The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  He say, ‘Foolish be a child who sleep without no blanket.’

  ‘Sure, but, brother–’

  ‘Going to sleep here, sleep,’ he say with almost laughter. ‘Less your noise.’

  Been meant to tell him all my plans, but now I give my talk up gratty. Take the blanket, pull it careful till it cover both. Then, though my sadness crave to hold him, I leave him good room. Ain’t bone taboo to lie held with no brother. Nor my Driver love exceptions. Be a plain-lawed child.

  Then I lay and watch his breathing. Is simple one and two, though he cough sometimes, or stir his limbs and rearrange. Yo, soon his breathing slow and gruffen gentle into sleep. In this my spirit comfort. I go drowsy to my brother’s warm.

  In my beginning dream, I see the NewKing in a broken road. His back to me, and all himself be distant like a sun. Yo, gunfire noise ahead. My conscience suffer and insist: He cannot hear. Is roos. He walking to his death. I try to call, but cannot make no voice … and I wake, and soothe again, and drowse again in fretting, now Mamadou be there at the morrow’s church. If Armies leave with us, if I can save him anyhow. And this mingle into dreams, my brother’s struggling breath, his warm.

  When last I open eyes, outside the tenten flap, a snow begun. Sparkle airy over the ember fire. One crumb of snow caught in a dab of clover, near outside. And there it stick, against the moving night that blow behind, until my eyes close into dark.

  20

  THE SPRING WHEN I LOVE MAMADOU

  First I ever come to Mamadou, been war. I chosen him for hate before I wanting him in love.

  This been our Sengle–Army wars, a clobberie joyeuse. Been skirmish for its wildness, good as laughing to no breath. Knives sharpen only at they point; can make a braggery wound, but do no worser injury. Come back in a feast of body gladness, ravish in your strength.

  These scuffle wars, we fight our match. No eighteen want to beat a skinny twelve. Be coward victories. So ain’t sense that I will try to fight no Mamadou. Is only bellicose pride – must catch the biggest fish and shoot the biggest deer and fight the NewKing. And I confuse in feeling, all that year that Crow gone cold to me. My loves become an anger. War been my only good relief.

  This war when I chase Mamadou, they come on us at middy meal. I been fighting a reddish brownish feather I call Bigface, striking dangerous like twenty cats. But when I see the NewKing, where he turn to leave, I lose my care. Then Bigface cub me heavy to the cheek, go kick my leg from under. I scramble falling to my hands, and he cry victory on me.

  So I take my hurting pride into the NewKing’s chase.

  Mamadou walking heedless, leave this squalling fight like boredom. I run toward, he never even look. I catch him once behind, and he fight back with half attention. Call me pest and enfant, bat away my blows but never strike. Yo, I fight beyond my sense, feel my beginning shame. And ever he see my tricks before, like he control myself.

  Through this, he dodge back in the woods. His only interest be to rid me. In last insult, he catch my stabbing wrist. Break my knifen grip, and throw the knife into the farther bushes. Then furiose in shame, I catch onto his hand and bite.

  Ya Mamadou laugh. Ain’t even seek to free himself, he laugh uncaring in my face.

  My pride go stark. I stand away. He watching at me, grinning, godscars gone deep in his cheeks. Then he shake his head and turn again, pick up his careless step. Go off like I ain’t been.

  At fourteen, I been shy in wanting, late to boyish love. Done kissing mostly, and my thoughts of sex was misty never-beens. Magine what you saying after; how someone suffer for my need. Infatuate on Popsicle sometime, but he callen dead before no flirting grown to use. Never I think of Mamadou so. My heart to Armies be disgust.

  But the following nights, I stalk the NewKing lonesome to his camp. Nor I tell any a child about this habit.

  No girlish Sengle go into the Army camp alone. Ain’t their feather honor that a girl depart without no shame. So I hunt the NewKing by weak moon, and spy from distance. Climb a tree beside, or find a hunting hide in bushes. Watch for Mamadou to come out to piss, to roam in sleepless temper. Plan how I knock him footless unawares, get kicks into his face. Best worth, can cut him with my knife. Bring back his blood in victory.

