The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  So the littles lock inside the enfantroom. The wives go stamp back down, and can hear Hannah wailing thoughtless, ‘Oh, my Japhet, got to be alive. My Japhet.’ This her brother born.

  Windows of the enfantroom look only to the back. The littles never see what happen more. Nor they ain’t hardly hear above the larming enfants in this room. Can only hear some gunshots, slamming door and female shouts.

  When the enfants’ larming ease, been silence. Ain’t no voice, no step. Hear nothing, but be soon, they smelling smoke.

  While this story dabbit and confuse, the fire complete its work. House get jacka-lantern looks, be red in all its eyes, before the flames die into black. The roof collapse with noisy sparks, can hear the falling floors within. Soon the fire be only drifting smoke.

  In this, my healthy breath return. Head clear into simple pain. Be scrubbing my hurt palms with snow, my Money’s rein caught to my arm. Gentle her on her neck with these cold hands, amid the littles’ squabble. Yo, I think where these Christwives gone. If they been kilt or taken. When I remember Japhet dead, my fury waken dark.

  At last, I say, ‘Yo hush. The Sengles coming, they bring you safe.’ I take Money’s rein in hand.

  ‘You going?’ cry my No-Name Eight.

  ‘I wait for Sengles, shoo. But then I go. Ain’t leave this crime to breed.’

  ‘Crime?’ a frighten seven ask. He shivering in his whitish jams. ‘What crime?’

  ‘Foo,’ I say. ‘Can see, the fire.’

  ‘And Japhet shot,’ a little say, in helpful voice. ‘Be other crime.’

  ‘What you leaving to?’ This say a troubling six. Can recognize, this be young Cora, child I known since crawling years. Is grown grasshopper thin, and now got soot along her nervy face.

  I set my hand in Cora’s hair. ‘Ain’t do nothing, never a thing but talk. Come right, you see.’ But my hand tremble stubborn.

  Cora say, ‘Will Japhet heal? Where Japhet now?’

  Before I answer, sound of gallop come. All the littles spook. They skree, push close around my legs. Money snorting, prance back from the noise. Some children run when Big Smoke come around the barn, Jermaine astride and whipping him like devils.

  I yell, ‘Ain’t fear, be Sengle help! Ain’t fear!’

  Jermaine rein in so harsh that Big Smoke stumble, kick his heels. Then Jermaine fling to the ground and run. Make path through all the screamers and I caught into his arms. Money back away, her reins cut into my raw hand.

  ‘Nay, let me free!’ I say unthinking. ‘Nay, I got to–’

  ‘You ain’t hurt? You hurt?’

  ‘Foo, how I hurt? A fire like any. Let me free, goddamn!’

  He hold me back. ‘How this become?’

  ‘Ain’t no time, I got to go.’ I break off from his hands. ‘You take these littles into Lowell. Be my deputy in this.’

  ‘Where you going? Ice Cream! Cannot go! You ain’t got shoes!’

  ‘Heed, you bring them into Lowell! Bring our Sengles also. Damn, we leave this mally place, been said!’

  This balk him, and I step back free. Turn to snorting Money. Take some nervy steps before I settle her to mount. Then my head catch pain as I spring up.

  Jermaine call, ‘Ice, you come to Lowell mill? Ice Cream!’

  I ain’t say nothing back. I call out to the littles, ‘You see, ain’t got to fear no more. Be right. Wives coming back!’

  Yet their staring follow with reproach as I heel Money off.

  23

  OF RESCUE DESPERATIONS

  The morning come up blue and strict with cold. Day made for careless deeds. In the final hiding woods, I pause my Money and unmount. Go find a stick of firewood weight, is fortey for a bat. Then I sault back on Money. She break in canter for some strides, bright-foot like she approve my act. I say to her, ‘Bespeak him, all I do. We flee if trouble come. Ain’t leave you to they Army rodents.’

  Can hear the camp before I see its huts. Make its booze music, howlen song and mally-strung guitar. Child shout some anger while the others jeering, hound yip up. Yo, when I see the feathery points of huts, my fear take bright. Then hatred rise above, hate that these grubs cause fear to Ice Cream Star. I heel my Money into gallop, swearing my heart that Crow be there, will speak for my protection. And my mare run willing forward, jump a log and scatter dust.

