The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  ‘What be?’ I say in whisper voice, unnerve. ‘My Driver woken?’

  ‘Ya. Woken well.’ She stop before me, smile discomfort. Hand go to her lip, it dabbit on the posy mark.

  I take my breath. ‘I come to see him. You know how.’

  ‘Be sorry.’ Her smile go stiff. ‘He ain’t want to see you now.’

  ‘Nay? When he can see me?’

  Here she put her hand upon my shoulder. Take all my sense to keep myself from hitting this hand away.

  ‘Companiera,’ she say low, ‘he shame.’

  ‘Ain’t need to shame. I love him any way, is foolish.’

  ‘Yo he know.’

  ‘He can ride? We leaving, but we stay this–’

  ‘Yes, he ride. This passen well.’

  I swallow at my guilt. Look past her shoulder with some stifling feeling. ‘Want to see him, damn.’

  Then, from Driver’s open door, I hear a girlish voice. Is laughing, rise up pitchy in excitement. My skin go peculiar cold.

  Be the simper’s voice. Is Hak’s girl, in my Driver’s room.

  I step back. Brush First Physician’s hand away without no thought. ‘Sure,’ I say confuse. ‘What he want. Ever he want.’

  ‘Companiera, got to comprehend. Been hard to him.’

  I look at her, but ain’t see nothing. All my heeding be for Hak’s girl. She talking low, like she tell confidences. Then behind, I hear my Driver laugh.

  I shake my head, say forcen bright, ‘Bone. You cry me up, ever he want to see me. I be by.’

  I walk away, can hardly open the stairy door. Hit my shoulder in the doorside, stumble footless out. Halfway down the stairs, must sit and breathe myself back into semblance. Begin to feel how I ain’t slept. My mind be straying, thinking of some road where Driver ride by me. We fox about and laugh together, like we always done before. Then it realize, we ain’t. He always tell me disapprovals. How I must get enfants for the town. How I be selfish wrong, ain’t got no sense. How I make him dead.

  I press my fists into my eyes. Go thinking how my Driver parley times with OldKing Hak. Can be, he known this simper there. He never spoken of her, but ain’t everything is telling news. Driver lawful like no superstition, never he do with simpers. Truth, it been my duty that I fetch this simper from the diner. Put her somewhere out of trouble. Where she keep away.

  Then weak behind my misery, I startle to my name. Ice Cream Sengle to the easter gate. Ice Cream Sengle …

  I swear and leap up to my feet. Cut through the building, dodging runners, begging my heart that it be Driver. He heard I being by, sent to the gate somehow to call me. Know this be senseless, but I run, I cannot stop my hope.

  I come out easter door, and meet the Christing cattle at the gate. Must wait while all these cows progress in stilten motion in. My unrest sweat go icy in the breeze. Final cow go switching tail along, and Lowell Second Stabler last with Tophet’s fatty mule.

  Only when they by, I notice Pasha.

  He stand outside upon the path, a rifle slung against his back. Wear a rooish jacket, gray-and-green. One trembling moment, I feel he invite me out to war.

  Then I be walking to, zip Patagonia to my neck. Wear my shoulders clumsy, how I feel. Cryer by the gate look at me mally for my tardiness. Ain’t pause to this, I go outside with winter sadness in my face.

  Past the walls, can see that Pasha got his roo pack on the ground. A second rifle lain atop. Its black length be familiar nightmares.

  ‘Salue,’ say Pasha soft.

  ‘Salue yourself. Got your loot.’

  ‘Thought Lowells take, if you ain’t by.’

  Then I look to his birchen face, like it will tell me fortunes. Tell how these guns will use, what murder be in these bell goods. But he turn his face away. Bend down and take the second rifle. Lift it graciose and easy in his grandy fist.

  He reach it toward myself. Face complicating, but he say no word. Only hold this blackness gift and bite his lip.

  I say unliking, ‘Shoo, ain’t need that. Got my pistol.’

  ‘Nay, you need. Is better.’

  A minute, we look one to one. My heart be big and ugly then. The Vember wind cut numb upon my face.

  I say, in choken voice, ‘Better for murder, what you mean.’

  Then can see, his thoughts hurt in him. ‘Yes,’ he say low. ‘You shoot with pistol, they shoot back. With this – ain’t likely can. Be safer.’

  ‘Deer ain’t shooting back.’

