The Country of Ice Cream Star (11 page)

Pasha watch with narrow eyes. Listen like he know what all this Lowell babble mean.

I say, ‘What speech the radio been doing? You talk to it any?’

‘Nay, cannot talk back,’ say El Mayor, his voice impatient. ‘Said some sleeper English. Hasty speech, ain’t comprehending much.’ He look up from the radio at us. ‘Then it spoken fisher Panish. And it spoken something else. Was thinking, can be rooish.’

‘Rooish?’ Pasha say. ‘You speak in rooish?’

‘Nay,’ say El Mayor. ‘You speak in rooish. Be rooish, maybe you will understand. For this I fetch you.’

My nerves waken, bright joyeuse. I kneel by El Mayor. A green line move behind the radio’s numbers as he twist its dial. El Mayor be scowling hard, as if it take all hungry strength to catch this voice again. Pasha crouchen by. And now I see, the roo be frighten. Can wonder if he fearing science inventions, like some children do. But ain’t got time to ponder this before the snore break into talk.

El Mayor’s hand lift from the dial. Pasha lean in hungry-eyed, and we all heed this voice.

Can guess, the speech be fisher Panish. Got its hopping sound. Ya, be uncanny how this box speak out in boyish voice. Cannot
guess how the voice be made – I seen these radios’ insides, and be no throat nor tongue. Voice sound bored and priding both. Be like it tell a lesson, and ain’t hope much for our telligence.

Then the voice go finish. A different boy begin. Take time before I recognize, is sleeper English. Some words comprehend, but nothing weave into a sentence meaning. El Mayor been grab a pen and scribble in his no-book. Write fast as hand can move, but this voice pippet hasty on.

Some bits untangle as they pass. ‘We ask that … give aid … do not … safety …’ Pasha listen hard, and press his fist against the tilen floor. Voice drop at last into confuse, a gabble that ain’t comprehend. But one word come clear: ‘Lowell.’

Here the voice is finish. Only hushen fuzz go on.

‘Said Lowell, ya?’ say El Mayor, glad feary. ‘Heard this before.’

‘How these strangers know our place?’ I say. ‘They speak to us?’

‘Ain’t know.’

The radio crackle break to voice again. Is rooish – sure I know from Pasha’s face before I hear.

The slushen talk go draining past, sound bored and vaunty like the rest. Pasha follow on, ain’t breathe nor stir. His face be rotten white.

As it jabber onward, Pasha rise up on his feet. Stand tense, his face gone deaf and strange. His hands join into angry fists. Arms biggen with their hate. Is like he see this talking boy, and gather for his murder. Yo, now it realize again, the grandy beast he be. I crouch tense to help, but sure I fear his size. My bones go fear.

But as the radio hush again, his anger pass like blown-out flame. Is like a child who lose a fight and stand in beaten misery.

I stand up nerviose. He inhale sharp and look at me. Is like his pain been on myself, my heart react uncertain.

And Pasha say, ‘We all must leave. Must go from Massa woods, as far as … far we can.’

13

OF THE RADIO SPEECH

‘Leave where? Ain’t sense. My Pasha, calm.’ But panic flutter in my chest.

El Mayor say slow, ‘Why we must leave? What they said?’

Pasha shake his head. Go rub his eyes with fisten hand. Where the hand pass, dirt be smear. Eyes blaze their suffering.

I look at El Mayor. He stand up waring, making fists himself.

‘Got booze?’ I say. ‘May help.’

‘Is sleeper brandy. Can–’

Then Pasha speak up harsh. ‘This radio talk be from my people. Say they help, but ain’t to trust.’

‘Your people?’ I say frighten. ‘Roos?’

‘Is what you call us, yes.’ Then something in his face be skew. Like laughter wake, but ain’t no happy joke.

‘Ain’t to trust?’ say El Mayor. ‘Roos will steal our children now?’

‘Roos kill you all.’ Pasha clench his jaw, consider on these words. Then he nod, like he approve their truth. ‘They kill you all.’

A minute we three breathe our hush. Radio gabble fisher Panish, keep up its unrest. Yo, my thoughts be like all frighten mice, run everyway and blind.

‘When we must leave? Tonight? Or this can wait to morning?’ El Mayor’s voice sarcasty, but his face be stiff with nerves.

‘Can get a week,’ say Pasha, sans no humor. ‘But be sooner better.’

‘Why these roos will kill us?’ I say. ‘Eating children like they say?’

Pasha shake his head, impatient. ‘Nay, is like your murder war.’

