The Country of Ice Cream Star

1. MY TROUBLE ITS BEGINNING: TOBER 2

MY NAME BE ICE CREAM FIFTEEN STAR. MY BROTHER BE DRIVER Eighteen Star, and my ghost brother Mo-Jacques Five Star, dead when I myself was only six years old. Still my heart is rain for him, my brother dead of posies little.

My mother and my grands and my great-grands been Sengle pure. Our people be a tarry night sort, and we skinny and long. My brother Driver climb a tree with only hands, because our bones so light, our muscles fortey strong. We flee like a dragonfly over water, we fight like ten guns, and we be bell to see. Other children go deranged and unpredictable for our love.

We Sengles be a wandering sort. We never grown nothing from anything, never had no tato patch nor cornfield. Be thieves, and brave to hunt. A Sengle hungry even when he eat, even when he rich, he still want to grab and rob, he hungry for something he ain’t never seen nor thought of. We was so proud, we was ridiculous as wild animals, but we was bell and strong.

In my greats’ time, we come up from Chespea Water; was living peaceful by Two Towns until the neckface murderers come. Then we flee onward to these Massa woods. Here we thieve well. We live as long as Lowells — sometimes twenty years or twenty-one years. Every Sengle have a knife, and we together possess two guns. Driver got a gun that shoot, and Crow Sixteen a broken shotgun, still is good for scaring.

This day my story start, we been out scratching in the evacs. These evacs be house after house that face each other in twin lines. Houses shambledown and rotten; ya, the road between is broken through with pushing weeds. Get fifty houses in a street, and twenty streets in one hour’s walking. When these houses all was full, it been more people here than squirrels. Ain’t nobody living now.

Loot here be older, but is rich. We find every kind of thing — pharmacies, can food, clothes. Find cigarettes, be old with mushroom taste, but still can smoke. What I love most — can of Beef-a-roni. I eat that cold. I eat Beef-a-roni any way. The person invented Beef-a-roni, that person was a valuable genius.

This raid, it been Jermaine Fourteen, Asha Badmouth Fifteen and my brother Driver Eighteen, who been Sengle sergeant then. Ya, my favorite little, Keepers Eight, been there on scouting task. We come out with two horses, my own finicky spotten pony Money and Big Smoke who pull a sledge.

Ya, this been a feary day, because we find a sleeper house. Been two sleepers there, they lain together in a bed. One been grown, one eightish size. Both gone with years to stain and bones. Skeletons mix their ribs, their ghosty hair caught in one tangle.

In houses with these dead, we take no loot. It be unlucky wealth. Nor is good taboo to leave the house. Must rid it with clean fire.

Driver, Jermaine and Asha Badmouth gone to set the fire, while I keep hunting through the houses round with scrambly Keepers Eight. We scout the flooden cellars barefoot, then scratch upward through each room, until we meet the broken roof its sunlight. Then the nextdoor house.

This be grimy task. Ain’t matter how perfect anything look in a closet. When you take it up, dust fly. Hurt vicious in your eyes. Times, be flittering moths, look like they born from dust that instant. But the clothes, they often still all right.

That day, ain’t scarcely nothing worth the carry. Food is rotten, cloth be mold, books crumble like dry earth. Ain’t no metal but is rust. Keepers frustrate well, go swearing like a mally baby. Child be feroce to want, will rob the laces from a digger’s shoe. But this evac street be poory gone. We scratch out five houses, then slop tired in a raggity bed, upstairs of this cold house with scarce no windows. We waiting on the fire across the street to catch correct. Then we can go out staring, warm our face.

The only loot we find:

• 5 cans soup, 2 cans corn, 1 can condense milk, clean and bone. Other cans been rusten useless.

• 1 box allergic pharmacy, 1 Robitussin coughing drink.

• big coat for Asha Badmouth when her pregnant belly grow, ain’t prettieuse for nothing but it smell right.

• 1 bottle whiskey, 1 bottle gin. Other bottles unseal and the booze gone stank.

• these sleepers’ evac notice.

• a plastic baby, sort with arms and legs that you can turn. The painten eyes so worn, it make your eyes feel scary. Look the way dust in your eyes can feel.

A plastic baby be bad luck. The little children say it mean somebody going to die. Truth, littles always be inventing superstitions. One little say it, they all go believe and tell it onward. Sometimes, I think the digger gods was starting from a little’s maginations. “They got a man inside the clouds that punish you if you is lazy.” Dribble talk from ungrown heads. However that be, now my Keepers frighten.

On her neck, she wear the lastic string left from a candy necklace. Now, in fretting nerves, she wind the lastic round her pointer finger. Watch the fingertip swell bright, is like she strangle her own fear. Other hand got a cigarette. She been smoking this, and shake the ash on her own head. Be ash all in her bushy hair, for she believe ash kill nits. Keepers never had nits. This be proof to her it work.

And Keepers such a warry dirty cub, she hurt my heart. I ain’t know what other children feel, but I swear I feel more. See my Keepers frighten, and it feel like swallowing ice. Yo, the child so vally proud, it hurt her arrogance if I pet her, if I touch her any way. She sit on the scurfy bed and look her miseries, I going to want to pat her head. But cannot pat no proud eight’s head.

Ya, beliefs be catching. Soon my nerves go jittery self. Somebody going to die — yo sho, somebody always going to die. Ain’t been a year that I remember when nobody die. Only Keepers too little to die, every child I love too needful, and my Sengle people be too few.

“Damn you, Keeps,” I say. “This person can be dying anywhere. Can be some Mass Army dying. More of them that die is wonderful.”

“Nay, it got to be somebody I know. I find the baby.”

“Yo sho. Maybe it be Mouse.”

She startle, and look up joyeuse and warry-eyed. But, thought by thought, she quit believing.

“I ain’t never be so lucky.” Keepers gripe her mouth. “Bet you Mouse gone find a baby. He want me to die right now. He want me to die sick.”

Now we smell the kindling fire across the street, a hoarsen sweetness.

I say, “You going to stop with that now, foolish.”

“Ain’t no fool, I knowing right.”

“You act like Keepers Two, sometimes.”

“I ain’t. I act like Keepers Twelve.”

“Keepers Noisy, all it is.”

“You hate Mouse. Say you hate him and say I ain’t going to die. Somebody old like you die.”

“Damn, quit that,” I say. “Or next time Asha Badmouth stay with you.”

Keepers make a fart noise with her lips and swear again. I turn and grab the evac notice. Start to read it loud, try to distract her into reading practice. But she only shut her eyes and yell the evac notice words. Remember almost all. Then we both go laughing, yelling. Rival to say this faster-louder. Every Sengle know a notice of evacuation well.

When we finish, Keepers quit her screaming and pronounce, “Then sleepers gone evacuating and they go to Europe.”

“Certain, gone to Europe.”

“But where this Europe be?” she say. “You never seeing Europe.”

“Shoo, is farther distance, cross the ocean.”

Keepers frown in littlish scorn. She put the plastic baby on the floor, she done with dying. Dying finish now. “You ain’t know. I bet nobody cross the ocean never. Ain’t no Europe.”

“Shoo, is Europe. Seen no maps?”

“They pictures. Ain’t no Europe real.”

“Bone, it ain’t no Europe. Sleepers all be hiding in the woods. They coming now, be angry how we robbing all their soup.”

“They sleepers wanting us to have their soup. They leave it here. Nor it be no Europe. You lying and you ignorant and I be Keepers Twelve.”

TRUTH, THIS EUROPE MOSTLY be a tale for pacifying littles. Most older children think the sleepers all be dead, but ain’t no proof. If sleepers gone to Europe or to hell, they leave the same bad silence.

What we knowing certain of them be a shorter list. We know their looks from pictures left on walls, from paper magazines. They had straight hair like fur. This grown in any different colors — yellow, orange, black and white. Skin was pinkish mostly, like a plastic baby or a roo. Some faces wrinkle up and baggy. Some lost most their hair. How Lowells say, this be from years — these sleepers living old as parrots.

Yo, be seldom pictures where the children looking normal brown, with person hair instead of fur. What we think, these been our greater parents in the Times Before. Ain’t sleepers but is children right.

We know the sleepers fled from sickness, a killing fever callen WAKS, some eighty years before. We know their goods, we guess some facts of their abandon life. But their evacuation be a rumor of a mystery.

Most we can learn be from the evac notices themself. These notices all the same, is only numbers and the street names different. They say exactly this:

NOTICE OF EVACUATION

This is a final notice. The Massachusetts Department of Public Health has ordered the evacuation of your street on MONDAY MARCH 15TH. A luxury air-conditioned bus is scheduled to stop at 1 SLEIGH ROAD at 3 P.M., MONDAY MARCH 15TH to transport residents to temporary shelter. Your temporary shelter is RAMADA INN, WESTFORD, MA. Residents should not drive cars to the temporary shelter. An allowance of two pieces of luggage per household will be strictly observed. Each piece of luggage must be no more than 70 pounds. Both pieces together must be no more than 120 pounds. Additional luggage cannot be accommodated on buses and will be left at the roadside.

Medical checks will be required before passengers are invited to board. Residents suffering from WAKS will not be allowed to board the buses. This is for passenger safety. WAKS sufferers and their families should report to the Department of Public Health at (617) 256-2412 for further information. Abuse of a medical inspector, verbal or physical, will be punished with no less than 30 days in prison and a fine of up to $5,000.

Emergency Coordinator for Middlesex County,

Victor Espinoza

We got no knowledge of this WAKS, the sickness that destroy them. Been eighty years of quietness. No memory reach that fact. Some children think that WAKS be posies, but nobody know. Dead sleepers left so long, they got no skin to see no posies on. That body tell you nothing but, “You frighten like a digger, child. You shivering and weak to look at me.”

And no one like to find a house with sleepers dead inside. Be a sleeper there, we burn the house with all its goods. Is glorieuse always when the house consume to fluffy ash and sticks, it make you happy in your eyes. The orange windows flaming out. Then it fall to its knees. Trees shivering around it, gladden with its crazy heat. And after, all be blackish fine. Inside a year, is growing flowers. Make you proud to be a Sengle, cleaner of the sicken world.

SO NOW WE WATCH THE FIRE BEGIN, me and Keepers Eight Fofana, standing at our upstair window. The burning house stand kitter-corner to ours, in easy view, and Driver and Jermaine and Asha Badmouth come out, done with kindling. They stand watching by a pile of water bags and soaken blankets, kept in case the fire escape. Truth, no fire will spread this day. Is soggy wet from morning rain. Still Driver make each hold a bag and blanket. So be drill.

House begin to look a little itchy, before the firelight come. As the flickering raise, it show clear in the bust-out windows. Is like it be a life we woke inside. Then the roof go staining black and fire squeeze through the stain. Fire make a hole and flames push through the roof like angry hair.

The flame and sky two different kinds of bright. Sun look tame and sleepy while this fire go left and right so huge. It make us big and bright with nerves, although we Sengles, kin to burning. Keepers settle staring to the fire, her mouth agape.

Then Driver look back and catch sight of us. He startle disapproving. Next, he stalking back toward our house, with angry face.

Keepers look to me. I say, “Yo, Driver going to give me talk.”

“Heed him, sure,” say Keepers. “Got to be obedient.”

“Like you be.”

“Ain’t be obedience, town go fall apart.”

“You wise as something. Ain’t know if it be dirt or wood.”

Keepers make a fart noise and she grin.

I say, “You wise as dirty feet.”

Then Driver there behind us in the open door. He nod me out, and I come peevish, sorry-tail. We go on down the hall, cause Driver guard his business from the littles. Everything a dignity for him.

Only been a year my brother Driver be the oldest. He sergeant in our wolfen time, when Sengles thieving rich. Girls all go in love for him. Hounds and ponies fear and trust him. Driver give four babies that I know, and three of them is living. And he got a liking strength, is like a big warm house that you can punch and kick on, and it never shake. It standing there despite you, knowing what it known before.

Now he easy kept, although he come to rule me down. I gone glooming at the carpet. Carpet mostly bone and clean. Is only a wedge of shadow by the window, made of mold. Mold show where it raining in. Everything smell green from that, and moody like my thought.

My brother say, “Must be responsible, Ice. Ain’t like to see you dabbit round with Keepers like a small.”

“These poory houses, ain’t find garbage here or nothing. Ain’t about responsible.”

Driver never heed a foolish saying. You speak a foolishness, he act like this be forest noise that ain’t concern him. So he say, as if I never spoken, “If you ain’t work, no little think to work. You be third oldest.”

“Ain’t third. Crow be third.”

He skew his eyes at me. “You counting Villa, babyish? Villa senseless as a moth.”

“I count in numbers, it be three before me. You and Crow and Villa. Make me fourth.”

Driver get his seriose eyes. I look away and spot the bathroom only then. Ain’t notice this before, nor Keepers notice. Can see two towels there, is hung and perfect. Mostly Sengles got some towels, but these towels hard to keep. Every winter some of them get mold and cannot clean. Be towels in that bathroom, maybe there be soap and Robitussin, anything.

I only rile worse then. Ain’t justice that Driver right.

He saying, “You gone heedless something. Hothead round the place. Be fifteen years and got no plan for babies.”

“I do what being true to me. I ain’t do nothing cause of something false.”

“You ain’t do nothing cause you lazy.”

“Ain’t getting babies with no Crow or no Jermaine.”

“Ice Cream!” my brother say, and his eyes fury. Then he halt and everything too still. I hear the fire like snoring sleep.

And Driver cough. Cough hard and look surprise. He put his fingers to his chest, then he lift away his fingers, checking at the fingertips like he expect to see blood there. As if blood going to leak out through his skin. Sure, nothing be.

But I see clear, that cough hurt. And Driver gulp and suffer not to cough again. He frown his nerves.

“Driver, you bone,” I say in sudden fright. “The smoke do that.”

“Sure.” But Driver cough again, and catch his chest the same.

“Ain’t got to breathe no smoke, goddamn.”

“Been no smoke. Nor ain’t your problems.”

“Sure, it ain’t my cough. Damn me for caring. Going to stop from caring.”

“Nothing be to care about, Ice Cream,” say Driver shortish. “Care about your lazy self.”

Then he turn and go downstairs and I be standing shaky.

Ain’t nothing happen, but I know. Driver gone eighteen and mostly children live to eighteen-nineteen. Then they get their posy sickness. He look at me with knowledge in his eyes, he let me spy his feary knowledge.

I want to go downstairs and fight him worse. My brother got no need to tell me who third oldest, second oldest. Driver staying oldest. I tell him in my mind, You cannot die. I die before you die. Crow be sergeant if you die. Crow be a poison well and maggot, what he do to Sengle town you fear. My brother, keep with me.

THEN KEEPERS MOUTHY YELL MY NAME. I got to go tend Keepers, who ain’t got no brother nor a sister. Who grown in loneliness feroce, without no brother’s loss to feel. Ain’t fear nothing worse than her own death.

In the room, my Keepers got a chair up to the window. She standing on this chair, and hold my oak bat in her hands. Aim upon a square of glass left in this window’s upward corner. “Going to bust that glass,” she say.

“Yo sho, you seen it first,” I say, and my throat haze with uncry tears. “Make war on it, go on.”

“You ain’t want to?”

“Sure I want to. Only said, you seen it first.”

Keepers twitch her freckle nose. She see how I ain’t care about no glass. And she throw the bat down on the floor. It make a bigger noise than I expect, a sounding blammer. Noise make me startle weak. My heart keep saying, Nay, my Driver cannot die, and then my mind remember it can be true. The loud noise seem like all the things on Earth that ain’t care if you frighten.

I say in careful voice, “Ya, better you ain’t break that. You get glass on you. That glass can hurt.”

“You got to stand with me,” say Keepers. “You keep going somewhere and then I ain’t know.”

So I get up on the chair and stand. Keepers lean back to my warm. Fire carry on, it going to go an hour now. The house’s upper part look darker as the roof fall into scraps.

Driver walk across the street to Asha Badmouth. He put his hand upon her baby belly and she push his hand away. This happen in the bottom of my vision, but I watch the fire. I get a watching trance upon me. Keepers gaping by.

All children glad to watch a fire. It help you feel the things you need to feel, like drinking whiskey do. So now I slip toward my grief and watch a finicky flame around a window. It move like restless water there, blue and gold and white. I feel my trouble, but I think of NewKing Mamadou, the boy I dream upon. Think how he kill me with his knife someday. And I feel crying like a painful coldness in my jaw. But I ain’t cry.

Then the burning house’s door flap open, staggering wild. Smoke come hazy out, and from the smoke, a person run.

I yell and Keepers yell. I terrify senseless for my Driver, every fear flash white in me. But Driver, Asha Badmouth and Jermaine stood screaming just like us. It ain’t our people in the fire.

Be a stranger boy. At first he looking like a shadow, black against the fire’s bright. Then he come out whole and running strong. He the only one ain’t scream.

Ain’t no fire on him when he come out, but Asha Badmouth frighten. Splash him wild. He startle, skid and fall. Then Driver tackle him. My brother never wonder if a person be a risk. He warry and particular, will stop that person first.

He wrestle with the frighten boy until he get a throat-lock on. For a breath, is quiet. Only fire still rush and snap. Then Driver shout, the boy gone kick again.

Keepers swear and say to me, “Ice Cream, it be a sleeper. Ain’t in Europe.”

“What?” I try to hear what Driver say. “What ain’t?”

“Sleepers ain’t in Europe.”

The boy twist, and I see him clear. I breathe cold into me. The head got yellow furrish hair. The boy got plastic baby skin, he be a yellow roo. Driver holding on a roo. Now panic grab my breath.

I run downstairs before I think. Somewhere Keepers shout at me, all high and frighten, till I shut the door upon her voice. Outside the day stripe hot and cold from fire.

2. OF ROOS BEFORE

I BE THE ONLY LIVING SENGLE EVER SEEN A ROO. THEY AIN’T TROUBLE Massa woods for years until this day. Only jones children, of thirteen and more, still known their fear.

It been a month before, by Tember when the summer still prolong. This night, I gone sleeping at the library, alone except my mare and hound. I like to be alone from Sengles, and I like to take my pony and my hound indoors. Be sweet in separateness to feel their faith. Driver give me talk about this habit — he say I be unmanageable since I got a horse. This saying true, but he ain’t recognize that I be better so.

The library a prettieuse and cleanish edifice. Been a place for books in sleeper times, but now the books is gone. We scratch them all to sell to Lowell in my mama’s time. Got one upstairy room at that library, it be round. This round room be my favorite joy.

My Money stubborn for no stairs. She want to stop, she clamp her hoof. But if you switch her, she will trot up fast and sudden like a going-upstairs horse that only bred for this. Room stink remarkable from her, but with the windows open, still can breathe without unhappiness. Yo, my hound ABC eat most her shee, in cleaning help.

Below the library window be a road, is mostly gone to bush. Become a shaggy meadow with bald patches where the street remain. Across this meadow road be Friendly’s, which say FRIENDLY’S on one sign, and FRIENDLY’S ICE CREAM on the other. This been a store for trading food. But I ain’t like to be called Friendly’s anything. I know it ain’t myself the sleepers meant, but it just feel disgusting. Then I remember ice cream been a food I never taste. I wonder what my mama dream to name me for this food, as if she name me Something Lost.

This Tember morning that I seen the roos, I woken early. Smoke my waking cigarette by the library window, looking out, and piney breeze come in to touch my face and brighten on my eyes. A sycamore grow close. Between its fingery leaves, can spy the Friendly store in bits. ABC stand by to whine. She think my cigarette be food. Ain’t never learn, she watch it going to my mouth.

Yo, into the meadow road below, a doe-deer walk. She snuff the bushes, in a worrying way like deer will do. I watch her, wish I got my bow. Ain’t guess I make my mark from here, but always be some lucky hope.

Then come a cracking loudness. It come again, it be like ripping, or woodpecker pecking hard, but twenty times as big. In the field, that doe rise up and buck lopside. Then she curling over and I see the beast shot through and through. Got blood more than hide.

And a boy jog into that bushy waste.

Then fear walk over me. I feel black water in my head from fear. He be a roo. Got brown furry hair upon his face and throat. He wear a roo suit — gray-green dapple thing, ain’t satisfy to be one ugly color, it be ugly twice. Creature mostly twice my size. And his skin whitish like a no-luck sky.

Then some dozen roos with furren face and ugly suit come out and gather in that road.

My heart flee, scrabbling in my chest. ABC take breath to bark and I catch at her muzzle quick. Tug her nose down, press my finger to her brow. Her boogly eyes stare at me. I shake my head, but she still strain her mouth. So I keep her snout fast while I spy the roos go swarming, through that sycamore I watch.

Roos got cattish hair that never curl. All be males — or else their girls be square and bearden like a male. Children say they grow to seven foot, is bigger than no person. Yo, all roos wear the same. Ain’t even deer got the exact fur that each other got. Roos all got one clothing, same as Beef-a-roni do.

They run in packs and hunt our people. In my foaly years, it been three children took from Massa woods. Ya, once a Lowell child found dead with gunshots. That been roo work. They slavers, maybe — or they eating children, how the Christings say. Nobody know. So roos coming for some mally years. Nobody know from where, they come from air and going into nowhere. All we know of roos, they take our children and the children ain’t come back.

I stand and watch the roos. Be extra dozens now, they swarming to the bleeding deer. Then they go past in twos and threes. Is like a creek that gather round a boulder, then it slipping on.

Each one got a gun that is a rifle, long and black. One roo taken off his jacket, wear his rifle at his skin. Ain’t got fur below his neck, despite what children say. Ya, they roos be talking, though I cannot hear particular words. All wear packs behind. A few be smoking like a person. And it inkle in my mind, the roos be roaming scratchers also. And I see that they be bell and vally in their shaggy sort.

Then I spy the blackish children come, the stolen. I count seventeen. Ain’t bound, they walking free, but got no rifles. Be naked helpless with these jumbo roos. Then I fury with my pity in the hot palms of my hands.

Children ain’t be Sengles, or I going to war for them, against a hundred roos or more. But these stolen children all be strangers to my eyes. Nor they look scary none, they got no blood nor blemish on their face. They walking leggy, strong. One be drinking Pabst, or can be water in a Pabst can. A roo talk one blackish child, and that child laugh. Yo, the child be mostly tall as roos, is only skinnier made. Calm my mally nerves to see, the roos ain’t seven foot for nothing. Is tallish, but still person size.

In this, the roos gone took the deer apart, and wrap the meat and insides. Flowing roos just like an ugly dapple river, wash that unluck deer away. And they pass along and vanish. Is only scattern guts and hoofs remaining from that deer, and red confusions in the flatten grass.

THEY ROOS AIN’T SEEN AGAIN. A week behind, we keeping close to town, then we forget them mostly. Is only times I hear a stranger noise and hold with breathless nerves. Will only be a blackbird landing clumsy — but I magine hundred roos behind the hiding trees. Then our familiar woods look like a dream. Look like the safety you remember, sweet particular, as you fall into grandy death.

3. OF TOBER 2, PROLONGING

NOW I BE RUNNING TO THIS ROO, THE DAY OF DRIVER’S COUGH. Evac door slam loud behind, and I run out where Driver strifing on the yellow boy. I catch and hold one stride away, beside Jermaine and Asha who be balking. No one want to be in Driver’s trouble. My brother proud, ain’t thank your help.

This roo so grandy, look like Driver wrestle with a pony. But Driver got an arm about his neck and strangle well. Roo reaching with his mouth to breathe and cannot. He seem to grow and grow, straining, then he slacken weak. Driver saying, “Kick at me, I cut your goddamn throat. Lie quiet!”

Then Driver let up and the roo gust air, but he look beat and tame. He muttern words that ain’t words. All his voice ill-shapen, rough. When he raise his arm, my Driver choke his voice again. Roo hush and gasp his breath.

Lying so, the boy be eerie. Got a face ill-shapen as his voice, flat like an owl’s. Feary bluish eyes, and the color in his skin only starting to be born. Be like worm skin. But he thinking in his eyes. His arms and legs be like a person’s. Nor he wearing rooish clothes. Is jeans and shirt like any.

In this quiet pause, Jermaine say nerviose to me, “Ice Cream, you bone? Ain’t find no strangers?”

I look where Keepers smoking in the window. I yell up, “Be any living sleepers there with you?”

Then I got to laugh cause Keepers vanish from the window, can hear her feet come pounding down the stairs. I tell Jermaine, “You watch, Keepers sure ain’t frighten. You go ask.” My voice be high and scary and my laughter also.

“Going to frighten,” say Jermaine, surprise. Then he catch my meaning, and he laugh. “Ya, Keepers proud as hatred, sure.”

Keepers scramble out and yell, “You got to kill it, Driver! It a roo!”

Jermaine and me laugh wild. Jermaine tell Keeps, “You violent, small! You fearing me!”

Then Driver say, his voice all booming nervy from the fight, “Ice Cream? This a roo?”

When Driver look at me, the roo look also. He cannot turn his feary yellow head, but his eyes turn. You know then all they children look at me.

“Ice Cream,” Driver say again, “a roo?”

How it is, I got no cause nor sense to help that boy. But his eyes be living. Eyes mean something at me, and I feel that Driver kill a roo. It be the only person he can kill.

“Ain’t so like,” I say. “Can be some other thing. Some alien thing.”

I fix the roo’s weird eyes with mine, expecting he be thankful. But they eyes watch back unknowing. Comprehend no word.

Driver tell the roo, “Be easy, child.” He loosen up his arm.

The roo jolt free and run. Run like a frighten person run from enemies. We all roar surprise. Roo sprint and cross the road in one thin second, running like an arrow. Keepers calling, “Kill it! Chase it!” Then Driver pull his gun and fire. A string of grass and wet fly up.

Jermaine and Asha Badmouth swear. And in the broken road the roo crouch, balling down, and turn to face us. A gun look from his hands. The gun look back at Driver’s face.

I go screaming “Nay!” and swearing. Then I run to catch that roo, I run all dreamy-legged and tired. Hold my empty hands up, and they feeling naked, frighten. Like if he shoot them, it hurt more than anything.

I keep between my brother and the gun the best I can. I be too feary to think of anyone but Driver. I ain’t think at all.

The roo look at me first. I get his gun on me, and something happen in his dazy eyes. I think, You see me. Kill me if you hungry for a death.

The roo shout, jerk the gun. I slow to walking and I walk to him and he be flinching bad. He die to stop me. Ya, he closer, bigger, as I walk. He stand up to his feet, and he be grandy like a bear. The gun will take my hands in pieces. The gun will take my head apart.

I close the gun nose in my hand and all my children scream and call. I pull the gun nose down. Aim to my heart, my gut. The earth. My fingers gentle and I say, “Let go, let go. Ain’t going to kill me, fool.”

The feary roo be staring at my face. I notice I be crying. Crying for us all who got to die. And when the fire so huge, the sky so huge, and we be minnow small and loving. So I feel. The metal simple in my hand.

The roo let go the gun. Jermaine run up, and Driver run up, and they grab the roo away. We shouting back and forth, I ain’t know what we shout. Next, my noisy Keepers punching at my legs and skree, “You moron! You ain’t get you kilt! You goddamn moron shee!” I laugh, eyes nervy on the roo, as Driver and Jermaine begin to tie him. He ain’t resist, is soft bekept — like the pistol been his final strength I taken from his hands. Ya, his queery eyes keep to myself.

They bind him, then they lash him to the sledge. Keepers lose her fear and climb upon him, ride home on his chest. I be on Money, Driver sat behind. He hold me to himself protecting, his big arm about my waist, and I ain’t push him loose. I ain’t desire to. Big Smoke in front is prancy from the nerves of everyone.

This be how I take my pistol, first of any guns I own. This be how my Pasha Roo come into Sengle town.

4. OF CROW MY ANIMOSE

RIDING HOME, WE TRACE ROAD 27 THROUGH THE OLDER WOODS. This be an hour at a walk, and ain’t no trotting on they broken roads. Be only holes and humps. Horse walk akimbo like a drunk.

Is dusking, and the birch trunks glamour white like paths of moon. A birch leaf yellowing here and there, for autumn now begin to start. Maple crowns patch red and orange, and Road 27 sprinklen somewhere with these color leaves. Be houses on this stretch, but all got ruin roofs, insides gone rotten. Telephone poles still leaning in their rows, but all the wire been scavenge. Heren there a blackness show where we been burn a sleeper house. Some already gone to aspen, some be starting meadow flowers.

Where we turn off 27, stand a sleeper sign, bright orange metal with black letters: BLIND CAUTION CHILD. Behind it be Blind Caution Pond. This night, the frogs all creaking loud. Where there be frogs, is twenty times mosquitoes, and the night gone chill. We dabbit here to put on jackets.

My jacket’s sort be Patagonia. This word stitch upon its chest. Be light, but unroll to a greedy size. Can wear two shirts beneath. Now I got my pistol in my jeans, nose chilling underneath the belt against my skin. When I tighten Patagonia’s string, gun poke my belly. Then I feel the gunfire that there was, and how this gun been pointing at my face.

When I turn to look, the roo lie still as sleep. He bound upon the sledge from foot to neck, with rope and orange cord. Only be his fingers loose. But his ghost eyes look and blink. He be cold color like a gun. A feary birchen child.

Keepers been riding queenish on him. When we start, she perching backward on his chest, watch to his face. She guard our safety so. But Keepers quick to bore. Soon she climbing up and down; stand on his thighs precarious. Roo, he got no choice but to endure. So Keepers warm to him in sympathy.

Now she get a blanket, tuck it round the roo against mosquitoes. But this blanket wet for killing flames. The roo begin to shiver.

“Roo suffer,” Keepers notice.

Asha Badmouth saying to Driver, “Been some blind child drowning in the pond. Become a caution to the others, ya. Blind caution child.”

“This sign ain’t make no sense,” say Driver. “Mean nothing, be like writing on a shirt.”

Jermaine go whistle in disgust. “Foo, you said that last time. Told you then why it be wrong.”

Driver cough, but keep on talking. “Sure I say it twice, and it be true both times.”

“Be foolish every hundred times,” say Asha.

Keepers shout, “My roo be suffering!”

Everybody look. The roo lie in his ropes and shiver. Ain’t look so grandy, lain like that. But his face got a spookery. Bluish eyes look like they knowing thoughts a child ain’t made to hold. I get a shivering fear myself. Driver tense behind me.

“Ain’t necessary he a roo,” I say. “Can be a sleeper or nobody know what.”

Keepers frown her dignity at me. “This one alive, ain’t sleeping. And cannot call it sleeper. This give children fear.”

“Children name of Keepers,” say Jermaine.

I say polite, “He need a jacket, ya.”

“Yo sho,” say Keepers, and polite me back, “this be a kindness for myself and for my roo.”

I laugh. “Be Keepers’ roo, nobody touch this roo without permissions.”

I unzip Patagonia. All my skin dislike this notion, but I throw it to delighting Keepers. She pull the sogging blanket off the roo, and all his body ease. Is like the shiver strip from him. Then the jacket make his face go kind.

This be the moment that he speak, his birchen eyes on me. The word so simple everyone must hear. He say it clear. “Spaseep.”

We all frighten then, as if this talking been a weapon. Driver close his arms about me hard. I breathe against his strength.

Only Keepers ain’t concern. She shake her moppy head. “Nay, you must say, ‘Be thanks,’ my roo. Or must say, ‘Be gratty.’”

“You ain’t know what his blablabla mean, small,” say Asha Badmouth. “He saying, ‘I go kill you, I go eat your head with sauce.’”

“My roo be thanking,” Keepers say, contain and lofty. “In his words, this be spaseep.”

Driver laugh. Then everybody laugh, and Keepers shout, “I got a keeping roo! My roo can speak! My roo go eat up Mouse’s head with sauce!” We all giggling breathless. Horses shift and snort confusing. Asha Badmouth laughing in her warry melody; the girl can sing her voice into a valley of space. Ya, is always breathlessness in dusking woods somehow. Is everything insane and starry fine.

As the laughter ease, my Driver got me in a pinching grip. I buck my head against his chin. He laugh and loose me, swat my head. I want to laugh again, but all my laughter gone somehow. Be only conscience, how our laughter small in all this night. Gun chilling at my skin.

Then Driver take his jacket off for me. We wrestle some, but I allow the gift. Will not insult his care. When Money pick up walking, I got his Carhartt on, can feel his warm still in the cloth.

Our path go by and time walk with us. Soon the light become all moon. Yo, this been an hour to ride, and Driver only cough but once. I hold this in my mind. Mind make a fist on it. Some time, I think on my ghost brother, Mo-Jacques Five. When our mother Shasta die, I had him to my keeping — scrambly piglet with a mouth like Keepers. He been the brother of my arms. A small child die of posies quick, ain’t ugliness nor hardly pain. Yet now tears swim down my face. Feel like they fill with moonlight, feel like they be sadness color.

Where the aspens done, is open night. The farming fields of Christing Tophet show in squares of different dark. Their home and barn got sleepy looks. Windows wave a reddish light that mean a fire lit, and wisty smoke come from their chimney. Sky be full with coldness, and this smoke go warm into its heart. Ya, John of Christ, their husband, be standing on the porch to greet whoever come, as Christing husbands do at dawn and sunset. These times be callen guesting bells. But we ain’t turn down their road.

Then Sengle town begin to smell between the trees. It be a sweetish stank, as comfortable as my own farting, or as Money’s farting. Smell puey in a friendly way, my town.

Sengles be unmannerly with trash, ain’t civilize on this. Got cans and apple cores and papers, mix with leaf and piney needles, everycolor on the ground. Though we dig privy pits at distance, be some littles fear to use them. Stray off paths near town, you put your foot in something you regret.

As we come into this townie smell, I loose the reins. Money pick her feet up, trotting glad. The path go sleek and clear, and soon can smell a campfire through the pue. Because it be no noise, can know the littles gone to nighting camp. Ain’t nothing waiting but the stank and dark and Crow Sixteen.

Crow be stood with my hound ABC beside the fire. Fire is banken low. Its minnow flames go crack and smoke. Crow eating Nillas from a box. My ABC be munching one herself and got some lain between her paws. They two look sleepish in the shallow light.

Crow an uggety child, all froggen mouth with scarce no chin. Yo, his eyes be prettieuse, black-sweet and lashy. Face look like his heart, sly and wrong-made. But my ABC love Crow, and he keep kind to her. When she been a puppy, Crow and I been animoses. Friends be close as grass and clover; animoses close as grass and green. So been our truth. We eaten every breakfast from one bowl. We set our snares together. Both was warry children: my bones rung with Crow’s beating and his skin been always sore from me. We slept in one hammock, tangle-fashion, loose as cats.

Then he gone doing sex with Mari’s Ghost. Mari get an enfant from this, when she been only twelve and Crow fourteen. Then Crow ain’t speak to me no more. I set my snares alone.

Ain’t no bitter like an animose is lost. What Driver say, it ain’t no love like hate. Be days, I crave to look at Crow to hate his boogly face. I never want to murder Crow, for once he die, my hatred left alone like me.

Now Crow be fire-blind a minute, while my ABC come run to me, then wheel back to her Nillas — Crow standing, squinting at the roo. We all dismount but Asha Badmouth. Be a fine relief to come down to the sparking warm.

Keepers curlen on the sledge still. Got a cigarette lit. She smoke and give it to the roo to suck. Roo smoking glad. His winter-color eyes look round at everything: the fire, Crow, trash.

Now Crow swear quiet. He say, “First I thought you fetch some Army back, but this.” His uggety head be tense. Then a strain come over all.

Keepers say, “It be a roo or sleeper. Found it in a sleeper house.”

“Sleepers dead. Yo, why you bring it here?” Crow grin, except the grin be angry.

“Can be living sleepers,” I say sharp. “Be science that they know.”

“You bring this here,” say Crow, and half his face be grinning teeth. “Ain’t want no roos nor sleepers. Going to eat it?”

Keepers suck her cigarette, and speak a blast of smoke: “My roo go eat your head with sauce. Crow head with crow sauce.”

Then Driver step toward the fire, and everybody ease. Yo, soon as Driver speak, it be like no one spoke before. We heed. He talk to Crow in quiet friendship, tell about the fire and roo. Crow nodding like a thoughtful horse; he love my brother yet, despite his ruin heart. Only when Driver telling how I take the gun, Crow look at me and his black prettieuse eyes go wide.

Then Driver talking on, but Crow ain’t listen. And when my Driver finish, Crow say vicious, “Expect the girls will save a handsome male. Yo, Ice Cream got eyes for this.”

Inside my stomach and my head, my hatred scratch. Crow look at me, Crow look away. My animose, he know my evil, but forgot my good. My skin be hot and thin with being known.

Keepers say, “This roo be mine. Ice Cream be here nor there.”

Then Driver laugh the most of all. Jermaine and Asha Badmouth hoot and call to me, while Keepers looking strict. She keep one hand upon the roo his shoulder. Shake her head while every person laughing through her pride. Roo look far-off with frosten eyes and grief on his pale mouth.

When people quiet, Crow look to my belt. “I like to see the gun.”

I give the gun like Sengle give to Sengle. Give for asking. Driver there, it never worry me what happen next. Crow take my pistol. Lay her blackish nose across his palm.

Crow’s evils be: vain, blame others, liar, make plans, ain’t worry if somebody hurt. Give Mari’s Ghost a baby when she only twelve, she hurt each morning of her life from this. Crow never care for Mari’s Ghost, he ruin her without no heart. Crow’s good I ain’t recall, his good be doubt and mist. One day Crow brought a trout and say, “Fish got a diamond in his gut.” I ain’t believe him, so he throw the trout back in Blind Caution Pond. We watch for it to float up, but it never come. His good be like that diamond lost.

Now my mood fall in with Crow’s. The jolie gun lie to his palm, warm from my belly. His fingers curl to grip it and his other hand slide out the magazine. That sliding click, delicieuse exact. He free a bullet, hold it to the firelight. Crow and I smile. (Crow a locken door in winter, Crow a poison well. Crow lost. I call him in my mind: Crow Ruin.) Behind me, Driver cough.

I say whispern, “Be one prettieuse gun. Ain’t try yet if she shoot. What you believing, Crow?”

Then be silence. ABC look to my face and wag, but Crow ain’t look at me. He narrow on that bullet. Then his fingers shut on it and his eyes go to Driver.

“You be oldest,” Crow say.

Driver say, “Is truth. And so?”

“Oldest choose his weapon.”

“I be oldest, got a gun already.” Driver give his nod to me.

“Second oldest be myself,” Crow say. “My gun ain’t working.”

“Villa second oldest,” I say. “She deserve this gun. She shoot your legs and drag you to her hammock, greedy.”

Jermaine and Asha Badmouth laugh hard. Villa live for males and nothing else. She cannot hunt her foot if someone tie it down. Cannot hunt a roasten fish.

Crow say, “Driver favoring his sister, all it is. Gun should be mine.”

Jermaine say, “Damn, you wasn’t there.”

“Villa need that pistol, Crow,” say Asha Badmouth, laughing yet. “She hunt your meat, be sure.”

“I give the gun to Ice Cream,” Driver say. “Can finish with this talk.”

Then the fire dip and darken. The forest seem to grow and lean toward us, angry dark. ABC make noise inside her throat.

Crow slip the bullet back into the magazine. He fit the magazine into the gun. All looking at the gun, and Crow say, “Driver choose to bring a roo back to the town. Choose to give a gun to little sister.” He say this with sucking anger. ABC shy from his voice. Crow shy himself and look at ABC with nerves.

Then he turn sharp, and aim the pistol toward the roo. Keepers squeak and duck. Then pride hold her still. Feary Keepers strain her body away, but make herself stay on the sledge.

The roo go shut his eyes. If he frighten, it ain’t show. Likely, he been frighten all this time.

Driver say, “You shoot a stranger who be bound and cannot move. What you being then? You be how vally then?”

