Sandra Newman - The Country of Ice Cream Star

“Trade for promises.” I shrug. “He easy for a tale. Must only go when their Susannah missing.”

“Sister, cannot pay with lies forever.”

Then Driver breathe in sudden, and he cough. Cough take him hard, it look like something kicking in his ribs. My nerves go thin. Yo, while he suffer, ABC come nosing round, stick in her mouth. Her tail aloft and glad. I swat my hand in air beside her nose, and she go off low-held.

At last, my Driver quit to cough, stare empty at the fire. And he say low, “We be too few.”

I shrug discomfort. “When Jonah grown to size, be better seasons.”

“Nay, child. We be too few.”

“Sure, our jones be few, but we had skinny years before.”

“And Crow be sergeant? What this be?”

“Ain’t no joy,” I say uncertain. “But he strong. Can hunt.”

“Nay, heed,” say Driver. “If I be gone, you go to El Mayor.”

I hunt his face for meaning, but his patience be like unmark snow. I say, in nervy joke, “This be some going that result in babies?”

“Ice Cream, sister. Go and stay. El Mayor will take our Sengles. Take even useless children for your love.”

“Stay?” I huff a disbelieving breath. “We all be Lowells now?”

“You all be fed. Be safe to live.”

“But ain’t be Sengles. We be some worthless beggars in their mill. Ain’t no hunger worth this loss. Nor Crow allowing this. And he been right, we Sengles. Be ourself.”

Driver shake his head. Bend to the fire again with painful frown.

I glance at that hose, my eye mistake that it been sneaking toward. Shiver and feel, this be a spooken place my Driver chosen. Is like I visit Driver in his death.

Then Driver say, “Your hound be foo, look there.”

He point. I look and see that ABC been took her stick to Money. Set it down before her hoofs, expect the mare to throw. Money stare uninterest, a sprig hung chewing from her mouth. ABC bark up, instruction in her voice. Then she feel us watching. Hound look to us, confuse and panting. Look back at the stick, like she get conscience that she been mistake, but ain’t see what is missing yet.

I laugh bold and sweet. And laughing make our quarrel easy. Driver told me sense for years, and never I give him yes. No reason that this talk be different, laughing make me feel.

But when he take my hand, I fear again. My heart gone small.

He say, “My stubborn, heed. Been talk, the Nat Mass Armies want to take you. Once they knowing I be sick… ain’t only hunger that you need to fear, Ice Cream, is slavery.”

WHEN SENGLES COME TO MASSA WOODS, BEEN THREE PEOPLES here already: Lowells, Christings and the Nat Mass Armies.

With the Christings and the Lowells, we had truce from the beginning. Never our tiny thefts and misbehaviors hurt this peace. But with the Nat Mass Army kings and featherboys, been war. Yo, war be ever our respect to all their cockroach hearts.

How Sengles will rob eggs and corn, the Armies robbing girls. These children callen simper girls, and they lose every other name. Be taken to do sweating work, and for unwanten sex — for any nasty use that be. Ya, every Army baby born from these unlucky children. The Armies give their own girl enfants to the Christings, when they grown. So Armies all be boys, and any females in their town be slaves.

Sengles hate a slaver worse than our bad luck. We hate their sally smell from drinking, and we hate their feather heads. Will raid their chickens for this hatred, or we run to skirmish. Ya, they raid us like a stenching wind, come wild and evil. From twelvish age, all Sengles harden to this war farouche.

When our greats arrive in these wood forests, this been murder war. In they times, the Armies stolen girls from Massa woods. Now, for years and lives, the Armies slave afar, from fishers and Vermonters of the north. Yo, as our woods grown soft in peace, our Sengle wars grown soft alike. In my time, our war knives sharpen only at their tip. Make cuts prettieuse and reddish but ain’t take no life.

Armies come to war with feathers braiden in their hair. Be like fighting with a hatred bird, no pity in this case. Your one hand have its knife, it hurt from holding on so hard. You slash and beating at his head until you breathing hard and tired. Until it feel a kind of lonely. And close, you smell that feary unwash slaver who dive his knife at you. Can smell blood when you cut him. On a colder day you feel his warm.

Been one occasion, in my younger memory, we fight to murder. A Sengle girl was took for rape, and in our wars of vengeance, Dogness Fofana was kilt. They been the years of NewKing Hak, a spider-hearten wretch. But he become the OldKing now. Already he kilt his queen and burnt her gods.

Now is NewKing Mamadou, as honest as a knife. He Army, born without a gentle turn, but keep his slaves in fatness. Yo, he bell to love. My own heart’s secrecy been his, my cat insanities of night.

But he die seven deaths before I capture so, I swear my heart. Be ever a hundred Armies, I go shred them all to blood despair. Be screaming on this land to them and broken dreams, be hell and hell.

THE SUN BE RISEN NOW, is cold and feary in the sky. Where I stare across that poory yard, the sun’s bright ache. And Driver’s hand be hot in mine, his skin unhealthy dry.

I say hoarse, “They insects capture nothing. Kill them all, they try this.”

“You stop them how? They got twelve boys is grown to size. Without myself—”

“Who even saying they will take me?”

“Better you think, who fight them. Ice, we be too few.”

“But Lowells-Christings fight them also.”

“For Sengles?” Driver set his mouth. “Cannot expect this, sister. If you gone to Lowell—”

I flee my hand from his. “I go defeat your Armies, weakness. Who fight them, be myself.”

Driver clench his hand into a fist. “Can leave your mally pride. How you will fight twelve boys?”

“Who—” My voice choke in my throat. “Nay, who will take me? Mamadou?”

“Is Armies. Ain’t no who.”

“Nay, how this be about myself?”

“Shoo, my sister. Ain’t about yourself.”

“Nay, Mamadou ain’t try this. Is only talk. Is how they insects talk. They never dare.”

Driver shake his head, frustrate. Turn back to his fire. My weakness dry while he reach out and bed a new log in the embers. Now he grow a silent anger, sure I know him well. I crave to tell him what he need. But Mamadou be red in my hurt conscience.

At last, I say, “But while you strong, they leave us?”

“Ice Cream.” His shoulders tense. “Must think beyond this.”

“But if you keep—”

“I ain’t. You cannot think this way.”

“Nay, posies is our trouble, brother. Can be help for posies. Children live to seventy in sleeper times, you know this tale.”

Driver stand up from his fire, his lips gone tight in rage. “Ain’t sleeper times.”

“Yo sho, the roo—”

“The roo. He give you pharmacies for this?”

“Nay, but—”

“You know he ain’t.” He spit into the fire. “Beast telling lies and baby children go believe these lies. Can leave me from your noise. This talk be done.”

“Ain’t even listen. If we—”

“Nay, can go. Go on!”

I stand up to my feet. “Ain’t be no slaving. All I say.” Driver start to me in anger, but I turn by quick and stalk to Money. I catch her mane and mount, kick her into a hasty trot. ABC come chase behind, and bark her worry bright.

Yo, while I ride, my heart be clear. I know what I will do. Be something Driver ain’t forgive, what no good child forgive. But if evil can save Driver, I will love all filth. And I heel Money to a gallop. Already be pulling the pistol from my belt in readiness, as I ride hard to fetch the roo.