The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  Be something like a gift how I forget to tell him nay. A minute we been kissing, then five minutes it prolong. What happen in my mind and blood be dizziness and sparks. His fingertips stroke featherish on my nape.

  He gather me to him. Pull me down, and we lie out along the sofa, front to front. I feel his hardness at my thigh, a fever wake into my skin. The kiss slow and feroce, this kiss contain all feary luxury.

  But my panic wake. Cold prickle all my hairs, and without thought, I push him rough from me. His hands pull me back, refuse to notice. I say, ‘Nay. Leave me free, goddamn!’ Be shaking, sweat go bright along my nape.

  He freeze. Pull sharp away and scramble awkward to his sofa side. There he sit with wretchen face.

  He say, ‘Some strange dislike you got to me. Can say this.’

  ‘Quit, quit.’ My trembling ease. ‘Beg you gratty, quit this.’

  ‘Ain’t never quit to hunt you, bell. I go find you a room in Lowell mill tonight. Can stay with me, and damn this Crow, whoever being sergeant. Here you be anything you like. Be a Sengle, all I care. Lowell First Thief Sengle, be your name with us.’

  ‘Lowell Seventh Girlfriend, be more like.’

  He smile but his eyes darken. ‘Ain’t need they other girls, if you been here. Can swear you this.’

  ‘I cannot help your want.’

  ‘Why? You got someone? No sho, you ain’t.’

  There be no why. Ain’t know what tale to tell. I think of NewKing Mamadou, the enemy I yearn upon. How he capture me in guilty dreams. But my spirit seize resentment, how I care for this when Driver sick.

  I shake my head. ‘Sadness, all it is. I got no feeling to this now.’

  ‘Sure, comprehend,’ he say with poor belief.

  Then no more parley can be spoken. He call a runner down to Lowell First Contractor for my bullets. We wait, and El Mayor tell nonsense of his loves with other girls. Sure he boast to rid his shame, but that ain’t make it joy to hear. I mood myself to leave.

  Soon I say my parting words, and El Mayor polite me wisty. The noise of Lowell mill slip back from Money’s trotting hooves. The dusking sleep of Lowell City take my loneliness. I ride home to my full-grown trouble, to my people few and feary small, my Sengle town.

  8

  BY DRIVER’S HIDING MEADOW: TOBER 3–15

  These be the Sengles in the time I speak of, when my trouble grown. Of baby children, be Bother Zero Tool, the Answer Zero Ka, Fine One Ndiaye, Bell Eyes One Ndiaye, and Lolina-tina One Diouf, Crow’s child with Mari’s Ghost. Be healthy screaming babies, they got grandy rolls of fat. These all got mothers living but the twins Bell Eyes and Fine.

  Of littles, there be Dinty Moore Two Fall who cannot hear, Naomi Two Forgotten, Maple Two Diop who be a son of John of Christ, Mohammed Three Insulting, Story Four Duval that has got reddish hair, Problem Four Tool, Luvanna-Lana Five of Lowell, Best Creature Five Wang who is misname and be annoying, Mustapha Five Insulting, Dollar Saver Six Fall, a fine enchanting little who can sing, Baboucar Seven Grandpa, Jeep Cherokee Seven Skips and Foxen Seven Fall. The mother of all three Falls be alive but gone to Lowell, now name Lowell Second Plumber and got posies bad.

  Of the eights and nines, there be my vally Keepers Eight Fofana, worth all other children, and her favorite hatred Mouse Eight Wang. Progresso Nine Wilson and My Sorrow Nine Wang been solo-animoses for some years, ain’t speak with never another child.

  Then come Marlboro Ten Tete-Brisee and Kool Ten Tete-Brisee, twins, birdcatcher-age and lean. Shiny Eleven Angels be a prettieuse and flirtish girl that give bad sign of wisdom, for she dabbit after Crow. Shiny chosen her own name, this be the measure of her wits. Redbook Twelve Ba, Bowl Thirteen Tete-Brisee and Cat Fancy Thirteen Ba all go ridiculous in love with Driver. They tend the littles and tell reveries one to the other, all day long. Jonah Fourteen Feet the only weakly jones, and scary since his brother took to Lowell two years gone. Then come Jermaine Fourteen Uptown, Christing born and Christing seriose in gentleness. Jermaine be wisty for my love, and many Lowells also and some Christings sleeping hungry for my love.