Crow’s hand ease from its aim. Driver standing quiet, though I see him swallow. He say, “Crow, give that gun to Ice Cream. Ice Cream, Jermaine, you tie the horses. Can leave the roo tonight. I be at nighting camp.”

His voice be angerless and tired. Then he leave, my brother pass to darkness in the farther trees. Nobody else hear, but I hear him cough a minute down the path. I hear him coughing hard.

Crow reach the gun to me. I take it careless. When our fingers touch, I look at Crow’s face. Someday I look at Driver’s face, when Driver been already dead. Everybody lost.

And Crow turn away and follow Driver down the nighting path. I slip the pistol in my belt.

“Ain’t go to nighting camp without my roo,” Keepers say with pleasure.

Asha Badmouth say, “Myself, ain’t go without Big Smoke. Ain’t walking on my feet.”

“This be different cases,” Keepers say. “I love my roo.”

Asha scoff her breath. “He loving you, I guess?”

I say, “Cannot take no roo to nighting camp. He go escape and eat us all.”

“With crow sauce,” say Asha Badmouth.

“I fetch us hammocks,” say Jermaine. “We sleep here and keep the fire.”

Then Keepers joying in her eyes. She say in happy voice, “Spaseep, Jermaine. Mean ‘gratty’ in their rooish.”

OUR NIGHTING CAMP be kept a minute’s hike from town, clear from its trash unpleasantry. Summer grown thin then, so we strung hammocks in the reddish maples back of Christing Tophet. Hammock high enough, mosquito never think to go. Brook nearby, and everything the pure reverse of town. Is wild and tall with star bellesse.

But this night, is comfort sleeping in our townie stank. All person smells be warm somehow, surround you with their unwant life. Yo, is Money by in friendship, and my ABC. Even the roo seem kinder in my fear, now Crow dislike him.

Jermaine bring back four hammocks, but we only using three. Keepers nest up on the roo, where he be on the sledge. Yo, she start to speak roo language. Any word he speak, she parrot. Then me-Jermaine go parrot after, we all rooing to the stars. Spaseep. Ott vyazee mnya. Bolna, syo takee. But soon the roo gone silent, he look starward with his birchen eyes. Keepers curl against his ribs. His grandy hand be held in Keepers’ hands and they be snug as twins.

5. MY PARLEY TO THE CHRISTINGS

NO CHILD EVER KNOW A TIME BE HAPPINESS UNTIL IT GONE. TIME Pasha come, when we still raiding in the Massa woods, I swore to worry. Yet this been before the Nat Mass Armies took no Massa child. Driver bell and vally still, he rule and never weaken. We live wolfen through our wars.

This morning when my trouble wake, Driver send me out to beg a housing for the roo. His judgment be, this perilous beast ain’t safe to keep with Sengles. Must go where there be walls to keep him. Ya, the Christings own a cellar built for prisoning. Kept Armies there, in murder wars that been. So this morning I leave my Jermaine to watch the roo. Ride to see the digger folk at Christing Tophet house.

BEFORE THE MURDER WARS, it been ten Christing homes in Massa woods. These people mostly fleeing north, whoever can survive. Now only Tophet stay. Ya, in time before and time remaining, Christings live the same. House got one husband ruling it, with any-number wives and every enfant that they breed. And all believe a god who live in two sticks. Each Christing wear around their neck a string with two sticks crossing — and truth, is healthy people. Can think, this god do something, they live fatter than no Sengle child.

They growing corn and tato and got apple trees and milking cows. They can make cheese, and Sengles bring them venison to smoke for winter. We catch them parrots also — Christings partial well to these. Parrots through the Massa woods caw “Repent ye of your sins” and “Jesus save.” Yo, Christings gave me Angry Bitch Cub, my Vermonter Stalking Hound, when she was a puppy and I been a puppy child of nine. Anyone give me ABC, that person treasure in my mind. I going to go and love the Christings then, and never stop.

I ride out by whisker morning. Worries be my company; about the roos, about my brother’s cough. But most, I fix my mind upon my ask. Can know without no questions, Christings want no housen roo. So is problems, how I trick them to this unwant gift. It be a sort of mischief I accomplish any times, and soon my Sengle heart be brightening, grin its wolfen lies.

Then Tophet’s edifice and barn show whitish in their pastures. Red cows look up with one feeble mind. I canter Money at the lower fence. She jump it easy as a cat, and all they cows come bumble to her. She put head up pickety. Act like cows be itchy, and go trot sideways away. Then John of Christ call from the step, where he got cider on the table in a glassen brock.

John of Christ a kindly man, and slow with pleasant life. Child keep thirteen Christwives dutied to his single love. These wives the same that chosen John, is how all Christings choosing husbands. Wives pray three days to Jesus for advice, then vote a male. Ain’t know what Jesus say, but every husband of Christ be cake for eyes — is catly-faced and tallish bell. But Jesus never care for brains. A Christwife told me once, John telligent enough to hear advice, and they ain’t need no more. I never met the person who cannot like John.

I dismount and tie my Money up, go climb their cleanish steps. Always I get shame for Sengle pigliness when I come here. Be no showing litter. House smell only of new food. All be painten white as white, and this the story’s end.

John say, “Greeting in His word.”

“His word enduring,” I polite him. Then I nod at that glass brock. “Somebody told you I be bound here? Sure you ain’t pour cider mornings for your only self.”

“You my second visit.” John get face like bad reminders.

A moment, I get curiosities, what this visitor been. Must be awful persons, if it giving John unhappiness. But I fix back to my need. “I come with parley to you, brother. Thinking, is business you can like.”

“Be gratty heard,” John say, distracting still. “Christ’s welcome to our home.” He pour my cider tall and lead me to their sofa room.

SOFA ROOM BE WHERE the Christing enfants spend their day. So it be enfants round your neck and grubbing on your leg, their fingers worming in your pockets. At Tophet, I known all these littles since they was a fatly belly.

This day Boy Japhet tend them. He be a seriose twelve with Tophet’s copper skin and cow respect. Now he running desperate among the scarum enfants. Unpick their fights, tell disapprovals, answer screamen questions. When I come in, he line them up and make them say “Peace on you, sister.” Then they fall to strife again, and Japhet chase behind.

John call to the kitchen wives, require a guesting meal. Sit me to a fatty sofa, and he start in slow politeness, asking on my hunts. But all my conscience heeding to the kitchen, guess which wife will come. Can hope it be their kindly Hannah, or Jane Moron, slow to argue. Worst be Beanie, who dislike all Sengles and all asks.

Yo, when Susannah step into the room, I discourage well. This girl be the crown of wives. Got plum lips and thinking eyes, is never stepping wrong. She born the May that I been born myself, we be moon kin. Both love salty more than sweet. We both is handy quick. Been occasion, in our twelvish years, we riding cows together. Do races, and we talk into the dusking hours, like friends.

But she the smarter brains of Tophet. Try no trickeries, she name them to your face with easy laugh.

She bring a plate of apple fritters. Sit by me, and littles gather round her knees for food. Then all must thank the two-stick god before we eat. The thanking go, “God be great and God be good, and we thank Him for our food.” I know this saying well, and say it firm. Ain’t loss in good respect.

Then I say, “These apples vally fine. Sure, your god bless all they trees with luck.”

Susannah leave this flattery heedless. Nod straight to my belt and say, “You wearing pistols now, Ice Cream?”

“Ho, is right,” John say. “This pistol new. Ain’t notice this correct.”

“Ya,” I say with hasty thought. “So be my business to yourself. Is where I jack my gun, be vally tales.”

“Ain’t bought from Lowell?” John say frowning.

“Nay, my John,” I say. “We catch a roo. This gun been his.”

Susannah fold her hands and mention Jesus.

“Shoo!” Japhet spit into his palm. “Ain’t no roos, it be a story.”

“Ain’t existing,” John agree.

“Nay, truth,” I say. “We catch a boy, look like a roo or yellow sleeper. Skin as white as teeth.”

“Christings got some light-skin people, sure.” Susannah doubt her mouth. “Aaron of Christ been so. Was callen Aaron Sleeper, also.”

I shake my head. “This be two differences. Roo’s hair got no curling in it. Be like wolfen fur.”

“Ain’t be a wolf?” say Japhet.

John laugh, frighten. “Sengles catch a wolf and think they find a roo.”

“May be a sleeper,” I say. “Run out from a sleeper house we burn.”

“Foo,” say Japhet. “The littles hear. You spook their dreams.”

“What we hear?” say Baby Leah, curiose. Some other littles perk and ask what they did hear.

“Hush, hush, be a rabbit in the bush,” Susannah say.

“Yo sho,” I tell the littles, for I now feel mischief. “Been a boy who fall asleep, and sleep a hundred years. Then come a fire that wake him. He run outdoors, and poom! Your vally Ice Cream thieve his pistol.”

Susannah laugh. “Is bone, you found new friends to rob. It save our eggs. But how this be no business?” Now Baby Peter crawl up on her knee. She take him to herself and jog him there. Her eyes keep sharp on me.

I make a scouty frown. “How Driver say, we must consult. A roo be every person’s risk.”

“Can kill it?” John say nerviose. “Is beasts or thinking people?”

“Foo, is people,” I say quick. “Can talk. Been murder, if we kill him.”

“He talk?” say Japhet. “What he said?”

I nay my hand. “Be different words. Like fisher Panish, or… ain’t English.”

“How he kept?” John say unhappy.

Now my trickery scent its game. “Kept? Ain’t know. I guess he been in ropes, when I depart.”

“You guess?” John say. “How, you ain’t know?”

I wave my hand dismissing. “Villa there to watch. Ain’t worry this.”

“Villa?” Susannah laugh in disbelief. “You try to breed this roo?”

“Truth, Villa ain’t responsible,” say John with worry face.

“Most our children hunt these days,” I say. “But if you fearing, you can take him. Got your cellar there.”

John flinch. “Our cellar?”

“Ya, he safer here,” say Japhet exciting. “I can watch him.”

“Nay, shoo,” say John. “A roo ain’t Christly beasts, to live with people.”

“We only thought you worry,” I say unconcern. “Your cellar safest. Driver thought you maybe want him there. But if you ain’t…”

Susannah give me narrow glance. “If we ain’t, he watch by Villa?” She swipe her finger through the fritter plate and offer it to Peter to lick.

“Today he do,” I say. “But what we thought, if you ain’t want him, we go sell him to the Lowells.”

John blink to this. “You sell him? How, this roo be something worth?”

“Yo sho.” I make impressing face. “The Lowells curiose for roos. They sure to want him awful.”

“And what the Lowells pay?” say Japhet.

I shrug. “What Driver thought, they pay a horse.”

“A horse?” say John. “Is worth all this?”

“Be sure.” I make surprising eyes. “A roo be scarcer animals. But how you friends, we give good price.”

“Can pay you something.” Japhet turn to John. “What we can pay?”

To this, Susannah break in laugh. Say through her giggling breath, “You heed, Ice Cream? We take him, and we pay.”

Japhet frown. “Nay, how this being jokes? Can sell him after.”

Susannah nay her finger, grinning. “If Lowells going to buy him, Ice Cream been at Lowell mill this hour.”

John sit back frowning. “Nay, she said…”

“Be Sengle sayings.” Susannah nod to me. “Ice Cream want to rid him, so she try to fool our simple brains.”

Japhet think a moment, then turn indignant face to me. “No sho?”

“Foo,” I say discourage. “Sure, I try to fox you something. But truth, we got no walls to keep him. Ya, our children… how they is.”

“Ho, Sengles got some badness?” Susannah laugh. “Be new discoveries.”

I shrug. “Ain’t careful people. And truth, your cellar bone for this. Kept prisoners there, when it been wars.”

“And now we keeping apples there.” Susannah shake her head, put Baby Peter from her knee. “The apples you be eating, sister thief.”

“Be right.” John ease his face. “No person wanting roos. Ain’t natural beasts.”

“But he safer here,” say Japhet.

Susannah scoff her breath. “Roo living underfloors? And all our littles roundabout? No sho, we—” Then she catch her voice. Fold hands and turn to John respecting. “But it be your judgment, husband. Must ask Jesus word.”

To this, John get important looks. He mention something from their Bible book and close his eyes in thought.

This shut-eye posture mean a Christing pray advice from their stick god. But truth, their Jesus only tell them answers they already like. So I wait with plain frustration. Ask be lost, and Driver sure to blame myself somehow.

But as John bow his head, the kitchen door bang open loud. John look up in startle, ya, Susannah-Japhet stiffen harsh. Only the littles keep their jumble noise, chase without care.

CHILD IN THE KITCHEN DOORWAY be their posy wife, Jemimah. This girl gone in sickness. All herself be thin like winter branch. Face swollen out of shape, and cover thick with crusting sores. Only one eye be showing — ya, it got no white, no seeing color. Is only bulging red. Her breath come scraping, short, and she peer round her awful face, like seeking in blindness for her air.

By Sengles, when a child be took with posies, they be callen dead. No person talk to them. Ain’t speak their name. Is bad taboo. So when Susannah speak to Jemimah — like to any person — I get superstition chills.

“My sister, rest yourself,” Susannah say. “We care for this.”

Jemimah say in wheezing voice, “He gone?”

“He gone, be sure,” Susannah say. “Was only trading here.”

“Ain’t talk like I be brainless,” say Jemimah. “Know why he been here.”

John say, “Was buying cheese, for truth.”

“Cheese! He seen our Hannah?”

“No sho, he ain’t,” Susannah say. “You rest.”

“Rest? Ain’t going to—” Then Jemimah choke. Cough and wheeze her air, a sound like strangling. And something happen in my heart. Driver’s cough remind, all terrors of this passen night. I cringe and stare unbreathing to her face, her struggling chest.

Then, like she feel my dread, Jemimah push back. Slam the door behind. Can hear her wheeze, her dragging foot, as she go slow away.

Susannah put one hand soft on my shoulder. “Be sorry, Ice Cream. Jemimah never known you here. She blind these days.”

“Foo, ain’t no matter,” I say shaken. “Be your house.”

“Nay, you guests,” say John unhappy. “Wish you bone respect.”

“Be no disrespect,” I say. “But who she fearing for?”

To this, all change their looks. Get faces of disliking memory. And John say heavy, “Who been here before, was NewKing Mamadou.”

“Ya,” Susannah say in quiet voice. “Their Army queen be dead.”

Take me a breath to comprehend. Then hurt change uncanny in my blood. “You going to lose a wife, can see. Be sorry.”

“Be right.” John sigh. “He come to see.”

“Choosing.” Japhet scowl disgusting.

Susannah frown to Japhet, like she warn him from some misbehavior. “Be what it is. Ain’t tell them nay.”

“He ain’t take you,” say Japhet. “I nay him, if he wanting you.”

“Ain’t ours to choose.” John shake his head.

“Can give him Mary,” Japhet say. “Or Beanie, no one want her. John, you told him he ain’t take Susannah?”

Susannah stand up now. Her face be tired like regrets. “Child, we cannot tell him how he do. It be the Long Agreement. But sure, ain’t guess the NewKing choose myself. I got two enfants born.”

“Ya,” say John. “If Armies take her from her enfants, this been bad respect.”

Now Japhet break in rage. “They care for no respect! He ain’t! He staring at our girls like animals. Ya, their queens be bell, and all it is. Ain’t care for us!”

The littles hush, look scary to Japhet. Become a troubling silence. Then Baby Leah laugh at last and throw her fritter to the floor. Susannah stoop and take it, with her eyes still brooding on Boy Japhet. I grit my jaw and breathe in deep. Hold this sorrow breath.

“Foo conversations,” say Susannah soft. “Ain’t know until we know. Now it be guests, you going to hold your mouth. Our husband pray decision.”

THEN I MUST WAIT John’s pointless prayer, if they will take the roo. I use this time to breathe myself to semblance, though my heart be knives. Heed their last refusal of the roo with patient face.

Yo, when I leave, the sun be scarcely risen to its height, although the morning feel so long. This day feel old and tired of me.

6. OF PASHA ROO

I TIE MONEY IN OUR HORSEN FIELD. THEN I GO TO A BRIAR GULLY, overgrown and lonely, for first testing of my gun. Ain’t brave yet for Sengles. Fear they asking on my visit. Ya, ever my troubles be, this pistol be a simple goodness.

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.

But children took by roos ain’t come back never. They be gone and gone.

I say in choken breath, “Nay, truth, you thirty?”

Roo frown confusing, shake his head.

I point to him and say, “You. Thirty years?” Then, three times, I hold up all my fingers.

Roo’s face complicate. I try my gesturing again-again, but he frown only worse. At last, he say in his unshapen speech, “Nay comprehend.”

He smile again, but I ain’t smile. Frustration whisper, Got to comprehend. Is lying simple.

At last, I force a smile, say weak, “You bony met, my roo. You bone.” I nod correct and turn from him with spooken reveries.

I think to tie the roo again, but sure it be no use. If Keepers want him free, he going loose. She sneaky pests. Ya, be a mally satisfaction, how they Christings terrify, if they known. So I leave my gun with Hate You. Tell her sharp instructions, how she shooting if the roo start violence; how she threaten if he try escape.

Then I head back to horsen field. My duty been that I go hunting — ya, my heart regret its simple mind and quietness. But cannot leave my closer need. Must find more bullets to my gun, yo, I must parley thoughts with El Mayor.

7. AT LOWELL MILL

MOST MY WAY LIE THROUGH THE WOOD. BE FRIENDLY RIDE, IN company with gnats and peeping birds and squirrels. Only the last stretch lie through Lowell City, strange in emptiness. Here the houses reddish brick, three times the height of evac houses. Every street you pass, it be a thousand shatter windows. Blind windows fill half the sky, and all the streets be sparkling dangerous with broken glass. Ain’t any a child live in these homes. Be no life here but sleeping bats.

Time I come to Lowell mill, that spooken city tire my nerves. Be glad to see their lectric lights and hear the cryer calling up. Be glad to see a movement in their windows, hear the larm of life.

Lowell mill a jumbo bricky edifice, long as a street. Got Lowell River on one side, and green canal the other sides; an island sort of building. Is five floors tall, and be five minutes walking to go past. Inside, be doory hallways, long enough to run full pace. Walls groan and groan, this be their turbine wheels that make lectricity. Lowell River turn these wheels, and Lowell River never rest.

Each Lowell got a room all to themself, got springy beds and blankets. They grow tobacco through the winter in a glassen house. Have water toilets, and they can make paint and tiles and furniture. Got ninety horses of their breeding, and they selling these as far as Nampshire and the fisher coast. My Money been from them, flirtation gift of El Mayor himself.

No Lowell use a name. Each Lowell calling by their task — be Second Plumber or First Gardener or Thirteenth Custodian. Yo, as they grow in worth, their calling name be always changing — and if you call them by their younger name, they insult furiose.

Now sun be bright upon the green canal. The river’s sound of wish, wish, blend with the coop-up voice of Lowells. Even by sunny day, their windows glown with lectric light. Third Cryer perch above, on stony wall, and call her challenge to me. As I step to easter gate, I shout my name correct, and my requirement to their El Mayor.

Third Cryer call this news. Other cryers yell it on, the farther voices sounding sore bereft in all that hard indoors. A stabler come out, hurrying his steps, to take my mare. Then I come across their bridge. The door be open into goldish warm.

EL MAYOR BE WAITING in his workenroom, door 123. The door hang open, and he lying careless on a sofa. Wear cottonish pajamas, bluish stripe, with silken robe. On the floor, is papers cast about, and straddling books. Though El Mayor possess a desk, he shy from using this. Be a lain-down man. Can think, he only use his feet to walk from bed to sofa. Yo, with his slug behaviors, he boss two hundred Lowells smart correct.

El Mayor been Sengle born. We trade him as a seven with the calling name of Girl Egg. He suffer from the gasping illness, and his eyes been poory — be no use for hunting work. But sure his brains been healthy meat. The Lowells took him glad, and give us Villa Moron in his place.

Now he be eighteen, and he grown long in body, gracile. Got a face like to a handsome horse. Ain’t the sort to please a Christwife, but he well enough, if you do take him for himself. Sure, been no girl egg in his making; child is male as bulls and bother.

When I enter, El Mayor go rummage up his limbs to stand. Look sleepyhead and glad.

I say, “Ain’t need to work your legs. Ain’t going to chase you nowhere.”

“Foo,” he say. “Stood up to get my arms around you, noisy. Got to squeeze your rudeness out.”

I dodge, but he come quick and grab me. Lift me off my feet, so all his chest be hard against. Can feel his lips’ heat in my hair.

I say, my talk squish up and nervy, “Got business to you, companiero. Leave your goating rest.”

He loose me slow, stand back with mischief grin. “You rule my goating, Ice Cream Star. Ain’t rest until you leave.”

“Goat on me another day, Girl Egg.”

He laugh to hear his Sengle name, and say in wistful flirt, “Sure a spoon of you be better than three bowls of any another girl.”

He flop back on his sofa and unfold his easy body. Point to the end where I must sit. I perch on sofa’s arm.

“How it is,” I say. “We catch a roo.”

El Mayor go stare. “You ain’t, you lying package.”

“Tame and kept at Sengle camp. Smoke cigarettes like any person. Speaking words, is truth.”

Then I tell how the roo come to our hands. Give every detail of his looks, and I repeat his rooish words. Ya, El Mayor fix on this story like a hound will track a smell. Smell drag the hound behind it, into bushes, through the thorns. El Mayor almost sitting upright, how the thing enthuse his mind. Only thing I keep behind be Keepers’ tale of thirty years. Be complication talks. Good sense decide, I get my bullets first.

When I end, he say with fever, “Damn, why you ain’t brought this roo?”

“Rich be lazy,” I say, laughing. “Come and see him with your feet.”

“Who given you a pony?” he say, grinning. “Fickle sort you be.”

“Shoo, I bring him soon enough. Unless…” Now I make fretting mouth. “It be one worry, ya. Crow try to kill him, first he come.”

El Mayor’s eyes narrow. “Tell me better news. The roo tore Crow into his parts?”

“Nay, the roo been tied. Crow aim to shoot him, what it been. Sure Crow never wonder what this roo may have to tell.”

This be the way to catch the Lowells, children curiose as flies. Yo, El Mayor grit his annoyance.

I say on, “Crow gone worse, can swear. Child been my animose, I cannot hate him every way. But be a wrongness there, ain’t trust him now.”

El Mayor still frustrate in his head. He nod but listen poory.

“What worry me, be this. What happen…” I take frighten breath. “What be in time to come, when Driver sicken?”

“What you saying, bell?”

“My Crow be sergeant, how it be.”

Now disgust change in El Mayor’s face. I scent my trick’s success. The Lowells never liking Crow. Ain’t know the bottom of this circumstance, but truth be fact. Once, Crow give his shotgun to the Lowells for repair. When Lowells fix a gun, you know that gun be shooting forward. They fix every gun and pistol, even Nat Mass Armies can get service for their guns.

But they telling Crow his shotgun broke beyond their skill. Say it need a finking pin, and they ain’t got no finking pin. “You find a finking pin, come back,” they tell unhappy Crow.

I ain’t expect no “finking pin” exist in all of time. Believe these Lowells laugh about this joke all night and every day.

Now I say, “Crow must be sergeant. He the oldest male.”

“Sergeant never need to be a male. Sure Jennifer been last.”

“But this be common for a leader. Children tell me even you is male.”

“Can prove you this.” He smile again. “Wait only for permissions.”

I shrug. “Ain’t your problems, sure. Is only scary to myself. Crow want me for his sex. Fear it be violence, once my Driver gone.”

“Damn he do,” say El Mayor. He rummage up himself to sit.

“Damn is truth,” I say more fortey. “Crow a mally wasp, ain’t fear to hurt.”

“He try this with you? Seriose?”

“Nay, with myself. Got fear of Driver. But this be the secret truth of him and Mari’s Ghost. Been force. And sure his pants be hungry for myself.”

Now El Mayor go balk. He look at me with weaken faith. Yo, I remind unhappy, El Mayor know Mari’s Ghost. No male forcing Mari’s Ghost. Her only word be yes.

Then a grin start on El Mayor’s mouth. He shake his head and laugh.

Here my show of anger weaken. Cannot help, I start to smile. El Mayor leap on me, shouting, “Lying fox! I teach your mouth to lie!” Downstairs he tickle at my ribs. Upstairs he try to kiss my mouth. I kick him every which way. At last I bite my teeth into his chin, and he give room. Flop back to the sofa, gasping breath.

“Bad I took that bait!” he say. “Goddamn. The roo been truth?”

“Foo, it all been truthful mostly. Got an aim, but… nay, the part with Mari’s Ghost ain’t true.”

“Crow bother you for sex?”

“Nay, but—”

“Honest as a Sengle! You an honor to your people.”

“Shee. You be a pinching pain to all my Sengle people, Girl Egg.”

“Sure, they rid my painful self. So what you want? Can guess you foxing me for something.”

I sit up, arrange my face into some dignity. “How I said, I take the gun.”

“For your defense from Crow.” El Mayor laugh.

“Shoo, need bullets with-without no Crow.”

“This be some bullets of mine, I foresee.”

“Parabellum nines. I like to pay, but it be hungry seasons. Winter coming soon.”

“Ice Cream, you be a Lowell in your crafty head. Be a loss to joy that you ain’t trade to us.”

“Foo, say yes. Need no suspenses.”

“Yes and yes. Sure I give you any foolish riches, every child know this.”

My heart clear in relief. I put my hand upon his ankle, for it be closest to. “Be gratty well.”

A moment, we only grinning to each other, happy from our jokes. Then he look to my touching hand. Can see he think to reach for me. But I say, sudden out of nothing, “Keepers said the roo be thirty.”

A moment, El Mayor still yearn his eyes. Then he flinch sharp. “Thirty? Thirty years?”

“What he telling Keepers, ya. She talk to him all morning. Was rooish that they spoken, so she ain’t learn much. But this been certain.”

“Keepers?” El Mayor’s face ease. “Been tales from only Keepers?”

“Foo, I know when Keepers lie.”

“So you believing this?”

“Ain’t know. But roos be other people. Can be sleepers, any strangeness.”

Now El Mayor sit back in puzzle. “So if they sleepers, sleepers ain’t get posies?”

“How they ain’t?” I scoff my breath. “They getting WAKS. I thought your Lowells say that WAKS and posies been the same?”

“No person knowing certain.” El Mayor pooch lips in thought. “But white people dying quick from WAKS, ain’t living extra years. It been our children mostly live. Had some resistance to this pox.”

“Then roos must have some cure. They white themself. Should all be dead.”

El Mayor nod like this be usual notions. “Or they from a place that ain’t infect. Can be this.”

“Nay, thought it been the world entire.”

“What we think. Ain’t seen the world ourself.”

“But every evidence say, it been the world.” My voice come thin. “Most likely be, roos got a cure. Ain’t see?”

“But why they kept this to themself? Roos coming here before.”

“Goddamn, they got no reason they will help! Yo think! You only contradicting!”

El Mayor look surprise to me. Ponder on my face a moment, then his eyes change sorry. “Ice. Keepers be eight.”

“So she eight,” I say in weaker voice. “And so?”

“Ain’t get excitements, from some eightish tales. You think. She learn his rooish speech in hours?”

“Was only numbers. Can learn numbers. And if it being right?”

El Mayor look down, discomfort. “Ice… you thinking of your Driver?”

I startle queery. “How you meaning?”

“I know he got his posies.”

“Nay, how? Who saying this?”

“Ain’t no one saying. Driver come to me for papa tea, to ease his hurt. Sure, he ain’t want everyone to know.” Then El Mayor’s face painful, like his memory see someone suffer hard.

I watch his sadden face, and cannot get a breath inside. “Ain’t posies certain. Nay.”

El Mayor look startling to me. “You ain’t known? Damn, Ice, I speak this to you first?”

“Nay, ain’t certain. Cannot be.” When the tears come up, they rush like breath. My head be stars and hurt.

Then come a blind and sobben time. El Mayor come clutch me to him, and I weep against his shoulder. Try thinking of my pride, but misery wash my mind in circles. Can only think of Driver. How he keep this silent, and the months he going to sicken. How he going painful, going to die, and every grief be rain.

POSIES TAKE EACH PERSON in their sort. Popsicle cough his spirit out. Jay-dee’s belly swell and hurt until she claw it to the blood. Mailman strangle in his throat. He strangle once, then find his breath. Strangle again, and beg for help. Then he cannot bear to wait, he shoot himself in desperate fear. Jennifer been sergeant last. She scream but she forgotten words. Ain’t recognize our faces. Scream a week, then she ain’t speak no more. She stare and dribble her mouth.

And all their face and skin eat up by red and blackish posies. Posies scabbing and they open into sores and horrors. Posies grown inside and outside, blackish death put roots into your body and its flowers bloom.

My death must come before his death. I start a murder war, and all my Sengles die in blood. I blind my eyes and never see the posies come. I shoot my heart.

El Mayor be muttering, “Damn, I hate to see you cry, goddamn.” His voice come through my panic, and the sobbing soften in my chest. I open eyes, and there be his cat Radio, perch on sofa’s back. Be a whitely kitty with one crinkle ear. Sniff at me, curiose. I laugh a teary laugh, and El Mayor touch to my cheek. He say, “You going to kill me, you keep crying.”

We sat up on the sofa now, press close. All the room seem big and light. The bricky wall look warm; the yellow painten wall look clean and kind. Yo, Radio hop over to the windowsill. There she arch and say her yorry miaow. Behind her in the window go the river through the tumbledown bridge. River slip around the beams, the metal splay and twisten. I watch the blackish-bluish-brownish water till my spirit settle. Radio sit in my view and lick her rosy pawpad.

Cat’s name be Radio because this be El Mayor’s present work. He get a dozen radio machines, and swear to make one talk. Before this, been a cat name Gypsum, and a cat that change its name from Plumbing Joint to Insulator. So El Mayor intend to puzzle back the world of sleepers, cat by cat. And all the Lowells copy after him, got cats name Coffee Plant and Airplane, things these children sworn they will create.

It come to me that cats ain’t live no twenty years. Be luck that Keepers ain’t remember cats, will be one gloating little. I think now to tell El Mayor about the roo his wrinkle brow. But he lean to me then and kiss my lips.

Be something like a gift how I forget to tell him nay. A minute we been kissing, then five minutes it prolong. What happen in my mind and blood be dizziness and sparks. His fingertips stroke featherish on my nape.

He gather me to him. Pull me down, and we lie out along the sofa, front to front. I feel his hardness at my thigh, a fever wake into my skin. The kiss slow and feroce, this kiss contain all feary luxury.

But my panic wake. Cold prickle all my hairs, and without thought, I push him rough from me. His hands pull me back, refuse to notice. I say, “Nay. Leave me free, goddamn!” Be shaking, sweat go bright along my nape.

He freeze. Pull sharp away and scramble awkward to his sofa side. There he sit with wretchen face.

He say, “Some strange dislike you got to me. Can say this.”

“Quit, quit.” My trembling ease. “Beg you gratty, quit this.”

“Ain’t never quit to hunt you, bell. I go find you a room in Lowell mill tonight. Can stay with me, and damn this Crow, whoever being sergeant. Here you be anything you like. Be a Sengle, all I care. Lowell First Thief Sengle, be your name with us.”

“Lowell Seventh Girlfriend, be more like.”

He smile but his eyes darken. “Ain’t need they other girls, if you been here. Can swear you this.”

“I cannot help your want.”

“Why? You got someone? No sho, you ain’t.”

There be no why. Ain’t know what tale to tell. I think of NewKing Mamadou, the enemy I yearn upon. How he capture me in guilty dreams. But my spirit seize resentment, how I care for this when Driver sick.

I shake my head. “Sadness, all it is. I got no feeling to this now.”

“Sure, comprehend,” he say with poor belief.

Then no more parley can be spoken. He call a runner down to Lowell First Contractor for my bullets. We wait, and El Mayor tell nonsense of his loves with other girls. Sure he boast to rid his shame, but that ain’t make it joy to hear. I mood myself to leave.

Soon I say my parting words. The noise of Lowell mill slip back from Money’s trotting hooves. The dusking sleep of Lowell City take my loneliness. I ride home to my full-grown trouble, to my people few and feary small, my Sengle town.

8. BY DRIVER’S HIDING MEADOW: TOBER 3–15

THESE BE THE SENGLES IN THE TIME I SPEAK OF, WHEN MY TROUBLE grown. Of baby children, be Bother Zero Tool, the Answer Zero Ka, Fine One Ndiaye, Bell Eyes One Ndiaye, and Lolina-tina One Diouf, Crow’s child with Mari’s Ghost. Be healthy screaming babies, they got grandy rolls of fat. These all got mothers living but the twins Bell Eyes and Fine.

Of littles, there be Dinty Moore Two Fall who cannot hear, Naomi Two Forgotten, Maple Two Diop who be a son of John of Christ, Mohammed Three Insulting, Story Four Duval that has got reddish hair, Problem Four Tool, Luvanna-Lana Five of Lowell, Best Creature Five Wang who is misname and be annoying, Mustapha Five Insulting, Dollar Saver Six Fall, a fine enchanting little who can sing, Baboucar Seven Grandpa, Jeep Cherokee Seven Skips and Foxen Seven Fall. The mother of all three Falls be alive but gone to Lowell, now name Lowell Second Plumber and got posies bad.

Of the eights and nines, there be my vally Keepers Eight Fofana, worth all other children, and her favorite hatred Mouse Eight Wang. Progresso Nine Wilson and My Sorrow Nine Wang been solo-animoses for some years, ain’t speak with never another child.

Then come Marlboro Ten Tete-Brisee and Kool Ten Tete-Brisee, twins, birdcatcher-age and lean. Shiny Eleven Angels be a prettieuse and flirtish girl that give bad sign of wisdom, for she dabbit after Crow. Shiny chosen her own name, this be the measure of her wits. Redbook Twelve Ba, Bowl Thirteen Tete-Brisee and Cat Fancy Thirteen Ba all go ridiculous in love with Driver. They tend the littles and tell reveries one to the other, all day long. Jonah Fourteen Feet the only weakly jones, and scary since his brother took to Lowell two years gone. Then come Jermaine Fourteen Uptown, Christing born and Christing seriose in gentleness. Jermaine be wisty for my love, and many Lowells also and some Christings sleeping hungry for my love.

Next be Tequila Fourteen Tool, Mari’s Ghost Fourteen Diouf, Hate You Fourteen Ka and Asha Badmouth Fifteen Feet. Then come my place. Then come malicieuse Crow Sixteen Doe, and Villa Seventeen Insulting, fool infatuate for any male. When she ain’t bother males, she eat, that be the list of what she do. Last come my Driver, which make thirty-eight in Sengle town.

These been my Sengles in the year when Driver been our sergeant; time that kindly John been husband of the Christing fellowship; when the Lowells’ El Mayor been Sengle born and Sengle brave. Mamadou was NewKing of Mass Armies, savage like his people — yet the child have dignity and sense, best of the worst.

Fat luck been the story of this year. Snares ever struggling full, and every arrow find a turkey. Any a sleeper street we did maraud, that street give food. We war like twenty guns, but no one injure. Sling our hammocks in the crowns of sycamores like secret birds, and rest there, chattering and smoking, noses to the stars. Children forgot the taste of hunger and the touch of fear.

Yo, when Driver sicken, this the happiness we lose.

THESE EARLY TOBER WEEKS, my Driver woke before us all. He walk out to his hiding meadow in the frosten dark. Half the day he leisure there. Brew papa tea against his pain and drowse beside the fire. Times, he lie down on the ground to cough. Hurt him less so. Then he work at coughing like a task. He try to cough the wrong out, but that sticky wrong ain’t shift.

In a brook that dabbit by, he wash himself — for he ain’t going to show his body in the stream at Sengle town. Got posies on his leg. They only be a few, and ain’t disgusting. Only is blackish spots. Yet no one can see this, or all children going to know his sickness. And how it is, the posy sergeant must be callen dead. He go apart to useless silence, and another sergeant must be chosen this same hour.

Become my habit that I gone to meet him in the hours of dew. I bring ABC and Money, led on leash and halter. Feel they know my trouble, feel their caring hid in beastish tact. We pace the morning damp together, and our silence knit in one. All the morning birds sing with our feeling.

This meadow set behind an unroof house. Been three sleeper hounds dead there, most reason that the field abandon. No child love this place. House got wooden sides, once painten yellow, now be any color. From the house’s understep, a frazzle hose come out, is greener than no grass, look like a snake in corner-eye. The day that Driver name our trouble, I feel something evil here. Is like a ghost remainder from the evil times before.

“Town been feeding thin these weeks.” So he begin.

We sit frogleg in the grass beside a low tea-fire. I still be sleepyhead in thought, watching Money graze and twitch her skin against the flies. So I say distracting, “Meat gone cautieuse, and all it is.”

“Meat come back, but scarely be no Sengles fit to hunt.”

“I been hunting rich.” I scratch my fly-bit neck and yawn. “Had some owes to pay, but now they done. Be fatter now.”

“Cannot feed only from yourself.”

“Is Crow ain’t bringing meat to town. Child pigging to himself. What I suspicion—”

Driver’s voice raise up. “Nor I ain’t hunt this week.”

My eyes stop on his face. He sad as water then. His blackish skin be grayly, and his looks lost their bellesse.

“I go ask John of Christ for corn,” I say rough, “if worst become. They Tophets wait for pay, they ain’t particular in this.”

“Ain’t no John I know myself, who trade you corn for nothing.”

“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.”

9. OF NAT MASS ARMIES

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.

10. OF PASHA ROO HIS LIES

IT BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE WE FOUND PASHA ROO, AND HE ACCUSTOM well. No one think to fear him now. Is horsen in his mild respect. He townie with our littles, ya he doing tasks his own. Nor he ever budge to leave. Is there and there, like rooten plant.

Yo, every day of those two weeks, I ask him on his age. At nighting camp, the roo must talk to me or he ain’t smoke. Most meals I give him from my hand, nor any a bite he take without an answer. Keepers taking gifts from me to teach him English speech. The roo be duteous to this. He always trying, asking words, and soon can talk as good as threes.

But all my trials end in frustration. Be English or be rooish, he ain’t know one truthful word.

Our first talk go like this:

“Where your other roos be?”

“Far.” He give me friendly smile. “Ain’t fear.”

“Ain’t fearing, only wondering. And every roo live thirty years?”

“Nay,” say Pasha, eyes gone careful.

“How you live so long?”

“Ain’t kilt.”

“Nay, why you ain’t got posies?”

“Posies?”

Here we snag and go no farther.

I TELL KEEPERS TO explain him posies.

Keepers sniff and say, “He know this well. You seen his teeth half gone? Was lying rot them out.”

“Nay, he truthful in this case,” I say, for I ain’t know him yet. “Explain him posies, little. Will be cigarettes for you, and meat.”

OUR SECOND PARLEY sound like this:

“Roos all living thirty years?”

“Nay, been lucky, me.”

I given him a bag of raisin cakes, he eat this vally fast. The sparkly noising of the plastic bag pick at my nerves.

I say, “What luck? You ain’t get posies how?”

Pasha concentrate on cake. No thought be in his face. His hand slip in the bag, flee to his mouth. Mouth labor like a mill.

“How you ain’t got posies? Hear me speak.” I reach and grab the bag. His careless hand hit mine and all his body startle.

He study how I tie the bag. At last, he lick his lips and say, “An insect.”

“Insect?” I stop my tying.

Pasha start to talk all speeds, his eyes still watching to the cakes. “Yo, insect living near. Be brown with legs. Eat him, be no sickness. Sickness go.”

Joying, I give back the bag. Ain’t scarcely breathe for want. And sure my pity warm to him. Every Sengle must be fed before the roo can eat. Now Pasha’s face gone tired with starving, any a child will sympathy.

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, the other hold 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, “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? 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.

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.

