The Country of Ice Cream Star (10 page)

Again-again, I ask him how he live so long, and ain’t got posies. Ask in anger; ask in helpless beggary. Ask in vain. Yo, in this time, his age begin to feel to me direct. In every detail of his face, his hands, is something worn and tired. Be in his size somehow. It be particular as a smell. But ever I turn my mind, it be no sense. Roo grown affections to myself, can swear. If he known a cure, he never left me dying sick. So can think, cure ain’t exist. But, in all his fool denials, never he say
It be no cure
. He answer sticks and nonsense, or he give unhappy silence. And secrets look from his blank eyes.

Once I threaten him again. Go grab the pistol from his hand, and press it to his throat. But Pasha only tense and wait. Blue eyes be mostly sorry. He grit until my fury tire, then say his same, ‘Cannot.’

So when at last he tell some use, ain’t on the posy cure. Ain’t on the roos, or WAKS, or nothing from the world beyond. It only be an unexpecting fact of Crow his treachery.

We walking home from hunting, rainy day without no luck. Rain strike thick, and we go ducking underneath a pine. Tree got a set of boughs that overlap, the needles thick. Almost can pretend that it be dry.

I make my accustom talk about my dying brother – sicken without help, because some children got no heart to use. How Driver raise me from an enfant, when he being small himself, but Pasha never care. Ya, soon Crow be sergeant, bad in ways.

Then Pasha say up curiose, ‘When the sergeant change?’

Almost, I react annoying. But then I only shake my head. ‘Whenever the sergeant showing posies, he be callen dead. New sergeant ruling this same hour. Truth, ain’t lawful, how we doing. Should be changing weeks before.’

Pasha shrug, our broken laws ain’t worry his composure. ‘New sergeant rule. Old sergeant doing what? He leave?’

‘He dead,’ I say unliking. ‘No person talk to him except the sergeant. Ain’t use his name, must call him “our good child”. Be like OldKing then.’

‘OldKing?’

I sigh and find a cigarette. Rain thick as hair. ‘This be an Army definition. Nat Mass Armies got two kings. OldKing and the NewKing. When the NewKing sicken with his posies, he become an OldKing. Then they choose a new NewKing. Sound complicate, but truth is simple. Only the NewKing ruling. Yo, only the NewKing keep a queen.’

‘Queen?’

I shrug nerviose. ‘Queen be the NewKing’s wife. Ain’t got no power. With that filth, is boys the only people. But the queen the only girl they taking from the Massa woods. Ain’t like a slave, she keeping fat. But when the OldKing sicken bad, he kill her with a knife. Be all their filthy manners.’ Here I stop and light my cigarette, my heart be beating queery. Snap the zippo shut and say, ‘NewKing Mamadou must take his queen soon. He tardy in this. OldKing kilt his queen four months before.’

Pasha’s face go disapprove. ‘He kill his … girl he sleep by?’

‘Ain’t sleep by no one, child. The NewKing keep his hut alone.’

‘Nay, I thinking … sex.’

Here we both laugh, embarrassing like any enfant children. I say, ‘Yo sho, is sex. Most bell be stolen for their queen.’

Mischief brighten in Pasha’s eyes. ‘Be sad to lose you then, Ice Cream.’

I see he ain’t meant disrespect, but still my mind go vicious red. I suck my cigarette without no breath and feel despicable.

‘Will overlook this speech,’ I say. ‘You ain’t to understand.’

His face go wary. ‘What I say?’

‘No Sengle taken queen. No Sengle kept by Armies since the murder wars. Nor will be. Never going to be.’ I spit into the dirt. ‘Queening be a matter for the Christings. Always them is took.’

Pasha looking at me careful. ‘You pain with me? I say some mally?’

‘Nay, is only feeling.’ Ain’t know why, but then I say, ‘Got history with NewKing Mamadou.’

Then I sure regret my words. My cigarette taste weak, and all the rain be falling shame.

‘History?’ say Pasha. ‘What this history?’

‘Shoo. Forget this talk.’

His eyes grow mischief back. ‘Ho, love history. Comprehend.’

‘Goddamn, you hush. Be crime to love some Nat Mass Army.’

‘Be crime you feel? Is sorry.’ He laugh loud, his head tip up and hit the bough above. All piney rain shake on our heads.

I swear and kick his shin. This only make him laugh up worse. And the piney wetness break my vanity, I laugh myself. All the woods is private with the darkly rain, I feel uncanny.

‘Damn your yellow brains, you see too much. Yo shaggy dirt.’

He laugh again and say, ‘You kick me more, yo criming girl?’

‘Goddamn!’ I try to smoke, but cigarette been soggen from the rain. I throw it down. ‘Must teach your mouth respect. Can go too far, this rooish freedom.’

