The Country of Ice Cream Star (20 page)

NewKing hut be grandy as a Christing room inside. In shape, it be a jumbo cone, made of poles and curen hide. Floor be curly sheepskins, thick enough to sleep without no bed. Ain’t furniture to sit. Armies never sit but on the ground, they scorn this wooden help. To one side, there be a patch of naked earth. Here stand his personal idols, wooden children with beak heads.

Never a wall be bare. Is hung with every ready object. Be pots and clothes and cutting scissors. Books hung by a string deep in their pages. Mamadou’s red spear and bow hang there, his feather trappings. Crow-black, cardinal-red, they trail down, longish in peculiar twists.

And hang a rooish rifle with a curven magazine.

Mamadou let the hut’s flap close. Then light be only from the fire, this moving darkness comforting like sleep. He come before me, look down where my dress be muddy, wet with melten snow. Some pleasure working in his face.

I flinch back and say, ‘Can like some whiskey.’

He narrow eyes at me. ‘You like this?’

‘Been said.’

‘Ain’t brandy you prefer?’

‘Take what you got.’

Be no other guesting they believe, but Armies will give booze. So I watch upon his thinking face, and misery grow in me. Can fear, I be no guest in this. I lose this final hope.

Then he shake his head like disapproving, but he turn. As he reach up to a flask, I let the knife drop from my hand. With a seeking foot, I scutch it underneath a sheepskin. Put one foot lightish on the bladen shape, and breathe relief.

Mamadou find two handled shopes. Uncork the flask with teeth. Check me with his eyes, a second late, and he pour standing.

When he bring the shope to me, I tug my arms against their ropes. ‘Yo how I going to drink this so?’

He bite his lip in smiling, and his chippen tooth show there. He stoop to rest the shopes down on the floor.

Then he come behind me. My skin along my whole back waken, feel him there. He take my wrists, begin to work particular at the rope. I tense against his touch. Think on Japhet dead, the red specks on his face.

Ropes drop lazy off. My hands chill as the blood return. Crushen fingers go and boom with hurt.

‘Your head been cut,’ say Mamadou. He touch lightish at my nape.

I flinch away. ‘I know. It be my head.’

Can feel his breath of laughter pass my shoulders. Then he come and fetch the ratten shopes, his eyes on me. I move my injure hand, test its fingers. Knuckles, wrist and palm be bloody skinned, all sting in air. But the bones is whole. Ain’t pull a bow with strength, but can hold reins. Can steady a gun.

Here my eye glance to his rifle hangen. Arms tense before I think.

Mamadou see my glance and nod. ‘Go try this plan. Recall, we wrestle any a time. I ain’t refuse this chore again.’

‘Ain’t come for that,’ I say unpleasant. ‘Got business.’

‘Business, call it this.’ He reach a shope toward me.

I take the shope, hold it against myself. ‘Truth. Be sergeant now.’

To this, his face change inward. He take a drink of rat, swallow it like a thought he take. Then he say low, ‘Your Driver sick?’

‘Be so.’ My throat stick, and I say on weaker, ‘Gone from us.’

‘Be soon for this. Ain’t known.’

His fingers move like pondering on his shope. Then he shake his head. ‘Think, you sergeant now, you can come into camp like that? Ain’t those times, girl.’

‘Ain’t fearing this.’ Nerves rise in me again.

‘Come into camp like that. Ain’t think you likely going to leave. Going to expect, I keep you here.’ His eyes look up like this a question.

‘Shee to this.’ My voice rise hoarse. ‘Dirt, what you done at Tophet?’

Mamadou’s face surprise, then it go settle in annoyance. ‘You come for foolishness like this? A waste.’

‘Nay, what your feathers done at Tophet?’

‘You and me, we got a parley, right. But it ain’t this.’

‘Goddamn, you answer. What you done?’

‘Done what I like. And so be done to you or any. This story tired.’

‘Done what this Deema ask. Been order by some animal roo.’ I spit upon his furs. Some spit go fly and strike his foot.

Mamadou tense. Face lost its bell, be gritten as my feeling. Can see the muscles change across his chest. But he ain’t answer.

I say, ‘John of Christ ain’t kilt?’

A moment, I expect he answer nothings like before. But he say cold, ‘Nay, this digger run. A speedy coward.’

‘And where they Christing wives?’

‘Be in the simper house. A cherry take.’

Then something closen in myself. Ain’t thought to this, their simper house. Been hours since these Christwives took. Sure every child guess what these hours contain.

