The Country of Ice Cream Star

by Sandra Newman

  ‘Ain’t chase us all that way for this, I hope.’

  Crow’s laughter pass like it ain’t been. He look back to the raily edge. ‘Nay. Ain’t for this.’

  I follow his eyes out to the tower buildings, a jaggen crowd of gray. By sunlight, can see they ill bekept. Windows mostly gone, is moss along their stain concree.

  At last I say unhappy, ‘Mamadou told they others, how I be his queen? Told Driver?’

  To this, Crow’s eyes disgust. ‘Nay, he ain’t talking much, himself. Can keep your prettieuse lies.’

  ‘Lies? Nay, what this going to mean?’

  ‘Be all you caring for, that Ice Cream keep in admiration.’

  I startle ugly. ‘What this be? Nay, how you always be so vicious?’

  ‘Only be saying how you do. Is how you be, but you ain’t never seeing, Ice Cream God.’

  ‘God? You lost your final brains?’

  ‘You god here, what I heard. Heard all this story. How you save the roo.’

  ‘Truth, ain’t kill him. And I save yourself. And so?’

  Crow turn outrage eyes to me. ‘How he precieuse? He killing us. He kill us glad.’

  I take a ragged breath. ‘Karim, you meaning?’

  ‘Yo sho.’ His face go twisten. ‘I kill your roo. Want only chances.’

  ‘Roo come to save my life at Army camp. Ain’t been–’

  ‘And what you come there for? Shee, save your life! No person murder you!’

  ‘I been there for the Christings, damn! And Deema trying – nay, you wrong. You wrong.’

  ‘But why Karim must die for this?’ Crow raise a sudden fist. ‘Roo kilt him why?’

  ‘Ain’t Pasha–’ Then I catch my voice. Brace in the freezing wind, and Crow’s eyes fix on me, is agonies. And it realize, he ain’t know I ask for Karim his death. Know nothing.

  I say, with falseness burning in my chest, ‘Pasha, he had no time to think. Was seconds.’

  ‘But why the roo be living still?’ Crow’s voice break high. ‘Why he ain’t dead?’

  ‘Damn, he ain’t known! He seen me hurt, and shoot. Ain’t be his blame!’

  Crow stare through a breath of rage. Then he say rough, ‘Ain’t going to kill your roo, ain’t fear. Keep all your filthen males, you safe.’

  ‘My males? Goddamn–’

  ‘I wish I never send that leaf! Shee for yourself! You poison!’

  ‘And what that leaf been even for? If they ain’t come to steal me?’

  ‘Mamadou going to steal you! Shee!’

  ‘You said, the Armies ain’t been there for me. You only said!’

  Crow open his mouth, but bite down on his words. He look back to the city. ‘We coming … ain’t for that. But Mamadou thinking, if he get you, you will speak for him.’

  ‘Speak for him?’

  ‘Ya. Be yourself, he thought they others heed.’

  ‘What I will speak?’

  Crow frown, his eyes gone blank. Raise one hand toward his face, like seeking to take some troubling thought away from there. Say with scarcely breath, ‘Ask them to war.’

  ‘War?’

  Crow start to speak, but then his face go wrong. He breathe out hard.

  A coldness inkle in my heart. ‘To roos? He warring to the roos?’

  Crow nod and gesture with one hand, like waving at some knowledge. Eyes spark in sudden tears.

  ‘Crow, what been? Why – what the roos done?’

  ‘We the only people left,’ Crow say in strangle voice. ‘What they done. Roos kill them all.’

  Then he begin his story, on this lofty edge of nothing, where dead towers watch their broken eyes. Wind suffer in my flesh and beat my braids against my naked shoulders, while Crow tell the final memories from our Massa woods.

  45

  THE ROOS IN MASSA WOODS

  ‘That Deema told what going to be.’ So Crow begin his tale. ‘Always been telling, if we hurt him, roos kill us with every torture. He love to tell us stories, what they do. So, how he dead … ain’t nothing change to eyes. But every person known.

  ‘What Mamadou want, we hide. Ain’t wait in camp like easy bait. But half they feathers never heed. OldKing Hak, ya any person close to him, ain’t heed. How they saying, Mamadou turn coward since he shot. They choose a different NewKing, call him digger, worm, all that.

  ‘Can know, they people dead. They all be dead.’

