I see he ain’t meant disrespect, but still my mind go vicious red. I suck my cigarette without no breath and feel despicable.
‘Will overlook this speech,’ I say. ‘You ain’t to understand.’
His face go wary. ‘What I say?’
‘No Sengle taken queen. No Sengle kept by Armies since the murder wars. Nor will be. Never going to be.’ I spit into the dirt. ‘Queening be a matter for the Christings. Always them is took.’
Pasha looking at me careful. ‘You pain with me? I say some mally?’
‘Nay, is only feeling.’ Ain’t know why, but then I say, ‘Got history with NewKing Mamadou.’
Then I sure regret my words. My cigarette taste weak, and all the rain be falling shame.
‘History?’ say Pasha. ‘What this history?’
‘Shoo. Forget this talk.’
His eyes grow mischief back. ‘Ho, love history. Comprehend.’
‘Goddamn, you hush. Be crime to love some Nat Mass Army.’
‘Be crime you feel? Is sorry.’ He laugh loud, his head tip up and hit the bough above. All piney rain shake on our heads.
I swear and kick his shin. This only make him laugh up worse. And the piney wetness break my vanity, I laugh myself. All the woods is private with the darkly rain, I feel uncanny.
‘Damn your yellow brains, you see too much. Yo shaggy dirt.’
He laugh again and say, ‘You kick me more, yo criming girl?’
‘Goddamn!’ I try to smoke, but cigarette been soggen from the rain. I throw it down. ‘Must teach your mouth respect. Can go too far, this rooish freedom.’
Pasha’s eyes shine through my shame. ‘NewKing, how looking? What his face?’
‘Ain’t concern yourself, what face he have. Shee for your questions.’
‘Nay, think I seen this NewKing.’
‘Foo, how your NewKing look?’
‘Prettieuse boy, got feathers. Greenish feathers here.’ He sweep his hand behind his neck.
‘Ain’t Mamadou,’ I say, relieve somehow. ‘The NewKing’s feathers black and red. This been some featherboy.’
‘Seem like NewKing.’ Pasha shrug. ‘He talk to Crow like. Bossy.’
Then disbelieving prickle on my skin. I narrow at the roo. He looking unconcern, inspect the wet spots on his cigarette.
I say, ‘This feather talk with Crow? They two alone been talking?’
‘Ya.’ He ware at me. ‘Ain’t bone they talk?’
‘Be … ain’t normal that they talk. Is sergeant’s business, parleying with Armies. They talk how? Was friendly?’
‘Ya. They walking arm with arm.’ Pasha put his elbow out to show the linken arms.
‘Foo, boys linking arms. Is Army manners.’ I squinch up my nose. ‘What they said?’
‘Ain’t comprehend the speech good then. Been weeks before.’
‘They spoken friendly, though? Ain’t been dispute?’
‘Ya, they laugh and friendly. Like we be.’
I press my back against the piney trunk. Sap sticking at my jacket, and I feel my hungry nerves. Sure this be why Crow ain’t bring meat to town. He give his meat to Armies, trade to them in secret crime.
Reason be no science to explain. When Sengle boys go to the Armies, be for simper slaves. Male who cannot please no girl, will go where he can pay. The slaven girls cannot refuse. Nor these girls ain’t get the loot; is for the Army filth to keep. Crow be Crow, but never I thought my animose do such. The child my arms remember never do this cruelty.
I say, ‘For crime, this be the worst. Ain’t to know, what this Crow do, if Armies capture girls from us. If he be sergeant … shee!’
‘Ice Cream. I ain’t–’
‘Nay. Hush.’
Pasha turn his eyes away. I take and loose my sadden breath. Try thinking how I tell my Driver, but can see no help. Crow be our only male full-grown. He sergeant, or we ridding him, the Sengles lost the same.
At last, I only reach my palm into the chilling rain. Breathe and feel its trickle cold until my sense return.
As I think and Pasha hush, the rain go slow and lessen. Soon my palm feel weak beneath its course. Sun brighten through. I put my chill wet hand against my throat.
‘Is tardy,’ I say soft at last.
Pasha stir. Look at me sleepyhead and faraway. ‘Ya, be evening meal.’
‘Foo, ain’t dusking yet. You see the sun?’ I point and feel a glad frustration. ‘Teach your leaky brain to tell the time, goddamn.’
‘Be crafty,’ Pasha say, and laugh.