‘War?’ I laugh up thin and scary. ‘Got no war to them. Ain’t even know these roos.’

‘You
know these roos?’ say El Mayor to Pasha. ‘These your townie folk?’

Then Pasha show his silent face. The meaning dim out of his eyes.

‘Sleeper brandy,’ I say nerviose. ‘Need this myself.’

‘Yo sho,’ say El Mayor, his voice gone shy. He step to a cabinet, take out a chubby brock. His hand be shaking as he reach the brock into my hand.

I drink a sip that burn my throat, make heat behind my eyes. I magine a folk of shaggy Pashas. All got long-nose guns, wear ugly-color like the roos I seen. And I recall the deer shot through and through in friendly field. Roos pool around this unluck deer, is noise and size and many. They pass on and nothing left.

The radio go back to sleeper English. El Mayor grab up his no-book. Hunker down and start to write. Pen pause like it think, then scramble. Most is single words.
Can, must, is
– mean nothing by themself. Further be writ
safety will … only sixteen days
.

Pasha turn away, his gaze go frowning to the window. I look along, see where the fallen bridge crouch in the water. River fat with rain. Sun below the gray horizon, only give a thimble light.

The speaking mumble to its end. When I look back at the no-book, words is writ:
treatment for waks
.

Here my heart misgive. I say low, ‘Treatment for WAKS?’

‘Ya,’ say El Mayor in catching voice. ‘What I heard. Ain’t certain.’

I look at Pasha, and his eye meet mine in painful meaning. ‘Pasha,’ I say, ‘it be WAKS? You know?’

‘Is bait,’ say Pasha cold. ‘Is bait in snare.’

‘What bait?’

A moment he resist. But then he say in careful voice, like every word must comprehend, ‘Roos say, we give help. Come to us. When you come, is different tale. Must fight for them before they give. Nor they allow you leave. You fighting for them, or you kilt.’

‘Fight for them?’ El Mayor scoff his breath. ‘Who we will fight?’

‘Fight …’ Pasha rub his face again, the dirt smear thin. ‘Be farther place. Ain’t nothing you will know.’

‘If we fight,’ I say, ‘they give us cure?’

‘You die.’ Pasha’s voice come rough. ‘All die in war.’

‘Nay, why you ain’t said before? Been weeks.’

Pasha shake his head impatient. ‘Ain’t think they coming here, so far. I think, was safe.’

I start to cavil more, but El Mayor say through, ‘If we ain’t go?’

Pasha grimace. ‘If you ain’t go, they come and take you. Or they kill you here.’

El Mayor whistle in his teeth. ‘Ain’t to escape these roos.’

‘Why any child do this?’ I say. ‘Peculiar in itself.’

‘Nor I comprehend your wars,’ say Pasha. ‘Argue this, but leave. You still can run.’

‘WAKS is posies?’ I say. ‘Tell me truth.’

He look misery tired. ‘Is posies. Sure. All that you ask.’

I take my breath and say in brave unbalance, ‘Treatment for WAKS. This mean the roos got treatment? Can help posies?’

‘Yes,’ say Pasha bitter. ‘Now you run to them, be kilt.’

The radio begin in roo again. Pasha light his eye toward the box in jitter hatred. My mind beset with roos and posies. Cannot think nor pause from thinking. I shut my eyes and drink again, the brandy lighten in me. Driver can be breathing full, can live. Roos kill us all, but Driver breathe.

The brock flee from my hand. I open eyes and El Mayor got the brandy. Though his grooming nett, he look unkempt with tired thought. Ears themself look crooked on his head.

El Mayor drink twice and thrice, then crouch down to the radio. He tweak its side, and its voice halt in silence. His shoulders ease. Then I surprise how my own fear relieve. Radio voice been like the voice of flies when your best child is dead.

El Mayor say low, ‘Find what it say ourself. Then we consider.’ He look back to me like checking, but I only stare. He make a forcen smile, then stand up to his feet with stiff respect. Walk to the door and call like normal bossery, ‘Report!’

Room beside El Mayor’s workenroom be Mailroom One. Here First Runner wait. As his voice be finishing, can hear her scurry foot. Second’s blink, she standing in the door neat and exact.

This child a tennish paragon, is quick as dragonflies and light. Was born an Army girl without a name; now she learn science under El Mayor himself. Got braiden hair and her own sleeproom, princen in respect.

El Mayor say, ‘I need all my firsts and seconds here. First Electric must bring radios. First Library bring the dixonaries. Rush.’