  But Mamadou be a morning-risen child, he fool my need. See simpers going in-and-out his hut; or he appear some seconds, talking to a feather. But mostly it be empty in the camp by starlight hours. Hounds sniffing round, and sometimes chickens rouse in cluck disturbance. The whinnying snuff of horses by, no differences to see.

  So these nights become a thinking loneliness. Lie belly-down on some fat tree bough; wonder on Crow’s malignant ways, or how all children loving Hate You Ka more than myself. Look at my legs in moonlight, deciding if they prettieuse or stalky. Through this, I feel a savage missing in my flesh entire. The Army camp, its pointen huts with feathers stirring in wind, seem like a picture of my need. All evil be inside these huts, the evil that bemisery me. Evil I desire to know, in all its maudy powers.

  I begin to come by sooner, in the second hour of darkness. Watch the evening business there, feel how this settle back into my quiet thinking time. Sometimes the NewKing passing round, can hear his angry voice. See his sharp bellesse of movement, and every change wake in my furiose blood.

  Here I begin to talk to NewKing Mamadou in my head. Explain my need; how it be natural we war together. We be the same in heart feroce. And this thinking stray, until I telling all my moods to him, about Crow Insect and my brother’s disapproving talks. Tell dreams I got of roaming to the mountains, lonely with my horse – how I will saddle Money with a puma skin, ride to the wester ocean, fight wild strangers into fear. Yo, in my dreaming mind, the NewKing answer with respecting coldness. Tell me every evil wisdom, and I gather this in strength.

  Gone weeks in this strangeness, till one night, when camp be empty in its sleep, Mamadou come out. Terrify Courage trot behind, the NewKing going in his stride. He walking lost in silent angers, got a flask of booze he carry. Yo, the hound come sit beneath my tree. Look quizzy up, wag friendly to my scent. Mamadou pass on thoughtless, stop apart with back to me. Lift up his flask to drink, ain’t heeding nothing. And I curse my cowardesse. Must go, must make my actual fight, but every blood in me be cold.

  I creep careful down, be gratty for this time of only climbing. Can hope the NewKing pass back into camp, that something cheat my war. But nothing be. I get my knife in hand. Check on the goodly rock in my front pocket. Yo, as I put my feet down in wet leaves, Terrify Courage bark.

  Mamadou look back sharp. See me, then ware around, expect a raid – some dozen Sengles wilding from the trees. But ain’t no breath of people there. Be only myself in foolish venture, staring at him with no hope.

  And it realize I fear to touch him. Fear his hands on me, without no sense. I grit against myself. Go for pocket quick, and peg my stone crisp at his face.

  He duck in almost time. Stone glance against his head. Then he come hawken straight and angry, bigger than I remember. Cannot breathe before he be upon – ya in the final second, as he swing his fist, I scrabble quick. Catch him in the chest with my good knife, and he get in a clobber to my head. I trip but catch myself. Come back warring with both arms, but Mamadou catch my wrist. He catch my hair.

  I got my knife hand clear. Must stab him, but my body lose its knowledge. Can only feel his hands on me, the starting heat of tears.

  He stare at me a furiose minute. Clenchen hand hold painful in my braids while he look at my face, look with uncomprehending scorn.

  Then his hands ease. ‘Driver’s sister?’

  I ain’t answer, but my face go painful to this question. Known, but never felt, I ain’t no person he can name.

  He say low, ‘You here alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice come out in whisper.

  ‘Cannot be here.’ He glance back to the camp, unwoken still.

  I say, peculiar soft, like telling secrets to my Crow, ‘Ain’t fearing them.’

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nbsp; Then his hands flee from me. ‘Want no problems. Damn, you rid yourself. You crazy.’

  ‘I leaving when I choose.’

  He shake his head, some wondering wise. ‘Go. Go on.’

  Then he turn and leave, snapping his fingers to his hound. Hound look at me sorry and they two depart with haste unliking, noisy in the leaves.

  *

  Following nights be stank. I keep to Sengle nighting camp, but be a dirt humiliation. Is always littles screaming, fool Jermaine come bothering round. Crow stare past myself, is all the ugly problems of my life.

  Three nights past, I lose my reason. Go back to Army camp, and dress particular to this. Wear some tighter jeans I never use for their discomfort. A strappy tee that show my breasts. I think of this like some distracting powers I can use in fight. And I bring my hunting knife, is sharpen all its length. Bring everything that cannot help me in no real world, and walk off like I go into some fantasy I can rule.