We set forward easy-foot, our empty packs be light. But as we find the path, some running footsteps sound behind. Come a Lowell runner breathless through the splashing mud.
Sprinting to, he cry out, ‘Ice Cream Sengle! Word from El Mayor! Must come and bring the roo!’
The runner wearing Lowell jacket suit and flat cravat. Is eight, an older age to be a runner, and his face be panic. All this show importance; El Mayor ain’t going to hear my nay.
Runner start again. ‘Be urgent. El Mayor himself require.’ He yappit on about the need, while all his eyes stare at the roo. Ya, my heart exasperate. I got no moods to El Mayor, nor I got time for Lowells now.
‘Cannot come,’ I say. ‘Tell El Mayor he ask some other day.’ I nod to Pasha and set off. Roo come behind, and runner last, must jog to keep the pace, while crying, ‘El Mayor be seriose! Ain’t heeding, companiera!’
At Sengle town, they got a rain-sheet spread from tree to tree. All children yappiting beneath, the raindrops chatter on its plastic. At the corner where we come, stand Driver and Crow Doe.
Crow standing normal like all days. His froggen face resent and brood; arms cross against his chest. And I feel a knifen pain. Mind babbit nonsense, how it be some explanation, all can fix. But my heart know, and miss him like a thing forever lost.
The runner dash up straight to Driver. ‘Sergeant Sengle! Sure your Ice Cream want to never heed! El Mayor call her to business. Tell her, companiero!’
Take me a breath to gather thought. Then I say thin, ‘Brother, I got parley to yourself. Ya, El Mayor will handle me, be all his mally business.’
‘Yo injustice!’ the runner cry. ‘And El Mayor been give you bullets! You never bring his roo, is all his talk. He angry on all Sengles.’
Then Driver speak, in voice like steel. ‘You go, Ice Cream.’
‘Ain’t wish to visit El Mayor,’ I say, quick from my feeling. ‘Can keep his dirt for his own Lowells.’
‘Foo!’ the runner say. ‘Yo disrespect!’
‘You go,’ say Driver. ‘Be no talk.’
I turn on him with every cavil noisy in my heart. But then my brother cough, and seize in pain through all his body. Yo Crow flinch like he cough himself. Bowl Thirteen step back, like she beware some sudden threat. And all the children round unhappy kept, look maudy at the dirt.
Then can feel their knowing. And I see my Driver’s eye gone plasticky from papa tea. His breath come wheezing, thin for life.
I say, ‘Sure, your decision be my work. You be sergeant.’
Driver swallow at his throat. ‘Ya, El Mayor keep loot for me. Can ask him for this also.’
My heart know, loot be papa tea. But I only say, ‘Will ask. Forgive no disrespect.’
12
TOBER 29 ITS FEARY NIGHT
We come to Lowell mill at roofen sunset. For hastiness, we take both horses – though Pasha be a stupid rider, Big Smoke follow Money sans no help. Still, be a long way through the city, where shadows lie uncanny stiff among the bricky homes. Never a breeze make any shadow shift. Is set like paint.
Be gratty to reach the mill at last, its windows gold joyeuse with lectric light. A dozen children scramble to the gate to see the roo. All come noising, pushing, asking if the roo be danger. I be calling nay and shoo. Underfooten Lowells barely give us room to dismount.
At the door, these leave us in respect. We pass inside. Soon the only sound is groaning turbines and our patting feet. We walk in this l
oud quiet to El Mayor’s workenroom. Here, windows show the purplish sunset on the glassy river. Lectric light be shining. All is neat and sugar clean.
El Mayor be frogleg on the floor. By his knee, a radio sit. This be a plastic instrument, with metal grill upon its face, and tiny numbers painten by. Now it give a snoring noise. Snore rise and fall as El Mayor tweak at its side. His nosy face intensify, his long hands work.
Radio been El Mayor’s delight and duress, six months long. Child expect this plastic box will tell him every mystery. If any a city still exist, the radio will speak its voice. But no word come from this object, ever he rearrange its wires.
Now El Mayor put down the no-book he been writing in. Eyes concentrate on me, and his mouth narrow on no smile. In this chilly look, can see the days that I avoid his friendship.
‘Is bony that you come,’ he say.
‘Your sight be welcome,’ I polite him.
El Mayor tweak the radio again; it hush its snore. He rise to his feet, regard my Pasha head to foot.
Pasha say, ‘Be joy to meet you, El Mayor. Your mill be bell.’
