Estuary 7

As I sat defacing the body of canonical literature with my fervid scribblings, the shadow of my hand grew less distinct on the paper, whose color was gradually darkening. I bowed to no one in particular and made my way to the river bank. The men were to be returning soon. I didn't want to give the impression I'd been idle while they toiled. No, in truth it was of no matter. I didn't want them to think I'd been gawking at their women all afternoon. I had enjoyed myself immensely, though. The young ones were lovely, all moved like skilled dancers, some were mothers, one was pregnant. There was one in particular, slender with a hibiscus over her left ear, who invariably looked down when she smiled, she once made to bring me a cup of water, but with courtly manners I retrieved it myself, hoping to demostrate some degree of machismo. For a while she salted fish and cut bamboo. I was enthralled, but the pregnant one turned my crank too.

At dusk the men returned and Malu with them. "Good news," Malu said. "Tonight the matches begin. One has agreed to your challenge."

"But I have challenged no one," I said.

"He will agree. Do not fear, he is Pumala, the cousin of the elder. Very old."

"But my wish is to be an observer. What kind of a match is this?"

Malu spoke a word I didn't understand. "It is like martial arts."

"I'm sorry Malu, I can't. I dislike martial arts. Or any violence, really."

"Like wrestling, it is more like wrestling. Over quick. It is for you to learn and honor for the people. Good for your paper. Come, I will show you some moves before the meal. Then we will observe some matches. No sweat. But I must ask you not to injure the cousin of the elder."

"I see that concern only toward myself, Malu." I mulled it over. "I agree on the condition that I be permitted to meet Pumala for a few words over supper."