The Country of Ice Cream Star (9 page)

He discuss the insect, its brown color and its lair. Which part contain this pharmacy. Discuss and eat. Cakes finish, and his eyes be fat joyeuse.

Take five minutes of this gabble. Then my mind go bright. I say, ‘Yo lying cockroach!’

‘This ain’t cockroach. Nay.’

‘Admit your lies, ain’t be no curing insect.’

Pasha look his thinkless way. ‘Ya. Ain’t insect. Be a fruit.’

Here I realize, this child ain’t care for being liked.

I say, ‘You trust me too far, Wish-To-Die.’

‘Ice Cream bone. I trusting, yes.’

‘Ice Cream will beat your head to soup. I feed your liver to my hound.’

‘Ain’t comprehend.’ He wipe his lips in good content. ‘Words crafty.’

I try asking where roos be from. One day, he say they live west of the mountains. Other day, they live beneath the sea, and roos breathe water.

All roos be boys, he go agree with me, one day. Another day, roo girls be prettieuse as pocket-flowers. In their country, be moths as thick as rain, eat clothes right off your body. Roos ain’t die at all. Roos die at nineteen, just like any a child. A roo will grow to fifty feet, when he been live a hundred years. Was giant roos built all the houses. Other children cannot reach the roof.

Roos feel no shame, this be the only fact I learn in all this talk. And days go by, and ain’t come back. My Driver looking gray and thin.

I tell Pasha, ‘Never you be thirty. You be a three, a nonsense enfant. Ain’t got sense to chew.’

‘Cannot chew,’ he say. ‘Ain’t give me food.’

Ain’t that he shy from talk. Be only meaning he dislike. Roo will blablabla with glad respect. Learn English faster than no sense, got noise for every company. And any a painful child can spend their boring talk on Pasha. One day, Best Creature and Baboucar play at throwing dirt into his hair. Roo shake it off and smile. Dirt soon be dog shee, dirt be rotten bones. Pasha never bother. Hour pass, he shake it off and smile. Next day, Best Creature and Baboucar feeding Pasha from their meal, they be his fetching hounds. Then Pasha go friend Mari’s Ghost and Villa – girls that chase for any male. Pasha
never mind their giggling foolerie. Be no boring word he ain’t lick up, and look for more.

When I been still of bookish age, before I burden up with task, I read a book called
For My Country
. Be memories of a person, Jack Devont, who call himself a spy. He ain’t succeeding well at this. Soon in this book, he capture, took to solitary prison. There Jack Devont must count his steps and shave to keep from madness. Truth, this prison boring for myself. Like Lowell mill with worser food. Nor I ain’t so rich that talk of maudy food will interest. I chew some rotten food all weeks of life without no talk. The early, spying pages been my pleasure.

Been in a town name Soviet Union. Sleepers there be callen Russians, and he acting like a Russian. Jack Devont wear Russian clothes and speak their Russian language. Got some papers saying he been born in Soviet Union.

Now, be times I wonder if this Pasha spying for his roos. Ain’t move to leave us, though he left unbound. And no one tolerate Baboucar’s talk – yo, for their country, spies will suffer. For their country, spies be quick to learn a stranger’s speech.

Can think, no child will need to know a thing Baboucar tell. But come a time, I long for some Baboucar Roo, who spill his truths unthinking; a Villa Roo that hunt my sex, and tell me any wanting fact. Never a roo be boring to my mind, no roo will tire my love.

One other thing I learn from Jack Devont. Someone ain’t answer sense, can torture them to make them tell. Use burning for its pain and drowning water for its fear. This a matter OldKing Hak once practice on his Army slaves – yo Hak is callen Spider-heart, Disease, by his own people. Never a Sengle do this filth. Ain’t done in jalousie nor war.

But for Driver, I forgotten honor. I will love all wrong.

From the hiding meadow, wild, I gallop hard to Sengle town. ABC ain’t keep our pace, she go off in the bushes. Yip her disapproval as she go. I ain’t wonder, I ain’t look. Hate fill my eyes like night.

In town, be morning meal. All children round the folding tables, yappit and larm. Got rabbit fry and wheaten cake. Hounds sit by to beg. This be the scene of morning, as familiar as my hand.

Pasha stand by Villa’s place. She hand him up her plate to share. Her motion freeze, the way I scream his name. The noising halt, and they all turn to staring frighten cats as I ride in. I almost gallop over the tables, and I yell my hate.

Soon as I be down from Money, I get Pasha by his shirt. My Sengles start to laugh and shout. I never see, I never care. Pasha’s collar in one hand, in the other I have my gun. Let Money go where Money please, I ain’t got time to rule her. I only drag the roo and warn my Sengles back with yell.