  ‘Deer?’

  ‘We flee these roos for what? Ain’t plan to kill no goddamn children. My use for guns be meat.’

  He loose the gun down tired. A moment, I expect he take it back. But he say, ‘Said you will heed me.’

  ‘Heed you? When I said this?’

  ‘If we go to get the cure. Said you obey my telling.’

  I frown past him to the city, like I going to find some reason. It look cold bekept this morning hour. Be a parking building there, before the easter gate. Shape all of grandy windows, but these windows got no glass, is air. Behind, the buildings all got broken eyes. Some shattern down their sides, stand miserable in their lost brick. Holes show their inside rooms, grown strange with moss.

  Then I magine Washington like this, a city of absent ruin. The cure there, guarding by some thousand roos. How Driver wait behind.

  At last, I swallow my dislike. ‘You promise, ya? We get this cure?’

  ‘If you obeying.’ Pasha nod.

  I laugh sour. ‘Foo, start with that, I doing every errand you can think. Caught some tricky manners, you.’

  But we both smiling now. I feel relief, ain’t know from where.

  Then he reach the gun again – ya, this gesture loving somehow. Is like he move to settle a blanket round my chilly shoulders.

  I take it careful. Hands soothe to the rifle’s weight, its metal cold like honesty. I sigh out in feeling. Can feel without no thought, its make be right.

  I say with weak conviction, ‘Ain’t need this yet. To Washington, be weeks.’

  ‘Can see roos before.’ His voice come low and shy like mine. ‘Ya, is other children.’

  ‘Children like ourself? Ain’t fearing them.’

  When I look back to his face, he smiling. Eyes be gratty soft. ‘Must teach you how it use.’

  ‘Expect you press the trigger, nay? Ain’t mysteries.’

  ‘Is matters teach.’

  Then a shiver grip in me. ‘Hold. What gun this be?’

  He frown to it. ‘It be Kalash.’

  ‘Kalash?’

  ‘What they call. Kalash their sort.’

  ‘But, this ain’t the gun that–’

  ‘Ho, you meaning … nay, I keep.’ He touch the gun he wearing. ‘Mine.’

  ‘Bone.’ I sigh again and hold the gun against me clumsy. Look to the pack left on the ground. ‘Guess these other pistols … they be useful. Deer, I meaning.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stoop down for the pack, gone easier through his grandy self. ‘Be gratty, Ice.’

  ‘Foo, who you got to thank, I wonder?’ I laugh my nervy breath.

  ‘Nay.’ He rear the pack upon and stand up to his height. ‘Is bone.’

  Last, before we turn inside, I fumble up the rifle’s strap. I say its name in mind, Kalash, and slip it over my thin shoulders. Its weight rest to me good, feel strong. Is like a promise there – a carrying oath that I do any evils, but my brother save.

  My next hour spent in Lowell Storage, scratching in their ammonition. A hundred diggers push around, and be some nasty squabbles, when they question what I robbing there. Yo, when my bullets gathern, John of Christ come in, with teary thanks for all the Tophets’ rescue. His face unshape with bruise, got bandage nose like wrennish beak. Onto this hurting mess, he leak his eyes. The Lowells gather curiose, and soon they all respecting me with hero talk, while I embarrass like a turtle naked from its shell.

  Then I must visit all the Christings in their Lowell partment. Here wives yappit nonsense, how their Jesus help
me in the fire – the littles said they seen Him there, with shining head and blooden hands.

  My courtesy tiring now, and I say only long annoyance, how they morons stay in Massa. Insist they think again; insist the cure and every hopeful fact. But all they comprehending be, this come from Pasha’s mouth. Any word of roos be ‘lies of Satan’ to their mind. Yo, while this fray continue, hurt Susannah watching silent. She still in godclothes, grime and torn. Her braids undone in shagginess. Ya, her eyes beweepen. Look like bruises in her gentle face.

  Before I leave, I talk to her apart. ‘John, he ain’t got sense to count his feet,’ I say. ‘Must tell him.’ Try every argument I can, and even give suggestion that she come alone, with her own enfants. But she watch her sorrow eyes, and say at last, ‘Be Christ His will. Hope you remember us.’

  From this discontent, I go by hasty. Trudge my load of bullets through a dodging scram of Lowells; gather my Sengles with alarming yells. Be counting heads and telling orders, when the cryers speak.

