The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  Taco shrug. ‘Do we know? We don’t know. Mamadou said to bring you to Felipe, so that’s what we’re doing.’

  ‘Mamadou?’ I say footless. ‘Nay, was Mamadou sent you there?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re in Mamadou’s war.’ Taco grin. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Maria. That’s what’s happening.’

  I sit back, staring foolish. Now the car, its darkness wind, feel like peculiar sleeps. Taco go lean down, can see him fishing up a bottle. Uncap the bottle and he drink, and all these shadow motions be a disbelief to me. Only the cold seem real, the forward seats close to my nose.

  Then Taco squint eyes back to Pasha. ‘Mister Jesus, can you be a second gun for me? Just lying there … I mean, no offence, but she’s the one who’s got to live. That’s what we’re doing.’

  54

  THE SEARCH TO MASSA WOODS

  For longer time, we going nowhere. Pasha–Taco keep their windows down, ware out with guns. I shiver and clutch my hand onto its blood, press back to Pasha’s warm. Car swing us to its weight in turning, rile its engine louden-soft, and Taco’s voice continue through the wind like comfort dream. He telling the story, how the search transpire in Massa woods.

  The searchers been Juan’s guard of twenty men, with sixty penals. Ya, been Mamadou–Crow–First Runner, quiet kept from all. Bossing been apostle Juan. This child be a young sixteen, face still got looks of baby chubness. Most every penal–guard look huge beside his ungrown self. ‘So, how that always goes,’ say Taco. ‘Juan’s just got to show how tough he is. Kid’s never been near a gunfight, so don’t nobody tell him nothing. But basically, Miss Maria, that’s the definition of an officer.’

  First night been easy journeys. Drive to Citgo camp took petty hours; our Massa horses there. Only been some trepidations when they choosing ponies. Marianos mostly never sat a horse before. Of all they children, only Juan be cleverish to ride.

  Juan take the NewKing’s personal stallion, Beg-No-Pity. Choose this grandy horse for show, and suffer his bucking tempers. Mamadou–Crow take Army beasts; First Runner take my Money, kickety mare who dislike strangers. The others find some Lowell horses, slow to any bother. Ya, it take some sweating work before they make these animals move.

  Beyond these normal mishaps, been no trouble their first days. Was only on their third night out, no histories begin. This been a petty incident about the NewKing’s rifle, that he buying with my eary diamond.

  From first beginnings, the child who sold this object get regrets. But his greed ain’t tolerate to trade the diamond back. Instead, he sneak around the NewKing, robbery in mind. But how it is, my Mamadou bewaring murders on this trip. Even in sleep, he leave Crow watching or First Runner. One always waking while the others rest.

  This bring the penal – Sticks in naming – into bad frustrations. So, on this second night, Sticks wait until First Runner’s watch. Tackle her from behind and rob the rifle from her unsize hands. Then he stalk careless off. How he think, be any fight, his townie penals join with him.

  First Runner stubborn as a rock, and all her mind be honor. Ain’t even comprehend no person do this wormliness. So she dog this penal’s heels, explain his fault with loud complaint. When Sticks only swearing back, her noise increase to yell. Soon every child be woken, griping, ya the NewKing first among.

  Can think, the NewKing risen angry to this stealing problem. But he laugh like the others, how First Runner read this jumbo soldier lessons on his cowardesse. When Sticks swat a hand at her, she dodge, but never quit her scold. Soon be children shouting that he give the rifle back. Ain’t no one sleep without.

  Taco tell us: ‘I think Sticks might have just done it. But Mamadou decides to make an issue. He gets up and says, “I fight you for it.” So, we all knew Mamadou had the broken shoulder, so people’s saying, “You can’t fight with all that.” But Mamadou won’t let it go. And Sticks, he comes out ready. So that’s what they done.’

  Sticks be burglar people. All his boxing been with stubborn windows. Yo, Mamadou scrapping every day of life, how Armies do. So this fight be quick and done. Soon Sticks be flubbering in the dirt with blooden nose and gasping breath. Mamadou kneel upon and rob my eary diamond from his pocket, fling it in yonder woods. Sticks spend the farther night in hunting for this small richesse.

