Then he spit into the dirt and go accustom into camp. Move among the huts without no thought, no worry sneaking. Step to a hut of green bepainten hide and speak his voice.
Hut open mouth. Crow stoop and gone inside.
Green hut mean Karim, a boy who wear green feathers to his war. Ain’t know Karim’s looks sans this feather gaud. Child broken Jonah’s wrist in war, is all I know of him. Now be bitter to think this green fly eat our townie meat.
I creep forward careful. Find my familiar hiding, in a clutch of enfant spruce. Here I hunker low to watch. The camp weigh on my eyes.
Army huts be tallish cones, cover in scrappy fur and deerskin. Huts painten every color, and they drawn with Armies’ birdhead gods. Behind, disgusting like no shame, there stand the simper house. This be a warehouse sort of building, flattish to the ground. Sides be dismal metal, warp along its grayish stripes. Got two doors that roll up from the ground, and locken from outside. Here the Army horses winter with the simpers and the enfants, bed by pissen straw.
In campen center stand the god chair. This be a grandiose tree trunk carven with the faces of their gods – Shango, god of rain; Musa, antlered bird of thinking; Ayesha, goddess of their rape that Armies callen love; and Allah, god of gods. No person sitting in this chair. In the seat, where no one see, is heapen skulls of OldKings past. Around its foot stand smaller gods, in wooden presentations.
Armies got every dozen gods. Is leadergods and undergods; is gods for every childish want. Got one goddess, all she do is helping children braid they hair. And all these woodhead gods be temperamental like they pregnant. Always need some special food, or they exasperate, come from their wooden shape to work their harm. Yo, Armies punish any word against their pigly gods. They got a godwhip for this use, and every stolen slave got scars from this, and many featherboys. Walking by the godchair, featherboys will duck their face. Simper girls pass nervy and pinch-shouldern on their heely shoes.
At the feet of this strange ugliness go twitching hens. A gross-head rooster threaten among them, like a staring OldKing. Every distance smell like boozy spew and piss and chicken shee. In this place, no good thing smile.
Now is hunting hours, and camp be mostly empty left. Only, from the godchair’s pit, the smoke of sacrifice go by. Here stand a simper, wrappen in black godclothes, head-to-heels. Ain’t got no person shape, her face be cloth. Her front look like her back.
From her nothing face, she sing. Be a whine that change and wasten on the passing breeze. She raise her hand above, a bloody joint of chicken dangle there. Then she bend down from the hip and lay it on the sacrifice. Rise singing, and unwrap her godclothes, till she remain in simper garb, of scants and naked skin. Smoke grow with the taste of food.
I be gritting hungry, thinking of my missing meal, when something startle in the trees beside. Second that I look, the NewKing stalk into the camp.
Then every wisdom be behind. I stare my lonely eyes.
NewKing Mamadou bell severe like blackness in a starry night. His every move go graciose as fire. He seventeen, and tall in height, large in ferocious strength. Wear godscars on both his cheeks. Got one tooth broken from our wars. In him, this also be bellesse. Yo girls think upon him, like all boys think on myself and suffer in sleep. I think upon the NewKing, Ice Cream Star that love like ten hearts.
He walk, loose in his scorn. The feathers at his braids lift reddish blackish in the troubling breeze. His deerhound Terrify Courage jaunt behind and woof in steep delight. Hound nose to the chicken fence as Mamadou look back.
Pasha come behind him, laughing. I shock hard. My legs begin to rise, all risk forgot. Voice join to call his name.
But then the roo turn by. My voice choke. I crouch back in my hiding, sweat bright on my nape.
Ain’t Pasha. Child bigly made with yellow hair, but ain’t got Pasha’s face. Nose small and perchen, like a hound’s. Pink cheeks is fatly loose. Yo, half his ear been cut away. Only show a curlen scar, where normal ear will be.
Now this roo bring out a shooting pistol, twin to mine. Roo focus and he aim. Gun fire and all noise startle in my head.
A hen leap sideward, spraying blood into a cloud of risen dust. The roo laugh pitchy high as Terrify Courage yap and dodge away. Hen come down scrambling, spending out her blood. Wheel and scrabble another puff of dust before she hush in death.
Mamadou speak, displease. He beckon Terrify Courage, who canter to and stop beside his feet. Look up with chasten eyes.
Roo smile unconcern. He reach the gun to Mamadou.