When I speak again, my voice be rough. ‘Susannah? She your queen?’

His mouth thin down, distaste. ‘Susannah ain’t no name to me. Got some newer simpers. Expect I know the one you miss.’

‘You know.’

‘Yo, been remember. Give to Deema’s use, she doing for this animal now.’

Be times, the NewKing tell me any unheart thing, to rile my hate.
Like to bring me hot and yelling, his arms receive my fight. But he never lie. Ain’t think to lie. Is straight as blood.

Now his bitter stare return. Eyes watch with all their thinking, and ain’t no amuse in his respect.

I say flat, ‘This rape bring murder.’

‘Myself, I never like no struggling girl. Some meat that suffering while I eat, this be sad work. Deema, he ain’t bother.’

‘Sure you die for this.’

‘Girl ain’t wish to be no queen, can be a simper like another. Choice been chosen by herself.’

‘Yo tick of all disease! You kilt their Japhet! Try to burn their littles, enfants in a locken room. Ain’t know how you can live. How you go live beyond–’

‘Slow, slow.’ He put his fingers toward my mouth.

I flinch back, and booze flash from my cup, sting on my scratchen hand. I swear in underbreath. Switch the cup to other hand, and I suck at this crawling hurt.

‘Sengle,’ Mamadou say, ‘ain’t be no littles in this case. A boy been kilt, he got his gun to thank. That girl with Deema, she my goods. But ain’t no littles in this.’

‘Littles been lock inside. You light the house. Been burning when I come.’

Mamadou watching on my face, like he inspect some lie. ‘Ain’t nothing done like this.’

‘I know a fire set.’

‘Been no fire. Can spare your talk. Expect you set some fire behind. A Sengle habit, like your boring lies.’

Then something freaken in my heart. I yell with all my breath, ‘Ain’t lies! Yo unheart cockroach! King of filth, you be the shee of Hak! Your blood be piss! Can see you die, this blood stank every tree of woods.’ Then I catch my breath, go suck my hand again.

He watch this speech with face surprise. But when I suck my hand, he break up grinning. All his anger pass, he laugh out hard. Yo, he step toward and take my chin in his big hand. Hold fast.

‘You ain’t change none, my Sengle. Seen you beaten, worry this will calm you.’ He laugh again.

I put my hand up to his chest, like I will push him back. But my hand remain there, like a fact.

I say uneven, ‘Beaten, shoo. Your feathers fighting weak.’

‘Sure, is slaving work. Wish the girls to fear, not that they spoil.’

‘What fear? Been like our normal wars.’

‘So this handling by my feathers been your joy, can comprehend.’ He grin, his broken tooth appear mischieviose. Godscars go into deep furrows.

Under my hand, can feel the muscles shifting in his chest. Then my body remember him, ain’t courage can forget. My feet themself awaken, fur feel sweetish in their toes. Knife shape feel sweet.

And he say with low particular softness, ‘Hold, I clean yourself.’

He step back toward his hanging stores. Go hunting through some various clothes. Reach about, he go as graciose as naked shadow.

Yo I drink my whiskey, feel its burning and my stinging hand. Force myself to think of what I do, and what I owe. The whiskey feel like weakness in me, and I think of leaving here. How I get this knife. But it ain’t magine somehow. Ain’t seem like nothing going to happen after this.

Mamadou take a cotton tee, a flask. In by-thought, he turn to the hanging rifle. Yank away its magazine and toss this in a farther corner. My mind distract at this, can feel his thought. I may reach the rifle, but ain’t time to run for both. And I feel some gratty strength, he fearing me somehow.

Then he come back. Open his flask and splash its wet onto the tee. Can smell, is low rat booze.

I waken from my thought. ‘What this be for?’

‘Clean your hurts. Is what we use.’

‘Yo, I can do this. You ain’t got to touch me nothing.’

His fingers tensen on the tee. Look in my eyes with something bitter. Ain’t know what happen in me then, but when he take my
chin in his sure fingers, I go calm. He sigh, say low, ‘Got cuts behind, ya. Better I do this.’

He start upon my face in silent mood. Rat sting malicieuse. Yo, this cotton tee come back with any dirty streaking. He clean along my arms, and find new hurts I never known was made. Bend my head and take time with the sticky cut left in my hair. He hold my injure hand in his, and work in tiny gentleness. Face show but what he do. Then he hunker down, his hand go searching up my scrapen leg.

Cannot even say how I become in this. I think of pain while I can try. But my body be one seeking memory. And when he leave his work and stand and watch into my eyes, these eyes tell every story. Mamadou’s face be cold without no joy.

