The Country of Ice Cream Star (12 page)

‘Shee, if they take us, we fight for them. Live all days by them. Be sure, can rob them sometime.’

‘Nay, ain’t rob. You die in war.’

I scoff my breath. ‘Why we must die? They fight to only lose? Ain’t sense.’

‘Sense different there.’ His eyes show frosten angry by the moon. ‘Yo, where I fight before, the taken children been worse than roos themself. Kill and kill, for nothing. Nor they live much time, is kilt.’

‘Your wars be curiose. All murder and no war.’

Pasha shrug and ain’t object. He leave this saying in the air.

Then something inkle in my mind. ‘You fled from them? You hiding somehow?’

‘Ya.’ He shrug. ‘I hide.’

‘So if you bring us to them, they will punish you for fleeing?’

His eyes fix mine. A minute pass while hope flame keen in me. I say feroce, ‘You fear these roos, ain’t need to go with us. Can tell us where they be. We never speak of you, be certain.’

Then Pasha laugh. His untooth mouth show spooken in the night. And he say harsh, ‘This be my task. Bring children to the roos. I giving you to them, my fear be gone.’

I let my gaze sink to the darken ground. The moon pick out the
bitty grass, can see a balden dandelion gray with night. And now first consider what become of Pasha’s missing teeth. Children can lose teeth from hunger. Teeth bash out in war. No glad adventure lead to gappen teeth.

At last I say, ‘But you ain’t bring us?’

‘Nay.’ His voice come low. ‘Cannot do this work again.’

This
again
hurt in my mind. Think how he said, he seen their killing. Come in my mind precaire, if Pasha done this killing self.

I swallow and say, ‘Yo, why you never tell me? Asken you these weeks.’

‘I try this in one town. Tell everything. And seen they children die. Run to their death.’ He laugh. ‘Cure for posies, cure for posies. There they say,
la cura. La cura para la sarcoma
. Nothing hearing, but this
cura.’
He toss his cigarette to the grass. ‘I show them where is roos. Cannot say nay. They threat me with their guns.

‘So we go there. I bring children, is good. Good task I done. But all the time these children living, I fear they tell about my warning.’

I take my breath. ‘They told? Is why you left?’

‘Nay,’ he say cold-voice. ‘They try to flee. Is dead.’

He get another cigarette from his shirten pocket. Take out a lighter also – object that I recognize. Be Villa’s priden joy, a pinkish lighter, sparkle in its plastic. Words on its side say
Hello Kitty
. Now my heart seize somehow, seeing this thing from simple days.

I say,
‘La cura
. This be fisher Panish? You seen the ocean?’

‘Is many things I seen, Ice Cream. Been war for fifteen years.’ Then he add, in careless anger, ‘Ain’t you think, what come to littles?’

‘Littles?’

‘Be no use for war.’

‘Yo sho,’ I say uncertain. ‘Ain’t thought this question.’

Pasha light his cigarette. I watch the tiny flame twist and go out.

I say, ‘The roos kill littles.’

His words come in ghosten smoke. ‘Roos tell the jones, we keep
the littles safe – if you obey. But littles never keep. Most times is left, can die themself of hunger. Be times, roos hunt them with guns. Kill them with hands.’

His hands tense on the reins he hold. My eyes go to them, feary.

I say, ‘Yo, taken children do this work? You said, be worse than roos. They killing littles?’

‘Sure. Is pleasure game for some.’

My heart disgust and shrink. ‘I ain’t do this.’

‘I know. Crow do this, maybe.’

‘Nay. Never a Sengle do–’

‘Here you mistake,’ say Pasha cold. ‘Surprise be yours.’

I turn my eyes away in private feeling, look up to the stars. When I been small, once Driver told me cricket singing was the voice of stars. Now I watch the stars and hear their voice be frighten shrill. Stars call the fear of all our helpless life.

I say, ‘What happen, when I come to them? What happen first?’

He toss his cigarette away half smoken. Never speak nor blink. Be like a creature cannot talk.

‘Heed, my Pasha,’ I say thin. ‘Ain’t only Driver die. Myself, can live two years, three years, before my posies come. El Mayor eighteen, life wearing thin. We dying in your eyes.’

‘Ain’t take you,’ he say angry. ‘Forget this.’

I swallow hard. ‘Nay, need your help.’

‘Ain’t help.’

‘You lead me to their camp. Where I can see this camp.’

‘Nay.’

‘Goddamn, I go without you! I will find their camp, be sure. Ain’t justice that you choose my death!’

