The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  ‘You die.’ Pasha’s voice come rough. ‘All die in war.’

  ‘Nay, why you ain’t said before? Been weeks.’

  Pasha shake his head impatient. ‘Ain’t think they coming here, so far. I think, was safe.’

  I start to cavil more, but El Mayor say through, ‘If we ain’t go?’

  Pasha grimace. ‘If you ain’t go, they come and take you. Or they kill you here.’

  El Mayor whistle in his teeth. ‘Ain’t to escape these roos.’

  ‘Why any child do this?’ I say. ‘Peculiar in itself.’

  ‘Nor I comprehend your wars,’ say Pasha. ‘Argue this, but leave. You still can run.’

  ‘WAKS is posies?’ I say. ‘Tell me truth.’

  He look misery tired. ‘Is posies. Sure. All that you ask.’

  I take my breath and say in brave unbalance, ‘Treatment for WAKS. This mean the roos got treatment? Can help posies?’

  ‘Yes,’ say Pasha bitter. ‘Now you run to them, be kilt.’

  The radio begin in roo again. Pasha light his eye toward the box in jitter hatred. My mind beset with roos and posies. Cannot think nor pause from thinking. I shut my eyes and drink again, the brandy lighten in me. Driver can be breathing full, can live. Roos kill us all, but Driver breathe.

  The brock flee from my hand. I open eyes and El Mayor got the brandy. Though his grooming nett, he look unkempt with tired thought. Ears themself look crooked on his head.

  El Mayor drink twice and thrice, then crouch down to the radio. He tweak its side, and its voice halt in silence. His shoulders ease. Then I surprise how my own fear relieve. Radio voice been like the voice of flies when your best child is dead.

  El Mayor say low, ‘Find what it say ourself. Then we consider.’ He look back to me like checking, but I only stare. He make a forcen smile, then stand up to his feet with stiff respect. Walk to the door and call like normal bossery, ‘Report!’

  Room beside El Mayor’s workenroom be Mailroom One. Here First Runner wait. As his voice be finishing, can hear her scurry foot. Second’s blink, she standing in the door neat and exact.

  This child a tennish paragon, is quick as dragonflies and light. Was born an Army girl without a name; now she learn science under El Mayor himself. Got braiden hair and her own sleeproom, princen in respect.

  El Mayor say, ‘I need all my firsts and seconds here. First Electric must bring radios. First Library bring the dixonaries. Rush.’

  Any a ten be curiose, but runners must not question. Yo First Runner never blink. She only say, ‘Is done.’ Before I can expect or watch, she gone. Feet hurry to their silence.

  And El Mayor turn back. Make painful smile to me, and slip misliking glance to Pasha. Then he crouch by the radio. Touch it scary like he touch a flame. Turn on its voice, and flinch as it begin. Reach for his pen.

  Yo, as he start to write, can hear the mill begin to sound with feet – all Lowells running hasty to our help.

  Time behind be like a waken-dream. Room fill with noisy Lowells; El Mayor yell orders furiose. Radios plugging everywhere, and Lowells gather thick to them, go write with all their hands. Yo, always be that grinding voice of flies. It jeer from every part.

  When the radio talking Panish-rooish, they all join to Pasha. Ask any questions they can think. But Pasha’s answers be the same: We stay, roos kill us all. We go to them, we took to wars afar, where never a child can live. Yo, when Lowells ask him where the roos be now, he losing tempers. Go ranting on the rooish guns, and how we small comparisons. Ain’t fight them anyhow, must flee without no stupid wait.

  And ever they ask him how he know – ask any question on himself – he only grit and hush. Eyes blank.

  When they go back to the radios, Pasha look at me. He always look at me, face grieving. And I watch my fury back, my beggaries of blame. But I ain’t try to speak. Be waiting till we can depart. And I fear this talk its future, and I fear the waiting moment. The radio voice ache in my ears. Be like the voice of Pasha’s scary eyes.

  Yo, this time seem like one minute somehow, that hold still in agony. But it been three hours before the speech be written whole.

  Is this:

  This is an emergency broadcast from the American mission of Russian Federation. We are asking all people over the age of 10 to report to [word nobody recognize, is probably a place] for registration and treatment for WAKS. Please give all help to the security operations of the rescue mission. Your safety will depend on your compliance. Report any people who stay behind to local troops of Russian Federation.

