The Country of Ice Cream Star

32. OUR JOURNEY: VEMBER 1–26

DAYS THAT COME BEEN CLEAN BONESSE. WE KEEP TO 495, A highway broad as any field. Got a twin highway the same, these two companion faithful. Together, they go stretch and snake across all unkept distance, till they find our new Connecticut.

All this way be forest. Ain’t scarcely notice when the Massa woods be left, and yonder start. A hummock seem familiar in your eye; then it come queery that the individual trees be strangers. Some places, both roads vanish, eaten by the growing wild. Look like the highway dive beneath a cliff of skinny trees. Will see a roadsign stood peculiar in a flock of birch; a lonely patch of road remaining stubborn like a mushroom. Then, without no visible cause, the highway start again, with only nibbling bush around its edge.

First week of journey, we see children sometimes by the road. These always fleeing terrify, like we be deadly ghosts. Yo, at one town, the jones come out with guns. The only words they give be threats, if we ain’t leave direct. Come to comprehend, these be the raiding places of the Armies. All they known of strangers been their children robben in the night.

But as we stalk the deeper west, the only houses be old evacs. Then oaks and beasts and sun be all our friendship.

Soon our march of every child be townie in my eyes. First ahead, go Lowell stablers, driving the horses-cattle forward in their snorting hundreds. Wherever a hill rise up before, can see these brownish beasts drab up to fill the roaden shine. El Mayor and his close children — First Electric, First Contractor — always walking last. Sengles mingle forward-backward, bothering and thieving. My littles’ clothes be soon a circus pigliness of thefts, and be a pride to them, that they wear nothing of their own.

Most the Lowell children painful to this outside life. Will grumble on their bedless sleep, their blisters and their dirtiness. Get backward moods, where all be climbing trees to scout First Runner. Magine how she come to tell them nothing mally been, they can return to their warm rooms.

But for my Sengles, journey be familiar bosky stars. Hammocks slung in rustle trees, the morning fire and meat. Wash in a brook ain’t got no name, and come at dawning to the bluish number highway. We follow our shadows to the west; a still hawk scout above. Walk out long and long to night, that come to meet us with its sunset. And sleep, and wake again with noisy hundreds to our company.

These journey days, my Sengles hunt, try their new guns in practice. Yo, in my chase, I use my rooish rifle, good Kalash. Gun be heavy carrying, and kick unsteady when she shoot. But she looking far with good attention. Got three settings: one bullet, three bullets and all bullets splashing wild. Three-bullet shooting good for deer. No deer ain’t fleeing after. Yo, Pasha never let me leave the camp without this weapon. Roo always think some children by the road will kill us for our goods. When I say it ain’t no children here, he say, “Yo, where they gone?”—like all the children here been kilt by worser children here. While we slinging hammocks at night, roo often stalk the woods around, in scout for these road people. Ware his rifle to the forest’s birden peacefulness.

These evenings be a vasty camp of swayback tents and hammocks. Get a dozen fires lit, until the woods become a scatter of slipping lights and shadows. And, most aster nights, when songs be by, when Sengles gone in sleep, I creep soft from my hammock. Pick my footsteps quiet to the dark outside all people. I stalk to the tent of El Mayor.

THIS LOVE BE FICKLE in its joy. Be nights we parley in amour until the darkness morning. Will drowse and kiss and whisper in his scramble bed of blankets. Cricket woods cry glad around our sex. Talk then be mostly gladness swearing, and they maple flatteries is foolish to repeat.

But moren more, our conversations bicker into strife.

First fight be my insistence that we keep our love in secret. Never my heart accept that every Lowell-Sengle know. Truth is, my love be sulky beasts. Will vanish, then come back alive, then turn to mean dislike. Ever I magine telling any child, it feel like lies.

El Mayor resent this awful. He crave to wake with me in arms, to name Ice Cream in happy boast. And he start in jalousie, what ears I keep this secret from. For this, he asking tireless, who done love with me before. Will name all children he can think — Jermaine and Popsicle and Crow; ya, any Lowell who show eyes to me, or give me friendly gift. Sometimes, from drowsing quietness, he say in sudden pain, “Nay, who?”

Answer is Mamadou and Mamadou, crime that love its darkness. And something inkle to me, El Mayor ain’t going to bear this news.

Yo, in sneaking thought, I wishing on the NewKing still. Ever I scold my nonsense heart, it beat its same direction. Be even times my skin resenting El Mayor for only this, that he ain’t Mamadou and cannot be and never be.

OUR OTHER FIGHT BE ON MY PLAN to go to Washington.

How it is, the Lowells never trust me with the cure’s importance. I be a girl fifteen, a Sengle ignorant, and all it is. So they plan to go themself — all their older males, and El Mayor in leadership. Ain’t fret them nothing, when my Pasha say they all be murdern. Nor they ask his help. They can find Washington with maps, is all their project need.

Truth, been gratty to me, if they take me in their company. But El Mayor’s insistence be, that I keep safe behind. This give me contradictory moods, and I start thinking reasons why the Lowells sure to perish.

I chew all this to scraps with El Mayor, any a night.

“Some fightless diggers,” I will say. “What you doing there? You lay some carpet for these roos?”

“And you? Look at yourself. You small as foals. Is like a ten.”

“Shoo, I be with Pasha safe.”

“You trust that yellow cannibal? He lie more than he speak. Goddamn, ain’t let you go with him.”

And so we skirmish long and long — who be foolish worse, and who preventing who from going. How roos be risky for a female, but be safe for males; or safe for warry Sengles, but will kill a Lowell quick as sneezing. How Pasha self ain’t be no kitten, sensible to trust.

Times, these nighten conversations mingle in my tired day. I start to think like El Mayor, doubt Pasha’s every kindness. Get memories of Army camp, the feather that he kilt for nothing. Ya, worst and fresh in conscience be his photographs of war.

I SEEN ALL THESE PHOTOGRAPHS NOW, except the one of Pasha self — object he ain’t never mention, nor I brave to ask. Even without this, they be nefasty ornaments.

Is some where roos walk past dead children like they nothing bushes; or stand in laughing talk with some child torn in pieces at their feet. Be children without noses, ya, which never figure in my eyes — keep thinking that the picture torn somehow on its thin cloth. And be one photograph of only cut-off hands, a bloody dozen. Look like uncanny spiders, heap in sunlight on young grass.

Is calmer pictures, show their helicopter planes and long-nose tanks; show a city burning, hazy in enormous smoke. But even when these photographs show only lazing roos, one roo will hold a weirdo rifle, bigger than no normal gun. Pasha’s explanations of these weapons be unhappy hearing. Yo, he name the roos, and mostly add to this, “He dead.”

Photograph that linger with me worst be of an inside room. Can see this been a lucky place, with tilen floors and window glass. Walls painten perfect blue. Got a sofa made of shining leather.

On the sofa lie two girlish jones, look like they dress for church. Both is bloody dead. A tennish boy lie dead the same, beside them on the floor. Wall scribble in their blood. Is bloody pools and drops upon the tiles.

Among this horror stand a yellow roo. He point a pistol to his own head, like to shoot himself. But he grinning, is some joke that happen in this camera moment.

Every time I see it, I keep staring minutes at this picture. Feel like something that happen to me in another life.

All Pasha say, this killing was mistake. Roo be Seryozha, was a yeary friend he had in soldat days. This Seryozha living, best he know.

When I ask him what mistake this been, and if he worry for it, Pasha only say, “Be war. Is normal.”

And truth, what Pasha tell me of his histories be a shorter list. Can learn, he joining to soldats when he been fourteen years. Can learn the places where he war — some dozen fights in Africa, with city names that ain’t pronounce; Venezuela, place of spotten panthers, where he learning Panish; Yevropa — rooish word for “Europe”—where roos leave in bad defeat.

But he never tell particulars of his selfen life. Ask if he miss his townie home, he say he ain’t remember this. Ask who his mother been, he say, “A girl.” Will tell peculiarities sometimes of his Russian Federation — on their driving cars, and how they buy their goods with money paper. But he name no person of his life, ain’t mention no event.

Ask how he live for sixteen years of war, my Pasha answer nothings. Mostly be, “Ain’t kilt.” Ya, once it been, “Ain’t live, the others die.” Will name the places where he fight, but ain’t say what he doing there. Always be, “Is war,” and shrugging. Only thing a child can tell, is something make him want to smoke.

One time I ask him, “What you done so foul, I cannot hear?” He smoke in silence then, think separate in his furry head. At last, he say, “I told some lies.” When I repeat my question stubborn, he say, “You want to hear my lies?”

But worse beyond no other silence be his manners on the cure. Vember passing long, and still he tell no plan for Washington. Will only say, “Be thinking.” No complaint can get another answer. He thinking and he thinking, but he never tell these thoughts.

OUR JOURNEY LASTING ITS THIRD WEEK before this strife conclude. Be on a morning when I go for deer and Pasha follow after. He say he like to hunt again — but from his worry looks, can know he got some word to say. So I agree with beggar hope.

This day, the morning risen thick. Snow waiting heavy in the clouds, the light be shabby gray. We stalking through some wither fern, scarce past the campen noise, when Pasha speak behind.

“Ice? On Washington.”

I flinch immediate to him. Find him standing clumsy somehow, fidget hands upon his gun. And he say soft, “How, if I go alone?”

First, I ain’t comprehend. Say dumb, “Alone without myself?”

He shrug. “Be most a week, two weeks. Can get cure easier so.”

Then I narrow on him careful. Yo, like I expect, his bluish gaze gone stupid blank.

“Shee.” I huff my breath. “You clear as nothing. Got your lying face.”

“How? Ain’t lie.”

“Be easier, right. Because you never go to roos. You go sleep in some evac and come back with sorry explanations. If you coming back.”

“Bone,” he say with stubborn mouth. “I take some Lowell. What can do.”

“Lowell?”

“Take some male. Be better.”

I stop on this and narrow eyes. “You mean, this Lowell watch you there.”

“I done without. But you ain’t trust.”

“Is clever thought,” I say unpleasant. “Which Lowell you prefer to kill?”

To this, he frown disgusting, drop his gun loose on its strap. “Kill no one.”

“So, this Lowell coming back? I guess.”

“Come back if I come back.”

“So you ain’t coming back? Gratty for telling.”

For a breath, we stare against each other in our different upsets. The snow begun around, in seldom flakes like pointy air.

Then he say hard, “You ain’t safe with me. More than Lowell.”

“Ho, because I female?” I huff an angry laugh. “Ain’t try this, Pasha.”

“Yes. Is truth.”

“Damn, you terrifying. How I live by you these weeks? Heed, you bring me, or I go alone. I go without yourself! Ain’t waiting on your goddamn nonsense!”

Pasha raise a fist in temper. Yo, quick without no thought, I spit on it. The roo flinch back and grab his gun. I grab my gun.

We both hold, unnerve. Roo clutch his rifle against himself, face pinking in distress. A snowflake drift between us, tumbling. Then he say underbreath, “Ain’t kill no Lowells. I never thought this.”

And he turn himself away. Sit down into the messy ferns. Hunch to his gun, like curling to an injury its hurt.

I stare a moment to his furry head. Then I crouch by, say hot, “You heed, this nonsense finish now. I taking Money south tomorrow. I learn whatever you hide, can die without no painful curiosity.”

“Nay, Ice.”

“Yes, Ice! Be watching Driver die. Your moron lies and ‘I be thinking.’ Cannot bear this!”

Can hear him breathing fast, his body clench in hot reaction. Then he say low, “You think, they keep the cure in camp? Where it can steal?”

“Ain’t going to know. You never told.”

“It be in boats. Far in water.”

First, I only get a dumb relief, he telling facts. Then this news settle in me. “They grandy boats you speaking of? Is there?”

“Ya, is there.”

“But… ain’t impossible, we steal this. Swim somehow?”

He reach to a fern and tear some fronds away, crush these in hand. “Nay. Be nothing worth. These boats, ain’t get inside from swimming.”

I grip Kalash. “And if I fight for roos? You fight for them. Live fifteen years in this.”

“Is differences.”

“Is lies.”

His fist tense around the fern. “Ice Cream. You be a girl.”

“You saying, going to be like Army camp. Something like.”

A hopeless pain go through his face. “You ain’t live long there. Yourself, be nothing you can live.”

“I live… I can live. But you saying, ain’t no use.” Can feel my sorrow, hard behind my eyes. “They take me on no boat, ain’t going to be. Is right?”

His face relieve. “You comprehend. Ain’t use.”

“So we dying anyhow. You saying, all this been for nothing?”

He drop his crushen fern, look down. Then his voice come whispern, feary. “Nay. I thought a plan.”

I catch on this. “Plan with myself?”

“Ya.” He shrug annoying. “You ain’t heed, so.”

I find my cigarettes and take one out. Light it gratty, feeling after-sorrows in my heart. Then suspicion bite in me. “Hold — can know this plan?”

He laugh some choken way. “Can know.”

“Yo, tell. Can tell me now?”

“What I think,” he say in careful voice, “you come with me like wife.”

“Ho, roos keep wives like Christings?”

“Ain’t like Christings,” Pasha say unhappy. “Some soldats keep girls.”

“Yo sho. They going to do.”

“They comprehend this. I ask cure for you. For favors, or can pay. Physicians take pay sometime.”

“Sure.” I sigh my smoke out glad. “I thought of this myself.”

I glance at him, and find him clenchen down around his gun. Face turn away, but still can see, the child embarrass mean.

“Foo.” I laugh. “You touchy something. Ain’t fret myself if roos believe we wive. This why you kept it all these weeks?”

“Nay, ain’t this.”

“So why? Ain’t science plans. Can think of this before a month.”

He shrug misliking. “Cannot be always by you there.”

“Your risks again, I guess.”

“Yes. Ain’t jokes.”

“Foo, is raping problems.” I laugh nervy. “What you meaning.”

“Someone hurt you, ain’t know how it be.” He shake his head resenting.

“They rape me, how it be. Ain’t mysteries.”

“Nay,” he say harsh. “Ain’t know how I be.”

This notion stop me queery. Remind how Pasha done at Army camp. Yo, he hunch to his gun again. Hand tearing ferns, and drop them by.

“Better we living, Pasha,” I say soft. “Sure I known. Some Deema rape me, be my mally luck. It need no acts from you.”

“Ain’t easy like you think.”

“So it be crafty. How you got to do.”

“Ya.” Then Pasha look toward me, like he check some fact. Think a moment, and grit unhappy. “Nay, I think some way. Be some soldats can trust.”

“Bony to hear.” I laugh, and Pasha make uncertain smile.

“Is truth,” he say. “Some soldats bone.”

“Sure I believe. Is only funny.”