  Got time to see the Armies standing round, their faces dumb with booze. Trailing feather ornaments look dull in this blue light of morning. With them stand a simper. Wear a yellow shorty dress, been torn across her belly. A glittering cloth wound in her hair, and she lean to a feather’s shoulder. Wave a bottle in one hand. Yo the sun stare unconcern on this disgusting life.

  Seem like a scene I watch forever. Like something in my starting dream, as I fall into sleep. Ain’t Mamadou nor Crow be by, and this seem like some normal doom, a certainty I expect. But it come peculiar in surprise when all these feathers startle. Ain’t right that they run toward, ain’t human that they carry guns. And I be galloping hard. I hold my bat at waisten height and call for NewKing Mamadou, and call again, I skree his name.

  Been plan to gallop past these Armies, gallop round again, the times it take until the NewKing come. Use my bat if this require. If bullets come, ain’t turn to meet this death, but gallop on feroce. Ain’t figure in my mind that Money never seen no war.

  As these dozen feathers scatter and jeer, my Money fright. Plant hoofs and wheel. My weight go forward loose, I let the bat release to catch her mane.

  I jolt onto her back again and we been rearing wild. Dust rise, but feathers running through. A bottle thrown, fly past my head. I shout again for Mamadou, kick Money hard. But where she turn, a feather raise a pistol. He fire into the air, and Money scream her neigh. She rear again and paw her hoofs.

  Then someone caught my dress. I feel my balance leave me, all my body seem to leave control. I fall and fall hard back, jar pounden on the dirt. Money kick again, her hoof go huge above my head. The feathers gather to me, and my heart feel gratty as I see my pony jump beyond. Can hear her gallop off, her neigh trail panic as she go.

  Then my every part grab by some sally feather. I wrestle, but can get no purchase. I scream Mamadou again, but my voice waste, my every scream sound nothing. Feather kick me in the back, and kick again with fortey pain. I cough and scream again. Next clobber catch my jaw, some ringen hand. This be a metal feeling, like a door slam sudden in. Their insults start to hear, and other kicking jolt my ribs. But I ain’t feel no single pain, be all a rain of hurt. Some hand be pushing in my dress, fingers hurt my breast. Their laughter go.

  Then something cry behind. All their bruising holds release. I fall. Bones rattle on the ground, head strike a sharpen hurt. I see their bodies rise away. Can feel a wet pain in my hair.

  A high and girlish voice come jeering. ‘She Mamadou’s Sengle bitch, ain’t see? You steal your trouble, fools.’

  Some feather swear and stamp upon my hand. Be sideways crushen, and a whine escape my mouth. His foot remain there, its weight ache through my nerves. Then my body panic, my free hand snatch up to my injure head. I puke slight water in my mouth. And bitterness waste in me, that I shown weak. I swallow my gross taste.

  Above, they argue quick. In my corner eye, can see the yellow-dress simper, fist on hip. Be like she float above my pain, a tiny yellow ghost. The feathers be a stanking everything, all things I must escape. I writhe against my squashen hand, but nothing come. Then despair sink cold. Be only breathing through my sickness.

  I feel the cold dirt underneath. Stare on my stampen hand, the heel of sneaker shoe on warpen fingers. Cannot tell, if they be broken. The hurt confusing big. Yo my head be whole, can feel this with my other hand. Is only bloody wetness there, grow sticky in a braid. And my breathing come, my body live. Ain’t ruin, can still live.

  Their sneering fight go on. Most be toilet swears, their voice be filth. Cannot help my body, it go flinch at louder words. Yo, all my thinking wait for my escape. Ain’t see no way, but I wat
ch quiet. Listen to their angry garble passen overhead. See the simper’s heely shoes. One heel lift and scratch her other ankle, while the feathers calling insults, and she spit return. My attention sharpen when she say, ‘Ho, get some rope, you dregs. You waken Hak, I like to see your sorries then. I see this gratty!’

  One feather and another tell her she must get this rope. Their voices peevish high. Yo, her shoes turn. She laugh another sewery word and go. A feather call, ‘And bring yo booze! I drying here!’

  Then their laughing come again, and hands in all my dress, fingering my nakedness. I close my eyes, I grit my jaw. Be only thinking of any way I flee. Where Money going to wait. Some Sengle come for me and they distract. We fight like normal, fists and knives. We flee. Must be, I going to flee.

  Then something land beside my head. I open eyes to see a dirty whitish rope, loose in its coil. All hands flee from me. Sneaker on my hand release, and I be scrambling up – and knocken down. And caught again, however I slip and scratch. Be caught and hit in jaw again. And hit in every place, ain’t know how much.