  The final date for registration is November 15th. After this date, all unregistered people of 11 and older are in violation of emergency laws. For the safety of other citizens, they will be subject to punishment action. Repeat: the final date for registration is November 15th. Only 16 days are left for safe registration. You can request transport and information from troops in your own area.

  Please tell your friends that treatment for WAKS is available. This will be given free to all people over the age of 10. The treatment is safe and effective. Please help us to accomplish the great mission Russian Federation has undertaken for the aid of her American allies.

  This announcement is in force for the listed areas: [more words nobody recognize. Here the word ‘Lowell’ come.]

  14

  THE PARLEY ON THE ROOS

  Time me–Pasha leave, be starrish windy night. First Library writ me out the radio speech. This fill my jacket pocket. In this zippen pocket, also be a fattish bag of papa tea for Driver’s use.

  The way through Lowell City, ain’t no sound but crickets and our crunching hoofs. Moon hide around the edifices, stalk us in the snaky alleys. Yo be stretches where the dark go blind. Here my terror rise. I feel my Driver’s death and all our threaten murders as one truth; how we come to darkness without help.

  Where the light shine clear, the broken glass make paths of sparkling moon. Then the bricky walls gleam warm, and all my courage wake. I think: Roos got this cure, we rob it. For my Driver, I face guns and hells, this be my treasure chance.

  As we leave the city, we pass through a birchen evac. One tumblen house stand closer to the road, look friendly in its ruin. Wooden sign stand skewish by: Lowell Family Dental. Here I pull Money to a halt. Big Smoke stop behind.

  When I turn, the roo sat like a person lonely in the night. Eyes turn to the prickling stars. He got a Lowell cigarette, its brownish scent come to my nose.

  I say, ‘Tock vote.’

  He blink but never look. The moonlight show him whitish cold.

  I say, ‘The cure be real? Can cure my Driver?’

  Pasha hold in stillness for a moment, like he never hear. Then he say, resenting soft, ‘Truth, they got cure for many things. Can send a voice on radio. Can fly. Can burn you from the air.’

  ‘Roo, I ain’t fear their killing. Learn this fact.’

  ‘I learn this fact, you be a fool.’

  Nerves begun to sing around me in a cricket voice. Be nerves or cold. When I speak again, my voice come rough. ‘How many be these roos?’

  ‘Nay, you think, how many be their guns? How strong their guns?’

  I let my hand run on the saddle’s leather, feel its scuffen marks. ‘Ain’t hope to fight them, bone. So how we do?’

  ‘Ain’t do.’ Pasha’s voice come bitter. ‘What I say of killing – I seen this killing. Ain’t prettieuse nor easy.’

  ‘Shee, if they take us, we fight for them. Live all days by them. Be sure, can rob them sometime.’

  ‘Nay, ain’t rob. You die in war.’

  I scoff my breath. ‘Why we must die? They fight to only lose? Ain’t sense.’

  ‘Sense different there.’ His eyes show frosten angry by the moon. ‘Yo, where I fight before, the taken children been worse than roos themself. Kill and kill, for nothing. Nor they live much time, is kilt.’

  ‘Your wars be curiose. All murder and no war.’

  Pasha shrug and ain’t object. He leave this saying in the ai
r.

  Then something inkle in my mind. ‘You fled from them? You hiding somehow?’

  ‘Ya.’ He shrug. ‘I hide.’

  ‘So if you bring us to them, they will punish you for fleeing?’

  His eyes fix mine. A minute pass while hope flame keen in me. I say feroce, ‘You fear these roos, ain’t need to go with us. Can tell us where they be. We never speak of you, be certain.’

  Then Pasha laugh. His untooth mouth show spooken in the night. And he say harsh, ‘This be my task. Bring children to the roos. I giving you to them, my fear be gone.’

  I let my gaze sink to the darken ground. The moon pick out the bitty grass, can see a balden dandelion gray with night. And now first consider what become of Pasha’s missing teeth. Children can lose teeth from hunger. Teeth bash out in war. No glad adventure lead to gappen teeth.

  At last I say, ‘But you ain’t bring us?’

  ‘Nay.’ His voice come low. ‘Cannot do this work again.’

  This again hurt in my mind. Think how he said, he seen their killing. Come in my mind precaire, if Pasha done this killing self.

  I swallow and say, ‘Yo, why you never tell me? Asken you these weeks.’