I shake my head, look to the farther woods. Can see the seldom snow against the sun, like tiny dust. I try to think some circumstance where I will kill for Pasha. Sure, if it been his life, ain’t questions. Think arguments to tell him this, but all my thoughts be puttering moths.

At last I say, discomfort, “I never thanken you. How you come for me at Army camp.”

He laugh soft. “Is truth.”

“Felt two contradictions in this. How… they people shot. Ain’t thought to thank.”

“Is normal, ya. You only be a small.”

When I look, he lighting up a cigarette. Smile show on his face. I say, “Can insult how you like. I going to love you for this real.”

His face go soft embarrass, but he keep eyes on his hands. Say quiet, “Ya. I going to love you also.”

33. THE SIMPER, OF HER PEOPLE

DAY BEHIND THIS ARGUMENT, WE PASS INTO CONNECTICUT. AIN’T no line to show — must figure this from roadsigns, where they left. Now be petty days before we reach our safer home. Ya, woods continue solitary bell. Be even questions sometimes, why we never roam before, like this been pleasure escapades.

Myself, be readying my fear to go to Washington. Now it being real, all apprehensions change in me. My walking hours become long maginations of my rape. How Pasha kilt in my protection; what resulting after. Roos cut off my nose, my hands. Hounds eat my dying flesh. I start to figure days till January, wish it being farther. These days can be my only life.

Ya, be times, I get a sneaking wish to never go. My weakness think, no child can change all problems of this evil world. Go to roos, be moron suicides, like Pasha ever sworn.

But my contradictions fail to nothing when I see my brother.

THESE DAYS OF TIRED WANDERING, Driver sicken past no comfort. His hands be thick with posy sores. His cough be raw and long. He skinny in his clothes, and now he lose his careful dignity. Will ride a cart among all enfants, drowsing in the middy day.

Yo, his heart be bitter. He dead-among — must walk unseen through Sengles like a starving ghost. And to myself, his manners most like hatred. Any a careless thing I say, he hear it vain or selfish. Avoid me how he can, and when he ain’t, his face be cold dislike.

The only talking he befriend be with the simper, Hak’s girl. Seem she always by him, laughing nervy, make her pinchen smile. Ain’t a week gone by before she sleeping in his hammock. Be times, he sit her on his Piglet horse, teach her to ride. Then her scar face be enfant seriose. Her hand go in forgetting to the horse’s mane, stroke wondering. When Driver touch to shift her leg, her eyes be desperate sweet. Then any blindness see, she gone in love.

In manners, the simper be a strange and worry animal. Flirt with some male, then she look angry murder as he go. Wear a Lowell workshirt deep unbutton, showing most her breasts; yo, any boy go look, she grasp this shirt together feary. Every change be fickle: is skitty and rude and shy and hard.

I never get the bravery to ask how she know Driver. Prefer my own excuses over truths I cannot fix. But at last I learn this sideways from another history.

BEEN OUR FIRST CONNECTICUT NIGHT. I gone to Driver to tell about my loves with El Mayor. Be my first trial to say this secret, for El Mayor his hurting pride.

So, after evening meal, I follow my brother to his hammock. Begin in hopeful nerves.

“Was thinking, ya, of El Mayor. How you always say, we can pair well. You mind this saying? Been feeling, it be sense to choose this. Now is better sense.”

Driver been readying his sleeping goods, but now he frown to me. “Sense?”

“How you said, our Sengles be too few. Ain’t keep without no help.”

“So you trade yourself for gifts?” He narrow on me cold.

“Foo, ain’t like this.”

“How it is?”

“You always say, he love me well. Ain’t remember to you?”

A doubt show in his eyes. “Ain’t thought I driven you to this. I know I ain’t been thinking well, some time.”

“Nay, you only saying, it be politics to do.”

“Politics.” He scoff his breath and reach by to a branch. Crack off a skinny twig, then twist it in his fingers, thinking. My eyes go skitty to his hand, watch for the posy sores.

At last he say, “Ridiculous enough, you get an enfant belly now. But ain’t need El Mayor in this.”

“Yo, he ain’t right with you?”

“Child go with every girl he see. Can make your politics without that.”

I take my breath unsteady. “Ain’t necessary is politics.”

“Ain’t bone politics,” he say, and make his bitter smile. “But it be like yourself, these days.”

“What this going to mean?”

“It mean, you ain’t gain nothing from this. El Mayor will use you gratty. But this never change your wealth. He got more pride than this, to pay for love.”

Then some misery freak in me. I spit out blind, “Truth, El Mayor ain’t go with simpers none. Is better sort.”

Driver’s face go stiff. “Forget this, Ice. You put this notion by.”

“Nay,” I say desperate, like I catch at something slipping from my hands. “You ain’t listen. How we even talking so? You blame me always.”

“Can be some failures in me, sure.” He turn sharp to his hammock. “But you name them without me.”

“Driver, ain’t meant nothing. I done worser things than ever you done.”

He rub his palm against his brow. Say cold and soft, “I know.”

Then the world go weak in me. I want to ask him what he know. I want to pologize and beg. But I only step away and mutter some by-salue that come out griping.

I go to the bosky darkness, seeing nothing real. See Mamadou the NewKing over me in angry love. Karim in all his blood, and every stank deed of my life. And in my darkness heart, I see the simper smirk her pinchen mouth, her mouth full of all ugliness. Her mouth that Driver heed.

I GO IN PAINFUL MIND to seek, and find her where I most expect. She dabbit by the Sengle fire, is lurking like she fear some insult. But when she know myself, she brighten gratty.

“Ho, girl,” I say. “Can talk apart?”

“Be sure.” She fetch her sack, and come behind with eagering step.

I lead her to our walking highway, private at this nightish hour. Road be like a valley of sky between the forest’s detail life. Where we come out, a roadsign lean: SPEED LIMIT 65. In woods across, is horses tethern, and one blackish pony look up to us curiose. Munching sprig hang from his mouth.

I sit in the middy road, and she sit to me, smiling. She wear old jeans of Asha Badmouth, patch on both their knees. Look glad attention, like a hound who wait to do his trick.

“Bone,” I say discomfort. “Only got one question to you.”

“Heeding,” she say, and touch her ear.

“I only wondern, ya. You spoke to Driver of me somehow?”

Her smile weaken puzzling. “Nothing you ain’t like to hear. Be all bonesse I got for you, ain’t mysteries in this.”

“But you told some knowledge? Ain’t got to be a thing is mally.”

“What sort knowledge?”

I look up at that watching pony. He still gazing, switch his tail. I want to drive away his stare, but he look brainless on.

I say, “From Army camp.”

Mention Army camp, her face change inward. She shake head reluctant.

“All it is,” I say, “when I been hurt there. By they feathers? You callen me the NewKing’s Sengle. Always wondern to this.”

“Shoo, I known you gone to him.” She pooch her lips, look cautieuse.

I catch my breath. “And you told Driver?”

“Ain’t guess I done. He never known?”

“Nay, been something… hurt him if he learn.”

“Ho, I see. He going to think, been harm in this.” Her plum lips gather to this thought. “You like, I tell him how there ain’t no harm.”

“Ain’t got to learn I been there,” I say hasty. “Best be so.”

Then her frighten telligence be sharp. “I keep this. Never fear me.”

I sigh. “Gratty, truth.”

“Easy favors.” She laugh happy. “Saying nothing ain’t no work.”

“Ya.” I brush my hand along the road, pick up a straying pebble. “But only wondering… how you known I gone to Mamadou?”

“Shoo, how you think?” She grimace sly. “The NewKing told all ears.”

I startle nasty. “Shee, he told?”

“Told, the fool he be. Then feathers bother him all right, how he go bring them cooties. Sengle love disease.”

“Love disease? He said we doing love?”

“Nay, ain’t fret.” She shoo her hand. “He got no tempers for a lie.”

Word lie come fresh in my relief. I notice my hand be crushing painful on its pebble. Loose it down. “So what he told?”

“Mostly said you got some fight with him. Bringing it to the camp like some big jones will do. But — how he said — you be a skinny girl, is some ridiculous. Some terrify virgin lose her sense. It been…” She hold and bite her lip. “Is how they talking, ya.”

I breathe through my frightening nerves. “Ya, I gone to fight. Been once.”

“And then he want you queen.” She pooch her lips like preciation. “Foo, sister, if you seen they brawls! A Sengle queen, you magine!”

“Feathers want no Sengle queen?”

“They fearing murder wars, it been. But all they going to say, your Sengles stank beneath no pride. Call Mamadou a wolf who do with chickens.”

“Ho!” I laugh peculiar. “Who be chickens? They the chickens.”

“But you guess, why Mamadou wanting you?” Her eyes grow sharp with mischief. “What he saying, Christwives all been using backwards-forwards by some digger. Or they twelve. He want no twelve. Yourself — be bell, and grown fifteen, and virgin. You heed? A virgin, what he want!”

This take me in bad surprise. Almost, I say I be no virgin. Ya, Mamadou known this best of any, months before he want me queen. Been work he do himself.

But I catch in sense. I look back to the pony, want some witness to this rat injustice. He drowsing now, eyes shut. Lean sleepy to a tree.

“Truth, Driver told me,” I say low. “How Armies think to take me.”

“Yo sho, I warn him self. How Driver known.” In my corner-eye, her hand stir on the road, touch there like thought. Fingers spiderish in moon.

“You known him then?” I say in careful voice. “At Army camp?”

“He never mention this?” Her face go hurt, but then she nod like thinking. “Sure, ain’t going to mention. See this right.”

“Nay, why he ain’t mention?” I take shorter breath. “Been something wrong?”

“Now, ain’t wrong. They times, he kept his sickness quiet. Why he come to OldKing Hak.”

“Hak?”

“Hak selling papa. Child who want it secret, go to him.” She look to me, face shy in memory. “Any a child ain’t want to talk to Hak so much. But Driver stop with me sometimes, we talking. Like two friends will talk. I going to warn him how they think to steal you.”

A moment, I only stare and breathe. Then I look down easing to my hands. “Been right.”

“Then Driver never come to camp again. Gone sour on Armies, sure. But I gain him back. You seeing, sugar? All be evens. Give good, or you give evil, it come back to you again.”

I nod, gone staring at the grainy road. “Be evens, ya.”

Then the simper touch my arm. I flinch at this but smile up hard.

“Ho, I got some Lowell wine in here.” She heft her pinkish sack. “You like some wine?”

“Sure.” My shoulders ease. “Wine I can use.”

She fetch out a corken brock. Is sleeper glass, with sticker glue still bleary on its sides. She uncork the brock and take a drink. Hand it to me.

In this, it notice that her pinkish sack turn round. Show the side she always keep close-held against her belly. Got no written names on this. But in the full moonlight, can see where broidery yank out rough. A word sketch there in holes. Soledad.

When I look up, she watching on me sweet. I point to the sack. “Soledad?”

She flinch, look hasty to it. “Ya, Soledad. Been my name, sometime.”

“Ain’t want this name no more?”

“I give it up.”

“Always want to call you by a name. Ain’t like to call you simper.”

“Can call me Soledad, you like.” She touch the sack, frown at her unpicken name. “Driver call me this sometimes. Been stubborn to this, but I easier now.”

“Foo, ain’t need to bide they Armies’ filthen rules. You gone from them.”

“Nay, I rid this name before. Ain’t lost it to no feathers.” She look up seriose. “When I gone to be Maria.”

MARIA SHE EXPLAIN TO ME before, for any lengths. Be a matter of her people — children living in a city grandiose in wealth. Got every science there. Is lectric lights and tower buildings; photographs and working cars. Had a cat she call Bigote, drank his water from a glass.

Simper’s town been Christings — though she disrespect this name. How she explain, our Massa Christings be in fallen creeds. “Sleeper faith,” she calling this, and say the sleeper faith be wrong, though how this prove I never learn. Right faith call catolico. Prettieuse word enough, can be a wolfen name for enfant.

Catolicos believing two-stick Christ. Get all this Bible story with its water-walking and generose fish. How Jesus born to Mary who been virgin. Papa Joseph stand by whistling, got no sex to do.

Their Mary call Maria, and catolico Maria go from unfuck birth to all adventures. Since this been sleeper times, when Jesus grown to size, she living still. Then she become Christ’s queen and bride. Still they do no sex, is more like animoses here.

When Jesus dying murdern, his ghost go into Maria. Survive in her, so god remain, available to children. And when she die, the spirit move into some new Maria. This repeat in every history. Maria die and be reborn, is usual nonsense gods will do.

In the simper’s people, the living Maria rule the town. This a person child. Ain’t special nothing. Maria walk on feet and eating food and making shee. But they believe god live in her. They do some church accomplish this, with godly clothes and blessing wine. When this finish, she know wisdom, be unblemish right.

Can tell without no wondering these be diggers. Senseless as a moth.

I say, “You try to be Maria self? Kept this quiet some. But why you leave your town for this?”

“Gone to find a Jesus.” She gaze along the road, bright thinking. “How Maria be known.”

“Easy found, you bear him pregnant. Once you learn this trick, is done.”

“Foo!” She laugh up sudden, push my knee with shooing hand. “Ain’t looking for no enfant, crazy.”

“You get a finish Jesus somewhere?”

“Sure. Take your apostles, go to yonder miles and seek.”

“What these opossums useful for?”

“Opossum! You know vally well it ain’t opossums!” She laugh breathless, press her fist up to her mouth. Then she say, like she bait my mischief, “If you become Maria, your apostles going to rule the burrows.”

“Burrows being what? Opposums living in these burrows?”

“Known you going to say that!”

“Foo, burrows ain’t no name to me.”

Her smile go shy. “The town be grandy, ya. It rule in parts. These parts is callen burrows. Apostles rule the burrows, ya Maria ruling over all.”

“So apostles going with Maria, out to catch a Jesus. How you going to know this Jesus?”

She shrug and look down at the road. “Jesus ya be white.”

“How he white?” I say, though sure I guess.

“White like roos. They skin, you know how.” She frown at me, ware some insult. “Jesus white.”

Truth be, I embarrass that any child believing this. Get some stupid animals, but never a fish will worship roos. But I polite her, “Ya, can see. Scarce beast, and vally to take.”

“Scarce, is truth,” she answer gratty. “And sure you know, he only representing Jesus so. Ain’t exactly him. Nor he represent until he do the sacrament. Then he give his spirit for Maria. Only be Jesus for this sacrament.”

“So any whitish child can serve this need?”

“If they grown and male. Yo, roos be always this.” She smile hopeful. “See how this be fitting? White and grown and male.”

“Ain’t you steal our Pasha. Is Keepers’ roo, she definite to this.”

Expect she laugh, but Simper-Soledad frown hard.