  After this, the penals hold the NewKing in regard. Nor they lose respects when Crow explain what Nat Mass Armies been. To them, the simpers be like sexy fantasies. Ya, tales about the feathers kilt – by roos, by Soledad – become their tragedy entertainments. They prize myself in admiration, that I save the NewKing; yo the NewKing be like sacred heroes, that Maria save him. All be mysteries of drama, better than no boring life.

  Fifth day of this search, the expedition catch two roos. These fled the rooish army themself, behind some crime they done. Yo, they relieve to hear the Marianos talking Panish. Like Pasha, this be languages they learnt in earlier war. Juan and his closer guards go question them apart. They be an hour away, then Juan return with pleasing smile.

  One capture roo, guards shoot direct. Ain’t hide this for no decency. The other roo, they hold and break his feet, to keep him from escape. Smash them with a rifle stock, while he scream and beg his life. Then they lift him, sobbing, feeble kept, to ride behind a guard.

  How Taco say, this cruelty start a time of evil moods. All hours, can hear the roo his groans. When he must climb down, land on his feet, he scream like baby agony. And now Juan take a sideward road, without no explanations. Road be thin and overgrown, is mostly lost to trees. Yo, thick along its length be bandon towns.

  ‘That road was terrifying, serious,’ Taco say. ‘It was just empty houses, and you could see that people’d been living there. Yeah, you could smell it. Cause we’d come through a patch of houses and, my god. You try breathing through your mouth, and you could taste it. Just dead bodies. The penals was all praying, and these are not religious people. And when you saw a body – sometimes they’d left them hung in a tree – at first, they’d look like they were moving, you know? But it was just all maggots. And that Russian crying and screaming. And all the time, he keeps saying in Spanish, No, we’re going to the Russians here. Why are we going to them? You know, he still prefers us. So, you start to think about that.’

  At first, the penals see no necessary wrong, to go toward Russians. All known, they hunting roos to question. Only, they argue backen-forth, if two roos been enough. Their most suspicion be, Juan got no brains for warry task, and lead them pointless into danger.

  But Mamadou born to evil ways. Worst guess will be his first belief. Yo he known Deema; known what roos expect from helpful children. Start working in his mind, and ask Juan’s guards some sneaky questions. Then it take no thinking hours before he comprehend. He tell his conclusions to the penals in his confidence, with certainty of pride.

  At first, they shoo his notions. But their progress through dead towns prolong a day, another day. Soon no evil seem peculiar to belief. The corpsen pue keep sickening in their breath, the Russian’s wailing scrape their nerves. Camping at night, no child can sleep, go jittering up at every sound. Yo, Mamadou say and he repeat, Juan bring us to the Russians now. We be his first payment.

  Second night of this, they come to woods beyond no houses. Is dusk, but ain’t no child got moods to camp. They dread the forward path, and dread the woods immediate around; dread the road behind with all its bones and horror stank. Yo, as the sun go quenching into blackness, they hear voices.

  First, they only halt their horses, irresponsible with fear. Even Juan stare terryifying round and aim his gun at shadows. But slow, they start to hear correct – these voices be of enfant children. Is littles, squeaking harmless, somewhere in the forward dark.

  Then Juan trot on forward. The others follow, laugh relief. Be magining some healthy place, some company from fear.

  Through the inky trees, the town be normal in its looks. Houses all sit close together, streets be trodden grass. But, as they ride in, a scream come up. All petty shadow
s scatter, vanish like some panic mice. The houses slam, the woods go crunching with all desperate feet. Time they come out to the clear, be only the houses with their unlit windows, dumb in silent woods.

  Juan go yell, in Panish ya in English, promise friendship. This only bring a daring skree, ‘We got guns! Go away!’ Penals–guards try calling also, swearing various to faith. But be no farther word. Only can see a rifle pointing from a neary window.

  Taco tell us: ‘So, Mamadou says he’ll send First Runner, and everyone else should back off. He just says this, like he’s in charge. But nobody’s got any better ideas. And yeah, she goes, doesn’t even say anything. Knocks at a door. And they let her in, and it’s like five minutes later, all these little kids come out. There was just little kids, that’s all it was there. Nobody over ten years old.’

  Been most five hundred enfants in this clutch of twenty buildings. All be from the murdern towns beside that evil road.

