The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  21

  TOBER 31 ITS EVIL

  For church, each braid must wear some bead, dress must be graciose and clean. Slow hours be took in hair and painting for a grandy church. So, before the sun begin, I creep from Driver’s tent. Do a freezing wash in Nighting Brook, and I wake Hate You to my help.

  Groom be an houry task of hair unbraiding, braiding, dark and cold. Only is the fire to see, the moon in tired cloud. Hate You tug and work and time take in my fever thought. Be reveries of roos and Mamadou, of Washington afar; the grandy war my Pasha spoken of, and how we sneak there. Worry if I survive somehow – and how I ain’t told Driver that we leaving. If he can forgive me. If he can survive.

  Time my braids is done and beaden prettieuse, the east gone soft. Then Hate You paint my eyes with some cosmetic, while I squint its tickling. We scout some shoes, black heely nonsense things that cannot walk. Last work be gowny dress, and this become a seeking complication. We open packen bags, clothes toss around. Still every dress be wrong. They thin from moths, or falling loose, or be too tight for decent looks. It seem like sleepers only made all dresses to defeat this purpose.

  Yo at last, one zip close to my waist. It take my flesh up in itself like glad embrace, and settle warm. Hate You take her breath and say, ‘Yo right.’ She fetch a standing mirror, edgen rough without no frame. Hold it up herself, and nod with smiling expectation.

  Any a Sengle Star be bell. We long and careful made, got prettieuse faces sweet with mischief. Myself, in dress and hundred braids – is easy truth, be bell. Dress be silver cloth, is bright and slender to my waist. Legs show to the knee, is clean in elegance like stepping mare’s. Skin perfect black. My lips be formen like a purple bloom. Eyes clear like knowing, and their color got a raven shine, show even in this whisker light.

  Yet these eyes fear.

  Can only see, how I be small. Be gracile and glitter, is a dragonfly of nothing. Look like a twelve, ain’t grown to bear no child. Ain’t big to fight.

  ‘Is vally done,’ I say. But my voice halt, it sound like breath.

  Hate You look at me uncertain. ‘Can be more bell with lipstick.’

  I see her hurt, and I say stronger, ‘Feary bell. Give diggers envy. Only, it feel like nuisance on.’

  Then I leave Hate You to repack all clothes. Run to the horsen field. Ain’t bear my nerves for haste. Yo, when I ride out on Money, still is only darkness birds that sing. Be night in every quarter but the east as I take Tophet path.

  Riding, skirt must hitch up to my thighs, my shoes caught in one hand. Nor this dress be wintry garb. My chicken skin be lively, bare feet ache and yearn toward Money’s warm. And now I riding to, my mind skip headlong to the meet. I magine the Christing church-room, how I stalk there silvery in dawnlight. How all eyes will turn and startle to my shine bellesse.

  Then, in my magination, NewKing Mamadou appear. I give him proper greeting, but our hatred love be in my eyes. Yo, the sermon pass, the time of every witness come. I rise to tell about the roos. The NewKing watch with every child.

  Then any speech I do, be choice. Can swear damnations on the Armies, how they join with roos. Describe how they will steal our children into rooish slavery. Then Christings keep Susannah back, reject these Army lice. But Mamadou’s arrogance scorn my word. He stay in Massa, stay by roos and lose into their warry death.

  Or I can speak without no blames. Ain’t mention Deema Roo; tell only warnings, and the cure its promise. Invite the Armies to our brave departure. Then can be, the NewKing leave with us – and take Susannah queen. His treachery love walk always in my eyes.

  My freezing mouth make shape of Mamadou. My prickling breasts recall his touch, and half my mind remember nights was tumblen in his furs. My skin remember Mamadou, his weight and strength, my mouth upon his sweat, and never I see how I can do this choice.

  Be at the Tophet’s farther pasture, where the open land begin, when Money shy up wild. She buck away beside the path, yank vicious at her reins. When I pull back, my selfy mare break stubborn to a gallop. I rein and wheel her round, but she still pick her feet in backward mood.

  Then in the snow, I see a humpen shape behind the railing fence. I shush at Money, stroke her neck. Let the reins draw gentle till she ease and stand, half off the path.

  I swing down from her back bare feet painful in the snow. Ain’t pause to fuss with shoes, I step quick forward, let the reins play out until I stretch like hound who pull a leash.

