The Country of Ice Cream Star (22 page)

This be a weaken hurt. My breath go queer. Feel all the beatings of this day, and see like evil certainties how I can die in this. Then the world go slow as all my feeling gather in one curse insistence that I live. Yo as he spit again, I pull my knife. I dodge back, but he come grab at my hair. His knife flash in my terror, and gasping wild, I stab him in his gut.

Knife go in like a punch, ain’t easy took. Yo quick, the roo jump back. Knife fall loose away between us. Then this Deema yelling healthy noise as he look down.

All my thinking be, how he ain’t die. Ain’t die for nothing. Scarce be blood. Then the beast wheel yelling and punch my face. My footing lift, be lost. I fling back heavy on the furs, one arm fly up and strike some hardness. My sight go black. Be fighting in this sleep, and wake to Deema struggling Mamadou away, his knife be out. I think how I must crawl, but ain’t be nothing I can hide behind. Arms weak.

And then a different light appear. A shot go deafen hard.

Deema hike up harsh, his back arch queer. His head lost its side part, and blood be streaming, sprinkling. He fall onto himself, slop in the furs.

I look at Mamadou, heart alive, but yo his rifle hanging loose. He stare by, looking where the hut flap open.

Pasha stand into the tent, like some unknowing dream. He rise and his long rifle held in shooting pose at Deema’s ruin. Darkness fill my blood, be like I see all things through blackness.

See how Mamadou lift and aim his rifle. How Pasha turn at him. The shot been gone before I fear. Mamadou fall and small Karim cry out and crouch beside. Tears look greasy on his face.

And Pasha point his rifle at Karim. Pause and hold. Karim hunch. Guard his face with naked hands. His mouth move without sound.

Pasha say to me, ‘He also?’ His voice be shaken cold.

And I look blind at nothing and say, ‘Yes.’

25

OUR FLEEING

When murder happen, ain’t no time to know. Must run, must fight. Must do more murder, flee again and fight. So it happen in this day of sickness.

I stare at dead Karim, the blood that slither on his greenish feathers. Everything be calm and dead. But Pasha call to me.

Cannot know the words he say. I know but what I done. I go in simple madness to the NewKing, kneel beside. Touch where his blood spread on his chest. Then Pasha crouch by talking. I want to speak of something, feel is something I must say. But nothing and nothing be.

Only when Pasha take the NewKing’s rifle and unhook its strap, my weeping blindness start. Then my thought come plain and distant. Think how I must breathe through sobbing. Must have eyes is clear. Must run, I got to see. I blink and wipe my eyes in working movements, like I clean a dish.

Then Pasha hold the rifle to me. His face be tense like rage. He whisper, ‘Can hold well to shoot?’

I take the rifle. Its cold be mally. Something in me wailing, but I cough and snort my nose. I look at Pasha’s whitish anger and I say, ‘Can shoot.’

Then Pasha shift the rifle in my hands until I hold it right. Guide my finger to the trigger soft. I nod. His jaw shift, Pasha touch my head.

He whisper, ‘Ain’t go out till you hear quiet.’

He take his rifle up again. Go to the flap and listen. Be only then I hear the voices. Be all cackeny shouts and running. Angry yell beyond. And Pasha breathe in deep and dive outside.

Bullets jabber like a chattering jaw. Be deafen so, it almost comfort how it never pause. Can clutch my rifle to myself in this bad darkness. Feel my tears go cold. Hear the jabber and wait for quiet. Wish this quiet never come again.

And it stop. Be silence like a simple falling. Can see in magination how my Pasha lain there dead in blood. Feathers standing to, wait every gun upon myself.

But I go to the flap. I swallow, push the rifle nose between. Follow it out.

Pasha there, is standing whole. Heart only beat again when I see, ain’t no person by. No dead. Be huts and dust and sunlight. Nervy chickens hopping in this dust.

‘Where they gone?’ I say dumb.

‘Run,’ say Pasha flat. He pull the magazine off his rifle, shove it in a pocket. Find another out, fix it in place.

‘Run.’ I feel my face be grinning, though my tears still go. Be like more tears than I got in myself.

‘Your Money there. I catch.’ He jerk his head toward the nether path. ‘Ice Cream, you can ride?’

‘I bone. I got …’ I swallow at my throat, and peep a sob. ‘Must get the Christings.’

He sigh out hard. ‘Nay. Ain’t time. Fool.’

‘You come with me?’

Then I stare at him until he nod. His eyes got all frustration, but he follow when I go.