Again-again, I ask him how he live so long, and ain’t got posies. Ask in anger; ask in beggary. Ask in vain. Yo, in this time, his age begin to feel to me direct. In every detail of his face, his hands, is something worn and tired. Be in his size somehow. It be particular as a smell. But ever I turn my mind, it be no sense. Roo grown affections to myself, can swear. If he known a cure, he never left me dying sick. So can think, cure ain’t exist. But in all his fool denials, never he say, It be no cure. He answer sticks and nonsense, or he give unhappy silence. And secrets look from his blank eyes.

Once I threaten him again. Go grab the pistol from his hand, and press it to his throat. But Pasha only tense and wait. Blue eyes be mostly sorry. He grit until my fury tire, then say his same, “Cannot.”

So when at last he tell some use, ain’t on the posy cure. Ain’t on the roos, or WAKS, or nothing from the world beyond. It only be an unexpecting fact of Crow his treachery.

WE WALKING HOME FROM HUNTING, rainy day without no luck. Rain strike thick, and we go ducking underneath a pine. Tree got a set of boughs that overlap, the needles thick. Almost can pretend that it be dry.

I make my accustom talk about my dying brother — sicken without help, because some children got no heart to use. How Driver raise me from an enfant, when he being small himself, but Pasha never care. Yo, if he cure, he being sergeant every years. Been luck beyond.

Then Pasha say up curiose, “When the sergeant change?”

Almost, I lose tempers. But then I only shake my head. “Whenever the sergeant showing posies, he be callen dead. New sergeant ruling this same hour. Truth, ain’t lawful, how we doing. Should be changing weeks before.”

Pasha shrug, our broken laws ain’t worry his composure. “New sergeant rule. Old sergeant doing what? He leave?”

“He dead,” I say unliking. “No person talk to him except the sergeant. Cannot use his name, must call him ‘our good child.’ Be like OldKing then.”

“OldKing?”

I sigh and find a cigarette. Rain thick as hair. “This be an Army definition. Nat Mass Armies got two kings. OldKing and the NewKing. When the NewKing sicken with his posies, he become an OldKing. Then they choose a new NewKing. Sound complicate, but truth is simple. Yo, only the NewKing keep a queen.”

“Queen?”

“Queen be the NewKing’s wife. Ain’t got no power. With that filth, is boys the only people. But the queen the only girl they taking from the Massa woods. Ain’t like a slave, she keeping fat. But when the OldKing sicken bad, he kill her with a knife. Be all their filthy manners.” Here I stop and light my cigarette, my heart be beating queery. Snap the zippo shut and say, “NewKing Mamadou must take his queen soon. He tardy in this. OldKing kilt his queen four months before.”

Pasha’s face go disapprove. “He kill his… girl he sleep by?”

“Ain’t sleep by no one, child. The NewKing keep his hut alone.”

“Nay, I thinking… sex.”

Here we both laugh, embarrassing like any enfant children. I say, “Yo sho, is sex. Most bell be always stolen for their queen.”

Mischief brighten Pasha’s eyes. “Be sad to lose you then, Ice Cream.”

I see he ain’t meant disrespect, but still my mind go vicious red. I suck my cigarette without no breath and feel despicable.

“Will overlook this speech,” I say. “You ain’t to understand.”

His face go wary. “What I say?”

“No Sengle taken queen. No Sengle kept by Armies since the murder wars. Nor will be. Never going to be.” I spit into the dirt. “Queening be a matter for the Christings. Always them is took.”

Pasha looking at me careful. “You pain with me? I say some mally?”

“Nay, is only feeling.” Ain’t know why, but then I say, “Got history with NewKing Mamadou.”

Then I sure regret my words. My cigarette taste weak, and all the rain be falling shame.

“History?” say Pasha. “What this history?”

“Shoo. Forget this talk.”

His eyes grow mischief back. “Ho, love history. Comprehend.”

“Goddamn, you hush. Be crime to love some Nat Mass Army.”

“Be crime you feel? Is sorry.” He laugh loud, his head tip up and hit the bough above. All piney rain shake on our heads.

I swear and kick his shin. This only make him laugh up worse. And the piney wetness break my vanity, I laugh myself. All the woods is private with the darkly rain, I feel uncanny.

“Damn your yellow brains, you see too much. Yo shaggy dirt.”

He laugh again and say, “You kick me more, yo criming girl?”

“Goddamn!” I try to smoke, but cigarette been soggen from the rain. I throw it down. “Must teach your mouth respect. Can go too far, this rooish freedom.”

Pasha’s eyes shine through my shame. “NewKing, how looking? What his face?”

“Ain’t concern yourself, what face he have. Shee for your questions.”

“Nay, think I seen this NewKing.”

“Foo, how your NewKing look?”

“Prettieuse boy, got feathers. Greenish feathers here.” He sweep his hand behind his neck.

“Ain’t Mamadou,” I say, relieve somehow. “The NewKing’s feathers black and red. This been some featherboy.”

“Seem like NewKing.” Pasha shrug. “He talk to Crow like. Bossy.”

Then disbelieving prickle on my skin. I narrow at the roo. He looking unconcern, inspect the wet spots on his cigarette.

I say, “This feather talk with Crow? They two alone been talking?”

“Ya.” He ware at me. “Ain’t bone they talk?”

“Be… ain’t normal that they talk. Is sergeant’s business, parleying with Armies. They talk how? Was friendly?”

“Ya. They walking arm with arm.” Pasha put his elbow out to show the linken arms.

“Foo, boys linking arms. Is Army manners.” I squinch up my nose. “What they said?”

“Ain’t comprehend the speech good then. Been weeks before.”

“They spoken friendly, though? Ain’t been dispute?”

“Ya, they laugh and friendly. Like we be.”

I press my back against the piney trunk. Sap sticking at my jacket, and I feel my hungry nerves. Sure this be why Crow ain’t bring meat to town. He give his meat to Armies, trade to them in secret crime.

Reason be no science to explain. When Sengle boys go to the Armies, be for simper slaves. Male who cannot please no girl, will go where he can pay. The slaven girls cannot refuse. Nor these girls ain’t get the loot; is for the Army filth to keep. Crow be Crow, but never I thought my animose do such. The child my arms remember never do this cruelty.

I say, “For crime, this be the worst. Ain’t to know, what this Crow do, if Armies capture girls from us. If he be sergeant… shee!”

“Ice Cream. I ain’t—”

“Nay. Hush.”

Pasha turn his eyes away. I take and loose my sadden breath. Try thinking how I tell my Driver, but can see no help. Crow be our only male full-grown. He sergeant, or we ridding him, the Sengles lost the same.

At last, I only reach my palm into the chilling rain. Breathe and feel its trickle cold until my sense return.

As I think and Pasha hush, the rain go slow and lessen. Soon my palm feel weak beneath its course. Sun brighten through. I put my chill wet hand against my throat.

“Is tardy,” I say soft at last.

Pasha stir. Look at me sleepyhead and faraway. “Ya, be evening meal.”

“Foo, ain’t dusking yet. You see the sun?” I point and feel a glad frustration. “Teach your leaky brain to tell the time, goddamn.”

“Be crafty,” Pasha say, and laugh.

WE SET FORWARD EASY — FOOT, our empty packs be light. But as we find the path, some running footsteps sound behind. Come a Lowell runner breathless through the splashing mud.

Sprinting to, he cry out, “Ice Cream Sengle! Word from El Mayor! Must come and bring the roo!”

The runner wearing Lowell jacket suit and flat cravat. Is eight, an older age to be a runner, and his face be panic. All this show importance; El Mayor ain’t going to hear my nay.

Runner start again. “Be urgent. El Mayor himself require.” He yappit on about the need, while all his eyes stare at the roo. Ya, my heart exasperate. I got no moods to El Mayor, nor I got time for Lowells now.

“Cannot come,” I say. “Tell El Mayor he ask some other day.” I nod to Pasha and set off. Roo come behind, and runner last, must jog to keep the pace, while crying, “El Mayor be seriose! Ain’t heeding, companiera!”

At Sengle town, they got a rain-sheet spread from tree to tree. All children yappiting beneath, the raindrops chatter on its plastic. At the corner where we come, stand Driver and Crow Doe.

Crow standing normal like all days. His froggen face resent and brood; arms cross against his chest. And I feel a knifen pain. Mind babbit nonsense, how it be some explanation, all can fix. But my heart know, and miss him like a thing forever lost.

The runner dash up straight to Driver. “Sergeant Sengle! Sure your Ice Cream want to never heed! El Mayor call her to business. Tell her, companiero!”

Take me a breath to gather thought. Then I say thin, “Brother, I got parley to yourself. Ya, El Mayor will handle me, be all his mally business.”

“Yo injustice!” the runner cry. “And El Mayor been give you bullets! You never bring his roo, is all his talk. He angry on all Sengles.”

Then Driver speak, in voice like steel. “You go, Ice Cream.”

“Ain’t wish to visit El Mayor,” I say, quick from my feeling. “Can keep his dirt for his own Lowells.”

“Foo!” the runner say. “Yo, disrespect!”

“You go,” say Driver. “Be no talk.”

I turn on him with every cavil noisy in my heart. But then my brother cough, and seize in pain through all his body. Yo, Crow flinch like he cough himself. Bowl Thirteen step back, like she beware some sudden threat. All the children round unhappy kept, look maudy at the dirt.

Then can feel their knowing. And I see my Driver’s eye gone plasticky from papa tea. His breath come wheezing, thin for life.

I say, “Sure, your decision be my work. You be sergeant.”

Driver swallow at his throat. “Ya, El Mayor keep loot for me. Can ask him for this also.”

My heart know, loot be papa tea. But I only say, “Will ask. Forgive no disrespect.”

12. TOBER 29 ITS FEARY NIGHT

WE COME TO LOWELL MILL AT ROOFEN SUNSET. FOR HASTINESS, we take both horses — though Pasha be a stupid rider, Big Smoke follow Money sans no help. Still, be a long way through the city, where shadows lie uncanny stiff among the bricky homes. Never a breeze make any shadow shift. Is set like paint.

Be gratty to reach the mill at last, its windows gold joyeuse with lectric light. A dozen children scramble to the gate to see the roo. All come noising, pushing, asking if the roo be danger. I be calling nay and shoo. Underfooten Lowells barely give us room to dismount.

At the door, these leave us in respect. We pass inside. Soon the only sound is groaning turbines and our patting feet. We walk in this loud quiet to El Mayor’s workenroom. Here, windows show the purplish sunset on the glassy river. Lectric light be shining. All is neat and sugar clean.

El Mayor be frogleg on the floor. By his knee, a radio sit. This be a plastic instrument, with metal grill upon its face, and tiny numbers painten by. Now it give a snoring noise. Snore rise and fall as El Mayor tweak at its side. His nosy face intensify, his long hands work.

Radio been El Mayor’s delight and duress, six months long. Child expect this plastic box will tell him every mystery. If any a city still exist, the radio will speak its voice. But no word come from this object, ever he rearrange its wires.

Now El Mayor put down the no-book he been writing in. Eyes concentrate on me, and his mouth narrow on no smile. In this chilly look, can see the days that I avoid his friendship.

“Is bony that you come,” he say.

“Your sight be welcome,” I polite him.

El Mayor tweak the radio again; it hush its snore. He rise to his feet, regard my Pasha head to foot.

Pasha say, “Be joy to meet you, El Mayor. Your mill be bell.”

“Yes, be bell.” El Mayor slant his eye at me. “Love of bellesse a Lowell weakness. Our strength be weakness, weakness be our strength. Is such a saying.”

“What this meaning?” Pasha ask.

“Mean nothing,” I say. “Nonsense be their sense, sense be their nonsense.”

“Ice Cream ain’t love weakness.” El Mayor look at me hard. “Wolfen female, loving trouble more than featherbeds.”

“Be well,” say Pasha. “Mill be fine.”

El Mayor turn back to Pasha, careless in his face. “Hearing you is thirty. Can believe this tale?”

Pasha shrug. “Ain’t never count my years.”

“Count now, my ox. Be wrong by two or three, ain’t figure.”

“Roo ain’t smart to count,” say Pasha. “Like tree. Live hundred years, grow into sky. But tree got stupid head.”

“Tree got no head,” say El Mayor.

“Truth be right,” I say. “Here great Lowell science speak.”

El Mayor wave back my talk. “You come from far away? Or is there roos born here in Massa?”

“Born… I ain’t remember this. Been born before my memory.”

“Shoo, where you live, before the Sengles catch you?”

“Live in this house they burn. Remember now, I borning there.” Then Pasha laugh, like his own saying please his ticklishness. I laugh myself. Be good relief, some other person bear his nonsense.

El Mayor ain’t rile. Is only untying in his mind. Can see him circle round this knot, seek an end to tug. When this ain’t appear, his face distract. “A yellow Sengle, shoo. Got better trouble than your lies.” He turn to me and say, “Heed this. My radio been talk.”

Take me time to hear his meaning. Is Pasha wake my sense.

“Radio talk?” say Pasha.

“Ho, this object talk?” I say bewoken. “Talking words?”

“Talk and talk,” say El Mayor. “You hold. I find this speech again.”

El Mayor crouch to poke the radio, and it repeat its snore. He pinch its belly, twist his fingers. Noise go boo, then shrink and crackle.

“Speech start out on ninety-one point five,” say El Mayor. “But then it go to ninety-one point seven. Then I gone to evening meal. Been lost when I return.”

Pasha watch with narrow eyes. Listen like he know what all this Lowell babble mean.

I say, “What speech the radio been doing? You talk to it any?”

“Nay, cannot talk back,” say El Mayor, his voice impatient. “Said some sleeper English. Hasty speech, ain’t comprehending much.” He look up from the radio at us. “Then it spoken fisher Panish. And it spoken something else. Was thinking, can be rooish.”

“Rooish?” Pasha say. “You speak in rooish?”

“Nay,” say El Mayor. “You speak in rooish. Be rooish, maybe you will understand. For this I fetch you.”

My nerves waken, bright joyeuse. I kneel by El Mayor. A green line move behind the radio’s numbers as he twist its dial. El Mayor be scowling hard, as if it take all hungry strength to catch this voice again. Pasha crouchen by. And now I see, the roo be frighten. Can wonder if he fearing science inventions, like some children do. But ain’t got time to ponder this before the snore break into talk.

El Mayor’s hand lift from the dial. Pasha lean in hungry-eyed, and we all heed this voice.

Can guess, the speech be fisher Panish. Got its hopping sound. Ya, be uncanny how this box speak out in boyish voice. Cannot guess how the voice be made — I seen these radios’ insides, and be no throat nor tongue. Voice sound bored and priding both. Be like it tell a lesson, and ain’t hope much for our telligence.

Then the voice go finish. A different boy begin. Take time before I recognize, is sleeper English. Some words comprehend, but nothing weave into a sentence meaning. El Mayor been grab a pen and scribble in his no-book. Write fast as hand can move, but this voice pippet hasty on.

Some bits untangle as they pass. “We ask that… give aid… do not… safety…” Pasha listen hard, and press his fist against the tilen floor. Voice drop at last into confuse, a gabble that ain’t comprehend. But one word come clear: “Lowell.”

Here the voice is finish. Only hushen fuzz go on.

“Said Lowell, ya?” say El Mayor, glad feary. “Heard this before.”

“How these strangers know our place?” I say. “They speak to us?”

“Ain’t know.”

The radio crackle break to voice again. Is rooish — sure I know from Pasha’s face before I hear.

The slushen talk go draining past, sound bored and vaunty like the rest. Pasha follow on, ain’t breathe nor stir. His face be rotten white.

As it jabber onward, Pasha rise up on his feet. Stand tense, his face gone deaf and strange. His hands join into angry fists. Arms biggen with their hate. Is like he see this talking boy, and gather for his murder. Yo, now it realize again, the grandy beast he be. I crouch tense to help, but sure I fear his size. My bones go fear.

But as the radio hush again, his anger pass like blown-out flame. Is like a child who lose a fight and stand in beaten misery.

I stand up nerviose. He inhale sharp and look at me. Is like his pain been on myself, my heart react uncertain.

And Pasha say, “We all must leave. Must go from Massa woods, as far as… far we can.”

13. OF THE RADIO SPEECH

LEAVE WHERE? AIN’T SENSE. MY PASHA, CALM.” BUT PANIC FLUTTER my chest.

El Mayor say slow, “Why we must leave? What they said?”

Pasha shake his head. Go rub his eyes with fisten hand. Where the hand pass, dirt be smear. Eyes blaze their suffering.

I look at El Mayor. He stand up waring, making fists himself.

“Got booze?” I say. “May help.”

“Is sleeper brandy. Can—”

Then Pasha speak up harsh. “This radio talk be from my people. Say they help, but ain’t to trust.”

“Your people?” I say frighten. “Roos?”

“Is what you call us, yes.” Then something in his face be skew. Like laughter wake, but ain’t no happy joke.

“Ain’t to trust?” say El Mayor. “Roos will steal our children now?”

“Roos kill you all.” Pasha clench his jaw, consider on these words. Then he nod, like he approve their truth. “They kill you all.”

A minute we three breathe our hush. Radio gabble fisher Panish, keep up its unrest. Yo, my thoughts be like all frighten mice, run everyway and blind.

“When we must leave? Tonight? Or this can wait to morning?” El Mayor’s voice sarcasty, but his face be stiff with nerves.

“Can get a week,” say Pasha, sans no humor. “But be sooner better.”

“Why these roos will kill us?” I say. “Eating children like they say?”

Pasha shake his head, impatient. “Nay, is like your murder war.”

“War?” I laugh up thin and scary. “Got no war to them. Ain’t even know these roos.”

“You know these roos?” say El Mayor to Pasha. “These your townie folk?”

Then Pasha show his silent face. The meaning dim out of his eyes.

“Sleeper brandy,” I say nerviose. “Need this myself.”

“Yo sho,” say El Mayor, his voice gone shy. He step to a cabinet, take out a chubby brock. His hand be shaking as he reach the brock into my hand.

I drink a sip that burn my throat, make heat behind my eyes. I magine a folk of shaggy Pashas. All got long-nose guns, wear ugly-color like the roos I seen. And I recall the deer shot through and through in friendly field. Roos pool around this unluck deer, is noise and size and many. They pass on and nothing left.

The radio go back to sleeper English. El Mayor grab up his no-book. Hunker down and start to write. Pen pause like it think, then scramble. Most is single words. Can, must, is—mean nothing by themself. Further be writ safety will… only sixteen days.

Pasha turn away, his gaze go frowning to the window. I look along, see where the fallen bridge crouch in the water. River fat with rain. Sun below the gray horizon, only give a thimble light.

The speaking mumble to its end. When I look back at the no-book, words is writ: treatment for waks.

Here my heart misgive. I say low, “Treatment for WAKS?”

“Ya,” say El Mayor in catching voice. “What I heard. Ain’t certain.”

I look at Pasha, and his eye meet mine in painful meaning. “Pasha, it be WAKS? You know?”

“Is bait,” say Pasha cold. “Is bait in snare.”

“What bait?”

A moment he resist. But then he say in careful voice, like every word must comprehend, “Roos say, we give help. Come to us. When you come, is different tale. Must fight for them before they give. Nor they allow you leave. You fighting for them, or you kilt.”

“Fight for them?” El Mayor scoff his breath. “Who we will fight?”

“Fight…” Pasha rub his face again, the dirt smear thin. “Be farther place. Ain’t nothing you will know.”

“If we fight,” I say, “they give us cure?”

“You die.” Pasha’s voice come rough. “All die in war.”

“Nay, why you ain’t said before? Been weeks.”

Pasha shake his head impatient. “Ain’t think they coming here. I think, was safe.”

I start to cavil more, but El Mayor say through, “If we ain’t go?”

Pasha grimace. “If you ain’t go, they come and take you. Or they kill you here.”

El Mayor whistle in his teeth. “Ain’t to escape these roos.”

“Why any child do this?” I say. “Peculiar in itself.”

“Nor I comprehend your wars,” say Pasha. “Argue this, but leave. You still can run.”

“WAKS is posies?” I say. “Tell me truth.”

He look misery tired. “Is posies. Sure. All that you ask.”

I take my breath and say in brave unbalance, “Treatment for WAKS. This mean the roos got treatment? Can help posies?”

“Yes,” say Pasha bitter. “Now you run to them, be kilt.”

The radio begin in roo again. Pasha light his eye toward the box in jitter hatred. My mind beset with roos and posies. Cannot think nor pause from thinking. I shut my eyes and drink again, the brandy lighten in me. Driver can be breathing full, can live. Roos kill us all, but Driver breathe.

The brock flee from my hand. I open eyes and El Mayor got the brandy. Though his grooming nett, he look unkempt with tired thought. Ears themself look crooked on his head.

El Mayor drink twice and thrice, then crouch down to the radio. He tweak its side, and its voice halt in silence. Then I surprise how my own fear relieve. Radio voice been like the voice of flies when your best child is dead.

El Mayor say low, “Find what it say ourself. Then we consider.” He look back to me like checking, but I only stare. He make a forcen smile, then stand up to his feet with stiff respect. Walk to the door and call like normal bossery, “Report!”

ROOM BESIDE EL MAYOR’S WORKENROOM be Mailroom One. Here First Runner wait. As his voice be finishing, can hear her scurry foot. Second’s blink, she standing in the door neat and exact.

This child a tennish paragon, is quick as dragonflies and light. Was born an Army girl without a name; now she learn science under El Mayor himself. Got braiden hair and her own sleeproom, princen in respect.

El Mayor say, “I need all my firsts and seconds here. First Electric must bring radios. First Library bring the dixonaries. Rush.”

Any a ten be curiose, but runners must not question. Yo, First Runner never blink. She only say, “Is done.” Before I can expect or watch, she gone. Feet hurry to their silence.

And El Mayor turn back. Make painful smile to me, and slip misliking glance to Pasha. Then he crouch by the radio. Touch it scary like he touch a flame. Turn on its voice, and flinch as it begin. Reach for his pen.

Yo, as he start to write, can hear the mill begin to sound with feet — all Lowells running hasty to our help.

TIME BEHIND BE LIKE A WAKEN-DREAM. Room fill with noisy Lowells; El Mayor yell orders furiose. Radios plugging everywhere, and Lowells gather thick to them, go write with all their hands. Yo, always be that grinding voice of flies. It jeer from every part.

When the radio talking Panish-rooish, they all join to Pasha. Ask any questions they can think. But Pasha’s answers be the same: We stay, roos kill us all. We go to them, we took to wars afar, where never a child can live. Yo, when Lowells ask him where the roos be now, he losing tempers. Go ranting on the rooish guns, and how we small comparisons. Ain’t fight them anyhow, must flee without no stupid wait.

And ever they ask him how he know — ask any question on himself — he only grit and hush. Eyes blank.

When they go back to the radios, Pasha look at me. He always look at me, face grieving. And I watch my fury back, my beggaries of blame. But I ain’t try to speak. Be waiting till we can depart. And I fear this talk its future, and I fear the waiting moment. The radio voice ache in my ears. Be like the voice of Pasha’s scary eyes.

Yo, this time seem like one minute somehow, that hold still in agony. But it been three hours before the speech be written whole.

Is this:

This is an emergency broadcast from the American mission of Russian Federation. We are asking all people over the age of 10 to report to [word nobody recognize, is probably a place] for registration and treatment for WAKS. Please give all help to the security operations of the rescue mission. Your safety will depend on your compliance. Report any people who stay behind to local troops of Russian Federation.

The final date for registration is November 15th. After this date, all unregistered people of 11 and older are in violation of emergency laws. For the safety of other citizens, they will be subject to punishment action. Repeat: the final date for registration is November 15th. Only 16 days are left for safe registration. You can request transport and information from troops in your own area.

Please tell your friends that treatment for WAKS is available. This will be given free to all people over the age of 10. The treatment is safe and effective. Please help us to accomplish the great mission Russian Federation has undertaken for the aid of her American allies.

This announcement is in force for the listed areas: [more words nobody recognize. Here the word Lowell come].

14. THE PARLEY ON THE ROOS

TIME ME-PASHA LEAVE, BE STARRISH WINDY NIGHT. FIRST LIBRARY writ me out the radio speech. This fill my jacket pocket. In this zippen pocket, also be a fattish bag of papa tea for Driver’s use.

The way through Lowell City, ain’t no sound but crickets and our crunching hoofs. Moon hide around the edifices, stalk us in the snaky alleys. Yo, be stretches where the dark go blind. Here my terror rise. I feel my Driver’s death and all our threaten murders as one truth; how we come to darkness without help.

Where the light shine clear, the broken glass make paths of sparkling moon. Then the bricky walls gleam warm, and all my courage wake. I think, Roos got this cure, we rob it. For my Driver, I face guns and hells, this be my treasure chance.

As we leave the city, we pass through a birchen evac. One tumblen house stand closer to the road, look friendly in its ruin. Wooden sign stand skewish by: LOWELL FAMILY DENTAL. Here I pull Money to a halt. Big Smoke stop behind.

When I turn, the roo sat like a person lonely in the night. Eyes turn to the prickling stars. He got a Lowell cigarette, its brownish scent come to my nose.

I say, “Tock vote.”

He blink but never look. The moonlight show him whitish cold.

I say, “The cure be real? Can cure my Driver?”

Pasha hold in stillness for a moment, like he never hear. Then he say, resenting soft, “Truth, they got cure for many things. Can send a voice on radio. Can fly. Can burn you from the air.”

“Roo, I ain’t fear their killing. Learn this fact.”

“I learn this fact, you be a fool.”

Nerves begun to sing around me in a cricket voice. Be nerves or cold. When I speak again, my voice come rough. “How many be these roos?”

“Nay, you think, how many be their guns? How strong their guns?”

I let my hand run on the saddle’s leather, feel its scuffen marks. “Ain’t hope to fight them, bone. So how we do?”

“Ain’t do.” Pasha’s voice come bitter. “What I say of killing — I seen this killing. Ain’t prettieuse nor easy.”

“Shee, if they take us, we fight for them. Live all days by them. Be sure, can rob them sometime.”

“Nay, ain’t rob. You die in war.”

I scoff my breath. “Why we must die? They fight to only lose? Ain’t sense.”

“Sense different there. Yo, where I fight before, the taken children been worse than roos themself. Kill and kill, for nothing. Nor they live much time, is kilt.”

“Your wars be curiose. All murder and no war.”

Pasha shrug and ain’t object. He leave this saying in the air.

Then something inkle in my mind. “You fled from them? You hiding somehow?”

“Ya.” He shrug. “I hide.”

“So if you bring us to them, they will punish you for fleeing?”

His eyes fix mine. A minute pass while hope flame keen in me. I say feroce, “You fear these roos, ain’t need to go with us. Can tell us where they be. We never speak of you, be certain.”

Then Pasha laugh. His untooth mouth show spooken in the night. And he say harsh, “This be my task. Bring children to the roos. I giving you to them, my fear be gone.”

I let my gaze sink to the darken ground. The moon pick out the bitty grass, can see a balden dandelion gray with night. And now I first consider what become of Pasha’s missing teeth. Children can lose teeth from hunger. Teeth bash out in war. No glad adventure lead to gappen teeth.

At last I say, “But you ain’t bring us?”

“Nay.” His voice come low. “Cannot do this work again.”

This again hurt in my mind. Think how he said, he seen their killing. Come in my mind precaire, if Pasha done this killing self.

I swallow and say, “Yo, why you never tell me? Asken you these weeks.”

“I try this in one town. Tell everything. And seen they children die. Run to their death.” He laugh. “Cure for posies, cure for posies. There they say, La cura. La cura para la sarcoma. Nothing hearing, but this cura.” He toss his cigarette to the grass. “I show them where is roos. Cannot say nay. They threat me with their guns.

“So we go there. I bring children, is good. Good task I done. But all the time these children living, I fear they tell about my warning.”

I take my breath. “They told? Is why you left?”

“Nay,” he say cold-voice. “They dead.”

He get another cigarette from his shirten pocket. Take out a lighter also — object that I recognize. Be Villa’s priden joy, a pinkish lighter, sparkle in its plastic. Words on its side say HELLO KITTY. Now my heart seize somehow, seeing this thing from simple days.

I say, “La cura. This be fisher Panish? You seen the ocean?”

“Is many things I seen, Ice Cream. Been war for fifteen years.” Then he add, in careless anger, “Ain’t you think, what come to littles?”

“Littles?”

“Be no use for war.”

“Yo sho,” I say uncertain. “Ain’t thought this question.”

Pasha light his cigarette. I watch the tiny flame twist and go out.

I say, “The roos kill littles.”

His words come in ghosten smoke. “Roos tell the jones, we keep the littles safe — if you obey. But littles never keep. Most times is left, can die themself of hunger. Be times, roos hunt them with guns. Kill them with hands.”

His hands tense on the reins he hold. My eyes go to them, feary.

I say, “Yo, taken children do this work? You said, be worse than roos. They killing littles?”

“Sure. Is pleasure game for some.”

My heart disgust and shrink. “I ain’t do this.”

“I know. Crow do this, maybe.”

“Nay. Never a Sengle do—”

“Here you mistake,” say Pasha cold. “Surprise be yours.”

I turn my eyes away in private feeling, look up to the stars. When I been small, once Driver told me cricket singing was the voice of stars. Now I watch the stars and hear their voice be frighten shrill. Stars call the fear of all our helpless life.

I say, “What happen, when I come to them? What happen first?”

He toss his cigarette away half smoken. Never speak nor blink. Be like a creature cannot talk.

“Heed, my Pasha,” I say thin. “Ain’t only Driver die. Myself, can live two years, three years, before my posies come. El Mayor eighteen, life wearing thin. We dying in your eyes.”

“Ain’t take you,” he say angry.

I swallow hard. “Nay, need your help.”

“Forget this. Nay.”

“You lead me to their camp. Where I can see this camp.”

“Nay.”

“Goddamn, I go without you! I will find their camp, be sure. Ain’t justice that you choose my death!”

He grit his mouth, get his bethinken look. I look to the stars again, my need wear through my nerves.

And I think of Driver sick. The plastic baby Keepers found, and all the children I seen dying, all their frighten voice. How I carry Mo-Jacques to his burial with straining arms. Flies gather to his open eyes, and I been trying to blow them off, but all my breath been weak. How I sat weeping while he bury in dirt.

I stare around myself, ain’t hardly see. White stars and grayish dandelions — is dozens of these balden dandelions tremble in the nighten wind.

Then Pasha answer slow, “The roos ain’t bring cure here. Ain’t bring in Massa. Going to be in south.”

A moment I only hold, uncomprehending. Then hope chill in me. “South?”

“Where they go after Massa. Steal more children. Far in south.”

“Far? Yo, where?”

“Washington,” he say in queery softness. “Where it going to be.”

A second, my heart falling glad. I remind all maps I seen, the roads drawn clear. Word Washington writ. Then I feel Pasha’s eyes on me, his queery grief upon.

“Washington,” I say soft. “I heard of this. A sleeper city been.”

He nod like tired conscience. “Ya. Be bigger war there. Roos will come from every part. Come by… things that go on water. Ride on water?”

“Boats,” I say with choken need. “And cure be there? On boats.”

“Yes. At Washington. Ain’t lies.”

Only when he saying this, I realize it can be lies. I try to spy his face correct, but it be lost in shadows. Only his white hands lighten clear, fist hard upon his reins.

Then he say, “You can obey my telling?”

“Obey?” My breath catch sharp. “Nay, why? You bring me there?”

“Cannot go in their camp alone, yourself. Ain’t safe.”

“Is natural I obey.” I laugh up nervy. “Truth, you bring me?”

“Ya. Must think how this can do.”

“You and I, my Pasha. Sure you be my hunting shadow.”

“Sengles still must leave. Ain’t bone to stay here.”

“Sengles flee, ain’t no affair,” I say in loving voice. “Be wandering peoples.”

He shake his head misliking. “Must think. Can talk of this tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, truth. Be gratty well.”

Then I turn forward nerviose, ain’t want to hear no changes. I fumble the reins in sweaten hands. Tug at Money’s head, where she nose down to crop at dandelions.

Yo, I take a hungry breath. My courage fill with night. And it wake inside me, the enormities we do. All war shrink before this deed, all science done by Lowells. I swear myself, if we succeed, I roam the Nighted States. Give cure to every needing child, and never a person die for Ice Cream Star her failing heart.

I heel Money into walking, and my life gone sweet and fearless as we leave to Sengle town.

15. OF CROW HIS TREACHERY

ALL GREAT WORKS START WITH MISTAKE. AIN’T NO EXCEPTION IN this fact.

On the nighten path from Lowell, I been planning so: Tomorrow I wake early. Go to Driver in his hiding meadow, tell him every news. At morning meal, he speak to all, convince them to escape. Then I talk apart with Pasha. With his help, I plan to rob the cure from these nefasty roos. I go with him to Washington. Can leave by risen noon.

MORNING COME, I WAKE ALONE. As I open eyes, my aching know the hour be late. The forest warm and woken, feel myself outside its busy life. All other hammocks bandon — ya, and Pasha’s hammock empty left, it ripple loose with breeze. Must worry where this yellow creature gone. Why he ain’t woke myself.

I scramble down the tree with clumsy sleep in all my limbs. Drop and land unbalance, come away with scratchen wrist. From a lower bough, I fetch my Patagonia jacket. Feel the papa tea, fat in its pocket, as I pull it on. Fish down my white Adidas, where they hung from laces by. Socks inside is healthy cold against my seeking finger.

Be hunkern down to clad my socks when, in the corner of my feeling, tickle a creeping motion. I look to watch this creeping, and my startle eye find Crow.

BEHIND THE WOODSTACK, he go sneaking. Subtle as blackish light that change in trees, he slip to Nighting Brook. Stoop by the water’s edge. Can see, he washing something there, his arms move picky to.

He stand and shake this something round. Shiny drops go flung. He turn and it be a dangling rabbit. Collar of blood show in her tawny fur where she been bled. Crow go busy to the ground, swaddle this rabbit in some plastic. Fit her in his pack and zip it. Stand and sling the pack upon.

Then I see Crow’s shape walk shadowy behind the branches. Hop the brook, and crash up through the bushes to the farther path.

This path be overgrown. Ain’t kept since Popsicle been sergeant. Got brush, ya, ladyflowers growing where the path be wet. It be the Army path, a way no Sengle take except in war.

Then my anger comprehend. Crow go trade his meat for simpers. Fetch our wealth to Army camp.

A moment, I still catch on need, how I must chase the cure. But Crow burn in my nerves. Ya, I think how Pasha said, it be a week before roos come. And Crow be disappearing now, he steal our food to Armies now. My littles hunger while our enemies fatten on their meal.

Then my better task forgot. Ain’t even pause to clad my shoes. Sling them by laces round my neck, and I stalk over Nighting Brook. I track my animose.

NO EASY STEP be in this journey. Army path untend, is rich with sticks and leafy bushes. These be Crow’s scouts, they wait to give a warning noise. My bare feet ache from cold, and times, my heel land on an acorn peak and pain light all my bones. But cannot stumble. Cannot pause. Ever must keep Crow in my hearing, but cannot walk into his sight.

Where the trees be thin and small by Army camp, Crow halt his step. This I ain’t expect, and I come careless up behind. I stop with one foot raise, hold like a hound that point a bird. Be sure he going to turn and see me, but he peer down at himself. Can see his nervy breathing, how he tug preenish at his clothes.

Then he spit into the dirt and go accustom into camp. Move among the huts without no thought, no worry sneaking. Step to a hut of green bepainten hide and speak his voice.

Hut open mouth. Crow stoop and gone inside.

Green hut mean Karim, a boy who wear green feathers to his war. Ain’t know Karim’s looks sans this feather gaud. Child broken Jonah’s wrist in war, is all I know of him. Now be bitter to think this green fly eat our townie meat.

I creep forward careful. Find my familiar hiding, in a clutch of enfant spruce. Here I hunker low to watch. The camp weigh on my eyes.

Army huts be tallish cones, cover in scrappy fur and deerskin. Huts painten every color, and they drawn with Armies’ birdhead gods. Behind, disgusting like no shame, there stand the simper house. This be a warehouse sort of building, flattish to the ground. Sides be dismal metal, warp along its grayish stripes. Got two doors that roll up from the ground, and locken from outside. Here the Army horses winter with the simpers and the enfants, bed by pissen straw.

In campen center stand the godchair. This be a grandiose tree trunk carven with the faces of their gods — Shango, god of rain; Musa, antlered bird of thinking; Ayesha, goddess of their rape that Armies callen love; and Allah, god of gods. No person sitting in this chair. In the seat, where no one see, is heapen skulls of OldKings past.

At the feet of this strange ugliness go twitching hens. A gross-head rooster threaten among them, like a staring OldKing. Every distance smell like boozy spew and piss and chicken shee. In this place, no good thing smile.

Now is hunting hours, and camp be mostly empty left. Only, from the godchair’s pit, the smoke of sacrifice go by. Here stand a simper, wrappen in black godclothes, head-to-heels. Ain’t got no person shape, her face be cloth. Her front look like her back.

From her nothing face, she sing. Be a whine that change and wasten on the passing breeze. She raise her hand above, a bloody joint of chicken dangle there. Then she bend down from the hip and lay it on the sacrifice. Rise singing, and unwrap her godclothes, till she remain in simper garb, of scants and naked skin. Smoke grow with the taste of food.

I be gritting hungry, when something startle in the trees beside. Second that I look, the NewKing stalk into the camp.

Then every wisdom be behind. I stare my lonely eyes.

NewKing Mamadou bell severe like blackness in a starry night. His every move go graciose as fire. He seventeen, and tall in height, large in ferocious strength. Wear godscars on both his cheeks. Got one tooth broken from our wars. In him, this also be bellesse. Yo, girls think upon him, like all boys think on myself and suffer in sleep. I think upon the NewKing, Ice Cream Star that love like ten hearts.

He walk, loose in his scorn. The feathers at his braids lift reddish blackish in the troubling breeze. His deerhound Terrify Courage jaunt behind and woof in steep delight. Hound nose to the chicken fence as Mamadou look back.

Pasha come behind him, laughing. I shock hard. My legs begin to rise, all risk forgot. Voice join to call his name.

But then the roo turn by. My breath choke. I crouch back in my hiding, sweat bright on my nape.

Ain’t Pasha. Child bigly made with yellow hair, but ain’t got Pasha’s face. Nose small and perchen, like a hound’s. Pink cheeks is fatly loose. Yo, half his ear been cut away. Only show a curlen scar, where normal ear will be.

Now this roo bring out a shooting pistol, twin to mine. Roo focus and he aim. Gun fire and all noise startle in my head.

A hen leap sideward, spraying blood into a cloud of risen dust. The roo laugh pitchy high as Terrify Courage yap and dodge away. Hen come down scrambling, spending out her blood. Wheel and scrabble another puff of dust before she hush in death.

Mamadou speak, displease. He beckon Terrify Courage, who canter to and stop beside his feet. Look up with chasten eyes.

Roo smile unconcern. He reach the gun to Mamadou.

Mamadou take the gun. The roo go talk in undervoice, pink face be grinning teeth. Ain’t hear particular words, but I can hear his voice be drunk. Ya, Mamadou only do, is hold the gun. Ain’t even part forget the gun. Seem like this gun be thinking.

Then Mamadou tuck the gun into his belt, like my gun poken in my belt. I feel it there as Mamadou smile back at the roo, smile hard and angry.

And Mamadou turn, go to his hut and duck inside its open flap. The pink roo follow, hound come jog behind. The hut close its black lips.

Everything fall silent calm. Only the smoke go thoughtful by, the chickens twitch their heads. I ease onto the ground, my hand held hot on my gun’s cold.

I NEVER BEEN IN ARMY CAMP by day. But I known these huts by sneaking darkness, lorn in moon. Yo, I often seen the NewKing’s hound in guilty night.

Once Terrify Courage come beside, place his bearden snout between us two where we been lain. Hound look up hopeful in his eyes. Ain’t myself can make the NewKing laugh, but Terrify bring this laugh. Hound sit back and pant joyeuse.