Pasha’s eyes shine through my shame. ‘NewKing, how looking? What his face?’

‘Ain’t concern yourself, what face he have. Shee for your questions.’

‘Nay, think I seen this NewKing.’

‘Foo, how your NewKing look?’

‘Prettieuse boy, got feathers. Greenish feathers here.’ He sweep his hand behind his neck.

‘Ain’t Mamadou,’ I say, relieve somehow. ‘The NewKing’s feathers black and red. This been some featherboy.’

‘Seem like NewKing.’ Pasha shrug. ‘He talk to Crow like. Bossy.’

Then disbelieving prickle on my skin. I narrow at the roo. He looking unconcern, inspect the wet spots on his cigarette.

I say, ‘This feather talk with Crow? They two alone been talking?’

‘Ya.’ He ware at me. ‘Ain’t bone they talk?’

‘Be … ain’t normal that they talk. Is sergeant’s business, parleying with Armies. They talk how? Was friendly?’

‘Ya. They walking arm with arm.’ Pasha put his elbow out to show the linken arms.

‘Foo, boys linking arms. Is Army manners.’ I squinch up my nose. ‘What they said?’

‘Ain’t comprehend the speech good then. Been weeks before.’

‘They spoken friendly, though? Ain’t been dispute?’

‘Ya, they laugh and friendly. Like we be.’

I press my back against the piney trunk. Sap sticking at my jacket, and I feel my hungry nerves. Sure this be why Crow ain’t bring meat to town. He give his meat to Armies, trade to them in secret crime.

Reason be no science to explain. When Sengle boys go to the Armies, be for simper slaves. Male who cannot please no girl, will go where he can pay. The slaven girls cannot refuse. Nor these girls ain’t get the loot; is for the Army filth to keep. Crow be Crow, but never I thought my animose do such. The child my arms remember never do this cruelty.

I say, ‘For crime, this be the worst. Ain’t to know, what this Crow do, if Armies capture girls from us. If he be sergeant … shee!’

‘Ice Cream. I ain’t–’

‘Nay. Hush.’

Pasha turn his eyes away. I take and loose my sadden breath. Try thinking how I tell my Driver, but can see no help. Crow be our
only male full-grown. He sergeant, or we ridding him, the Sengles lost the same.

At last, I only reach my palm into the chilling rain. Breathe and feel its trickle cold until my sense return.

As I think and Pasha hush, the rain go slow and lessen. Soon my palm feel weak beneath its course. Sun brighten through. I put my chill wet hand against my throat.

‘Is tardy,’ I say soft at last.

Pasha stir. Look at me sleepyhead and faraway. ‘Ya, be evening meal.’

‘Foo, ain’t dusking yet. You see the sun?’ I point and feel a glad frustration. ‘Teach your leaky brain to tell the time, goddamn.’

‘Be crafty,’ Pasha say, and laugh.

We set forward easy-foot, our empty packs be light. But as we find the path, some running footsteps sound behind. Come a Lowell runner breathless through the splashing mud.

Sprinting to, he cry out, ‘Ice Cream Sengle! Word from El Mayor! Must come and bring the roo!’

The runner wearing Lowell jacket suit and flat cravat. Is eight, an older age to be a runner, and his face be panic. All this show importance; El Mayor ain’t going to hear my nay.

Runner start again. ‘Be urgent. El Mayor himself require.’ He yappit on about the need, while all his eyes stare at the roo. Ya, my heart exasperate. I got no moods to El Mayor, nor I got time for Lowells now.

‘Cannot come,’ I say. ‘Tell El Mayor he ask some other day.’ I nod to Pasha and set off. Roo come behind, and runner last, must jog to keep the pace, while crying, ‘El Mayor be seriose! Ain’t heeding, companiera!’

At Sengle town, they got a rain-sheet spread from tree to tree. All children yappiting beneath, the raindrops chatter on its plastic. At the corner where we come, stand Driver and Crow Doe.

Crow standing normal like all days. His froggen face resent and
brood; arms cross against his chest. And I feel a knifen pain. Mind babbit nonsense, how it be some explanation, all can fix. But my heart know, and miss him like a thing forever lost.

The runner dash up straight to Driver. ‘Sergeant Sengle! Sure your Ice Cream want to never heed! El Mayor call her to business. Tell her, companiero!’

Take me a breath to gather thought. Then I say thin, ‘Brother, I got parley to yourself. Ya, El Mayor will handle me, be all his mally business.’

‘Yo injustice!’ the runner cry. ‘And El Mayor been give you bullets! You never bring his roo, is all his talk. He angry on all Sengles.’

Then Driver speak, in voice like steel. ‘You go, Ice Cream.’

‘Ain’t wish to visit El Mayor,’ I say, quick from my feeling. ‘Can keep his dirt for his own Lowells.’