  Next be Tequila Fourteen Tool, Mari’s Ghost Fourteen Diouf, Hate You Fourteen Ka, and Asha Badmouth Fifteen Feet. Then come my place. Then come malicieuse Crow Sixteen Doe, and Villa Seventeen Insulting, fool infatuate for any male. When she ain’t bother males, she eat, that be the list of what she do. Last come my Driver, which make thirty-eight in Sengle town.

  These been my Sengles in the year when Driver been our sergeant; time that kindly John been husband of the Christing fellowship; when the Lowells’ El Mayor been Sengle born and Sengle brave. Mamadou was NewKing of Mass Armies, savage like his people – yet the child have dignity and sense, best of the worst.

  Fat luck been the story of this year. Snares ever struggling full, and every arrow find a turkey. Any a sleeper street we did maraud, that street give food. We war like twenty guns, but no one injure. Sling our hammocks in the crowns of sycamores like secret birds, and rest there, chattering and smoking, noses to the stars. Children forgot the taste of hunger and the touch of fear.

  Yo when Driver sicken, this the happiness we lose.

  These early Tober weeks, my Driver woke before us all. He walk out to his hiding meadow in the frosten dark. Half the day he leisure there. Brew papa tea against his pain and drowse beside the fire. Times, he lie down on the ground to cough. Hurt him less so. Then he work at coughing like a task. He try to cough the wrong out, but that sticky wrong ain’t shift.

  In a brook that dabbit by, he wash himself – for he ain’t going to show his body in the stream at Sengle town. Got posies on his leg. They only be a few, and ain’t disgusting. Only is blackish spots. Yet no one can see this, or all children going to know his sickness. And how it is, the posy sergeant must be callen dead. He go apart to useless silence, and another sergeant must be chosen this same hour.

  Become my habit that I gone to meet him in the hours of dew. I bring ABC and Money, led on leash and halter. Feel they know my trouble, feel their caring hid in beastish tact. We pace the morning damp together, and our silence knit in one. All the morning birds sing with our feeling.

  This meadow set behind an unroof house. Been three sleeper hounds dead there, most reason that the field abandon. No child love this place. House got wooden sides, once painten yellow, now be any color. From the house’s understep, a frazzle hose come out, is greener than no grass, look like a snake in corner-eye. The day that Driver name our trouble, I feel something evil here. Is like a ghost remainder from the evil times before.

  ‘Town been feeding thin these weeks.’ So he begin.

  We sit frogleg in the grass beside a low tea-fire. I still be sleepyhead in thought, watching Money graze and twitch her skin against the flies. So I say distracting, ‘Meat gone cautieuse, and all it is.’

  ‘Meat come back, but scarely be no Sengles fit to hunt.’

  ‘I been hunting rich.’ I scratch my fly-bit neck and yawn. ‘Had some owes to pay, but now they done. Be fatter now.’

  ‘Cannot feed only from yourself.’

  ‘Is Crow ain’t bringing meat to town. Child pigging to himself. What I suspicion–’

  Driver’s voice raise up. ‘Nor I ain’t hunt this week.’

  My eyes stop on his face. He sad as water then. His blackish skin be grayly, and his looks lost their bellesse.

  ‘I go ask John of Christ for corn,’ I say rough, ‘if worst become. They Tophets wait for pay, they ain’t particular in this.’

  ‘Ain’t no John I know myself, who trade you corn for nothing.’

  ‘Trade for promises.’ I shrug. ‘He easy for a tale. Must only go when their Susannah missing.’

  ‘Sister, cannot pay with lies forever.’

  Then Driver breathe in sudden, and he cough. Cough take him hard, it look like something kicking in his ribs. My nerves go thin. Yo, while he suffer, ABC come nosing round, stick in her mouth. Her tail aloft and glad. I swat my hand in air beside her nose, and she go off low-held.r />
  At last, my Driver quit to cough, stare empty at the fire. And he say low, ‘We be too few.’

  I shrug discomfort. ‘When Jonah grown to size, be better seasons.’

  ‘Nay, child. We be too few.’

  ‘Sure, our jones be few, but we had skinny years before.’

  ‘And Crow be sergeant? What this be?’

  ‘Ain’t no joy,’ I say uncertain. ‘But he strong. Can hunt.’

  ‘Nay, heed,’ say Driver. ‘If I be gone, you go to El Mayor.’

  I hunt his face for meaning, but his patience be like unmark snow. I say, in nervy joke, ‘This be some going that result in babies?’

  ‘Ice Cream, sister. Go and stay. El Mayor will take our Sengles. Take even useless children for your love.’