“Terrify Mice, should be his name,” I say. “Hound got no hate.”

Mamadou frown. “A picky hound, can terrify who he wish.”

“Can terrify who be mice.”

Then Mamadou call me mice until my spirit rile. I slap his head. He catch me rough, we war in wrestling, war in scary love. We wake again by blackish night in Mamadou’s smoken hut.

I walk out lonesome to my shame. The moon watch like a skull.

Now I recall the sleeping furs, the reddish light of his birch fire. Lips linger on my throat, a crime, a crime, but honor shed like clothes. Every pain be gold.

Once, in folly of this love, the NewKing say he steal me queen. Some sleepy night I wake in slavers’ nets. Queen gems be mine. So Mamadou say, and twist my braids around his fingers.

Since any time remember, been the Christings given queens. Never a Sengle bear their filth. Queen be a slave that boss the lesser slaves, she live without no name. Sengle song about this say, “Queen go in tears and rubies.”

I tell Mamadou, Send your feathers, sure I fight beyond all love. Your feathers die in screams before I rest. They die in blood. Mamadou say, You die in blood, yours be the throat is cut. Queen ain’t the chooser, girlish. You the choice.

Arrogant death is been my choice. I said, Death be my choice.

Then weeks passing when I sleep unquiet. Wait for featherboys and nets, the wrestling bruises and the gag. I watch hard for my war. Curl beneath my tarp on rainy nights and hear within the watery storm. Dry nights, I hear the quiet air.

Weeks pass in breeze and nothing. Lonely weeks turn into summer. Then my listening be my need. Windy nights when sorrow race my blood, I heed my pain.

No one know this quiet business but myself and Mamadou. Ain’t Driver know, nor any a Sengle child. This been the pain I choose. And sure no Nat Mass Army draw another tear from me. Been my heart’s downpour that I shed before.

That time been gone. My every love be gone.

BE SORRY MINUTES THEN I WAIT for Crow. The fire of sacrifice burn out and quit its smoke. I try to think of roos, how Armies friending them somehow. But my mind stray and stray to Mamadou’s hut, insist its memories.

At last, to rid my awful nerves, I sit and put on shoes. Lacing my Adidas tight onto my feet is comfort. Like a bone child hold your hand. I zip up Patagonia, and my shivering fill its warm.

Then a voice rise from the quiet. Laugh up bright and long. This friendly noise uncanny in the bleak unlife of camp.

Crow stand out from Karim’s green hut. He straighten himself and stretch his bigly arms, his face excite and glad. Pack hang flat and empty from his hand. His meat be gone.

My animose come toward me. Trample by, uncaring spiriteuse. Yo, I stand to my feet and follow. Ain’t no thought betook, nor I attempt to hush my footsteps. But he ain’t heed my noise. Lost in himself, he walk his strut joyeuse.

Scarce been going for a minute, when he turn off from the path. He step through the twiggy berries down to Passing Brook and crouch along its stony margin. Bend himself and splash. He wash his uggety face, the lips still smile. Eyes far in selfish joy.

I think of Armies warring for the roos, Crow bringing them his catch. Yo, I be starving from this morning. Hungry feel like angry; it be natural these words sound kin. My hungry anger stare at Crow Sixteen, his beardskin washing in the brook, his strong respect. And he shake water from his head and stand. His eye meet mine.

His face go stiff. I want to pull his hair and cry my voice. I want to skree his guilt.

And we be so, eyes met. Plight and blame share in our eyes.

Then Crow leap off, he spark away. Crow gone in sprinting flight.

Too slow, I chase behind. Go swearing, calling his unluck name. Name sting him faster on, and we go tumble scarra-barra, running until the chase be pleasure. The forest soft in its gold afternoon, pine needles kick behind. Arms catch flying boughs. Sun jewel in the patchy trees. I course with all my breathen power, but Crow be fast and long, begin to pull away in distance.

Past the 110 broken road, he leap a bracken gully. Be near to Sengle town, can think he head there, seeking home. But before the town smell come, Crow dash sideways. Go duck through branches into blinding clear. I leap behind and sun be whitish everything, is grass and air. We run into the powerline.

Powerline be a road of grass. Is shot with gnats and crickets that skip up and blend with light. Lectric towers stand above, shape like giganty children with arms out. Be steel and wire and ruin. Feet concree, and heads is set about with hawken nests.

In this big sunlight, Crow weaken. Like a stricken deer that feel its arrow, he lose stride. Slow and stagger, until he only stand with hands on thighs and gasp his breath.

Panting, I stop by him. We gobble air, squint sun, like both been struck by sudden sickness. His face be sweaten ugly in the bright, his teeth flash strange.

Then, from his wheezing breath, Crow hiss, “Yo poison! You the worst thing that I want!”

I shout breathless, “No one care what Shee-Heart want!”

“Ain’t got to follow people who ain’t want you!”

“Nay, you give Karim our meat! Why you done it? Why?”

“Why you gone to Mamadou they nights?” His voice go high. “Be sure I know yourself, more than no Driver know!”

My spirit sting, but I yell furiose, “Know from Armies!”

“Know from eyes. I seen! Yo, why you gone?”

“This ain’t the same, goddamn! Be stuff of feeling.”

“Why it ain’t the same?” Crow’s sweat show helpless on his face. “You only saying. How it ain’t?”

Then everything shift in my thought. Be like in hunting, when a turkey hid in dapple sunlight. See nothing but the goldish leaves, until the turkey twitch its tail. Then all the shapes go into different meaning.

A chill rise in my nape. “Is business of amour with you?”

“Ain’t yours to know.” He grit his mouth. “Ain’t need to sneak behind me.”

“Nay, ain’t girls? Be this Karim?”

Crow spit into the dirt, frown sharp away. “Cannot be Karim. This act forbid.”

The answer bitter in his face, and my eye shy from it. I look up at the steely towers. Wind fly rough above. The grassy trash, caught on the towers’ wire, flutter like clothes. My mind see sly Karim. His head bend toward me, feathers flutter. Is bent to kiss Crow Doe. Here my thought fail.

No Sengle do this crime. Is Army manners, boys who love with boys. Been so with NewKing Akh, a prince feroce, but boyish in his love. He stolen boys to serve this greed. These boys been clothe like simper girls, in scraps and beaden chains.

No Christing tolerate this; nor a skewish boy remain at Lowell mill once this be known. No enfants bred from it, its get be death. Is selfish loves. Their hearts be envy and their bodies pain — so say the Christing Teachings.

I gone staring at Crow’s hands, how they make and unmake fists. Press small, then they release. Wind kick hard again, my braids blow round like trash.

“Truth, you liking boys?” I say in whisper.

His voice come low resenting. “Can be so. Ain’t felt no girlish love.”

“Thought you gone there buying simpers.”

“Sure you be an imbecile fool.”

I laugh short. “I guess.”

His eyes come up. He seek my face, eyes narrow against the sun. “How it begun with you and Mamadou?”

I shrug unliking, look away into the blowing grass. “In war. Been chasing him… yo sho, begun how things begin.”

“Chase your enemy?” Crow scoff breath. “Karim must chase for me. I hunt no Armies, nay.”

“Karim come hunting you?” I look up nervy.

“Seen what I am.” Memory darken in his eyes. “Seen and want. This day, been following deer myself. Karim come follow me.”

“This green filth disrespect yourself?”

Be a breath where Crow stare at me. Seem he try to understand. Then he say, “Your thought the filth. Karim the only child in all this world that love myself.”

My stomach tweak inside. “No Army love a Sengle, blindness. Be your own people love you.”

“Nay, I be my crime to them, they known.” His voice break soft. “Go love this, I ain’t think.”

“Been crime the same with Mamadou and me. Can be forgot.”

“You and Mamadou be forgot, is nothing. Be your gain. All things for Ice Cream Star is gain. Go with an Army, gain. Go with a yellow roo, is gain.”

“Ain’t gone with any roo—”

“Yo heed! My heart be dirt, is Army meat. But I ain’t leave this heart.”

My voice come feary thin. “You go to them?”

“Been gone these days. You know my hunt be theirs.”

“When you be sergeant—”

“Hear me, fool. I cannot be no sergeant.”

Cloud put its hand upon the sun. Can feel this dark upon my skin, and I pull back my Patagonia cuff. Find my shirt’s cloth and wipe my sweat. Behind my arm, I watch Crow’s face.

His lashy eyes more prettieuse than deer’s, his no-chin face. But his ugly closer to my heart than no bellesse. Be the face of all my memories.

Then I get a sickly doubt. I say careful slow, “Ain’t want myself?”

Crow staring long. The grassen route change color in the wind.

I say, “You want myself, I do this with you. Ain’t need… ain’t need boys.”

His breath stop deep. A moment pass while we both hurt and hush. Then his mouth twist up feroce. “Nay. Ain’t your blame. What I become, you ain’t no part of that.”

First moment, I relieve. Then grief rise again, I say, “Ain’t need to go to them, you ain’t.”

“Can quit this empty noise. You never even miss myself.”

“Damn, you my animose. I always miss you.”

“Been littles then. That business gone.”

“Nay, this business of Karim be gone. Never a person know. Can be forgot.”

“Argue be a waste. I ain’t expect to come home from this walk.” Then his eye skit sideways from my looking, and he turn away. Stalk hasty toward the shadow woods.

My step be ready to pursue, but some conscience hold me still. Heart sprint and weaken as he walk on. Yo, as he reach the woods, I call, “I love you like no damn Karim!”

Crow ain’t heed nor startle. He go on feary through the blowing grass, he step into the forest. Something crunch and something shift, but then his catly foot find silence. Soon he only be a changing dark, a dark that I remember.

16. OF PAPA TEA

MY HEART SEE BACKWARD TO THE POWERLINE, AS I WALK FORWARD home. See Crow returning to that feathern hut, to slaving and to roos. How green Karim receive Crow in his arms. The hut flap close and shiver.

Walk forward on. Walk forward on. Ain’t no way else to do. Yo, I must do all work that I neglect. Must plan to steal the cure. Must bring my Sengles safe from roos. Ain’t got rest to do, ain’t time for feeling in my life.

Yet, ain’t Sengle town feel like no home without Crow’s angry self. Ain’t Ice Cream feel like me.

Near nighting camp, there stand a sapling oak is yellowen with fall. Show clever like a flag. Where this oak appear, I stop and take a leaf between my fingers. Ain’t pluck this leaf. I roll it tight. Let go, and there the leaf spring up. Is curly on its stem.

When we been eights, my Crow and I writ messages on leaves. Been one moose oak we chose. We curl the leaf was writ upon, in signal. The other then go check our tree, and find the curlen leaf. It say “Come robbing eggs at Tophet” or “Villa got stank breath.” Pluck this leaf and write upon the next. So we kept our secrets ours, before we had no secrets.

Then winter come and bald the trees. This writing game forgot.

Now I pluck my curly leaf, and put it to my lips. Stay thinking, quiet.

Be unworth, to choose no love amour above his people. Ain’t done this for myself, ever I want. Want like no living pain. But my children eat before my heart can eat. So I must feel. Yo, his love be skewish — worse than evil, lower than beneath.

Yet my spirit say, My Crow, my Crow. My sorrow weak and kind.

Then ain’t no help to do. I take my breath. Walk forward on.

IN TOWN, IT BE OUR HIGLY-PIGLY STEW. Trash left in every catching place; clothes hung to dry on branches. Fawny littles scream and chase, play war among themself. Tequila Fourteen Tool sit by to watch. A squirm of babies sleep around her, hounds curl in among.

By the cookfire, Hate You Fourteen Ka and Driver sit. Got folden chairs toward the burning warm. I spy them, and my news feel dirty somehow in my blood. Want to turn and leave, feel like I bring a catching fever. But Hate You see me, and reach hand to Driver’s hand. He also look.

This Hate You be a quiet-kept fourteen, responsible in ways. Now, how they sit cahoots, I mind that Driver been her enfant’s father. My brother never chase no girl, ain’t choose between them in his feeling. Yet these two pair well.

I come toward and say low-voice, “Salue.”

“Bone salue,” say Hate You.

Driver get his brother face. “Slept far, my Ice. The morning meal be by.”

“Nay, been away and back.” I come and hunker to the fire. Its woody breath come to my nose.

Driver reach and touch my head. “Hair grown beyond its braids. Be some old centipedes you got.”

I shake my braids to shoo him, smile up weak. “Sure, I look like any rotten log. Males going to fear.”

“I fix your braids,” say Hate You. “If you ain’t go hunt.”

“Nay, nay. This misery wait.” I pinch some piney needles off the ground, toss them in the fire. Watch them worm and brightly shrink. Be thinking how I tell about the roos, but feeling cringe. The fact be sudden in itself.

At last I say, “Where be my Pasha Moose? Ain’t stole my horse and left?”

“Been fetch to Lowells,” Hate You say, eyes close on me. “Their First Runner come.”

“Is so?” I breathe relief. “Been wondering where he took himself.”

Driver say, “You keeping late at Lowell yesternight.”

“Truth,” I say with conscious nerves. “The owls been sleeping when we come.”

“Owls done more than me,” say Driver soft. “Been waiting here.”

“Ain’t slept for me?” I turn to him, surprise.

Before I speak again, my Driver cough. Cough hard, and he go on. From toe to hair, he wheeze his strength. Ya, when it exhaust, his breathing still be noisy in his throat. Long body looking hungry strange. Nose shapen like a bone.

Then Hate You say in undervoice, “Got Driver’s loot? From El Mayor?”

“Nay.” I recollect myself, sit back. “Got business past no loot.”

“Ain’t papa tea?” She suck her breath. “Sure El Mayor—”

“Ain’t tea, is said,” say Driver thin.

A moment, I be only startling, Hate You know about this tea. Discuss my brother’s need like any fact. Then memory recall the papa gift of El Mayor. Hand go to my pocket’s fatness — but with the tea, I feel the folden page from yesternight. The radio speech writ down for Driver’s eyes.

I slip my fingers in my pocket and pull out the paper. Guilt react, but I go on. Sure Driver take this tea off to his hiding meadow, sleep all hours. My need ain’t wait this time.

“Yo heed,” I say. “Ain’t loot but news. Been spoken through their radio. Is word about roos.”

Then my talk travail, it haste ahead of Driver’s sickness. I tell about the radio speech and Pasha’s scary warning, how we need to flee our woods. Yo, I tell what Pasha spoken on our homeward journey. How we plan to thieve the cure, save every yeary child. Last I read the speech itself. Paper gone damp in the night, is limp when it unfold.

My voice start weak, but it gain certainty as I read on. My fingers shiver, and beside them, I see Driver’s hungry face. His tired sickness breathe. His eye go empty at the fire. My eyes turn from this truth, and I speak louder, till my voice rasp dry and scrape, and every word is said.

I fold the page. Driver watch the fire where it burn low. An orange tracery scab the logs. One flame squirm, nerviose and white.

I say, “My brother, treatment for WAKS. You hear? Is real. The cure be real.”

He watch the fire, ain’t seem to think. Only his frown be carven deep. Then something tremble in his face. “You ain’t go to roos.”

“Nay, be well,” I say, surprise. “My Pasha help me, sure.”

“You be fourteen, ain’t got your growth.”

“Been fifteen all these months, my brother.”

He look to me, face harden in its hurt. “Should be myself.”

A moment, I relieve. Will Driver go, ain’t mine to do. Then I see Hate You clutch her hands. I hear his gasping breath.

I say rough, “Ain’t everything your task.”

“Nay.” Driver shake his head. “Crow do this work. Ain’t skinny girls to send.”

“Ho,” I say, frighten. “Crow—”

Here my voice fail. The fire wave its light.

I swallow and say, “Sure Crow, he… you know how.”

I hook an acorn from the packen ground and toss it in the flames. In the earth, this acorn left the imprint of its pointy head. I put my finger in the hole, and feel the earthen cool, the sandy wet.

“Something been with Crow, Ice Cream?” Hate You’s voice sound simple nerves.

“Ain’t nothing mally. Crow our child, he bony in himself. Yo sho, he got some reason he be gone.”

“Be gone?” Now Hate You’s eyes is black with scary feeling.

Driver sigh. He turn his face away, but I see where his hand move up. Rub at his eye.

“Gone to Armies.” Tears hurt in my chest, my voice sound all of nose. “Some boys do so. Ain’t nothing in it. But, brother, Sengles going to leave? What it needing first, we flee.”

“Ain’t know,” say Driver, face low-held. “These roos… be only tales.”

“Nay, brother.” I clutch fingers in the dirt. “The radio been.”

Then Driver shift, he look at Hate You. She reach her hand to him. He take it soft and say, “You go to Lowell for me?”

Hate You say, “Yo sho, must get this tea. Ain’t wait no day.”

“Ho, your tea!” I say. “Ain’t meant to leave you hurting, sorry.”

My hand find the bag. I cast it hasty to my brother. Throw clumsy, and it land short from his toes. Take a second till he comprehend. Then Driver scramble to the dirt and grab. Eyes gladden before they shame.

Then anything in his face, be that he look if he can leave. Eyes got no self, like plastic baby’s eyes. Sweat brighten on his skin.

I stand shaky to my feet. “Go, brother. Use this gift.”

He clutch his tea against his chest. “Will think on what you say. This threat of roos. Will think.”

My voice ain’t mine, his voice ain’t his. Is lies speak to each other, while we watch foreign in our eyes.

Then Driver turn away. Walk off to easter path, his step go hasty through the bushes. And my pain know, time left my brother.

WE ONLY KNOW ONE PHARMACY for posies: papa tea. Is grown by Lowells, in a glassen house of fatly leaf and flowers. Walk through their Pharmacy House, its smell be drowsy in itself. Be beary smell, like monthen sleep.

Tea ain’t changing what occur from posies. It besleep the pain. Turn agonies to dreams; it dull a cough into a tickling swallow. Yo, some children with no hurting sickness use it for its joy. Drink it once, and every love be thankful. Pain seem tiny. Sleep tumblen on yourself, and never bother with no pride. But you drink every day, your need begin. Ain’t get that tea, you took with shaking sweat and itching fright. Is mostly simpers fall to this, or Lowells working in the Pharmacy House. And a Sengle, when his years is gone, may slip to papa need.

When my death come, I face this death. Got courage for my pain. But I ain’t strong to see my brother weak.

Standing by this fire, I break in crying unashame. And Hate You cry herself — she come and cling on me so hard, be like I carry her somehow. Her crying sound close in my ear, a yip is like a fever’s voice. Behind this everything somewhere, I see the tallish day, our trees. A Tober leaf fall lazy down, slip in and out of long sunlight. Below, our littles shout and chase. Is blind to just themself.

Then in my sorrow dream, there come a rustle up behind. Something cold poke in my back. Turn icely at my spine.

“Foo baby manners! Quit.” Be Keepers’ voice. “Will shoot your head!”

Hate You stand away and gasp her breath. “Ho, where that object stole?”

I look around and blink my tears. Round Keepers’ neck be strung three candy necklaces. She wear a rooish jacket, gray and green, is mostly twice her size. And pointing upward at my nose she hold a rooish pistol. Got two fingers on the trigger, and she grin like every joy.

17. OF ROOISH GIFT

DAMN!” I GRAB THE PISTOL’S NOSE. “SHOOT ME, YOU SHOOTING all your meals, my Keepers Two. Who hunt your meat?”

“Go wipe your nose. You snailing on yourself.” She laugh high in her voice.

“Where you got that gun, annoying?”

She tug it from my grip and step back dodging. “Kit of Pasha Roo. You tell him I can keep my pistol. Been stolen fair, now he say it ain’t mine.”

“Point that garbage down! Can hope that pistol ain’t got bullets.”

“Tell him! It only be a stranger roo. I be your Sengle.”

“Ain’t eights is wearing guns, my fool.”

“I ain’t no fool! Where Driver at? Sergeant decide this gift.”

“Calm your fight, biggety,” Hate You say. “Ain’t girlish sounds.”

“Girlish shee!” say Keepers loud. “Girlish maggoty shee! Shee eaten by a hound, and he go spew it on your head!”

Here Pasha Roo walk from the woods. He wear an under-tee with rooish, dapple-ugly pants. Ain’t seen these pants before. My Pasha only worn but jeans. Yo, the tee be whiten fresh, like something found in plastic. A roo-pack on his back, be near as grandy as himself. Yo, on his shoulder slung a rifle, black entire without no wood. Gun be new as morning.

He see my teary eyes, and something happen in his face. Ain’t know why, I gladden well. I call, “What angry loot be this?”

“Salue,” say Pasha, careful-voice. He come toward, his step go heavy with his packen load.

When he coming close, can smell he washen. Lost his stank. His whiff be Lowell nice, of herb savon and bathing water. Can guess, they treat him to a bathing room at Lowell mill. But Lowells never give the roo this gun.

He say, “You cry for what? What doing here?”

“Some worm fall in the fire,” say Keepers. “Ice Cream crying for this worm. Is weakling tears.”

“Give Pasha back his pistol,” I say.

“Hungry tears!” say Keepers. “That worm the only meat Ice Cream can hunt!”

“Give his gun, rambuntious.”

Keepers throw the pistol on the ground, run stamping off. Best Creature Five come in her path, and as Keepers pass, she reach one hand and catch Best Creature’s chest. He topper-bottom down and skree, ain’t notice how his hurt begun.

I bend to take the pistol, hand it up to Pasha Roo. He pull off his pack. Settle it down and open its main partment.

Inside be any loot. Most is carboard boxes, brown without no markings. Among be candy sucks and boxen cigarettes. Can see a rubber lizard toy, the kind that stand on its back legs. A radio there, is black with hearing spike fold down upon itself.

All is plastic-wrapt, and none of this got normal looks. Candy ain’t crumble nowhere, nor the plastic got no blackish spots. Be simple like a picture drawn. Nor the cigarettes ain’t any sort I known from scratching. Got crabbish writing with all weirdo letters. Roo and roo.

Hate You suck her breath. “Loot prettieuse, ya.”

Pasha twist his face. Take a yellow cloth from his pant pocket and wipe the gun. Find a carboard box and set it in. This go back in the pack.

Now can see, the other boxes be the same. Is guns.

I say, low-voice, “Can leave us, Hate You? Need to parley with my roo.”

She hold a lingering moment. Glance at Pasha Roo, unnerve. Then she wipe her tearen face and walk off toward Tequila.

When Hate You gone, I say, “Curiose, where you attain this wealth.”

He grimace, still waring on my tears. “Is mine. Was left, hid by that house you burn. Keepers come with me, show place. I ain’t known how to go.”

“But… most be guns?”

“Twelve guns. Thirteen with rifle.”

“And why you keeping thirteen guns? You got no thirteen hands to use.”

“Is from our politics.” He shrug. “Give gifts, the children come for war. Give guns and candy and… ain’t know this word. Gero, we call.”

“Gero. What this definition be?”

“Is dust. Can smoke, it make a child joyeuse. Ain’t fear.”

I flinch, my thought see Driver by the fire. “You brung this gero?”

“Nay,” he say. “I smoke all this myself.”

“Foo! You ain’t!”

“Nay, is joke. Been left in house that burn. I smoke some then, ya.” He get a sorry look, shake his head.

“How, you got some sickness?”

“Nay, be so. For nerviose.”

Ain’t help my mouth, I say unkind, “Who like that trash, ain’t got no sickness?”

Pasha grimace and muttern roo. Reach in his pocket, get a box of rooish cigarettes. Fish one out, is white and perfect. Look like something grown.

And now the Army roo remember — how he hand the gun to Mamadou, grin his uggety face. Can magine easy how the featherboys will preciate these gifts. What they do with dozen guns.

I look to the pack again, feel every kind of mally. “Pasha. Be others like yourself? Roos that come to children… give this trick bonesse?”

“Sure be many. I ain’t only.”

“Heed, I seen a roo at Army camp. They got a roo their own.”

Quick, I tell about this roo. How he and NewKing friendly met; the pistol given. While this talk continue, Pasha’s face go through some differences. He grip his rifle nervy.

When I finish, he say, “How this roo look? How his face?”

“Yellow fur like you. Is bellyish, like he bear a tardy enfant. Yo, he lost one ear.”

Pasha shake his head disgusting. “Deema.”

“Deema?”

“Child name Deema. Who it be.”

“How, you know him?”

“Ain’t bone sort. Be fool soldat. Ain’t bone for nothing.”

Here first, it realize to me that every roo got names. Can know each other, and can say, This roo be bone, this roo be stank. Obvious be so, and yet this fact ain’t want to comprehend.

“Truth is right,” I say uncertain. “Ain’t bone acting. So I feel.”

Pasha say his rooish Vote, deep-sounding in his body. Then he say, “I best go back to Lowell. Tell this.”

“Lowell, right. And what you doing there this morning?”

Now Pasha’s face clear into warmth. “I talk to El Mayor. Is vally child. He choose to leave.”

“The Lowells go?” My heart pause in walking. “When they go?”

“What he said, five days. But now is Deema.” Pasha shake his head. “Must leaving quick.”

“Ho, for this Deema? Why?”

“How Deema work, the Armies going to help him. Help take children.”

I startle mally. “Foo, they help.”

“Help,” say Pasha flat. “For promise cure. For promise… how the Armies stronger. Deema, be his work so. Yes.”

“Can promise, sure. Ain’t mean that Mamadou heed.”

“Ice.” Pasha tense, his face distress. “Ain’t time for… for be moron. I go talk El Mayor. But Sengles leave? Tomorrow best.”

This word tomorrow come to me like tired impossibilities. I feel my tearen face again, the stiffness where it dry.

“Tomorrow,” I say rough. “Ain’t know. Is Driver got to say.”

“Driver?” Pasha flinch. “Ice Cream—”

“Nay, heed. We go to Washington? We get this cure?”

Can hear my noisy fives behind, is fighting sticks and laughing. Pasha’s mouth gone grim. His bluish eyes be tired distances. “Ice, roos ain’t in Washington now. Ain’t be till January.”

“January?” I suck my breath. “Nay, be two months to wait.”

“Ya. Can go then.”

“Ain’t no chance they being sooner? We gone sooner, best.”

“Nay.” He grit his mouth. “If I ain’t flee roos, I gone to Washington also. How I know.”

I swallow, look back to the fire. Now it only got one clinging flame, creep frail beneath.

“Must leave this place,” say Pasha wishful.

“Yo sho,” I say in choking voice. “Will talk to Driver. He going to heed.”

Roo’s big arms tense up and grow, like he intend some obstacle. But he think again, say low, “I go to El Mayor. Come back soon.”

I shrug. “Driver live two months. He can. But we will rob the cure? You and I, my Pasha.”

He stare at me without no answer. Then something liven in his frosten eyes, like water stir by fish. He reach into his pocket. Pick a paper out, hand this to me.

Then he duck and hoist his pack. Lumber and unbalance while the burden settle its weight. “See by,” he say in undervoice and turn with downward mood. Soon his yellow-grayish-greenish colors mix into the woods.

Folden paper be a page of El Mayor’s no-book. Is writ:

Hope you know my writing. Roo ain’t lie about their killing. Ain’t know what lies he tell, but killing all be real. Seen proofs. I can explain this when you come.

Our mill depart in petty days. I ask you to come with my Lowells. Send Driver to me if he give you talk. Sengles share our food while there be food. Trust this word.

Also yourself can share my tent. Bony tent, good company. I save my goating for this hope.

I fold the page again. Slip it in Patagonia pocket with the radio speech. I try to wonder on this killing, how it prove to El Mayor. But I keep seeing Driver seize the papa tea with skinny hand. His eyes gone empty, false.

Other children now return. Middy meal be soon, our numbers thicken like a rain. Jermaine and Jonah come from hunting. Got a pigeon, all they carry. Ya, thirteenish girls come back with fishing poles and nothing caught. My hunger’s expectation think of Crow, of Crow Doe’s hunt. Then hope misgive. Crow never hunt our food again, nor Driver hunt our food.

Yo, as my grief occur again, come Mouse and Foxen from the woods. They see myself and scramble toward, exciting in their eyes. Mouse cry, “Ice Cream! Must guess the secret!”

Then both these moron eights be chanting, “Guess the secret! Guess the secret!”

“Want no secrets!” I shout through their noise. “Yo, leave me rest!”

They hold with disappointing face. “Want, if you known,” say Foxen airy.

“So tell,” I say. “It need no guessing.”

“Nay!” Mouse scream. “Must guess!”

Foxen peal a giggle. “Be one hint. Is from the Christings.”

“Here be a hint for you.” I show my fist. “Yo, leave me rest.”

“Shoo,” say Mouse. “You only stupid. Or you guessing normal.”

“Cannot guess! You shaming cause you stupid!” Foxen blow her tongue.

Then come a sound like cows. Be low and high at once. Mouse press his palm against his mouth. Foxen say, “The secret!”

It blare again: ain’t cows but horns. Be the Tophet trumpets, now can hear their plaining tune. When the blaring pause, beneath is christy-nonnies sung. John of Christ’s good basso come familiar through the trees.

My first thought be gratty. Bugling mean a church been called, for meeting of all towns. Any a child can witness at their churches, though I never done. But this be needful time — can warn them everything we learn of roos. Sure Christings heed, ya Driver heeding better in their company.

But when the Christings ride into the clear, my gladness choke.

18. OF TAKEN QUEEN

FOUR RIDERS COME. IS JOHN IN FRONT, ON THEIR BIG PLOUGH-MARE Tribulation. Boy Japhet ride behind with Beanie Christwife on a fatten mule. Trumpet hang round Japhet’s neck. These three sing low and weary. Yo, their hair be wet, in sign of grief.

Fourth rider be on Mamadou’s buckskin stallion Beg-No-Pity. NewKing’s feathers, crow-black cardinal-red, is worn in mane and tail. Rider be a girl, is wrapt in gauzy black from head to toe. Black drippen from her feet themself; her head misshapen with thick cloth. Only her brownish eyes reveal. These eyes be scary blank.

The song die to its final sound. John of Christ remove his hat.

“Be met in Jesus name,” he say. “His greeting on your town from Tophet graced. We bide the Long Agreement.”

“Salue your home. Salue the queen,” I say. My face feel scalden tight. “Was this Susannah?”

“Ya, Susannah been,” say John. He got spent weeping in his speech, voice sounding all of nose. “She sacrifice for all our peace. The Long Agreement stand.”

My littles gather curiose. Be thrilling sights to these. Even Villa join this crowd, with plucking pigeon in her hands. And my heart beat slow and weak, bemisery my blood.

THE LONG AGREEMENT be the bad remainder from our murder wars. Until this law been made, the Nat Mass Armies took slaves in our woods. Been Sengles taken, and it been occasion, even Lowells took. But mostly these been Christing girls — unwarry people, easy caught. In the simper house, these stolen children lose their name.

At last, the Christings take a fellowship that they destroy all Armies. The Lowells and the Sengles join in this revenging creed. Then killings follow killings; every day be sad with burials. In these wars, the Lowells build their steely gates, build walls about. The Christings’ cows been murdern, and their fields grown up unkept; most their homes gone fleeing north. Worst battle that there was, been fought about the Christwife Sarah. In this, the Armies burn a home, the Christing Showcase Cinema. There fifty children die in sleep.

Then was made the Long Agreement, soil of all our better years. Now Armies take their slaves in distant towns beyond all friendship. In Massa, girls be living safe. Our wars lose all their death.

But in this Long Agreement, be a clause about the Army queen. Christings let one girl be taken for every NewKing made. This queen traden strict in law. Two featherboys ride out to Tophet. Bring godclothes and queenly gems, and name the chosen wife. Then in consenting show, the girl must clad these gauds and veils. Her husband ride her to all towns, and call a queening church. No child must talk to riding queen, nor she can speak her voice. Not till this cloth unbound by NewKing, when she taken in her flesh, can she return to life.

Return without a name, return apart from all her people. Return to Mamadou his hut. To blood of Ice Cream Star been left upon the NewKing’s furs, and listen to the voice I known, the only love I choose.

“TOOK QUEEN BE PRAISE TO TOPHET,” I say rough. “Be honor in this choice.”

“Be honor,” John repeat, and Beanie Christwife say up bright, “Be honor.”

Boy Japhet grit against no words. He scowl and stroke the mule’s brown neck. Behind me, Foxen’s voice say clear, “Is wearing chains beneath. Her nose cut off.” Keepers reply in hiss, “Ain’t so. And you ain’t speak.” Foxen say, “I speak. I speak,” then everybody hush.

I make the two-stick sign in air and say, “Is well. We will respect the queen for Tophet’s sake.”

John put his hat against his chest. His eyes blink hard. “Church gather tomorrow morning at Tophet house. At first of dawn, be welcome prayer. Follow this with honey meal, for sweetness granten by Our Lord. Then be speech from any child who witness…”

As he speaking this, reminders inkle in my thought. John tell on — about the later meals and music songs — while it needle in my mind how I must witness on the roos. Yo, I can tell about the roo at Army camp. Never the Christings give Susannah to Armies, once they learning this. Ain’t send her to no camp of roos. Is time, still can be right.

Then John of Christ conclude, “We call your Driver Star to churchen meet.”

I startle from my thought. “Driver? Only he?”

“Ain’t church for friendly talk.” John shake his head. “Queen church be holy met.”

I look at him, at Japhet and Beanie. A moment I confuse, feel they should know that I must speak. Then I stumble in my words, “Sure, myself… I wish to come. Be good respect in this.”

“Only leaders come,” say Japhet low. “Ain’t happy feast.”

“Must be ceremony,” say John.

“I keep this ceremony,” I say. “Sure, will keep with any rule.”

“Nay,” Beanie Christwife say. “Ain’t extra children. Cannot feed all Sengles.”

“Queen church written in the Long Agreement,” Japhet say. “Can feed whoever eat but—”

“Ain’t feed all they Sengles,” Beanie muttern.

“Sure, the Long Agreement,” John repeat with better certainty. “Determine by our fathers so.”

Then, in my feary watching, Japhet rein his fatty mule. John glance at Susannah, his good face blur with grief. Every slightish motion say they leave.

I feel how this church will pass. Nor I can trust what Driver do. I feel his sicken face in all my nerves, his papa speaking dull. All my panic join, goliath blind inside myself.

I say, “Driver taken with his posies. I go in his place.”

Then my Sengles staring bright. Their fright be turn to me.

“Must be the sergeant come,” say Beanie Christwife, sharp.

John raise hand to Beanie. “Driver taken? This be said?” He squint at me. It seem he try to hear my words in memory.

“In His name, be said.” My sight be dark, but voice speak clear. “The sergeant gone in sickness. I take his place.”

Can hear the muttern voices of my Sengles, start objection. Keepers’ voice go hissing, “Hush, ain’t hear. I got to hear.”

“Driver Star is dead,” say John of Christ in careful sadness. “Heaven call his honest soul.”

“Driver Star is dead,” I say.

Story Four Duval begin to cry. I ain’t look at her face. I wish to swallow back my words, but I stand cold. I mouth these words again, in silence, like this stop their meaning.

Then Shiny Eleven Angels spit into the dirt. She turn and run, yell Crow Doe’s name. All flinch and watch. She run up in the woods, her feet hit crunchen through the sticky briars. Voice weaken in its running.

John say nervy, “Crow ain’t in this? Must this telling wait?”

“Crow be gone,” say Hate You, shy-voice. “Is gone to Armies.”

“Foo!” Villa sniff. “No sho, he gone. He sergeant, if no person be.”

“Crow?” Jermaine say loud. “Found what to want! He gone, is better luck.”

“Ain’t Driver dead,” Cat Fancy Thirteen say. “He ain’t so sick!”

Story Four yell at me, “Want no other sergeant! Ain’t want you!”

“Nor me neither,” say Cat Fancy. “Ain’t so sick, he ain’t!”

Best Creature panic and skree, “Where Driver gone? You rid our Driver?” Now Problem start to cry, and every nervy little catch this wail.

Cat Fancy shout, as her own tears begin, “Driver must be here! Ain’t to decide without him!”

Then every child be noise and mouth. Susannah’s mount, the buckskin Beg-No-Pity, shy back from this tumult. Susannah sit this graciose in silence, her strong body bow. I call through the reeling larm, “I must be sergeant! How it is, my Sengles. Wish it ain’t, goddamn!”

Then around behind me, silence start. It cast and darken. Soon is only enfants wailing. All faces turn to watch behind.

Is Driver come back from his hiding meadow, slow with tea. His sicken eyes stare at myself. All his respect be tired.

My fear see nothing but my fear. Ain’t speech come to my mind.

Cat Fancy call out nervy, “Driver! Make her go!”

Driver flinch, but keep his eyes on me. Yo, Kool Ten begin to call, and Redbook shout her voice. Driver stare beyond this jabber to myself. Take breath, take air in deep. It come back coughing. Chop in parts.

One and one, my Sengles hush. Ain’t hear but Driver’s cough. Be a helpless sound, like moth that kick against a tenten wall. And Driver look beyond. Look where his sleep remain and can forget.

He turn away. Put hand up to his face, like he will guard his privacy. Walk to the farther woods.

My strength go with my brother, leave unsteady to the darken pines. Yo, I turn blind to John.

I gasp the parting words: “His grace be on you. Grace go with the queen.”

John take reins up nervy. “All gifts be good from Christ our Lord.”

They heel their mounts, the horses pick their hoofs toward Lowell path. Beanie start the christy-nonny as they reach the branchen shade. Sing though Japhet never join, nor John of Christ be singing. Her voice sound feary wondering as it dismiss and thin away.

19. MY SERGEANT TIME BEGINNING

I SIT TO MIDDY MEAL IN DRIVER’S PLACE AT SERGEANT TABLE. AIN’T notice how we eat. Ain’t know, was this meal cake or wood. I sit and think, nor any child require me with no question. Tequila Fourteen weeping careless, all our girlish thirteens weep — but ain’t no child objecting more. No voice pronounce the name of Crow.

And when this grim meal finish, I first speak to them as sergeant.

All it need, I stand up to my feet, and every child go hush. Look to me like I being sergeant always, safe in every help. Only at the enfant blanket, skree go forward, and Hate You’s hushing. This skree be in my heart, is like my feelings’ crying voice.

First I say, roos come to Massa woods. I tell this careful calm, ain’t make these roos particular risky. Just be so, like we got termites in some chair. Ain’t worth to keep.

The next words I remember mostly. They repeat again in memory like jeering after. Been spoken in my wildness, in my courage born of grief.

“This move, we wander farther. Leave these woods, like time ago, the Sengles voyage here and prosper well. Our greats been roam for daring miles. Come up from Chespea Water, nor they ain’t had horses like we got. Yo, this journey we will take, the Lowells be our trusty help. Tomorrow I request the Christings also. Hope these all be company in our deed.

“Be bell wandering to expect. Can see the stony mountains, see the waters in the leaping ocean. We wander till we seen each inch of sky, drink all its shiny rains. Beyond, we find another woods. Some country where the tatoes growing wild, and every evac full. We go and choose a life joyeuse from every life that be.

“Ya, beyond the farther south, it be a cure for posies. This truth discover past no doubt. Loot dangerous to find — ain’t bring you all to face this risk. But ever it take, I going to rob this pharmacy for… for our good child.” Then I stop in weakness, watch their feary faces’ hush.

A wondering moment pass, then Jonah Fourteen say, “What be this cure?”

Now can notice, all my older children watching perilous. I say, “I only know it being there. And it fix posies.”

“Fix like papa tea?” Now Jonah’s face be clenchen with mistrust.

“Nay,” I say. “Fix it entire. Child live sixty years, can be. Ain’t die of posies nothing.”

Be another quietness. My jones all frowning inward. Is like they seek within themself, to figure if the cure be real.

Then Mouse call out, “What happen for the Armies? They be bring?”

To this, all laugh up nervy. Some littles hooting, calling nee-naws at Mouse seriose. Asha Badmouth say, “And we bring spiders. Bring diseases also. What we need!”

