Sandra Newman - The Country of Ice Cream Star

When the first roo notice me and pause, my heart twist queery. He straighten, point with lazy gun. Child beside him shift and look as I come toward, heart watery in my chest. Yo, now I come to my first murdern body. Pause my step before.

Be a blackish child in dapple uniform, facedown in earth. Legs finish in an unshape darkness. Ya, in a trench beside, can see another — sitting curlen with his head thrust back to show no face. Below his brow is jaggen bone and meat, a reddish scrap hung down. Unhurt ear look perfect neat beside. I fetch into stillness. Look up again to find, everywhere along this hill, be Russians watching me.

I loose my hands slow from Kalash. Begin to raise them in the air, skin flaming in the cold. And I step precarious around the child kilt at my feet. Keep eyes to the closer roos, and gather breath to call.

Ain’t time to even fear, when footsteps run to me behind. A yell come stark, then someone catch my arm and pull it vicious. I strike against without no thought. Turn wild, and find Bashir.

I stare up to his hawken looks without no mind to use. He shout some rooish in my face, rage breathless. Shout and shout, before I comprehend.

Why you here? Why you here? You cannot be here! Why you here?

I start laughing somehow, and this bring Bashir ferocious. He grip into my shoulder, shake me rough. Begin a grosserie of cursing, where I comprehending only words for imbecile and dead . And he finish again with Why you here? in choken voice.

I touch to his gripping hand. Roo hoarse, “Need Razin, brother.”

He stare a moment, dumbfound in his face. Glance back to the roos around the fire, who all be watching interest. Then his mouth twist angry. “Nay. You dead here. You already dead.”

Feel some impatience, how he talking pointless, and I roo, “Ain’t care, how I be dead. Need Razin.”

Then someone call his name behind. Still holding to my arm, he turn and yell. Some laughing voices answer. Then a clutch of roos walk out from forest shadows, smiling curiose. Be seven, all with hawken face, dark fur. Is queery how they so alike, ain’t telling who be which. Only their beards be various grown. Ya, one got fatter gun, wear necklace of long bullets round himself. And it inkle in my mind, these be Bashir’s Kavkazky people — his vally children who behaving honest like no roo.

One child with thinner beard say weirdo words, ain’t rooish. Then they laugh hilarious. Bashir grit, shake his head. He talk back unhappy in that weirdo speech, but end with Razin .

Kavkazky roos show mock impression. One clout Bashir against his head, and start a longer speech of dispute. Another Kavkazky talk in louder, naying his big hand.

As this squabble rise, a yellow roo come staggery from the drunken fire. Call down. Bashir let go my arm. Turn shouting, grab his gun to ready. And all Kavkazky roos go spitting vicious in this second. Yell shrill, and fix their guns to shooting pose.

Yellow child halt surprisen. Shout some quick filth, and turn back, calling peevish to his friends.

Bashir turn furiose to me. “You see. Now we be kilt for you.”

“Nay, he rid,” I roo unsteady. “You fear him bone.”

Bashir swear underbreath, while the fat-gun child put hand upon his shoulder. Fat-gun child talk low, like he speak gentle to a spooking mare. Then he clap twice on Bashir his shoulder. Say in rooish, “Is normal.”

“What be, my brother?” I roo dumb.

Bashir look to me tired. “What you ask. We taking you to Razin.”

“Bone.” I smile my mouth. “Be gratty.”

He shake his head, resentment waken in his eyes again. “What you think he do? What you think?”

Fat-gun Kavkazky roo to me, “Bashir is guilty, girl. You help him, and now — you see? Very bad.” But he grinning friendly, like he gratulate my crazy wits.

Bashir say, “Give her to the filth here, be no difference.”

“Nay,” a long-beard Kavkazky cavil. “Razin, is interesting what he do. These, we know what it is. Not interesting.”

Bashir go muttering nasty to this, while long-beard smile to me joyeuse, put arm around Bashir. And I smile back. Heart revel in its panic, all my body warm like rest.

“Ain’t nothing to me, what he do,” I say. “Be gratty right.”

WAY TO RAZIN BE A MAZE OF NIGHTMARES. MUST STEP OVER gutten people, scattern parts of flesh. Times, a ruin body, seem like nothing that can live, scream awful to us as we pass. Kavkazky roos keep all around me, waring to the sides. And every minute be new Russians, come with booze insistence. Some be only curiose. But others coming in belief, Bashir’s roos taking me to rape. Be offering help.

With some rapists, Bashir will only mention Razin, and they rid. But often, a hopeful rapist cavil, Razin get me after. Say filthen jokes to this, call insults on Bashir’s dark roos. One skewtooth child keep pace with me, go spitting sideward on the blackish dead, and grin to me behind. Soon it be a following band of dozen cockroach Russians. All spew threats and maudy jokes.

Bashir ain’t speaking mostly. He walk grit in stormy moods. Yo, must trace between all trenches and must keep together close — be always new attentions. But in some quiet moment, he say sudden that Kirill dead.

I be pausing to step around a murdern soldier’s head. Be caught in frighten sickness, and I say distracten, “You kill him real?”

“Nay.” Bashir give sideward frown, like he impress some meaning. “Your Razin kill him. But was many kilt.”

“How?” I say. “Razin killing Russians?”

Fat-gun child begin explaining, but this muddle in rooish definitions, be no use. Ya, my mind be stupid, trying to know that Kirill dead — in all these ruin bodies, Kirill be somewhere. I work to save him all these days, and now he end like nothing.

Then Bashir say sudden to the fat-gun roo, “Lies, lies.”

“Razin’s lies,” the fat-gun say. “Is better than no truth. Can kill you.”

Another Kavkazky laugh. “He ruling now, his lies be truth.”

“Nay, hold,” I say. “Who ruling?”

“Razin ruling,” say Bashir disgusten. “The general been kilt.”

I frown puzzling to him. All Kavkazkies break in laughter.

“Girl,” roo the long-beard child, “is bad job, general of Russians. Short to live.”

“Our children kilt the general?” I say.

“Yes,” Bashir say cold. “Think this.”

“Nay.” The long-beard grin to me. “This been Russian vote. Soldat dislike general. He do mistake with gun, and general die. So Razin punish Kirill. Punish whoever he dislike. They shot. Child who do mistake — I think he is healthy.”

“But we forget this now.” The fat-gun nay his hand. “Is old to talk.”

Then another stanken Russian come with interest to me, pushing, and when this struggle done, Kavkazkies go on in nervy silence. Ya, I be trying for relief, that Razin powerful grown. Ain’t going to be no general above, insisting that I murder. But most my fear be on our forward path.

Been climbing ever upward, stitching a path through stones and trenches. And, every turning, Arlington House come larger in my eyes. Is mostly like a normal mansion. Windows plain, and all be clean like showing innocence. But these humble looks misgive me worse. Be how, in a dream, an object looking ordinary — a shoe, a rock — possess all maudy powers. If it touching you, your soul be rid. Or how a child with normal parts, who eat and smile like any person, will kill, spit on the dead, do laughing rape.

Try thinking how I come to my own death, it be no fear beyond. But cowardesse insist, cannot go here. I even remember Felipe’s nonsense talk of Satan’s armies. Can feel how Satan living there, in company of his demons. But at last, we come past all the burial stones and fires, and only be this mansion left to see.