  Some was left by all their older children without violence. How this been, a roo appear, tell promises about the cure. Roo say it be one day of walking to their wonder hospital, where every jones can heal. But no littles can accompany. Place be risky for their health. So the older children leave, with only carrying enfants taken. Nor no whisper coming back. These children gone and gone.

  Worser stories start alike. A roo appear with promises, but children slow to trust. His promises becoming threats, and when this ain’t succeed, the roo depart. Return a week behind, with hundred others, wearing guns.

  Times they only herding jones together, shoot no child. But where too many people hide, they murdering for demonstrations. Will take whoever come obedient; then they hunting through the woods with hounds, kill who they find.

  Ya, been one town where every child been murdern, small and big. Only one petty six survive, who hidden sneaky in a woodpile. Stay in this darkness, terrify, while shooting–screaming pass and dwindle. Come out to a world of dead, all staring, crawling strange with ants.

  Now, ain’t no older child remain. In all these woods, is only brats. By fews and fews, they gather here, for comfort in their numbers. Ya, these weeks, the winter worsen into cold starvation. Now they eating moths and bark, whatever seeming most like food. Already some smaller enfants die from want.

  These tales bring the Marianos into awful sentiments. Soon they given most their food away, forgot their practical minds. They sleep that night on floors, with littles cuddling to their warm. How Taco say, most penals–guards got enfants of their own. Can do some vicious manners, but they weakly for a baby.

  Yo, every child expecting certain, now their journey find its end. Will bring these enfants back in rescue. Obvious be simple. With-without no cure, the city need to rid these Russians. It even be insistences, they kill their captive roo.

  But in the morning, Juan say they must ride on. Enfants ain’t their care, they must continue with the search.

  ‘Now, if we don’t do what he says, we can’t go home. That’s the thing. It’s a disobeying orders thing, I don’t know if you know that. And it’s weird. That point, we all believed – the penals done – what Mamadou said, how they’d sell us to the Russians. But we all started down the road again. It’s habitual or some shit, I don’t know.

  ‘So I don’t know how far that would have gone. If we would have done something. Cause then Mamadou starts to come to us, and says he’s going to take Juan out. And we were, okay, that wasn’t no problem. That was good. And he says, when he does it, we should go back to the town. He’ll meet us there.

  ‘Well, we started hanging back right off. Cause we didn’t know what the guards were thinking. Nobody’s happy, but what are they thinking? It could have been a whole firefight.’

  How Mamadou rid Juan safe, been neater foxeries. He take a piney stick. Peel it particular to hurt. Then, in their normal progress, he trot up behind where Juan ride Beg-No-Pity. Raise arm and land this stick with force in Beg-No-Pity’s tender parts.

  Horse hit out like bullet furiose, Juan clinging on. Ya Mamadou gallop after. Guards startle footless, take some time to even know their eyes. At last, they go pursuing, but they all be stupid riders. Only lose themself in trees, their horses sluggish to no chase.

  Penals never wait. They turn back to the enfant town. After a minute’s ride, they hear some gunshots from the hinder woods. Get to the town at their slow trot, and Mamadou be there already. He riding Beg-No-Pity, and he raise Juan’s rifle in his hand. Pass this off to Sticks while all the others laughing wild relief.

  And Mamadou say, ‘Whoever fear rebellion, go and find they guards. Ain’t need you. But whoever want to make this right, you come with me.’

  From this moment, he been telling orders to them all. He leave some children back to bring the enfants to Marias, ya First Runner stay in trust. Others ride home quick. Infest the projects in the flood. Been there eight days, done every spying work, prepare their secret war. Now, how Taco boast, they take the city, rid these wrong apostles. Then they go to wolfen combat, kill all Russians born. Be histories to write about their missions wonderful. ‘Seriously, what we’re doing here? Who else ever done that? I’ll tell you – no one done anything like it, Miss Maria. What I’m saying.’

  55

  THE METRO SPEECH

  While this news continue, my hand quit its nuisance bleeding. Taco reach us back his booze, and Pasha clean my face with this, rub with his inside sleeve. He find a cut above my eye, and I try to gladden, how I maybe get a bragging scar. But, ever Taco rest his voice, I see my Anselm in the dirt. The rifle nose come down. His dying blood hit on my face. Then I push back toward Pasha’s knees, gone shivering awful through myself. Once Pasha lean down and arm me round. We huddle in the dark, my head press into his warm throat, while shadows slipping over us, the cold wind ache its voice.

