The Country of Ice Cream Star (45 page)

Mamadou finish with his arm and pin the bandage to. Say easy, ‘I remember her.’

Then he kneel down by First Runner. She sit dazen, trace her fingers through a sheepskin rug. And Mamadou ask her quiet, if she been keeping watch for El Mayor. She nod to this, but never look. Stare on her working fingers.

‘Sure you meant to follow them,’ the NewKing say like logic.

She glance toward Malik, look back at Mamadou with blank mistrust.

Mamadou say soft, ‘Yo, where they gone?’

Here the other feathers run up noisy on the stairs. Come in with all their talk, kick round their goods, seek for some booze. But soon
they hush, come staring at First Runner and the NewKing, where they matching stubborn looks.

‘Where they gone?’ say Mamadou.

First Runner say with sudden hatred, ‘Cannot tell you. Got instructions.’ Her blooden face gone in its sweat, hand gripping in the sheepskin fur. Malik stand tense behind, look feary from the NewKing to his sister. Ya, all the feathers watching, from wherever they fetch up.

‘Nay, you going to tell,’ say Mamadou, like he giving news.

‘Is threats?’ she say in breathless voice. ‘This do you nothing. Cannot tell.’

‘Ain’t threats. I known you from an enfant, how I know. Guess I remember you better than you remember me.’

She frown to the sheepskin, grit her mouth. ‘You ain’t know me.’

But Mamadou stand away, uncaring. And he tell the feathers that they leaving Massa woods, will follow after the people gone.

Crow tell me: ‘Sure, he got some plan. Been planning every days for this. But how he never saying what it be … ain’t plans we going to like.

‘But all they feathers
run
to do his word. Ain’t think for nothing. Pack their goods, and talking like … like every Massa
townie
now. Like Lowells going to
want
themself. Ain’t even wonder how we going to find they other Massas. Mamadou said, and all it is.

‘But sure, I gone with them. Ain’t staying there alone, no sho.’

Where the NewKing lead them first, been to the Armies’ horsen field. Was dusking, and they scout into the woods with nervy dread. Been days since no one seen the other Armies. Cannot guess their moods. Ya, anyone expect, the horses guarding in these risky days. Or can be, those Armies gone. Be roos who wait in ambush.

But they find the horses normal, tether to dragging logs. No child be by, no threat. They mount, and Mamadou lead them down the path to Army camp. All wonder why he take them to this risk, but
no one brave to ask. So they follow through these woods they know, into the dusty grass, the huts still standing where they been, and past where Yas and Bardo lie unmoving in their blood. Past Peter Christing-born, and startle a fox is chewing Peter’s guts. Ride past a gut-shot hound, is staring blind into the sky, and Mamadou rein his horse before the simper house. He unmount clumsy with his one good arm.

Been only Crow and Musa gone with Mamadou into the house. And, like they known it going to be, all people kilt inside. Musa go hunting through the bodies, find his enfant Faisal. Crouch and chase the green flies from his face and cry some strangle noise. Can hear another feather puking miseries outside.

Mamadou watch on this with face besweaten. He skinny from his sickness, and his face look skullish dread. He look like he belong to this hell unworld. Can see he known what he will find; he seen this in his hatred dreams, these days. And he stand there with his starving looks, the king of these red children. King of flies and murder.

Crow go out again, ain’t want to bear this. Come and take his horse’s reins from Malik, who stand bewept and strange. Ya, First Runner sit her horse beweepen. She say to Crow, ‘Be Gosha dead?’ He know no Gosha, but he say, ‘They dead.’

Then Mamadou come out. He walk straight to First Runner and polite her with her Lowell name. Is speaking soft, though his face still besweaten, eyes feroce. He say, ‘Can fight roos with a hundred, but I cannot fight with eight. I know you gone to Lowells, but you be our child. You strong. Now tell me where they others gone. We going to make this right.’

And in these farther days, following on the highway in our chase, all feathers come into belief, they bring war to the roos. Nights, they burning sacrifice to Shango god, and swear this war. Journey been terrify and strange, was watching for roos with every step. They watch the sky their enemy, wake to each sound in nighten woods.
Ya, they live among their ghosts of feathers and of slaves, until they feeling like a troop of dead, bound in revenge for their own killing.

And when Marias soldiers took them, Yusuf object in voice. Yell frustration how they must be free, they going to war. He keep on swearing though these strangers never comprehend. But Crow been glad in capture, feel they save from their insanity – until they taken to that Citgo wall, and Yusuf yelling weak annoyance, and some boy shoot Yusuf cold.