Any a ten be curiose, but runners must not question. Yo First Runner never blink. She only say, ‘Is done.’ Before I can expect or watch, she gone. Feet hurry to their silence.

And El Mayor turn back. Make painful smile to me, and slip misliking glance to Pasha. Then he crouch by the radio. Touch it scary like he touch a flame. Turn on its voice, and flinch as it begin. Reach for his pen.

Yo, as he start to write, can hear the mill begin to sound with feet – all Lowells running hasty to our help.

Time behind be like a waken-dream. Room fill with noisy Lowells; El Mayor yell orders furiose. Radios plugging everywhere, and Lowells gather thick to them, go write with all their hands. Yo, always be that grinding voice of flies. It jeer from every part.

When the radio talking Panish-rooish, they all join to Pasha. Ask any questions they can think. But Pasha’s answers be the same: We
stay, roos kill us all. We go to them, we took to wars afar, where never a child can live. Yo, when Lowells ask him where the roos be now, he losing tempers. Go ranting on the rooish guns, and how we small comparisons. Ain’t fight them anyhow, must flee without no stupid wait.

And ever they ask him how he know – ask any question on himself – he only grit and hush. Eyes blank.

When they go back to the radios, Pasha look at me. He always look at me, face grieving. And I watch my fury back, my beggaries of blame. But I ain’t try to speak. Be waiting till we can depart. And I fear this talk its future, and I fear the waiting moment. The radio voice ache in my ears. Be like the voice of Pasha’s scary eyes.

Yo, this time seem like one minute somehow, that hold still in agony. But it been three hours before the speech be written whole.

Is this:

This is an emergency broadcast from the American mission of Russian Federation. We are asking all people over the age of 10 to report to [word nobody recognize, is probably a place] for registration and treatment for WAKS. Please give all help to the security operations of the rescue mission. Your safety will depend on your compliance. Report any people who stay behind to local troops of Russian Federation.

The final date for registration is November 15th. After this date, all unregistered people of 11 and older are in violation of emergency laws. For the safety of other citizens, they will be subject to punishment action. Repeat: the final date for registration is November 15th. Only 16 days are left for safe registration. You can request transport and information from troops in your own area.

Please tell your friends that treatment for WAKS is available. This will be given free to all people over the age of 10. The
treatment is safe and effective. Please help us to accomplish the great mission Russian Federation has undertaken for the aid of her American allies.

This announcement is in force for the listed areas: [more words nobody recognize. Here the word ‘Lowell’ come.]

14

THE PARLEY ON THE ROOS

Time me–Pasha leave, be starrish windy night. First Library writ me out the radio speech. This fill my jacket pocket. In this zippen pocket, also be a fattish bag of papa tea for Driver’s use.

The way through Lowell City, ain’t no sound but crickets and our crunching hoofs. Moon hide around the edifices, stalk us in the snaky alleys. Yo be stretches where the dark go blind. Here my terror rise. I feel my Driver’s death and all our threaten murders as one truth; how we come to darkness without help.

Where the light shine clear, the broken glass make paths of sparkling moon. Then the bricky walls gleam warm, and all my courage wake. I think:
Roos got this cure, we rob it. For my Driver, I face guns and hells, this be my treasure chance
.

As we leave the city, we pass through a birchen evac. One tumblen house stand closer to the road, look friendly in its ruin. Wooden sign stand skewish by:
Lowell Family Dental
. Here I pull Money to a halt. Big Smoke stop behind.

When I turn, the roo sat like a person lonely in the night. Eyes turn to the prickling stars. He got a Lowell cigarette, its brownish scent come to my nose.

I say, ‘Tock vote.’

He blink but never look. The moonlight show him whitish cold.

I say, ‘The cure be real? Can cure my Driver?’

Pasha hold in stillness for a moment, like he never hear. Then he say, resenting soft, ‘Truth, they got cure for many things. Can send a voice on radio. Can fly. Can burn you from the air.’

‘Roo, I ain’t fear their killing. Learn this fact.’

‘I learn this fact, you be a fool.’

Nerves begun to sing around me in a cricket voice. Be nerves or cold. When I speak again, my voice come rough. ‘How many be these roos?’

‘Nay, you think, how many be their guns? How strong their guns?’

I let my hand run on the saddle’s leather, feel its scuffen marks. ‘Ain’t hope to fight them, bone. So how we do?’

‘Ain’t do.’ Pasha’s voice come bitter. ‘What I say of killing – I seen this killing. Ain’t prettieuse nor easy.’