“Foo,” say Keepers. “Must bring Armies. Who we fight in these new woods?”

I say loud, “The Armies gone to roos.”

The jabber stop its voice. Their stares bewilder. Can hear Cat Fancy keeping at her crying, through and on.

“How they gone to roos?” Jermaine say. “They becoming roos?”

Foxen laugh and call, “They go turn white!”

“Hush,” I say in sergeant voice. “Will see this at the morrow church. Learn what these Armies do.”

Before no child can give new problems, I start them to pack the camp. Is complication task, ya, every child belabor me with questions. I ain’t get peace to feel my sorrow more.

And work go to its finish, day walk down to tired night.

Been thought to wait for Pasha, but he slow in coming back from Lowell. And when the final sun be gone, is sure that Driver sleep. Ya, sergeant be the only child can parley with the dead-among. So my heart insist toward my brother, need his face.

I leave Jermaine my deputy. Give him instructions for the night. Then I head to Driver’s hiding meadow through the Tophet woods.

MY FOOT KNOW EVERY HILL and stumbling hollow of this walk. Know where the owl will hoo, and where the rusten bicycle been left. On this path, when I been five, I catch a toad and try to teach him speech. Here I drink my first rat booze. I known the mosquitoes’ fathers and their grands and greats; I known the cardinal birds that eat these parents.

But now my townie woods become a temporary place, a picture where some past life been. I walk through memories gone.

As I come to the evac roads, a crashing sound break out. My ABC leap from her houndish nowhere. She run left-right before my path, her tongue laugh sideways down.

“Shoo, every creature,” I say. “Every creature in my trouble.”

Hound trot in front then, looking back responsible and bright. When we come to the hiding house, she dash ahead. Vanish through the tween-yards, where the shadows make a path of blindness. Here I go cautieuse. Can smell his fire.

Cloud hug the moon as I come to the meadow’s grayer dark. By the dying fire, show Driver’s tent. Tent flaps tied open. ABC sat by, look scouty like she guard this meeting.

“Brother,” I call low.

A shadow change inside the tent, but ain’t no word return. I take my breath in this reproach. Say the words is drill: “The sergeant will bespeak the sergeant been.” Then my heart repent, my throat ache with my sorry love.

But Driver say, “Come by.”

I walk toward and hunker by the tent, go down on knees. He lain, head to the tenten opening, wrap up in a felty blanket. Is only hair that show. His face turn down toward the ground.

“Thought we can parley,” I say clumsy.

“Be gone night. Was sleeping.”

“Sure, is tardy. But, brother… I can sleep here?”

His head shift, but he ain’t look. Can only see his cheek, cut by a shadow from the tent. “You be sergeant. Yours to choose.”

“Is what I wish,” I say weak-voice. “But I respect your wish above.”

I wait on haunches, all my thinking shame. Feel where ABC be watching, and think about the sleeper hounds is dead inside the house.

Then Driver sigh, “Expect, be rain. You like a tent this night.”

“Sure be rain. Is right.”

He ain’t say more, but shift himself, make room. I creep inside. Tent scarce is big for two, it take some spidering before I can lay down. A sleeping bag unzip and spread upon the floor, but cold creep through. Can feel the chill of earth. I lay behind him, pillow my head down on my open palm. But nothing in my body rest.

Then cautieuse, I reach and lay my other hand on top his blanket, on his ribben side. When I touch, my Driver flinch. Be careful held against my feeling.

I say low, “We move the town.”

His head turn slight, like he present an ear. Can hear him swallow.

“We go to Lowells,” I say. “Like you said, when we been fearing Armies. Yours been right. El Mayor ask this himself.”

“Been right from him.” His voice come tired.

“Sure. He a trusty goat enough.”

“He fit you, sister,” Driver say uncaring. “Both be birds of hotness.”

“Ain’t fit me while I still can fight.” I try to laugh, but Driver wait in stillness. Can feel, he wait to sleep.

I swallow against my guilt and try, “These roos be coming. Must be changes round.”

Driver shake his head against the tenten floor. “Talk ain’t war.”

“Yo sho, but if this be. Remember how you say, ‘Do more than less.’ You mind this saying?”

“Can be.”

“Is yours. Cannot be foolish.”

Then his shoulders tense up quick. My hand upon his ribs can feel his cough mount, how he hold and still. Struggle at this weakness, like his body straining at some weight. Then it only cough beneath his breath. His body ease.

He say, “Foolish be a child who sleep without no blanket.”

“Sure, but, brother—”

“Going to sleep here, sleep,” he say with almost laughter. “Less your noise.”

Been meant to tell him all my plans, but now I give my talk up gratty. Take the blanket, pull it careful till it cover both. Then, though my sadness crave to hold him, I leave him good room. Ain’t bone taboo to lie held with no brother. Nor my Driver love exceptions. Be a plain-lawed child.

Then I lay and watch his breathing. Is simple one and two, though he cough sometimes, or stir his limbs and rearrange. Yo, soon his breathing slow and gruffen gentle into sleep. In this my spirit comfort. I go drowsy to my brother’s warm.

In my beginning dream, I see the NewKing in a broken road. His back to me, and all himself be distant like a sun. Yo, gunfire noise ahead. My conscience suffer and insist, He cannot hear. Is roos. I try to call, but cannot make no voice… and I wake, and soothe again, and drowse again in fretting, how Mamadou be there at the morrow’s church. Guess if Armies leave with us, if I can save him anyhow. And this mingle into dreams, my brother’s struggling breath, his warm.

When last I open eyes, outside the tenten flap, a snow begun. Sparkle airy over the ember fire. One crumb of snow caught in a dab of clover, near outside. And there it stick, against the moving night that blow behind, until my eyes close into dark.

20. THE SPRING WHEN I LOVE MAMADOU

FIRST EVER I COME TO MAMADOU, BEEN WAR. I CHOSEN HIM FOR hate before I wanting him in love.

This been our Sengle-Army wars, a clobberie joyeuse. Been skirmish for its wildness, good as laughing to no breath. Knives sharpen only at they point; can make a braggery wound, but do no worser injury. Come back in a feast of body gladness, ravish in your strength.

These scuffle wars, we fight our match. No eighteen want to beat a skinny twelve. So ain’t sense that I will try to fight no Mamadou. Is only bellicose pride — must catch the biggest fish and shoot the biggest deer and fight the NewKing. And I confuse in feeling, all that year that Crow gone cold to me. My loves become an anger. War been my only good relief.

This war when I chase Mamadou, they come on us at middy meal. I been fighting a reddish-brownish feather I call Bigface, striking dangerous like twenty cats. But when I see the NewKing, where he turn to leave, I lose my care. Then Bigface cub me heavy to the cheek, go kick my leg from under. I scramble falling to my hands, and he cry victory on me.

So I take my hurting pride into the NewKing’s chase.

Mamadou walking heedless, leave this squalling fight like boredom. I run toward, he never even look. I catch him once behind, and he fight back with half attention. Call me pest and enfant, bat away my blows but never strike. Yo, I fight beyond my sense, feel my beginning shame. And ever he see my tricks before, like he control myself.

Through this, he dodge back in the woods. His only interest be to rid me. In last insult, he catch my stabbing wrist. Break my knifen grip, and throw the knife into the farther bushes. Then furiose in shame, I catch onto his hand and bite.

Ya, Mamadou laugh. Ain’t even seek to free himself, he laugh uncaring in my face.

My pride go stark. I stand away. He watching at me, grinning, godscars gone deep in his cheeks. Then he shake his head and turn again, pick up his careless step. Go off like I ain’t been.

AT FOURTEEN, I BEEN SHY in wanting, late to boyish love. Done kissing mostly, and my thoughts of sex was misty never-beens. Magine what I saying after; how someone suffer for my need. Infatuate on Popsicle sometime, but he callen dead before no flirting grown to use. Never I think of Mamadou so. My heart to Armies be disgust.

But, in the following nights, I stalk the NewKing lonesome to his camp. Nor I tell any a child about this habit.

No girlish Sengle go into the Army camp alone. Ain’t their feather honor that a girl depart without no shame. So I hunt the NewKing by weak moon, and spy from distance. Climb a tree beside, or find a hunting hide in bushes. Watch for Mamadou to come out to piss, to roam in sleepless temper. Plan how I knock him footless unawares, get kicks into his face. Best worth, can cut him with my knife. Bring back his blood in victory.

But Mamadou be a morning-risen child, he fool my need. See simpers going in-and-out his hut; or he appear some seconds, talking to a feather. But mostly it be empty in the camp by starlight hours. Hounds sniffing round, and sometimes chickens rouse in cluck disturbance. The whinnying snuff of horses by, no differences to see.

So these nights become a thinking loneliness. Lie belly-down on some fat tree bough; wonder on Crow’s malignant ways, or how all children loving Hate You Ka more than myself. Look at my legs in moonlight, deciding if they prettieuse or stalky. Through this, I feel a savage missing in my flesh entire. The Army camp, its pointen huts with feathers stirring in wind, seem like a picture of my need. All evil be inside these huts, the evil that bemisery me. Evil I desire to know, in all its maudy powers.

I begin to come by sooner, in the second hour of darkness. Watch the evening business there, feel how this settle back into my quiet thinking time. Sometimes the NewKing passing round, can hear his angry voice. See his sharp bellesse of movement, and every change wake in my blood.

Here I begin to talk to NewKing Mamadou in my head. Explain my need; how it be natural we war together. We be the same in heart feroce. And this thinking stray, until I telling all my moods to him, about Crow Insect and my brother’s disapproving talks. Tell dreams I got of roaming to the mountains, lonely with my horse — how I will saddle Money with a puma skin, ride to the wester ocean, fight wild strangers into fear. Yo, in my dreaming mind, the NewKing answer with respecting coldness. Tell me every evil wisdom, and I gather this in strength.

Gone weeks in this strangeness, till one night, when camp be empty in its sleep, Mamadou come out. Terrify Courage trot behind, the NewKing going in his stride. He walking lost in silent angers, got a flask of booze he carry. Yo, the hound come sit beneath my tree. Look quizzy up, wag friendly to my scent. Mamadou pass on thoughtless, stop apart with back to me. Lift up his flask to drink, ain’t heeding nothing. And I curse my cowardesse. Must go, must make my actual fight, but every blood in me be cold.

I creep careful down, be gratty for this time of climbing. Can hope the NewKing pass back into camp, that something cheat my war. But nothing be. I get my knife in hand. Check on the goodly rock in my front pocket. Yo, as I put my feet down in wet leaves, Terrify Courage bark.

Mamadou look back sharp. See me, then ware around, expect a raid — some dozen Sengles wilding from the trees. But ain’t no breath of people there. Be only myself in foolish venture, staring at him with no hope.

And it realize I fear to touch him. Fear his hands on me, without no sense. I grit against myself. Go for pocket quick, and peg my stone crisp at his face.

He duck in almost time. Stone glance against his head. Then he come hawken straight and angry, bigger than I remember. Cannot breathe before he be upon — ya, in the final second, as he swing his fist, I scrabble quick. Catch him in the chest with my good knife, and he get in a clobber to my head. I trip but catch myself. Come back warring with both arms, but Mamadou catch my wrist. He catch my hair.

I got my knife hand clear. Must stab him, but my body lose its knowledge. Can only feel his hands on me, the starting heat of tears.

He stare at me a furiose minute. Clenchen hand hold painful in my braids while he look at my face, look with uncomprehending scorn.

Then his hands ease. “Driver’s sister?”

I ain’t answer, but my face go painful to this question. Known, but never felt, I ain’t no person he can name.

He say low, “You here alone?”

“Yes.” My voice come out in whisper.

“Cannot be here.” He glance back to the camp, unwoken still.

I say, peculiar soft, like telling secrets to my Crow, “Ain’t fearing them.”

Then his hands flee from me. “Want no problems. Damn, you rid yourself. You crazy.”

“I leaving when I choose.”

He shake his head some wondering wise. “Go. Go on.”

Then he turn and leave, snapping his fingers to his hound. Hound look at me sorry and they two depart with haste unliking, noisy in the leaves.

FOLLOWING NIGHTS BE STANK. I keep to Sengle nighting camp, but be a dirt humiliation. Is always littles screaming, fool Jermaine come bothering round. Crow stare past myself, is all the ugly problems of my life.

Three nights past, I lose my reason. Go back to Army camp, and dress particular to this. Wear some tighter jeans I never use for their discomfort. A strappy tee that show my breasts. I think of this like some distracting powers I can use in fight. And I bring my hunting knife, is sharpen all its length. Bring everything that cannot help me in no real world, and walk off like I go into some fantasy I can rule.

Come to the camp in normal stalking. This time, I never climb my tree, I only hide below. Hour pass in watching, while the camp go nightward slow. Simpers fussing round and all their usual grossness talk. At last, they slip into their huts, like mice that disappear in holes.

Their troubling passen into stars when Mamadou come out. Stalk careless from his hut, straight to my tree. He look up at the branches, get a humor look. My heart beat in my skin, and every fear gone into knowing shame. Yo, as he come to shouting distance, I stand into sight. Hunting knife hide close against my leg.

Mamadou pause his step. Shake his head and come on tired. But his eyes be on me, he see my body in its clothes. Now my anger wake, and as he come in reach, I break and go for him with simple rightness. Dodge sudden as he ware, I swing. Knife catch his naked arm. I take my knife back frighten glad as he cry in his throat. Almost, I pelt away, but he leap fast and catch my braids.

I come off my feet, be jerking agony from this hair. Get my footing back with healthy panic. Yo, I stab my knife, but he hit fury hard against this hand. It loose in numbness, almost free the knife. In this distraction, Mamadou get my face a solid punch. Feel good as need, but then he grab me to him hard. Capture both my arms, and peel the knife from me like easy practice.

I stiffen. Look past his shoulder to the trees with showing carelessness. No consequences weigh for nothing. Can cut me how he like. Was vally done, I win my aim.

He raise the knife and poke its point into my underchin. Lift my face upon this pain, until I look into his eyes.

Then he say low, “What you think happening to you now?”

My heart go queery to this. Gladness changing to some unknown thing, some unbearable brightness. Yo, our bodies breathe against each other, harsh from war. Can feel his muscles shifting as he put the knife in his back pocket. And he say, soft in mockery, “Think it be war? You thinking this?”

My thoughts gone terror white, but I say, “Ain’t nothing to me, what it be.”

“Ain’t nothing to you.” Then his face come toward. First I think he going to kiss me, and I brace myself to bite. But he brush his cheek past mine, until I feel his heaten breath against my tender throat. I go weak in my blood, unwanten sorrows how is good. Run through myself in scary trembling, and when his lips rest to my neck, I take my breath in startle love.

He lick there, taste my sweat, and say, “Think I can want your nothing. But what your brother say to this?”

A moment, I catch perilous. All my body weak with questions. And I say, “He never going to know.”

So Mamadou bring me to his hut, he take my blood in fair return. Be hells and mysteries in this, and I feel shame like nevering worms. But when I leave into the starren nakedness of after, I ain’t want to leave. Be gone five steps, and all my body weep. I want the NewKing cruel.

FORWARD WEEKS BE STUMBLING MADNESS. My every breath drink Mamadou, his hands on me, his angry use. I love him like a death, as hard as black behind the stars. Day become a boring strangeness. I look at my Sengles like they be unmeaning dust. Like Mamadou be the first thing that I ever truly known, the only life in this stale world.

Most nights I never go to him. I keeping scary back. But I lie in my hammock with my hunting knife. Strip off all my clothes and lie without no blanket in searching air. Lick the knifen blade and touch my body with my other hand, and pass through every second of our loves in angry sweetness. And then a night will come that I decide. Sneak out in perilous want. Stalk through the Armies’ sleeping huts, and magine how he can be with some simper. Yo, I duck into his hut with fearless loss of human pride, and he be lying how he sleep, in stripen blanket on the furs. But he ain’t sleeping, got no simper, and arrogance know he wait for me.

His eyes give me one second of his pleasure. Then he change in usual coldness, and my heart relieve. I say, “How your arm is healing?” and he say, “Come here and see.” And we tangle into this, a scary underwater of our bodies on the furs, the ground beneath.

Be nights I stay for hours, and Mamadou teach me love till I jalouse his unguess histories, the taken simpers who been here before. Yo, be nights we lie together when the fire gone to ash. We talking in this secret dark. Feel the coldness gather, and Mamadou tell of wars in sleeper times, of generals and their thousand children run to burning fight. And I tell my roaming maginations of the wester ocean — but we never talking of our lives, our daytime self. Is always dreams and tales from books.

Then come a night, from passing word, I realize his books of ancient wars been read to him by slaves. He never learn to read, is girlish to their Army attitudes. Then I laugh at him unnerven, all they insect morals, but Mamadou catch me vicious in his arms. My laughter frighten into need. He say my name into my ear, like he give me this name. Yo, in this lost fight, he say, like daring me to fail, like mockery, You love me, Sengle? And I feel, this ain’t no love, we be like ghosts in hell — like after death you lose your thoughts, but keep your body in a bliss of nightmares — and I say furiose, Ain’t going to lie, I do. He press me down beneath him, say my name, and say he love me also. Then every terrify hate be gold. Darkness better than no light, and I creep out to solitary night and think of killing him, or how he kill me in some madness. Feel it ending so, is like a war must end with burning death.

In this, I come fifteen, and my bellesse become a gossip of the Massa towns and homes. Jermaine begin to fear me honest, and Driver start his talk how I need enfants, time be late. Yo, these feary months, I sometimes wearing dresses to my hunt. Wash myself with perfume soap, weave beads into my hair, gone hot in vanities. Sometimes I stare into an evac mirror, seeing what Mamadou see, a sultry perfectesse, and love this Ice Cream Star who ain’t myself, who only be a dazing looks, like starry light on water.

And as these weeks pass into memory, I become his given creature, past no separate freedom. But I going to him less. My guilt begin to struggle alive. With Sengles, I feel like a sounding crime, a smelling dirt among. And I begin to know, someday I grow a baby from these evils — baby who be an ugly question. So I keep alone these days, sleep at the library apart.

Then come a time, ain’t been to Mamadou in various weeks. Will go, I promise to my need — but I promise to my pride, the night I go must be the last. Become two weeks, become a month, and summer be in flower while I dream in grief of this last night. In Sengle town, I cry strange tears at nothings. Driver frustrate at my tempers, and I gripe at him to feel my anger, how my love be bright. This also be the time I start to visit El Mayor. We fight our goating battles while my need be terror black. Be fighting Mamadou’s love — yo, when I leave, I walk into this missing love. Can feel it in my teeth themself. Will draw an arrow in my bow, but what I shoot be love.

And then, one morning I be hunting, with my bow and no belief. Can scarcely notice well enough to find the deery trails. Come to a sunlight patch of woods and I stand there in dream, one tender palm against a tree. Feel its rough bark on my skin, like every cruelty I love, and I look by and there be Mamadou.

No Army come to Sengle hunting places, ain’t in custom. So I know he come for me. Can guess, he see my second’s joy, before I find my pride. Then I say cold, “You needing something, NewKing?”

He walk to me with graciose and casual scorn. Pull the bow out of my hands, he take the arrows from my shoulder. Throw all this aside, and we be kissing like we love each other in some other way, until he take my braids into his hand, hold me apart. Keep me fast, like he cannot say words without this mean security. And he say, “Come by tonight. I got a parley to you.”

“Got a parley, you can tell it now.”

He ain’t answer, only look at me with thinking eyes. Like he consider me again, make some decision in his pride. I say, “You parley or you leave? Be hunting food myself.” My voice be almost truthful, and he smile the way he sometimes do, with simple liking. Nor he leave for nothing. Be an hour, with sunlight on our skin in woods, and all our crimes of night be strange. And real again, like never known, beyond all fear and comprehending. And when he go, I think, that been our final time, is done. But I know, will go this night. Will bring myself to him, like debt I owe to his bellesse.

This be the night he say he take me queen. I meet this furiose and blind. Stand in their camp of rape, in NewKing’s hut itself, and tell the filth his people be. Mamadou watch with hatred as I give his crimes their names. And my scary blood feel how these words be simple truth. He be a slaver, ya, is natural that he keep me slaven. I terrify when he fight me into love — say all hating nonsense while I hold him desperate, weeping breath. But he let me leave. He only saying, Sengle, you be back some night to beg for me.

Yo I never done. I only wait in vanity for this queening raid that never come. For his killing knife I need, this ending.

SO BEEN THE HAUNTINGS of my sleep, this last day of my younger heart. So I woken to the NewKing’s memory. And he follow me in thought, the morning of Susannah’s church, last morning that it been no Sengle town.

21. TOBER 31 ITS EVIL

FOR CHURCH, EACH BRAID MUST WEAR SOME BEAD, DRESS MUST be graciose and clean. Slow hours be took in hair and painting for a grandy church. So, before the sun begin, I creep from Driver’s tent. Do a freezing wash in Nighting Brook, and I wake Hate You to my help.

Groom be an houry task of hair unbraiding, braiding, dark and cold. Only is the fire to see, the moon in tired cloud. Hate You tug and work and time take in my fever thought. Be reveries of roos and Mamadou, of Washington afar; the grandy war my Pasha spoken of, and how we sneak there.

Time my braids is done and beaden prettieuse, the east gone soft. Then Hate You paint my eyes with some cosmetic, while I squint its tickling. We scout some shoes, black heely nonsense things that cannot walk. Last work be gowny dress, and this become a seeking complication. We open packen bags, clothes toss around. Still every dress be wrong. They thin from moths, or falling loose, or be too tight for decent looks. It seem like sleepers only made all dresses to defeat this purpose.

Yo, at last, one zip close to my waist. It take my flesh up in itself like glad embrace, and settle warm. Hate You take her breath and say, “Yo right.” She fetch a standing mirror, edgen rough without no frame. Hold it up herself, and nod with smiling expectation.

Any a Sengle Star be bell. We long and careful made, got prettieuse faces sweet with mischief. Myself, in dress and hundred braids — is easy truth, be bell. Dress be silver cloth, is bright and slender to my waist. Legs show to the knee, is clean in elegance like stepping mare’s. Skin perfect black. My lips be formen like a purple bloom. Eyes clear like knowing, and their color got a raven shine, show even in this whisker light.

Yet these eyes fear.

Can only see, how I be small. Be gracile and glitter, is a dragonfly of nothing. Look like a twelve, ain’t grown to bear no child. Ain’t big to fight.

“Is vally done,” I say. But my voice halt, it sound like breath.

Hate You look at me uncertain. “Can be more bell with lipstick.”

I see her hurt, and I say stronger, “Feary bell. Give diggers envy. Only, it feel like nuisance on.”

Then I leave Hate You to repack all clothes. Run to the horsen field. Ain’t bear my nerves for haste. Yo, when I ride out on Money, still is only darkness birds that sing. Be night in every quarter but the east as I take Tophet path.

RIDING, SKIRT MUST HITCH UP to my thighs, my shoes caught in one hand. Nor this dress be wintry garb. My chicken skin be lively, bare feet ache and yearn toward Money’s warm. And now I riding to, my mind skip headlong to the meet. I magine the Christing churchroom, how I stalk there silvery in dawnlight. How all eyes will turn and startle to my shine bellesse.

Then, in my magination, NewKing Mamadou appear. I give him proper greeting, but our hatred love be in my eyes. Yo, the sermon pass, the time of every witness come. I rise to tell about the roos. The NewKing watch with every child.

Then any speech I do, be choice. Can swear damnations on the Armies, how they join with roos. Describe how they will steal our children into rooish slavery. Then Christings keep Susannah back, reject these Army lice. But Mamadou’s arrogance scorn my word. He stay in Massa, stay by roos and lose to warry death.

Or I can speak without no blames. Ain’t mention Deema Roo; tell only warnings, and the cure its promise. Invite the Armies to our brave departure. Then can be, the NewKing leave with us — and take Susannah queen. His treachery love walk always in my eyes.

My freezing mouth make shape of Mamadou. My prickling breasts recall his touch, and half my mind remember nights was tumblen in his furs. My skin remember Mamadou his strength, my mouth upon his sweat, and never I see how I can do this choice.

Be at the Tophet’s farther pasture, where the open land begin, when Money shy up wild. She buck away beside the path, yank vicious at her reins. When I pull back, my selfy mare break stubborn to a gallop. I rein and wheel her round, but she still pick her feet in backward mood.

Then in the snow, I see a humpen shape behind the railing fence. I shush at Money, stroke her neck. Let the reins draw gentle till she ease and stand, half off the path.

I swing down from her back. Bare feet land painful in the snow. Ain’t pause to fuss with shoes, I step quick forward. Let the reins play out until I stretch like hound who pull a leash.

Dark shape be huge ungainly. Squinten in the dawn, can see is Tribulation, Tophet’s plough mare. Lie on her side with hind legs thrust out strange. Her neck curve sharp, nose tuck toward her knees. This nose be still as wood.

Beside her neck, like musty smoke, a reddish-grayish stain be spread. I think of hounds, of bears. But she ain’t eaten none; is dead but whole. Be like this bear come by for killing only. Rabie mad.

A shivering take, deep in myself. I shush in honey tones, lead Money on beyond this prey. She trot with prancing motion, hasty. Take a minute’s going in barefoot snow before she ease and walk. I grab into her mane and hike to mount again. Kick her up, and heel to gallop. Then our two fears join. We sprint together from this death.

We driving hard along the fence, face to the yellow dawn that look at us from steely distance. At the hill, I gather her to turn. Look up expecting Christings, brace to warn them of their loss. Yo, where we clear the barn, the shapes of Tophet house appear, its narrow windows and its peaks. These show in dashing light, and give a restless crackle sound.

This light be fire. Is set beneath the step, and by the long east side the flames slip up. White smoke rise slow away. Nor ain’t no person by. No child be in the fields, no light in windows. Fire play lonely in this spooken place.

I slip from Money, throw my shoes apart. Ain’t feel my chillen fingers as I tie her reins on their near fence. Money whicker and pull disliking. Yo, I feel feary strange. Ain’t any a child be here, my heart repeat. It ask, where be these children?

I step toward the burning house. Breathe and think in Sengle mind, what happen in this burning. Can notice, fire ain’t crafty set, gone dead in any a place. Yo, the easter side be flaming well. I go and yell with all my lungs, “John! John of Christ!”

A moment, I only hear my breath, the fire’s patient working. Then above, as pale as wishing, come an enfant skree. My body flash in weakness, everything be hard for me.

Then this skree repeat, in double voice.

I grit myself and leap the step, jump over its petty flames. Go touch the door. This be drill, must feel the door. Ain’t open if the door be hot. Be thinking how I break some window, enter from the farther side. But door be normal cool. Then the metal doorknob sticky with its cold, it open well. In the house, all things be simple like they ever was. A sleeper magazine lie open on a fatty chair. Be wheelie toys on their yarn rug. The clock tick unconcern.

But in the room behind, a flame sway toward the open door. Fire fall back again and find a curtain, climb in watching time. Smoke prick my nose.

I call out, “Where you be? Be people here?”

A voice go scream, “Susannah?”

This cut loose a buzzing cry of every Christing little. Be nonsense fright and larm, and it come from the floor above. I break to run.

I trip once on the stairs, and fall onto my scrambling palms. Shin strike a corner with full weight. Hurt keen, but I run on. The air be thicker here, got scratchy taste with rising smoke. And all the littles’ voices seem to boil against the wooden walls. I get to the upstair floor and here my breathing stiffen. Must go down crawling, all my mind think drill, drill, and I go to the howl that draw my need.

Noise come from the enfantroom. I grab the knob, well knowing it be locken. Yet when it hold against my hand, I swear. Throw my shoulder to the door, wild in headless rage. But this door ain’t open in, must pull. Nor I got tools to break it.

I yell through the door, “You keep down to the floor! Keep low!” Turn and rabbit down the stairs into the airy cold.

The morning give reluctant light, be like it shrink from this unkindness. I jump the steppen flame, and pause to kick some snow back over it. It hiss and change its smoke, but ain’t no time to check my work.

Then I run looking, cursing every Christing who ain’t leave tools astray. The garden and fields be bare of nothing. Money neigh reminder at me, back herself and pull her reins. Ain’t got breath to call to her, I run on toward the shed.

Every gratty nerve respond when I see its door open. I find a ready hoe, and turn again. Is something sobbing in me, want to think how this become. Want to sit into the snow and think. This drag in my mind as I run onto something dark.

My foot misstep on softness, I go tumble. Hoe fly beyond, and I turn back, sit up in icy mud.

Japhet lying on his back. Legs drawn together tense. Got a shotgun lain across him, one hand clutch its stock. Blood run from his corner mouth, his face got flecks of gaudy red. White shirt be soak in this bad color. Eyes stare dull surprise.

I leap and fall on him, like I will wake him from this death mistake. Grip his head in hands, scream help in they uncaring eyes. Then I press my face to his chill face. I breathe in once and taste his normal sweat. He stank of life. Yell again, but he stare his same death. Surprise and cold.

I rise with panic through my flesh. Grab the hoe and gasp my sobben breath. I sprint back to the house.

Now the sofa room be bright with wriggling lines of flame. Walls begun to blacken, scraps of fiery curtain blowing round. On the stairs, the smoke show gray and real. I take good breath before I run. Stairs taken jumping. This use all my air, and at the top, I duck down to the floor and breathe again. Is dirty air, ain’t right. Lungs gulp with panic. But I crawl on, and in one concentration, rise and raise the hoe and wedge it in the door. I swing my body’s weight against. The wood crack loud. Be gasping smoke as I go strike again.

Be some twenty times I strike. Must tear the lock surround, be digging into simple wood. Ain’t know how many times I drop, and take my inch of smutty breath. Call my orders, breathe again. Be gratty to hear the yawling skree, can guess these children walk themselves. Ain’t hope I carry all.

And then the splintering grow until I see the metal through. I haul the doorknob, and the door fling by.

Be every dozen littles in this room. Enfants in their wooden pen, and clumsy twos in diapers. A storm of eights run at my legs, and forcen past. I skree myself at this. I shout, “You take the enfants! Ain’t got sense to live! Yo digger trash, goddamn!” Then I be kicking through their fear stampede. I catch a running eight and whirl her back onto her heels. She scream and beat at me, but I go grab her by both shoulders.

I yell into her face, “You heed! You take an enfant. Ain’t be asking, you will do this thing.”

Then something waken in her fear. Her struggle pass, she nod. Behind, the littles empty through the door like thunder. Some been tumble and they call as they go crawling on. The thinnish smoke come lazy over their heads, turn with a picky motion. Air begun to look a grayish blank.

I turn to the enfant pen, a grandy bed with wooden walls. Be six crawler enfants in this bed, all squallen breathless. My sight go harsh. I bark down to my eight, “Ain’t run nowhere,” and loose her arm. She stand there sobbing air as I reach in and take the tiniest chit. Heft this, reach it down to her. She take this enfant well. I grab another and another. Every smoke be aching in my head this weary time. Ain’t carry more than two myself, these enfants struggling fat.

My eight be stood, forgot no reason. Hold her babe and stare. I yell some hollow word, and when I go, she run along. Then we be scrambling down the stairs into the ravish air of life. The open door be heaven, and outside some littles is hurling snow into the struggling fire. They scatter as we come.

I crouch and let my enfants into snow. They scream a different note, like this the peaking insult. I laugh in panic and turn back. There a boyish ten gape at me. I shout, “As big as that and never help! You come with me, you trash!”

Child shout in frighten rage. He turn and run off toward the field.

Be no time for hate. I cast around, and there my trusty eightish girl be waiting. She grin and run before me, looking over shoulder, toward the step. So we go again, and now the air is cotton thick. Must have a wetten cloth, ain’t drill to enter smoke without no cover. But ain’t no time for drill, and every nerve remember we almost finish. Only three remain, is only three.

I let her run before, watch her steps for weakness. But she go up vally. At the top, I grab her from behind. Force her down to crawl. But ain’t no proper air remain. We coughing every inch. Be thinking, ain’t no matter. Be only minutes. Yo, my head now agony, a dark exhaustion start in me.

The rest be strange confusions. Can know how I stand in the enfantroom, eyes run blind with smoke. The enfants quiet dull, but move themself when they been took. Next, I be running, and I swear my arms flop at my sides. But when I reach the stairs, some grace become — both enfants kept. Arms held right, though they ain’t know. Next I be lying on the outside step, cheek heavy on grateful wood. Smell burning but the air be sweet. My mind repeat, no smoke. Then I be sitting up and scream, “You eight! Where be my eight?” Be weeping foolish, never known her name.

Someone pull at me, and I be walking, though my legs go craze. Breath is scorchen in my throat. It hurt feroce when I cough out, but thinking say, I ain’t be ruin. Going to be the same, will live. And then I see my eight, she stood like nothing been. Her straggle hair got ashen scraps atop. She look staring to me, saying, “You be Ice Cream Star, yo sho?”

And there my Money come and shove her nose at me. Most push me over. Her reins come loose, or some child free her reins. I laughing wild. I say in tears, “What be your name, my little?”

Girl laugh back nervy. “Got no name. I waiting on this now. Myself been Army born.”

22. WHAT BEEN AT TOPHET HOUSE

FIRST WORK, I SEND A TENNISH GIRL TO FETCH MY SENGLES TO. She ride off cantering on their mule, start yelling for Sengles before she find the path. Then my No-Name Eight begin their tale, yo, every brat give help. They tell this backward-forwards, say the middles on the ends. Be work before this history understand.

First event been yesterday, when Riding of the Queen reach Lowell. There El Mayor tell John about the Armies’ roo.

Can be, ain’t nothing come from this. John a lawful servant, ain’t want nothing out of custom place. But Japhet break in anger, insist they keep Susannah back. No Christwife give to camp of roos, he say. Ain’t in the Long Agreement, nor is morals.

This argument continue all their journey back to Tophet house. There they call the wives, and all go in the sofa room. Start talking, drinking cider booze. Is natural, the littles sneak onto the stairs to spy.

Most they hear be hennish scandals — calls of coward, calls of fool. But when the night be old, Susannah come out armen-arm with John. Her face beweepen, and the godclothes torn down to her naked shoulders. Braids shine and swing with Army gems.

She say, “I still can go. Until the church it still be time.”

“Nay,” John say, in boozen voice. “The NewKing need to learn. All Massas stand by us, ain’t only us.”

Here Susannah spy the littles, where they pressing back in shadows. She cry up, “You waking? Ain’t enough to worry? Go!”

Must grumble to their sleeprooms then. But from their high room windows, they see John ride out to Army camp.

This night pass into darkness morning, and he ain’t return. Wives go to their beds, but their low squabble never hush. Yo, they rise before the dawn. Been arguing in the cookroom — littles peeking from the stairy rail — when Nat Mass Armies come.

Been ten Armies. They ride on horses, wearing feathers as for war. Yo, every Army got a shooting pistol. With them come the roo.

Roo hold a rifle, and this rifle use before his horse can pause. He fire against the house, this shooting chatter like loud teeth. His frighten horse buck under him, he laugh. His gun swing, firing wild. A window busting in, glass fly and bullets fly. All children dashing for some hiding. Armies self been duck.

When this shooting rest, the NewKing shout Susannah’s name. Yo, before no other child can move, Susannah go.

The eightish No-Name spit when this part come. “Ain’t seen no cowards like these other wives,” she say. “Should go with her.” The other littles give this hot dispute: ain’t cowardesse, been sense. But all agree Susannah leave alone.

She go out barefoot, in her ruin godclothes. Hair been unbraiden from its gems, is shaggy loose like littles’ hair. The feathers call their dirt at her and laugh. Mamadou watch her come. Ain’t say no word.

She go to his horse, stand by, and there be talk between. The littles never hear this. Nor can tell Susannah’s mood, her back stay proud. But when this speaking finish, she turn back from Mamadou. The Christings all give breath with joy. Boy Japhet say, “She talk some reason there! No Army argue our Susannah!”

But she walk to a feather. He put his hand down grinning. She grasp this, spring aloft. Go mount behind him on his horse.

Then Japhet swear, is lost with blindness. He break and run outside, sprint desperate down the steps and out. Ain’t go to Armies, he run longside the house like he go flee. Can see the Armies laugh, some feather fire his pistol loose at Japhet. Ain’t never strike, and Japhet reach the shed. Here he go in. Then, watching in the kitchen, Hannah Christwife say, “Oh, no. Oh, no.” She keep on this “Oh, no,” while Japhet come out with the shotgun.

Nobody seen who shoot him. Ain’t seen him hardly fall. When this bullet fire, Hannah Christwife turn, scream to the littles. Dash, herding them with feet and hands, and heave a two up by the arm. Scream till other Christwives give her help. They chasen all the littles, fighting-swearing, up the stairs. Catch every one, and wrestle those resisting, without talk.

So the littles lock inside the enfantroom. The wives go stamp back down, and can hear Hannah wailing thoughtless, “Oh, my Japhet, got to be alive. My Japhet.” This her brother born.

Windows of the enfantroom look only to the back. The littles never see what happen more. Nor they ain’t hardly hear above the larming enfants in this room. Can only hear some gunshots, slamming door and female shouts.

When the enfants’ larming ease, been silence. Ain’t no voice, no step. Hear nothing, but be soon, they smelling smoke.

WHILE THIS STORY DABBIT and confuse, the fire complete its work. House get jacka-lantern looks, be red in all its eyes, before the flames die into black. The roof collapse with noisy sparks, can hear the falling floors within. Soon the fire be only drifting smoke.

In this, my healthy breath return. Head clear into simple pain. Be scrubbing my hurt palms with snow, my Money’s rein caught to my arm. Gentle her on her neck with these cold hands, amid the littles’ squabble. Yo, I think where these Christwives gone.

At last I say, “Yo hush. The Sengles coming now, they bring you safe.” I take Money’s rein in hand.

“You going?” cry my No-Name Eight.

“I wait for Sengles, shoo. But then I go. Ain’t leave this crime to breed.”

“Crime?” a frighten seven ask. He shivering in his whitish jams. “What crime?”

“Foo,” I say. “Can see, the fire.”

“And Japhet shot,” a little say, in helpful voice. “Be other crime.”

“What you leaving to?” This say a troubling six. Can recognize, this be young Cora, child I known since crawling years. Is grown grasshopper thin, and now got soot along her nervy face.

I set my hand in Cora’s hair. “Ain’t do nothing, never a thing but talk. Come right, you see.” But my hand tremble stubborn.

Cora say, “Will Japhet heal? Where Japhet now?”

Before I answer, sound of gallop come. All the littles spook. They skree, push close around my legs. Money snorting, prance back from the noise. Some children run when Big Smoke come around the barn, Jermaine astride and whipping him like devils.

I yell, “Ain’t fear, be Sengle help! Ain’t fear!”

Jermaine rein in so harsh that Big Smoke stumble, kick his heels. Then Jermaine fling to the ground and run. Make path through all the screamers and I caught into his arms. Money back away, her reins cut into my raw hand.

“Nay, let me free!” I say unthinking. “Nay, I got to—”

“You ain’t hurt? You hurt?”

“Foo, how I be hurt? A fire like any. Let me free, goddamn!”

He hold me back. “How this become?”

“Ain’t no time, I got to go.” I break off from his hands. “You take these littles into Lowell. Be my deputy in this.”

“Where you going? Ice Cream! Cannot go! You ain’t got shoes!”

“Heed, you bring them into Lowell! Bring our Sengles also. Damn, we leave this mally place, been said!”

This balk him, and I step back free. Turn to snorting Money. Take some nervy steps before I settle her to mount. Then my head catch pain as I spring up.

Jermaine call, “Ice, you come to Lowell mill? Ice Cream!”

I ain’t say nothing back. I call out to the littles, “You see, ain’t got to fear no more. Be right. Wives coming back!”

Yet their staring follow with reproach as I heel Money off.