“No sho,” I say unliking. “You got wants for Pasha?”

“Nay. Is only, Maria being… like yourself. Be virgin.” She get her Armies look, mouth grit. “Look at my face, you knowing I ain’t this.”

Here my sympathy gripe. I take my pebble up again, turn it nervy in my fingers. “Ain’t know from scars. Can get scars any way.”

“Ya. But I ain’t this. Been going to find my Jesus, when I was took. Took by Hak and Bardo, you know how.”

“Right.” I grip the pebble hard into my palm.

“Apostles sleeping.” She laugh thin. “Opossums play dead then.”

“Shoo, you admit, this story sad as rain. How they done you.”

She shrug, eyes hard in distances. “Only been thinking, how Hak dying now. He can be dead, this time.”

“Ya,” I say encouraging. “Be evens, how you said. He getting what he give.”

“Ain’t evens, nay. He only sick. Ain’t nothing like he done to me. And Bardo. All they feathers.” Her face clench like pain. “But why they got to be like that? Ain’t want to hate them anyhow.”

“Going to hate,” I say confuse. “But now they rid. They gone.”

“Ya.” She nod distracting. Turn her face by, pulling at a braid. Then she lift her sack in clumsy hands. “Be Driver waiting me. If you…”

“Be right.” I nod unthinking. “Should go sleep. Is tardy hour.”

Simper cork and pack her brock. Rise with conscious gesture, like she flee before my friendship change. Yo, as I stand, she mouth some unvoice by-salue and haste away.

34. OF DANGER ITS ARRIVAL

BE THE FOLLOWING NIGHT OUR JOURNEY TURNING DESPERATE strange.

Day been easy innocence. Sky clean with sunlight, and we coming to a stretch of better road. Even got patches somewhere in the holes. Our carts ride easy. Only the roo get superstitions — be these patches, must be evil roading people by. At middy meal, he come to me with some wrap paper in his hand. It be a brownish scrap, got BIMBO writ in wash-out blue.

“Ya,” I say. “I seen these papers by. And so?”

He give me disapproval look. “Is new.”

“Foo, how is new? Look how it fading, been through any a rain.”

“Be paper. Rotting quick.”

“So, newness be that it exist?”

He grimace to the woods, like he can smell they lurking children.

“Sure,” I say. “Be roading people here who wrap some objects. Prove they want to kill us. Be all any people want.”

“Ain’t funny.”

“Been waiting years to murder us particular. Happy day for them.”

“Need a guard,” he say annoying.

“We walking here with guns. Ain’t notice?”

“Nay. By night. Camp need a guard.”

“You guard then. I sleeping nights myself.”

Roo crush this paper in his hand, and go off with disgruntle face.

Still, when we walk again, I got some careful nerves myself. Keep scouting to the roaden margins, seeking for no evidence. But be no farther trash nor trace. Even the road look misbegot again, its patches old as silence. Patches needing patches self.

And the sun dim forward, fallen west. Camp be made with normal bother; early night be simple. I sneak apart to El Mayor, and even sleep some time with him, how I begun to do these nights. Learn to wake before the morning even think of dawn.

So it been cat hours, when I sneak from his tent in carefulness, that trouble find myself.

EL MAYOR KEEP HIS TENT APART, some walk into unpeople woods. Nor no one wonder at this habit. Lowells expect, will be some secret traffic to his bed. Same reason, my departure from his tent be chancy done. Anyone see me in this place, my tale be known entire.

So I creep slow, with watchful eye for any waking Lowells. But I scarce begun when ABC come barking from the woods.

She jump up and tag her forepaws happy to my chest. When I push her off, she prance around and settle in woofing stance. Bark a loudness conversation, sending woofs in ten directions. Even her tail wag at a noisy bush.

I try shooing her, for all the useless this will be. She only sit and interest happy in my shooing hands. I go and grab her mouth shut, while she wriggle consternations. Yo, here it notice, ABC wear something round her neck.

It be a reddish ribbon, tie there close. My first thought be, was done by our Tequila. Decorate my hound, the same she do to any patient creature. Then I see something on this ribbon. Orange object, piercen through, it cling there like a bauble.

Be a leaf, is curlen tight. Autumn color, but still got younger softness. And something chill in memory. Leaf curl like Crow and me done, when we written secrets so. Yo, even in the forest dark, can see the markings on its skin. My every conscience know, is Crow his writing.

But ain’t no Crow in this. Crow been left some weeks behind. All Armies left.

I tear the leaf away. Let ABC go loose, and she run bucketing off into the trees.

Then I stand up feary, head to the road for its good moon. My legs be going clumsy, and some part of me still hear my noise, be conscious of the sleeping tents. But be no waking noises as I step out to the light.

Pen gone through the leaf in places, ink been spotting dry. Is tiny wavers where the pen skip over leafen veins. But its words read plain.

We here. The NewKing come for you.

My skin go cold. Stand in the silent moon, and I stare blind at these dim letters.

First, I struggle to believe, the Armies here in our far woods. But slow, I figure this. They ride on horses, got no enfants by. Be most four days to ride. Only it seem peculiar, they still keep their tired evils — that any a child still care for queens and raids, when all our life be gone.

Then I conceive the Armies in their raiding camp behind. Hammocks like our own, the same low fire built with reluctant wood. Their capture nets and ropes. NewKing Mamadou in his anger. Crow there, still caring for myself somehow, in darkness of his moods.

My ABC been always sweet for Crow. Must be she sniff him out. He use this chance, sneak separate from the feathers, write this leaf in warning.

A moment, I get a stupid wish, I can ignore this warning still. Be took to Mamadou his love, and any other futures die. Only I cannot and cannot — be the cure, my Sengles’ need. Yo, in my nether mind, a spooking memory be dark. How Soledad said, Hak say they got to kill you. For Karim and Mika.

Then I hear a step behind. I wheel, grab to Kalash. Shadow rise, and I round to it vicious.

Before I know, I point Kalash at Pasha, swallowing fear.

He flinch back. “Ice. Is me.”

“Foo! Creep up on people, damn.” I loose Kalash down to my waist. Leaf crush up, sweaten in my fingers.

“Bony done.” He gesture at my gun.

“Lucky you ain’t shot, come creeping like that.”

“I learn now.” He laugh soft.

Almost, I slip the leaf into my pocket. In this instant, it seem like a secret must be hid. But then my reason sharpen. “Pasha. Got some trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“They Armies here. You magine this, they come for me.”

Then I explain this matter. Flatten the leaf for him to see. He only glance upon, and he go startling, swearing rooish. Grab my sleeve, and pull me toward the woods.

I laughing underbreath as I go after. Muttern, “Foo your panics. Worser rabbits.”

He shush me angry, push me toward a tree. Turn back with gun in hands. Can see his face gone misery now. Is like his worries concentrate into one bitter taste.

Pasha whispern low, “Where they will be?”

“Anywhere.” I shrug. “If they be even scouting me tonight.”

“How many they be?”

“Can be only three, for raiding. Most they bringing be twelve boys.”

“Is all got guns?”

“Sure. Got Deema’s guns and three they own. What they have.”

He make disgusting face. “Mally.”

“Ain’t think the NewKing shoot me, truth.”

“Fool.” Pasha shake his head. “You only know, when you be shot.”

This take unliking in my skin. I settle against this tree, look round. We come into the Lowells’ tents here, scattern populous and close. Camp be full of sleeping night, ain’t feel like danger anyhow. But I know from my own sneaking, ain’t no craft to come up unawares around the camp. Be any shadows where an Army can be lurking with a gun. Wait for my showing head.

Then Pasha whispern, “Is certain, they come for you only?”

I fidget my hand along the leaf. “He going to say if it be war. Can write it so. Is different acts.”

“If be roos also?”

“He writing this,” I say in better confidence. “Crow leave no Sengles to the roos.”

Pasha nod unliking. Seem he seek his mind for other fears.

I slip the leaf into my pocket. “All it is, I find a tent to hide. Be most an hour to morning.”

“Nay. Can shoot you in a tent.”

“Ain’t going to know I be there.”

“Know if they watch. Need walls to hide.”

I start to cavil that it be no walls for any miles. But then my conscience pause. “A ditch, can be.”

“Ditch?”

“Ya, be a brook. Will be some places there. Hide in its banks.”

He take a deeper breath, his face ease better. “Can be bone.”

I turn by, and Pasha come beside. He waring round like any strangeness, aim his gun at shadows. This catch in me, and I keep rifle sharp in hands, glare at the trees. But nothing stirring. Only movement be a Lowell ten, smoking by his tent, who look surprises at us as we pass.

Brook go shallow through the camp, must follow it beyond. Here we find a corner where the brook dug in around a boulder. Got a maple on the other bank whose roots be risen tall, create a natural hide. Brook thin with autumn, got some inches dry around. Can hunker well. Pasha wave me in. He stay above, still scouting.

I go crouch to the rock. Keep Kalash bright on my knee, watch for places where a prowling Army can approach. But truth, they got to know where I be hid, or else they pass by blind. Yo, even if they track us here, I going to see them first. I settle in my confidence. Feel almost warry that I think of this solution to myself.

Then some minutes pass before I comprehend, is boring. Brook smell froggy, got a weighing dampness in its air. Rock be cornery at my back. I whisper up, “Shoo, come down here. Is lonely.”

Pasha’s rustling stop. He whisper, “Hush.”

“They glad to shoot you also. Know this.”

“Need a guard on camp,” he whisper back in angry voice. “Must wake some children.”

“Blablabla. You coming down?”

“Be they roading people also.”

“And be bears. Or lightning strike you. Owl of misery.”

I feel in my pocket, check my cigarettes. Is only two. Decide, I smoke the first when I begin to feel the cold. Soon as I decide this, I be cold. Then a fly come niggling round my face, seem to consider if it want to dive into my eye. Magine the hour ahead, I start to think of shooting with some friendliness.

Then Pasha whisper, “I think, ain’t no one.”

Almost I laugh. “You coming down?”

“Come for parley.”

He stalk down careful, ware his gun. Ya, when he hunker by, his size so cumbering big, he block my moon. Now can only see the sky, mark out in cobweb branch above, the squiggling light along the brook.

He say cautieuse, “Ice Cream?”

“Ya. I here.”

“Armies making camp, can be?”

“Be likely. Night be mostly gone. Can all be sleeping now.”

He shift restless, tense his rifle. I look to him, but only see the furry light around his hair. Gun silhouette against the brook light.

He say, “Be bone, I go to shoot them?”

“Damn.” I spit into the brook. “Is ugly notions, roo.”

“Must do. I thinking.”

“Crow be with them.”

His darkness shape go sorry to the brook. “Crow. Ain’t thought.”

“Go to shoot them, damn. Why you always think of killing?”

“For reason here.”

“Reason, foo.”

“Can know Crow’s face. I kill they others only.”

“Ain’t you listen nothing? Can be twelve children there. You kill them all?”

He ain’t answer this, but sure I hear his stubborn in the dark. He take his rifle up again. All his shape be waiting force.

“Heed,” I say. “We go and parley with them. All it is.”

“Parley make them leave?”

“Ain’t going to know until we try.”

“I know. Is soldat work. I know.”

“Soldat work, goddamn. This why you kill that feather, at Army camp?”

“What feather?”

“Feather in the simper house. Some fourteen boy. I always think of this.”

“He got a gun.” His voice come angry dull.

“He ain’t. Got nothing like.”

“Can mistake. Can happen so.”

“So soldat work mean, kill for nothing?”

His stillness feel like anger. I watch past him at the water, but all my nerves be in his cold respect. My heart peculiar close.

At last, he answer low, “Mean, keep living. Keep your people living.”

“Kill any another child?”

Expect he going to cavil this, but he say simple, “Yes.”

I take my breath. “Some bad cowardesse.”

“I living. You be living.”

“So you be a bone soldat.”

Pasha’s shape go lower. Fingers come in bald moonlight, feeling in the dirt. He scrabble a pebble out and take this in his whitish fingers.

I say, “You sad as losing, roo. Every word you say.”

He sigh and toss his pebble. It clop in water, courteose small, send rings of moon along the brook skin.

I say, “Shee, they Armies likely only take me anyhow. Ain’t murdering much. They rather rape.”

Pasha shake his head in gloom dislike. Can see, he prude this rape, like males will do.

Now mischief catch in me. “Can be best, they take me. I learn what happen to the children left in Massa. Guess I escape, sometime. Worser wear, but still can talk.”

Pasha say unhappy, “I ain’t let them take you.”

“You ain’t want to know what been in Massa?”

“Nay,” he say flat. “Got no want.”

He chuck another pebble in the brook. It slap there angry, lift a splash.

“Been only fooling with you. Shee.” I sit back to the bank. Its cold touch through my jacket, send a tinge into my spine. I get my cigarettes out and count them over. Put them back.

Then Pasha say resenting low, “Mamadou ain’t your friend.”

I shrug, surprise. “Sure I know this.”

“You tell me once, you got some love with him.”

“Be other memories. Is done.”

“So why you protect him?”

“Protecting no one. Shee, no wolf kill all those children. Ain’t for love, is person feeling.”

Can feel his unbelief. His hands shift nervy on his gun.

“Goddamn,” I say, “you got to know, I be with El Mayor these days. No Mamadou in this story. Done.”

Then hotness brighten in my face. Feel like swears inside, ain’t know how Pasha always get my secrets. I duck my head and touch my lips to Kalash’s friendly cold.

Pasha say cautieuse, “You be with El Mayor, like doing love?”

“What else you think?” I laugh into my gun.

“I ain’t known this.”

“Ain’t going to know. We kept this quiet.”

He holding on his gun precarious now, like it be careful goods. When he catch me looking, his face change. He say, like he excuse, “Be bone child. El Mayor.”

“He worthy, truth.” I sit up. “Infantize me sometimes, but he bone.”

Then Pasha say unliking, “How, if you go pregnant?”

“Foo, must be pregnant, sometime.”

Expect he going to mention fears again, our needful journeys. But he say, “You young for this.”

“Ho, you dreaming fantasies.” I huff a laugh. “Be almost old. Ain’t like to get no enfant when I be sixteen or seventeen. They never going to know me. I can die before they talking words.”

This hush him well. I watch the squirming water light, taken in worry dreams. Truth, I got no haste for enfants. Can see myself, all bellyish trudging, going to roos for robbing work. Must hope, I find the cure before I grow no heavy baby. But I got no sign of pregnant. Is always hope I got a molly belly, never get no life.

Then clear into the night, we hear a voice, come harsh in skree. We hand up our guns. Some time, we only listen scary. Hear every detail of the passing water, how its moods repeat. Then the voice come close and long. Is Keepers’ squall, go peaking terrify in the quiet woods.

