The Country of Ice Cream Star (6 page)

‘Ain’t ours to choose.’ John shake his head.

‘Can give him Mary,’ Japhet say. ‘Or Beanie, no one want her. John, you told him he ain’t take Susannah?’

Susannah stand up now. Her face be tired like regrets. ‘Child, we cannot tell him how he do. It be the Long Agreement. But sure, ain’t guess the NewKing choose myself. I got two enfants born.’

‘Ya,’ say John. ‘If Armies take her from her enfants, this been bad respect.’

Now Japhet break in rage. ‘They care for no respect! He ain’t! He staring at our girls like animals. Ya, their queens be bell, and all it is. Ain’t care for us!’

The littles hush, look scary to Japhet. Become a troubling silence. Then Baby Leah laugh at last and throw her fritter to the floor. Susannah stoop and take it, with her eyes still brooding on Boy Japhet. I grit my jaw and breathe in deep. Hold this sorrow breath.

‘Foo conversations,’ say Susannah soft. ‘Ain’t know until we know.
Now it be guests, you going to hold your mouth. Our husband pray decision.’

Then I must wait John’s pointless prayer, if they will take the roo. I use this time to breathe myself to semblance, though my heart be knives. Heed their last refusal of the roo with patient face. I even think to beg some apple-picking from their orchard, in pology for disappointment.

Yo, when I leave, the sun be scarcely risen to its height, although the morning feel so long. This day feel old and tired of me.

6

OF PASHA ROO

I tie Money in our horsen field. Then I go to a briar gully, overgrown and lonely, for first testing of my gun. Ain’t brave yet for Sengles. Fear they asking on my visit. Ya, ever my troubles be, this pistol be a simple goodness.

First I check the magazine, and wonder on its missing bullets – if these been children shot or meat. I pick one out to learn their make. Is parabellum nines, a common sort the Lowells keep. Yo, I allow myself five bullets for this testing practice.

I shot my brother’s pistol before, and this gun be like; is almost disappointing normal. Still, she shooting where I aim, her trigger flighty quick. Spring back to my hand with leap joyeuse.

But through this, my mind keep turning back to posies, find its hurt. Remember Popsicle and Lily of Gold, dead in this passen year; Abel of Christ who been the Christing husband before John. All been nineteen when they gone sick. Ya Sticking-bone live old, was twenty-one in posy dying. And my mind go through all dead I known, remind their posy age. Be some friendly twenties in this list, ya most be nineteen years. But be eighteens enough, and these names gather, sticking in my dread. Ya, Jemimah self be eighteen years, the same as Driver.

Ever I pull my mind from this, the NewKing waiting dark in mind.
Time I shoot the final bullet, my hand trembling awful. Gun mostly leap out of my grip. The bullet skew to nowhere.

Then I swear in underbreath. Poke the gun into my belt and head to Sengle town.

Town be a sally mess. Tents up since the yester rain, their orange color gone in grime. Is mudden trash around, and ashy circles from the evening fires. Across the town from me, one trickle fire still be lit. All littles scramble round it, and our hounds in bark delight. Some brats camp beneath the eating table, some hunt bluey caterpillars, some play war. Hate You Fourteen watch all these, while Mari’s Ghost boil soup upon the flames. Yo on the easter side, two trees from me, be Keepers and the roo.

Keepers got a yo-yo and a cigarette. She blow smoke rings and send the yo-yo upward through the rings. Ain’t successful, but this been her aim. The roo lean on a piney trunk and smoke a cigarette self.

The roo stand free. Ain’t bound. Ain’t guard except by petty Keepers. Like a prideful mouse go guard a bear.

Keepers spot my coming, and she run to me with grinning face. Drop the yo-yo at my feet and cry, ‘Roo’s name be Pasha! I been speaking roo all morning!’

I hold my speech. Be studying the roo. Standing, he goliath big, is sure a glory animal. Though his ghosty color spook me yet, he shapen normal. And as I look, he nod, the way a Christing will in greeting.

I nod back with skeering heart. Recall the children took by roos, for meat or slavery. But pride insist, must show no fear. I fetch Keepers’ yo-yo from the dirt and cast it down. It rise fleet and fit my hand, while I ware on the roo.

Keepers say, ‘I learn his talk so quick, it been like science. Next I go and learn the talk of deer. I go convince the deer to come be meat for us.’

‘Deer ain’t talk language, small. Be brainless creatures.’

‘Ain’t. Nor I ain’t small.’