  Come to the camp in normal stalking. This time, I never climb my tree, I only hide below. Hour pass in watching, while the camp go nightward slow. Simpers fussing round and all their usual grossness talk. At last, they slip into their huts, like mice that disappear in holes.

  Their troubling passen into stars when Mamadou come out. Stalk careless from his hut, straight to my tree. He look up at the branches, get a humor look. My heart beat in my skin, and every fear gone into knowing shame. Yo, as he come to shouting distance, I stand into sight. Hunting knife hide close against my leg.

  Mamadou pause his step. Shake his head, and come on tired. But his eyes be on me, he see my body in its clothes. Now my anger wake, and as he come in reach, I break and go for him with simple rightness. Dodge sudden as he ware, I swing. Knife catch his naked arm. I take my knife back frighten glad as he cry in his throat. Almost, I pelt away, but he leap fast and catch my braids.

  I come off my feet, be jerking agony from this hair. Get my footing back with healthy panic. Yo I stab my knife, but he hit fury hard against this hand. It loose in numbness, almost free the knife. In this distraction, Mamadou get my face a solid punch. Feel good as need, but then he grab me to him hard. Capture both my arms, and peel the knife from me like easy practice.

  I stiffen. Look past his shoulder to the trees with showing carelessness. No consequences weigh for nothing. Can cut me how he like. Was vally done, I win my aim.

  He raise the knife and poke its point into my underchin. Lift my face upon this pain, until I look into his eyes.

  Then he say low, ‘What you think happening to you now?’

  My heart go queery to this. Gladness changing to some unknown thing, some unbearable brightness. Yo our bodies breathe against each other, harsh from war. Can feel his muscles shifting as he put the knife in his back pocket. And he say, soft in mockery, ‘Think it be war? You thinking this?’

  My thoughts gone terror white, but I say, ‘Ain’t nothing to me, what it be.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing to you.’ Then his face come toward. First I think he going to kiss me, and I brace myself to bite. But he brush his cheek past mine, until I feel his heaten breath against my tender throat. I go weak in my blood, unwanten sorrows how is good. Run through myself in scary trembling, and when his lips rest to my neck, I take my breath in startle love.

  He lick there, taste my sweat, and say, ‘Think I can want your nothing. But what your brother say to this?’

  A moment, I catch perilous. All my body weak with questions. And I say, ‘He never going to know.’

  So Mamadou bring me to his hut, he take my blood in fair return. Be hells and mysteries in this, and I feel shame like nevering worms. But when I leave into the starren nakedness of after, I ain’t want to leave. Be gone five steps, and all my body weep. I want the NewKing cruel.

  Forward weeks be stumbling madness. My every breath drink Mamadou, his hands on me, his angry use. I love him like a death, as hard as black behind the stars. Day become a boring strangeness. I look at my Sengles like they be unmeaning dust. Like Mamadou be the first thing that I ever truly known, the only life in this stale world.

  Most nights I never go to him, I keeping scary back. But I lie in my hammock with my hunting knife. Strip off all my clothes and lie without no blanket in the searching air. Lick the knifen blade and touch my body with my other hand, and pass through every second of our loves in angry sweetness. And then a night will come that I decide. Sneak out in perilous want. Stalk through the Armies’ sleeping huts, and magine how he can be with some simper. Yo, I duck into his hut with fearless loss of human pride, and he be lying how he sleep, in stripen blanket on the furs. But he ain’t sleeping, got no simper, and arrogance know he wait for me.

  His eyes give me one second of his pleasure. Then he change in usual coldness, and my heart relieve. I say, ‘How your arm is healing?’ and he say, ‘Come here and see.’ And we tangle into this, a scary underwater of our bodies on the furs, the ground beneath.

  Be nights I stay for hours, and Mamadou teach me love till I jalouse his unguess histories, the taken simpers who been here before. Yo, be nights we lie together when the fire gone to ash. We talking in this secret dark. Feel the coldness gather, and Mamadou tell of wars in sleeper times, of generals and their thousand children run to burning fight. And I tell my roaming maginations of the wester ocean – but we never talking of our lives, our daytime self. Is always dreams and tales from books.