Fast as thinking, I leap up. Ya, Pasha rear behind, we running, crashing, up the closer bank. As we come, can hear more voices yelling, various in distance. And I know, these voices be of Sengles. Yell my name in fright.

First we see be Hate You. She dash up anxy and call back, “She here! Ice Cream be here!” Then Keepers run to, wild, with hammock hair and teary face. She barrel to me, crying, “Where you been? Was roos? Nay, where you been?”

“Been no roos.” I cosset at Keepers’ head. “Ain’t nothing like.”

Keepers slap my arm. “Nay, you been gone!”

Then Jonah sprint in from the road, with million terrors in his face. “Jermaine still looking. Someone got to tell him.”

“So tell him,” I say riling. “You all worrying for what?”

“You lost!” say Keepers.

“Foo, ain’t lost! Been only by the brook.”

Then Jonah say in trembling voice, “The simper be by you?”

My heart misgive. Can see how Jonah’s tears begin, his brow knit feary.

“Nay,” I say. “She gone?”

“Ya, and Piglet gone,” say Jonah. “Army horse, he missing.”

Hate You say, “Our good child found them gone. And you was gone.” Her face be set in fear confusion, like she wake in fright.

“Be only Piglet gone?” I say. “The other horses left to us?”

Hate You nod. “They left.”

I try to think how Soledad can take this horse herself. But she got no reason that she leave in secret from my brother.

Then Pasha say behind, “Armies. Been no guard.”

“Sure I know!” I say. “Been my mistake, you right. Think forward.”

“Armies?” Hate You say. She blink hard, like she try to focus this.

“Got word from Crow, they here,” I say in misery. “Come tonight. How long the simper gone?”

“Ain’t know.” She look skitty to the trees. “Our good child only woken.”

I breathe and try to find my thought. Leaf said, The NewKing come for you. Cannot be meant for no one else. But Crow care for no simper. Ain’t figure he will, she Army goods by every definition. And be sure, the Armies steal her back. Been my stupidities, I ain’t think this sooner.

Then Hate You say uncertain, “Now they got her, Armies leave, you think?”

“Nay.” I breathe out harsh. “They wait for me.”

“Why they waiting you?” say Jonah.

“Ain’t your problems,” I say short. “They here. We still can get her.”

Hate You say confusen, “Get her?”

“Get her?” Jonah parrot. “How we get the simper? She be theirs.”

“We getting her,” I say frustrating. “Be no arguments, you heed?”

They stare reluctant faces back. Jonah wipe a tear away, eyes bright with sickness look.

“Yo heed,” I say in lower voice. “Me-Pasha going now, scout where the Armies be.” I look to Pasha. “We be right?”

He frown uncertainties, but I say harder, “Yo, we right. Hate You, go and wake they Lowells. Any jones who got a gun. See they ready when we come back.”

Keepers say in fright joyeuse, “Be murder war. They Armies perish.”

“Damn!” I say. “Ain’t be no murder, nor this be your parley, small.”

Jonah pinch his mouth, touch to the pistol at his pocket. “I got to come? Must fight the Armies?”

I sigh frustration. “Nay, ain’t got to come. But tell Jermaine. Now move yourself! Go on!”

They catch a second, gape at me, like they will beg for different orders. Then Hate You yelp and go. And Jonah swear, go running terrify like he flee his death.

I turn, touch Pasha’s shoulder, and start off. He come behind. But when we gone past hearing distance, Pasha catch my arm. I wheel to him, my fear gone angry. “What? Yo what you need?”

“Ain’t got to come.” His hand grip on my arm.

“Nay, what you saying?”

“You, ain’t got to come.”

“I coming. Nor it be no needless killing. Heed my word.”

“Ice, this ain’t your work.”

“I coming, get no fool mistakes. I coming.”

His face grit hard. “Nay. We both stay here, if you be so.”

“How? If I be so?”

“Needless killing.”

“Shee, we only scouting now.”

His hand close painful on me. “They can see us.”

“So they seeing. And?”

“Ice, why they come? They come for you.” His bluish eyes gone bright with need.

I shake my head. Catch breath and try to figure. “So, they see us, we can fire in air. They running, like they done at Army camp.”

“Ain’t think this. Or they never run.”

“Damn, how my thinking be in this?”

“Must shoot.”

“Been said! I going to shoot.”

“Nay, must shoot someone. Must…” Can see him struggle with his words. My body be a white impatience. Pasha say, “I shoot first. They run, is bone. But cannot trust this. Ain’t going to shoot someone, you staying here.”

I shake my head, can feel my sweat begin. “Nay, if—”

“Ice, I ain’t take you to be kilt!”

Then his bluish anger find my heart. Something weaken in me, was like a choice that vanish there. I say, “Be bone. I shoot.”

He loose my arm. I start to turn, but he grab to Kalash. Find her safety switch, and fix the setting to three-bullet. He say, “When you shoot, must aim again.”

“Yo, I know! Been hunting every years!”

He free Kalash and say, “Is right. Like hunting. Think like this.”

NOW DAWN BE STARTING in the east. We stalk into its gray suspicion. Trees lean over their first shadows, and the dampen leaves go docile soft beneath our feet. Light be enough to find the prints of Piglet’s hooves, but dim for hiding. Is perfect for our task, but all this weigh unwanting in my nerves.

Keep thinking restless, Pasha got no moods to only scout. He go to murder simple, if they see us or they ain’t. But truth, can see no other end. Armies never give their simpers, ain’t their honor so. We leaving Soledad, or must be war. Is Pasha right.

Try telling myself some worser stories of their Army rapes. How they done Soledad. Can be, they rape her now, is like themself. Fix this in mind, and I decide again to do this, shoot a child. Decide again. But behind, I see how Pasha aim on green Karim. Remember how the feather in the simper house jerk back and wheel. Fall through his falling blood.

And we going through the woods. Ain’t nothing. No unplace sound, no smell of smoke. Pasha moving dreamen slow, his rifle conscious in his hands. Yo, I feel like madness, slow beside. Once, a squirrel badge up by our feet, and we both jump like chickens. Come back to sense with rifles pointing wild. Then we go back to stalking. Ain’t even feel no smile at this. I only hear our telling noise and swear inside myself.

And time go into time, until it feel like a forever task. Must wonder if we pass the Armies somehow. If they heard us, and they stalking to, around. Yo, all this weaken and return to green Karim again. How I will aim, and shoot, and someone wheel into a flash of blood. If it be Mamadou. Be Crow. How someone turn and shoot on me.

Then I smell smoke. I stalk on for some steps, ain’t trust my feeling. Pasha walking on, ain’t notice. I squint forward scary. Ain’t see no motion yet, I start to wave my hand to Pasha.

Yo, as I wave, I hear a rumbling sound come from my other side. Is like horizon thunder, but it grow and it continue. Come slow mysteriose, a grinding that rise from behind, and stay as one big blowing note. But ain’t no storm. No thunder: sky look perfect clear around. And then it passing forward big. Pass us again, again, in waves. Ahead, it jitter and change and hush. I hold in unmeaning fear, like panics in a nightmare, where the dread ain’t got no self. Is only knowledge with no thing to name.

And Pasha standing still. His rifle weaken in his hands. Roo be looking big-eyed into nothing. The smell of smoke remain in this, like comfort I can hold to. Is smoke. Is Armies, something that I known.

Then a gunshot deafen loud. As I startle, come more gunshots, pounding into everywhere. We both gone flailing to the ground. I fall clumsy, belly-down. Be scrabbling hard in panic, like I need some lower ground beneath. Gunshots kicking all my sense, be like a hundred guns at once. Pass a gasping madness before I find my hold upon Kalash. Look up squinting, almost blind. Eyes themself be fearing. Gunshots go in bursts, knock all my courage twenty ways.

But when I look up, Pasha kneeling. I stare at him unknowing, and he wave me angry up. Only then, I feel how nothing changen in the air. Shots ain’t come at us, be somewhere else — and then they stop. Stop like nothing been. Hear voices shouting somewhere. Be too far to comprehend.

First moment, I ain’t brave to move. Feel like any part I show will be shot into pieces. Then I grit my jaw, I creep one leg to rising pose. Yell swears in my head, and grip Kalash as I get to my feet.

I feel the nothing in my flesh. How the air stand calm around, ain’t nothing killing me. Voices dimmer in the woods beyond. A horsen neigh.

Pasha be standing in some staring terror. Rifle to his shoulder, but he got no aiming face. And I shoulder up Kalash. Stalk forward quick, ware angry in the trees. Hear Pasha hasten noisy after, but I got no care for this. I only feel the smell of smoke. A rustling through the trees. Where those shots been.

Then in the woods before, my eye catch a moving shape. I startle jolten. Rifle falter as I start to duck. Then it recognize. A horse. It move at shouting distance, shape confusing in the trees. I ware my gun again, my finger slipping sweaty on the trigger. Watch feroce until it feel like I must see through these trees. See everything I need. But I only see the horsen shape in shifting parts of brown.

Now Pasha stalking past. I go along, my rifle moving awkward to my walking. And we come toward this horse, and see the trees and see the horse. Be this and then there be some quiet smoke. Another horse beyond.

We stop in thinner woods, among a dozen nervy horses. A fire be burning low. Is various trash around, and no one there.

Now our paths confuse. We seeking, aim guns every way. One moment, I turn round and touch my shoulder at a horse’s nose. It snort and back away, and when I look, I know the NewKing’s buckskin stallion, Beg-No-Pity. Is like a memory jump out from my head.

Then Pasha call to me. I want to shout at him to hush. But I come along, see where he waring on the ground. My rifle loosen in my aching arms.

On the ground, lain curlen, be the feather red Malik. His cardinal feathers crush along the earth, and blood lie red behind. Blood gone particular on the fallen leaves, confuse their different shapes. Now it remember senseless, he First Runner’s brother born. Remember how I fight him once, and he start giggling foolish when I clout him in the eye with mud.

I whisper dumb, “He dead?”

Pasha crouch beside. Expect, he going to touch Malik, but he reach where a pistol fallen from the feather’s hand. Grab this hasty, rise again. Shove the pistol in a pocket and say in undervoice, “He dead.”

“How you know?”

Pasha ignore this. He looking round, a frown set deep. Then his eyes sharpen. He shoulder up his rifle, go in crouch against a tree. And I hear voices come again. I almost swear. I want to run. But I take my rifle up. And I be turning, watching for whatever I must fear, when Pasha swear beside.

I start to see the motion gathering — something strange that come from all the woods — when Pasha grab my rifle. Yank it down. Panic freak in me. I grip Kalash in watery hands, but Pasha pull it by again, and move in sudden certainty to stand in front of me.

First I see be rifles. And for some moment, this be all I know. Is rifles going to shoot me. Trembling starting in my knees. Then Pasha free Kalash and drop his rifle sudden to the dirt. Lift hands up clear above his head.

And some dozen strangers come in, walking through the trees. Is boyish children, jones I never seen before. All is wearing brownish jackets, and all is pointing rifles. My mind go too clear. Can hear each step, can hear how other children come behind me. And in front of me, I see my Pasha’s back, held stiff and painful. How his hands be shaking where he hold them in the air. A curl of brownish seed caught in his hair, and some motive in me want to catch it out. I rid this thought, and in some inkling dread, I drop Kalash. She fall and thud like any object, but my heart react. I crave and crave to grab her back. Be like I cannot breathe without. Hands be trembling same as Pasha’s, I grip them into sweaten fists. Sweat draw a sharp line down my back.

A stranger shout some angry words. Cannot comprehend, I feel my mind gone deaf somehow. Roo’s shoulders ease a breathen touch. He call back. But I ain’t comprehend this neither, is like some madness wasten me.

Stranger talk again, and Pasha answer. Cannot see this talking child, is hid by Pasha’s shoulder. But it start to comprehend, is words like fisher Panish. Ain’t my brain is wrong. Is unknown words. Somehow this feel like a promise, how this can come good again. And I fasten on these words. Try to find some meaning, but nothing recognize.

Pasha say another word, sound almost like a warning. Then his right hand ease gradual to his pocket. He pull out the pistol of Malik with only fingers. Lift slow, gun hanging limp, and drop it to the ground beside. Then he say, in strain and furiose voice, “Ice Cream. Leave your rifle.”

“I done,” I say. “Be done.”

He crane his head somehow, look to Kalash beside my feet. Then his shoulders ease. He call more Panish, and a child come jogging, crouch by us. Child’s elbow hit my leg as he gather our guns, and he grin scary to me. Say something and laugh at himself. Then he step back and lose among the others. Here I feel a nakedness. All my body want Kalash. I turn around, and at my back, it be more children standing.

In this, it start to comprehend, there be some forty children. Forty boyish children with forty rifles in forty brownish coats, their hair cut close the same. Is like a weirdo dream. Come uncanny, how their faces various, they move each in different sense.

Then, behind, a girlish voice cry glad and furiose. All these rifle children turn, be like a wind go through. They laughing as they step apart. One and one, the rifles turn from us, they loosen sideways.

And through this sudden path come Soledad.

35. THE ROADING PEOPLE

SHE WEAR A BROWNISH JACKET LIKE THE OTHERS, OVER HER SAME jeans. Jeans of Asha Badmouth, patch on both their knees with darker cloth. Simper come grinning huge, walk like her feet themself be breathless. Cry a Panish word, and all the rifle children laugh.

Then she spread her arms. For a breath bizarre, she stand and stretch like joy outside herself. Her pitchy voice come up, “Ice Cream!”

Pasha shift before me, turn to look into my face. See his eyes, is like he dead and walking. Like no person there.

I say to him in breaking voice, “Is Soledad.” Then it remember, he ain’t know her name. I shrug and step around him as the simper dash to me, she grab me ardent to herself. Her body feeling small and helpful. I begin to cry at this. I say, “Goddamn, what happening?”

She say in laughter, “Be my people. We got you now, you bone. You right.”

She turn her head and call more Panish. Rifle children walk toward, and I grip her in blind uncourage as they come close. Now they at touching distance all around.

Soledad ease back from me, is smiling all her eyes. “Ain’t got to worry now. We take you.”

I shake my head, feel stupid in my wits. “Ain’t want no taking.”

“Nay, be bone. Ain’t nothing mally.”

Then I notice children grabbing Pasha. Cold go through my stomach. They pulling at his arms behind, fix some metal joins upon. Take me a stumbling second before I understand this object. Word come to me, handcuffs, be a sleeper artifact. But cannot remember why it use — if it be only science rope, or do some hurt beyond.

They pull Pasha forward, and I cry out lowish in my throat as he be took from me. But Soledad keep one arm around my shoulders, shush me in soft repetition. Be bone, you good, ain’t fear.

