The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  By the cookfire, Hate You Fourteen Ka and Driver sit. Got folden chairs toward the burning warm. I spy them, and my news feel dirty somehow in my blood. Want to turn and leave, feel like I bring a catching fever. But Hate You see me, and reach hand to Driver’s hand. He also look.

  This Hate You be a quiet-kept fourteen, responsible in ways. Now, how they sit cahoots, I mind that Driver been her enfant’s father. My brother never chase no girl, ain’t choose between them in his feeling. Yet these two pair well.

  I come toward and say low-voice, ‘Salue.’

  ‘Bone salue,’ say Hate You.

  Driver get his brother face. ‘Slept far, my Ice. The morning meal be by.’

  ‘Nay, been away and back.’ I come and hunker to the fire. Its woody breath come to my nose.

  Driver reach and touch my head. ‘Hair grown beyond its braids. Be some old centipedes you got.’

  I shake my braids to shoo him, smile up weak. ‘Sure, I look like any rotten log. Males going to fear.’

  ‘I fix your braids,’ say Hate You. ‘If you ain’t go hunt.’

  ‘Nay, nay. This misery wait.’ I pinch some piney needles off the ground, toss them in the fire. Watch them worm and brightly shrink. Be thinking how I tell about the roos, but feeling cringe. The fact be sudden in itself.

  At last I say, ‘Where be my Pasha Moose? Ain’t stole my horse and left?’

  ‘Been fetch to Lowells,’ Hate You say, eyes close on me. ‘Their First Runner come.’

  ‘Is so?’ I breathe relief. ‘Been wondering where he took himself.’

  Driver say, ‘You keeping late at Lowell yesternight.’

  ‘Truth,’ I say with conscious nerves. ‘The owls been sleeping, when we come.’

  ‘Owls done more than me,’ say Driver soft. ‘Been waiting here.’

  ‘Ain’t slept for me?’ I turn to him, surprise.

  Before I speak again, my Driver cough. Cough hard, and he go on. From toe to hair, he wheeze his strength. Ya, when it exhaust, his breathing still be noisy in his throat. Long body looking hungry strange. Nose shapen like a bone.

  Then Hate You say in undervoice, ‘Got Driver’s loot? From El Mayor?’

  ‘Nay.’ I recollect myself, sit back. ‘Got business past no loot.’

  ‘Ain’t papa tea?’ Hate You suck her breath. ‘Sure El Mayor–’

  ‘Ain’t tea, is said,’ say Driver thin.

  A moment, I be only startling, Hate You know about this tea. Discuss my brother’s need like any fact. Then memory recall the papa gift of El Mayor. Hand go to my pocket’s fatness – but with the tea, I feel the folden page from yesternight. The radio speech writ down for Driver’s eyes.

  I slip my fingers in my pocket and pull out the paper. Guilt react, but I go on. Sure Driver take this tea off to his hiding meadow, sleep all hours. My need ain’t wait this time.

  ‘Yo heed,’ I say. ‘Ain’t loot but news. Been spoken through their radio. Is word about roos.’

  Then my talk travail, it haste ahead of Driver’s sickness. I tell about the radio speech and Pasha’s scary warning, how we need to flee our woods. Yo, I tell what Pasha spoken on our homeward journey. How we plan to thieve the cure, save every yeary child. Last I read the speech itself. Paper gone damp in the night, is limp when it unfold.

  My voice start weak, but it gain certainty as I read on. My fingers shiver, and beside them, I see Driver’s hungry face. His tired sickness breathe. His eye go empty at the fire. My eyes turn from this truth, and I speak louder, till my voice rasp dry and scrape, and every word is said.

  I fold the page. Driver watch the fire where it burn low. An orange tracery scab the logs. One flame squirm, nerviose and white.

  I say, ‘My brother, treatment for WAKS. You hear? Is real. The cure be real.’

  He watch the fire, ain’t seem to think. Only his frown be carven deep. Then something tremble in his face. ‘You ain’t go to roos.’

  ‘Nay, be well,’ I say, surprise. ‘My Pasha help me, sure.’

  ‘You be fourteen, ain’t got your growth.’

  ‘Been fifteen all these months, my brother.’

  He look to me, face harden in its hurt. ‘Should be myself.’

  A moment, I relieve. Will Driver go, ain’t mine to do. Then I see Hate You clutch her hands. I hear his gasping breath.

  I say rough, ‘Ain’t everything your task.’

  ‘Nay.’ Driver shake his head. ‘Crow do this work. Ain’t skinny girls to send.’