  Then come a night, from passing word, I realize his books of ancient wars been read to him by slaves. He never learn to read, is girlish to their Army attitudes. Then I laugh at him unnerven, all they insect morals, but Mamadou catch me vicious in his arms. My laughter frighten into need. He say my name into my ear, like he give me this name. Yo, in this lost fight, he say, like daring me to fail, like mockery: You love me, Sengle? And I feel, this ain’t no love, we be like ghosts in hell – like after death you lose your thoughts, but keep your body in a bliss of nightmares – and I say furiose, Ain’t going to lie, I do. He press me down beneath him, say my name, and say he love me also. Then every terrify hate be gold. Darkness better than no light, and I creep out to solitary night and think of killing him, or how he kill me in some madness. Feel it ending so, is like a war must end with burning death.

  In this, I come fifteen, and my bellesse become a gossip of the Massa towns and homes. Jermaine begin to fear me honest, and Driver start his talk how I need enfants, time be late. Yo, these feary months, I sometimes wearing dresses to my hunt. Wash myself with perfume soap, weave beads into my hair, gone hot in vanities. Sometimes I stare into an evac mirror, seeing what Mamadou see, a sultry perfectesse, and love this Ice Cream Star who ain’t myself, who only be a dazing looks, like starry light on water.

  And as these weeks pass into memory, I become his given creature, past no separate freedom. But I going to him less. My guilt begin to struggle alive. With Sengles, I feel like a sounding crime, a smelling dirt among. And I begin to know, some day I grow a baby from these evils – baby who be an ugly question. So I keep alone these days, sleep at the library apart.

  Then come a time, ain’t been to Mamadou in various weeks. Will go, I promise to my need – but I promise to my pride, the night I go must be the last. Become two weeks, become a month, and summer be in flower while I dream in grief of this last night. In Sengle town, I cry strange tears at nothings. Driver frustrate at my tempers, and I gripe at him to feel my anger, how my love be bright. This also be the time I start to visit El Mayor. We fight our goating battles while my need be terror black. Be fighting Mamadou’s love – yo when I leave, I walk into this missing love. I breathe its lack. Can feel it in my teeth themself. Will draw an arrow in my bow, but what I shoot be love.

  And then, one morning I be hunting, with my bow and no belief. Can scarcely notice well enough to find the deery trails. Come to a sunlight patch of woods and I stand there in dream, one tender palm against a tree. Feel its rough bark on my skin, like every cruelty I love, and I look by and there be Mamadou.

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nbsp; No Army come to Sengle hunting places, ain’t in custom. So I know he come for me. Can guess, he see my second’s joy, before I find my pride. Then I say cold, ‘You needing something, NewKing?’

  He walk to me with graciose and casual scorn. Pull the bow out of my hands, he take the arrows from my shoulder. Throw all this aside, and we be kissing like we love each other in some other way, until he take my braids into his hand, hold me apart. Keep me fast, like he cannot say words without this mean security. And he say, ‘Come by tonight. I got a parley to you.’

  ‘Got a parley, you can tell it now.’

  He ain’t answer, only look at me with thinking eyes. Like he consider me again, make some decision in his pride. I say, ‘You parley or you leave? Be hunting food myself.’ My voice be almost truthful, and he smile the way he sometimes do, with simple liking. Nor he leave for nothing. Be an hour, with sunlight on our skin in woods, and all our crimes of night be strange. And real again, like never known, beyond all fear and comprehending. And when he go, I think, that been our final time, is done. But I know, will go this night. Will bring myself to him, like debt I owe to his bellesse.

  This be the night he say he take me queen. I meet this furiose and blind. Stand in their camp of rape, in NewKing’s hut itself, and tell the filth his people be. Mamadou watch with hatred as I give his crimes their names. And my scary blood feel how these words be simple truth. He be a slaver, ya, is natural that he keep me slaven. I terrify when he fight me into love – say all hating nonsense while I hold him desperate, weeping breath. But he let me leave. He only saying, Sengle, you be back some night to beg for me.

  Yo I never done. I only wait in vanity for this queening raid that never come. For his killing knife I need, this ending.

  So been the hauntings of my sleep, this last day of my younger heart. So I bewoken to the NewKing’s memory. And he follow me in thought, the morning of Susannah’s church, last morning that it been no Sengle town.