  Dark shape be huge ungainly. Squinten in the dawn, can see is Tribulation, Tophet’s plough mare. Lie on her side with hind legs thrust out strange. Her neck curve sharp, nose tuck toward her knees. This nose be still as wood.

  Beside her neck, like musty smoke, a reddish grayish stain be spread. I think of hounds, of bears. But she ain’t eaten none; is dead but whole. Be like this bear come by for killing only. Rabie mad.

  A shivering take, deep in myself. I shush in honey tones, lead Money on beyond this prey. She trot with prancing motion, hasty. Take a minute’s going in barefoot snow before she ease and walk. Then I grab into her mane and hike to mount again. Kick her up, and heel to gallop. Then our two fears join. We sprint together from this death.

  We driving hard along the fence, face to the yellow dawn that look at us from steely distance. At the hill, I gather her to turn. Look up expecting Christings, brace to warn them of their loss. Yo where we clear the barn, the shapes of Tophet house appear, its narrow windows and its peaks. These show in dashing light, and give a restless crackle sound.

  This light be fire. Is set beneath the step, and by the long east side the flames slip up. White smoke rise slow away. Nor ain’t no person by. No child be in the fields, no light in windows. Fire play lonely in this spooken place.

  I slip from Money, throw my shoes apart. Ain’t feel my chillen fingers as I tie her reins on their near fence. Money whicker and pull disliking. Yo, I feel feary strange. Ain’t any a child be here, my heart repeat. It ask, where be these children?

  I step toward the burning house. Breathe and think in Sengle mind, what happen in this burning. Can notice, fire ain’t crafty set, gone dead in any a place. Yo, the easter side be flaming well. I go and yell with all my lungs, ‘John! John of Christ!’

  A moment, I only hear my breath, the fire’s patient working. Then above, as pale as wishing, come an enfant skree. My body flash in weakness, everything be hard for me.

  Then this skree repeat, in double voice.

  I grit myself and leap the step, jump over its petty flames. Go touch the door. This be drill, must feel the door. Ain’t open if the door be hot. Be thinking how I break some window, enter from the farther side. But door be normal cool. Then the metal doorknob sticky with its cold, it open well. In the house, all things be simple like they ever was. A sleeper magazine lie open on a fatty chair. Be wheelie toys on their yarn rug. The clock tick unconcern.

  But in the room behind, a fire sway toward the open door. Fire fall back again and find a curtain, climb in watching time. Smoke prick my nose.

  I call out, ‘Where you be? Be people here?’

  A voice go scream, ‘Susannah?’

  This cut loose a buzzing cry of every Christing little. Be nonsense fright and larm, and it come from the floor above. I break to run.

  I trip once on the stairs, and fall onto my scrambling palms. Shin strike a corner with full weight. Hurt keen, but I run on. The air be thicker here, got scratchy taste with rising smoke. And all the littles’ voices seem to boil against the wooden walls. I get to the upstair floor and here my breathing stiffen. Must go down crawling, all my mind think drill, drill, and I go to the howl that draw my need.

  Noise come from the enfantroom. I grab the knob, well knowing it be locken. Yet when it hold against my hand, I swear. Throw my shoulder to the door, wild in headless rage. But this door ain’t open in, must pull. Nor I got tools to break it.

  I yell through the door, ‘You keep down to the floor! Keep low!’ Turn and rabbit down the stairs into the air
y cold.

  The morning give reluctant light, be like it shrink from this unkindness. I jump the steppen flame, and pause to kick some snow back over it. It hiss and change its smoke, but ain’t no time to check my work.

  Then I run looking, cursing every Christing who ain’t leave tools astray. The garden and fields be bare of nothing. Money neigh reminder at me, back herself and pull her reins. Ain’t got breath to call to her, I run on toward the shed.

  Every gratty nerve respond when I see its door open. I find a ready hoe, and turn again. Is something sobbing in me, want to think how this become. Want to sit into the snow and think. This drag in my mind as I run onto something dark.

  My foot misstep on softness, I go tumble. Hoe fly beyond, and I turn back, sit up in icy mud.

  Japhet lying on his back. Legs drawn together tense. Got a shotgun lain across him, one hand clutch its stock. Blood run from his corner mouth, his face got flecks of gaudy red. White shirt be soak in this bad color. Eyes stare dull surprise.