Mamadou take the gun. The roo go talk in undervoice, pink face be grinning teeth. Ain’t hear particular words, but I can hear his voice be drunk. Ya, Mamadou only do, is hold the gun. Ain’t even part forget the gun. Seem like this gun be thinking.
Then Mamadou tuck the gun into his belt, like my gun poken in my belt. I feel it there as Mamadou smile back at the roo, smile hard and angry.
And Mamadou turn, go to his hut and duck inside its open flap. The pink roo follow, hound come jog behind. The hut close its black lips.
Everything fall silent calm. Only the smoke go thoughtful by, the chickens twitch their heads. I ease onto the ground, my hand held hot on my gun’s cold.
I never been in Army camp by day. But I known these huts by sneaking darkness, lorn in moon. Yo, I often seen the NewKing’s hound in guilty night.
Once Terrify Courage come beside, place his bearden snout between us two where we been lain. Hound look up hopeful in his eyes. Ain’t myself can make the NewKing laugh, but Terrify bring this laugh. Hound sit back and pant joyeuse.
‘Terrify Mice, should be his name,’ I say. ‘Hound got no hate.’
Mamadou frown. ‘A picky hound, can terrify who he wish.’
‘Can terrify who be mice.’
Then Mamadou call me mice until my spirit rile. I slap his head. He catch me rough, we war in wrestling, war in scary love. We wake again by blackish night in Mamadou’s smoken hut.
I walk out lonesome to my shame. The moon watch like a skull.
Now I recall the sleeping furs, the reddish light of his birch fire. Lips linger on my throat, a crime, a crime, but honor shed like clothes. Every pain be gold.
Once, in folly of this love, the NewKing say he steal me queen. Some sleepy night I wake in slavers’ nets. Queen gems be mine. So Mamadou say, and twist my braids around his fingers.
Since any time remember, been the Christings given queens. Never a Sengle bear their filth. Queen be a slave that boss the lesser slaves, she live without no name. Sengle song about this say: ‘Queen go in tears and rubies.’
I tell Mamadou: Send your feathers, sure I fight beyond all love. Your feathers die in screams before I rest. They die in blood. Mamadou say: You die in blood, yours be the throat is cut. Queen ain’t the chooser, girlish. You the choice.
Arrogant death is been my choice. I said: Death be my choice.
Then weeks passing when I sleep unquiet. Wait for featherboys and nets, the wrestling bruises and the gag. I watch hard for my war. Curl beneath my tarp on rainy nights and hear within the watery storm. Dry nights, I hear the quiet air.
Weeks pass in breeze and nothing. Lonely weeks turn into summer. Then my listening be my need. Windy nights when sorrow race my blood, I heed my pain.
No one know this quiet business but myself and Mamadou. Ain’t Driver know, nor any a Sengle child. This been the pain I choose. And sure no Nat Mass Army draw another tear from me. Been my heart’s downpour that I shed before.
That time been gone. My every love be gone.
*
Be sorry minutes then I wait for Crow. The fire of sacrifice burn out and quit its smoke. I try to think of roos, how Armies friending them somehow. But my mind stray and stray to Mamadou’s hut, insist its memories.
At last, to rid my awful nerves, I sit and put on shoes. Lacing my Adidas tight onto my feet is comfort. Like a bone child hold your hand. I zip up Patagonia, and my shivering fill its warm.
Then a voice
rise from the quiet. Laugh up bright and long. This friendly noise uncanny in the beak unlife of camp.
Crow stand out from Karim’s green hut. He straighten himself and stretch his bigly arms, his face excite and glad. Pack hang flat and empty from his hand. His meat be gone.
My animose come toward me. Trample by, uncaring spiriteuse.
Yo, I stand to my feet and follow. Ain’t no thought betook, nor I attempt to hush my footsteps. But he ain’t heed my noise. Lost in himself, he walk his strut joyeuse.
Scarce been going for a minute, when he turn off from the path. He step through the twiggy berries down to Passing Brook and crouch along its stony margin. Bend himself and splash. He wash his uggety face, the lips still smile. Eyes far in selfish joy.
I think of Armies warring for the roos, Crow bringing them his catch. Yo, I be starving from this morning. Hungry feel like angry; it be natural these words sound kin. My hungry anger stare at Crow Sixteen, his beardskin washing in the brook, his strong respect. And he shake water from his head and stand. His eye meet mine.