  Been seven feathers, ya and Crow, who leave with Mamadou. Go with vindictions from their people, go with only carrying goods, and stash themself into an evac in the wrecks of Lowell City. Building be six floors of decay walls and unglass windows. Been left by even mice and birds, its only life be rot. In this unlucky home, they make a camp with sheepskin rugs. Set their carven gods around, and blacken the mouldy ceilings with the fire of sacrifice.

  Then all they do, they scout for roos. Go seek the woods, the broken city; haunt the ash of Tophet gone. Creep superstitious by Lowell mill, that lost its noisy hundreds. Lectricity dark, its turbines hush – but on the walls be always dozen children waring out with guns. Worst strangeness, these be often Christwives. Yo, how the feathers learn, these wives will shoot at any moving life.

  Crow tell me: ‘We been in this evac, I ain’t know. Two weeks. Nay, I ain’t knowing days. Time it finish, all they feathers do, they booze and fight. Beat myself, you know that. And Mamadou healing, but he changen. Ain’t want no one talking to him. Always staring like he hate. But how it been, you only seen him, and you known he going to live. Who stay by him, can live.

  ‘Yo, all that hunting that we do, we never seen the roos. Seen nothing till the plane.’

  Time the plane appear, been middy meal. The NewKing’s feathers sitting to a corny stew. They telling dreams, like Armies do, and gray Yusuf make joking prophecies from these stories. Day risen clean, the buildings all be fuzzy bright with sun.

  First knowledge been a deafen scouring. It grow impossible, be loud like nothing that belong in life. Noise tremble in the walls, ring in their skulls, buzz wrong in flesh. Feathers go sprinting to the windows, screaming fear unheard. Expect to see the sky torn end to end, a hell of lightnings. But all been blue and simple, while the noise grow past no bearing. Be like some invisible monster crush the world entire.

  When they spy the rooish plane, it seem a petty detail. Ain’t even move its wings. Is still. Fly like an object thrown, and cannot feel how all the noise come from its posing tininess.

  It go as quick as bats, and score the blue with whitish smoke. And it come around, bring its goliath noise again. When it fly toward the Armies, they all duck, go flailing down. But when the sound retreat, they rise. Lean out again with showing courage. Musa fire his pistol at it, but be stupid helplessness, like shooting at a cloud.

  Then in the farther city, rise a trembling light against the day. A deeper thunder follow, shuddering in the planken floor. Yo, when the plane pass round again, can notice petty sheddings falling underneath its body, like it drop its shee below. Brightness waken from this shee, that thunder loosen out. And they understand, is bombs. Stuff from fable histories, is happening now in sight.

  Ya, as they comprehend, the plane turn off, like losing interest. Some time its noise go weaker, before the hush close sudden in.

  On the bland horizon, is left a leaning trunk of smoke. Keep sturdy white, and spread its haze into the morning clear. Ain’t no sound from this. Can only hear the normal flies that bother their forgotten meal.

  ‘So all they fools talk big, you know how. Want to join the roos again, like they each getting planes from this. Sure, no one going to say they frighten. Bombs been wolfen. Cool. The other feathers left in camp, they frighten. Shee they going to talk.

  ‘Then Mamadou tell them to go scout. Wish you seen, how they change. They pissing terrify. Run off, but I ain’t guess they scouting much. Hiding, be more like.

  ‘Yo, Mamadou send me separate with Malik to find the bombing place. Ain’t lying – if Malik ain’t been, I gone to hide myself. Keep th
inking, bomb been poison. Ain’t want to breathe.

  ‘So anyone known, this been the mill. There in the city, ain’t be nothing else. So we gone there.’

  Been twenty minutes walking, and they pass this in a boding silence. Both be walking jittery, checking to the sky for planes. Yo, as they come, the air go thick. Be stinging dust that blow about, must squint to almost blindness. It got a teasing warm, that fickle and vanish in the wind. A weirdo pue begin, is teary sharp like onion smell, as they come to the mill canal.

  The mill be gone. Where it risen tall and large, is smoke and empty sky.

  This goneness take them both in spooking. Be a moment, Crow decide this ain’t the place, they stray somewhere. But the water recognize, glut with dust and rubble as it be. Ya, in changes of the breeze, Crow see a piece of house wall left, a set of broken windows. In one, is curtains moving, dabble across the jaggen shapes of glass. Fire freak bright among. In the water, be mounds of brick, with splinter wood stuck out in points. By one of these, a yellow shirten shape float in the cloudy water. Crow cannot tell if this be someone drown or only empty clothes.