Here her victory ain’t contain. She break, run pelting to the roo. He brace his arms and toss the cigarette. My heart freeze hard. His hands as big as Keepers’ face. He going to go and squash her ribs, he throw her at the tree. Be late to shoot, my Keepers kilt in blood.

She run and raise her arms and leap. He catch her in the air and sault her high above his head. Keepers screaming in her joy. He turn her high above, and set and seat her to his shoulder. There she perch, grip with both hands upon his furry head.

I swear at her like any baby. My pistol wakeful in my hand, I ain’t remember how.

Keepers call out, ‘Roo’s whole name be Pasha Sleeper! I invent him this last name.’

Roo fix on my gun, until I put it back into my belt. Then he ease. Smile up at Keepers, houndish warm, like any another child.

I say, my heart fresh with relief, ‘He cannot be both roo and sleeper.’

‘Ain’t so,’ say Keepers. ‘Roos the same as sleepers, I figure this.’

‘Sleepers all been roos?’ I laugh thin and walk to them. ‘Is curiose and wise. You be a well of truth, my Keepers Eight.’

‘You guess how old he be?’

‘I guess that you untie him.’

Keepers close her fingers on his hair and pull. The roo go startle, then he laugh and swat her fingers loose. Lift her to the ground, then go complaining in his rooish talk. When he grin, it be a thing to see. Child lack half his teeth. Be science how he going to chew.

Keepers say with knowledge face, ‘Must guess! How old?’

‘Nay, think what you do. You risking danger, but be older children face the danger. How I going to tie him now, without no Driver here?’

‘You guess, then give me talk.’

‘Where be Jermaine? I left him here to watch.’

‘Roo eaten him. Jermaine done talk too much and never listen.’

‘Keepers–’

‘Roo be thirty years! Pasha Thirty Sleeper, older than nobody else!’

I chill down to my ankles. Put my hands behind me like this thirty be a catching fever. Yo Keepers look up at the roo joyeuse. Her eyes shine and convince. Is like she see the number thirty written on his brow.

‘Nay, he lying,’ I say weak. ‘Or you ain’t comprehend. Must teach him how to speak in words.’

‘Roos live longer, ya. We been discussing well in roo.’

‘Each beast live the same. Horse and hound and person live their eighteen–twenty years.’

‘Parrot live more longer.’

‘Parrot be a bird.’

‘So roos be birds.’ Keepers shrug. ‘Hair be a kind of feather.’

I try to scout the roo for age, but ain’t know how to look. Sure this child enormous big. Can be, he grown ten extra years.

‘Why he ain’t got posies?’ I say rough.

‘Ain’t know,’ say Keepers unconcern. She reach for the yo-yo and I give it to her palm.

‘How old roos being, when they die? They die from posies like a person?’

‘Will ask. Be many tricky questions.’ Then Keepers turn and run across the trashy-bottom town. Hate You pouring soup, my Keepers go inspect. Ain’t look back at me, nor at the roo. We be the past.

Roo smile after her. He scurfy with unwash, his shirt all dirty spots and torn. But his face bell enough, now that the strangeness grow accustom. Be a marvel in his bluish gaze and catly hair. Yo, as he smile, I notice webby wrinkles by his eyes. Across his forehead go two lines alike, is sketchen thin.

Ain’t uggety to see, like wrinkle sleepers be in pictures. But I remind how Lowells say that wrinkles come from age. I scout along his other skin, heart beating furiose, but find no more. Is only stubble beard and smooth.

I get my cigarettes out. Is sleeper Marlboros; be stale, but smoke,
if you ain’t finicky. I pull a cigarette and show its filter to this Pasha. Must wait before he trust my gift.

He say soft, ‘Be gratty.’ The words pronouncing strange, as if his mouth was made for different sounds. Yo, we both smile, like this pronouncing been a friendly joke.

Bolden, I reach up in curiosity to touch his cheek. He look peculiar to this handling, but hold himself in stillness. Only squint embarrassing.

His skin be warm. Look frosty, but feel warm and soft like any another child’s. I take my hand back to my side, and in my heart, an inkling rise.

If he thirty, this can mean that roos ain’t get no posies. They live like sleepers, for uncounten years, until their skin be old. Or can mean they die from posies late. Be slow to malady.

But can also mean, they know a cure.

Now I remind the blackish children with the roos in friendly field. Ain’t bound, nor they been feary. They gone with roos in willingness – and it gleam vicious in me, they been going for the posy cure. I magine how I find the roos and learn this healing craft. I see the cure like Robitussin, reddish sticky in a bottle. How it taste metallish, taste numb. How Driver grown to thirty.