  They call from every side and ring the walls. Call every leaving child to easter gate. And as they yell, their looning screaming settle into unison. Soon they speaking in one beat, like all the mill sing vally. And through the mill, a cry come back, of children scream excitement. Yo my Sengles shout till ain’t no hearing. I laugh crazy into this. Bend and heft my gun Kalash, sling up her strap like ready habit. Pasha catch my glance and smile somehow, with fuzzy eyes.

  Be scrambling then to ready all. Must wrangle all my children to the yard; catch enfants into carry packs and horsen carriers. Our new Army horse, of Hak’s girl’s stealing, cheer my greedy littles. They spend entertaining minutes, give him goofen Army names like Frighten Imbeciles and Dare-to-Hide. Ending be, is callen Piglet somehow, though he monster tall.

  Every matter hurry, yet it take ten times the work of drill. Through around, is Lowells running in the same haste madness. Every second, be more children, till ain’t room to swing an arm.

  Then, tall among, my Driver come. Walk normal, like ain’t nothing been. He shaven fresh, look shining bone. Wear his blue Carhartt jacket. I shout to him and grin unthinking, point him to this Piglet horse. Yo, he smile at me. Mount without cavil, leaping well. Then my heart change high in strength. Ain’t even mind when I see Hak’s girl straggle behind, eyes to my brother. I wave to her, she make her pinchen smile.

  Lowell mill give hundred and ninety children, Sengles thirty-seven. Yo these hundreds and our beasts be many for the yard. Some wait behind in shoving groups, go tiptoe to see where we leave. I hold Money’s halter rope, and grip so hard I feel the pulse of heartbeat in my injure hand.

  Then Keepers call up laughing, ‘Lowells sobbing for their cats. Look by.’

  She point to the easter door. There a clutch of Lowell children dabbit, cats in arms. Cats squirm unliking while these children pet them and complain. One cat bolt panicking among the cow legs while a girl skree after, ‘Robot! Robot!’

  And here the hundreds all turn forward. I turn forward, leap my heart. Can see my El Mayor vault up to easter wall. He stand there vally, yelling couragement. Around, be larm and muttering, bleating sheep. But he call brave above.

  Ain’t get no conscience what he say. Be rousing speech of maple futures, rivers flown with wine. Be what a child expect, in louder bucketloads. Yo I only know, I watch on him with pounding joy. My heart be graciose and huge and red for him and our adventure. Be madder than no happiness I known.

  He finish, jump down from my sight, and I turn grinning to my Sengles. Call, ‘We there! We going real!’

  They yell back spiriteuse, shove at each other in excite. Then we wait another prickling minute while these hundreds shift. Step and step, we walk out to the gate. Come on the bridge, and there the city wait. The bricky ruin of my dreaming hope, its sky be blue as wonderful. Walk on to bigger day, like all my wishes stepping to their life.

  THROUGH BANDON WOODS

  Vember 1–28

  32

  OUR JOURNEY: VEMBER 1–26

  Days that come been clean bonesse. We keep to 495, a highway broad as any field. Got a twin highway the same, these two companion faithful. Together, they go stretch and snake across all unkept distance, till they find our new Connecticut.

  All this way be forest. Ain’t scarcely notice when the Massa woods be left, and yonder start. A hummock seem familiar in your eye; then it come queery that the individual trees be strangers. Some places, both roads vanish, eaten by the growing wild. Look like the highway dive beneath a cliff of skinny trees. Will see a roadsign stood peculiar in a flock of birch; a lonely patch of road remaining stubborn like a mushroom. Then, without no visible cause, the highway start again, with only nibbling bush around its edge.

  First week of journey, we see children sometimes by the road. These always fleeing terrify, like we be deadly ghosts. Yo, at one town, the jones come out with guns and heavy clubs. Only words they give be threats, if we ain’t leave direct. Come to comprehend, these be the raiding places of the Armies. All they known of strangers been their children robben in the night.

  But as we stalk the deeper west, the only houses be old evacs. Then oaks and beasts and sun be all our friendship.

  Most the Lowell children painful to this outside life. Will grumble on their bedless sleep, their blisters and their dirtiness. Get backward moods, where all be climbing trees to scout First Runner. Magine how she come to tell them nothing mally been, they can return to their warm rooms.