  ‘Ho,’ I say, frighten. ‘Crow–’

  Here my voice fail. The fire wave its light.

  I swallow and say, ‘Sure Crow, he … you know how.’

  I hook an acorn from the packen ground and toss it in the flames. In the earth, this acorn left the imprint of its pointy head. I put my finger in the hole, and feel the earthen cool, the sandy wet.

  ‘Something been with Crow, Ice Cream?’ Hate You’s voice sound simple nerves.

  I shrug. ‘Ain’t nothing mally. Crow our child, he bony in himself. Yo sho, he got some reason he be gone.’

  ‘Be gone?’ Now Hate You’s eyes is black with scary feeling.

  Driver sigh. He turn his face away, but I see where his hand move up. Rub at his eye.

  ‘Gone to Armies.’ Tears hurt in my chest, my voice sound all of nose. ‘Some boys do so. Ain’t nothing in it. But, brother, Sengles going to leave? What it needing first, we flee.’

  ‘Ain’t know,’ say Driver, face low-held. ‘These roos … be only tales.’

  ‘Nay, brother.’ I clutch fingers in the dirt. ‘The radio been.’

  Then Driver shift, he look at Hate You. She reach her hand to him. He take it soft and say, ‘You go to Lowell for me?’

  Hate You say, ‘Yo sho, must get this tea. Ain’t wait no day.’

  ‘Ho, your tea!’ I say. ‘Ain’t meant to leave you hurting, sorry.’

  My hand find the bag. I cast it hasty to my brother. Throw clumsy, and it land short from his toes. Take a second till he comprehend. Then Driver scramble to the dirt and grab. Eyes gladden before they shame.

  Then anything in his face, be that he look if he can leave. Eyes got no self, like plastic baby’s eyes. Sweat brighten on his skin.

  I stand shaky to my feet. ‘Go, brother. Use this gift.’

  He clutch his tea against his chest. ‘Will think on what you say. This threat of roos. Will think.’

  My voice ain’t mine, his voice ain’t his. Is lies speak to each other, while we watch foreign in our eyes.

  Then Driver turn away. Walk off to easter path, his step go hasty through the bushes. And my pain know, time left my brother.

  We only know one pharmacy for posies: papa tea. Is grown by Lowells, in a glassen house of fatly leaf and reddish flowers. Walk through their Pharmacy House, its smell be drowsy in itself. Be beary smell, like monthen sleep.

  Tea ain’t changing what occur from posies. It besleep the pain. Turn agonies to dreams; it dull a cough into a tickling swallow. Yo, some children with no hurting sickness use it for its joy. Drink it once, and every love be thankful. Pain seem tiny. Sleep tumblen on yourself, and never bother with no pride. But you drink every day, your need begin. Ain’t get that tea, you took with shaking sweat and itching fright. Is mostly simpers fall to this, or Lowells working in the Pharmacy House. And a Sengle, when his years is gone, may slip to papa need.

  When my death come, I face this death. Got courage for my pain. But I ain’t strong to see my brother weak.

  Standing by this fire, I break in crying unashame. And Hate You cry herself – she come and cling on me so hard, be like I carry her somehow. Her crying sound close in my ear, a yip is like a fever’s voice. Behind this everything somewhere, I see the tallish day, our trees. A Tober leaf fall lazy down, slip in and out of long sunlight. Below, our littles shout and chase. Is blind to just themself.

  Then in my sorrow dream, there come a rustle up behind. Something cold poke in my back. Turn icely at my spine.

  ‘Foo
baby manners! Quit.’ Be Keepers’ voice. ‘Will shoot your head!’

  Hate You stand away and gasp her breath. ‘Ho, where that object stole?’

  I look around and blink my tears. Round Keepers’ neck be strung three candy necklaces. She wear a rooish jacket, gray and green, is mostly twice her size. And pointing upward at my nose she hold a rooish pistol. Got two fingers on the trigger, and she grin like every joy.

  17

  Of ROOISH GIFT

  ‘Damn!’ I grab the pistol’s nose. ‘Shoot me, you shooting all your meals, my Keepers Two. Who hunt your meat?’

  ‘Go wipe your nose. You snailing on yourself.’ She laugh high in her voice.

  ‘Where you got that gun, annoying?’

  She tug it from my grip and step back dodging. ‘Kit of Pasha Roo. You tell him I can keep my pistol. Been stolen fair, now he say it ain’t mine.’

  ‘Point that garbage down! Can hope that pistol ain’t got bullets.’

  ‘Tell him! It only a stranger roo. I be your Sengle.’

  ‘Ain’t eights is wearing guns, my fool.’