Simper house’s door be risen open. Can guess, from here the feathers come out when they first hear Pasha’s gun. Come out, rush around, and flee when this gun turn upon themself.

As we approach, Pasha pull me behind. Go forward stalking. I keep back and feel my rifle gangly in my weaken arms. Be tired
work to keep it steady. Yo my head begun to agony. All my sickness wake. Sight fuzz in eyes, keep blinking at its changes.

He lead me to the blank side of the house. We listen there.

Ain’t known what I expect. What we hear, be crying enfants. First I panic senseless, think this be the Christings’ young, was brought somehow to join the wives. Then I know, these be the Armies’ get.

Then something in me disbelieve, after all been done this day, that enfants can remain on any world. That Armies can be squalling littles, frighten from a noise.

I whisper, ‘Enfants.’

Pasha look at me with his frustration. He turn, creep forward. I stalk behind, and every nerve go hurt with his loud feet. Can hear each step, ain’t nature how is loud.

At the corner, he stop up. Look at me angry still, and say with only breath, ‘Keep here. Behind.’ He wave his hand around the huts. My nerves react, and I turn staring, like all feathers rush on me.

Then Pasha rise and shoot around at nothing, at the standing huts, the trees. Noise blinding loud, can hear the enfant skree behind like silent thought.

Shooting stop. The skree rise up. Dust and flying chickens. A plastic sack blow round among.

And I hear the footstep sound of Pasha running. I chase him to the door unthinking, gun held clumsy to myself.

Simper house be strewn about with sheepskins. Each lain separate with some personal objects to their head: china dog or mirror, a sprawl of sparkling jewlerie. One wall got hooks with hanging clothes; these spread across like crusten stain. In the nearer corner, floor be bare where water risen through the floor.

Is any struggling girls inside. All push together to the farther wall, clutch littles to their legs. Wear every kind of dress. Be girls is nothing but a blot of blackish godclothes. Girls in shorty dress or unders. And by, where light come in an upper window, be a girl in Christing
nighting gown. Beanie Christwife, sobbing while she clutch her chest. Yo, behind her gather all the Christwives in their nightclothes.

Stood before me, Pasha yell out, ‘You! Come here!’

Among the huddling simpers, lurk a boy. Ain’t but fourteen, got whitish grayish feathers round his neck. These feathers ruffle on one side, and he clutch himself, push back among the simpers.

‘Come! Will shoot you there! Will shoot!’ Pasha gesture with his gun.

And now a simper panic, push the feather from herself. He stagger forward, staring on Pasha’s gun. Begin to gabble frighten curses, and he pulling at his jeans. Like he hide himself with these. A simper reach toward him, and he strike back at her hand in panic.

Pasha flick a switch upon the gun. My nerves go calm. Be thinking, gun on safety, we be done.

Pasha shoot once. Boy wheel on his feet, and sink away.

Then come a scream like never heard. Be any panic simpers, rushing from the blooden feather. Go back like a wave, then this wave turn and come again. Scatter of simpers fall upon the boy and hunch there wailing. I grab at Pasha’s shoulder. ‘Hold! Goddamn, goddamn, what help this be?’

He stare at me, his jaw be set. Be stupid anger in his face. I say high-voice, ‘Be safe enough! Goddamn, you go, you guard behind. Go back!’

Then something falter in him. Pasha nod and turn away. I watch until I see him at the open door, sharp cut in sunlight.

I turn and stare upon the girls. I breathe heavy, looking if there be no other feather. My head be any pain. Sight queering worse, it churn and flicker. Simpers cry their begging words and curses, but they ain’t come toward. Be careful time before I know, is only females there.

Then a girl step forward. I turn wary at her, and she halt. Raise a hand against the sun. ‘Ice Cream?’ Behind her, all the simpers start to quiet, heed to this event.

Take a second before I recognize her face. Is Hannah Christwife.
I say, hoarsen voice, ‘Yo Christings, come away. Ain’t fear my roo, he go protect you. Go. Can trust my word.’

One and one, the Christwives stumble out. As they come, they watch me feary. Hurry past my gun. I feel a shame like icy wind at this, but I stand fast. Yo, in some nether misery, I see Susannah ain’t among. Must be, she kept apart in Deema’s hut.

Now the simpers watch me. I see a twelve who stand unmoving, face besobben wet. Behind her, an older girl go press her face into this twelve’s thin shoulder. Another and another, all these dreaden shapes of girlish slaves.

Ain’t courage left for this. I say in weak, ungiving voice, ‘Can come. Ain’t stay in this. You free. You hear me? You be free.’