But children took by roos ain’t come back never. They be gone and gone.

I say in choken breath, ‘Nay, truth, you thirty?’

Roo frown confusing, shake his head.

I point to him and say, ‘You. Thirty years?’ Then, three times, I hold up all my fingers.

Roo’s face complicate. I try my gesturing again–again, but he frown only worse. At last, he say in his unshapen speech, ‘Nay comprehend.’

He smile again, but I ain’t smile. Frustration whisper:
Got to comprehend. Is lying simple
. I seek his eyes for wrong intentions, but they only bluish strange. At last, I force a smile, say weak, ‘You bony met, my roo. You bone.’ I nod correct, and turn from him with spooken reveries.

I think to tie the roo again, but sure it be no use. If Keepers want him free, he going loose. She sneaky pests. Ya, be a mally satisfaction, how they Christings terrify, if they known. So I leave my gun with Hate You. Tell her sharp instructions, how she shooting if the roo start violence; how she threaten if he try escape.

Then I head back to horsen field. My duty been that I go hunting – ya, my heart regret its simple mind and quietness. But cannot leave my closer need. Must find more bullets to my gun, yo I must parley thoughts with El Mayor.

7

AT LOWELL MILL

Most my way lie through the wood. Be friendly ride, in company with gnats and peeping birds and squirrels. Only the last stretch lie through Lowell City, strange in emptiness. Here the houses reddish brick, three times the height of evac houses. Every street you pass, it be a thousand shatter windows. Blind windows fill half the sky, and all the streets be sparkling dangerous with broken glass. Ain’t any a child live in these homes. Be no life here but sleeping bats.

Time I come to Lowell mill, that spooken city tire my nerves. Be glad to see their lectric lights and hear the cryer calling up. Be glad to see a movement in their windows, hear the larm of life.

Lowell mill a jumbo bricky edifice, long as a street. Got Lowell River on one side, and green canal the other sides; an island sort of building. Is five floors tall, and be five minutes walking to go past. Inside, be doory hallways, long enough to run full pace. Walls groan and groan, this be their turbine wheels that make lectricity. Lowell River turn these wheels, and Lowell River never rest.

Each Lowell got a room all to themself, got springy beds and blankets. They grow tobacco through the winter in a glassen house. Have water toilets, and they can make paint and tiles and furniture. Got ninety horses of their breeding, and they selling these as far as
Nampshire and the fisher coast. My Money been from them, flirtation gift of El Mayor himself.

No Lowell use a name. Each Lowell calling by their task and rank within – be Second Plumber or First Gardener or Thirteenth Custodian. Yo, as they grow in worth, their calling name be always changing – and if you call them by their younger rank, they insult furiose.

Now sun be bright upon the green canal. The river’s sound of wish, wish, blend with the coop-up voice of Lowells. Even by sunny day, their windows glown with lectric light. Third Cryer perch above, on stony wall, and call her challenge to me. As I step to easter gate, I shout my name correct, and my requirement to their El Mayor.

Third Cryer call this news. Other cryers yell it on, the farther voices sounding sore bereft in all that hard indoors. A stabler come out, hurrying his steps, to take my mare. Then I come across their bridge. The door be open into goldish warm.

El Mayor be waiting in his workenroom, door 123. The door hang open, and he lying careless on a sofa. Wear cottonish pajamas, bluish stripe, with silken robe. On the floor, is papers cast about, and straddling books. Though El Mayor possess a desk, he shy from using this. Be a lain-down man. Can think, he only use his feet to walk from bed to sofa. Yo, with his slug behaviors, he boss two hundred Lowells smart correct.

El Mayor been Sengle born. We trade him as a seven with the calling name of Girl Egg. He suffer from the gasping illness, and his eyes been poory – be no use for hunting work. But sure his brains been healthy meat. The Lowells took him glad, and give us Villa Moron in his place.

Now he be eighteen, and he grown long in body, gracile. Got a face like to a handsome horse. Ain’t the sort to please a Christwife, but he well enough, if you do take him for himself. Sure, been no girl egg in his making; child is male as bulls and bother.

When I enter, El Mayor go rummage up his limbs to stand. Look sleepyhead and glad.

I say, ‘Ain’t need to work your legs. Ain’t going to chase you nowhere.’

‘Foo,’ he say. ‘Stood up to get my arms around you, noisy. Got to squeeze your rudeness out.’