  ‘I ain’t no fool! Where Driver at? Sergeant decide this gift.’

  ‘Calm your fight, biggety,’ Hate You say. ‘Ain’t girlish sounds.’

  ‘Girlish shee!’ say Keepers loud. ‘Girlish maggoty shee! Shee eaten by a hound, and he go spew it on your head!’

  Here Pasha Roo walk from the woods. He wear an under-tee with rooish, dapple-ugly pants. Ain’t seen these pants before. My Pasha only worn but jeans. Yo, the tee be whiten fresh, like something found in plastic. A roo-pack on his back, be near as grandy as himself. Yo, on his shoulder slung a rifle, black entire without no wood. Gun be new as morning.

  He see my teary eyes, and something happen in his face. Ain’t know why, I gladden well. I call, ‘What angry loot be this?’

  ‘Salue,’ say Pasha, careful-voice. He come toward, his step go heavy with his packen load.

  When he coming close, can smell he washen. Lost his stank. His whiff be Lowell nice, of herb savon and bathing water. Can guess, they treat him to a bathing room at Lowell mill. But Lowells never give the roo this gun.

  He say, ‘You cry for what? What doing here?’

  ‘Some worm fall in the fire,’ say Keepers. ‘Ice Cream crying for this worm. Is weakling tears.’

  ‘Give Pasha back his pistol,’ I say.

  ‘Hungry tears!’ say Keepers. ‘That worm the only meat Ice Cream can hunt!’

  ‘Give his gun, rambuntious.’

  Keepers throw the pistol on the ground, run stamping off. Best Creature Five come in her path, and as Keepers pass, she reach one hand and catch Best Creature’s chest. He topper-bottom down and skree, ain’t notice how his hurt begun.

  I bend to take the pistol, hand it up to Pasha Roo. He pull off his pack. Settle it down and open its main partment.

  Inside be any loot. Most is carboard boxes, brown without no markings. Among be candy sucks and boxen cigarettes. Can see a rubber lizard toy, the kind that stand on its back legs. A radio there, is black with hearing spike fold down upon itself.

  All is plastic-wrapt, and none of this got normal looks. Candy ain’t crumble nowhere, nor the plastic ain’t got blackish spots. Be simple like a picture drawn. Nor the cigarettes ain’t any sort I known from scratching. Got crabbish writing with all weirdo letters. Roo and roo.

  Hate You suck her breath. ‘Loot prettieuse, ya.’

  Pasha twist his face. Take a yellow cloth from his pant pocket and wipe the gun. Find a carboard box and set it in. This go back in the pack.

  Now can see, the other boxes be the same. Is guns.

  I say, low-voice, ‘Can leave us, Hate You? Need to parley with my roo.’

  She hold a lingering moment. Glance at Pasha Roo, unnerve. Then she wipe her tearen face and walk off toward Tequila.

  When Hate You gone, I say, ‘Curiose, where you attain this wealth.’

  He grimace, still waring on my tears. ‘Is only mine. Was left, hid by that house you burn. Keepers come with me, show place. I ain’t known how to go.’

  ‘But … most be guns?’

  ‘Twelve guns. Thirteen with rifle.’

  ‘And why you keeping thirteen guns? You got no thirteen hands to use.’

  ‘Is from our politics.’ He shrug. ‘Give gifts, the children come for war. Give guns and candy and … ain’t know this word. Gero, we call.’

  ‘Gero. What this definition be?’

  ‘Is dust. Can smoke, it make a child joyeuse. Ain’t fear.’

  I flinch, my thought see Driver by the fire. ‘You brung this gero?’

  ‘Nay,’ he say. ‘I smoke all this myself.’

  ‘Foo! You ain’t!’

  ‘Nay, is joke. Been left in house that burn. I smoke some then, ya.’ He get a sorry look, shake his head.

  ‘How, you got some sickness?’

  ‘Nay, be so. For nerviose.’

  Ain’t help my mouth, I say unkind, ‘Who like that trash, ain’t got no sickness?’

  Pasha grimace and muttern roo. Reach in his pocket, get a box of rooish cigarettes. Fish one out, is white and perfect. Look like something grown.

  And now the Army roo remember – how he hand the gun to Mamadou, grin his uggety face. Can magine easy how the featherboys will preciate these gifts. What they do with dozen guns.

  I look to the pack again, feel every kind of mally. ‘Pasha. Be others like yourself? Roos that come to children … give this trick bonesse?’

  ‘Sure be many. I ain’t only.’

  ‘Heed, I seen a roo at Army camp. They got a roo their own.’