Then it going like I know – Crow and Mamadou kept apart, the other feathers shot and shot. Nat Mass Armies finish in easy minutes. And all this night behind, Crow think, if Pasha never kilt Karim, Karim come to this wall, will die the same. And Crow only wonder, how no child surviving ever – how he live no sixteen years, when every day can be a gun, a moment’s anger. Live these years, and still remain, unwanten, like a punishment. Crow condemn to stay in this world, naked from no covering earth, this world where no good child belong.

46

THE GUNROOM TALK

So Crow tell his story, standing on this porch above the murmuring city of Marias, while the Vember cold grip in my flesh. When he finish, we look east, like we can see the Massa woods from here. Like it will come back to our wishing, how it ever been. And, senseless, I remember a day when Crow and me and Hate You gone for bait worms in a brook by Tophet. How we watch the Christings’ grandy house and plan to steal some cider. Hate You creep toward the barn in bravery, but a mule bray loud, and she come scrambling back in tears. When we was sixes, new to life.

Then, in darkness of my feeling, I remind Susannah’s face, the day we left from Lowell mill. Her eyes still scary from her rape; her soft bellesse been like a showing wound. And all the Christing littles by – enfants that I save from fire, to live for petty weeks. To scream and die in different fires.

A wolfen sadness chill me. I look at Crow and feel a freezing in my bones like heartbreak.

Crow grip his hands in fists. Frown to them like he wonder at their life, that they can feel and move. Then he loose his hands, say low, ‘He want to talk to you. The NewKing.’

‘Nay, why?’ I take a narrow breath.

‘I ain’t know.’ Crow shrug resenting. ‘Ever he want.’

‘He wanting me to speak for war somehow? To children here?’

‘Ain’t wondering this. Shee his wars.’ Crow squint back to the city. Can see his old hostilities begin, his shoulders tense.

I look to the farther sky. Be thinking sorry, be no sense to see the NewKing now. Got better troubles than himself – my war, the search to Massa woods. But here a notion pinch.

Be on the search to Massa, how I fearing to send El Mayor. But who must go, be Mamadou. Is obvious like eyesight. Be dangers natural to himself; be wars he want himself. And it be like a grief I always known, and struggle to forget.

Then Crow say, low into my thought, ‘I going now. Guess I find Driver.’

This name distract my feeling. I look to Crow in quick relief – expect somehow, I go with him. We sit by Driver for some easy time, all maladies apart.

But Crow ain’t even look to me. Turn hasty to the door.

I take a breath jalouse and say, ‘You know he callen dead? Our – our good child be?’

Crow catch on this. Look back to me, hate brilliant in his eyes. ‘Shee, I ain’t Sengle now. Can leave your rules. Be dead myself.’

Then he stalk off into the gleam iglesia. Pass a door, and in a second’s breath, he lost entire. Even his footsteps vanish, swallow in all rugs and walls. Leave only a mally wish, a misery where he always gone.

A minute behind, I go myself. Come through the sofa room and feel some fear to be alone. Be thinking of my Pasha’s tales of crimes he done. How these crimes been real sometime. Was done to children like the Christings, like the simpers and their enfants.

Pasha been right that I should kill him. Crow be right, was selfishness that I ain’t want my Pasha dead. And I should die for green Karim. Yo, the feather slavers – how Soledad shooting them, was sunlight justice. But Soledad should die for this, been murder neverless. And I cannot see how any child can be forgiven. I try to think
of people who hurt no one, but cannot see them different. Circumstances be, they find the evil that they do.

In the hall, I find the tennish ermana with the jutting ears. She got a filler pen in hand, is drawing on her fingernails. When she see me, she startle back. Muttern
santa reina
, and slip the pen into some pocket in her browndress clothes.

‘Salue,’ I say. ‘You needing something?’

She nod with confusen look. ‘I wait for you. Brought your key.’

‘Key for … elevator, ya?’

‘Elevator.’ She flash a gaptooth smile, hold out the key. Her fingernails got hearten shapes upon, in shaky blue. I take the key, warm from her palm.

Then she say whispern, ‘Santa reina, downstairs wanted me to say … we English for you.’

‘English?’

‘Was always spaniels Maria, it’s everybody says you’re different. See, you know what spaniels is?’

This baffle in my sorry nerves. I only shake my head.