‘Yes, be bell.’ El Mayor slant his eye at me. ‘Love of bellesse a Lowell weakness. Our strength be weakness, weakness be our strength. Is such a saying.’
‘What this meaning?’ Pasha ask.
‘Mean nothing,’ I say. ‘Nonsense be their sense, sense be their nonsense.’
‘Ice Cream ain’t love weakness.’ El Mayor look at me hard. ‘Wolfen female, loving trouble more than featherbeds.’
‘Be well,’ say Pasha. ‘Mill be fine.’
El Mayor turn back to Pasha, careless in his face. ‘Hearing you is thirty. Can believe this tale?’
Pasha shrug. ‘Ain’t never count my years.’
‘Count now, my ox. Be wrong by two or three, ain’t figure.’
‘Roo ain’t smart to count,’ say Pasha. ‘Like tree. Live hundred years, grow into sky. But tree got stupid head.’
‘Tree got no head,’ say El Mayor.
‘Truth be right,’ I say. ‘Here great Lowell science speak.’
El Mayor wave back my talk. ‘You come from far away? Or is there roos born here in Massa?’
‘Born … I ain’t remember this. Been born before my memory.’
‘Shoo, where you live, before the Sengles catch you?’
‘Live in this house they burn. Remember now, I borning there.’ Then Pasha laugh, like his own saying please his ticklishness. I laugh myself. Be good relief, some other person bear his nonsense.
El Mayor ain’t rile. He never mind no disrespect, is only untying in his mind. Can see him circle round this knot, seek an end to tug. When this ain’t appear, his face distract. ‘A yellow Sengle, shoo. Got better trouble than your lies.’ He turn to me and say, ‘Heed this. My radio been talk.’
Take me time to hear his meaning. Is Pasha wake my sense.
‘Radio talk?’ say Pasha.
‘Ho, this object talk?’ I say bewoken. ‘Talking words?’
‘Talk and talk,’ say El Mayor. ‘You hold. I find this speech again.’
El Mayor crouch to poke the radio, and it repeat its snore. He pinch its belly, twist his fingers. Noise go boo, then shrink and crackle.
‘Speech start out on ninety-one point five,’ say El Mayor. ‘But then it go to ninety-one point seven. Then I gone to evening meal. Been lost when I return.’
Pasha watch with narrow eyes. Listen like he know what all this Lowell babble mean.
I say, ‘What speech the radio been doing? You talk to it any?’
‘Nay, cannot talk back,’ say El Mayor, his voice impatient. ‘Said some sleeper English. Hasty speech, ain’t comprehending much.’ He look up from the radio at us. ‘Then it spoken fisher Panish. And it spoken something else. Was thinking, can be rooish.’
‘Rooish?’ Pasha say. ‘You speak in rooish?’
‘Nay,’ say El Mayor. ‘You speak in rooish. Be rooish, maybe you will understand. For this I fetch you.’
My nerves waken, bright joyeuse. I kneel by El Mayor. A green line move behind the radio’s numbers as he twist its dial. El Mayor be scowling hard, as if it take all hungry strength to catch this voice again. Pasha crouchen by. And now I see, the roo be frighten. Can wonder if he fearing science inventions, like some children do. But ain’t got time to ponder this before the snore break into talk.
El Mayor’s hand lift from the dial. Pasha lean in hungry-eyed, and we all heed this voice.
Can guess, the speech be fisher Panish. Got its hopping sound. Ya, be uncanny how this box speak out in boyish voice. Cannot guess how the voice be made – I seen these radios’ insides, and be no throat nor tongue. Voice sound bored and priding both. Be like it tell a lesson, and ain’t hope much for our telligence.
Then the voice go finish. A different boy begin. Take time before I recognize, is sleeper English. Some words comprehend, but nothing weave into a sentence meaning. El Mayor been grab a pen and scribble in his no-book. Write fast as hand can move, but this voice pippet hasty on.
Some bits untangle as they pass. ‘We ask that … give aid … do not … safety …’ Pasha listen hard, and press his fist against the tilen floor. Voice drop at last into confuse, a gabble that ain’t comprehend. But one word come clear: ‘Lowell.’
Here the voice is finish. Only hushen fuzz go on.
‘Said Lowell, ya?’ say El Mayor, glad feary. ‘Heard this before.’
‘How these strangers know our place?’ I say. ‘They speak to us?’
‘Ain’t know.’
The radio crackle break to voice again. Is rooish – sure I know from Pasha’s face before I hear.