Then, how it begin – how it beginning every time – he say my name.

Ain’t words for what this be. Be something make all honor small. No life nor honesty remain, and every strangeness, every stopping pain, become bellesse. We speaking words like
love
, like
you
, that ain’t mean nothing. Words waste in air. Nor ain’t knowledge of this losten hour, is gold you cannot see. Cannot find out what it been. Yet this blind thing be more real than life.

And then it finish. I lie upon the sheepskin like I done, yo twenty nights of evil. Lie naked in myself.

Mamadou lie, one arm upon my belly. Ain’t sleep, but stare beyond. Nor I ain’t look to see him. Wish this been forgot.

I watch the changing firelight. How it catch on points of objects on they walls. Every object seem like some sad proof. A string of books. A leather jacket with a rip sleeve.

Outside the hut, the feathers sing. Can hear this dim and eerie. Be a simper song, weak with all feeling feathers never get. Tell of the pain they cause. Song repeat:
ain’t no kin, ain’t no help, ain’t no help remain
.

And I think of Driver knowing what I done. Susannah with the
roo, left in her misery. How something in me come to Army camp for this. I stood before the littles at Tophet home, and squawk my lies, while in my heart, been wanting this.

Ain’t be the hero of my mind. Ain’t even normal made.

And all my losses wake, and every task I ain’t perform. I grit against this, but it rise with every pain that breathe inside my flesh. The howlen singing. All the helpless things that I must help, that going to waste.

Then inside this misery, something inkle. Be looking straight at Mamadou’s rifle.

Magazine in farther corner. Ain’t going to get this magazine now. Mamadou catch me easy. Be only one act that can work.

Then it be careful work to get my knife. Knife lodge by my lower shin, ain’t reach it, how he hold myself. Yo, if I move from under, he will rise and watch on me.

I hook my leg around, show like I scratching on this knee. In this, I work the knife out with my toe.

My mind repeat, this must be killing. No Mamadou threaten by a knife, can laugh at this small weapon. Take this knife before I strike. Must kill him while he never fear. Be for my freedom and the Christings’ freedom. Be for Susannah’s rape, and for the littles capture in this fire. Be done and then consider.

After, I will take his rifle. Drive the feathers off with bullets, or I die in this. If I ain’t die, I go to the simper house. If it be feathers there, they ain’t wear guns. Can hope they ain’t. Tophet Christwives free, run in the woods. Be done if I ain’t die. Then I must find this Deema Roo. This be a second murder, must be done without no thought.

I bring the knife out with my foot. Be finicky work, to catch it so. Begun to sweat when I bring it into reach.

Then it go without no thought. I grab it with my hand and turn. But as I go to strike, is like the knife catch in some cannot. Ain’t hurt him. I pause in air, when Mamadou’s hand fly at my hand.
Knock it wild, and I pull back, but he grab quick and catch my wrist. Hold on and grip feroce.

First his face surprise. Then it clear to a bitter preciation of the knife. He rise and force my arm back. I fight my other hand, but this be caught, he pin me on my back. Straddle over me, his hands go painful on my wrists.

Then I ain’t help myself, I smile. Be my relief, this task been took from me. Ain’t mine to help this now.

Mamadou watching cold. He shift his weight on my knife hand. Work at the fingers, dig them loose, and take the knife himself. Look at the blade, like he inspect its sharpness. My freed hand go to his throat.

There it rest. Ain’t try no hurt. I be smiling helpless, like this been a pleasure game.

He rest the knife blade flat against my nose. ‘Sengle, you ain’t never disappoint.’

‘Christings be my friends.’

‘Been told, I never burn their house. Ain’t got no listening sense.’

‘Be thirteen girls you keep.’

He stroke the blade along my cheek. ‘Agreement broken by themself. Be murder war this is.’

‘Shee, found a thing to want.’

‘Ain’t liking war, I guess. You ain’t.’ He make a face, and rest the knife point at my beating throat.

I swallow against this knifepoint. ‘Every fool see how you thinking. Roo bring guns to you, your prowess rule.’

‘Truth easy. How it be.’

‘You trust this Deema, you be blind.’

‘Ain’t trusting any a child.’ He raise and waggle the knife before my eyes. ‘Shoo, you be one can speak of trust. You funny, Sengle. Noisy, but you funny.’

‘Yo,’ I say in scorn, ‘and what these roos will gain from this? You know we got a roo ourself. He tell me of this gain. Your end be pity.’