  Taco’s story finish, and I be lying half in sleep, skirt wrap around my freezing arms, when the car come slow and stop. I open eyes to friendly lectric lights, good nighten softness.

  Pasha say, ‘We here, Ice.’ He put his palm down to my forehead, like he check my fever.

  ‘Ya, I bone. Is Metro?’

  ‘Should be okay here,’ Taco say. ‘Unless you go in and Felipe’s dead all over the place. That’d be a bad sign.’

  We all laugh scary to this. I sit up, rubbing at my head. Feel like it going to ache, but it be only weighten wrong. Pasha open the carren door, and I crawl out behind him, feeling bruises stiff down my left side. Step out on snow concree that ache into my naked feet.

  Pasha slam the door, and our good car go driving off in roar. I look back startling, feel some cheaten nerves that Pepi–Taco gone. Then Pasha touch my arm reminding. I come hasty on my painful feet toward the churchen steps.

  At the doors, there be three Metros watching for us, perfect in their wealthy clothes. They do stooping reverence as I come. A fourteen girl in blackish furry coat hold out a cup to me. Say Panish, touch her chest. Male beside her say, ‘For warm, senyora.’

  I take the cup. Is gratty hot in my stiff fingers. I think of poison, but I drink it neverless. Is heaten wine. Pasha fussing at my skirt, brush something from its cloth. Stand up again with worry eyes. I hand the cup back to this girl and whisper, ‘Gracias.’

  Then we pass into the softer cold of this big church.

  Be lit with thousand candles, set in spidery metal tachments on the ceiling and the walls. Even with this, the church be gentle with good brown darkness. Seats be full, ya children standing thick behind–around. All be in everycolor finery gowns and churching suits, and when they see me, they all kneel. Look like wildflower grass that flatten in wind. Yo, from this thousand, come a sigh. Is like the church itself moan wishful. Can hear a girlish sob among, and mutters of Maria, Maria.

  Felipe waiting in the forward church. He shaven off his crafty beard, and he gaze naked on me, eyes religiosen weak. Silver robe hang like a mood of passion, fit his love. He beckon hand to me.

  Pasha stay back by the door. Ya, I step lones
ome through the hall, go forward conscious on bare feet. Skirt brush against the Metros, who still bow their heads unseeing. My sleepiness be gone, and now I feel myself a dirty fear. Can smell the blood on me again; the booze where Pasha try to clean it. Any Maria grace forgot. Be walking like a tired scratcher, come back sick from war.

  As I come close, Felipe kneel. I know this ritual now, and I reach out my unhurt hand. He take it, kiss its ring, and rise up easy to his feet. Eyes shine like heavens, and he muttern soft, ‘Tell them, santa reina. About the cure, the Russians.’

  ‘You ain’t told?’ I whisper weak.

  He shake his head with worship looks. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll translate for you.’

  Then he turn to the kneeling crowd, rise somehow in his height. Cry up, and his voice sound heroic big, he ring the hall. Is Panish, wrong to comprehend, and I be only thinking desperate, feeling for my needful words. Yo, too soon, he turn to me. His eyes be shining expectations. I take a scary breath and face the crowd.

  Speech begin from nothing – Massa woods its happy quiet, finding Pasha in the burning house. I tell about the cure, tell every evidence that drive us to our journey. Gather in passion as I tell about the clausen signing; how I ask apostles for a war against the roos. Yo, my voice come ragged when I tell the search its treachery. How Simón kept ignorant; how Anselm come to kill myself for only knowing what they do.

  Ya, turn and turn, Felipe repeat in Panish, like a songly answer. Our voices echo, thin and full, the candles change their light.

  Last, I say feroce in need, ‘Can know it be a wrongness to you, that I be Maria. But no one sell my people to their death. Ain’t going to be. And ever I be a stranger, I ain’t leave you from the cure. You all will live, or I ain’t live. I fight by you to my last blood.’

  While Felipe repeating this, I gaze out to the spaniels. Their faces now be wondering stark. Is like they witness some impossible change – a moon that speak, a sky that part to show a face. Yo, I feel my heart again. Feel how I come on tired feet from Massa with this message. And in their scary faces, these rich worshipers be like myself; like all bad children callen to a goodness past all hope.