He grit his mouth, get his bethinken look. I look to the stars again, my need wear through my nerves.

And I think of Driver sick. The plastic baby Keepers found, and all the children I seen dying, all their frighten voice. How I carry Mo-Jacques to his burial with straining arms. Flies gather to his open
eyes, and I been trying to blow them off, but all my breath been weak. How I sat weeping while he bury in dirt.

I stare around myself, ain’t hardly see. White stars and grayish dandelions – is dozens of these balden dandelions tremble in the nighten wind.

Then Pasha answer slow, ‘The roos ain’t bring cure here. Ain’t bring in Massa. Going to be in south.’

A moment I only hold, uncomprehending. Then hope chill in me. ‘The south?’

‘Where they go after Massa. Steal more children. Far in south.’

‘Far? Yo, where?’

‘Washington,’ he say in queery softness. ‘Where it going to be.’

A second, my heart falling glad. I remind all maps I seen, the roads drawn clear. Word
Washington
writ. Then I feel Pasha’s eyes on me, his queery grief upon.

‘Washington,’ I say soft. ‘I heard of this. A sleeper city been.’

He nod like tired conscience. ‘Ya. Be bigger war there. Roos will come from every part. Come by … things that go on water. Ride on water?’

‘Boats,’ I say with choken need. ‘And cure be there? On boats.’

‘Yes. At Washington. Ain’t lies.’

Only when he saying this, I realize it can be lies. I try to spy his face correct, but it be lost in shadows. Only his white hands lighten clear, fist hard upon his reins.

Then he say rough, ‘You can obey my telling?’

‘Obey?’ My breath catch sharp. ‘Nay, why? You bring me there?’

‘Cannot go in their camp alone, yourself. Ain’t safe.’

‘Is natural I obey.’ I laugh up nervy. ‘Truth, you bring me?’

‘Ya. Must think how this can do.’

‘You and I, my Pasha. Sure you be my hunting shadow.’

‘Sengles still must leave. Ain’t bone to stay here.’

‘Sengles flee, ain’t no affair,’ I say in loving voice. ‘Be wandering peoples.’

He shake his head misliking. ‘Must think. Can talk of this tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow, truth. Be gratty well.’

I turn forward nerviose, ain’t want to hear no changes. I fumble the reins in sweaten hands. Tug at Money’s head, where she nose down to crop at dandelions.

Then I take a hungry breath. My courage fill with night. And it wake inside me, the enormities we do. All war shrink before this deed, all science done by Lowells. Yo, I swear myself, if we succeed, I roam the Nighted States. Give cure to every needing child, and never a person die for Ice Cream Star her failing heart.

I heel Money into walking, and my life gone sweet and fearless as we leave to Sengle town.

15

OF CROW HIS TREACHERY

All great works start with mistake. Ain’t no exception in this fact.

On the nighten path from Lowell, I been planning so: Tomorrow I wake early. Go to Driver in his hiding meadow, tell him every news. At morning meal, he speak to all, convince them to escape. Then I talk apart with Pasha. With his help, I plan to rob the cure from these nefasty roos. I go with him to Washington. Can leave by risen noon.

Morning come, I wake alone. As I open eyes, my aching know the hour be late. The forest warm and woken, feel myself outside its busy life. All other hammocks bandon – ya and Pasha’s hammock empty left, it ripple loose with breeze. Must worry where this yellow creature gone. Why he ain’t woke myself.

I scramble down the tree with clumsy sleep in all my limbs. Drop and land unbalance, come away with scratchen wrist. From a lower bough, I fetch my Patagonia jacket. Feel the papa tea, fat in its pocket, as I pull it on. Fish down my white Adidas, where they hung from laces by. Socks inside is healthy cold against my seeking finger.

Be hunkern down to clad my socks when, in the corner of my feeling, tickle a creeping motion. I look to watch this creeping, and my startle eye find Crow.

Behind the woodstack, he go sneaking. Subtle as blackish light that change in trees, he slip to Nighting Brook. Stoop by the water’s edge. Can see, he washing something there, his arms move picky to.

He stand and shake this something round. Shiny drops go flung. He turn and it be a dangling rabbit. Collar of blood show in her tawny fur where she been bled. Crow go busy to the ground, swaddle this rabbit in some plastic. Fit her in his pack and zip it. Stand and sling the pack upon.

Then I see Crow’s shape walk shadowy behind the branches. Hop the brook, and crash up through the bushes to the farther path.

This path be overgrown. Ain’t kept since Popsicle been sergeant. Got brush, ya ladyflowers growing where the path be wet. It be the Army path, a way no Sengle take except in war.