  My tears come only when they tie my hands. Rope scraping in my skin. Ankles tie, the rope cut in. Be draggen by this ankle rope, my shoulder rasp in dirt.

  Then some other calling rise across the camp, impatient. The feathers hush their voice. Step over me and step around. Like miracle wish, they pass away, be like all pain depart. They pass away, is real. Their faces gone.

  I look up feary, seeing only sky. Seem like it fall away from me. It move like gasping, dizzy. I pull my wrists against the rope. I stretch my ankles, struggle every careful way. But the rope stay tight, ain’t give enough. I only hurt my hand.

  Then steps jar in the earth. I look up, there the yellow-dress simper stand. She bend to me. And she pull from her dress, between her breasts, a bladen knife.

  I want to scream. Will cry for help, but ain’t no help. Close, can see the simper’s eyes, weird in nefasty gleam. Seem a beasty soul contain within a person face.

  She bend past me, like she reaching for my bounden hands. Her plumpen breast touch at my shoulder. Then I feel some coldish metal slipping at my back. I gasp my voice.

  She say at my ear, ‘You hide this now. The NewKing come. Be safe, ya.’

  My injure palm hurt on some harden object. Simper form my fingers to it, wait until I hold. It take a breath before I comprehend, she give her knife.

  Then she stand away. Rise up like anger, turn her back. ‘NewKing. Got your loot. She here.’

  Come Mamadou’s voice, is sleepen dry. ‘Hak waking, fatty. Call for you.’

  ‘He call for me, he call for me. Whatever else he do?’

  She go forward. I watch after her in sickness. Ain’t want this sudden friend to leave. Ain’t want this knife my bound hands cannot use. Yo, she pause in walking, like she feel this inward cry.

  Then her back notice, baren where the yellow dress hang low. First I think some mud crust up in ridges there. Back show every color but the healthy color of good skin.

  Is scars. No inch be whole. Is ridgen scars and fresh red hurt. She sigh and reach behind to scratch, her fingers reach this injure patchwork with accustom grace. Then she ease, walk on.

  My eyes watch through their water. See Mamadou’s tall shape approach, and then my nerves react. Behind myself, I turn the knife. Hide it beneath my hurting arm.

  His naked feet stop by my head. Feet long and simple-boned, he wear a golden circle on one toe. It show a bird head, lightning in its beak. Shango, god of rain, of flashing war.

  Above, he huff a laugh. ‘Prettieuse. Sengle grooming.’

  I look up his body. Is wearing jeans and nothing. All his body show in dreamen glare.

  My head speak pain, but I go answer, ‘Yours, be what your insects do.’

  ‘Do worse than this. Your luck I wake.’

  He hunker by my feet. I feel him tug my ankle ropes, they pull into my skin. These slacken, and the hurt go chill and loose.

  Then my hands is wary. Expect he free their ropes, the knife discover.

  But he leave his hand rest on his knees, sit back. My eyes go scary to his face.

  Mamadou’s thinking eyes be soft from sleep. Skin shave to a glisten, how he do in vanity. His locks tie in a tail behind, and godscars blacken in his cheeks. Nothing in him prettieuse. Is only bell, is vicious bell.

  His hand reach out. I flinch back, but it find its place. Finger touch a scrape on my top lip and gentle there. His mockery smile be felt in my own mouth.

  He say, ‘Cannot keep yourself away from me.’

  My heart be kicking in my side. I shut my eyes against him. Yo in this dirt, with all my trembling wounds, I love the thing I love.

  He say, ‘Come on, get out of this.’

  He reach to grip my arm, but I pull back. Twist up myself, with knees and shoulder, feel my struggling hurt. Yet my legs work.

  I walk beside him to his hut. All my conscience ware the knife, where it tuck at my arm. But nothing happen in this walking. Yo, his reddish blackish hut stand, same as ever be. He lift the flap for me. I duck inside.

  NewKing hut be grandy as a Christing room inside. In shape, it be a jumbo cone, made of poles and curen hide. Floor be curly sheepskins, thick enough to sleep without no bed. Ain’t furniture to sit. Armies never sit but on the ground, they scorn this wooden help. To one side, there be a patch of naked earth. Here stand his personal idols, wooden children with beak heads.