  But for my Sengles, journey be familiar bosky stars. Hammocks slung in rustle trees, the morning fire and meat. Wash in a brook ain’t got no name, and come at dawning to the bluish number highway. These mornings, walking never seem like work. Weather mostly chill and dry, get only brightness sweat. We follow our shadows to the west; a still hawk scout above. Walk out long and long to night, that come to meet us with its sunset. And sleep, and wake again with noisy hundreds to our company.

  Soon our march of every child be townie in my eyes. First ahead, go Lowell stablers, driving the horses–cattle forward in their snorting hundreds. Wherever a hill rise up before, can see these brownish beasts drab up to fill the roaden shine. El Mayor and his close children – First Electric, First Contractor – always walking last. Their horsen sledge of wine make up the lazy rear of our procession. Sengles mingle forward–backward, bothering and thieving. My littles’ clothes be soon a circus pigliness of thefts, and be a pride to them, that they wear nothing of their own.

  Hours go in walking thought. Be like a time of flu, when nothing tasky can accomplish. Spend afternoons in worry on the Lowells–Christings left behind; then I dream forward to Connecticut its unknown woods. And times, I wander lost in dreams of Mamadou the NewKing. Guess if he still keep by roos, and if he can survive. But this release, and all my frets release and comb out into sense. Come into this present world, where is only sun and road. Trees shushing slow with their last leaf.

  All these journey days, my Sengles hunt, try their new guns in practice. Yo, in my chase, I use my rooish rifle, good Kalash. Gun be heavy carrying, and kick unsteady when she shoot. But she looking far with good attention. Got three settings: one bullet, three bullets, and all bullets splashing wild. Three-bullet shooting good for deer. No deer ain’t fleeing after. Yo, Pasha never let me leave the camp without this weapon. Roo always think some children by the road will kill us for our goods. When I say it ain’t no children here, he answer dark, ‘Yo where they gone?’ While we slinging hammocks at night, roo often stalk the woods around, in scout for these road people. Ware his rifle to the forest’s birden peacefulness.

  These evenings be a vasty camp of swayback tents and hammocks. Get a dozen fires lit, until the woods become a scatter of slipping lights and shadows. Every night, be Lowells singing gospies by the fire. First Gardener play bow-guitar, while girls sing high and wisty.

  And, most aster nights, when songs be by, when Sengles gone in sleep, I creep soft from my hammock. Pick my footsteps cautieuse, creep to the dark outsid
e all people. I stalk to the tent of El Mayor.

  This love be fickle in its joy. Be nights we parley in amour until the darkness morning. Will drowse and kiss and whisper in his scramble bed of blankets, and the cricket woods cry glad around our sex. Talk then be mostly gladness swearing, and they maple flatteries is foolish to repeat.

  But moren more, our conversations bicker into ugliness.

  First fight be my insistence that we keep our love in secret. Never my heart accept that every Lowell–Sengle know. Truth is, my love be skitty beasts. Will vanish, then come back alive, then turn to mean dislike. Ever I magine telling every child, it feel like shameful lies. In walking hours, I often think of leaving him for honesty – but when I see him in his tent, I change in weak regret. Will only beg for secrecy again, with pale excuses.

  El Mayor resent this awful. He crave to wake with me in arms, to name Ice Cream in happy boast. And he start in jalousie, what ears I keep this secret from. For this, he asking tireless, who done love with me before. Will name all children he can think – Jermaine and Popsicle and Crow; ya any Lowell who show eyes to me, or give me friendly gift. Sometimes, from drowsing quietness, he say in sudden pain, ‘Nay, who?’

  Answer is Mamadou and Mamadou, crime that love its darkness. And something inkle to me, El Mayor ain’t going to bear this news.

  Yo in sneaking thought, I wishing on the NewKing still. Ever I scold my nonsense heart, it beat its same direction. Be even times my skin resenting El Mayor for only this, that he ain’t Mamadou and cannot be and never be.

  So from the drowsy end of love, I often slip in need away. In sudden change, ain’t want him grabbing me, requiring me with questions. Leave El Mayor with jalousie and come back to his hurt.

  Our other fight be on my plan to go to Washington.

  How it is, the Lowells never trust me with the cure’s importance. I be a girl fifteen, a Sengle ignorant, and all it is. So they plan to go themself – all their older males, and El Mayor in leadership. Ain’t fret them nothing, when my Pasha say they all be murdern. Nor they ask his help. They can find Washington with maps, is all their project need.