  ‘Stay?’ I huff a disbelieving breath. ‘We all be Lowells now?’

  ‘You all be fed. Be safe to live.’

  ‘But ain’t be Sengles. We be some worthless beggars in their mill. Ain’t no hunger worth this loss. Nor Crow allowing this. And he been right, we Sengles. Be ourself.’

  Driver shake his head. Bend to the fire again with painful frown.

  I glance at that hose, my eye mistake that it been sneaking toward. Shiver and feel, this be a ghosten place my Driver chosen. Is like I visit Driver in his death.

  Then Driver say, ‘Your hound be foo, look there.’

  He point. I look and see that ABC been took her stick to Money. Set it down before her hoofs, expect the mare to throw. Money stare uninterest, a sprig hung chewing from her mouth. ABC bark up, instruction in her voice. Then she feel us watching. Hound look to us, confuse and panting. Look back at the stick, like she get conscience that she been mistake, but ain’t see what is missing yet.

  I laugh bold and sweet. And laughing make our quarrel easy. Driver told me sense for years, and never I give him yes. No reason that this talk be different, laughing make me feel.

  But when he take my hand, I fear again. My heart gone small.

  He say, ‘My stubborn, heed. Been talk, the Nat Mass Armies want to take you. Once they knowing I be sick … ain’t only hunger that you need to fear, Ice Cream, is slavery.’

  9

  OF NAT MASS ARMIES

  When Sengles come to Massa woods, it been three peoples here already: Lowells, Christings and the Nat Mass Armies.

  With the Christings and the Lowells, we had truce from the beginning. Never our tiny thefts and misbehaviors hurt this peace. But with the Nat Mass Army kings and featherboys, been war. Yo, war be ever our respect to all their cockroach hearts.

  How Sengles will rob eggs and corn, the Armies robbing girls. They take them to do sweating work, and for unwanten sex – for any nasty use that be. These slaves be callen simper girls, and they lose every other name. Ya, every Army baby born from these unlucky slaves. The Armies give their own girl enfants to the Christings, when they grown. Trade for Christing males, whichever ain’t been chosen husband. So Armies all be boys, and any females in their town be slaves.

  Sengles hate a slaver worse than our bad luck. We hate their sally smell from drinking, and we hate their feather heads. Will raid their chickens for this hatred, or we run to skirmish. Ya, they raid us like a stenching wind, come wild and evil. From twelvish age, all Sengles harden to this war farouche.

  When our greats arrive in these wood forests, this been murder war. In they times, the Armies stolen girls from Massa woods. Now, for years and lives, the Armies leave their neighbors peaceful. They slave afar from fishers and Vermonters of the north. Will travel off two days, then stalk and rob a child while her town sleep. Only the Army queen be took from Christings, by their old agreement.

  Yo, as our woods grown soft in peace, our Sengle wars grown soft alike. In my time, our war knives sharpen only at their tip. Make cuts prettieuse and reddish but ain’t take no life. Our wars be beating-wrestling strife, for pleasure of our hate.

  Armies come to war with feathers braiden in their hair. Be like fighting with a hatred bird, no pity in this case. Your one hand have its knife, it hurt from holding on so hard. You slash and beating at his head until you breathing hard and tired. Until it feel a kind of lonely. And close, you smell that feary unwash slaver who dive his knife at you. Can smell blood when you cut him. On a colder day you feel his warm.

  Been one occasion, in my younger memory, we fight to murder. A Sengle girl was taken careless for their Army rape, and in wars of vengeance, Dogness Fofana was kilt. They been the years of NewKing Hak, a spider-hearten wretch. But he become the OldKing now, is gone in posy sickness. Already he kilt his queen and burnt her gods.

  Now is NewKing Mamadou, as honest as a knife. He Army, born without a gentle turn, but keep his slaves in fatness. Yo, he bell to love. My own heart’s secrecy been his, my cat insanities of night.

  But he die seven deaths before I capture so, I swear my heart. Be ever a hundred Armies, I go shred them all to blood despair. Be screaming on this land to them and broken dreams, be hell and hell.

  The sun be risen now, is cold and feary in the sky. Where I stare across that poory yard, the sun’s bright ache. And Driver’s hand be hot in mine, his skin unhealthy dry.

  I say hoarse, ‘They insects capture nothing. Kill them all, they try this.’

  ‘You stop them how? They got twelve boys is grown to size. Without myself–’

  ‘Who even saying they will take me?’

