Marshlands (18 page)

“The fire was my doing,” the Magheed said. “I was against it at first, but my men thought the corpses might be dangerous.”

At the far edge of the village, a goat pen had somehow escaped the conflagration. The remains of a goat were chained to a post. Grass was starting to grow in the fertile muck around its bones. The Magheed rested his hand on the gate. “If it hadn't been for the foreign guns,” he said, “all of our villages would look like this now.”

4

When they finally beached the canoe in the shadow of the brick kiln, Gus was relieved to find there was no need for the radio after all. An enlisted man with greasy eyeglasses and a camouflage bandanna was waiting for him on the sand.

“Major Curtis requires your presence, posthaste,” the soldier said, with one hand tucked in the small of his back, like a waiter, and the other extended in the direction of the launch.

Gus told him he'd be right back with his bag, but the soldier said he wouldn't be needing it. He declined to explain why not, but Gus supposed he knew.

The silent treatment continued all the way across the lake. It had been a long day, and Gus was tired and put out; the only consolation was the prospect of correcting his unfortunate mistake about the brothers. The drone of the engine, punctuated now and then by the sound of the metal hull pounding a rogue wave, was a perfect reflection of his mood. From time to time, his eyes fell shut. Once, he even fell asleep, only to be jarred awake by a dream in which his hands were reversed, the right somehow having been replaced with the left.

The squawk of a radio broke his reverie. They were approaching a hulking military barge whose deck was lined with smudge pots, some of which had just been lit. The flames cast an eerie orange glow on the pilothouse and gantry crane, even as they were slowly obscured by the pots' heavy smoke.

After a spotlight methodically swept the water, the launch was cleared to come alongside. Gus kept his eye on the crane, where the occasional glint of a telescopic sight betrayed the position of a sniper.

Curtis was waiting at the top of the rusted boarding ladder. “You're late,” he said. “We already lost one of them.”

Gus was led belowdecks to a hold crammed with crate after crate of rifles. The modern ones were neatly packed; the others were in a jumble, their barrels spiked. There were artillery pieces, mortars, even the odd ship's cannon, including one antique swivel piece that looked like it belonged in a maritime museum.

Beyond the weapons hold, in a vast compartment redolent of diesel and bilge, was a brig that had been improvised from shipping containers. At the sound of footsteps, a cry rose up from the prisoners. One of Curtis's men, a little fellow with pale eyes who was introduced to Gus as Gunny Reiff, had an answer to the prisoners' lament: blasts of water from a fire suppression hose, introduced into the containers, one by one, through the airholes.

Just past the containers was a row of cabins with armored doors.

“In here,” Curtis said, working the hatch wheel of one of them. “We need you to confirm this was your guy.”

Gus went in alone. The odor of urine was overpowering. There were two pieces of metal furniture bolted to the floor: a chair and a table. A bloody sheet covered the body on the table.

Gus pulled back the sheet. It was Adnan. They'd used the wire on him. That much was clear from the violence that had been done to his head. But something else had killed him. The blood vessels in his eyes were burst; his lips were blue.

Gus tried to continue his examination downward, but the sheet was stuck to his arm. In freeing it, Gus saw that the boy's hand was missing. The stump had been wrapped with a bright cloth, a handkerchief in high-visibility orange.

Curtis knocked impatiently, then spoke through the open door. “Well?” he said.

“It's him,” Gus said. “Where's the brother?”

“Reiff's working on him.”

“Tell him to stop,” Gus said.

While Curtis walked him a few doors down, Gus explained his mistake. “It was stupid,” he said. “I didn't know the phrase. Even so. The circumcisions. Fireworks. I should have known it was for a wedding.”

Curtis shook his head. “No. You did the right thing.”

“How is this remotely the right thing?”

“I've got three soldiers in the morgue from an attack on a collection point this morning. Twelve from an an ambush on a convoy last week. Where do you think these boys are getting their gunpowder?”