‘Foo!’ the runner say. ‘Yo disrespect!’

‘You go,’ say Driver. ‘Be no talk.’

I turn on him with every cavil noisy in my heart. But then my brother cough, and seize in pain through all his body. Yo Crow flinch like he cough himself. Bowl Thirteen step back, like she beware some sudden threat. And all the children round unhappy kept, look maudy at the dirt.

Then can feel their knowing. And I see my Driver’s eye gone plasticky from papa tea. His breath come wheezing, thin for life.

I say, ‘Sure, your decision be my work. You be sergeant.’

Driver swallow at his throat. ‘Ya, El Mayor keep loot for me. Can ask him for this also.’

My heart know, loot be papa tea. But I only say, ‘Will ask. Forgive no disrespect.’

12

TOBER 29 ITS FEARY NIGHT

We come to Lowell mill at roofen sunset. For hastiness, we take both horses – though Pasha be a stupid rider, Big Smoke follow Money sans no help. Still, be a long way through the city, where shadows lie uncanny stiff among the bricky homes. Never a breeze make any shadow shift. Is set like paint.

Be gratty to reach the mill at last, its windows gold joyeuse with lectric light. A dozen children scramble to the gate to see the roo. All come noising, pushing, asking if the roo be danger. I be calling nay and shoo. Underfooten Lowells barely give us room to dismount.

At the door, these leave us in respect. We pass inside. Soon the only sound is groaning turbines and our patting feet. We walk in this loud quiet to El Mayor’s workenroom. Here, windows show the purplish sunset on the glassy river. Lectric light be shining. All is neat and sugar clean.

El Mayor be frogleg on the floor. By his knee, a radio sit. This be a plastic instrument, with metal grill upon its face, and tiny numbers painten by. Now it give a snoring noise. Snore rise and fall as El Mayor tweak at its side. His nosy face intensify, his long hands work.

Radio been El Mayor’s delight and duress, six months long. Child expect this plastic box will tell him every mystery. If any a city still
exist, the radio will speak its voice. But no word come from this object, ever he rearrange its wires.

Now El Mayor put down the no-book he been writing in. Eyes concentrate on me, and his mouth narrow on no smile. In this chilly look, can see the days that I avoid his friendship.

‘Is bony that you come,’ he say.

‘Your sight be welcome,’ I polite him.

El Mayor tweak the radio again; it hush its snore. He rise to his feet, regard my Pasha head to foot.

Pasha say, ‘Be joy to meet you, El Mayor. Your mill be bell.’

‘Yes, be bell.’ El Mayor slant his eye at me. ‘Love of bellesse a Lowell weakness. Our strength be weakness, weakness be our strength. Is such a saying.’

‘What this meaning?’ Pasha ask.

‘Mean nothing,’ I say. ‘Nonsense be their sense, sense be their nonsense.’

‘Ice Cream ain’t love weakness.’ El Mayor look at me hard. ‘Wolfen female, loving trouble more than featherbeds.’

‘Be well,’ say Pasha. ‘Mill be fine.’

El Mayor turn back to Pasha, careless in his face. ‘Hearing you is thirty. Can believe this tale?’

Pasha shrug. ‘Ain’t never count my years.’

‘Count now, my ox. Be wrong by two or three, ain’t figure.’

‘Roo ain’t smart to count,’ say Pasha. ‘Like tree. Live hundred years, grow into sky. But tree got stupid head.’

‘Tree got no head,’ say El Mayor.

‘Truth be right,’ I say. ‘Here great Lowell science speak.’

El Mayor wave back my talk. ‘You come from far away? Or is there roos born here in Massa?’

‘Born … I ain’t remember this. Been born before my memory.’

‘Shoo, where you live, before the Sengles catch you?’

‘Live in this house they burn. Remember now, I borning there.’ Then Pasha laugh, like his own saying please his ticklishness. I laugh myself. Be good relief, some other person bear his nonsense.

El Mayor ain’t rile. He never mind no disrespect, is only untying in his mind. Can see him circle round this knot, seek an end to tug. When this ain’t appear, his face distract. ‘A yellow Sengle, shoo. Got better trouble than your lies.’ He turn to me and say, ‘Heed this. My radio been talk.’

Take me time to hear his meaning. Is Pasha wake my sense.

‘Radio talk?’ say Pasha.

‘Ho, this object talk?’ I say bewoken. ‘Talking words?’

‘Talk and talk,’ say El Mayor. ‘You hold. I find this speech again.’

El Mayor crouch to poke the radio, and it repeat its snore. He pinch its belly, twist his fingers. Noise go boo, then shrink and crackle.

‘Speech start out on ninety-one point five,’ say El Mayor. ‘But then it go to ninety-one point seven. Then I gone to evening meal. Been lost when I return.’