  ‘Better you think, who fight them. Ice we be too few.’

  ‘But Lowells–Christings fight them also. It be murder wars again.’

  ‘For Sengles?’ Driver set his mouth. ‘Cannot expect this, sister. If you gone to Lowell–’

  I flee my hand from his. ‘I go defeat your Armies, weakness. Who fight them, be myself.’

  Driver clench his hand into a fist. ‘Can leave your mally pride. How you will fight twelve boys?’

  ‘Who–’ My voice choke in my throat. ‘Nay, who will take me? Mamadou?’

  ‘Is Armies. Ain’t no who.’

  ‘Nay, how this be about myself?’

  ‘Shoo, my sister. Ain’t about yourself.’

  ‘Nay, Mamadou ain’t try this. Is only talk. Is only how they insects talk. They never dare.’

  Driver shake his head, frustrate. Turn back to his fire. My weakness dry while he reach out and bed a new log in the embers. Now he grow a silent anger, sure I know him well. I crave to tell him what he need. But Mamadou be red in my hurt conscience. My pride be loud, and I stare blind, and cannot make my mind think sense.

  At last, I say, ‘But while you strong, they leaving us?’

  ‘Ice Cream.’ His shoulders tense. ‘Must think beyond this.’

  ‘But if you keep–’

  ‘I ain’t. You cannot think this way.’

  ‘Nay, posies is our trouble, brother. Can be help for posies. Children live to seventy in sleeper times, you know this tale.’

  Driver stand up from his fire, his lips gone tight in rage. ‘Ain’t sleeper times.’

  ‘Yo sho, the roo–’

  ‘The roo. He give you pharmacies for this?’

  ‘Nay, but–’

  ‘You know he ain’t.’ He spit into the fire. ‘Beast telling lies and baby children go believe these lies. Can leave me from your noise. This talk be done.’

  ‘Ain’t even listen. If we–’

  ‘Nay, can go. Go on!’

  I stand up to my feet. ‘Ain’t be no slaving. All I say.’ Driver start to me in anger, but I turn by quick and stalk to Money. I catch her mane and mount, kick her into a hasty trot. ABC come chase behind, and bark her worry bright.

  Yo while I ride, my heart be clear. I know what I will do. Be something Driver ain’t forgive, what no good child forgive. But if evil can save Driver, I will love all filth. And I heel Money to a gallop. Already be pulling the pistol from my belt in readiness, as I ride hard to fetch the roo.

  10

  OF PASHA ROO HIS LIES

  It been two weeks since we found Pasha Roo, and he
accustom well. No one think to fear him now. Is horsen in his mild respect. He townie with our littles, ya, he doing tasks his own. Nor he ever budge to leave. Is there and there, like rooten plant.

  Yo, every day of those two weeks, I ask him on his age. At nighting camp, the roo must talk to me or he ain’t smoke. Most meals I give him from my hand, nor any a bite he take without an answer. Keepers taking gifts from me to teach him English speech. The roo be duteous to this. He always trying, asking words, and soon can talk as good as threes.

  But all my trials end in frustration. Be English or be rooish, he ain’t know one truthful word.

  Our first talk go like this:

  ‘Where your other roos be?’

  ‘Far.’ He give me friendly smile. ‘Ain’t fear.’

  ‘Ain’t fearing, only wondering. And every roo live thirty years?’

  ‘Nay,’ say Pasha, eyes gone careful.

  ‘How you live so long?’

  ‘Ain’t kilt.’

  ‘Nay, why you ain’t got posies?’

  ‘Posies?’

  Here we snag and go no farther.

  *

  I tell Keepers to explain him posies.

  Keepers sniff and say, ‘He know this well. You seen his teeth half gone? Was lying rot them out.’

  ‘Nay, he truthful in this case,’ I say, for I ain’t know him yet. ‘Explain him posies, little. Will be cigarettes for you, and meat.’

  Our second parley sound like this:

  ‘Roos all living thirty years?’

  ‘Nay, been lucky, me.’

  I given him a bag of raisin cakes, he eat this vally fast. The sparkly noising of the plastic bag pick at my nerves.

  I say, ‘What luck? You ain’t get posies how?’

  Pasha concentrate on cake. No thought be in his face. His hand slip in the bag, flee to his mouth. Mouth labor like a mill.

  ‘How you ain’t got posies? Hear me speak.’ I reach and grab the bag. His careless hand hit mine and all his body startle.

  He study how I tie the bag. At last, he lick his lips and say, ‘An insect.’