They stopped in front of another bulkhead. Curtis rapped with his knuckles, a signal that was returned a few moments later from inside. “Reiff's ready for you. Now go in there and do your job, Lieutenant. And let Reiff do his.”

*   *   *

Kareem was hooded and strapped to the table, which was inclined slightly toward his head. The hood was soaking wet. Reiff was pressing it tightly to the boy's face while drizzling water on it from a kettle. As the seconds ticked by, Kareem's back arched and he began to fight the straps with all his strength. Gus moved protectively to his side, but there was nothing to do except wait.

Reiff's lips moved as he counted. He stared at the hood with great intensity, as if he could see through it.

When he finally lifted his hand, and Kareem's gasping and retching confirmed that the timing had been just right, he turned to Gus and grinned. “I took it too far with the other one,” he said. “It's a new method. New to me, anyway.”

“There's something you need to know,” Gus said. He told Reiff the same thing he'd told Curtis, but Reiff wasn't interested. “Not my department,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘Not my department'?”

The hood turned slowly toward Gus's voice. Kareem called him
Doctor
and started to plead for help.

“You see?” Gus said. “He wants to talk. He's my patient. Give me a few minutes with him. He trusts me.”

Reiff shook his head. “Tell him about his brother.”

“Tell him
what
about his brother?”

“Just tell him.”

Gus figured the boy had a right to know. As quietly and simply as possible, he explained that Adnan was dead.

Kareem went very still.

“Did you mention the hand?” Reiff said. “Tell him it'll happen to him, too, if he doesn't talk.”

Gus shook his head. “I'm not going to be a part of this,” he said.

“Say it,” Reiff said, “or so help me, I'll shove his brother's hand right up his ass.”

Kareem
, Gus said,
please believe me. Adnan is dead.

No
, Kareem said.
No no no
.

I saw with my own eyes
, Gus said.
They cut his hand
.
This man has proof
.

The boy cursed Gus, cursed all foreigners, shook his head fiercely, then, choking, fell back and started to cry.

“Good,” Reiff said. “You got to him. Now tell him we're going to feed the body to the vultures—no, wait; say that we're going to hang it from the gantry. But be sure to mention the birds.”

Gus shook his head.

Reiff flashed a prim smile. “No? Then I guess I'll just keep going.”

*   *   *

Reiff had a way of using a rib spreader in the boy's mouth that required the hood to come off. There were surgical masks on hand for those brief occasions. Gus didn't want to cover his face. It felt villainous. He told Reiff there was no point, since Kareem already knew him from the clinic, but Reiff was a believer in protocol.

Breathing through clean linen, if only for a few minutes, gave a welcome reprieve from the stench, but each time Gus tied the familiar knot behind his head, he silently added a year of service in the marshes as his punishment. This was a way of wearing a surgical mask he'd never imagined.

At one point, when he was alone with Kareem for a few minutes, Gus loosened the hood and gingerly peeled it back. The boy's jaw hung crooked. The left side of the mandible was bulging where it had fractured. The bone had given way with a wet snap. There had been two sessions with the spreader since then.

Gus poured a bit of water in the open mouth, then slipped in some pills, aspirin he happened to have in his pocket.
Swallow
, he said.
For the pain.

The boy spat out the pills along with several broken teeth.
No
, he said.
Unclean
.

Please
, Gus said. Reiff's mincing footsteps echoed down the hall.
Quickly. Where did Adnan get the powder?

Kareem licked his upper lip. His eyes fluttered shut. For the first time, Gus noticed his long, thick eyelashes. Marsh girls liked thick eyelashes. Thali had told him that once.

Gus resecured the hood and went to wash his hands. He kept his back to Reiff so he wouldn't see how they were shaking.

“Guess what?” Reiff said. “We're out of this shithole. You're wanted up on deck. Curtis is getting ready to make the announcement.”

