Sandra Newman - The Country of Ice Cream Star

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? 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, if we hunt together, I can pest for knowledge all the day. Do begs and guilts and threats until he speak from plain exhaustion.

“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. His face twist, hating vicious — but this be my Sengle own, who dare himself with empty gun to fight for Ice Cream Star.

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 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.

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.