  I leap and fall on him, like I will wake him from this death mistake. Grip his head in hands, scream help in they uncaring eyes. Then I press my face to his chill face. I breathe in once and taste his normal sweat. He stank of life. Yell again, but he stare his same death. Surprise and cold.

  I rise with panic through my flesh. Grab the hoe and gasp my sobben breath. I sprint back to the house.

  Now the sofa room be bright with wriggling lines of flame. Walls begun to blacken, scraps of fiery curtain blowing round. On the stairs, the smoke show gray and real. I take good breath before I run. Stairs taken jumping. This use all my air, and at the top, I duck down to the floor and breathe again. Is dirty air, ain’t right. Lungs gulp with panic. But I crawl on, and in one concentration, rise and raise the hoe and wedge it in the door. I swing my body’s weight against. The wood crack loud. Be gasping at the poory air, as I go strike again.

  Be some twenty times I strike. Must tear the lock surround, be digging into simple wood. Ain’t know how many times I drop, and take my inch of smutty breath. Call my orders, breathe again. Be gratty to hear the yawling skree, can guess these children walk themselves. Ain’t hope I carry all.

  And then the splintering grow until I see the metal through. I haul the doorknob, and the door fling by.

  Be every dozen littles in this room. Enfants in their wooden pen, and clumsy twos in diapers. Be a storm of eights run at my legs, and forcen past. I skree myself at this. I shout, ‘You take the enfants! Ain’t got sense to live! Yo digger trash, goddamn!’ Then I be kicking through their fear stampede. I catch a running eight and whirl her back onto her heels. She scream and beat at me, but I go grab her by both shoulders.

  I yell into her face, ‘You heed! You take an enfant. Ain’t be asking, you will do this thing.’

  Then something waken in her fear. Her struggle pass, she nod. Behind, the littles empty through the door like thunder. Some been tumble and they call as they go crawling on. The thinnish smoke come lazy over their heads, turn with a picky motion. Air begun to look a grayish blank.

  I turn to the enfant pen, a grandy bed with wooden walls. Be six crawler enfants in this bed, all squallen breathless. My sight go harsh. I bark down to my eight, ‘Ain’t run nowhere,’ and loose her arm. She stand there sobbing air as I reach in and take the tiniest chit. Heft this, reach it down to her. She take this enfant well. I grab another and another. Every smoke be aching in my head this weary time. Ain’t carry more than two myself, these enfants struggling fat.

  My eight be stood, forgot no reason. Hold her babe and stare. I yell some hollow word, and when I go, she run along. Then we be scrambling down the stairs into the ravish air of life. The open door be heaven, and outside some littles is hurling snow into the struggling fire. They scatter as we come.

  I crouch and let my enfants into snow. They scream a different note, like this the peaking insult. I laugh in panic and turn back. There a boyish ten gape at me. I shout, ‘As big as that and never help! You come with me, you trash!’

  Child shout in frighten rage. He turn and run off toward the field.

  Be no time for hate. I cast around, and there my trusty eightish girl be waiting. She grin and run before me, looking over shoulder, toward the step. So we go again, and now the air is cotton thick. Must have a wetten cloth, ain’t drill to enter smoke without no cover. But ain’t no time for drill, and every nerve remember we almost finish. Only three remain, is only three.

  I let her run before, watch her steps for weakness. But she go up vally. At the top, I grab her from behind. Force her down to crawl. But ain’t no proper air remain. We coughing every inch. Be thinking, ain’t no matter. Be only minutes. Yo my head now agony, a dark exhaustion start in me.

  The rest be strange confusions. Can know how I stand in the enfantroom, eyes run blind with smoke. The enfants quiet dull, but move themself when they been took. Next, I be running, and I swear my arms flop at my sides. But when I reach the stairs, some grace become – both enfants kept. Arms held right, though they ain’t know. Next I be lying on the outside step, cheek heavy on grateful wood. Smell burning but the air be sweet. My mind repeat, no smoke. Then I be sitting up and scream, ‘You eight! Where be my eight?’ Be weeping foolish, never known her name.

  Someone pull at me, and I be walking, though my legs go craze. Breath is scorchen in my throat. It hurt feroce when I cough out, but thinking say, I ain’t be ruin. Going to be the same, will live. And then I see my eight, she stood like nothing been. Her straggle hair got ashen scraps atop. She look staring to me, saying, ‘You be Ice Cream Star, yo sho?’

