not enough manpower to rebuild a guesthouse.
    The corpse is leaden and incredibly rank. It takes all of my concentration to keep from gagging. I can feel body fluids seeping through to my skin. The faces here are all hostile. Even Chigger shakes his head with disapproval.
    In the end, there’s nothing to do but return the boy to his cousin, who hasn’t budged from his place by the fire. He tilts his chin, indicating where he wants the body.
    Everyone seems relieved that I’ve reestablished myself as an