  Quick, I tell about this roo. How he and NewKing friendly met; the pistol given. While this talk continue, Pasha’s face go through some differences. He grip his rifle nervy.

  When I finish, he say, ‘How this roo look? How his face?’

  ‘Yellow fur like you. Is bellyish, like he bear a tardy enfant. Yo, he lost one ear.’

  Pasha shake his head disgusting. ‘Deema.’

  ‘Deema?’

  ‘Child name Deema. Who it be.’

  ‘How, you know him?’

  ‘Ain’t bone sort. Be fool soldat. Ain’t bone for nothing.’

  Here first, it realize to me that every roo got names. Can know each other, and can say, This roo be bone, this roo be stank. Obvious be so, and yet this fact ain’t want to comprehend.

  ‘Truth is right,’ I say uncertain. ‘Ain’t bone acting. So I feel.’

  Pasha say his rooish Vote, deep-sounding in his body. Then he say, ‘I best go back to Lowell. Tell this.’

  ‘Lowell, right. And what you doing there this morning?’

  Now Pasha’s face clear into warmth. ‘I talk to El Mayor. Is vally child. He choose to leave.’

  ‘The Lowells go?’ My heart pause in walking. ‘When they go?’

  ‘What he said, five days. But now is Deema.’ Pasha shake his head. ‘Must leaving quick.’

  ‘Ho, for this Deema? Why?’

  ‘How Deema work, the Armies going to help him. Help take children.’

  I startle mally. ‘Foo, they help. The NewKing help no roos.’

  ‘Help,’ say Pasha flat. ‘For promise cure. For promise … how the Armies stronger. Deema, be his work so. Yes.’

  ‘Can promise, sure. Ain’t mean that Mamadou heed.’

  ‘Ice.’ Pasha tense, his face distress. ‘Ain’t time for … for be moron. I go talk El Mayor. But Sengles leave? Tomorrow best.’

  This word tomorrow come to me like tired impossibilities. I feel my tearen face again, the stiffness where it dry.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I say rough. ‘Ain’t know. Is Driver got to say.’

  ‘Driver?’ Pasha flinch. ‘Ice Cream–’

  ‘Nay, heed. We go to Washington? We get this cure?’

  Can hear my noisy fives behind, is fighting sticks and laughing. Pasha’s mouth gone grim. His bluish eyes be tired distances. ‘Ice, roos ain’t in Washington now. Ain’t be till January.’


  ‘January?’ I suck my breath. ‘Nay, be two months to wait.’

  ‘Ya. Can go then.’

  ‘Ain’t no chance they being sooner? We gone sooner, best.’

  ‘Nay.’ He grit his mouth. ‘If I ain’t flee roos, I gone to Washington also. How I know.’

  I swallow, look back to the fire. Now it only got one clinging flame, creep frail beneath.

  ‘Must leave this place,’ say Pasha wishful.

  ‘Yo sho,’ I say in choking voice. ‘Will talk to Driver. He going to heed.’

  Roo’s big arms tense up and grow, like he intend some obstacle. But he think again, say low, ‘I go to El Mayor. Come back soon.’

  I shrug. ‘Driver live two months. He can. But we will rob the cure? You and I, my Pasha.’

  He stare at me without no answer. Then something liven in his frosten eyes, like water stir by fish. He reach into his pocket. Pick a paper out, hand this to me.

  Then he duck and hoist his pack. Lumber and unbalance while the burden settle its weight. ‘See by,’ he say in undervoice and turn with downward mood. Soon his yellow grayish greenish colors mix into the woods.

  Folden paper be a page of El Mayor’s no-book. Is writ:

  Hope you know my writing. Roo ain’t lie about their killing. Ain’t know what lies he tell, but killing all be real. Seen proofs. I can explain this when you come.

  Our mill depart in petty days. I ask you to come with my Lowells. Send Driver to me if he give you talk. Sengles share our food while there be food. Trust this word.

  Also yourself can share my tent. Bony tent, good company. I save my goating for this hope.

  I fold the page again. Slip it in Patagonia pocket with the radio speech. I try to wonder on this killing, how it prove to El Mayor. But I keep seeing Driver seize the papa tea with skinny hand. His eyes gone empty, false.

  Other children now return. Middy meal be soon, our numbers thicken like a rain. Jermaine and Jonah come from hunting. Got a pigeon, all they carry. Ya, thirteenish girls come back with fishing poles and nothing caught. My hunger’s expectation think of Crow, of Crow Doe’s hunt. Then hope misgive. Crow never hunt our food again, nor Driver hunt our food.