Last thing I see in town is Crow. Child coming down the Lowell path, two rabbits hanging round his neck, strung from a bloody shoelace. Got his hunting face, of arrogance and impish joy. He see me come, his joy run out like water.

‘Going to fix this roo,’ I call.

He say, his voice disgust, ‘Fix it to death. I hate its sight. Ain’t coward out, Miss Weakness.’

I walk on, my strength ain’t falter. But his words stick to my nerves.
Fix it to death. I hate its sight
. Be rushing, never-thinking, but these words repeat in mind. Soon I be breathing thin. Air weaken, like I got the gasping sickness.

Is nothing faithful in the world. Air itself betray. I walk down careless, let the briar thorns tear up my arms and ankles. Ain’t even Ice Cream Star be worth to trust, myself be trash. Crow and Ice Cream twins in evil. But ain’t no otherwise to do. I drag big Pasha across the stumbly ground, the gun dug in his ribs.

This be the gully where I test my pistol, bramble-grown and lonely. No one see what happen here. No interfering child will help. And I let Pasha’s collar free. He stand fast, but be a Pasha lost his owlen peace. His face besweaten pink, and all his jaw gone tense and feary. He say soft, ‘Truth, I ain’t … I ain’t hurt.’

I take breath. ‘You ain’t hurt yet.’

‘Nay. Ain’t hurt
her
.’

‘What her?’

‘I ain’t hurt Villa. Villa ask.’ His face be foaly seriose. Any a time beside, will make me laugh like twenty hounds.

‘Ain’t caring who you do your sex with, roo. Villa do her business anywhere, she do it with a stick.’

His face ease. Be like a smile begin. That light my fury new. ‘Tell how you ain’t got posies! Say the truth, you yellow spew! My brother–’

Here my voice stop thick. I stare and breathe.

He say, ‘Cannot.’

I aim my pistol at his feet. He look, and something flinch inside him, though I ain’t seen that he move. I say, ‘You can keep secrets, this be all you do.’

His boots be warpen, uggety. Roo boots, must be all roos wear this. The leather thick, but never stop a bullet.

I say, ‘You can keep secrets?’

‘Yes.’

‘Be secret from my people. My brother sick.’ The heat of tears come in my throat. I swallow it away.

‘Ain’t know this,’ he say.

‘You know now. I do this for my brother. Be his life.’

‘He sick?’

‘Got posies. Now you know. Now you must leave your lies.’

Fright inkle in Pasha’s eye, the bluish eye-round nearly white. ‘Cannot.’

Spite blaze, my hand go nervy on the gun. ‘I shoot your foot. Then I bust in your eyes, I use my hands. This be my brother’s life.’ My voice go sicken rough, my stomach twist. All I see is blood and bone, thrust out of dirty leather. Face got blood for eyes. The words themself be foul.

‘Cannot.’ His voice be small and dry. ‘Cannot.’

I stare and swallow. Must shoot his foot. Be pain, but it ain’t death. Ain’t posies. No one spare my Driver’s foot when he be dead.

The gun drop from my hand. It strike the dirt and lay, ashame and helpless. I be saying, ‘You can save my brother. Why you will not help us? All your lies be weak.’

‘Cannot.’

Pasha look on my bandon pistol. All himself be gratty soft. Relief look at the gun, and his relief increase my sickness.
Ain’t coward out, Miss Weakness
.

Then Pasha duck and take the gun.

I step back, my footing slip.

He say, ‘I cannot save no child. Trust my word. Ain’t bone you know more.’

My courage rouse again. ‘Cannot go back without I know. You can well shoot me, evil.’

‘Nay.’

‘Will murder you in sleep, goddamn.’

Gun in his hand look at me well. His owlen face consider. Then his hand ease, the pistol pointing at the dirt again.

He say in undervoice, ‘Ain’t bone.’

He finger in his pocket and pull out a box. Marlboro Red. One-hand, he open it and get a cigarette. Hold the box to me. His other hand go easy, pistol loosen at the dirt.

‘Shee,’ I say, ‘how you got cigarettes?’

His bluish eye go clever. ‘Villa ask.’

‘Foo! Villa pay. Dirty-habit females.’

Want to laugh, but all my worry stick. My feeling follow the pistol, while I take a cigarette. He light us with a Lowell match. Still I focus on the gun so much, I startle when he speak.

‘Cannot tell, is sorry. Ain’t bone to know.’

Fear loosen in my chest. ‘Truth, you thirty?’

‘Leave this. Ain’t bone.’

‘Be my brother’s life.’

He shake his head, go careless in his eyes like he unlisten. Then he smiling at the gun. He shift it in his liking hand.

I try, ‘Must ask this gun, my Pasha.’

‘Gun like me best.’ He lower the pistol to his side. ‘Gun missing Pasha.’

‘Gun working for our food. Been talk that Pasha learn the eating habit, also.’