The slushen talk go draining past, sound bored and vaunty like the rest. Pasha follow on, ain’t breathe nor stir. His face be rotten white.
As it jabber onward, Pasha rise up on his feet. Stand tense, his face gone deaf and strange. His hands join into angry fists. Arms biggen with their hate. Is like he see this talking boy, and gather for his murder. Yo, now it realize again, the grandy beast he be. I crouch tense to help, but sure I fear his size. My bones go fear.
But as the radio hush again, his anger pass like blown-out flame. Is like a child who lose a fight and stand in beaten misery.
I stand up nerviose. He inhale sharp and look at me. Is like his pain been on myself, my heart react uncertain.
And Pasha say, ‘We all must leave. Must go from Massa woods, as far as … far we can.’
13
OF THE RADIO SPEECH
‘Leave where? Ain’t sense. My Pasha, calm.’ But panic flutter in my chest.
El Mayor say slow, ‘Why we must leave? What they said?’
Pasha shake his head. Go rub his eyes with fisten hand. Where the hand pass, dirt be smear. Eyes blaze their suffering.
I look at El Mayor. He stand up waring, making fists himself.
‘Got booze?’ I say. ‘May help.’
‘Is sleeper brandy. Can–’
Then Pasha speak up harsh. ‘This radio talk be from my people. Say they help, but ain’t to trust.’
‘Your people?’ I say frighten. ‘Roos?’
‘Is what you call us, yes.’ Then something in his face be skew. Like laughter wake, but ain’t no happy joke.
‘Ain’t to trust?’ say El Mayor. ‘Roos will steal our children now?’
‘Roos kill you all.’ Pasha clench his jaw, consider on these words. Then he nod, like he approve their truth. ‘They kill you all.’
A minute we three breathe our hush. Radio gabble fisher Panish, keep up its unrest. Yo, my thoughts be like all frighten mice, run everyway and blind.
‘When we must leave? Tonight? Or this can wait to morning?’ El Mayor’s voice sarcasty, but his face be stiff with nerves.
‘Can get a week,’ say Pasha, sans no humor. ‘But be sooner better.’
‘Why these roos will kill us?’ I say. ‘Eating children like they say?’
Pasha shake his head, impatient. ‘Nay, is like your murder war.’
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‘War?’ I laugh up thin and scary. ‘Got no war to them. Ain’t even know these roos.’
‘You know these roos?’ say El Mayor to Pasha. ‘These your townie folk?’
Then Pasha show his silent face. The meaning dim out of his eyes.
‘Sleeper brandy,’ I say nerviose. ‘Need this myself.’
‘Yo sho,’ say El Mayor, his voice gone shy. He step to a cabinet, take out a chubby brock. His hand be shaking as he reach the brock into my hand.
I drink a sip that burn my throat, make heat behind my eyes. I magine a folk of shaggy Pashas. All got long-nose guns, wear ugly-color like the roos I seen. And I recall the deer shot through and through in friendly field. Roos pool around this unluck deer, is noise and size and many. They pass on and nothing left.
The radio go back to sleeper English. El Mayor grab up his no-book. Hunker down and start to write. Pen pause like it think, then scramble. Most is single words. Can, must, is – mean nothing by themself. Further be writ safety will … only sixteen days.
Pasha turn away, his gaze go frowning to the window. I look along, see where the fallen bridge crouch in the water. River fat with rain. Sun below the gray horizon, only give a thimble light.
The speaking mumble to its end. When I look back at the no-book, words is writ: treatment for waks.
Here my heart misgive. I say low, ‘Treatment for WAKS?’
‘Ya,’ say El Mayor in catching voice. ‘What I heard. Ain’t certain.’
I look at Pasha, and his eye meet mine in painful meaning. ‘Pasha,’ I say, ‘it be WAKS? You know?’
‘Is bait,’ say Pasha cold. ‘Is bait in snare.’
‘What bait?’
A moment he resist. But then he say in careful voice, like every word must comprehend, ‘Roos say, we give help. Come to us. When you come, is different tale. Must fight for them before they give. Nor they allow you leave. You fighting for them, or you kilt.’
‘Fight for them?’ El Mayor scoff his breath. ‘Who we will fight?’
‘Fight …’ Pasha rub his face again, the dirt smear thin. ‘Be farther place. Ain’t nothing you will know.’
‘If we fight,’ I say, ‘they give us cure?’
The Country of Ice Cream Star Page 8