And we walking through the woods, with rifle children crowding round. Some talk to Soledad, and she keep saying, “See, see.” Give her pitchy laugh and grip my shoulders close in sympathy. I saying, “Nay, what be with Pasha?” but she only say her bone and good and never fear me. I want to break and flee, but I got Pasha in my terror. Keep my eyes toward him where he led. His hands seem normal, handcuffs make no blood. His head kept low.

We come to the road, that patchen road of yesterday. Upon this road, now stand real cars. Ain’t rusten, got full tires upon. Be a sort, got something like a carten shape in back. They gaud in paint, got reddish-bluish stripes along their flanks. On one stripe, be writ in white: DEFENSA, C. DE LAS MARIAS. I stare at this unknowing.

Here be some discussion. Soledad release my shoulders, start to argue in. A tallish child come to, he answer her with tired anger. She go mad to this, be pointing back at me and yelling.

Can see Pasha on the other side of all these talking children, stood with thinking misery in his face. One child hold his elbow, another point a rifle on him. He watch on me like I be something past.

Then Soledad turn to me, is looking like her feelings injure. Say in her argue voice, “Fools thinking, you jump out. Been telling them, you ain’t some imbecile, jump from a driving car.”

Here first it comprehending to me right, these cars is working. I shake my head in freshen panic. “Nay. Where you be taking us?”

“We only going to a town is by. Can trust me, Ice. I keep you well.”

“Nay,” I say breathless. “Got to get back to my Sengles. Yo, Pasha, why he bound like that?”

This she ignore, she give her pinchen smile. “Be bone. Me and my Carlos sit by you. You seeing, this be right.”

TRIP IN THESE CARS be like an aching fever. I be took in carten back, with Soledad and five big rifle children. Pasha brought apart, nor I ain’t see him all this journey. The car jerk into motion mostly like a normal cart. But then it gain to speed until it be like falling sideways. Feel like an endless scream somehow, I gripping anywhere I can. Ya, it leap awful from each bump, while roar be fearing in your ears. Trees go past so quick, is like they dropping sudden from a height. The wind hit vicious all directions.

Rifle children all sit careless to the sides, ya Soledad laugh, while I fight off a puken feeling. All my need be for my Sengles. Feel like a baby small, ain’t got no knowledge to rely. Trees sprinten past. The unknown faces grin, shout words that got no sense. Yo, in this, I notice all the rifle children’s hands is writ upon. Got spidery pictures on their hands, dimmish green and black. Is only drawings, but I feel some monstrous in this, some hell meaning.

Only help, I look at my own hands. Same hands as ever been. I fix upon their scars from Army camp, still showing dark and light. These be my actual life, was real. I still be Ice Cream Star, ain’t going to alter anyhow. And the road grind under, shivering in my teeth. Wind beat my braids against my face.

Only when I hear some scatter shouts, I look up scary. See our Massa camp slip past, all children dodging from the road. Some standing by to stare. I scramble quick, leap to the side, but someone kick my feet from under. I be caught in arms, pull down. I kick and fight, but only get some laughter, shouts around. Soledad be crying, “Damn, you done it! Ain’t believe!” Then I settle weak. Be sitting against this stranger jones, who keep me huggen to. Can only see, above the car back, how some Massas running after, struggling on the road, but it be like they running backwards. They only shrink, and when the highway turn, they wipen gone.

Then my tears come and I forget. Ain’t even try for nothing. The wind dry these tears stiff against my cheeks. My arms still caught by this big jones, I cannot rub my face. Feel this other helplessness as my nose go thick.

At last, the car turn by and slow. Go on an earthen road, can feel its softer hold beneath. We slowing more, car jerk us backen forth, and stop. Noise sigh and hush.

Stranger jones let go my arms. I pull sharp from him like I rid an insult. Now I feel some hope again. Camp ain’t likely be too far. All this can explain. I get Pasha, parley for our freedom. These people Soledad’s, she love me well. Still can be right.

Someone pull the carten back out flat. Soledad stand to her feet, go graciose along the carten floor and leap out to the dirt. Turn back grinning, saying, “Almost home, some wonder this.”

I stand up to my feet. The big jones waring round me with his hands, like I may fall. I walk along the carten bed, feel its weight shift beneath. Jump to dirt, my feet come gratty on its friendly stillness. Here be rifle people moving all around, fetch goods from cars. They go in tasky certainty, but every child stare on me as he pass.

Place be a normal evac. Can see, ain’t no one living here. These rifle people using this, how Sengles use an evac sometimes as a camping place. Got some low unroofen houses, straggle along a broken road. Closest be a Citgo store, its yardroof burnt and broken. Citgo got its major window bust out, open to the air. Inside, is rifle children talking, nosing toward some papers on a table. All this got haunten looks in dawnlight, gray in ghosty wise.

Then I hold my step. Along the Citgo side, on concree ground, be eight Armies. They kneeling in a row, backs to the wall. All got their arms behind, can figure that they bound like Pasha. Most show signs of beating; bloody lips and fatten eyes. A rifle child ware by them, skinny jones in greenish cap.

Farthest Army to the right be slumpen forward to the ground. Is dead. His head be crusten blood, and blood smear high upon the wall behind. Blood spread beneath his face, look like a reddish blanket lain for comfort.

Before him crouch First Runner. Ain’t in this row, her arms be free. Got her hands flat to the dirt, is crying onto these. Her face be cut in petty nicks. It freckle with red hurt. And I recall Malik, dead at their camp. Her brother born.

I find Crow with my eyes. Find Mamadou in this row, his right arm bandage to his side. Fear start before I know, this ain’t new injuries. Be Pasha’s gunshot. And still, this ain’t feel real to me. Cannot believe is them. Yo, all they Armies stare on me with thoughtless fixity.

Through this, my heart catch false. Think any ways this can be bone. My face feel sick with sweat.

Then Soledad come back. Stand full in my sight, and put her hands on both my shoulders. She look mostly like herself, a panic child with needing eyes. But be a nasty brightness to this. Is like she swallow too much joy, and now it hurt inside.

“You bone?” she say in her sweet pitchy voice. Close, can smell her boozen breath.

“Nay.” I try to shift, look past her shoulder. “What this be?”

She tug my shoulders. “Heed on me. We going to do this.”

“What happening with they Armies?”

“Foo, ain’t nothing.” She laugh breathless.

“You going to free them, ya?”

“Child, this ain’t yours. You heed me now.”

I swallow, but my swallow go wrong somehow. I cough weak against this, swallow again. “I heed. But you will free them?”

“Ain’t fret. Ain’t got to fear me.”

“Ain’t fearing you, goddamn. Got better fears.”

“You got no fears, I saying. Heed.” She narrow seriose. Her fingers tighten in my shoulders. “How you found your Pasha Roo?”

“Ain’t found him. He been by me all this time. We gone for you.”

“Nay, shoo. When Sengles found him first.”

“Found him…” I try to see behind her again, she catch my shoulders fast. Eyes look some jitter feeling. Be like joy and panic in one mood.

She say in teaching voice, “How you found him. Who been by you then?”

“Ya, Driver find him. In an evac that we burnt, roo come out running. Ain’t no news in this.”

Soledad nod, stroke on my shoulder. “Bone. Was Driver there. What other children been?”

“Ain’t know,” I say. But then it start to answer in my mind. Be comfort to recall this day, is sweet in townie distance. “Ho, been Keepers by. Asha Badmouth and Jermaine. And myself, is all was there.”

“Is four.” Hands on my shoulders soften. “Sugar, you doing bone. You cool. Now I going to leave you think. You needing twelve, you mind this? Twelve.”

“Ain’t been no twelve. They going to kill they Armies?”

Her face go tense. “That ain’t your trouble.”

“Why that feather kilt? They Armies taken you again?”

“Nay, we take them,” she say, smiling queery. “This time, they be took.”

“How, for yourself? For how they done you?”

“Ho, should be forgot? Been nothing?” Soledad laugh high without no smile.

I shrug against her pinching hands. “Can leave them. Sure they… now you safe.”

“Cannot help this,” she say breathless. “Heed to me, you worry for yourself. You think of twelve.”

“Who these twelve? Ain’t getting nothing of this.”

“Be your apostles.” She smile false. “Opossums. How you say.” Then she lean to me, confiding. “Sure I know, ain’t been twelve children there. Is politics. Be something you can do for me. We right?”

I start to cavil, I got no opossums. Got no want for these. But I look on her madden eyes, her smile gone tense into her scars. And I breathe in well. “I think.”

“Bone. I going to leave you here with Carlos.” She speak sharpish past my shoulder. That same big jones who catch me in the car come by. Say some unknown courtesy and aim his rifle toward my chest, as Soledad skit off.

I muttern low and empty, “Right, you threaten to kill me. Bone.” Look around until I find my Pasha. He kneeling like the Armies, by a dusty car. My spirit seize. I turn to Carlos, say, “They going to hurt the roo?”

He smile back meaningless. Is like he sorry for my broken words. Be a twentyish male with friendly eyes, is Christing handsome. I check down at his hand, scribble in greenish spiders and long guns. Ware back on the Armies.

Now it waken in my mind, how Soledad talk of Jesus. Sure, be why she stealing Pasha. Want to rule her people somehow. But she said, was clear to this, she cannot be Maria.

Then it realize cold, she talk of my opossums. My apostles. I be choosing twelve. This fool Maria be myself.

All this go frozen in my head, while I stare on the kneeling Armies. They looking past, lost interest in me. Can comprehend, I cannot help them. Got no use.

Ya, Soledad come back. Come to Carlos, grab his arm and make like she will swing upon. He laugh and touch her head. Say some loving Panish, and she go on toes to kiss his cheek. He turn away, go off with rifle balance in one hand.

Then Soledad back smiling in my face. “You thought?” I smell her boozen breath again, sharp like the stank of fear.

“This be something… like you say about Maria?”

“There you be.” She laugh up bright. “You got some quicker brains, you thinking.”

“Yo, apostles, how this working? What this going to mean?”

“Be your children. Like you choose your town. Ya, Carlos been apostle to myself, in time.”

“Your people ain’t hurt these apostles?”

“How they hurting them?” She shake her head. “You heed my word, you and apostles better than no luck. You cherry.”

“Right.”

“Hurt them,” she muttern underbreath. Shake her head admiring, like she preciate a joke. “Last they ever do, hurt no apostles.”

Look at her madness eyes, and behind I see the green-cap jones who guard the Armies, small in detail. Cap push back on his head, his hair show fuzzy brown. I take my breath and say, “Is Crow been by.”

“Crow?” Soledad’s face change nerviose.

“When we find Pasha. Crow been by.”

She look mistrust. “Yo sho, he been your Sengle. See this.”

Then some anger brighten in me. “Ya, and Mamadou been by.”

“Cannot be.” Her eyes gone cold. “Ain’t right.”

“I saying, Mamadou been.”

Soledad’s face set tight, her scars stand in my eyes. “You need some trusting people. Ain’t be right.”

“I giving twelve.”

“What you trying?”

“Give you twelve. Is all I do. Yo, First Runner been, she by.”

Soledad shrug angry. “She be bone. How you like.”

I try to see the Armies again. But Soledad dodge in my vision, raise her hand into. “Ain’t try this, Ice. You going to need this choice. Ain’t games.”

“Ain’t games to me.” My mouth feel dry and sick. “Why you doing this? Is madness.”

“Nay. You going to comprehend.”

“What becoming to my Sengles, there in camp? They free?”

“Yo, I see them right. Can trust me, got no harm to them. Lowells, all they children bone.”

“Pasha safe?”

“Pasha, foo. He precieuse to us, be sure.” Then her eyes look tired upon me. Smile gone beggarish, is like her earlier self come through.

“Need some time for this, goddamn.”

She twist her mouth and shrug. “They do your papers now. Is sticky on these matters.”

“Papers?”

“Ya, the papers. Got to fix this now.”

I bite my lip and cough somehow into my mouth. Try to think. Look to Pasha, where he sit against the car. Someone given him a cigarette, he smoke this with no hands. Talk around it, and the cigarette dip and jerk with motion.

Then it frighten in me sudden, this be real. Ain’t going back to camp. Be some future to me I ain’t recognize.

I say nervy, “These apostles ruling, how you said? They do jones work?”

“There you thinking. Yes, they is. You need them well, ain’t going to choose no Mamadou.”

I shake my head, grit to my need. “Ya, El Mayor been there.”

“Right, now you figure better. El Mayor.”

“This make eight.”

“Eight.” She huff her breath. “Eight with Mamadou. You stubborn something. Think who you going to work with, treasure. Need no sentiments in this.”

“Nay, Mamadou been there. Yo, Hate You, and… ain’t know.”

“Best they be males,” she say. “Eighteens or like, you easier set.”

“Bone, take First Electric. Ya, and First Contractor. Right.”

“Sugar, you done. Be well.” She smile and leave her hands from me.

“Nay, this eleven.”

“And be myself.” She frown simple, like she teaching facts. “Truth, you going to need me real. Someone who will know.”

Then greed fix in her eyes. Can feel, this be the matter’s heart. She cannot be Maria, so she want to be apostle, for whatever worth this be. I want to say it angry — how she steal us for her selfishness. But I swallow my unliking. “Sure, you good. I value this.”

She look behind, can see she think of leaving. I say quick, “But how you making me Maria? Cannot be.”

“How it is.” She wave back to her Carlos, waiting by the Citgo. “Got to stand your proof before. But you be good.”

“Be good? Be some insanities. Ain’t know your people nothing. Nor I want this.”

“Sure you thinking so.”

“And if I ain’t? Can we go back?”

She call some Panish over shoulder. Hold up one finger. Then she looking back at me, her face show glad relief. “You found a Jesus, Ice. Ain’t be no other definition.”

“Pasha ain’t no Jesus,” I say flat. “Be things, but he ain’t that.”

Soledad laugh, and shake her head. “Told you, Ice. He representing this. Know he ain’t Jesus.”

“Damn, answer me. If I reject this?”

She look by, distract. “Ain’t going to be.”

A new jones biggen up from nowhere. Shift his rifle to useful posture, stand unwanten close. Then Soledad be gone, is passen with her skitty haste. The new jones say some courtesy and grin, spread out his fattish face.

I grimace and turn my head to watch how Soledad walk in the Citgo. Children there all ware to her, is sudden conversation. Then they bend back to the spreaden papers. Inkle in me, be my papers. Whatever this will be.

I look back to the Armies. Recognize another feather, be their old Hamid. Is twenty years, been start his coughing posies. Other feathers I only seen in war, ain’t known their names. Then it remember how me-Pasha gone to murder these same children. I grimace my unliking, look to Pasha. He sat back to the car, scratch his face against his shoulder. Be only one guard on him now, child standing bored with lazy gun.