  ‘I try this in one town. Tell everything. And seen they children die. Run to their death.’ He laugh. ‘Cure for posies, cure for posies. There they say, la cura. La cura para la sarcoma. Nothing hearing, but this cura.’ He toss his cigarette to the grass. ‘I show them where is roos. Cannot say nay. They threat me with their guns.

  ‘So we go there. I bring children, is good. Good task I done. But all the time these children living, I fear they tell about my warning.’

  I take my breath. ‘They told? Is why you left?’

  ‘Nay,’ he say cold-voice. ‘They try to flee. Is dead.’

  He get another cigarette from his shirten pocket. Take out a lighter also – object that I recognize. Be Villa’s priden joy, a pinkish lighter, sparkle in its plastic. Words on its side say Hello Kitty. Now my heart seize somehow, seeing this thing from simple days.

  I say, ‘La cura. This be fisher Panish? You seen the ocean?’

  ‘Is many things I seen, Ice Cream. Been war for fifteen years.’ Then he add, in careless anger, ‘Ain’t you think, what come to littles?’

  ‘Littles?’

  ‘Be no use for war.’

  ‘Yo sho,’ I say uncertain. ‘Ain’t thought this question.’

  Pasha light his cigarette. I watch the tiny flame twist and go out.

  I say, ‘The roos kill littles.’

  His words come in ghosten smoke. ‘Roos tell the jones, we keep the littles safe – if you obey. But littles never keep. Most times is left, can die themself of hunger. Be times, roos hunt them with guns. Kill them with hands.’

  His hands tense on the reins he hold. My eyes go to them, feary.

  I say, ‘Yo, taken children do this work? You said, be worse than roos. They killing littles?’

  ‘Sure. Is pleasure game for some.’

  My heart disgust and shrink. ‘I ain’t do this.’

  ‘I know. Crow do this, maybe.’

  ‘Nay. Never a Sengle do–’

  ‘Here you mistake,’ say Pasha cold. ‘Surprise be yours.’

  I turn my eyes away in private feeling, look up to the stars. When I been small, once Driver told me cricket singing was the voice of stars. Now I watch the stars and hear their voice be frighten shrill. Stars call the fear of all our helpless life.

  I say, ‘What happen, when I come to them? What happen first?’

  He toss his cigarette away half smoken. Never speak nor blink. Be like a creature cannot talk.

  ‘Heed, my Pasha,’ I say thin. ‘Ain’t only Driver die. Myself, can live two years, three years, before my posies come. El Mayor eighteen, life wearing thin. We dying in your eyes.’

  ‘Ain’t take you,’ he say angry. ‘Forget this.’

  I swallow hard. ‘Nay, need your help.’

  ‘Ain’t help.’

  ‘You lead me to their camp. Where I can see this camp.’

  ‘Nay.’

  ‘Goddamn, I go without you! I will find their camp, be sure. Ain’t justice that you choose my death!’

  He grit his mouth, get his bethinken look. I look to the stars again, my need wear through my nerves.

  And I think of Driver sick. The plastic baby Keepers found, and all the children I seen dying, all their frighten voice. How I carry Mo-Jacques to his burial with straining arms. Flies gather to his open eyes, and I been trying to blow them off, but all my breath been weak. How I sat weeping while he bury in dirt.

  I stare around myself, ain’t hardly see. White stars and grayish dandelions – is dozens of these balden dandelions tremble in the nighten wind.

  Then Pasha answer slow, ‘The roos ain’t bring cure here. Ain’t bring in Massa. Going to be in south.’

  A moment I only hold, uncomprehending. Then hope chill in me. ‘The south?’

  ‘Where they go after Massa. Steal more children. Far in south.’

  ‘Far? Yo, where?’

  ‘Washington,’ he say in queery softness. ‘Where it going to be.’

  A second, my heart falling glad. I remind all maps I seen, the roads drawn clear. Word Washington writ. Then I feel Pasha’s eyes on me, his queery grief upon.

  ‘Washington,’ I say soft. ‘I heard of this. A sleeper city been.’

  He nod like tired conscience. ‘Ya. Be bigger war there. Roos will come from every part. Come by … things that go on water. Ride on water?’

  ‘Boats,’ I say with choken need. ‘And cure be there? On boats.’

  ‘Yes. At Washington. Ain’t lies.’