‘Spaniel, that means Spanish. Rich. Apostles, they’s all spaniels. But most people here, we’re English. Working people is. The spaniels, they don’t want no English Maria. Braw, no. But we’re for you, they … the kitchen people and downstairs, they told me I should say. I’m sorry if it’s wrong.’

‘Nay, be no wrong. Ain’t comprehending much, but you be bone.’

‘Comprehend? Oh, sorry, cause I’m Loisaida people, so I talk so bad. I’m sorry.’ She hang back, smiling anxy, clutching hands into her dress.

Then I get a different thought. Say low in courtesy, ‘What be your name, my ten?’

She scratch her forehead, shy. ‘Tamara.’

‘Bone, Tamara. Can do some help for me?’

‘Yes, santa reina. Course.’

‘Be gratty. You know Mamadou? Apostle so.’

‘No, please. Don’t know.’

‘Be a bigly jones, scar cheeks. Got his arm bound up.’ I cock my arm against myself.

To this, her eyes go frighten. I say, ‘You know him, right. He being here?’

She shake her head unready. ‘Santa reina, please. He left.’

I startle. ‘How, he gone?’

‘Gone outside.’ She point the windows. ‘Next house, the firing range there.’

‘Next house? Foo, they allowing him outside?’

‘Course.’ She shrug like obvious questions. ‘Do what he likes. He’s an apostle. But, I should bring you?’

A moment, I only clutch the key in my besweaten hand. Then I say in narrow breath, ‘Be gratty, Tamara. Guess this can be right.’

Where she take me, be some walk along the outer street. Four redcoat guards come worrying along, and I distract my nerves by asking them their names. They pronounce these with delighting shyness. Yo I notice – what I scarcely heeding in my early fears – two sky towers, taller than no heights I ever seen. These got no normal walls. Is made entire of darkish windows. Glass be mostly shattern, and it look like their tremendous skin been eaten rough by moths.

House where Mamadou gone be like a smaller Ministerio. Is flights of whitish stone, with carvings fancifying its big door. On its lower floors, the windows gone and blind. Replace with brick. Coppery letters on its front read:
Cuartel de la Defensa, Brigada Municipal del Barrio Quinta
.

We come into a grandy room, got nothing in itself but doors. Is muffle banging in the walls, like someone hammer nails. Some browncoat soldiers there be smoking, leaning careless to a wall. When they see myself, they straighten frightening. Tamara call some Panish, and one soldier skit toward a door.

When he opening this door, the hammering come ferocious loud. Be guns. I think in sudden fright, they shooting Mamadou there. But
when I check Tamara’s face, she got exciting smile. Skree breathless through the larm, ‘He’s there, senyora. You can see.’

Then my comprehending quit. Cannot guess what morons hunt with guns inside some house. May be rats they kill, but no considerate child chase these with bullets. Ain’t surprises they lose all their windows.

Soldier by the door go yell. In second’s change, the gunfire hush. Then come any-number soldiers from the open door. All stare on me with biggen eyes and muttern
santa reinas
. Point rifles to the ceiling as they gather to the wall.

At last, the soldier by the door call Panish back to us.

Tamara turn to me. ‘Senyora, can apostle Mamadou keep his gun? Man’s asking.’

‘Shoo, he got a gun?’

‘Course.’ She get amusing grin. ‘Here’s the firing range. But he can keep it?’

‘Sure, can keep it,’ I say wondering.

‘Then good.’ Tamara stoop her courtesy. ‘He’s there.’

Gunroom be untold in length, and empty of no furnitures. Floor littern with spent bullet shells, look strawly in their scatter. On the farther wall, be grandy paper drawings hung – pictures of children, sketchen plain, and all been shot some dozen times. In other circumstance, can laugh, what nasty fool invent this game. But in the middle room is Mamadou.

He wearing his same clothes from Massa woods, jeans and unwritten tee. They dirty with their use, and loose upon his thinner body. Right arm unbound, but still he got a bandage thick beneath his shirt. Pistol held in this right hand. Hand smart as ever been, although his arm hold careful, stiff. Yo, even in his injury, in grimness of his children lost, he bell like hungry night.

Ain’t neither of us say no greeting. I only turn and close the door, heart snatching in my chest. Think how I be his queen – and how I lain, confuse, while Pasha shoot him. How I approve the killing of Karim, and if he heard or known. Yo, as the door come shut, my
belly pinch, sharp like a hating word. And it realize cold, this murdern baby can be his. Enfant can be Mamadou’s get, from the killing morning of roo Deema, of Karim.