I say to my own fat-face guard, “I going to see my child.” I point to Pasha by the car.

Guard frown. Nod at Pasha questioning.

“Yes. Right.” I nod some twenty times, like this will help his knowledge. Then I start off careful. Guard come follow curiose.

Pasha see me coming, he raise eyebrows. Face grow sarcasty looks as I crouch by. The fat-face guard stand smiling friendly. Hold his rifle upon, like this be favors that he do for us.

Pasha say, “The simper safe.”

We both laugh our nerves, like this ridiculous as any humor. Then he say, “Roading people,” and we laugh this laugh again.

I say, “Yo sho, I listen to you soon. I going to learn this wisdom.”

“We finish,” Pasha say. “Ain’t no soon for us.”

“Ain’t lost your misery. Bone to hear.”

He shrug. “Got cigarettes. In pocket.” He nod his head toward.

“Ho, you in my ruling now. Cannot smoke without.”

“I trust.”

I find his cigarettes while Pasha smiling up to fat-face. Say some Panish words, and fat-face grimace. Point his rifle sharper.

I say, “What you told him?”

“Say you robbing me. Is joke, he got no humor.”

“Guess he ain’t.” I take a cigarette myself, put one to Pasha’s lips. Light my zippo for us. Pasha breathe his cigarette hungry, squint against the rising smoke.

I say, “I got some news.”

He look a question, breathing smoke.

“They ain’t want to kill you.”

He mumble past his cigarette, “Gratty to them.”

“Hold, you got to hear the reason.”

“Reason?”

“You be Jesus Christ.”

“Ain’t comprehend.”

“Nor myself. They stupid as a hat.”

Be hot to tell my gripes on Soledad, require his thoughts. But then Pasha ware behind me. Bite his cigarette.

I look back. By the Citgo, where the Armies kneeling, come out Soledad. Her big Carlos waiting by, show a petty pistol. He hold this careless into Mamadou’s face. Talk angry down.

Around, can see the rifle children rouse. Some go off in haste, while others linger with all staring eyes.

I stand up sharp. Be thinking desperate how I shout, claim my apostle. What I going to try. But Mamadou stand. He look uncaring past the pistol, past this Carlos, to myself. Carlos shove him somehow, and the NewKing smile and turn. Pass into the Citgo room.

This perform again with Crow, while I be breathing in my sweat. Crow never look to me, he walk by hasty. Then the green-cap jones take small First Runner by the arm. She stand up duteous, still be staring to her sorrow nothing. Green-cap go in the Citgo with her, close the door behind.

Then Carlos reach to Soledad. She catch hard on his hand and put her head against his shoulder. Now can see, she weeping bad. Got a bottle in one hand, she turn her head to drink from this. Go sobbing back.

Carlos pet her head, he talking to her seriose. Feathers watch up. Is like this be some teaching done for them. They watch how Soledad stand back from Carlos, shake her fattish braids. Look round herself into the clouden day. Low and busten houses looking murky in this light.

Then she take Carlos’ pistol. Gun silver prettieuse. Is like a jewlerie, like candy. And Soledad stand hunchen, looking at this shiny gun. Her pitchy voice rise up. Come strange with distance, changing in the wind. But can hear, is sad complaint.

Then, second’s thought, she point and shoot a feather in his knee. Only when he scream, I shut my eyes. The scream wail out, catch with breath, wail again. Another shot come loud. The scream go weaken into sobbing.

She shoot again. She shoot again. Every shot repeat in me, screams panic in my blood. Be thinking how I yell into this, but I ain’t got words. Confuse with Panish and these strangers, got no starting thought. Then all the screaming hush, the shooting halt. I look up dizzy.

Two feathers to the left be lying dead. Their blood grow on the concree ground.

Next feather in the row be old Hamid. He talking low, his eyes on Soledad. Talk constant, smiling, while she put more bullets in the gun. Hamid’s face spatter bloody from the murdern child beside. And Soledad be crying still, her shoulders tremble as she work. Carlos keep one hand upon her back. Ain’t he nor Soledad be heeding to the begging feather.

She point again, her mouth grit like she frustrate. Shoot Hamid in his talking mouth. He knock back to the wall, a struggle passen through his arms. Then he slide down sideways, leave a ragged smear of blood behind.

Ain’t think to close my eyes again. I watch while Soledad aim on a fourth, who break and jump into her, running panic off. Is shot down by some unseen rifle easy, before he take five steps. Child go to his knees, like he tire sudden. He lie himself polite onto the road, while his blood come out in generose wash. Then he shiver and rest with mouth yawn open.

Last feather sitting hunchen, eyes is shut. Soledad wipe at her face with her pistol hand. Face wetten awful, all her body sob. She speak to Carlos, and he nod. He take the pistol, touch her shoulder. Then she turn and stumble to the feather murdern in the road. Kneel by his feet and close her face into her arms.

And Carlos crouch beside the shut-eye child. Talk in quiet voice. Seem he explaining, though can guess is Panish, feather cannot heed. Feather begin to shake his head. Speak from his closen eyes, cringe blind.

I step forward now, is like I wake. I call up, “Soledad?” Then my fat-face jones take hold across me, talking in a rush. All his grinning pass, he talking like he beg some help. I panic, scratching at his arm, but he hold to. Pasha call my name behind, and all this be like nothing happening while big Carlos point his pistol down with angry joy.

He shoot the feather in his gut. I weaken dull. Watch stupid while the boy curl on his side. Is ducking his head to see his hurt. Carlos now return to talking, and it almost hope, he done. Feather going to live somehow. Like Mamadou from his wound, can live.

Carlos look back to Soledad. Then he turn sudden, kick all his weight into the feather’s gut. This bring a birden screech, and Carlos kick and kick again, until it come like wonderful when he go shoot the feather dead.

I ease back, heart struggling in my chest. Then it notice, in the Citgo window, be a scramble fight. It realize, this fight been on some time, and then I see like natural facts, is Mamadou. He war his one good arm against some struggling children. I nod to myself, is right. And I push free from the fat-face jones. Sit down careful. Find my cigarette almost finish. Suck its last breath and throw it by.

Look back to Pasha, he be whiter white. His face show beaden sweat.

“They ain’t going to hurt you,” I say frighten. “Ain’t be.”

He shake his head. Blink where sweat gone dripping in his eye.

“Nay,” I say. “We living yet. I be soldat for you. You good.”

He make some fever smile. “You my soldat.”

“Nay, they ain’t going to hurt you.” I look round for Soledad, but she still crouchen in the road. Her hand be forward in the feather’s blood. My eyes flinch back from this, I say more desperate, “Truth. I got word, Pasha.”

He lick up at his sweat. Face settle into misery again, he staring at the blooden Citgo wall. The feathers lying various dead. And he say quiet, “You ain’t know, Ice. You ain’t know.”

36. TO MARIAS

OUR FARTHER HOUR BE HURTLESS FEAR. TWO RIFLE CHILDREN come with angry faces, unloose Pasha’s handcuffs. Then Pasha-me be put into a car. Ain’t like the carten car before, this one be closen with glass windows. Seats be fat and soft.

Once the doors be shut, this car become a simple trap. Doors got no opening handles to, nor pushing budge them any. Ya, between the front and backward seats is screen with netty wire. Can see how this been staplen in the roof, the seaten back. I tug thoughtless at these staples, sans no strong intention. Is only bellious mood without no hope.

In the forward seat, drive Carlos, Soledad beside. Ain’t talking, both is sorrow dull. Soledad got her window open. Lie her head onto this windy space. When I call to her, she only nay her hand. Ain’t stir to look. Ya, this hand still red on all its fingertips with blood.

And we go on the number highway. Car drive almost easy, like it skating on a floor. First minutes, Pasha-me talk low, is counseling together. But soon we drift to separate glooms. I stare sideways in the window, and the trees become a fuzzy storm, all losing hasty back. In this, a snow begin, and Soledad raise her window up. Car remain in closen heat, while snow float down its millions on the other world outside.

Then it be hours and nothing. We fly sorry through the snow. Around be forest, whitening on its arms, like all our walking woods. Yo, sometimes a farm appear — fields looking scrappish after harvest, cows in sleepy hunch. My heart go strange to see this life, beyond all worlds beknown. Notice carren vehicles by, and I begin to guess, these farms belong to Soledad’s mally people. Then be dizzy feeling, how we flying every miles of distance, and all land be theirs.

Once we pass a broken city. Got tower buildings higher than no Lowell edifice, but ain’t a child to see. Some buildings lost their walls. Can see the inside partments in their grid; or only be a skeleton of metal, tall into the sky. Cars be turtlen on their roofs, streets choke with color trash. Be like a goliath wind torn up its every part. Snow puzzle above this havoc like it seeking help to this.

And the city pass behind, we meet the snowing woods again. Is coming middy day, the world stand on its narrow shadows. I try to think, how El Mayor be driven so, to be apostle. Can hope he be joyeuse, riding in an actual car. Then I worry on Driver so, my Sengles, as the snow depart, a perilous sun come to the day.

We start to come to blocking gates. These is clumsy artifacts, set across the road. Got one space, is big enough to fit a normal car. Above this space be always writ, PROHIBIDO EL PASO SIN LICENCIA. This got a rifle guard who stand beside in bitty house. At each gate, Carlos fix his window down and show some card. Rifle guard inspect this, say some courtesy and we go on.

This repeat some dozen times. In this, we come to evac country. These evacs various in suffering. Some places be all broken roofs that float upon a wash of junk. Others is healthy towns, with houses painten fresh and standing fences. One place show a sleeper flag that tumble its stripy flank in wind. Below, a sign be written: DOLL’S AMERICAN CONVENIENCE. Smoke rising somewhere, join its whiteness to the snowing air.

Last gate, be thirty rifle children. They gather to the car, and Carlos get out calling happy. Then these children all be shoving, gaping eyes at me and Pasha. All faces nose toward the window. I feel unliking sick. “Damn,” I say. “Herding strangers everywhere. No person going to live.”

Here Soledad look back. “Ain’t think like this. They glad to you.” Face show her joy precaire again.

I make an ugly mouth into the window, but the children laugh. I grin back before I think. One boy make a sign with skewen fingers. I try this for myself, then some five children bending to the window, make skew-finger signs. All laughing pleasure, and this start to mingle in my feeling. “Sure,” I say, “they can be bone. Ain’t going to prejudice.”

“I prejudice for you,” say Pasha, and Soledad laugh birdish from the front. She say, “You narrow, you.”

Then Carlos get back in the car. We drive through the gate, and Soledad sit up bright. She say, “Can see, Marias there.” She point the forward window.

I put my face up to the netty wire. Ahead, there be a spiky nonsense on the near horizon. Is like the working part of a machine, all different grays and stalks. Stand like weirdo teeth against the lighter gray of sky. Take me time to guess, these teeth be edifices. Then I sit back dizzy. Try to wonder at their size, but all confuse in distance. At last I say, “Goddamn, ain’t real.”

“Ciudad de las Marias,” Soledad say in scary pride.

I say, “It look like some New York.”

“Been that,” say Soledad. “In time before. Now is Marias.”

Pasha staring for himself, his face a mix of want and dislike. When he see me looking, he shrug nerviose. “New York. I know this.”

“Bone, we all is knowing this.” Sudden, I feel anxy light. I say to Soledad, “You bringing El Mayor this way?”

“He be behind.” She heeding to the city with mouth open, like she want to eat it.

“El Mayor go love this,” I say. “Be his lifen fantasy.”

“Is right,” say Soledad. “He right.”

WE SKIRT ALONG some gristy river, floating with all brownish trash. Road here be wallen in with metal ruin, wreck concree. This pass in sudden breath, and we be in the city self.

Now buildings block us either side. Most got windows blind with wood, but some be living bright with glass. All stand close to the road, it be like driving down a housen hallway. Along, be children, walking careless at the roaden margin. Some be rifle people, but is also boys in churching suits, and girls in heely shoes and dress.

Be signs in every place, yo all these signs is sleeper old. Most words is garble: DOLPHIN FISH PLAZA, 99 AND UP. Can guess at FABCO SHOES and KENNEDY FRIED CHICKEN. But cannot tell what BLIMPIE SUBS will be, nor CUSTOM IMAGE APPAREL. I try reading signs to Pasha, but he make discourage face. Turn moody to his window.

In this, I get a fear bizarre, how they make me Maria. Ain’t even normal towns. Be towers fabulous, and thousand children. No dirtfoot scratcher ruling here, is gaga in itself.

Then we come beside an open place with healthy trees and grass. I fix on this. Get frantic hope, this city ending now. We come back into woods. Yo, all been jokes. Been anything but real.

But now, I see the city grow ahead in worser heights. It plummet strange into the sky, ain’t even spy the buildings’ heads. Ya, the car go slower. Turn and come up by an edifice white and grandiose. Got twenty rows of windows, and all windows fresh with glass. A dozen rifle children waiting to its steps, beneath a canopy with golden jewlerie upon.

Car stop and ease its voice. Then the stillness feel uncanny. I wish awful that we driving on somewhere. Drive back.

But the rifle children all trot toward with interesting face. Soledad say breathless, “Yo, we here. The Ministerio be.”

“Here,” say Pasha dull. He rub his face and look to me.

“No sho.” I look out scary.

Soledad open up her door, step out and stretch her arms. Then she open Pasha’s door. Say happy, “Come, we here.”

He go out, I shove along. Step careful, like I feel the ground may still be moving. Rifle guards shift back, create a path. Ain’t aim on us, but every hand be conscious on its gun.

Yo, Soledad start up the carpet steps, wave us behind. I follow careful, Pasha by. We walk between these guns, and Soledad go open a glassen door. Then we step inside, and all the rifles left behind. Be like a noise depart and leave us in relieving hush.

Inside of this building be like something cut from ice and sugar. Be grandy as an evac warehouse, but all luxury clean. Got some hanging lights is like goliath dandelions of glass. Curtains be gold color, and rangen in some frozen perfectesse. The floor gleam white, the walls gleam white. Ain’t any a speck nor mark of use.

In the roomen center, be a statue made in blackish stone. Show a girlish child, is swathen like she wearing Army godclothes. She sit with knees apart, and across her lap, a naked man be lain. He straggle sick. Girl look down with interest, like she think of eating him.

By this statue, stand five children. All wear dresses, though they boys. The dresses black the same, their skirts be longish to the floor. One child wear a red cravat, tie nett around his waist. Yo, all these children look up as we come. Their mouths false into smiles.