  Only when he saying this, I realize it can be lies. I try to spy his face correct, but it be lost in shadows. Only his white hands lighten clear, fist hard upon his reins.

  Then he say rough, ‘You can obey my telling?’

  ‘Obey?’ My breath catch sharp. ‘Nay, why? You bring me there?’

  ‘Cannot go in their camp alone, yourself. Ain’t safe.’

  ‘Is natural I obey.’ I laugh up nervy. ‘Truth, you bring me?’

  ‘Ya. Must think how this can do.’

  ‘You and I, my Pasha. Sure you be my hunting shadow.’

  ‘Sengles still must leave. Ain’t bone to stay here.’

  ‘Sengles flee, ain’t no affair,’ I say in loving voice. ‘Be wandering peoples.’

  He shake his head misliking. ‘Must think. Can talk of this tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow, truth. Be gratty well.’

  I turn forward nerviose, ain’t want to hear no changes. I fumble the reins in sweaten hands. Tug at Money’s head, where she nose down to crop at dandelions.

  Then I take a hungry breath. My courage fill with night. And it wake inside me, the enormities we do. All war shrink before this deed, all science done by Lowells. Yo, I swear myself, if we succeed, I roam the Nighted States. Give cure to every needing child, and never a person die for Ice Cream Star her failing heart.

  I heel Money into walking, and my life gone sweet and fearless as we leave to Sengle town.

  15

  OF CROW HIS TREACHERY

  All great works start with mistake. Ain’t no exception in this fact.

  On the nighten path from Lowell, I been planning so: Tomorrow I wake early. Go to Driver in his hiding meadow, tell him every news. At morning meal, he speak to all, convince them to escape. Then I talk apart with Pasha. With his help, I plan to rob the cure from these nefasty roos. I go with him to Washington. Can leave by risen noon.

  Morning come, I wake alone. As I open eyes, my aching know the hour be late. The forest warm and woken, feel myself outside its busy life. All other hammocks bandon – ya and Pasha’s hammock empty left, it ripple loose with breeze. Must worry where this yellow creature gone. Why he ain’t woke myself.

  I scramble down the tree with clumsy sleep in all my limbs. Drop and land unbalance, come away with scratchen wrist. From a lower bough, I fetch my P
atagonia jacket. Feel the papa tea, fat in its pocket, as I pull it on. Fish down my white Adidas, where they hung from laces by. Socks inside is healthy cold against my seeking finger.

  Be hunkern down to clad my socks when, in the corner of my feeling, tickle a creeping motion. I look to watch this creeping, and my startle eye find Crow.

  Behind the woodstack, he go sneaking. Subtle as blackish light that change in trees, he slip to Nighting Brook. Stoop by the water’s edge. Can see, he washing something there, his arms move picky to.

  He stand and shake this something round. Shiny drops go flung. He turn and it be a dangling rabbit. Collar of blood show in her tawny fur where she been bled. Crow go busy to the ground, swaddle this rabbit in some plastic. Fit her in his pack and zip it. Stand and sling the pack upon.

  Then I see Crow’s shape walk shadowy behind the branches. Hop the brook, and crash up through the bushes to the farther path.

  This path be overgrown. Ain’t kept since Popsicle been sergeant. Got brush, ya ladyflowers growing where the path be wet. It be the Army path, a way no Sengle take except in war.

  Then my anger comprehend. Crow go trade his meat for simpers. Fetch our wealth to Army camp.

  A moment, I still catch on need, how I must chase the cure. But Crow burn in my furiose nerves. Ya, I think how Pasha said, it be a week before roos come. And Crow be disappearing now, he steal our food to Armies now. My littles hunger while our enemies fatten on their meal.

  Then my better task forgot. Ain’t even pause to clad my shoes. Sling them by laces round my neck, and I stalk over Nighting Brook. I track my animose.

  No easy step be in this journey. Army path untend, is rich with sticks and leafy bushes. These be Crow’s scouts, they wait to give a warning noise. My bare feet ache from cold, and times, my heel land on an acorn peak and pain light all my bones. But cannot stumble. Cannot pause. Ever must keep Crow in my hearing, but cannot walk into his sight.

  Where the trees be thin and small by Army camp, Crow halt his step. This I ain’t expect, and I come careless up behind. I stop with one foot raise, hold like a hound that point a bird. Be sure he going to turn and see me, but he peer down at himself. Can see his nervy breathing, how he tug preenish at his clothes.