Sandra Newman: The Country of Ice Cream Star

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.

“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.

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.