23. OF RESCUE DESPERATIONS

THE MORNING COME UP BLUE AND STRICT WITH COLD. DAY MADE for careless deeds. In the final hiding woods, I pause my Money and unmount. Go find a stick of firewood weight, is fortey for a bat. Then I sault back on Money. She break in canter for some strides, bright-foot like she approve my act. I say to her, “Bespeak him, all I do. We flee if trouble come. Ain’t leave you to they Army rodents.”

Can hear the camp before I see its huts. Make its booze music, howlen song and mally-strung guitar. Child shout some anger while the others jeering, hound yip up. Yo, when I see the feathery points of huts, my fear take bright. Then hatred rise above, hate that these grubs cause fear to Ice Cream Star. I heel my Money into gallop, swearing my heart that Crow be there, will speak for my protection. And my mare run willing forward, jump a log and scatter dust.

Got time to see the Armies standing round, their faces dumb with booze. Trailing feather ornaments look dull in this blue light of morning. With them stand a simper. Wear a yellow shorty dress, been torn across her belly. A glittering cloth wound in her hair, and she lean to a feather’s shoulder. Wave a bottle in one hand. Yo, the sun stare unconcern on this disgusting life.

Seem like a scene I watch forever. Like something in my starting dream, as I fall into sleep. Ain’t Mamadou nor Crow be by, and this seem like some normal doom, a certainty I expect. But it come peculiar in surprise when all these feathers startle. Ain’t right that they run toward, ain’t human that they carry guns. And I be galloping hard. I hold my bat at waisten height and call for NewKing Mamadou, and call again, I skree his name.

Been plan to gallop past these Armies, gallop round again, the times it take until the NewKing come. Use my bat if this require. If bullets come, ain’t turn to meet this death, but gallop on feroce. Ain’t figure in my mind that Money never seen no war.

As these dozen feathers scatter and jeer, my Money fright. Plant hoofs and wheel. My weight go forward loose, I let the bat release to catch her mane.

I jolt onto her back again and we been rearing wild. Dust rise, but feathers running through. A bottle thrown, fly past my head. I shout again for Mamadou, kick Money hard. But where she turn, a feather raise a pistol. He fire into the air, and Money scream her neigh. She rear again and paw her hoofs.

Then someone caught my dress. I feel my balance leave me, all my body seem to leave control. I fall and fall hard back, jar pounden on the dirt. Money kick again, her hoof go huge above my head. The feathers gather to me, and my heart feel gratty as I see my pony jump beyond. Can hear her gallop off, her neigh trail panic as she go.

Then my every part grab by some sally feather. I wrestle, but can get no purchase. Scream Mamadou again, but my voice waste, my every scream sound nothing. Feather kick me in the back, and kick again with fortey pain. I cough and scream again. Next clobber catch my jaw, some ringen hand. This be a metal feeling, like a door slam sudden in. Their insults start to hear, and other kicking jolt my ribs. But I ain’t feel no single pain, be all a rain of hurt. Some hand be pushing in my dress, fingers hurt my breast. Their laughter go.

Then something cry behind. All their bruising holds release. I fall. Bones rattle on the ground, head strike a sharpen hurt. I see their bodies rise away. Can feel a wet pain in my hair.

A high and girlish voice come jeering. “She Mamadou’s Sengle bitch, ain’t see? You steal your trouble, fools.”

Some feather swear and stamp upon my hand. Be sideways crushen, and a whine escape my mouth. His foot remain there, its weight ache through my nerves. I puke slight water in my mouth. And bitterness waste in me, that I shown weak. I swallow my gross taste.

Above, they argue quick. In my corner eye, can see the yellow-dress simper, fist on hip. Be like she float above my pain, a tiny yellow ghost. The feathers be a stanking everything, all things I must escape. I writhe against my squashen hand, but nothing come. Then despair sink cold. Be only breathing through my sickness.

I feel the cold dirt underneath. Stare on my stampen hand, the heel of sneaker shoe on warpen fingers. Cannot tell, if they be broken. The hurt confusing big. Yo, my head be whole, can feel this with my other hand. Is only bloody wetness there, grow sticky in a braid. And my breathing come, my body live. Ain’t ruin, can still live.

Their sneering fight go on. Most be toilet swears, their voice be filth. Cannot help my body, it go flinch at louder words. Yo, all my thinking wait for my escape. Ain’t see no way, but I watch quiet. Listen to their angry garble passen overhead. See the simper’s heely shoes. One heel lift and scratch her other ankle, while the feathers calling insults, and she spit return. My attention sharpen when she say, “Ho, get some rope, you dregs. You waken Hak, I like to see your sorries then. I see this gratty!”

One feather and another tell her she must get this rope. Their voices peevish high. Yo, her shoes turn. She laugh another sewery word and go. A feather call, “And bring yo booze! I drying here!”

Then their laughing come again, and hands in all my dress, fingering my nakedness. I close my eyes, I grit my jaw. Be only thinking of any way I flee. Where Money going to wait. Some Sengle come for me and they distract. We fight like normal, fists and knives. We flee. Must be, I going to flee.

Then something land beside my head. I open eyes to see a dirty whitish rope, loose in its coil. All hands flee from me. Sneaker on my hand release, and I be scrambling up — and knocken down. And caught again, however I slip and scratch. Be caught and hit in jaw again. And hit in every place, ain’t know how much.

My tears come only when they tie my hands. Rope scraping in my skin. Ankles tie, the rope cut in. Be draggen by this ankle rope, my shoulder rasp in dirt.

Then some other calling rise across the camp, impatient. The feathers hush their voice. Step over me and step around. Like miracle wish, they pass away, be like all pain depart. They pass away, is real. Their faces gone.

I look up feary, seeing only sky. Seem like it fall away from me. It move like gasping, dizzy. I pull my wrists against the rope. I stretch my ankles, struggle every careful way. But the rope stay tight, ain’t give enough. I only hurt my hand.

Then steps jar in the earth. I look up, there the yellow-dress simper stand. She bend to me. And she pull from her dress, between her breasts, a bladen knife.

Will cry for help, but ain’t no help. Close, can see the simper’s eyes, weird in nefasty gleam. Seem a beasty soul contain within a person face.

She bend past me, like she reaching for my bounden hands. Her plumpen breast touch my shoulder. Then I feel some coldish metal slipping at my back. I gasp my voice.

She say at my ear, “You hide this now. The NewKing come. Be safe, ya.”

My injure palm hurt on some harden object. Simper form my fingers to it, wait until I hold. It take a breath before I comprehend, she give her knife.

Then she stand away. Rise up like anger, turn her back. “NewKing. Got your loot. She here.”

Come Mamadou’s voice, is sleepen dry. “Hak waking, fatty. Call for you.”

“He call for me, he call for me. Whatever else he do?”

She go forward. I watch after her in sickness. Ain’t want this sudden friend to leave. Ain’t want this knife my bound hands cannot use. Yo, she pause in walking, like she feel this inward cry.

Then her back notice, baren where the yellow dress hang low. First I think some mud crust up in ridges there. Back show every color but the healthy color of good skin.

Is scars. No inch be whole. Is ridgen scars and fresh red hurt. She sigh and reach behind to scratch, her fingers reach this injure patchwork with accustom grace. Then she ease, walk on.

My eyes watch through their water. See Mamadou’s tall shape approach, and then my nerves react. Behind myself, I turn the knife. Hide it beneath my hurting arm.

His naked feet stop by my head. Feet long and simple-boned, he wear a golden circle on one toe. It show a bird head, lightning in its beak. Shango, god of rain, of flashing war.

Above, he huff a laugh. “Prettieuse. Sengle grooming.”

I look up his body. Is wearing jeans and nothing. All his body show in dreamen glare.

My head speak pain, but I go answer, “Yours, be what your insects do.”

“Do worse than this. Your luck I wake.”

He hunker by my feet. I feel him tug my ankle ropes, they pull into my skin. These slacken, and the hurt go chill and loose.

Then my hands is wary. Expect he free their ropes, the knife discover.

But he leave his hand rest on his knees, sit back. My eyes go scary to his face.

Mamadou’s thinking eyes be soft from sleep. Skin shave to a glisten, how he do in vanity. His locks tie in a tail behind, and godscars blacken in his cheeks. Nothing in him prettieuse. Is only bell, is vicious bell.

His hand reach out. I flinch back, but it find its place. Finger touch a scrape on my top lip and gentle there. His mockery smile be felt in my own mouth.

He say, “Cannot keep yourself away from me.”

My heart be kicking in my side. I shut my eyes against him. Yo, in this dirt, with all my trembling wounds, I love the thing I love.

He say, “Come on, get out of this.”

He reach to grip my arm, but I pull back. Twist up myself, with knees and shoulder, feel my struggling hurt. Yet my legs work.

I walk beside him to his hut. All my conscience ware the knife, where it tuck at my arm. But nothing happen in this walking. Yo, his reddish-blackish hut stand, same as ever been. He lift the flap for me. I duck inside.

NEWKING HUT BE GRANDY as a Christing room inside. In shape, it be a jumbo cone, made of poles and curen hide. Floor be curly sheepskins, thick enough to sleep without no bed. Ain’t furniture to sit. Armies never sit but on the ground, they scorn this wooden help. To one side, there be a patch of naked earth. Here stand his personal idols, wooden children with beak heads.

Never a wall be bare. Is hung with every ready object. Be pots and clothes and cutting scissors. Books hung by a string deep in their pages. Mamadou’s red spear and bow hang there, his feather trappings. Crow-black, cardinal-red, they trail down, longish in peculiar twists.

And hang a rooish rifle with a curven magazine.

Mamadou let the hut’s flap close. Then light be only from the fire, this moving darkness comforting like sleep. He come before me, look down where my dress be muddy, wet with melten snow. Some pleasure working in his face.

I flinch back and say, “Can like some whiskey.”

He narrow eyes at me. “You like this?”

“Been said.”

“Ain’t brandy you prefer?”

“Take what you got.”

Be no other guesting they believe, but Armies will give booze. So I watch upon his thinking face, and misery grow in me. Can fear, I be no guest in this. I lose this final hope.

He shake his head like disapproving, but he turn. As he reach to a flask, I let the knife drop from my hand. With a seeking foot, I scutch it underneath a sheepskin. Put one foot lightish on the bladen shape, and breathe relief.

Mamadou find two handled shopes. Uncork the flask with teeth. Check me with his eyes, a second late, and he pour standing.

When he bring the shope to me, I tug my arms against their ropes. “Yo, how I going to drink this so?”

He bite his lip in smiling, and his chippen tooth show there. He stoop to rest the shopes down on the floor.

Then he come behind me. My skin along my whole back waken, feel him there. He take my wrists, begin to work particular at the rope. I tense against his touch. Think on Japhet dead, the red specks on his face.

Ropes drop lazy off. My hands chill as the blood return. Crushen fingers go and boom with hurt.

“Your head been cut,” say Mamadou. He touch lightish at my nape.

I flinch away. “I know. It be my head.”

Can feel his breath of laughter pass my shoulders. Then he come and fetch the ratten shopes, his eyes on me. I move my injure hand, test its fingers. Knuckles, wrist and palm be bloody skinned, all sting in air. But the bones is whole. Ain’t pull a bow with strength, but can hold reins. Can steady a gun.

Here my eye glance to his rifle hangen. Arms tense before I think.

Mamadou see my glance and nod. “Go try this plan. Recall, we wrestle any a time. I ain’t refuse this chore again.”

“Ain’t come for that,” I say unpleasant. “Got business.”

“Business, call it this.” He reach a shope toward me.

I take the shope, hold it against myself. “Truth. Be sergeant now.”

To this, his face change inward. He take a drink of rat, swallow it like a thought he take. “Your Driver sick?”

“Be so.” My throat stick, and I say on weaker, “Gone from us.”

“Be soon for this. Ain’t known.”

His fingers move like pondering on his shope. Then he shake his head. “Think, you sergeant now, you can come into camp like that? Ain’t those times, girl.”

“Ain’t fearing this.” Nerves rise in me again.

“Come into camp like that. Ain’t think you likely going to leave. Going to expect, I keep you here.” His eyes look up like this a question.

“Shee to this.” My voice rise hoarse. “Dirt, what you done at Tophet?”

Mamadou’s face surprise, then it go settle in annoyance. “You come for foolishness like this? A waste.”

“Nay, what your feathers done at Tophet?”

“You and me, we got a parley, right. But it ain’t this.”

“Goddamn, you answer. What you done?”

“Done what I like. And so be done to you or any. This story tired.”

“Done what this Deema ask. Been order by some animal roo.” I spit upon his furs. Some spit go fly and strike his foot.

Mamadou tense. Face lost its bell, be gritten as my feeling. Can see the muscles change across his chest. But he ain’t answer.

I say, “John of Christ ain’t kilt?”

A moment, I expect he answer nothings like before. But he say cold, “Nay, this digger run. A speedy coward.”

“And where they Christing wives?”

“Be in the simper house. A cherry take.”

Then something closen in myself. Ain’t thought to this, their simper house. Been hours since these Christwives took. Sure every child guess what these hours contain.

When I speak again, my voice be rough. “Susannah? She your queen?”

His mouth thin down, distaste. “Susannah ain’t no name to me. Got some newer simpers. Expect I know the one you miss.”

“You know.”

“Yo, been remember. Give to Deema’s use, she doing for this animal now.”

Be times, the NewKing tell me any unheart thing, to rile my hate. Like to bring me hot and yelling, his arms receive my fight. But he never lie. Ain’t think to lie. Is straight as blood.

Now his bitter stare return. Eyes watch with all their thinking, and ain’t no amuse in his respect.

I say flat, “This rape bring murder.”

“Myself, I never like no struggling girl. Some meat that suffering while I eat, this be sad work. Deema, he ain’t bother.”

“Sure you die for this.”

“Girl ain’t wish to be no queen, can be a simper like another. Choice been chosen by herself.”

“Yo tick of all disease! You kilt their Japhet! Try to burn their littles, enfants in a locken room. Ain’t know how you can live. How you go live beyond—”

“Slow, slow.” He put his fingers toward my mouth.

I flinch back, and booze flash from my cup, sting on my scratchen hand. I swear in underbreath. Switch the cup to other hand, and I suck at this crawling hurt.

“Sengle,” Mamadou say, “ain’t be no littles in this case. A boy been kilt, he got his gun to thank. That girl with Deema, she my goods. But ain’t no littles in this.”

“Littles been lock inside. You light the house. Been burning when I come.”

Mamadou watching on my face, like he inspect some lie. “Ain’t nothing done like this.”

“I know a fire set.”

“Been no fire. Can spare your talk. Expect you set some fire behind. A Sengle habit, like your boring lies.”

Then something freaken in my heart. I yell with all my breath, “Ain’t lies! Yo unheart cockroach! King of filth, you be the shee of Hak! Your blood be piss! Can see you die, this blood stank every tree of woods.” Then I catch my breath, go suck my hand again.

He watch this speech with face surprise. But when I suck my hand, he break up grinning. All his anger pass, he laugh out hard. Yo, he step toward and take my chin in his big hand. Hold fast.

“You ain’t change none, my Sengle. Seen you beaten, worry this will calm you.” He laugh again.

I put my hand up to his chest, like I will push him back. But my hand remain there, like a fact.

I say uneven, “Beaten, shoo. Your feathers fighting weak.”

“Sure, is slaving work. Wish the girls to fear, not that they spoil.”

“What fear? Been like our normal wars.”

“So this handling by my feathers been your joy, can comprehend.” He grin, his broken tooth appear mischieviose. Godscars go into deep furrows.

Under my hand, can feel the muscles shifting in his chest. Then my body remember him, ain’t courage can forget. My feet themself awaken, fur feel sweetish in their toes. Knife shape feel sweet.

And he say with low particular softness, “Hold, I clean yourself.”

He step back toward his hanging stores. Go hunting through some various clothes. Reach about, he go as graciose as naked shadow.

Yo, I drink my whiskey, feel its burning and my stinging hand. Force myself to think of what I do, and what I owe. The whiskey feel like weakness in me, and I think of leaving here. How I get this knife. But it ain’t magine somehow. Ain’t seem like nothing going to happen after this.

Mamadou take a cotton tee, a flask. In by-thought, he turn to the hanging rifle. Yank away its magazine and toss this in a farther corner. My mind distract at this, can feel his thought. I may reach the rifle, but ain’t time to run for both. And I feel some gratty strength, he fearing me somehow.

Then he come back. Open his flask and splash its wet onto the tee. Can smell, is low rat booze.

I waken from my thought. “What this be for?”

“Clean your hurts. Is what we use.”

“Yo, I can do this. You ain’t got to touch me nothing.”

His fingers tensen on the tee. Look in my eyes with something bitter. Ain’t know what happen in me then, but when he take my chin in his sure fingers, I go calm. He sigh, say low, “Got cuts behind, ya. Better I do this.”

He start upon my face in silent mood. Rat sting malicieuse. Yo, this cotton tee come back with any dirty streaking. He clean along my arms, and find new hurts I never known was made. Bend my head and take time with the sticky cut left in my hair. He hold my injure hand in his, and work in tiny gentleness. Face show but what he do. Then he hunker down, his hand go searching up my scrapen leg.

Cannot even say how I become in this. I think of pain while I can try. But my body be one seeking memory. And when he leave his work and stand and watch into my eyes, these eyes tell every story. Mamadou’s face be cold without no joy.

Then, how it begin — how it beginning every time — he say my name.

AIN’T WORDS FOR WHAT THIS BE. Be something make all honor small. No life nor honesty remain, and every strangeness, every stopping pain, become bellesse. We speaking words like love, like you, that ain’t mean nothing. Words waste in air. Nor ain’t knowledge of this losten hour, is gold you cannot see. Cannot find out what it been. Yet this blind thing be more real than life.

And then it finish. I lie upon the sheepskin like I done, yo twenty nights of evil. Lie naked in myself.

Mamadou lie, one arm upon my belly. Ain’t sleep, but stare beyond. Nor I ain’t look to see him. Wish this been forgot.

I watch the changing firelight. How it catch on points of objects on they walls. Every object seem like some sad proof. A string of books. A leather jacket with a rip sleeve.

Outside the hut, the feathers sing. Can hear this dim and eerie. Be a simper song, weak with all feeling feathers never get. Tell of the pain they cause. Song repeat: ain’t no kin, ain’t no help, ain’t no help remain.

And I think of Driver knowing what I done. Susannah with the roo, left in her misery. How something in me come to Army camp for this. I stood before the littles at Tophet house, and squawk my lies, while in my heart, been wanting this.

Ain’t be the hero of my mind. Ain’t even normal made.

And all my losses wake, and every task I ain’t perform. I grit against this, but it rise with every pain that breathe inside my flesh. The howlen singing. All the helpless things that I must help, that going to waste.

Then inside this misery, something inkle. Be looking straight at Mamadou’s rifle.

Magazine in farther corner. Ain’t going to get this magazine now. Mamadou catch me easy. Be only one act that can work.

THEN IT BE CAREFUL WORK to get my knife. Knife lodge by my lower shin, ain’t reach it, how he hold myself. Yo, if I move from under, he will rise and watch on me.

I hook my leg around, show like I scratching on this knee. In this, I work the knife out with my toe.

My mind repeat, this must be killing. No Mamadou threaten by a knife, can laugh at this small weapon. Take this knife before I strike. Must kill him while he never fear. Be for my freedom and the Christings’ freedom. Be for Susannah’s rape, and for the littles capture in this fire. Be done and then consider.

After, I will take his rifle. Drive the feathers off with bullets, or I die in this. If I ain’t die, I go to the simper house. If it be feathers there, they ain’t wear guns. Can hope they ain’t. Tophet Christwives free, run in the woods. Be done if I ain’t die. Then I must find this Deema Roo. This be a second murder, must be done without no thought.

I bring the knife out with my foot. Be finicky work to catch it so. Be sweating when I bring it into reach.

Then it go without no thought. I grab it with my hand and turn. But as I go to strike, is like the knife catch in some cannot. Ain’t hurt him. I pause in air, when Mamadou’s hand fly at my hand. Knock it wild, and I pull back, but he grab quick and catch my wrist. Hold on and grip feroce.

First his face surprise. Then it clear into a bitter preciation of the knife. He rise and force my arm back. I fight my other hand, but this be caught, he pin me on my back. Straddle over me, his hands go painful on my wrists.

Then I ain’t help myself, I smile. Be my relief, this task been took from me. Ain’t mine to help.

Mamadou watching cold. He shift his weight on my knife hand. Work at the fingers, dig them loose, and take the knife himself. Look at the blade, like he inspect its sharpness. My freed hand go to his throat.

There it rest. Ain’t try no hurt. I be smiling helpless, like this been a pleasure game.

He rest the knife blade flat against my nose. “Sengle, you ain’t never disappoint.”

“Christings be my friends.”

“Been told, I never burn their house. Ain’t got no listening sense.”

“Be thirteen girls you keep.”

He stroke the blade along my cheek. “Agreement broken by themself. Be murder war this is.”

“Shee, found a thing to want.”

“Ain’t liking war, I guess. You ain’t.” He make a face, and rest the knife point at my beating throat.

I swallow against this knifepoint. “Every fool see how you thinking. Roo bring guns to you, your prowess rule.”

“Truth easy. How it be.”

“You trust this Deema, you be blind.”

“Ain’t trusting any a child.” He raise and waggle the knife before my eyes. “Shoo, you be one can speak of trust. You funny, Sengle. Noisy, but you funny.”

“Yo,” I say in scorn, “and what these roos will gain from this? You know we got a roo ourself. He tell me of this gain. Your end be pity.”

Here his thinking pause. Eyes narrow, and he reach behind and find the flask of booze. Uncork and drink, still watching on me. “So, what the roos will gain?”

I try to make my spirit think. Mamadou watching me with hate, with interest. Drink booze and watch me past the knife.

I catch my breath and say, “I trade this news. You let the Christings—”

“Shee.” He sit back cold. “My trade be this. I feel too lazy tired to kill you. Be tired with this discussion and your knives and nonsense talk. Going to tell you what will be. Can be my queen now, Sengle, this the final time I give this chance. Then you tell me what I ask, because you doing what I ask. Or you be a slave like any. Can try your luck at fighting feathers, will be cherry entertainment. But you never leaving here. Must know this be the end, when you come running to this camp.”

I chill in my blood. “Choice of worm and cockroach. Ain’t no different to my mind.”

“You see the difference when I let my feathers take your precieuse self. You feel some difference then.”

“Fool, you got a nothing brain, same as you got a nothing heart. Be no death I fear. Go kill me, ya.”

“Got no killing mood. Nor I ain’t mention no third choice.”

Then we staring, hate to hate. Can see the muscles tensen in his neck.

I say, “Prefer to be a simper. Will be bone variety.”

He raise his arm behind, and bring it down with all his force. My head ring false, can feel my teeth. Sight go in hurting blur.

He say in weaken breath, “Ain’t want no girl I got to beat. Ain’t like sad work, been told you this.”

“Go kill me, fool. Ain’t slap me like an eight.” But I be trembling, cannot tell if this be fear or rage.

Then something come, be stranger than no blows. Mamadou’s face go stark. He put his palm flat to my cheek and hold the place he hit. Ain’t stroke nor press, he only feel me, like he ain’t certain it be me.

And tears shine in his eyes.

My heart beat uncanny. I reach up to his face, but he push hard, rise up and stalk away. A moment he only stand, his back move with his angry breath. Then he fling the knife back to myself. It land beside my knee. I ain’t look to it, I watch the NewKing with all beating fear.

“Goddamn.” He wipe his eyes hard, like he want to tear them out. Walk to the wall, look at the rifle like this thing ain’t recognize. Yo, when he speak, he speak toward the gun.

“Ain’t let you go, should know. Nor my feathers accept this weakness. Come running here, you going to be my queen, if I must keep you bound. For truth, I never leave you to them. You ain’t for that.”

He put one hand up on that gun. “I know the things you say, you talk to me like… damn, I ain’t no fool. Know well this roo ain’t honest. Got any roos behind, I know they ain’t want nothing good for me.”

I catch breath to this. “Nay, what he promise you, your Deema?”

“Now you asking questions.” He look at me feroce. “Tell you this, ain’t going to be no Sengles or no diggers here. People be mine or took by roos. What you thought was happening, if you even do no thinking?” He turn by and hook some jeans down from the wall, begin to pull these on. I watch, feel how I never seen him do this normal task before. Resent my own insisting love, and I say, “So, roos help you to this power, you think?”

Mamadou finish with his jeans and look back at me cold. “Nay, I know. I helping them. But cannot see how power can hurt me. You going to fight them with that knife, I guess.”

“Can leave. Ain’t got to stay by them.”

He make his scorning face. “Thought you been smarter. Leave, they find me in my weakness. Then it be no promises from them, be other stories. Think you going to flee from them, you need to find another world.”

“Better chance in this. You let me go, we see who living longest.”

“Nay, you heed. You going to be my queen, because I want you, all it is. Fight me if you like my beatings. Guess you prefer to be some rooish keep. Talk like you knowing something. You ain’t even knowing what you be.”

“I be some goods, I guess.”

“To Deema? Yo, can meet him, you begin to comprehend.” His face change into different hatreds. “Tell you this, some chance become, we war against these roos. And sure, if war be made, mine be the people gain this war. They digger rabbits die in easy blood without myself. Your Sengles, sure be enfants, going to die.”

He shake his head, reach up and lift the gun off of its hook. Cross to the magazine and fix it on. Then he look back with measuring eyes. “You bone? Ain’t hurt too much?”

“How you meaning? Sure, ain’t nothing.”

His face go easier. “Yo, be right. I going to fetch this Deema. Best he understanding who you be, before he do no grossness. And heed, you ask him on the fire. Deema stay behind at Tophet, but he never spoke of fire. Be truth, this interest myself. And be easy with your knife. Deema ain’t so soft with noisy females, like I be.”

I watch his eyes, and my heart waste in hurt. I say without no thought, “Ain’t wish to kill you, for yourself. Sure you know.”

He swear some filth beneath his breath. Show his tired grin and say, “You be a year of misery, Sengle.”

Then he duck outside the hut. Can hear him swearing as he go.

24. OF DEEMA ROO

BELIEF BE FOOD TO COURAGE. YO, NEVER BEEN MY COURAGE hungrier than on this day. I crave for any madness hope, so it be hope and not despair.

So it become that I resolve to be the Army queen. Will beg the Christings’ freedom for my love, all I can do. Then I make war against the roos with Mamadou the NewKing. Can fight the rooish cure from them, my Driver healing quick.

This endure for wishful minutes. It last while I put on my filthen silver dress, inspect its ruin. Yo, my strange belief continue while I drink the last of my rat booze. Cut a hiding for the knife into the silver skirt, can hold it ready by my thigh — and I believe. Believe while Mamadou return, and yo I wish to speak, to tell him that I stay. Ain’t no love been like what I desire, while he come watchful in. His rifle slung upon, it hanging careless at his naked chest. He say, “Is coming. Mind my word,” and every shame be gold.

But when Deema come, this madness die.

He come with arm around a feather who bear up his drunkenness. Roo wear only whitey underpants and mudden boots. Paunch show sweaten hairy, and his face be pink as ugliness. Ruin ear look like melt wax. Got a knife himself, thrust in these underpants, the lastic hold it sloppy to. Yo ain’t this grossness spoil my faith.

The bearing feather be Karim. He got his greenish feathers, loose untie and straggle down. And his face can recognize, though I ain’t thought that I will know his face.

Be handsome made, but low in height. This height mark Crow’s Karim, and how his beard be shapen on his chin. Eyes is careful nervy, like he struggle with his patience. He look at me with knowledge, and I look at him with hate.

Then everything I feel be nothing in this visible sight. Cannot go the sinking path of Crow.

And here it recognize how I be caught. I been a hundred fools that I come here. Even if someone guess I be here, all they Armies wearing guns. Ain’t nothing Sengles do against. Mamadou said, You never leaving here, he spoken with true meaning. Been my stupid pride that I ain’t heard this seriose.

I feel the world be shrunken to this hut, these men in flickering dark. Ain’t no future out of this. No Ice Cream ever be beyond. Is almost pleasure when the roo distract with his bad noise.

“Mamadou! My king!” call Deema Roo in slushen voice. Then he laugh like this been enfant joke. Hunt his hands around himself, surprise when he find only skin. Mamadou understand this, reach the rat flask out.

“I thank gratty,” Deema say. Grab the flask and put it to his mouth, try drinking through the cork. Then he look annoyance. Pull the cork out, drop it on the floor. Drinking go in pulses down his neck.

Mamadou look intention at me, like he show some point. Yo Pasha’s speech of Deema remind: Be fool soldat. Ain’t bone for nothing. Now I struggle in thinking all this fool soldat can mean.

Deema finish his drink and hand the flask to green Karim. In this, he notice me. Come toward sway-foot and stop at talking distance. Ain’t so tall as Pasha, but is grandy size enough. Yo, his fattish sides make weight.

And close, I see his face be ruin queer. Got creases in his brow and cheek, the skin bag loose below. Pink color in his cheeks ain’t regular. Be tender lines of purple branch along his cheeks and nose. Be like a face in sleeper pictures, looking all disease.

He say, “This girl I never saw. Where you hide this one? A good take, almost good as mine. I think—” He point up at my face, scribble the air before my mouth. “Think she was hurt. No, this girl you use yourself, I see what happen now.”

Mamadou say in careless voice, “Told you of Army queens. This my queen, you heed. She got a question to you.”

“Queen?” Karim say sudden. His hand touch his feathers finicky. He glance at me with spitting face.

“Queen,” say Deema. “Queen I know, is like you say before. But questions is the wrong time. Bad time. Children, I drank.”

Now my love be cold, and all I feel is how I can escape. But I say in shaken voice, “Ain’t trouble you with much, but just one question.”

Deema blear his eye at me. “Got pretty breasts,” he say. “But too black.”

I feel the hating eyes of green Karim inspect myself. He pick at his feathers, say low-voice, “Queen ain’t insult.”

“Truth,” say Mamadou cold, “quit your familiar games, my brother. Myself ain’t slept one hour this night.”

“Bad,” say Deema. “You must sleep. We all sleep! You with Karim, I take this girl.” He laugh high in his voice.

Karim swear underbreath. Look back at Mamadou with pleading, like a cheaten little.

Roo drink from the flask again. A shadow rise up grandy on the wall beside, snake there in firelight. When he lower his arm, the shadow drop, like it suck back into himself. And I recall again, I never leave this place. Myself be by.

I take a feary breath, and my hand gather on the knife. “My question this. Why you burn their house at Tophet?”

The roo turn sudden, leave his back to me. “Got more rat? I go to find more rat.”

“Got more,” say Mamadou. “Sure this wait. Queen been ask a question.”

“Question?”

Mamadou say like carelessness, “She ask about some fire.”

Roo seem to wake alert. “Fire! Ya, I light a cigarette. Match go down. Comprehend? This wooden house, it go—” He raise his hands up overhead. “Never to make a house with wood, my king. In my country, we make stone material. Many houses, very high. No fire.”

I force my voice. “No fire beginning so. In snowy morning, I ain’t think.”

“Begin,” say Deema with back to me. “Wooden house.”

“Yo littles inside this house.” I say up harsher, “It been killing work.”

Karim go swear again, and look at me with new intention. I feel my boldness spark, I say to him, “You hear, Karim, was littles there. Been an eightish girl the Armies’ own, your child.”

“No,” Deema say, but I say through this harsh, “Yo, Deema kill them all.”

Mamadou flinch. His eye look wary at me.

Roo stand and scratch his face. Karim watch on him now, got trembling looks. Then the roo say, sour in temper, “Cigarette. Can give me?”

“Be sure,” say Mamadou. He pass along the wall toward me, holding sharp on to his rifle. Reach a pouch above, retrieve a fold of Lowell cigarettes. As he turn, his eye look at me warning.

He handen Deema Roo a cigarette and zippo. Roo light, make noise as he draw in the smoke. Muttern to himself, “Talking. Bore from this.”

Then Mamadou say, “You burn this house, my Deema? Ain’t no harm to me.”

“Is politics.” Deema turn to him with injure face. “Ain’t burn no children. Politics to burn a house, you see. Be fear to others, you keep this fear. They come like… for slave to you. You know this politics.”

“Sure, cleverish thought,” say Mamadou. “Only wonder be, why you ain’t spoke of this.”

Karim look at the roo, look back at NewKing cautieuse. Bite his lip in mally attention.

Deema point his finger at Mamadou, then swing it by. He shake this finger, saying, “You must learn by me. Ain’t only guns. Going to give you learn. Can rule like—”

“Rule like science, sure you said.” The NewKing fish a cigarette, shape it in his hand. Look at it considering, then narrow eyes back at the roo. “But how I going to learn, if you ain’t tell me what you do?”

“Ain’t listen to your girls, I learn you this. Ain’t take this talk.”

I say cold, “My only wonder be, why you will do this act. You try to win these Armies to your use. Then burn their eightish child.”

Roo turn to me with painful face. “Was no child. No person in this house. Girl lying, fire was small.”

“Ain’t believe she lie,” Karim say nervy. “Chosen queen ain’t lie.”

“Expect that I can lie,” I say. “And sure I like a lie above the truth that all these enfants dead.”

Now can see this Deema’s mood gone stank. Is drunken riling. And in my corner-eye, I see the NewKing watching disapproval. Put cigarette in his mouth and shake his head.

I look away. “Nay, roo. Be honor that they kill yourself.”

Deema turn toward me squaring. My hand brighten on my knife.

He say, “Be pretty to look, but this bitch lie. This allow?”

Mamadou staring on me hard. “She going to learn some honesty. And you can learn respect, my Deema.”

“No,” Deema say, his eyes on me. “Was no enfants. Girl be filth.”

I say, “You lying. I seen these children dead.”

Deema’s face twist up. Then, like some despair I magine, his hand go to his knife. Karim swear underbreath, and Mamadou say, “We finish now, be done.” His voice be cold, and Deema’s face flinch insult at this. Yo, my burning fear be on my knife and Deema’s knife.

Then Deema yank his head back sharp and spit into my face. I startle back, raise my free hand and wipe my face off rough. Mamadou saying hard, “Can leave your knife,” and Deema yell some rooish drunkenness, at Mamadou or anyone. Then in one rearing motion, Deema punch me in my breast.

This be a weaken hurt. My breath go queer. Feel all the beatings of this day, and see like evil certainties how I can die in this. Then the world go slow as all my feeling gather in one curse insistence that I live. Yo, as he spit again, I pull my knife. I dodge back, but he grab at my hair. His knife flash in my terror, and gasping wild, I stab him in his gut.

Knife go in like a punch, ain’t easy took. Yo quick, the roo jump back. Knife fall loose away between us. Then this Deema yelling healthy noise as he look down.

All my thinking be, how he ain’t die. Ain’t die for nothing. Scarce be blood. Then the beast wheel yelling and punch my face. My footing lift, be lost. I fling back heavy on the furs, one arm fly up and strike some hardness. My sight go black. Be fighting in this sleep, and wake to Deema struggling Mamadou away, his knife be out. I think how I must crawl, but ain’t be nothing I can hide behind. Arms weak.

And then a different light appear. A shot go deafen hard.

Deema hike up harsh, his back arch queer. His head lost its side part, and blood be streaming, sprinkling. He fall onto himself, slop in the furs.

I look at Mamadou, heart alive, but yo his rifle hanging loose. He stare by, looking where the hut flap open.

Pasha stand into the tent, like some unknowing dream. He rise and his long rifle held in shooting pose at Deema’s ruin. Darkness fill my blood, be like I see all things through blackness.

See how Mamadou lift and aim his rifle. How Pasha turn at him. The shot been gone before I fear. Mamadou fall and small Karim cry out and crouch beside. Tears look greasy on his face.

And Pasha point his rifle at Karim. Pause and hold. Karim hunch. Guard his face with naked hands. His mouth move without sound.

Pasha say to me, “He also?” His voice be shaken cold.

And I look blind at nothing and say, “Yes.”

25. OUR FLEEING

WHEN MURDER HAPPEN, AIN’T NO TIME TO KNOW. MUST RUN, must fight. Must do more murder, flee again and fight. So it happen in this day of sickness.

I stare at dead Karim, the blood that slither on his greenish feathers. Everything be calm and dead. But Pasha call to me.

Cannot know the words he say. I know but what I done. I go in simple madness to the NewKing, kneel beside. Touch where his blood spread on his chest. Then Pasha crouch by talking. I want to speak of something, feel is something I must say. But nothing and nothing be.

Only when Pasha take the NewKing’s rifle and unhook its strap, my weeping start. Then my thought come plain and distant. Think how I must breathe through sobbing. Must have eyes is clear. Must run, I got to see. I blink and wipe my eyes in working movements, like I clean a dish.

Then Pasha hold the rifle to me. His face be tense like rage. He whisper, “Can hold well to shoot?”

I take the rifle. Its cold be mally. Something in me wailing, but I cough and snort my nose. I look at Pasha’s whitish anger and I say, “Can shoot.”

Then Pasha shift the rifle in my hands until I hold it right. Guide my finger to the trigger soft. I nod. His jaw shift, Pasha touch my head.

He whisper, “Ain’t go out till you hear quiet.”

He take his rifle up again. Go to the flap and listen. Be only then I hear the voices. Be all cackeny shouts and running. Angry yell beyond. And Pasha breathe in deep and dive outside.

Bullets jabber like a chattering jaw. Be deafen so, it almost comfort how it never pause. Can clutch my rifle to myself in this bad darkness. Feel my tears go cold. Hear the jabber and wait for quiet. Wish this quiet never come again.

And it stop. Be silence like a simple falling. Can see in magination how my Pasha lain there dead in blood. Feathers standing to, wait every gun upon myself.

But I go to the flap. I swallow, push the rifle nose between. Follow it out.

Pasha there, is standing whole. Heart only beat again when I see, ain’t no person by. No dead. Be huts and dust and sunlight. Nervy chickens hopping in this dust.

“Where they gone?” I say dumb.

“Run,” say Pasha flat. He pull the magazine off his rifle, shove it in a pocket. Find another out, fix it in place.

“Run.” I feel my face be grinning, though my tears still go. Be like more tears than I got in myself.

“Your Money there. I catch before.” He jerk his head toward the nether path. “Ice Cream, you can ride?”

“I bone. I got…” I swallow at my throat, and peep a sob. “Must get the Christings.”

He sigh out hard. “Nay. Ain’t time. Fool.”

“You come with me?”

Then I stare at him until he nod. His eyes got all frustration, but he follow when I go.

Simper house’s door be risen open. Can guess, from here the feathers come out when they first hear Pasha’s gun. Come out, rush around, and flee when this gun turn upon themself.

As we approach, Pasha pull me behind. Go forward stalking. I keep back and feel my rifle gangly in my weaken arms. Be tired work to keep it steady. Yo, my head begun to agony. All my sickness wake. Sight fuzz in eyes, keep blinking at its changes.

He lead me to the blank side of the house. We listen there.

Ain’t known what I expect. What we hear, be crying enfants. First I panic senseless, think this be the Christings’ young, was brought somehow to join the wives. Then I know, these be the Armies’ get.

Yo something in me disbelieve, after all been done this day, that enfants can remain on any world. That Armies can be squalling littles, frighten from a noise.

I whisper, “Enfants.”

Pasha look at me with his frustration. He turn, creep forward. I stalk behind, and every nerve go hurt with his loud feet. Can hear each step, ain’t nature how is loud.

At the corner, he stop up. Look at me angry still, and say with only breath, “Keep here. Behind.” He wave his hand around the huts. My nerves react, and I turn staring, like all feathers rush on me.

Then Pasha rise and shoot around at nothing, at the standing huts, the trees. Noise blinding loud, can hear the enfant skree behind like silent thought.

Shooting stop. The skree rise up. Dust and flying chickens. A plastic sack blow round among.

And I hear the footstep sound of Pasha running. I chase him to the door unthinking, gun held clumsy to myself.