Soledad walk to the redwaist child with eagering step. Crouch graciose and kiss his hand. Then she polite them all. Her shoulders cringing, all herself be like a pologetic hound. Blackdress children smiling to her voice, while they inspect me careful. Ain’t even notice Pasha much, their need be on Ice Cream Unworthy. Feel they think to eat me, like the statue girl. They scout my meat.

Some minutes, Soledad speak to the redwaist child. Among her Panish noise, appear some words like Sengle, Massa, Lowell mill. These pass like flashing birds, and then she Panish on the same. Yo, all this time, the rifle guards be staring through the glass behind. Somehow, is like they growing there. Their bad attention weigh my nerves.

Then sudden, the redwaist child speak sharp. Soledad hush and crouch herself. All the blackdress children touch their palms together, like an unsound clap. They turn from her and wander by.

She come back hasty to us, all her body bright with joy. Say, “This been Pedro, apostle of Inúd burrow. All be right, you going to see. Now, Ice, you come, we got to parley.”

I look to Pasha, but Soledad say quick, “Nay, Pasha going separate.”

“Foo separate,” I say. “Pasha going to know whatever I know.”

“Ain’t secrets,” she say hasty. “Be your questioning. Is needful so. They keep him well, ain’t nothing harm. Must be.”

“If you saying, got no choice, then say this.”

She make a nervy grimace. “Is right. I only hoping, be without no ugliness.”

“No choice,” say Pasha low. “Is normal.”

I start to cavil, but Pasha nay his hand. He grimace back toward the door — the rifle children stood outside. Yo, as I looking, Soledad yell up some Panish to them. Door open, and they stamping in. Then Soledad grip my arm. Only see a flashing glimpse, how Pasha watching misery, guards gathern to him silent weird, as she draw me away.

We go through some window doors into a jumbo room. Here the ceiling all is glass, shape graciose with broidery metal. Walls be butterish in color. Got some prettieuse stalks in honey stone up to the roof.

At a bureau by the farther wall, stand two tennish children. Their heads is shaven to the shine. Wear dresses like the others, but these be brown. Both look to me with biggen eyes, then turn back guilty to the bureau.

Center to this room, a longish table wait. Be gleaming wood, and to this table, any chairs is set. They all the same, with seats of golden cloth.

Soledad bring me to the table’s end, the sergeant place can be. Tap on its chair, and I sit down discourage. Feel conscience for my journey grime, how I be the only dirt. Soledad pull a chair herself and sit. In this showing light, her cheekbone face look raw bewept.

“Guess your people found you,” I say thin.

She smile pologetic. “Nay, I finding them. Known them from their trash, gone looking. Took all hours of hunt. Ain’t mostly slept.”

“Nor myself. We thought you taken by they Armies. Pasha and me come out for you.”

“Nay, I gone through the Armies. On this Piglet horse. They come yelling, but I gallop on. They never known was me, can guess.”

“They learning this.” My voice gone rough. I put my palms down to my jeans.

“Can leave that,” Soledad say, breathless low. “We got no time.”

“Nay, how my Sengles going to be? And Driver? You never thinking this? They terrify, and—”

“Shoo, your Sengles bringing here. All bringing here.”

“You take us all?” My voice break high. “Ain’t to believe. Goddamn, cannot!”

“Nay, heed!” Her eyes go panic. “Got to do this questioning right, or you ain’t safe. Ain’t they be safe.”

“Is prettieuse, ain’t safe! Been safe before your insect deeds.”

“Ice, all it been,” she say in beggar voice. “Found my people, then I saying natural, you got a Jesus. Going to say. They seeking such, all years. Yo, the old Maria dying. Someone got to rule the city.” Her face go sharper, like she proven point, cannot be argument.

“So be Maria self. Ain’t — nay, nor Pasha in this. Shee your goddamn people.”

“Ice, ain’t heeding! Got to heed. You ain’t do right, you dying here!”

“I dying why? Ain’t be no sense!”

“Trying to tell!” Her voice go high in nerves. “You losing time!”

My heart kick backward in my chest. I touch the knee hole on my jeans. Find a straggling thread, and wind this thread around a finger. “Ya, say your words. I heed.”

She clutch her hands together on the table. “Apostles going to talk to you. Ask questions of yourself.”

“What apostles? Ain’t be mine?”

“Nay, sure. The old apostles. Is like a test, if you be bone Maria. I learn this when I want to be Maria, in time before.”

Want to say, I ain’t be bone Maria. All is madness. But I look on her blooden hand again and sigh my breath. “They ask me questions. So?”

“I tell how you must answer.”

“Ain’t going to answer truth?” I grimace, feel tired in my mouth.

“Nay, be matters… complicate.”

“Sure, I be a Sengle. Lying ain’t no work to me.”

“Be bone.” She smile encouraging. “Ya, most major that they ask, is war. How you feel to wars.”

“You got some war?”

She wave a hand, like ridding this needless question. “What you must say — war be evil, but is sometimes needful. Evil, but is sometimes needful.”

I look at the browndress tens. They writing something on some cards. “Ain’t an answer, ya?”

“Right, you seeing. Cannot answer. They going to try and make you answer. All you say: War be evil, but is sometimes needful.”

I sigh. “War, be evil work. But is sometimes needful.”

“Bone. Second matter. Be anything you ain’t comprehend, say: Must discuss this with the church. Ain’t answer nothing, say the church discuss this.”

“Must discuss this with the church.”

“Next matter. They marrying here in twos. Ain’t get no Christing flocks of wives. One wife, one male. Like ducks. You see this?”

“Marry like ducks. Two children only.”

“Keep this clear. And tell them Sengles doing so.”

“Foo, Sengles do no marrying.”

“Ice, told you. Cannot—”

“Bone, we marry honest. Be no fickle people, Sengles.” Here, I laugh in nerves, but Soledad look harsh severe.

“Also, preventing enfants be an evil.”

“So sex be always bone?”

“Nay, shee.” She startle fresh at this. “Be only bone when children marry. Evil if they ain’t. Learn this well.”

“But when they marry, must do sex?”

“Ain’t this.” She smile unhappy. “There be a science for preventing enfants. Science they got. Is evil.”

“How this science work?”

She make a ridding gesture. “Only must know, is always evil.”

Ain’t comprehend for nothing, but I nod. Look skitty at the window doors. The blackdress children multiply there. Now it be a flickering wall of black behind the glass. “How it be, if I ain’t question well? Can leave?”

“You question well. Ain’t fearing this.”

“Nay, what will be? You answer.”

“Ice, ain’t stand your proof, this meaning you be…” She pause, her scar face work in thought. “Is like taboo. You be a false Maria. Mean, you evil.”

“So I be evil. Got good company in this.”

“Nay, then you die.” She frown into her scars. “When your proof become, you die.”

I feel tired anger coming through my fear. “I got no wants to be Maria, simper. Tell them now.”

“Nay. You die the same for this.”

“For what? Damn, ain’t no sense.”

“Ice, you found a Jesus. Be Maria, or be false Maria. Ain’t no other thing.”

“So I be false. You telling them.”

“Nay, false Maria need to die. Been said!”

“Is normal,” I say in disgust. “You be some ugly goods, this people. Why you brought us here? Ain’t need to put me in this murder.”

She take her breath. “Ain’t going to be. You heed me, all be bone.”

“I heeding. Got no choice, is normal. Pasha right in all.”

My mind feel skiddy. Try to think, what answers she been given. I wind my finger in my jeans thread, thinking back until is plain. Then I say, “Go on, I heed.”

“These be your major questions. Comprehend?”

“Be decision, whether I comprehend. Must discuss this with the church. All I know, we must get enfants, no preventing this. And must marry a duck, no other way.”

“Ain’t—”

“I know. Was joke.”

“Bone. Be other matter.” Her eyes skew nervy to the glassen doors. “Pasha.”

I swear underbreath. “Here it be. Pasha right. Goddamn.”

She grit her jaw, can see she thinking desperate. “Get your questioning, they going to ask you on him. Truth, can keep him.”

“Keep?”

“Can keep him by. But this disapprove. Only one Maria kept her Jesus, and was every trouble. Most times… is done like in the Christing story. Jesus die.”

My heart narrow harsh. “My Pasha do no trouble. Give him cigarettes, he easy.”

“Nay, be problems. Maria and Jesus both is god.”

I want to scoff, how any child believe that I be god. That Pasha god. That any snot-nose child be god. But I only say, “We god together. Be no problems.”

Unhappy growing in her face, most like she going to cry. “They ain’t approve this. Can fail your proof for this alone. Then Pasha kilt with you. Ain’t be no help.”

“But it been done before?”

“Ice Cream. Be problems without this.”

“I asking, be some chance?”

“Ya.” She pinch her mouth. “They desperate well, or you ain’t been in question.”

“Desperate, right. Relief to know, they ain’t be imbeciles entire.”

“Nay, ain’t imbeciles none.” She look grim, like this be mally news.

A minute, we sit in angry quiet. I watch upon the browndress tens. They working fretful, like they fear us. Duck their heads and whispern. In this, it notice, these be girlish children, shaven females. Surprise misgive in me, and I scarce be listening when Soledad speak.

“Ice Cream. Pasha be a sleeper.” Her voice come slow precaire.

I frown to her. Feel something queery in this, like the shaven girls. “Sleeper, shee. He be a moron roo.”

“You friending with him, sure I know. But sleepers, they ain’t be like us.”

“What difference this will make? You ain’t like me, neither. Will say, this sleeper try to save yourself this morning. This same day.”

“Nay, they sleepers all be slavers. In Time Before, they slavers. Every history. Ain’t like us.”

I say loud, “And how they also Jesus, wonder this.”

“Be more in this than you can know! You think before…” She swallow back her noise and say low, “Think.”

“Nay. You think how this sleeper gone to save you. This morning, gone and risk himself.”

“Ain’t listening right.”

“Yo heed. They kill my Sengles also? Kill all Massa children, for some moron superstition?”

“Nay. But, Ice, it—”

“All I need to hear. We done.”

“Ice, ain’t for myself. Is needful.” Then she flinch, ware to the window doors. “You think. I got to leave you now. Goddamn, was other matters.” She skit to her feet. Give me one final seeking look, and smile her pinchen way. Then she go to the window doors. Open them with careful softness, and she slip away.

I sit back weak. Be longing for my good Kalash, my Pasha. Can wish I sleeping better yesternight. Feel white inside my head. Try thinking of these answers, but now Soledad be gone, they seem insanities no child believe.

Then a browndress ten come toward. Got jutting ears, show out peculiar with her shaven head. She look skitty to myself, then start around the table. Set cards down, one to each seat. Check at a paper as she go. I stand up jittery and go behind. Cards going so: JUAN DE QUINTA, FELIPE DE METROPOLITANO, SIMÓN ZELOTE DE LOISAIDA. Come to one that say PEDRO DE INÚD, and I get a kindling notion. First part be an apostle’s name. The other be their burrow. Girl finish with the cards and dabbit by, spy curiose at me.

“Sister,” I say, “you need that paper?”

She startle like it been the table self that spoken words. A moment, I think she cannot comprehend. Talk Panish like the rest.

But she lower eyes and muttern, “No.”

“Be gratty, I can have it.”

She look at it doubting. “You want this?”

“Got these names, I guess? Is names?”

She nod slow. In this, it notice, her shaven head got drawings on. Is like the drawings on the rifle children’s hands. Blue particular on her head, shape like spiken flowers. Even her jutting ears got petty lines.

She bolden herself and reach the paper to me, smiling bashful. Like I expect, it got the table drawn, with each name set in place. At table’s head, be writ, Maria Postulante.

The ten say whispern, “You go for Maria?”

I shrug. “Ya, guess I do.”

She smile again, scratch at her shiny head. Look at the other ten with priding eyes. Other ten look back, is jalousie in her pet face. This a tallish child, is catten prettieuse, even in baldness.

I wave the paper, say, “My tens, you knowing how these names pronounce?”

Eary Ten get mazing smile. “You don’t know the apostles’ names?”

“She just came here,” Catten Ten say bossy. “Why she going to know?”

Eary Ten pert up her eyes. Begin to sing a melody. The other join with laughing face. A moment pass before I comprehend, this be a memory song. Give all apostles’ names in easy quickness. Then I watch the paper, heeding, try to match these names and words. Get them to start again-again, until their rivaling be, how quick they sing. Their birden voices confuse together, break in giggling.

Then sudden, they both startle. Hush and ware the window doors. Rifle children moving there, be voices risen loud. Tens turn jumpy, run toward a farther door of simple wood. They fluster out, without no by-salue. The door shut hard.

Cannot react nor think, before the window doors come wide. I skit into my chair and shove the paper to my knees.

37. MY QUESTIONING FOR MARIA

A BLACK PARADE OF REDWAIST CHILDREN COME IN, ONE AND ONE. They looking at me various — smiling, boring, curiose — but all this brew into my nerves. Be mostly boys of bigger size. Is only one a female, and she loafen fat, grown in richesse. Most wear black dresses, but be one in brownish rifle garb. Yo, the last is wearing jeans and button shirt like any person. This jeans child be gazen bell, is Sengle tarry with long eyes.

I check the paper, haste to find their names as they take chairs. Across from me, at table’s end, be Pedro de Inúd — child Soledad been speaking to before. Sixteenish boy beside him smiling puppyish, like he cheer my courage. His blackdress got some stains along its front, like he been eating soup. Name, Juan de Quinta.

Apostle speaking first be handsome slim, got beard is shapen ornamental. Ain’t Panish that he talk but sleeper English, knot in definitions. Can guess is greeting speeches, but these words go jumbling quick. I check the paper for his name: Felipe de Metropolitano. Ya, he finish on an easy saying: “And please, be honest with us. It’s really best, for your own sake.”

I narrow at this bearden boy, can smell some threat in this. But I only say, “Be thanks, Felipe. Sure, I answer truth.”

This bring some petty consternation. First I wondern, if I said his name correct. Tens is chancy people, cannot know what jokes they play. But then it comprehend, they ain’t know I got their names writ. Think to explain, but then they start their questions.

This work be suffering beyond mosquitoes. Ain’t never felt no personal shyness, but here it inkle how a shy child feel. Times, I speak too long, and feel they boring while I stumble words. Then is times, I saying only “Yes,” and they look cheaten. They ask in sleeper English, but talk Panish between themself. Yo, once, all questioning stop, while two apostles argue Panish furiose, but I ain’t guess its reason. Soon sweat coursing down my sides in tickle bothers. Throat be dry beyond, and every smile feel false and strange.