His face go stiff. I want to pull his hair and cry my voice. I want to skree his guilt.
And we be so, eyes met. Plight and blame share in our eyes.
Then Crow leap off, he spark away. Crow gone in sprinting flight.
Too slow, I chase behind. Go swearing, calling his unluck name. Name sting him faster on, and we go tumble scarra-barra, running until the chase be pleasure. The forest soft in its gold afternoon, pine needles kick behind. Arms catch flying boughs. Sun jewel in the patchy trees. I course with all my breathen power, but Crow be fast and long, begin to pull away in distance.
Past the 110 broken road, he leap a bracken gully. Be near to Sengle town, can think he head there, seeking home. But before the town smell come, Crow dash sideways. Go duck through branches into blinding clear. I leap behind and sun be whitish everything, is grass and air. We run into the powerline.
Powerline be a road of grass. Is shot with gnats and crickets that skip up and blend with light. Lectric towers stand above, shape like giganty children with arms out. Be steel and wire and ruin. Feet concree, and heads is set about with hawken nests.
In this big sunlight, Crow weaken. Like a stricken deer that feel its arrow, he lose stride. Slow and stagger, until he only stand with hands on thighs and gasp his breath.
Panting, I stop by him. We gobble air, squint sun, like both been struck by sudden sickness. His face be sweaten ugly in the bright, his teeth flash strange.
Then, from his wheezing breath, Crow hiss, ‘Yo poison! You the worst thing that I want!’
I shout breathless, ‘No one care what Shee-heart want!’
‘Ain’t got to follow people who ain’t want you!’
‘Nay, you give Karim our meat! Why you done it? Why?’
‘Why you gone to Mamadou they nights?’ His voice go high. ‘Be sure I know yourself, more than no Driver know!’
My spirit sting, but I yell furiose, ‘Know from Armies!’
‘Know from eyes. I seen! Yo, why you gone?’
‘This ain’t the same, goddamn! Be stuff of feeling.’
‘Why it ain’t the same?’ Crow’s sweat show helpless on his face. ‘You only saying. How it ain’t?’
Then everything shift in my thought. Be like in hunting, when a turkey hid in dapple sunlight. See nothing but the goldish leaves, until the turkey twitch its tail. Then all the shapes go into different meaning.
A chill rise in my nape. ‘Is business of amour with you?’
‘Ain’t yours to know.’ He grit his mouth. ‘Ain’t need to sneak behind me.’
‘Nay, ain’t girls? Be this Karim?’
Crow spit into the dirt, frown sharp away. ‘Cannot be Karim. This act forbid.’
The answer bitter in his face, and my eye shy from it. I look up at the steely towers. Wind fly rough above. The grassy trash, caught on the towers’ wire, flutter like clothes. My mind see sly Karim. His head bend toward me, feathers flutter. Is bent to kiss Crow Doe. Here my thought fail.
No Sengle do this crime. Is Army manners, boys who love with boys. Been so with NewKing Akh, a prince feroce, but boyish in his love. He stolen boys to serve this greed. These boys been clothe like simper girls, in scraps and beaden chains.
No Christing tolerate this; nor a skewish boy remain at Lowell mill once this be known. No enfants bred from it, its get be death. Is selfish loves. Their hearts envy and their bodies pain – so say be the Christing Teachings.
I gone staring at Crow’s hands, how they make and unmake fists. Press small, then they release. Wind kick hard again, my braids blow round like trash.
‘Truth, you liking boys?’ I say in whisper.
His voice come low resenting. ‘Can be so. Ain’t felt no girlish love.’
‘Thought you gone there buying simpers.’
‘Sure you be an imbecile fool.’
I laugh short. ‘I guess.’
His eyes come up. He seek my face, eyes narrow against the sun. ‘How it begun with you and Mamadou?’
I shrug unliking, look away into the blowing grass. ‘In war. Been chasing him … yo sho, begun how things begin.’
‘Chase your enemy?’ Crow scoff breath. ‘Karim must chase for me. I hunt no Armies, nay.’
‘Karim come hunting you?’ I look up nervy.
‘Seen what I am.’ Memory darken in his eyes. ‘Seen and want. This day, been following deer myself. Karim come follow me.’
‘This green filth disrespect yourself?’
Be a breath where Crow stare at me. Seem he try to understand. Then he say, ‘Your thought the filth. Karim the only child in all this world that love myself.’