  Beyond this, cannot see no people. Be no crying voice. Can only hear the trampling noise of fire, its crackle. Their own short breath.

  Without no word, they start to skirt the mill upwind. Come past a city building that been hit, its upper part collapse. Here the air be dull with smoke, must pull shirts over mouths. Then, along the mill side, can see the wreck of easter gate. Its bridge be broken off halfway, precarious in air.

  On this bridgen edge stand small First Runner. Her face be sparkling blood.

  Malik see his sister, and he yell. Go sprinting, leaping wreckage. Come to the gate and scramble up its ruin. Some bricks kick out from underfoot, and he slip clumsy as First Runner turn and run to him. He catch her in his arms, and as he lift her, she begin to wail. Crow stop below and stare up with no notion what he do. Is only scary from this wail. He want to run away and never learn no farther knowledge.

  Then Malik turn back, skid down an avalanche of brick. As he release First Runner down, Crow see the scarlet glittering spread across her cheek. Is blood and glass. All her clothes be wet and various red with blood and brick dust.

  Then she start telling, loud and strange, be people in this ruin. They all was screaming. She try to swim across, but it be burning still. Been too hot. Water itself been hot. She talk on, garbling, how it been some roos, she watch these from a window by. Been fifty roos, ain’t guess how many. Lowell guards fire shots at them, been shooting backen forth. But these roos run off, is gone. Then come the plane, the bombs, she been thrown down.

  And she begin again to say, how people be in there. Must help them, but it still be burning. She say these contradictions, until Crow shout at her in nerves. Then First Runner hush, touch to her bloody face in puzzle. Ain’t seem to even notice when Malik grip to her hand.

  Malik say soft, ‘They kilt, my sister.’

  ‘I know,’ First Runner say with fixen stare. ‘We got to help them.’

  But when they turn away, First Runner come without no cavil. Start to pick glass from her face as they pass to the normal day, where all the buildings whole and stupid-looking with their blank unhurt.

  When they come back to their evac, it be no one there. Malik clean down First Runner’s cuts, using his knife to pick some deeper splinters from her skin. She hold careful without tears. Only shut her eyes sometimes, take breath. Ya, Crow gone standing to the window, watch the smoke from Lowell mill, when steps sound on the stairs.

  Mamadou come in alone. Is wrapping his arm back to himself, been washing it below. His face be tired from pain, and he look to First Runner cold with no surprise.

  Malik explain, this be his sister. Say how the mill be gone, and he repeat First Runner’s sayings, how she seen the roos, been shooting. How they all was screaming. Crow add nervy in, ‘It been no voices when we come.’

  Mamadou finish with his arm and pin the bandage to. Say easy, ‘I remember her.’

  Then he kneel down by First Runner. She sit dazen, trace her fingers through a sheepskin rug. And Mamadou ask her quiet, if she been keeping watch for El Mayor. She nod to this, but never look. Stare on her working fingers.

  ‘Sure you meant to follow them,’ the NewKing say like logic.

  She glance toward Malik, look back at Mamadou with blank mistrust.

  Mamadou say soft, ‘Yo, where they gone?’

  Here the other feathers run up noisy on the stairs. Come in with all their talk, kick round their goods, seek for some booze. But soon they hush, come staring at First Runner and the NewKing, where they matching stubborn looks.

  ‘Where they gone?’ say Mamadou.

  First Runner say with sudden hatred, ‘Cannot tell you. Got instructions.’ Her blooden face gone in its sweat, hand gripping in the sheepskin fur. Malik stand tense behind, look feary from the NewKing to his sister. Ya, all the feathers watching, from wherever they fetch up.

  ‘Nay, you going to tell,’ say Mamadou, like he giving news.

  ‘Is threats?’ she say in breathless voice. ‘This do you nothing. Cannot tell.’

  ‘Ain’t threats. I known you from an enfant, how I know. Guess I remember you better than you remember me.’

  She frown to the sheepskin, grit her mouth. ‘You ain’t know me.’

  But Mamadou stand away, uncaring. And he tell the feathers that they leaving Massa woods, will follow after the people gone.