Then my anger comprehend. Crow go trade his meat for simpers. Fetch our wealth to Army camp.

A moment, I still catch on need, how I must chase the cure. But Crow burn in my furiose nerves. Ya, I think how Pasha said, it be a week before roos come. And Crow be disappearing now, he steal our food to Armies now. My littles hunger while our enemies fatten on their meal.

Then my better task forgot. Ain’t even pause to clad my shoes. Sling them by laces round my neck, and I stalk over Nighting Brook. I track my animose.

No easy step be in this journey. Army path untend, is rich with sticks and leafy bushes. These be Crow’s scouts, they wait to give a warning noise. My bare feet ache from cold, and times, my heel land on an acorn peak and pain light all my bones. But cannot stumble. Cannot pause. Ever must keep Crow in my hearing, but cannot walk into his sight.

Where the trees be thin and small by Army camp, Crow halt his step. This I ain’t expect, and I come careless up behind. I stop with one foot raise, hold like a hound that point a bird. Be sure he going
to turn and see me, but he peer down at himself. Can see his nervy breathing, how he tug preenish at his clothes.

Then he spit into the dirt and go accustom into camp. Move among the huts without no thought, no worry sneaking. Step to a hut of green bepainten hide and speak his voice.

Hut open mouth. Crow stoop and gone inside.

Green hut mean Karim, a boy who wear green feathers to his war. Ain’t know Karim’s looks sans this feather gaud. Child broken Jonah’s wrist in war, is all I know of him. Now be bitter to think this green fly eat our townie meat.

I creep forward careful. Find my familiar hiding, in a clutch of enfant spruce. Here I hunker low to watch. The camp weigh on my eyes.

Army huts be tallish cones, cover in scrappy fur and deerskin. Huts painten every color, and they drawn with Armies’ birdhead gods. Behind, disgusting like no shame, there stand the simper house. This be a warehouse sort of building, flattish to the ground. Sides be dismal metal, warp along its grayish stripes. Got two doors that roll up from the ground, and locken from outside. Here the Army horses winter with the simpers and the enfants, bed by pissen straw.

In campen center stand the god chair. This be a grandiose tree trunk carven with the faces of their gods – Shango, god of rain; Musa, antlered bird of thinking; Ayesha, goddess of their rape that Armies callen love; and Allah, god of gods. No person sitting in this chair. In the seat, where no one see, is heapen skulls of OldKings past. Around its foot stand smaller gods, in wooden presentations.

Armies got every dozen gods. Is leadergods and undergods; is gods for every childish want. Got one goddess, all she do is helping children braid they hair. And all these woodhead gods be temperamental like they pregnant. Always need some special food, or they exasperate, come from their wooden shape to work their harm. Yo, Armies punish any word against their pigly gods. They got a godwhip for this use, and every stolen slave got scars from this, and many featherboys. Walking by the godchair, featherboys will duck their
face. Simper girls pass nervy and pinch-shouldern on their heely shoes.

At the feet of this strange ugliness go twitching hens. A gross-head rooster threaten among them, like a staring OldKing. Every distance smell like boozy spew and piss and chicken shee. In this place, no good thing smile.

Now is hunting hours, and camp be mostly empty left. Only, from the godchair’s pit, the smoke of sacrifice go by. Here stand a simper, wrappen in black godclothes, head-to-heels. Ain’t got no person shape, her face be cloth. Her front look like her back.

From her nothing face, she sing. Be a whine that change and wasten on the passing breeze. She raise her hand above, a bloody joint of chicken dangle there. Then she bend down from the hip and lay it on the sacrifice. Rise singing, and unwrap her godclothes, till she remain in simper garb, of scants and naked skin. Smoke grow with the taste of food.

I be gritting hungry, thinking of my missing meal, when something startle in the trees beside. Second that I look, the NewKing stalk into the camp.

Then every wisdom be behind. I stare my lonely eyes.

NewKing Mamadou bell severe like blackness in a starry night. His every move go graciose as fire. He seventeen, and tall in height, large in ferocious strength. Wear godscars on both his cheeks. Got one tooth broken from our wars. In him, this also be bellesse. Yo girls think upon him, like all boys think on myself and suffer in sleep. I think upon the NewKing, Ice Cream Star that love like ten hearts.

He walk, loose in his scorn. The feathers at his braids lift reddish blackish in the troubling breeze. His deerhound Terrify Courage jaunt behind and woof in steep delight. Hound nose to the chicken fence as Mamadou look back.