My stomach tweak inside. ‘No Army love a Sengle, blindness. Be your own people love you.’
‘Nay, I be my crime to them, they known.’ His voice break soft. ‘Go love this, I ain’t think.’
‘Been crime the same with Mamadou and me. Can be forgot.’
‘You and Mamadou be forgot, is nothing. Be your gain. All things for Ice Cream Star is gain. Go with an Army, gain. Go with a yellow roo, is gain.’
‘Ain’t gone with any roo–’
‘Yo heed! My heart be dirt, is Army meat. But I ain’t leave this heart.’
My voice come feary thin. ‘You go to them?’
‘Been gone these days. You know my hunt be theirs.’
‘When you be sergeant–’
‘Hear me, fool. I cannot be no sergeant. Ain’t be nothing but the Armies’ take.’
Cloud put its hand upon the sun. Can feel this dark upon my skin, and I pull back my Patagonia cuff. Find my shirt’s cloth and wipe my sweat. Behind my arm, I watch Crow’s face.
His lashy eyes more prettieuse than deer’s, his no-chin face. But his ugly closer to my heart than no bellesse. Be the face of all my memories.
Then I get a sickly doubt. I say careful slow, ‘Ain’t want myself?’
Crow staring long. The grassen route change color in the wind.
I say, ‘You want myself, I do this with you. Ain’t need … ain’t need boys.’
His breath stop deep. A moment pass while we both hurt and hush. Then his mouth twist up feroce. ‘Nay,’ he say rough. ‘Ain’t your blame. What I become, you ain’t no part of that.’
First moment, I relieve. Then grief rise again, I say, ‘Ain’t need to go to them, you ain’t.’
‘Can quit this empty noise. You never even miss myself.’
‘Damn, you my animose. I always miss you.’
‘Been littles then. That business gone.’
‘Nay, this business of Karim be gone. Never a person know. Can be forgot.’
‘Argue be a waste. I ain’t expect to come home from this walk.’ Then his eye skit sideways from my looking, and he turn away. Stalk hasty toward the shadow woods.
My step be ready to pursue, but some conscience hold me still. Heart sprint and weaken as he walk on. Yo, as he reach the woods, I call, ‘I love you like no damn Karim!’
>
Crow ain’t heed nor startle. He go on feary through the blowing grass, he step into the forest. Something crunch and something shift, but then his catly foot find silence. Soon he only be a changing dark, a dark that I remember.
16
OF PAPA TEA
My heart see backward to the powerline, as I walk forward home. See Crow returning to that feathern hut, to slaving and to roos. How green Karim receive Crow in his arms. The hut flap close and shiver.
Walk forward on. Walk forward on. Ain’t no way else to do. Yo, I must do all work that I neglect. Must plan to steal the cure. Must bring my Sengles safe from roos. Ain’t got rest to do, ain’t time for feeling in my life.
Yet, ain’t Sengle town feel like no home without Crow’s angry self. Ain’t Ice Cream feel like me.
Near nighting camp, there stand a sapling oak is yellowen with fall. Show clever like a flag. Where this oak appear, I stop and take a leaf between my fingers. Ain’t pluck this leaf. I roll it tight. Let go, and there the leaf spring up. Is curly on its stem.
When we been eights, my Crow and I writ messages on leaves. Been one moose oak we chose. We curl the leaf was writ upon, in signal. The other then go check our tree, and find the curlen leaf. It say ‘Come robbing eggs at Tophet’, or ‘Villa got stank breath’. Pluck this leaf and write upon the next. So we kept our secrets ours, before we had no secrets.
Then winter come and bald the trees. This writing game forgot.
Now I pluck my curly leaf, and put it to my lips. Stay thinking, quiet.
Be unworth, to choose no love amour above his people. Ain’t done this for myself, ever I want. Want like no living pain. But my children eat before my heart can eat. So I must feel. Yo his love be skewish – worse than evil, lower than beneath.
Yet my spirit say: My Crow, my Crow. My sorrow weak and kind.
Then ain’t no help to do. I take my breath. Walk forward on.
In town, it be our higly-pigly stew. Trash left in every catching place; clothes hung to dry on branches. Fawny littles scream and chase, play war among themself. Tequila Fourteen Tool sit by to watch. A squirm of babies sleep around her, hounds curl in among.
The Country of Ice Cream Star Page 10