A thought go past his eyes, it bloom and fade. He say, ‘I know to hunt. I hunt, can eat more?’

I catch, surprise. The notion tease my hope. Roo can be a yellow Sengle, hunt and scratch like any a child. Yo in war, no Nat Mass Army will resist his size. Give the beast a knife, they featherboys run in scream confusion.

‘Can show you places,’ I say careful. ‘Where to lurk for deer and turkeys. Yo, must hunt with bow, ain’t every Sengle have a gun.’

‘Bow? This be with arrows?’

‘Kill more meat if you use arrows.’ I laugh. ‘I teach you. Ain’t no craft.’

‘Ain’t know arrows.’ His face discourage. ‘Better hunt with gun.’

‘Driver never tolerate a roo with guns,’ I say, eyes on my pistol. ‘Ain’t even going to like you using arrows. Gun ain’t to consider.’

I hold my hand out for the gun. The roo miscomprehend, he put his hand in mine and smile. His hand be warm and heavy in my hand. I catch my breath, surprise.

Here be when Crow crash from the bushes, shotgun in his hands. He scream, ‘Let go that gun! Ain’t touch Ice Cream!’

Pasha toss the pistol in the dirt again, as quick as flies. He lift his hands above his head – a foolish deed, it make him taller, feary worse. Crow flinch back and shout, ‘I kill you twenty times, you dirt!’

‘Calm, calm,’ I say. ‘Been giving back my gun.’

‘Be fool yourself!’

‘Roo ain’t hurt me! Calm your mouth!’

‘Hurt you myself, you giving guns to roos!’

Then Crow take angry breath and hush. A nervy silence pass. Little tawny rabbits hung on either side of Crow’s neck, their bloody shoelace crusten stiff. When he stir, their helpless paws go kick. Crow’s face twist, hating vicious – but this be my Sengle own, who
dare himself with empty gun to fight for Ice Cream Star. Pasha’s warmness linger in my hand, and all my wanting be to touch this warm on Crow’s bright-sweaten cheek.

Then Crow turn his head and swallow. I look at Pasha, where he frozen sad, his hands above his head.

I say, ‘Can rest your paws. Nobody shooting you today.’ Roo put his hands down slow. To Crow, I nod my head. ‘Be gratty for your care, my Crow.’

Crow work his jaw. ‘It need no thanks. Roo touching you for your own want.’ He spit at the dirt and raise his shotgun to his shoulder, glooming.

I shake my head. Go bend and take my pistol from the dirt.

When I gesture Pasha to depart, Crow walk ahead. Go up the trample bushes, shotgun held to him like cherishing. Keep his back to me, but lag until he feel me in his shadow. Pasha come behind, and we walk silent, Crow–me–Pasha, through the gully, up the Lowell path, the way to Sengle town.

11

BY HUNTS WITH PASHA ROO: TOBER 15–29

This time of Pasha Liar, autumn start its naked cold. Leaves be Tober colors, changing with the turns of wind. Frost glitter sometimes, then the sun speak up and it be gone.

This also be the time me–Pasha start our friendly hunts. I even give up mornings with my Driver for this enterprise. Ya, Driver’s temper sour to me behind our strife about the Armies. He chafe to any word I say; his face relieve when I be rid. So I pursue his help apart, in chase with Pasha Roo.

Walking out to hunt at sunrise be like stepping straight from your own dreams into birdsong and dew. Trees seem higher. Gray shy dawnlight fill their rushing crowns from underneath. Pasha stalk beside, my monster fabulous and tame, and be like fleeing every worry to a secret hush.

And truth, it be a secret. Driver hostile to no roos. Ya, the roo hunt with my gun, a recklessness no child forgive.

How it is, the roo be mostly thumbless with a bow. His arrows wiggle in the air, they strike like feeble worms. Nor he can tie a snare for much. Go fishing, and he noisy restless, like an unschool ten.

Only business that the yellow mess do right, is shooting guns. He scarcely seem to aim. Wherever Pasha look, his bullet go. Can pick
a firefly from the air, can throw a stick and split it. When our bullets still been plenty, Pasha teach me gunly craft, and soon I can shoot firm and clean. But fireflies safe from me, I never rival Pasha’s skill. So, because time hurry past, because my children hunger – I accustom to see my gun in his big hand.

And Pasha be a bony companiero, come to find. Hunting be unspeaking task, and we spend chill-foot mornings hid together, quiet as the sky. Stare the same direction, hear the same commotions in the leaves. If his shooting hit, he say in rooish underbreath:
‘Tock vote.’
When he miss, he say, with sorry twist of lip,
‘Blyat.’
When I ask what
blyat
will mean, he say, ‘This ain’t explain.’ But he teach me bits of roo, and I will talk in rooish sometimes. Always be surprising, that these words work just like speech.