As they sat together, Shan families passed on the way to the river to fish or wash or play in the shallows, and if they noticed the couple, they said nothing, It is only natural that a guest be treated with hospitality, the quiet man who has come to mend the singing elephant is shy, and walks with the posture of one who is unsure of the world, we too would keep him company to make him feel welcome, but we do not speak English. He does not speak Shan, but he tries, he says som tae-tae kha when he passes us on the trail, and kin waan when he likes the cook’s food. Som tae-tae kha means “Thank you.” Someone should tell him this, we all know he thinks it means “Hello.” He plays with the children, this is different from the other white men who come here, perhaps he does not have any of his own. He is quiet, and the astrologers say that he is looking for something, they know this from the position of the stars on the day he arrived, and because there were three big taukte lizards in his bed and they all pointed east and chirped twice, the woman who cleans his room remembered this, and she went to ask the astrologers what it meant. They say he is one of the kind of men who has dreams, but tells no one.

Dusk came, and at last Khin Myo said, I must go, and she didn’t say why. And Edgar thanked her for keeping him company, The afternoon was lovely, I hope to see you again.

I hope so, too, she said, and he thought, There is nothing wrong with this. He stayed at the river until the scent of cinnamon and coconut had drifted away.

Edgar awoke in the middle of the night, his teeth rattling. It is cold, he thought, This must be winter, and he pulled another blanket over himself. He shivered and slept.

He awoke again, sweating. His head was hot. He turned and sat up. He ran his hand over his face and brought it down wet with perspiration. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe and gasped for air and tore off the blanket and pushed aside the mosquito net. He crawled outside, his head spinning. On the balcony, he inhaled deeply, felt a wave of nausea, vomited. I am sick, finally, he thought, curled his legs up to his chest, and felt his sweat dry and grow cold, as the wind came up from the river. He slept again.

He awoke to the sensation of a hand on his shoulder. The Doctor crouched over him, his stethoscope hanging from his neck. “Mr. Drake, are you all right? What are you doing out here?”

The light was dim; it was dawn. Edgar rolled onto his back, groaning. “My head…” he moaned.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, last night was terrible, I was so cold and shivering, I got a blanket, I was sweating so much.” The Doctor put his hand on his forehead.

“What do you think is wrong?” Edgar asked.

“Malaria. I can’t be certain, but it definitely seems like it. I will need to look at your blood.” He turned and said something to a Shan boy who was standing behind him. “I will get you quinine sulfate, it should make you better.” He looked concerned. “Come.” He helped Edgar up and led him to his bed. “Look, the blankets are still soaked. You’ve gotten yourself quite a nasty case. Come and lie down.”

The Doctor left. Edgar slept. A boy came and woke him. He brought water and several small pills for Edgar to swallow. Edgar slept again. He awoke and it was afternoon. The Doctor was sitting by the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think. I am quite thirsty.”

The Doctor nodded and gave him some water. “This is the usual course of the disease. First chills and then fever. Then you begin to sweat. And then often, as now, you suddenly feel better.”

“Will it come back?”

“It depends. Sometimes it occurs only every two days, sometimes only every three days. Sometimes it comes more often, or it is much less regular. The fever is terrible. I know; I’ve had malaria uncountable times myself. I get delirious.”

Edgar tried to sit up. He felt weak. “Go to sleep,” the Doctor said.

He slept.

He awoke and again it was dark. Miss Ma, the nurse, was sleeping on a bed near the door. Again he felt his chest tighten. It was hot, the air was still, stifling. He suddenly felt the need to get out of the room. He lifted the mosquito net and slid out. He stood tentatively. He felt weak, but he could walk. He tiptoed toward the door. The night was dark, the moon hidden by clouds. He took several hungry breaths and lifted his arms and stretched. I need to walk, he thought, and padded quietly down the stairs. The camp seemed empty. He was barefoot, and the coolness of the ground felt good on his feet. He followed the path down to the river.

It was cool on the banks, and he sat and breathed deeply. The Salween moved past silently. From somewhere came a rustling, and a faint cry. He stood and walked uneasily across the beach to a small trail that ran by the river through thicker brush.

The sound grew louder as he walked through the bushes. Near the end of the trail, he caught a glimpse of something moving on the bank. He took two more steps through the brush and then he saw them, and for a moment he stood still, shocked. A young Shan couple lay in the shallows of the river. The young man’s hair was tied up above his head, the woman’s hair was loose, spread out over the sand. She wore a wet hta main and it was pushed up her body, covering her breasts, revealing a smooth hip sprinkled with sand and the river. Her arms wrapped around the young man’s back, her nails gripping his tattoos, and they moved silently, the only sound was the shifting sand and the river as it lapped against four feet. She moaned again, more loudly now, and her back began to arch, her hta main pooling down against her arms, her body turning, wet sand falling from her hips. Edgar stumbled back into the bushes.

The fevers came again, stronger now. His body shook, his jaw clenched tight, his arms curled up against his chest, he tried to grab his shoulders but his hands only trembled, he shook the bed and the mosquito netting. The water basin on the table rattled as he moved. Miss Ma awoke and came and covered him, but he still was cold. He tried to thank her, but he couldn’t speak. The water basin on the table rattled to the edge.

He grew hot again, like the night before. He threw off the blankets. He was no longer shaking. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into his eyes. He tore off his shirt, it was soaked, his thin cotton drawers stuck to his legs, and he fought the urge to tear them off too, I must be decent, he thought, and his body ached and he ran his hands over his face to wipe off the sweat, over his chest, his arms. He turned, the sheets were wet and warm, he tried to breathe and tore at the mosquito net. He heard footsteps and saw Miss Ma go to the water basin to moisten a cloth. She lifted the mosquito netting and pressed the damp cloth to his head. It was cold as she ran it over his body, and the heat retreated briefly, returning once the cloth had passed. Like this she chased the fever, but it burned deeper now. He lost consciousness.

And now he floats above the bed, he can see himself. Water rushes from his skin, pooling, it begins to move, it is no longer sweat but ants that crawl out of his pores and swarm. He is black with ants. He falls back into his body and he screams, slapping away at the ants, they fall on the sheets and turn to tiny fires, and as he brushes them off they are replaced by more, emerging from his pores like from an anthill, not fast or slow, but incessant, they cover him. He screams and he hears rustling at the bedside, there are many forms now, he thinks he knows them, the Doctor and Miss Ma, and now another figure, standing behind the other two. The room is dark and red, like a fire. He sees their faces, but they blur and melt, and their mouths become the muzzles of dogs, laughing mouths, and they reach for him with paws, and everywhere they touch him it is like ice, and he screams and tries to beat away their arms. One of the dogs leans toward him and presses its muzzle against his cheek, its breath stinks of heat and mice, and its eyes burn clear, like glass, and in them he sees a woman, she is sitting on the bank of a river watching a pair of bodies, and he sees them too, the brown arms gripping the broad white back, pale and dirty with sand, faces close and panting. There is one boat left on the sand, and she takes it and begins to paddle away, he tries to rise, but now he lies in the grip of the brown arms and he feels a slipperiness, a heat, and feels the muzzle part his lips, a rough tongue slip into his mouth. He tries to rise but others surround him, he tries to fight but falls back, exhausted. He sleeps.