  Never a wall be bare. Is hung with every ready object. Be pots and clothes and cutting scissors. Books hung by a string deep in their pages. Mamadou’s red spear and bow hang there, his feather trappings. Crow-black, cardinal-red, they trail down, longish in peculiar twists.

  And hang a rooish rifle with a curven magazine.

  Mamadou let the hut’s flap close. Then light be only from the fire, this moving darkness comforting like sleep. He come before me, look down where my dress be muddy, wet with melten snow. Some pleasure working in his face.

  I flinch back and say, ‘Can like some whiskey.’

  He narrow eyes at me. ‘You like this?’

  ‘Been said.’

  ‘Ain’t brandy you prefer?’

  ‘Take what you got.’

  Be no other guesting they believe, but Armies will give booze. So I watch upon his thinking face, and misery grow in me. Can fear, I be no guest in this. I lose this final hope.

  Then he shake his head like disapproving, but he turn. As he reach up to a flask, I let the knife drop from my hand. With a seeking foot, I scutch it underneath a sheepskin. Put one foot lightish on the bladen shape, and breathe relief.

  Mamadou find two handled shopes. Uncork the flask with teeth. Check me with his eyes, a second late, and he pour standing.

  When he bring the shope to me, I tug my arms against their ropes. ‘Yo how I going to drink this so?’

  He bite his lip in smiling, and his chippen tooth show there. He stoop to rest the shopes down on the floor.

  Then he come behind me. My skin along my whole back waken, feel him there. He take my wrists, begin to work particular at the rope. I tense against his touch. Think on Japhet dead, the red specks on his face.

  Ropes drop lazy off. My hands chill as the blood return. Crushen fingers go and boom with hurt.

  ‘Your head been cut,’ say Mamadou. He touch lightish at my nape.

  I flinch away. ‘I know. It be my head.’

  Can feel his breath of laughter pass my shoulders. Then he come and fetch the ratten shopes, his eyes on me. I move my injure hand, test its fingers. Knuckles, wrist and palm be bloody skinned, all sting in air. But the bones is whole. Ain’t pull a bow with strength, but can hold reins. Can steady a gun.

  Here my eye glance to his rifle hangen. Arms tense before I think.

  Mamadou see my glance and nod. ‘Go try this plan. Recall, we wrestle any a time. I ain’t refuse this chore again.’

  ‘Ain’t come for that,’ I say unpleasant. ‘Got business.’

  ‘Business, call it
this.’ He reach a shope toward me.

  I take the shope, hold it against myself. ‘Truth. Be sergeant now.’

  To this, his face change inward. He take a drink of rat, swallow it like a thought he take. Then he say low, ‘Your Driver sick?’

  ‘Be so.’ My throat stick, and I say on weaker, ‘Gone from us.’

  ‘Be soon for this. Ain’t known.’

  His fingers move like pondering on his shope. Then he shake his head. ‘Think, you sergeant now, you can come into camp like that? Ain’t those times, girl.’

  ‘Ain’t fearing this.’ Nerves rise in me again.

  ‘Come into camp like that. Ain’t think you likely going to leave. Going to expect, I keep you here.’ His eyes look up like this a question.

  ‘Shee to this.’ My voice rise hoarse. ‘Dirt, what you done at Tophet?’

  Mamadou’s face surprise, then it go settle in annoyance. ‘You come for foolishness like this? A waste.’

  ‘Nay, what your feathers done at Tophet?’

  ‘You and me, we got a parley, right. But it ain’t this.’

  ‘Goddamn, you answer. What you done?’

  ‘Done what I like. And so be done to you or any. This story tired.’

  ‘Done what this Deema ask. Been order by some animal roo.’ I spit upon his furs. Some spit go fly and strike his foot.

  Mamadou tense. Face lost its bell, be gritten as my feeling. Can see the muscles change across his chest. But he ain’t answer.

  I say, ‘John of Christ ain’t kilt?’

  A moment, I expect he answer nothings like before. But he say cold, ‘Nay, this digger run. A speedy coward.’

  ‘And where they Christing wives?’

  ‘Be in the simper house. A cherry take.’

  Then something closen in myself. Ain’t thought to this, their simper house. Been hours since these Christwives took. Sure every child guess what these hours contain.

  When I speak again, my voice be rough. ‘Susannah? She your queen?’

  His mouth thin down, distaste. ‘Susannah ain’t no name to me. Got some newer simpers. Expect I know the one you miss.’