They stare, and only larming enfants carry on untired complaint. Never a child move forward. Ain’t no answer in no face.

I call with angry hopelessness, ‘Can go to Lowell mill. You come!’

Then I turn and run, my last fear chase me from the house. Run into hurting sunlight, where my Pasha wait alone.

Huts and dust. Pasha stood, gun looking at the empty trees.

‘Where the Christings?’ I shout foolish. ‘Where they gone?’

He turn angry. ‘They run off. You come now. Now!’

I gasp frustration, look around like I will see their path. Can hear some scrambling noise, but ain’t know who been making this. And sudden, I realize this can be feathers stalking back. When Pasha push my shoulder, I go run.

My running limp in clumsiness. My head be misery, all my vision gone in busy light. Pain sicken in my gut as we come to the nether path.

Aside, among the trees, be Money. Come nervy when she see me, pull against her tied-up reins. Whinny and leer her rolling eyes.

Pasha shy from this, and I go forward, coaxing thoughtless. Money skit at first, and my hand go sloppy on her neck. Pain blur all my body. Be like I sleep afoot, my hand rub weaken on her fur. Then I open eyes, and Money gone down calm. I grab some mane and leap. Ain’t get no strength, I fall back loose, and my head ring with hurt. Annoying tears fill up my eyes.

Pasha come to, careful. He hand his rifle to my clumsy hand, go mount. Be pleasant done, I thank all gladness that he learn this task. He take the rifles from my thoughtless hands. Last he reach for me.

I give my hand, and go up liften. Scrabble around with leg, come up and slip on Money’s rear. Pasha reach back wild to grab me. Yo, I clutch to him.

Be myself who kick the horse. Kick and kick until she gone into reluctant canter.

This cantering hurt in sicken waves. I clutch and press my face to Pasha’s back.

Then blackish madness come and pass. Be times, I hang with face press, and ain’t know where we be coming from. Want to beg my Pasha that we quit. Be times, I think he taking me to roos and be in scary minds, ain’t know if he can trust. Then I wake again in sharpness, skew my eyes behind, look for the feathers that may come.

At Sengle town, this agony jolt and jolt and stop. I slump at Pasha for a string of shuddering breaths. Lean sideways and puke rat booze. Then, when my eyes open, I can comprehend, ain’t no one here. No enfants, nothing stirring in the camp.

Pasha breathing hard like fear. He say, ‘Ice Cream, you bone?’

I take a grainy breath and say, ‘They gone to Lowell.’ Want to make an explanation, sure these explanations crowd my head. But I ain’t speaking somehow. I shut my eyes and see the NewKing grin.
You be a year of misery, Sengle
. Ain’t know at first, when this been said. Then I know, and start to cry.

Pasha reach back clumsy. He find my arms and pull them, one and one, around himself. Say, ‘Hold. Hold to me.’ I hold and cry on gratty, like Pasha been the one I miss.

As we come through Lowell City, everything begin to ease. The pain become familiar trouble. Got no strength for feelings, and I look up at the bricky buildings like this be a casual day. Notice a sparrow on a step; she turn her eye at us. Then she flight away, and
there be blue above the bricks. So I be squinting into blue as we come to the Lowell gates.

Here come a yell, is long feroce. Can scarcely see above my Pasha’s shoulder. I stretch my painful head to look.

At the easter gate, where petty cryers keep their watch, now stand a grown eighteen. Got a long-nose rifle in his hands. And yo upon the walls, more jones aim various guns at us. These Lowells call their frighten voice.

I take my breath and yell in weakness, ‘Here be Ice Cream Sengle!’

Then every voice break out, call to each other. Money pick and drop her feet, shift back. The sun stare bald around.

A jones voice call out hard, ‘What roo be this? Identify!’

I scream wild, ‘It be our roo, goddamn! Be Pasha Sengle!’

Then I weaken down. Exasperate this whole event. Pasha pinch my arms to him with elbows as Money start again. We come among the noisy voices. Hear them boss and question. Then it be a queery feeling, how I be loosen off the horse and handle down. I struggle at a hand that touch my hurt. And I be swung and loose again, come folding to the ground. Lie on their concree lot. Sun’s heat fill my skin, the ease of stillness chill me.

‘Ice Cream? Companiera?’

When I open eyes, there stoop a girlish jones with croppen hair. Ain’t know this child to name. She be a fattish child enough, I think of food. Then puking feeling come in me. I shake my head. Close eyes again.