SIMPER HOUSE BE STREWN about with sheepskins. Each lain separate with some personal objects to their head: china dog or mirror, a sprawl of sparkling jewlerie. One wall got hooks with hanging clothes; these spread across like crusten stain. In the nearer corner, floor be bare where water risen through the floor.

Is any struggling girls inside. All push together to the farther wall, clutch littles to their legs. Wear every kind of dress. Be girls is nothing but a blot of blackish godclothes. Girls in shorty dress or unders. And by, where light come in an upper window, be a girl in Christing nighting gown. Beanie Christwife, sobbing while she clutch her chest. Yo, behind her gather all the Christwives in their nightclothes.

Stood before me, Pasha yell out, “You! Come here!”

Among the huddling simpers, lurk a boy. Ain’t but fourteen, got whitish-grayish feathers round his neck. These feathers ruffle on one side, and he clutch himself, push back among the simpers.

“Come! Will shoot you there! Will shoot!” Pasha gesture with his gun.

And now a simper panic, push the feather from herself. He stagger forward, staring on Pasha’s gun. Begin to gabble frighten curses, and he pulling at his jeans. Like he hide himself with these. A simper reach toward him, and he strike back at her hand in panic.

Pasha flick a switch upon the gun. My nerves go calm. Be thinking, gun on safety, we be done.

Pasha shoot once. Boy wheel on his feet, and sink away.

Then come a scream like never heard. Be any panic simpers, rushing from the blooden feather. Go back like a wave, then this wave turn and come again. Scatter of simpers fall upon the boy and hunch there wailing. I grab at Pasha’s shoulder. “Hold! Goddamn, goddamn, what help this be?”

He stare at me, his jaw be set. Be stupid anger in his face. I say high-voice, “Be safe enough! Goddamn, you go, you guard behind. Go back!”

Then something falter in him. Pasha nod and turn away. I watch until I see him at the open door, sharp cut in sunlight.

I turn and stare upon the girls. Breathe heavy, looking if there be no other feather. My head be any pain. Sight queering worse, it churn and flicker. Simpers cry their begging words and curses, but they ain’t come toward. Be careful time before I know, is only females there.

Then a girl step forward. I turn wary at her, and she halt. Raise a hand against the sun. “Ice Cream?” Behind her, all the simpers start to quiet, heed to this event.

Take a second before I recognize her face. Is Hannah Christwife. I say in hoarsen voice, “Yo, Christings, come away. Ain’t fear my roo, he go protect you. Go. Can trust my word.”

One and one, the Christwives stumble out. As they come, they watch me feary. Hurry past my gun. I feel a shame like icy wind at this, but I stand fast. Yo, in some nether misery, I see Susannah ain’t among. Must be, she kept apart in Deema’s hut.

Now the simpers watch me. I see a twelve who stand unmoving, face besobben wet. Behind her, an older girl go press her face into this twelve’s thin shoulder. Another and another, all these dreaden shapes of girlish slaves.

Ain’t courage left for this. I say in weak, ungiving voice, “Can come. Ain’t stay in this. You free. You hear me? You be free.”

They stare, and only larming enfants carry on untired complaint. Never a child move forward. Ain’t no answer in no face.

I call with angry hopelessness, “Can go to Lowell mill. You come!”

Then I turn and run, my last fear chase me from the house. Run into hurting sunlight, where my Pasha wait alone.

Huts and dust. Pasha stood, gun looking at the empty trees.

“Where the Christings?” I shout foolish. “Where they gone?”

He turn angry. “They run off. You come now. Now!”

I gasp frustration, look around like I will see their path. Can hear some scrambling noise, but ain’t know who been making this. And sudden, I realize this can be feathers stalking back. When Pasha push my shoulder, I go run.

My running limp in clumsiness. My head be misery, all my vision gone in busy light. Pain sicken in my gut as we come to the nether path.

Aside, among the trees, be Money. Come nervy when she see me, pull against her tied-up reins. Whinny and leer her rolling eyes.

Pasha shy from this, and I go forward, coaxing thoughtless. Money skit at first, and my hand go sloppy on her neck. Pain blur all my body. Be like I sleep afoot, my hand rub weaken on her fur. Then I open eyes, and Money gone down calm. I grab some mane and leap. Ain’t get no strength, I fall back loose, and my head ring with hurt. Annoying tears fill up my eyes.

Pasha come to, careful. He hand his rifle to my clumsy hand, go mount. Be pleasant done, I thank all gladness that he learn this task. He take the rifles from my thoughtless hands. Last he reach for me.

I give my hand, and go up liften. Scrabble around with leg, come up and slip on Money’s rear. Pasha reach back wild to grab me. Yo, I clutch to him.

Be myself who kick the horse. Kick and kick until she gone into reluctant canter.

This cantering hurt in sicken waves. I clutch and press my face to Pasha’s back.

Then blackish madness come and pass. Be times, I hang with face press, and ain’t know where we be coming from. Want to beg my Pasha that we quit. Be times, I think he taking me to roos and be in scary minds, ain’t know if he can trust. Then I wake again in sharpness, skew my eyes behind, look for the feathers that may come.

At Sengle town, this agony jolt and jolt and stop. I slump at Pasha for a string of shuddering breaths. Lean sideways and puke rat booze. Then, when my eyes open, I can comprehend, ain’t no one here. No enfants, nothing stirring in the camp.

Pasha breathing hard like fear. He say, “Ice Cream, you bone?”

I take a grainy breath and say, “They gone to Lowell.” Want to make an explanation, sure these explanations crowd my head. But I ain’t speaking somehow. I shut my eyes and see the NewKing grin. You be a year of misery, Sengle. Ain’t know at first, when this been said. Then I know, and start to cry.

Pasha reach back clumsy. He find my arms and pull them, one and one, around himself. Say, “Hold. Hold to me.” I hold and cry on gratty, like Pasha been the one I miss.

As we come through Lowell City, everything begin to ease. The pain become familiar trouble. Got no strength for feelings, and I look up at the bricky buildings like this be a casual day. Notice a sparrow on a step; she turn her eye at us. Then she flight away, and there be blue above the bricks. So I be squinting into blue as we come to the Lowell gates.

Here come a yell, is long feroce. Can scarcely see above my Pasha’s shoulder. I stretch my painful head to look.

At the easter gate, where petty cryers keep their watch, now stand a grown eighteen. Got a long-nose rifle in his hands. And yo, upon the walls, more jones aim various guns at us. These Lowells call their frighten voice.

I take my breath and yell in weakness, “Here be Ice Cream Sengle!”

Then every voice break out, call to each other. Money pick and drop her feet, shift back. The sun stare bald around.

A jones voice call out hard, “What roo be this? Identify!”

I scream wild, “It be our roo, goddamn! Be Pasha Sengle!”

Then I weaken down. Exasperate this whole event. Pasha pinch my arms to him with elbows as Money start again. We come among the noisy voices. Hear them boss and question. Then it be a queery feeling, how I be loosen off the horse and handle down. I struggle at a hand that touch my hurt. And I be swung and loose again, come folding to the ground. Lie on their concree lot. Sun’s heat fill my skin, the ease of stillness chill me.

“Ice Cream? Companiera?”

When I open eyes, there stoop a girlish jones with croppen hair. Ain’t know this child to name. She be a fattish child enough, I think of food. Then puking feeling come in me. I shake my head. Close eyes again.

Her voice come niggling. “Companiera, I be First Physician. We get you fix. Can walk?”

I say, feel angry at this imbecile, “Ain’t walk. Where Pasha at?”

“Ice Cream, I here,” say Pasha.

“Yo, get me, get me.” I open eyes and look for him. He stood with happy on his face, ain’t guess what he feel happy for. I say, “Ain’t leave me, foolish.”

Shut my eyes, and I hear Pasha laugh. I go talking on in darkness. “Hurting well, this ain’t no nonsense. Yo, can walk. Nay, why you pull me?”

Can feel how he collect my knees. Then I be dizzied up against him. Swaying start again. Some worry fret in me, I open eyes.

We rocking down a Lowell hall. The doors and numbers stretch like work. Yo, beyond, stood at one open door, be El Mayor. His face look enfant scary, like he hear some horror tale. Wear his silky robe like any a day.

Then life begin again in me. I struggle, say, “Can leave me down. Nay, seriose. Be bone.”

Look up at Pasha’s face, he frowning like he disapprove. Hold on me firm.

Then can hear how El Mayor come stamping down this hall. The sound come hard on all they simple walls.

El Mayor say close, “You leave her down. She say to leave her down.”

“Ain’t bone to walk,” say Pasha.

“Leave her. We attend this. You go with my runner. Answer!”

“Nay. She—”

“Answer how I tell you. Ain’t hear nay from you!”

I look to El Mayor, surprise. He staring at my Pasha with untemper fury, brow grit deep. Ain’t seen him in this mood before. A thought suggest, this ain’t my normal El Mayor. Be some dream person.

Here it panic in me, that I never left the NewKing’s hut. Be still there, and dreaming. Pasha ease my legs, while in my terror Deema smile his bags of face. Panic rush into my blood, and I fight onto my weak feet. Hold Pasha’s arm to steady.

Then my mind come clear again. Is quiet real. We be in the center hall, is all their squarish tiles and walls. Door to Carpentry be there, but ain’t no sound of work. A grayish cat sit by this door, look at myself and swish her tail.

El Mayor got both hands up, like he prepare to catch me. First Physician with her croppen head look weary kept. Got duty on her face, and now I recognize a purplish spot on her top lip. Her posies start.

I swallow and say, “My Sengles? They—”

“They here,” say El Mayor.

“Yo Driver?” My voice peak. “He here?”

“Sure, Driver here. He bone.” El Mayor look past my head and say somewhere, “Start a room. Room 209. We come behind.”

Then misery concentrate in me, like lightning find a tree. I look round at Pasha, grab his jacket. “Susannah! We leave Susannah!”

“Hush.” El Mayor push in somehow. He staring at my Pasha, who go melt away. Can see him press his back against a wall.

I swear in voice, reach back for Pasha. Struggle El Mayor away, but this fight ain’t go far. He arm me round, and I be like a caught bird in a cloth. I say begging to him, “Christings here?”

Then something happen at my back. El Mayor hug me at his chest, so hard my face press hurting. He yell, “I told you, go! Get off! Ain’t want you now!”

Pasha’s voice say, “Ice Cream, I go down now. I be by.”

“Nay,” I say in muffle squashing. A pain rise in my head, and all my arms go feeble. Cough somehow, and nose at El Mayor. Then I be liften rough. Some hand be pressing in my hair, poke like it checking fruit. We moving then, must swallow not to puke. My head careen, my pain go blind.

Yo, somewhere in this handling, I remember NewKing Mamadou. The fire cast shadows up, the shadows flying on the hanging objects. Dead Karim lain by. My hand on Mamadou’s warmish blood. Then be like my hurts gone far from me, I crave them back. I grit my jaw and try to fix my mind on nothings. Pains. But through between, my skin keep saying Mamadou and death and never happening again. In this, can hear a door come open, light change painful on shut eyes. Then the world drop by, and nothing be.

26. FIRST RUNNER, ARMY BORN

BE A FOOLISHNESS OF LIFE, HOW WE FORGET OUR HURTS IN sleep — like they unmade there, taken back into the time before. We wake in stupid innocence. Then all pains flash to memory, and every cruelty be fresh.

Yo, when I first woken, I lie careless for a minute. Feel my bruises like a sleepy question. Then I startle up in fright. Ware and raise my hands, like I can fight this evil back. Breathe while every knowledge come, and place its separate weight on me.

Feel like I slept a beary winter, but the windows daylight blue. A wooly blanket cover me. Beneath, be bare to unders. Been sweating in the Lowell heat. When I look down myself, be sticky bandages on my hands, like messages from some world that I ain’t want.

On the bedfoot, be that silver dress. Be slung there like a cloth of murders, draggen here from Army camp. First act, I rise on aching legs and snag this in my hand. Go to the window, open it and cast the dress into the yard. It struggle down on wind and settle tired on a wiren fence.

Then I lean against the wall and breathe. Say to myself, Is done. Ain’t need to think on this. Is done.

Head lost most its pain. I go to the door, feel how my injuries be stiff. Had these limps before, from war, from Money’s bucking ways. Be familiar like a boring friend.

Outside the door, First Runner stand. Even in stillness, child seem quick. Braids tie back particular, and she wear a pockety jacket that lie smooth as polish wood.

She say in duty voice, “Companiera Sengle, how your head?”

I swallow nerviose. “Ain’t mally.”

“You seeing clear?”

“Sure, can see.”

“Confuse? Ain’t get no trouble thinking?”

“Foo, leave this.”

“Nay, I got instructions. Confuse?”

“Goddamn, ain’t nothing with me. I be bone.”

“You rest some more?” Her eyes look hope. Can feel, this save her work.

I sigh annoying. “Shoo, must see my Sengles.”

“Nay.” She shake her head. “Ain’t go till El Mayor come by.”

Now, farther down the hall, I hear a rush of dozen feet. An object dropping heavy, and a boy shout thin, “You packing what? Is rocks? Ain’t carry this.”

“You clumsy, what!” a girl say back. “You got no fingers? Hold!”

Then I remind we leaving Massa woods. I say in worser nerves, “Goddamn, I got to see my Sengles. Be all chores to figure.”

“Chores be doing.” First Runner nay her hand. “Yourself must wait for El Mayor.”

“Foo, what I can do? Ain’t going to rest. Be bone.”

She sniff her nose, look some embarrass. “Certain… you can wash.”

Truth, I stank of booze and sweat. Can trust, this warry scent offending all their nice indoors. And now that it remind, I feel this pue myself like smelling guilt.

I shrug. “Ain’t argue with no wash. Be bone.”

“I fix this, ya.” She nod. “Instructions.”

BATH BE INSIDE THE ROOM, it got a petty room itself. Be Lowell kept, so clean it hurt your eyes. First Runner fill the bath for me, and tell instructions while she work. Explain how I ain’t wash my hair, the cut there be too deep. Put bandages by, explain their boring use. Explain the bath savon itself, how it must wet before it work, like she believe I ain’t seen soap before. Every insect detail been in orders, and she speak these orders. When the orders finish, she stand by with no affection. Watch her eye upon the growing water.

I look to the checker floor, see one tile chip away. Start wondering how the Lowells fix this chip — except they ain’t. All going to leave this place. Will be an evac, left to ants and weather.

When I look again at small First Runner, she be watching me. Drill passen from her face, and she say shy, “Yo injuries be cool.”

I take my breath. This be a word of Armies, cool. Now it recall, this child been born by them. Run here from the camp two years before, when she been a troubling eight. Can guess, she raise to love of wounds. All scars respect in Army camp.

I say low, “Is truth, they brave.”

She nod, her feeling pass back into duty. Yo, I stand there scary. All my thinking run and run, like bees inside.

At last I say, “My companiera, sure you known the Armies.”

She flinch, frown on the bath. “Ain’t got much memory.”

“Nay, I only wondern. Simpers liking featherboys? Feel for them like a townie child?”

Her face be solid nothing. Time pass, my question freeze into her stare. Then sudden, she grab into her pocket, take a wrap of cigarettes. Without no word, she slip past to the sleeproom. Come back with a glassen shope, she hold this up and say, “For ash.”

I make a sorry frown. “Ain’t meant no insult with my question.”

Her eyes come birdly sharp on me. “Simpers like the feathers, nay — they simpers love the feathers. Simpers slave themself, is wormen. Birthing featherboys and give them to this, so they slave… slave someone else. They simpers hating any girl who free, ain’t wormen like themself. Hate their own girlish enfants. They ain’t people.” She spit upon the tilen floor, an act no Lowell do. Then she turn to the bath, frown furiose.

I say careful, “Sure, be sorry.”

“You ain’t known.” She drop her cigarette in the shope, unfinish. “Sengle, easy life.”

“Be pardon.”

First Runner shrug. “Ain’t theirs no more myself.”

She crouch and reach her fingers to the water, test its warm. For a minute, she hunch there, tense. Her fingers dabbit in the water. Then she look back and say, “Ain’t guest you to a cigarette. Was ugly courtesy.”

“Be no fault. Yo, I take one gratty.”

She leave her wrap of cigarettes and Lowell matches on the bath side. Set the shope beside, explain how ashes must go in. Pause to wipe her spit off of the tiles and go off, upright quick.

IN THE HEATEN WATER, my cruel morning recollect. I concentrate my work on soaping arms, cigarette in my mouth. But still the skree of littles in the fire return, the feathers swarming. Deema’s ruin head. Mamadou handling up his rifle, falling. Noisy death, and death, and fear that come when fear be too late. Last, my voice say yes and small Karim be shot.

Savon stop in my hand. I stare beyond.

Child ain’t done no wrongness to me. Never I say this yes. Yo, I sit and live this voice again. I live this yes, but in my mind I ain’t say yes. Say nay, he bone. Can leave him. Child be right.

He frighten, crouch on Mamadou. Here the tears come angry through myself. I huddle in the bath and sob hard grief. Heaten water be a comfort that my flesh resist. Ain’t take this lying help. I cry, and frighten how this crying going to stop, and I be left.

Only when I hear a voice outside, I catch my breath.

The sobbing hiccup in my gut. A knock hit at the door.

“Ice Cream?”

Is El Mayor. His bossing sound.

I say in raggety voice, “Ho, you. Been something happen?” I start to rise, the water slush around.

“Nay, stay. Ain’t nothing mally.”

Silence pause. I sit back in my water. It start to cool, feel like a disappointment on my skin.

He call, “I come to say, the Christings here. Susannah also.”

“Christings?”

“You finish, come by my sleeproom. 124. I tell this story.”

I take a halten breath. “I come. Wait — yo, bring me some clothes.”

“Clothes? Why you need clothes?”

I hear his laugh as he go by.

I leave the bath, and use the towel careful like instructions tell. Use germ wash, but ain’t put on new bandages. Be itching pests. Yo, I wash the shope out in my bathen water. Cigarette ends jam stubborn in the drain. I leave them there. Sure, ain’t mattering now, this bath ain’t never use again. Can be, this been the final heaten bath in all the world.

27. BY EL MAYOR HIS SLEEPROOM

JOHN OF CHRIST BEEN DRUNK.” SO EL MAYOR BEGIN HIS TALE. “IF he been in normal minds, can be these miseries never start. But Christings argue through the night, and they all drink like buckets. Nor John accustom to this, sure. Gone big and foolish, time he riding out to Army camp. Walk in there yelling wild damnations, how no Christwife live by roos.

“Can magine how they liking this. Mamadou say, John break the Long Agreement. Now every wife be took.” El Mayor grimace sour. “Then John try hitting Mamadou.”

“Ho.” My laugh come scary. “Christing war his hands? Like angry rabbit.”

“Truth, ain’t war for much. The NewKing beat John seven ways. Time John escape, he scarcely stand on feet.”

I fidget at my scabben finger, try to magine this. “So where he gone? Ain’t been at Tophet when I come.”

“Gone nowhere.” El Mayor shrug unhappy. “Was lain in bushes there, all hours. Been only luck, Susannah find him.”

“Susannah? How, she fled?”

El Mayor nod, troubling. Look to the bed, like he avoid my eyes.

I say reluctant, “She been hurt?”

“Ain’t hurt that we can tell. She cry more than she speak, can comprehend. But got no injury.”

I sigh out perilous. “Roo ain’t rape her?”

“Nay, he rape her,” El Mayor say heavy. “Be no other injury.”

We sitting frogleg on the floor by El Mayor’s fat bed. I be in Lowell working cottons. Skin feel bright with wash. El Mayor wear a silky robe and jeans, look like himself on any a day. One hand stroke nervy on his whitish cat. She rumble in her chest, blink lazy pleasure.

This be a scene of quiet. Simple painten walls and clean. Bed got seven covers, and a fatty chair sit by — Nampshire goods from Lowell’s farther trading, made with carven paws. Ya, both chair and bed is places El Mayor prefer to corner me, in goatish moods. Ain’t never laugh so well as I been laugh in this sweet place.

Be labor to believe there ever been an Army camp, its booze and chicken dirt, its rape.

El Mayor say, from his clean respect, “It been a day, I tell you this. Shoo, when you come in. All like you was.”

“Was normal war.” I touch to my cut lip. “Bruises, mostly.”

“Glad this never come to you. That… they ain’t rape yourself.” His voice be hoarse uncertain then. Is mostly like a question.

I tense against this. “Pasha said they ain’t?”

“Said he figure this.” El Mayor look to me wary.

“Sure, ain’t been.” I shrug. “They roaches never bother me this way.”

His face soften with relief. “Truth, Mamadou ain’t do this foulness to you. Been honest sort.”

This “been” go ugly in my mind. I fumble for the wrap of cigarettes First Runner given me. My hand be bruisen stiff, is careful work to strike the match.

El Mayor say on nervy, “Ya, I know he done this crime. But still be sorry work, his killing. Been a friend to me, some time.”

I look by at the cat, she blinking there with preyish joy. “Ain’t known him for myself. Fought him in war, is all.”

“I known him years. Gone trading there most weeks. Child was honest as a drum. An enfant for all tricks. Shoo, one time, I bring a china cup to him for trade. Got a tint I make myself, was green. Been any work to get this green, yo I been Lowell proud.

“I take this out to Mamadou. Can see the man confuse. He say, ‘It got some better use?’ Mischief in me, you know how. I say this green be pharmacy. Put water in, the water greening. Make you drunk like papa tea. He drinking water from it, and when he say he ain’t feel nothing—”

My voice break loud. “He been allow this foulness to Susannah. Been allow this foulness, any a time, to all they simpers.”

“Ice Cream, sure—”

“How they less than me?”

“He ain’t hurt you? Truth?”

“Nay, how they less than me? I ask this.” I hear the weakening in my voice. Hold nervy, suck my cigarette.

El Mayor’s nosy face be tight in thinking. Silky robe and shaven face uncanny on him then. Like his outside clean, but inside live all grieving dirt.

Then his voice come rough like mine. “You asking, how they simpers less than you? Most children less than you. Sure Mamadou seen. Ain’t mattering to us, our kindness ain’t depend in this. Armies different, all is honor. Deserving, this be all that Mamadou known.”

My brain be twenty odd directions, but I say, “Is simple lies. Susannah ain’t deserve this.”

He flinch like he been stung. “Nay, truth. She ain’t.”

I wait for more dispute from him, but he staring long. A minute pass while we both sorry kept, look past each other. I flick some ash in my shirt pocket.

At last he rouse himself and say, “Can ask a cigarette from you? Mine all been packen.”

I find the cigarettes, say clumsy, “Sorry for my mouth. Ain’t strong to talk about this trouble.”

“Sure. Ain’t strong myself this day.” He light his cigarette with eyes on me, unquiet. “Been arguing all night, to start my moron children leaving. Some still keep behind. First Library ain’t coming for no reasons.”

Be a breath before I comprehend. Then I say miserable, “Nay, how? Thought you all leaving. Pasha said.”

“We mostly leave.” El Mayor shrug defensive. “Most two dozen staying.”

“So tell them that they leave. You El Mayor. Can boss them this.”

“I trying, bell, be sure. I worn my voice with arguments. But they believe what they prefer. Already got one runner missing. Fool gone hid himself.”

“But they Christings coming, ya? You told them on the roos?”

El Mayor shrug. “I told and told. But John, he terrify from life. Ain’t want to hear no changes.”

“Damn! They got no house to use. How they will even stay?”

“Stay here. The mill.” El Mayor grimace sorry.

I frown at him a moment longer, then my spirit tire. I sit back to the bed. “When we leaving? Or… you ain’t told me this already?”

“Leave tomorrow. My children scrambling now to pack. All downstairs look like hurricanes.”

“My Sengles ready. They all coming, if I got to tie them.”

“Bone. Be gratty company.”

I check to him for sarcasms, but his brown eyes be only sorry. I force a smile and find my wrap of cigarettes. Fish another. Thought go past my mind that I be smoking now like Pasha, two by two. Then my heart change peculiar. Mind flash on the stank of gunshots, stank of growing blood. And I see how Pasha look to Mamadou, check he dead.

This sight repeat in me. Roo look, and look away like nothing. Roo say, “He also?” and go shoot Karim like simple task.

But it been for myself. Ain’t wrong. Been war, been for my life.

I light my cigarette and say uncertain, “One thing this evil day produce. Pasha, how he risk himself. Be sure, he honest something.”

Then I surprise, how El Mayor go dark. He flinch away, contain his face like he get some bad taste.

“Been rescue me,” I say. “Sure he… kill some children. Ain’t think he done this, if it ain’t been needful.” I stop on this and feel an after-breath of booze inside my mouth.

“Been defense,” say El Mayor in rough voice.

“Ya, defense.”

“What he said.”

I grit against my memory. Recall the feather in the simper house, shot without no cause. But I say with forcen lightness, “What you got toward Pasha Roo? You fools had some argument?”

“Nay. We fine as… yo, we townie, ain’t been argument.”

“So what it is?”

El Mayor sit forward nerviose, unsettle his whitish cat. She leap away indignant, flash her tail. “Yesterday, you got my note? Been said, about the proofs.”

“Ho, right. He shown you proofs about the roos? What this been?”

“Was photographs. You know this object?”

“Sure. Is sleeper loot, a picture looking like real life.”

“Nay. Be took from life.”

“Any a picture took from life.”

Now El Mayor exasperate, go into explanations. Be like his bossing self when he do so, is seriose and plain. Still it take me time to comprehend, yo then I ain’t believe. Cannot see how this exist, in any normal world.

At last I say, “Can be. Will trust this, so you quit explaining. But how these photographs convince you nothing?”

He look by frowning. “Been photographs of wars before. Things in these wars.”

“Wars? You got these photographs?”

“Nay, he keep them.”

“So how they been?”

El Mayor frown like difficult feeling. “Been two sorts. First sort, they give to every roo. Show these to children for impression. Been planes and war machines, all thousand roos with rifle guns.”

“What he saying, right. But how this anger you with Pasha?”

“Been the other sort. These photographs his own. From his own life.” El Mayor look to me, some bitter meaning in his face.

“Ho, you meaning Pasha got a… camera? What you saying?”

El Mayor shake his head. “Had one, sometime. But it ain’t this.”

“So what it is?”

“Pasha’s photographs shown killings.” He look at me. Can see he hope for understanding in my face.

“Nay.” I huff my breath. “Roo making photographs while children killing all about? Ain’t to believe.”

“Nay, been made after. Shown the dead.” El Mayor wedge his hands between his thighs, look complicate and tired. “One photograph shown a street. Roos walking down this street, dead children all around like unwant trash. Other photograph, been a photograph… some littles dead, and hounds been eating them. One, shown living children with their noses cut away. It be a punishment they do. You comprehend, these photographs was made by Pasha self. He said.”

My mind stop back from this. My trust in photographs go weak. “These been the photographs? This — cut-off noses?”

“Been other pictures, sure, of only people that he known. But these of killings, been a dozen like.”

Then I breathe relief. “Can be, he lying that he made them. Found these pictures somewhere, showing things… some feary things that been.”

“Ice Cream, nay.”

“Ain’t know him like I do. The child a liar born. Be sure, he find these photographs. He only want to fear you.”

El Mayor sit up, be almost anger that he show. “One shown your Pasha. He sworn me not to say. But sure, ain’t worry me to break this promise. Roo been standing by a murdern little, got one foot upon. Little can be eight years old. Neck cut most through.”

I shake my head. “Can be, this only look like Pasha. Roos—”

“Seen his teeth. The roo been grinning. Grinning, damn. Is truth.”

I shake my head again, but I be thinking of the simper house. The fourteen boy that Pasha shot, no reason.

I say, “You only frighten. Yo, some other roo can have these teeth. Any a child lose teeth.”

“Ice Cream, ain’t got to trust him like you do. Pasha frighten me, yo sho, or I ain’t think to leave. Will frighten any person, what these been.”

“But why he keep no pictures like? If they been his. Be only blames.” Now my voice be like it beg some help. Hands gone in aching fists.

“I ask him this. He said, ‘It be my life.’ He got no other life. Said this himself.”

Now El Mayor reach by and take my hand. Press my bruisen fingers, and he say, “When he come in carrying you… first, I thought he tore you up himself. Like a jumbo cat that carry in a bird.”

“Foo, Pasha got no vicious in him. Ain’t like… sure, he know a gun. He know a gun, is truth.”

“Can be that he changen now. A person change sometimes. But I ain’t trust him.”

“I ain’t change.” My mind skit to Karim. “Ain’t like no mally changes.”

“Shoo. Be saying, he better now. If he change.”

“But I ain’t want to change.” My voice come foolish, but I cannot stop. “Myself, I going to stay myself.”

El Mayor smile at this, and loose my hand. “Foo, you change into my love pony, come the day.”

I laugh surprise at this familiar talk. “Sure, when you change from a goat. Goat with pony… nay.”

We both laugh, a bouncy feeling leant against this bed. Then I sit forward nervy. Reach for cigarettes, then I remind, I be already smoking. A minute pass, then I look by at El Mayor.

He watching on me strange feroce. Frown and say, “When you come in… I seen you hurt. Ain’t never felt a thing like that.”

“Foo, was scratches mostly.”

“I ain’t known.”

I make dismissing face, but he say hard, “I love you painful, Ice Cream. Ain’t deny me this.”

Then we looking at each other, while my heart be dark and sorry. Be noticing how his eyes set wide apart. A horsen face he got. But it have a handsome sense, is right like all his rangy body.

He reach and put his fingers to my wrist. The tips touch light. “I know it ain’t no time for this. But can be, we get no other time.”

“Sure,” I say uncertain.

“Ice, you stay with me tonight?”

I shrug discomfort. “Yo sho, must stay if Sengles stay.”

“Goddamn, you know what I be asking.”

His fingers tensen bright along my wrist. Without no thought, I turn my palm to his. Feel the softness there, and all my feelings quiet to this soft.

He say, “You been my madness, bell.” Then he lean to, his lips touch at my cheek. Hand go gentle on my nape and rest my head into his chest. I breathe there nervy. And for a second’s loneliness, I think it can be right. This love can be a good forgetting of all evils past.

But all thought of love end with my hand on Mamadou’s chest. Slip helpless in his dying blood.

Sudden, I pull away. El Mayor flinch back startling.

“Will think,” I say in frighten voice. “But Sengles waiting on me now. I got to be below.”

He breathe out harsh. “Ain’t pushing you to this. Was only asking.”

“Ya, will think. But truth, it be all tasks.”

“Sure. Got tasks myself.”

A longer moment, he gaze on me, his face a cheaten hurt. Then he stand up clumsy. Pull his robe around himself, and say in careful voice, “You think. I be here from middy night.”

“Will think.”

“Room 124. Any Lowell bring you here.”

Want to say I been here any times, but this catch in my heart. “From middy night. Yo sho.”

He start to the door. But when he reach it, he look back. Ya, his face show that this look feel like a shaming weakness.

I say, strange with want, “Be gratty. Gratty for your help.”

His face grit up in sudden anger. But he shake his head, say light, “No help too great for my love pony.”

Then he go out the door, his footsteps hasten to their hush.

28. THE PAPA SICKNESS

I FIND MY SENGLES IN THE WEAVE ROOM. THIS BE A GRANDY HALL, two minutes’ walking end to end. Place fill with looms, these be machines is making cloth from new. Most is rusty left, be sleeper artifice from old and past. Some bone to use, though never a child make yarn enough to feed them well.

Time I arrive, my Sengles all ferocious at my missing self. The littles run to beg at me; my jones call angry questions. Now we leaving Massa seriose, their tempers all gone fickle. Noise be hostilities and frights and grumps.

Jonah say, is Vember month, and sure we going to freeze, without no townie evacs to inhabit. Marlboro mention nasty that if Crow been sergeant, we ain’t left. All be vex at Lowells, who took their knives in confiscation. “Yo, they pack their loot,” say Keepers in disgust. “Ain’t worth to rob.” Mouse and Foxen drawing swears in lipstick on the wall, while Shiny Eleven Angels sit by helping with suggestions.

Driver ain’t be here. Was brought apart, up in a sleeproom. All I can learn about him be, our good child’s pistol ain’t been took, and this be stank injustice. Yo, Pasha Roo ain’t by, nor any a child know where he gone. Worst news, my Asha Badmouth took in birth. Be howling in a sickroom, turning out her baby enfant. Ain’t like to think how these two going to travel any length.

Ain’t strong to tell my violent day, nor this be fit for littles’ hearing. Say only, been a skirmish to the Armies. I show my petty wounds and let Baboucar touch my swollen lip. Say, “This trouble gone. Been only chicken problems, like they is.”

Soon my jones go off, to booze or gossip in their custom pairs. But still the littles clamber to me, needy. Maple Two begin a play where he call out my name. When I answer, he say “Nay!” and laugh. Story Four tell how her maginary animose, the Pickle Beaver, been a Lowell once. He own a bath with science fish: one been chocolate, one been red. Best Creature Five wedge different objects in between my naked toes. Aim to fill each space, and cavil when I let a spoon fall out. Yo, ABC come jumping on myself as I be cladding shoes, while different mutts charge at her, bark excitement.

This day, the ferment grateful to my sense. Be life joyeuse, their selfish noise. Every two that weep, be gladness to me that they weep for nothing. My head remember that it hurt, but I unmind this detail. Nor I want to feel my tired self, nor anything of me.

Been most two hours before I try to leave. This begin a panic altercation. Maple Two scream at me desperate, “You stay now! You stay now!” The bigger enfants grab me stubborn, hurting all my bruises. Only when Mari’s Ghost come to the door with Asha’s enfant born, they all depart in curiose stampede.

Then I go simple free. Take a chunk of ham from Patagonia pocket — Keepers’ gift — and ABC snag this and pelt away before I look. And I walk out to day, squint eyes against its sudden bright.

AT THE BRICKY GATE, I ask the cryer to find Driver Sengle. This spark a seethe of runners, chasing-yelling through the mill. Waiting, I look out where the sun go settle into Lowell City. It seem to boat away in orange light. A flock of birds go wheeling in this orange, black and small. Go round like gnats, like sparks, then they all swept down into vanishing. The bricky city rest beneath.

Then I magine how we walk out through this broken city. Leave our duresse, and find some woods where memory be clean. I magine our horses snorting under loads, the song of feet. Feel my heart accomplish to that sun, they swoopen birds. My injure body hunger for this walk, like it be rest.

Then behind, a voice call sharpish, “Companiera!”

Be First Runner by the door, impatience in her small respect. I stand up from my place.

“Come to,” she call. “Be hasty time.”

FIRST RUNNER LEAD ME BRISK, can feel she run before her nerves. We rabbit down a hall; skirt by the diner, jabbery with clashing trays and hundred talks. Go up the hinder stairs, and dash two floors in one long breath. Then at the second landing place, she stop, so quick I stumble in halting.

She touch the stairy door. “Be leftward by. Room 243.”

“243. Yo sho.”

But she still stand in obstacle. Her manner gone uncertain.

“What be, my ten?” I force a smile.

“Driver. Going to say.”

“What going to say?”

“Got the papa sickness.” She sketch eyes down nerviose. “He sleeping now.”

My heart stop back. “Papa sickness?”

“Drunk too much pharmacy, you know how.”

I swallow. “Nay, ain’t know this.”

“Do so, sometimes. Been help by First Physician, but he ain’t talk yet.”

This meaning dizzy in my head. “Ain’t talk? How sick he be?”

“They call physician for him in bone time. Ain’t fear, how he may seem.”

“Physician with him?”

“She gone, left someone by. They took his papa now. Is safer like.”

I look at her through shady pain. “Gratty. Respect your help. Sure… you leave with us tomorrow?”

Feel worse than I expect when bright First Runner shake her head.

“Foo, you staying by the mill?”

“Nay,” she say low-kept. “I staying in the city, by.”

“The city? Lowell City?”

“Ya, someone got to keep a watch, what coming here. I hide in all they buildings. Be any situation at the mill, word go to El Mayor.”

“Situation how?”

“If they kilt,” she say like basic facts. “I still be left to tell.”

I cannot think no courtesy. I say flat, “You ten.”

She shake her head, frown seriose. “Be Army get, can hide correct. Yo, if worse become, my brother help me.”

“Brother with the Armies?”

“Ya, Malik.”

Malik be grown fourteen, a boy I often fight in war. I try to think what sort he be, but all my mind be scattern dumb. At last, I only say, “Bell courage.”

“Ain’t got no courage, nay.” She nod at the stairy door. “Room 243. I got to go, be chore. Keep lucky in your journey.”

“Keep lucky you,” I say, but she already turning by. Her feet go twenty-forty down the stairs.

WHEN SHE GONE, my fear return. Take a moment’s breathing dread before I open the door. Its weight resist my hands, feel like I hold with mousen paws. My mind repeating: Ain’t fear, how he seem. He ain’t talk yet.

Carpet gape at me. Be lights and doors. I walk into this silence.

243 stand open. All my sorrow draw me on. Be like every step go downward into cold. Then I be at the door.

Driver lain with back to me. Is most like normal sleep, ain’t nothing harm in his appearance. Heapen covers on his rangy length. Head show its usual hair. Can hear his hasping breath, slow in its rest.

My heart ease down. Ain’t nothing. Too much papa, all it is. Be easy done, the coughing pester so. He sleep it by.

Careful, I step in, my eye gone wary on his body shape. See how skinny he becoming, but this grief accustom. Only when I look upon his face, I feel uncanny. Ain’t look like Driver. Can guess him in this face, but ain’t the face I know.

Then something inkle in corner-eye. I startle back, my heart beat false.

In a folden chair behind the door, sit Pasha Roo.

Ain’t know what fright I get. First is blackness in my chest, then it be only Pasha. Be normal with his owlen looks. His furry hair be muss.

I swallow at my fear and whisper, “He ain’t dying?”

Pasha shake his head, make face like this been foolish question. Stand and gesture by. I slip outside the door, be walking stumbly with my nerves. Pasha come, he close the door behind.

A moment, we stand in this nothing place. Look one to one.

Then I say nervy, “Why you here?”

“Was me who find him.” Pasha shrug. “Been seeking you, gone to the room they say. But you ain’t there. In hall, was Driver lying.”

“Lying in the hall?”

“Lie, ain’t wake. I call, and children come. Make him… bring from stomach?”

“Puke, can comprehend.”

“Ya. Breathe better then. He talking some, is better.”

“What he said?”

Can see, Pasha ain’t expect this question. Answer pass unpleasant in his eyes, then he say stiff, “Ain’t much.”

“Nay, what he said?”

“Ice, he sick.”

“Yo, why he come up here? He look for me? Damn, what he said?”

Pasha flinch, frown to the carpet. “He… asking us to leave him. Leave him die.” Then he glance back nervy, check my face.

“So.” I clench my hands upon their hurt. “You saying, this been meant. He want to kill himself, you saying?”

“Ice, he ain’t think bone. Was pharmacy.”

“Nay, papa never make you… why he want to kill himself?”

“Ain’t reasons.”

I hiss low, “Damn, what he said? Say truth. Can know your fibbing, I will know.”

Pasha tense all through himself. Say slow, “I ask him if he want you.”

I flinch, look to the door. “And he ain’t want to see me.”

“Ice, he sick.”

“Shee that, what he said?”

“Say you make him dead. So you can do this. Move the town.”

I take a painful breath. “I make him dead. When everything I do be for himself.”

“He been almost sleep. Ain’t sense.”

I look to Pasha’s face. Again his whiteness seem like sorrow, is like his blood turn pale from grief. But through his owlen face, I see the NewKing. Feel the gunfire in my fear, again-again, like beating. Pasha shoot and shoot, until the hut smell wet with blood. Pasha look away, face white and nothing. Say, He also?

Then all the madness of this day go freak. I say, outside all sense, “Be strange enough, you found him. How this been? You doing something to him?”

Pasha flinch, look down. Get a frown like consternation.

