Marshlands by Matthew Olshan Page A

says, “I knew you’d like it.”
    As we climb down and pick our way, single file, along a tightly curving path, he explains that most people have the wrong idea about labyrinths.
    â€œThe classical ones weren’t really mazes,” he says. “They were more like spirals: one way in; one way out.”
    He goes on to say that the labyrinth inspired the design of the new defensive road around the compound. “You see? I’m still capable of learning a thing or two from this godforsaken place.”
    There’s a surprising amount of regret in his voice. This may be as close as I’ll ever get to an apology.
    Long years among the marshmen have taught me to hold my tongue. In the old days, I might have lashed out at him: Save it for the child who lay screaming on my table! But there’s no point in saying such a thing to Curtis, a man so lacking in humility. Then again, perhaps I lack it, too, for presuming to stay in the marshes, for presuming to atone.
    I walk on in silence, trying not to turn an ankle on the uplifted cobbles.
    When we reach the center of the labyrinth, a clearing barely large enough to exercise a horse on a tight tether, Curtis tries again. “Things are different now,” he says. “We have new methods. It’s much easier. I can always use a good man, a trusted man. There’s everything here: books, music, wine. I even brought a chef with me, a miracle-worker with wild game. Surely you miss the creature comforts.”
    â€œI do, but I’d miss the hunting more.”
    â€œYou could still hunt!” he says. “You could certainly hunt. So, if hunting were part of the mix—”
    He breaks off when he sees the expression on my face. “Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, “do what you want. Maybe someday you’ll explain it to me.”
    In fact, we understand each other perfectly. He wants to keep me close, if only to ease his conscience; whereas I want no part of his methods, old or new. The very phrase “new methods” makes my gorge rise.
    â€œWell,” he says, “there’s no need to go back the way we came.”
    He leads me through a series of concealed doors that provide a more or less direct path through the stone spiral. Soon we’re back out in a modern hallway, where the way to the morgue is clearly marked.
    Curtis isn’t used to taking no for an answer. He sees my refusal as yet another misstep in a second-rate career. “Well,” he says, slapping dust from his trousers, “ someone has to clean up this mess.”
    â€œWhat mess would that be?”
    He deflects the question with a roll of his eyes, as if to say, You have no idea .
    To change the subject, I ask about the new building going up inside the gates.
    â€œFinally, a proper detention facility,” he says. “Long overdue. Now watch yourself,” he adds, plowing through a heavy swinging door.
    The sudden drop in temperature is like a plunge into water. Curtis cranes his neck. “There’s usually an attendant,” he says. “But it looks like we’re on our own.”
    He slows to a funereal pace when we reach the storage area. It’s clear that he means the tragic rhythm of the drawers to arouse my patriotism, but instead I find myself thinking about the marshman’s horror of being unburied, which is considered the violation of violations. To abandon the body of a warrior on the battlefield—even a warrior of a rival tribe—is to cover one’s own tribe in shame.
    â€œIn case you’re wondering,” he says, “these drawers are full.”
    â€œHow is that possible?” I ask. “We haven’t seen combat casualties in a very long time.”
    â€œYou’re privy to a tiny corner of this conflict,” he says. “And even that you don’t see with the proper vision.” He stops to open one of the drawers. The corpse is charred,