  And there my Money come and shove her nose at me. Most push me over. Her reins come loose, or some child free her reins. I laughing wild. I say in tears, ‘What be your name, my little?’

  Girl laugh back nervy. ‘Got no name. I waiting on this now. Myself been Army born.’

  22

  WHAT BEEN AT TOPHET HOUSE

  First work, I send a tennish girl to fetch my Sengles to. She ride off cantering on their mule, start yelling for Sengles before she find the path. Then my No-Name Eight begin their tale, yo every brat give help. They tell this backward forwards, say the middles on the ends. Be work before this history understand.

  First event been yesterday, when Riding of the Queen reach Lowell. There El Mayor tell John about the Armies’ roo.

  Can be, ain’t nothing come from this. John a lawful servant, ain’t want nothing out of custom place. But Japhet break in anger, insist they keep Susannah back. No Christwife give to camp of roos, he say. Ain’t in the Long Agreement, nor is morals so.

  This argument continue all their journey back to Tophet house. There, they call the wives, and all go in the sofa room. Start talking, drinking cider booze. Is natural, the littles sneak onto the stairs to spy.

  Most they hear be hennish scandals – calls of coward, calls of fool. But when the night be old, Susannah come out armen-arm with John. Her face beweepen, and the godclothes torn down to her naked shoulders. Braids shine and swing with Army gems.

  She say, ‘I still can go. Until the church, it still be time.’

  ‘Nay,’ John say, in boozen voice. ‘The NewKing need to learn. All Massas stand by us, ain’t only us.’

  Here Susannah spy the littles, where they pressing back in shadows. She cry up, ‘You waking? Ain’t enough to worry? Go!’

  Must grumble to their sleeprooms then. But from their high room windows, they see John ride out to Army camp.

  This night pass into darkness morning, and he ain’t return. Wives go to their beds, but their low squabble never hush. Yo, they rise before the dawn. Been arguing in the cookroom – littles peeking from the stairy rail – when Nat Mass Armies come.

  Been ten Armies. They ride on horses, wearing feathers as for war. Yo every Army got a shooting pistol. With them come the roo.

  Roo hold a rifle, and this rifle use before his horse can pause. He fire against the house, this shooting chatter like loud teeth. His frighten hors
e buck under him, he laugh. His gun swing, firing wild. A window busting in, glass fly and bullets fly. All children dashing for some hiding. Armies self been duck.

  When this shooting rest, the NewKing shout Susannah’s name. Yo, before no other child can move, Susannah go.

  The eightish No-Name spit when this part come. ‘Ain’t seen no cowards like these other wives,’ she say. ‘Should go with her.’ The other littles give this hot dispute: ain’t cowardesse, been sense. But all agree Susannah leave alone.

  She go out barefoot, in her ruin godclothes. Hair been unbraiden from its gems, be shaggy loose like littles’ hair. The feathers call their dirt at her and laugh. Mamadou watch her come. Ain’t say no word.

  She go to his horse, stand by, and there be talk between. The littles never hear this. Nor can tell Susannah’s mood, her back stay proud. But when this speaking finish, she turn back from Mamadou. The Christings all give breath with joy. Boy Japhet say, ‘She talk some reason there! No Army argue our Susannah!’

  But she walk to a feather. He put his hand down grinning. She grasp this, spring aloft. Go mount behind him on his horse.

  Then Japhet swear, is lost with blindness. He break and run outside, sprint desperate down the steps and out. Ain’t go to Armies, he run longside the house like he go flee. Can see the Armies laugh, some feather fire his pistol loose at Japhet. Ain’t never strike, and Japhet reach the shed. Here he go in. Then, watching in the kitchen, Hannah Christwife say, ‘Oh no. Oh no.’ She keep on this ‘Oh no’, while Japhet come out with the shotgun.

  Nobody seen who shoot him. Ain’t seen him hardly fall. When this bullet fire, Hannah Christwife turn, scream to the littles. Dash, herding them with feet and hands, and heave a two up by the arm. Scream till other Christwives give her help. They chasen all the littles, fighting–swearing, up the stairs. Catch every one, and wrestle those resisting, without talk.