*   *   *

It was late afternoon. Gus had been below so long, the sunlight completely blinded him. He listened, swaying gently, with his eyes closed. Apparently, the invasion had begun during the night. It was unfortunate, but the marshmen had proven to be unworthy stewards of their own destiny. They'd begun using their barbaric tactics against the very forces that had helped with their liberation. The plan was to get in, dismantle this dangerous new insurgency, and get out.

Curtis thanked his men for all their hard work and sacrifice. He held up Reiff as an example of an enlisted man who, by virtue of his exemplary service, was soon to make the leap to the officer corps.

There was plenty of praise to go around. Gus was singled out for his humanitarian work at the clinic. He stood, Curtis said, as a reminder that even in an active theater of war, there was still a place for a soldier's highest aspirations.

*   *   *

Curtis had every intention of sending Gus back to the fleet, but Gus made the case that he'd be more useful in the field. Curtis was surprised, but he radioed ahead on Gus's behalf, then offered him a cigar.

Gus took it, then handed it back. “Save this for someone who needs it,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” Curtis said, propping his feet on a toolbox. If he noticed the edge in Gus's voice, he didn't show it. He was in an expansive mood. He cut the head with an old safety blade, then lit up. “I was wrong about you, Lieutenant,” he said. “You've got some stones, after all.”

“What will happen to the prisoners?”

“They'll be transferred to a base near the port city. Don't worry. Those guys are pros.”

“And the Magheed?”

Curtis waved the cigar. “Relax,” he said. “That's all been taken care of.”

*   *   *

By the time Gus made it back to the Magheed's village to collect his things, the sky was full of helicopters. It seemed that every bird in the marshes was on the wing, too, panicked by the thunderous demolition of the haze.

Gus found Hamza on the sand by the lagoon, polishing the barrels of the cape gun with a handful of grass. He was wearing the Magheed's headcloth. Gus had never seen Hamza in a headcloth. It dwarfed him. He'd had to double the band to make it fit.

Come with me
, Gus said, slinging the gun over his shoulder.

The Magheed got two of them with a pistol before they cut him
, Hamza said.
I kept the hands, but they took the rest. Help me find him
.
We have to bury him.

Gus wrapped an arm around him, but Hamza wouldn't budge.

Smoke billowed from the guesthouse. The roof had burned away, exposing the main ribs, which were smoldering. Apparently, they were too dense to burn.

Where's Thali?

Hamza shrugged and said,
Gone to look for you
.
She said you'd know what to do
.

We have to go, too
, Gus said, shouting to make himself heard over the helicopters.

Hamza didn't seem to comprehend. He just stood there, looking from the lake to the sky, his eyes narrowed to slits by the smoke.

Gus took the boy's arm and started to pull him away from the beach. Hamza let himself be led for a few paces, then dropped to the sand and started to cry.
This is your fault
, he wailed.
Everything was fine before you came.

Gus kept trying to lead him away, but the boy's hands were slippery from the grass he'd used to polish the gun. Its sap was thick and white. Gus wondered if it had healing properties. For a precious moment he was himself again, excited by medical curiosity.

Then one of the helicopters broke formation and headed straight for the lagoon. The staccato roar convulsed the waterfowl.

You'll be safe at the clinic
, Gus said, scooping Hamza into his arms.
I promise.

The boy's face was yellow with bruises. He resisted, even though his eyelids were drooping. Gus held him tight as he walked. He didn't know what else to do, so he hummed a tune, something his mother had sung to him as a child, in sickbed.

He'd sung it once for Thali at the end of one of their evenings together, when she was nodding off with a book in her father's reading chair. Just before leaving, he'd put a soft rug on her lap and brushed the hair from her sleeping eyes. There might have been consequences if someone had seen him leaning in to kiss her forehead, but he'd risked it anyway.

The song had the desired effect on the boy. After a while, he gave up struggling, rested his head on Gus's shoulder, and slept.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matthew Olshan is the author of several books for young readers, including
Finn
,
The Flown Sky
, and
The Mighty Lalouche
. He lives in Baltimore.