“Go thinking,” I say. “Think on all your work. Be well.” Tears want to start, but I rub at my eyes feroce. Swollen eye hurt vicious, and I swear.

“Ice Cream?”

“My Driver… ain’t believe he say this. Nor he kill himself. Is yours.”

I turn blind to the wall. Can know, I talking madness, but my heart believe this madness. Never my brother kill himself. Is Pasha’s always lies. Yo, El Mayor been said, Ain’t got to trust him like you do. Roo killing littles, El Mayor been said.

Then into this blindness, Pasha speak low.

“Can comprehend. You tell me hate, if you got need. Nor you ain’t do mally nothing. At their camp, been me.”

Then everything be dizzy lost. I lean back on the door.

Pasha say, “I ain’t hurt Driver. You know this?”

I shrug at my feeling. “Ya. I know.”

“Papa change his thinking. Sure I know. Done this myself.”

“Done yourself.”

“Gero, like this papa. Try this.”

I let my hand ease to my mouth. Look at Pasha now, and try to wonder. Think of his foot upon a murdern little. Hounds eating enfants. Gero.

“Been physicians there,” say Pasha low. “And my soldats, ain’t let me die.”

I say cold, “Should let you.”

This catch him funny somehow. Roo grin up and muttern, “Truth.”

When I see his teeth, my feeling come precaire. I say in strange high voice, “Your Deema. Why he burn this house?”

Pasha sigh, his mouth go tired. “Ain’t guess. Can be, he ain’t know littles there. He fool, is foolish work.”

“Sure he known.”

“Why he will know?”

“You told me roos kill littles, ya. Was lies?”

He nay his hand. “This happen in a yeary war. When danger been, for time. Been stories, burning also. But in this time, with Deema, why?”

“Burning?” I say sharp. “What been these stories?”

“Been story. Some our children, fire a house. Shoot littles when they running out. Been this story.”

“You done this?”

He take breath, surprise. His hands square into fists.

“You done this? Damn, you answer.”

His eyes seek at me, like he try to comprehend. “Nay. Ain’t done this.”

“What you done?”

He stare on me, ain’t thinking in his face.

I say, “How you killing littles? What you done?”

“Ice Cream?” His eyes show grief like light.

Shame come in me, coursing chill, as blood run from a wound. But I only say, “You go. Get out. Ain’t want you here.”

He nod quick and turn. Go clumsy to the stairy door, push outside like he flee. Can hear his feet uneven on the stairs.

I turn slow and press my aching face against the door. Take a mally minute before I open and go inside.

Driver lain just like he been. His hasping breath go by.

I crouch down to the floor. Get on hands and knees, press one hand hard against my bruisen mouth, and weep like any hound. Weep for my brother, and his ruin face and ruin heart. Weep how Pasha save my life, and kill and kill and kill. How he turn feary from my hate. Weep for small Karim, who love my Crow; and weep for Crow gone to the camp of rape, to hell and filth. Mamadou lie beneath, blood on his chest. I weep until I cannot breathe, my hair be wet, all on the floor be wet.

And I crush the sound behind my hand. Driver sleep on in his separate dark.

BE TEARS, AND BE THE END OF TEARS. Soon my crying fail. Then I sit alone, and all this grief be only damp and aching. Driver breathing on, his unwant life go through himself.

Then I lay by him on the bed. Ain’t mind if he be woken so, nor I care for his laws. I hug careless to his body — body that feel strange, is only bones and sleeping weight. But he never wake, he never shift against my holding. Sleep gentle in my arms, and my heart settle to his warm.

When I last look up, that orange light still showing in the window. Yo, they birds go wheeling, speckling black, above the city. I think again how we go, leading horses, bearing enfants — march our stubborn trespass into winter. First day we reach the farther edge of what we ever known. Yo, at the end I see, like gem mysteriose, this cure. In my mind, it be an emerald, lying in a rooish hand. Be the greenish color I see, when I close eyes against this light. And I see again the city, its streets of broken glass, its upheld rooms of rats and silence. City of our final leaving, and our first adventure.

29. OF STOLEN CHILDREN

I WAKEN TO MY NAME, AND LOOK UP NERVY IN BESWEATEN SKIN. Night be in its blackness. From the window, only come the skeiny light of Lowell’s outdoor lamps. Ain’t no one by, nor Driver stir. Ain’t figure if my name was spoken real, or been in dreams.

My brother lain like sleeping water, loose. Arm rest above the covers, and his hand itself look easy. I touch his shoulder careful, and his breath pause like a question. I hold my breath along. Sigh gratty when he breathe again.

Then I hear the cryers’ dim bewail. “Ice Cream Sengle to the bricky gate! Ice Cream Sengle! Bricky gate!”

I mouth a swear and get up to the door.

Hall be empty, ya, the mill is silent with the tardy hour. It be the nothing voice of brick and carpet, like no outside hush. Yo, as I go, my thinking stray in guesses, who require myself. First, be thought of middy night. Some guilt beware, is El Mayor, complain that I ain’t fill his bed. But he ain’t going to call no fickle girl to bricky gate.

Then a wish remember Crow. Now Karim be dead, ain’t necessary he remain by Armies. But every conscience know, Crow never come. Is lost to hatred.

Last I decide it must be Sengles. Likely be, they start a loud predicament. Lowells exasperate and rid my unschool children to the yard.

But when I come outside, be still. Only a mockingbird give ugly voice into the vacant dark. Moon grown paunchy, blear in cloud. Stood most at middy height.

I come out on the moon concree. Behind the gate, a tall horse stamp its hoof. A child stand shadowy by. Gate open set, and two guards be before, their rifles idle held.

Guards is First and Second Library, tired in waking. Can see the burning noses of their cigarettes move jiggy, sketching orange flights. As I walk up, First Library call, “Girl only ask for you. Ain’t want to come inside without.” Her voice sound pologetic, she commiserate my woken sleep.

I walk toward, watch how this shadow child appear. She wear a leather jacket, legs show naked to the thigh. Hair wrap up in cloth, and she stand barefoot on the pathen dirt. Got cheekbone face, with big plum lips. She ain’t speak out, but when I come up close, can see she watch on me.

Ain’t recognize this girl for nothing. In the moonish blear, is shy feroce.

I say, “Salue, my stranger. What you need?”

She say up scary, “Brung this horse. For trade.”

Her voice bruise in my memory. Be the simper from the Armies, girl who given me her knife. And it remind, how I been call the simpers from the camp. Ain’t seen this girl inside the house, but sure she heard this call.

Now she come, I got all dread against. Be like I cry out in a nightmare, invite its spooks into my day. But I square my heart and say, “Be welcome. Sure you come with me.”

When she step forward, all her shape be fear. Flinch when the horse step close, is like a six who never ride before. She lead him on a halter, and I wonder if she walken all this way on naked feet.

When she get close, she say, “Horse was stolen, this be right?”

“Ain’t need no horse. You bring yourself.”

“Yo, I be stolen also.” She set her mouth, defiant frighten.

Truth, Lowells ain’t take stolen loot. Be people living on their trade, ain’t like no disagreements. But I say firm, “They laws be by. Nor theft got shame among my people. Sengles’ help be yours.”

“Ain’t ask no help for help,” she say in pitchy voice. “Got trade.”

“Yo sho.” I nod to First Library. “My First, will take this horse for me? Can speak to El Mayor tomorrow.” I give her meaning look, ain’t want no squabbles. But she nod and smile.

Then Second Library start to close the gate. The simper tense and stare at this, and when the gate lock to, she close her eyes and mouth a word.

“Ain’t hold you here,” I say. “Can leave, if this become your wish.”

She look round sharp at me. “Nay. Going to stay.”

I smile back nervy. “Bone. Come by inside.”

GOT NO KNOWLEDGE WHERE to take her. So I lead her to the diner, empty in this nightish hour. This be a grandy tilen room. Got booth tables fixen to the wall, with sofas to. Yo, be other various tables, set with wooden chairs. On the wall is all their rostas, wiper boards writ up with task.

Most times, this be a pigly stew. Mess faster than it clean. But this nighting hour, the diner washen plain as silence. Only on the sofas, heren there, be cats asleep.

As she come in, the simper laugh. Say in happy nerves, “They eat here?”

“Yo sho. The diner be.”

I start the lights. As they flash on, the simper catch her breath. Cats look up riling from their sofas.

I say, “Be lectric light. Ain’t risky none.”

“I know. Be sure I know.” She stretch one hand up toward the lights, like she will feel their heat. Now it notice, from her shoulder, swing a pinkish sack. Is cloth, and got a face embroider. Most this face be worn away. One eye be only dangle threads. Smiling mouth half gone.

“I grown in a place, been most like this,” she say.

“Before they took you?”

“Yo sho, lectric place. Been finer. But is lights like this. Whole city like.”

Most every simper say she from a wonder town of all richesse. Brag how her people going to come and war for her with brave explosions. But these science children never appear. So I ain’t heed this much. I only say, soft as I know, “Can come and sit. You gratty.”

I go to a table, sit myself in wooden chair. Then the simper laugh again. Come to her chair unnerven, seem to question how it use. But before I can explain, she sit and smile around. Smile pinch down queery, like she bite her joy.

Yo, in this showing light, can see her face be scarren every way. Eyes blackish prettieuse, but got one eyelid skew and thick. Her nose been broken sometime, take a gentle corner in its length. Along her skin entire, be nicks and lumps.

I look down nervy at the table. Got smears of soap upon, some small custodian ain’t wipe it proper. My hand inspect this surface, and I say, “What be your name?”

She scoff breath. “I be a simper. Use no name.”

“Must call you something, sure.”

“Call?” She pooch her lips uncaring. “Who I be, they call me Hak’s girl.”

“Hak’s girl? OldKing Hak’s?”

“This be myself. Thought you may know.”

“Ain’t Sengles knowing much of Armies.”

Her eyes change in some puzzling, like she magine how this be. “Ain’t know much. Can see this right. Heed, you know how simper girls be took?”

“Sure.” I shrug unliking. “Bound and took.”

“Nay, what doing after.”

Must be, I look finicky, for she give her scary laugh. “Ain’t mean they doings, sure this be… Shee, they rapes. Shee.” Then her face go twisten. Tears come up, she rub them as they come. Get a stubborn look in this, like these tears be put on her.

I say low, “Ain’t got to tell me nothing. Be no need.”

“Nay, story be wolfen. You like this.” She look friendly through her tears. Like she offer a gift, hope it can please.

I swallow at my unwant. “Yo sho.”

“How it being, so. Myself been took by Hak and Bardo. Hak ain’t been King or nothing then, a feather like another. Sure they ruin me well, ain’t any mystery how Hak be.”

“Can guess.”

“Nay, you ain’t guess.” She laugh up harsh, rub at her teary eye. “You think a million times and never guess. What they do first, they break my leg, so I ain’t flee nowhere. Then all they feathers trying me. I lose two teeth in this, been choking blood. And they all laughing, glad. No sho, you guessing how this be.”

“Sure,” I say weak. “Ain’t know.”

“Ya, when this finish, how they do. Taken girl be sobbing well. Mostly will be bleeding, but ain’t no child bear this prettieuse. Then the NewKing come. Ain’t show himself before, no sho. He give them plenty time.

“So, NewKing going to the feathers, ‘How you hurt this child, this poory girl?’ Go chase them off. And he bring her to his hut, he give her any care. Pet her. Clean her wounds.”

I shiver, stare some loathen feeling. A memory pass of Mamadou, how he daub me with booze. Clean your hurts. Is what we use.

Simper say on, “Yo, he talk, ‘You feary, child? Ain’t fear no more, I keep you safe.’ Girl, she ain’t know nothing. Feel this be the only child she trust. So he tend her there, and when she heal… how you thinking? What she do?”

“She stay?” My voice come dry.

“Ain’t leave for nothing.” Simper laugh hard, grimace her face. “Sugar, they simpers never leave. Seen when you call them out? ‘You free! Can go to Lowell mill!’ No sho, they leave. Ain’t never be in life.”

She give her thin-kept smile. And here it realize, she hide her teeth. My stomach gripe again. “This been with yourself? This… cleaning wounds?”

“Ho, my story. Right.” Her scars all work in smiling. “So, in my time, been NewKing Sayd. He take me to his hut, but I ain’t talking. And he go on his ‘Where you hurting, treasure? Now you safe.’ Try to pet my head. Myself…” Her face grit up in sudden hate. “I push him in the fire.”

A moment pass. She pinch her mouth, scorn past me at this memory.

I say low, “Was vally done.”

“I be from other people.” She wave her hand around. “People like this here. Never was handled by no male before. Cannot like no handling.

“So, yo, continue like this, me and Sayd. He try some times, then he tell Hak, ‘You like this bitch? She yours.’ I ain’t fight no less with Hak, but this ain’t worry Hak. Yo, how he using me, I ain’t been prettieuse to any another. Been nothing good to see.”

She laugh hard, grimace her face. Reach in her jacket pocket, get a cigarette. Light her match with one hand. As she suck this cigarette, she look at me with bliss content. Like all her hopes accomplish.

I look down to her pinkish sack, set floppy on the table. Now I see, along its cloth is written words in filler pen. Ink wash out mostly, lines is pale. Words go in twos, and every pair been written by a different hand. Then sudden, I comprehend. Is names. Was written on her bag in friendship. And slow, it follow in my mind, these been from children in her home. Must be, she keep the bag through all this time.

Then all my misery be, how this been years. I try to think what years it be since Sayd been NewKing of the Armies, but my mind go flat and tired.

Sack written, Tino Alvarez. Maidali Guzman. Camilo Araujo. Cari Guzman. Ink washen grayish light.

At last I say, “This why you given me your knife?”

“Sure be so.” She look at me, eyes prideful. “Ain’t had this chance before. But you be worthy well.”

“Shoo, how you know my worth?”

“How I ain’t know? A simper going to know all talk. Know pox on all these Lowell companieros. Foo, you think there be a male in Massa woods ain’t visit simpers? You think!”

I frown discomfort. “Sure, cannot be all boys do this.”

“Ain’t it?” she say unconcern.

“Nay, cannot be every child. Ain’t every male the same.”

“Foo, ain’t distress. Truth, some Christings never come, is finicky. ‘Go with harlots,’ be their talk.”

“And some Sengles, sure.”

“Can be. Ain’t necessary I know all names of Sengles.”

Something trouble in her then. She get up to her feet, hug jacket round herself like chills. Smile nervy at me, then she cross by to a redhead cat. Stoop, touch soft between his ears. He wake and sniff up drowsy.

Then she look back, shaming in her eyes. “Been talking ugliness. Can feel this. Hope I said no harm.”

“Ain’t harm.”

“Had only Hak to talk with, mostly. Feel I ain’t know how to be.”

“Ain’t got to be no way. Yo, this be by. We going to leave this place. Ain’t be no Armies in this story.”

“Can hope.” Her mouth fret close. “But… you ain’t worry if I say?”

“Say?” I force a smile. “Ain’t knowing what it be. But sure, you tell.”

She frown back sorry to the cat. “Hak say they got to kill you. For Karim and Mika kilt. Mamadou telling how it been your roo, but Hak ain’t want to hear.”

My mind struggle, try to fix this into sense. “How… Mamadou told?”

“That Deema roo can die, be gratty. No one weep for him. But ya, Karim and Mika! Hak never care for them before, but now they be his boys. ‘She kilt my boys,’ and all his noise. Mamadou been the one was hurt. He ain’t got nothing at you.”

“Mamadou ain’t been kilt?”

“Ho, I see. You thought he kilt? Nay, been torn up some. He broke his shoulder bone behind.” She touch herself, close at her collarbone, show where this bullet strike.

I say blind, “I been expect, a person shot must die.”

“Foo, can live. Some children shot three times, can live.”

I try to think how this can be, but nothing remember in my mind. Been blood on him, Karim crouch by. I touch this blood myself, but never wonder if he live. Ain’t hope.

I sit back, stare my struggling thought. Mamadou come back in my mind, alive. But now he be the NewKing of the simper’s tales, of laughing rape.

On a rosta board across, can see where someone writ up large, AIN’T PACK BOOKS. PACK FOR NEEDS. Some other child writ under this, NEEDS: CIGARETTES, BOOZE. Word booze bother at me, recall the Army camp its stank. Mamadou hold my hand so gentle, clean my injuries. How he done with every slave. Ya, in time of NewKing Sayd, he been a feather like another. When they rape this girl, he been among. So been his life. And I always known — but I refuse to know for selfishness. Dream stupidities of love, and never care beyond.

By the rosta board, a clock be hung. First, I stare through it, gnaw my guilts. But slow, a question bother in me. Can almost laugh when I find that I wonder: Yo, what time it be?

Ain’t cleverish for reading clocks, but this be simple news. Both arms is pointing twelve. Then I shock peculiar, pondering this perfect time. Be like an answer spoken. I look to Hak’s girl like she going to comprehend, can share.

She waken from her thought, frown up. “You fretting something? Expect, Hak never chase you. Be his braggeries.”

“Nay, ain’t fretting.” I stand to my feet. “Should only go. Be tardy.”

Simper startle, budge her cat. He squirm free and brandish tail. “Sure, you go.”

“Can put you with my Sengles, if you like.”

“Nay.” She raise her hand, most like she guard from me. “Be better here. Only… ain’t think these Lowells rid me?”

“Nay, I go bespeak their El Mayor. Can rest, you safe.”

“Safe.” She nod uncertain.

“They Armies gone, is surely gone.” My voice come hard. “We leave this place.”

She nod again, consideration frowning in her brow. Then she turn back to the cat and say, “You keep the horse. Ain’t Lowell’s.”

Simper smiling dreamy, stroking on the cat, as I go out.

30. BY MIDDY NIGHT

MY SENGLES SLEEPING HUSHEN WHEN I LOOK INTO THE WEAVE Room. Pasha there, lain on a sleepen bag, with Keepers curlen to. Hounds is gone. Can guess a Lowell cat been in this history. Ain’t nothing here to keep me, I go on.

On the stairy landing, I stop by the big back windows. Look down on the tumble bridge, the fussing light on river’s back. Ain’t know how this change, but I come gratty in my temper. Feel like every evil solving right.

Mamadou living, but I swear my heart forget his love. Behind the simper’s tale, this love be filth. Be detestations. Get even angry wish that he been dead. Been grief, but clean to feel.

But always been this better choice. Must only walk some carpet distance, step into a soften room. Will rid this love with better love. What Mamadou ain’t forgive. And in my heart perverse, I crave this choice, like war its wild despair.

In the window, my face show, is ghosten in reflection. Face delicate made, its swollen injuries look pitieuse. Girlish child with skinny collarbone — be small in size and feeding, but her eyes be good feroce.

Ain’t myself that I been known. Ain’t the feary chit that look at me from Hate You’s mirror. This be the Sengle sergeant. Child who dare her life in war. Do murdering crime, but got no cowardesse. A proven knife.

I lean forward to the glass. Touch my lips to my ghost lips. Think of every wish, and give this wish into my hurt reflection. Send it to all gods I know — of Armies and of Christings, and the Allah god our greats believe, before he leave them in Two Towns.

Then I walk on, with ravish shyness starting in my flesh. Go through the stairy door, and carpet self feel like it draw me onward, want my life. Come to the door of 124, and these gold letters shine at me. Be bright with some witch meaning. Is like I see them in a distant memory, when I know what come behind.

I take the doory handle and I open.

El Mayor sat on his bed, in his same silken robe and jeans. He startle tense as I come in — and it remind, they knocking on a door in Lowell mill. Ain’t just walk in personal rooms.

Then my certainty be by. My mind gone stupid white.

I say halten, “Got some business.”

El Mayor grit his jaw and nod. Watch narrow while I close the door behind. I think inside myself: Open the door, it can be nothing. Close the door, this be decision. And it close, and I turn by again. Feel hot across my face.

He watch on me, unspeaking. Light be only from one lamp, ain’t tell how his expression be. I pull my Patagonia off, get chills where my shirt light besweaten. Cannot look at El Mayor, but sure I feel his eyes as I go put my jacket on a chair.

When I turn, his face be cold bekept. He say, “What business?”

“A simper come from Army camp.” My voice rise harsh with nerves. “Be in the diner now. I ask that she can stay. Be on my Sengles.”

“Can stay. This be all?”

I look at him all kinds of helpless. It inkle in my mind, he ask me here for only mockery. To prove that I be weak for him. Can be, his flirting been some empty jokes, from its beginning.

I feel the shame before. But I say, “Be middy night.”

“Middy night?”

“So you asken me. Say you be here from middy night.”

His eyes narrow. Then he stand up to his feet like panic.

Sudden, he be grinning. Grin like this be bursting at him, happy bigger than his face.

“Damn,” he say, and shake his head. “Why you talk of business? Turn me any ways with this.”

“Been business,” I say, grinning back. “Ain’t false.”

“I never hope you come. Been sulking here.”

“Said I will think.”

Then we smiling quiet. He bite his lip and shake his head, like this news ain’t comprehend. Yo, his watching eyes feel in my skin.

He say, “Ain’t think no more. This thinking past, we right?”

I nod somehow. My smile go soft.

“I got to chase you? Or you coming here?”

Be but two steps to go, but I cross this distance fearing. Feel like I miss somehow, do some mistake. But I come easy to. He pull me gentle to himself.

Is mostly like our normal meeting, how our bodies touch. Like I should kick his shin, push at his face. But now I put hands soft to him. One hand slip in his robe, find where the hairs be on his chest. Where be only skin. My heart beat scary, like I balance on some risky place.

He stroke light against my back. “You touching me, goddamn.”

I laugh in teary wise. “I touch you any times.”

“Ain’t been touching, this been clawing, bell.” He stroke up to my head, and gentle it against his chest. Can feel his sigh. “Been walking dead with love for you. I guess you known.”

“Shoo, ain’t took this seriose.”

He lift my chin to look at him. “You be here seriose? Ain’t going to run from me again?”

“Ain’t going to run.” My voice come breathless.

He touch his finger gentle on my lip. “You all cut like that. Feel like I going to hurt you.”

But he bend down and kiss me deep. I let my head weigh back against his hand, my body weak like water. Then all our time come back in me — his kisses that I fought in panic, left in strange regret. Now I release beyond this fear, put arms around him needy. Be kissing desperate while my skin go bright and dark with want.

It go careless then. Be hungry meant, as right as war. He take me against him hard. I cry inside my throat. Hold him into all my bruises, then be pulling at his roben tie without no sensible thought. His robe go by. My shirt catch on my face as it come off. Then he rid all my clothes while I laugh breathless high, ain’t think to help. He pull me and we go onto the bed, and mad against each other. He muttering, “Any Christ, you sweet,” and kiss me everywhere can reach.

Then we be facen face again, my leg curl over him. He shift me round until he lie upon. Feel his hardness press against my thigh, I catch my breath. He smile down soft with need. Eyes show a hounden love, ain’t like himself.

He kiss me on my lips, my cheek. Say gruff with want, “Ice Cream. You done this thing before?”

I laugh thin. “And you? You done this thing before?”

“Been asking you a question, mouthy.”

“Sure I done. I ain’t a twelve.”

“Ain’t feel like I can stop. But I stop somehow, if you ain’t want this.”

“Foo questions. I be here.”

“Yo sho, I going to do this now. Ain’t frighten.”

“You be frighten?”

“Hush.”

SEX A SCIENCE EL MAYOR know deep. This secret known to every jones and foaly child in Massa woods. I heard from twenty girlish mouths — until this news be boring. Yo, I swear he never use myself. Ain’t care to be the hundredth story of his goat prowess.

But prowess do what it can do. And on this night, it be my last reliance from my pain.

Lowell bed itself be strange bonesse. Sheets touch like fresh milk taste. Yo, his hands be like he speak some mystery language to my skin. Feel scary fine — like falling from a tree, and falling on for hours so. Landing in a bed with sheets like milk. Someone kissing at your neck and saying nonsense kindness.

Times, my heart be distances. Body feel its joy, but I be separate in some height precaire. Thoughts crawl in, like unwant ants — of what be real, and what be false, and how my Mamadou been. But other times, I see his face, and ease in thankfulness. It be himself, my goat familiar. While he be inside me, I been thought a thousand times of love, and love, and everything forgot. I scorn my heart aloof, nor ever a person see this heart.

Ya, when sex be tired, we talk of everything somehow: the simper come; my Driver’s sickness; who will stay at Lowell mill. Most and long, we talk about the destinations of our journey. What El Mayor decide, we going to Connecticut its west. Place be clean of roos, how Pasha figure. This dabbit into arguments about the posy cure, and who should chase to Washington — if Lowells smarter for this task, or if my warry Sengles best. Each discount the other, but this dispute end in more unraveling time of sex and crying speech without no words.

Once, he asken, “When you known you going to come to me?”

I got no answer here. Can say, I always known. Be some way truthful, but ain’t answer nothing. Can say, Decide this when I known the truth on Mamadou. But I ain’t wish to tell of Mamadou our histories this night.

I say, “I never known this right. Can do some acts, then learn behind you going to do them. You know how.”

“Nay, I ain’t know. Be some psychology of scratchers. I always know what I will do.”

“Foo psychology. Sound like some disease.”

“Can be disease, when it get into scratcher heads.” He mingle his fingers in my braids. “Ain’t guess why you kept back from me.”

I ain’t react, I stroke his arm. Fret my heart in quiet.

“Ice Cream?” His voice come careful. “Ain’t never think I feel this. But, you need me to be loyal, I be loyal.”

“Nay, you ain’t!” I laugh surprise. “Be like a hound who promise he ain’t bother squirrels. Next squirrel come, the hound be gone.”

“Can and will.”

“Find out how. You always know what you will do!” I laugh again.

“Thought this been considerations to you.”

I puzzle at this a minute, try to find it in myself. “Nay, been only fooling, this. What you got for me, you ain’t go feel for no one else. Feeling be particular, can guess.”

“I be jalouse as any brawling imbecile. Cost me nights, worrying who you think upon. Who get your love.”

Mamadou pass my mind like chills. I say discomfort, “Shoo, I ain’t so goatish like yourself.”

Here I kiss him, but his kiss distract. He pull away. “Ain’t know if I like to do you so. Other girls… be shame for you somehow.”

“Who going to know? Ain’t even know we been together.”

“They going to know we been together. How they ain’t?”

“Who telling them?”

His frown go dark. “Ain’t going to be the last time, this. I set myself on fire, you do me so.”

“Nay, nay. I only think, we keep this.”

“Be secrets, what you saying?” Now El Mayor go narrow on me, like he smelling rats.

This bring me into conscience. Somehow, been natural to me, amours cannot be daily talk. My love been always warry crimes, kept in some separate night. But ain’t no harm to talk on El Mayor. He be the world’s respect.

Only, I ain’t want this talk. Feel finicky in every nerve. Can do with El Mayor, but cannot name it like a fact. Cannot.

Then El Mayor say rough, “You got no other secret males?”

For luck, I laugh surprise. Say without thought, “Got any dozen. Keep half your Lowells under silence vows.”

“Can answer questions also.” El Mayor make a tighten smile. “Be asking yes or nay.”

“Nay,” I say with narrow truth. “I got no males. Got zero. Jalouse my pony, if you need. I always love her most.”

He laugh relief and pounce me, then somehow this turn to kissing. Like magic tricks, my contradictions hush. I ease into my skin. Ain’t got the spirit for no more, we sore in every part. Yo, we try, and end in sleep, curl up like animoses. Waken kissing more.

And then somehow, the birds be singing their bad news of morning.

AIN’T LIGHTEN YET. Be darkness morning when I get up tired. Put on my clothes like they be punishment. Then El Mayor come fold me in his arms. Hold me against his naked self, give one more kiss on my raw mouth.

I say clumsy, “So we doing this. Evacuation.”

“Quest.” He cosset at my ear. “Ain’t disrespect our quest.”

“Quest sound like a thing grown on your skin. Disgusting somehow.”

“Adventure, ya. Gone sotten with you worse. Ain’t cure for nothing.”

I smile careful. “Got this sickness also. Know I do.”

Then I feel my duty coming like cold daylight, draw me on. I step away reluctant. Feel scary walking to the door. Is like he be a needful fact I panic to forget. Yo, as I open, he call soft, “I love you vicious, Ice Cream Star.”

I stop with hand along the doory side and say, “I love you also.”

Then, as I turn away, I terrify sudden to my words. Come down the hall with coward step and think: Ain’t lies entire. Yo, it be done. Must love him, all it is.

31. OUR LAST DEPARTURE

WHEN I GET DOWN TO THE WEAVE ROOM, ALL MY CHILDREN woken ugly. Must boss each enfant into clothes, and chase the jones to fetch our meal — ain’t nothing done without my yells. Half my children doing nothing but they thieve from Lowells. Scramble out, and come back with a useless glove or tato. I get no thinking peace, and soon my night with El Mayor become a distance where some good thing been.

When my tasks be rid, I go up to the second flight to Driver. This trip be risky circumstance — the stairs become an avalanche of Lowells bearing loads. Each step is dodging, shoving, swears. Through this, can hear the cryers’ wail begin, and go on larming. Seem every Lowell callen to some place.

My head be tired without no sleep, and I come through the stairy door before my dread remind. Then I hold my step. The hallway gape its mally memories. All the number doors remember like a waiting curse.

First Physician be by door 234, talking in. When she see me, she turn startling. Come down the hall like she confront some trouble.

“What be?” I say in whisper voice, unnerve. “My Driver woken?”

“Ya. Woken well.” She stop before me, smile discomfort. Hand go to her lip, it dabbit on the posy mark.

I take my breath. “I come to see him. You know how.”

“Be sorry.” Her smile go stiff. “He ain’t want to see you now.”

“Nay? When he can see me?”

Here she put her hand upon my shoulder. Take all my sense to keep myself from hitting this hand away.

“Companiera,” she say low, “he shame.”

“Ain’t need to shame. I love him any way, is foolish.”

“Yo he know.”

“He can ride? We leaving, but we stay this—”

“Yes, he ride. This passen well.”

I swallow at my guilt. Look past her shoulder with some stifling feeling. “Want to see him, damn.”

Then, from Driver’s open door, I hear a girlish voice. Is laughing, rise up pitchy in excitement. My skin go peculiar cold.

Be the simper’s voice. Is Hak’s girl, in my Driver’s room.

I step back. Brush First Physician’s hand away without no thought. “Sure,” I say confuse. “What he want. Ever he want.”

“Companiera, got to comprehend. Been hard to him.”

I look at her, but ain’t see nothing. All my heeding be for Hak’s girl. She talking low, like she tell confidences. Then behind, I hear my Driver laugh.

I shake my head, say forcen bright, “Bone. You cry me up, ever he want to see me. I be by.”

I walk away, can hardly open the stairy door. Hit my shoulder in the doorside, stumble footless out. Halfway down the stairs, must sit and breathe myself back into semblance. Begin to feel how I ain’t slept. My mind be straying, thinking of some road where Driver ride by me. We fox about and laugh together, like we always done before. Then it realize, we ain’t. He always tell me disapprovals. How I must get enfants for the town. How I be selfish wrong, ain’t got no sense. How I make him dead.

I press my fists into my eyes. Go thinking how my Driver parley times with OldKing Hak. Can be, he known this simper there. He never spoken of her, but ain’t everything is telling news. Driver lawful like no superstition, never he do with simpers. Truth, it been my duty that I fetch this simper from the diner. Put her somewhere out of trouble. Where she keep away.

Then weak behind my misery, I startle to my name. Ice Cream Sengle to the easter gate. Ice Cream Sengle…

I swear and leap up to my feet. Cut through the building, dodging runners, begging my heart that it be Driver. He heard I being by, sent to the gate somehow to call me. Know this be senseless, but I run, I cannot stop my hope.

I come out easter door, and meet the Christing cattle at the gate. Must wait while all these cows progress in stilten motion in. My unrest sweat go icy in the breeze. Final cow go switching tail along, and Lowell Second Stabler last with Tophet’s fatty mule.

Only when they by, I notice Pasha.

He stand outside upon the path, a rifle slung against his back. Wear a rooish jacket, gray-and-green. One trembling moment, I feel he invite me out to war.

Then I be walking to, zip Patagonia to my neck. Wear my shoulders clumsy, how I feel. Cryer by the gate look at me mally for my tardiness. Ain’t pause to this, I go outside with winter sadness in my face.

Past the walls, can see that Pasha got his roo pack on the ground. A second rifle lain atop. Its black length be familiar nightmares.

“Salue,” say Pasha soft.

“Salue yourself. Got your loot.”

“Thought Lowells take, if you ain’t by.”

Then I look to his birchen face, like it will tell me fortunes. Tell how these guns will use, what murder be in these bell goods. But he turn his face away. Bend down and take the second rifle. Lift it graciose and easy in his grandy fist.

He reach it toward myself. Face complicating, but he say no word. Only hold this blackness gift and bite his lip.

I say unliking, “Shoo, ain’t need that. Got my pistol.”

“Nay, you need. Is better.”

A minute, we look one to one. My heart be big and ugly then. The Vember wind cut numb upon my face.

I say, in choken voice, “Better for murder, what you mean.”

Then can see, his thoughts hurt in him. “Yes,” he say low. “You shoot with pistol, they shoot back. With this — ain’t likely can. Be safer.”

“Deer ain’t shooting back.”

“Deer?”

“We flee these roos for what? Ain’t plan to kill no goddamn children. My use for guns be meat.”

He loose the gun down tired. A moment, I expect he take it back. But he say, “Said you will heed me.”

“Heed you? When I said this?”

“If we go to get the cure. Said you obey my telling.”

I frown past him to the city, like I going to find some reason. It look cold bekept this morning hour. Be a parking building there, before the easter gate. Shape all of grandy windows, but these windows got no glass, is air. Behind, the buildings all got broken eyes. Some shattern down their sides, stand miserable in their lost brick. Holes show their inside rooms, grown strange with moss.

Then I magine Washington like this, a city of absent ruin. The cure there, guarding by some thousand roos. How Driver wait behind.

At last, I swallow my dislike. “You promise, ya? We get this cure?”

“If you obeying.” Pasha nod.

I laugh sour. “Start with that, I doing every errand you can think. Caught some tricky manners, you.”

But we both smiling now. I feel relief, ain’t know from where.

Then he reach the gun again — ya, this gesture loving somehow. Is like he move to settle a blanket round my chilly shoulders.

I take it careful. Hands soothe to the rifle’s weight, its metal cold like honesty. Can feel without no thought, its make be right.

I say with weak conviction, “Ain’t need this yet. To Washington, be weeks.”

“Can see roos before.” His voice come low and shy like mine. “Ya, is other children.”

“Children like ourself? Ain’t fearing them.”

When I look back to his face, he smiling. Eyes be gratty soft. “Must teach you how it use.”

“Expect you press the trigger, nay? Ain’t mysteries.”

“Is matters teach.”

Then a shiver grip in me. “Hold. What gun this be?”

He frown to it. “It be Kalash.”

“Kalash?”

“What they call. Kalash their sort.”

“But, this ain’t the gun that—”

“Ho, you meaning… nay, I keep.” He touch the gun he wearing. “Mine.”

“Bone.” I sigh again and hold the gun against me clumsy. Look to the pack left on the ground. “Guess these other pistols… they be useful. Deer, I meaning.”

“Yes.” He stoop down for the pack, gone easier through his grandy self. “Be gratty, Ice.”

“Foo, who you got to thank, I wonder?” I laugh my nervy breath.

“Nay.” He rear the pack upon and stand up to his height. “Is bone.”

Last, before we turn inside, I fumble up the rifle’s strap. I say its name in mind, Kalash, and slip it over my thin shoulders. Its weight rest to me good, feel strong. Is like a promise there — a carrying oath that I do any evils, but my brother save.

MY NEXT HOUR SPENT in Lowell Storage, scratching in their ammonition. A hundred diggers push around, and be some nasty squabbles, when they question what I robbing there. Yo, when my bullets gathern, John of Christ come in, with teary thanks for the Tophets’ rescue. His face unshape with bruise, got bandage nose like wrennish beak. Onto this hurting mess, he leak his eyes. The Lowells gather curiose, and soon they all respecting me with hero talk, while I embarrass like a turtle naked from its shell.

Then I must visit all the Christings in their Lowell partment. Here wives yappit nonsense, how their Jesus help me in the fire — the littles said they seen Him there, with shining head and blooden hands.

My courtesy tiring now, and I say only long annoyance, how they morons stay in Massa. Insist they think again; insist the cure and every hopeful fact. But all they comprehending be, this come from Pasha’s mouth. Any word of roos be “lies of Satan” to their mind. Yo, while this fray continue, hurt Susannah watching silent. She still in godclothes, grime and torn. Her braids undone in shagginess. Ya, her eyes beweepen. Look like bruises in her gentle face.

Before I leave, I talk to her apart. “John, he ain’t got sense to count his feet,” I say. “Must tell him.” Try every argument I can, and even give suggestion that she come alone, with her own enfants. But she watch her sorrow eyes, and say at last, “Be Christ His will. Hope you remember us.”

From this discontent, I go by hasty. Trudge my load of bullets through a dodging scram of Lowells; gather my Sengles with alarming yells. Be counting heads and telling orders, when the cryers speak.

They call from every side and ring the walls. Call every leaving child to easter gate. And as they yell, their looning screaming settle into unison. Soon they speaking in one beat, like all the mill sing vally. And through the mill, a cry come back, of children scream excitement. My Sengles shout till ain’t no hearing. I laugh crazy into this. Bend and heft my gun Kalash, sling up her strap like ready habit. Pasha catch my glance and smile somehow, with fuzzy eyes.

Be scrambling then to ready all. Must wrangle all my children to the yard; catch enfants into carry packs and horsen carriers. Our new Army horse, of Hak’s girl’s stealing, cheer my greedy littles. They spend entertaining minutes, give him goofen Army names like Frighten Imbeciles and Dare-to-Hide. Ending be, is callen Piglet somehow, though he monster tall.

Every matter hurry, yet it take ten times the work of drill. Through around, is Lowells running in the same haste madness. Every second, be more children, till ain’t room to swing an arm.

Then, tall among, my Driver come. Walk normal, like ain’t nothing been. He shaven fresh, look shining bone. Wear his blue Carhartt jacket. I shout to him and grin unthinking, point him to this Piglet horse. Yo, he smile at me. Mount without cavil, leaping well. Then my heart change high in strength. Ain’t even mind when I see Hak’s girl straggle behind, eyes to my brother. I wave to her, she make her pinchen smile.

Lowell mill give hundred and ninety children, Sengles thirty-seven. Yo, these hundreds and our beasts be many for the yard. Some wait behind in shoving groups, go tiptoe to see where we leave. I hold Money’s halter rope, and grip so hard I feel the pulse of heartbeat in my injure hand.

Then Keepers call up laughing, “Lowells sobbing for their cats. Look by.”

She point to the easter door. There a clutch of Lowell children dabbit, cats in arms. Cats squirm unliking while these children pet them and complain. One cat bolt panicking among the cow legs while a girl skree after, “Robot! Robot!”

And here the hundreds all turn forward. I turn forward, leap my heart. Can see my El Mayor vault up to easter wall. He stand there vally, yelling couragement. Around, be larm and muttering, bleating sheep. But he call brave above.

Ain’t get no conscience what he say. Be rousing speech of maple futures, rivers flown with wine. Be what a child expect, in louder bucketloads. Yo, I only know, I watch on him with pounding joy. My heart be graciose and huge and red for him and our adventure. Be madder than no happiness I known.

He finish, jump down from my sight, and I turn grinning to my Sengles. Call, “We there! We going real!”

They yell back spiriteuse, shove at each other in excite. Then we wait another prickling minute while these hundreds shift. Step and step, we walk out to the gate. Come on the bridge, and there the city wait. The bricky ruin of my dreaming hope, its sky be blue as wonderful. Walk on to bigger day, like all my wishes stepping to their life.