Marshlands by Matthew Olshan Page A

it himself. One of his coworkers had helped—a man, he added pointedly, who didn’t faint at the sight of blood.
    He ignored the insult and told the marshman he’d done a fine job. The wound was healing well except for one stump that had gotten infected. There was a risk the infection would spread if he didn’t do a better job of dressing it.
    He salved the stumps with antibiotic ointment and bound them. When he was done, the bandage looked like a boxer’s hand-wrapping. It pleased the marshman, although he was loath to show it.
    Is it comfortable? he asked. Did I wrap it well?
    Well enough , the marshman said.
    Do you mind if I ask about the scars on your head?
    The marshman shrugged. When they wanted something, your people were very thorough.

8
    There was a surge of patients at lunchtime. It was good to see so many marshmen in one place. He understood a roomful of marshmen in a way he couldn’t hope to understand his own people. They were practical above all else. Factory workers who’d spent their lunch hours patiently waiting made way for a child with a painful ear infection. He admired their selflessness. It would have been easy to raise a fuss, or try to slip the doctor a few carefully folded bills.
    He saw patient after patient. Most of the cases were straightforward: pink eye, pubic lice, shingles. Treatment was limited to what was on hand in the clinic. Often, the best he could suggest was an herbal remedy.
    He’d made quite a study of folk healing in the marshes. There was a lot he could do for the children and elderly, who were open to traditional ways. The middle generation, however, was skeptical. A prescription of herb tea upset them. What did they need him for, if all he had to offer was a remedy they could have gotten from any street peddler?
    He tried to explain that the old ways were often the best, but in fact there were plenty of cases beyond his ability to treat. The elegant woman, for instance, with several grandchildren in tow, who presented very serious neck tumors. He sent the children off to play, then waited in silence as she unwrapped her long headscarf. The tumors were advanced. All he could do was give her aspirin to try to ease the pain.
    By the end of the day, he was exhausted. Standing in place took a greater toll on his legs than a day of drifting. Being sociable was tiring, too; listening for hours on end, making himself quiet. What he really wanted was to slink back to his room, kick off his shoes, rub his swollen feet for a minute or two, and fall asleep under the rough blanket.
    The orderlies were leaving for the night. He heard distant bolts ramming home.
    He went to the buffet table, but the food had long been cleared away and the tabletop scoured clean. All of the trash had been taken out. The trash cans in each examining room had been lined with fresh bags. The supply carts had been restocked and were parked neatly in a row.
    He collapsed into one of the easy chairs and drank a juice box he’d found in a cabinet, perhaps stashed there to pacify a child. The juice was sickly sweet, but he gulped it down.
    He started to drift off but the juice went right through him. The restroom was locked. He had no idea where to begin looking for the key. His need was urgent, so he filched a bedpan from one of the supply carts and took it back to his room.
    Just as he was finishing, he heard a faint “Hello?” It was Thali. He tried to hide the bedpan, but she burst in before he found a place for it.
    The color was back in her cheeks. Her arms were full of grocery bags. She told him how pleased she was to hear the good report about his work that day. Apparently, he was a big hit with the patients. Perhaps not so much with the orderlies, but they were a famously difficult bunch.
    She apologized for being so late, but she’d been held up at work. She’d met with a powerful woman on the museum’s board of directors who agreed with her views on the