  Crow tell me: ‘Sure, he got some plan. Been planning every days for this. But how he never saying what it be … ain’t plans we going to like.

  ‘But all they feathers run to do his word. Ain’t think for nothing. Pack their goods, and talking like … like every Massa townie now. Like Lowells going to want themself. Ain’t even wonder how we going to find they other Massas. Mamadou said, and all it is.

  ‘But sure, I gone with them. Ain’t staying there alone, no sho.’

  Where the NewKing lead them first, been to the Armies’ horsen field. Was dusking, and they scout into the woods with nervy dread. Been days since no one seen the other Armies. Cannot guess their moods. Ya, anyone expect, the horses guarding in these risky days. Or can be, those Armies gone. Be roos who wait in ambush.

  But they find the horses normal, tether to dragging logs. No child be by, no threat. They mount, and Mamadou lead them down the path to Army camp. All wonder why he take them to this risk, but no one brave to ask. So they follow through these woods they know, into the dusty grass, the huts still standing where they been, and past where Yas and Bardo lie unmoving in their blood. Past Peter Christing-born, and startle a fox is chewing Peter’s guts. Ride past a gut-shot hound, is staring blind into the sky, and Mamadou rein his horse before the simper house. He unmount clumsy with his one good arm.

  Been only Crow and Musa gone with Mamadou into the house. And, like they known it going to be, all people kilt inside. Musa go hunting through the bodies, find his enfant Faisal. Crouch and chase the green flies from his face and cry some strangle noise. Can hear another feather puking miseries outside.

  Mamadou watch on this with face besweaten. He skinny from his sickness, and his face look skullish dread. He look like he belong to this hell unworld. Can see he known what he will find; he seen this in his hatred dreams, these days. And he stand there with his starving looks, the king of these red children. King of flies and murder.

  Crow go out again, ain’t want to bear this. Come and take his horse’s reins from Malik, who stand bewept and strange. Ya, First Runner sit her horse beweepen. She say to Crow, ‘Be Gosha dead?’ He know no Gosha, but he say, ‘They dead.’

  Then Mamadou come out. He walk straight to First Runner and polite her with her Lowell name. Is speaking soft, though his face still besweaten, eyes feroce. He say, ‘Can fight roos with a hundred, but I cannot fight with eight. I know you gone to Lowells, but you be our child. You strong. Now tell me where they others gone. We going to make this right.’

  And in t
hese farther days, following on the highway in our chase, all feathers come into belief, they bring war to the roos. Nights, they burning sacrifice to Shango god, and swear this war. Journey been terrify and strange, was watching for roos with every step. They watch the sky their enemy, wake to each sound in nighten woods. Ya, they live among their ghosts of feathers and of slaves, until they feeling like a troop of dead, bound in revenge for their own killing.

  And when Marias soldiers took them, Yusuf object in voice. Yell frustration how they must be free, they going to war. He keep on swearing though these strangers never comprehend. But Crow been glad in capture, feel they save from their insanity – until they taken to that Citgo wall, and Yusuf yelling weak annoyance, and some boy shoot Yusuf cold.

  Then it going like I know – Crow and Mamadou kept apart, the other feathers shot and shot. Nat Mass Armies finish in easy minutes. And all this night behind, Crow think, if Pasha never kilt Karim, Karim come to this wall, will die the same. And Crow only wonder, how no child surviving ever – how he live no sixteen years, when every day can be a gun, a moment’s anger. Live these years, and still remain, unwanten, like a punishment. Crow condemn to stay in this world, naked from no covering earth, this world where no good child belong.

  46

  THE GUNROOM TALK

  So Crow tell his story, standing on this porch above the murmuring city of Marias, while the Vember cold grip in my flesh. When he finish, we look east, like we can see the Massa woods from here. Like it will come back to our wishing, how it ever been. And, senseless, I remember a day when Crow and me and Hate You gone for bait worms in a brook by Tophet. How we watch the Christings’ grandy house and plan to steal some cider. Hate You creep toward the barn in bravery, but a mule bray loud, and she come scrambling back in tears. When we was sixes, new to life.

  Then, in darkness of my feeling, I remind Susannah’s face, the day we left from Lowell mill. Her eyes still scary from her rape; her soft bellesse been like a showing wound. And all the Christing littles by – enfants that I save from fire, to live for petty weeks. To scream and die in different fires.