Begin to know, is friends and enemies in this apostle twelve. Pedro de Inúd ask questions that is sneaking helps. Yo, can guess that Soledad told him news of me before. He ask if I be leader in my people; can say yes to this. Then he ask how many children living in the Massa woods. Ain’t mention Sengles particular, so it come out like I lead four hundred children, powerful grown. He talk clear and slow, ya, every question hinting to its answer. “I hope your people are Christians?” “We believe religion must be the basis of the law. Would you agree?” Even when I understand no word, can know these answers yes.

Worst enemy be crafty-beard Felipe. Look friendly in his smile, but every question be a trap. Child smart as twenty heads; my victories all be steps to new defeat. Be like fighting Mamadou in war. Yo, any word I speak, Felipe saying he ain’t understand. Say this kindly, like he sorry for my stupid mouth. Result be, I must answer simple words, sound like an imbecile two.

Some apostles never speak. They only stare my face and pick their cuffs in boring fidget. Strangest be the child in rifle clothing, name Simón Zelote. His eyes fix to nothing, lost to any world around. Once, I glance on him and see, he sob his breath. Wipe tears. Others ignoring this, like it be normal expectations. And soon his grief seem natural to myself. Feel like it be his task to weep the truth of this discussion, while we others speak our courtesy lies.

Be friendly Pedro who ask on war. Feel foolish when I say this “evil, but is sometimes needful” speech. But can see how Pedro look relief. Then Felipe push for honest answers, and be entertainment, the dozen ways I say this nothing. Soon be gobblegook: “War be awfulness, but when the circumstances needful, going to need this awfulness, but…” Felipe self look dull to this. He lose his fight in boredom.

His be the questions on preventing enfants. He give me any tricky cases: if a girl been rapen; if she rapen by her brother; if she rapen, and is dying sick. I cannot guess, how they prevent this enfant, when the rape be done. But I ain’t pause to wonder. I only say, is always evil, like my Soledad insist. Yo, I be strict on duckish marriage, feel a Driver lawfulness in disapproving all exceptions. Almost become a liking game, to slip Felipe’s traps. See how he smile and smile, and suffer his heart malicieuse.

Be other questions, if I using pharmacies, what sex I done. I guess these answers well, can know all Christings will be pudy miseries. Is nay and nay, I never nothing, spent my life with hands in pockets. Ya, times, I ask them definitions, and they begin to rival, explaining what some pharmacy be. Then is plain to see that they all try these evil pharmacies themself.

First trouble become, when someone ask, “What’s your stand on homosexuality? Do you agree it should be punished?”

I know this homosexuality’s meaning — every ten learn sleeper words for sex. Ya, I gone braver now, and my heart catch on Crow. Can see him in the powerline road, his sweating desperation. So I say foolish, “Nay, ain’t need to punish this.”

Here even Pedro startle. All look disliking at me, and Felipe smiling greedy. He say, “You don’t believe it should be discouraged?”

I shrug. “Discourage how you like.”

“But not punished?” He touch his fingertips together, looking soft at me.

Some stubbornness catch my heart. “No sho, it be their personal trouble. How you going to punish this?”

Young Juan saying anxy, “In our church, we punish this with prison. It’s not perfect, but—”

“It’s God’s law,” say Pedro. He fix me with a knifen stare.

Here Felipe speak in Panish, and they wrangle nonsense words. Then I remind correct, this ain’t no argument, it be my life.

When the Panish finish, Pedro rub his eyes in tired discourage. He say, “So how would you discourage this?”

“Must discuss this with the church,” I say unvoice. “Is reasoning here.”

Felipe frustrate well. “We want your opinion. We already know what we think.”

“Never had no homosexuality in my people,” I lie cold. “Is city manners, I expect. The church discuss this best.”

Then me-Felipe badger words until the others start objecting. I come from this struggle with sweaten palms. All the lights become a streaken glare.

Quick upon this, come a weirdo question from a posy child — Bartolomeo de Morrisania in my paper. Got reddish sores all on his lips, look painful as he talk. This bother in my mind as he speak his confusing words. Be Panish in their wrong pronouncing.

I say, “I don’t understand. Could you repeat that, please?” Is what Felipe mostly saying, now I got this nice.

He say slow, “It is, you are going to use the clause, senyora?”

“Clause? What be this clause?”

Pedro say, with meaning look, “If you use the clause, the apostles we have now stay in their places.”

Then every child be waring on me but the rifle apostle, Simón Zelote. He gaze his teary eyes the same.

I say, “What being with my own apostles?”

“They would be in an advisory role,” say Pedro. He glare painful at me, like he force his thought into my head.

“Advisory meaning…”

Pedro say slow, “They would still have an apostle’s privileges. It’s a very rich life, to be frank. But they wouldn’t have our responsibilities. The clause allows you to keep the experience of the apostles we have now. It means we can continue our work.”

Here, first time, the prettieuse jeans child Santiago speak up lazy. “Because we’re so fucking wonderful.”

Most apostles look impatient to this, though young Juan laugh.

Then my mind come clear. Apostles ask to keep their power. Ain’t no science to guess what they prefer.

I say firm, “Be sure, I use the clause. You staying by.”

Around the table, faces ease. Feel brave relief myself. Now first I comprehend, why someone want me for Maria. Ain’t going to boss them nothing. Got no brains to this, they ruling free.

But here, as if he spite my joy, Felipe say, “I’ve got just one more question. About your Jesus.”

My courage stop in middy course. “Ho, you meaning Pasha.”

He smile patient. “Pasha, if you want. I heard a rumor—”

Here everything break down in Panish. Children shouting rage, all hands go flying in their gestures. Young Juan risen to his feet, like he prepare to clobber Felipe. They yell and point their fingers while I sweat.

Then, sudden as it start, it finish. Juan sit back down and tug his blackdress straight with bellious yank.

“To go on,” Felipe say, like nothing been, “I’m concerned as to whether you’re going to complete the sacrament.”

“Sacrament?” I grit my jaw, already feel some unlike guess.

“The sacrament of the redemption,” Pedro say, with meaning eyes, “You understand, Christ dies for our sins. It’s a cornerstone of our belief.”

Felipe say on, pleasant, “The sacrament requires the candidate — you — to give Jesus the spear, as described in scripture.”

“Give Jesus the spear?” I say.

Here bell Santiago strike a thumb into his chest, make dying face. Felipe closer to me, never see this demonstration. He say, “It would be your part to complete the sacrament. By giving the—”

“Stabbing Jesus in the heart,” say Santiago.

Felipe frown to this, but then he nod. “I think that’s clear.”

I want to go in explanations, how Pasha save my life. Ever they think of sleepers, slavers, ain’t be Pasha anyhow. Nor we got ambitions to their city. All we want be life.

But I only say, in choken voice, “Nay. I ain’t do this.”

“Okay.” Felipe smile, sit back with one hand flat against his chest.

“You understand—” say Pedro.

“I understand,” I say. “Ain’t do this. You keeping Pasha with me, or you… you ain’t.” My hand go nervy to my waist, Kalash’s empty place. I sit back perilous to my chair.

Now they all be grim bekept. Only prettieuse Santiago smile some wisty wise. When he see me watching, he nod slightish. I frown, want no approval from these roaches anymore.

“I think we’re finished,” Pedro say. “Do you have any questions?”

Question be, how they will kill me. But I say in furiose coldness, “Nay. We finish right.”

They stand to their feet. Muttern some courtesies, then they go hasty to the window doors. Can see they all be wanting to discuss my awfulness apart. Only Pedro keep his chair a minute, stare at me with sickness. The tearful rifle-clothe apostle, Simón Zelote, stop by him. Ask something Panish. Pedro look up and nod sad. Simón Zelote call out toward the wooden door, where my tens left before.

Door come open, but it ain’t the tens who coming out. Be four other browndress people, males with shaven heads. Is eighteens, best I see, and bigly. It flash into my nerves, they kill me now. These callen to my murder.

My heart go wrong with fear. Ain’t want this death. Start thinking how I crawl beneath the table, find some chance to flee. I think of hides and dodges, skinny chances. Bullets that can miss.

But through my fright, it notice, browndress males is smiling courtesy. I put my palms upon the table edge, feel sweaten there. Last apostles leaving now, go through the window doors and pet them shut.

Browndress males nod to me pigeonish. One with fatly cheeks step forward. He touch his palms together in that silent clap they do, and all his fingernails be carven to the same clean shape. His face be shiny like a china cup.

“Senyora, many welcomes. I’m Ermano Anselm. I’m here to be your guide, which is my very great pleasure, of course.”

I loose the table, feel a limpish coldness in my hands. “Ain’t fail my proof?”

“Oh, no.” His eyes get mischief look. “The proof will be tomorrow. Your fun is only starting.”

All I comprehend from this, I ain’t be kilt until tomorrow. I match his smile with rinsen feeling. “Bone, tomorrow. Yo, what your name be? Sorry, I ain’t heed.”

“Anselm.” Then he sweep his hand toward the other browndress jones. “And these handsome gentlemen are Ermano Pablo, Ermano Benedicto and Ermano Miguel.”

I nod foolish at these brown ermanos. Feel some kinly warming to them, children who ain’t kill myself.

“These brothers don’t speak English. Not a word.” Anselm make sorry mouth, but his eyes gleaming impish. “So in a sense, it’s just you and me. We’re — I’m — here to take you to your medical exam. With a tiny detour along the way.”

Medical can comprehend, yo detour be no name to me. But I only say, “I got to come with you, is right?”

“Is right,” he parrot helpful. “Please.”

THEY LEAD ME to the wooden door. Come in a hall with carven falalas and dandelion lights. Stop before some silver doors without no handles to. A Panish ermano poke a button in the wall. One door split open, and its parts go vanish in the walls.

I try not to show impression. Look careless, like these vanishing doors is common to myself. Yo, the room behind be tiny. I go in duteous, but it scarcely fitting all us five. They turn around and face back to the door like they will leave again. Ain’t sense for nothing, but I turn along. Wait for instructions.

Vanish door shut up again. Ermano poke another button. Then the floor shift sneaky underneath. I catch the wall. Pass some dizzying fear before I know, this room float upward.

Anselm see my face, but only shrug. “This is a divine miracle called an elevator. We’re all very jaded with such marvels here.” He speak in Panish, and the other ermanos laugh and nod. Then Anselm say to me, “Yes, we’re agreed. We’re jaded.”

The elevator make a pinking noise and halt. I spook again, touch to the wall. Silver door split open.

Known we moving, but still it come uncanny that this hall be different. Be no falalas, is plain. Yo, the wall before is writ, MUSEO DE LA RESIDENCIA.

I go hasty out, ain’t like this elevator nothing. Panish ermanos drift behind. We all come in a jumbo room with glassen walls. Behind this glass be cases, is like windows of some evac stores. Anselm lead me on, past various weirdo objects in these cases — science instruments and jewleries and strange guitars — to a line of dresses worn on plastic mankins.

Be some twenty-thirty dresses, going in a spacen line. All be white and skirten huge, all complicate with lace. They frothy long, look most like standing waterfalls. The mankins’ plastic heads each wear a nebuleuse white curtain to. Yo, all these dresses got some spattering stains, in frighten red.

I pause, look down this whitish-reddish row. Anselm come beside, look courteose in expectation. He touch his fingers to the glass. “This little one is Maria Vigesima’s. She was found by our soldiers, living with a Jesus alone in the middle of the forest. Very romantic, don’t you think? She was only ten years old when she stood her proof. So she was in her plenitude for nine years, our longest-serving Maria.”

This garble in my sense. I look to Anselm with some worry need. “Is blood?”

“Holy blood, senyora. Sangre de Cristo.” He look curiose to me. “They’ll be fitting out one of these for you, about now. A clean one, of course.”

I take my breath, think of the spear. “For this proof, can guess?”

“Strictly speaking, it’s for the sacraments. The proof comes after.”

“What be this mally proof, then?”

“Well.” His eyes go kind in thought. “You’ll be in a very beautiful church. You have the sacraments, and then the very charming apostles you’ve just met will come out, wearing very beautiful robes. Each apostle will give you a cup of wine to drink. Theoretically, it’s Christ’s blood, but it’s going to taste a lot like wine.”

“Theoretically? How this mean?”

“It’s wine.”

“Then what be?”

“No, that’s all. Did I mention the cups are very beautiful? They are.”

“Drink twelve cups of wine. Be proof how drunken I can be?”

“Well, there isn’t much wine in each cup.” Anselm pooch his lips. “But it’s enough to kill you, if someone thinks you’re a false Maria.”

I narrow on this notion, look back to the dress. Blood gone brownish in the nooks of lace. “Need only one from all these twelve?”

“Yes, it can be just one, I’m afraid.”

“Be a vote, can see.”

“Oh, no. If you’re a false Maria, it’s God who strikes you through His blood. The apostles are only His instruments. Or that’s what people here believe.”

“Fools never heard of poison?”

“That’s a terrible thing to say. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

When I look, he smiling at me with some mischief kindness. I feel jittery bad. Be sour to lose my life this way, ain’t nothing of myself. Is like a frog caught in a fishing net, drown without sense.

I say, “If I ain’t drink?”

“Their dresses aren’t here. But yes, it has occasionally happened. So, if you don’t drink, you’re treated as a false Maria just the same. The crucial difference is that you’re still alive when your body is burned.”

“Shee, you burning peoples?”

“Before my time.” Anselm make finicky mouth. “Let’s keep it that way, please.”

I start walking slow, look superstitious at these guilty dresses. Some got only speckling at the bottom, or a wipen mark. Yo, some is splashen full. As I go, they getting older. Reddish color fading various, and the lace gone smutten yellow. I think how all these girls pass proof. Twelve cups been yes for them, feel like some risky luck.

Then I come to one unblooden clean. I hold, inspect it careful.

Anselm come behind, he tap one fingernail to the glass. “Maria Condenada. Our Lady of the Living Jesus.”

“Ho,” I say, remembering. “Girl who keep her Jesus by?”

“Yes, like you.” Anselm smile pologetic. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing, because I was listening at the door.”

“Sure, I do the same, if there be doors to listen. But how she been, this girl?”

“Well, not great.” He sketch an X upon the glass. “She killed a lot of people. Or her Jesus did, it isn’t clear. To give an example, all of her apostles were murdered, which left a bad taste. In the end, she was killed by her own guard. Officially, this all happened because she was a false Maria, wed to Antichrist. In fact, some people object to the inclusion of her gown here, but it’s all history. And he who does not remember history, after all, is doomed to repeat it.” Then he pooch his lips. “Less officially, she was having sex with Jesus.”

Take me a moment, while I sift they mystery definitions. Then I say shy, “This ain’t allow?”

“Senyora, Maria is a virgin. Virgin Mother, Virgin Bride, Virgin Widow. Virgin virgin.”

“Got this,” I say nervy. “Child unfuck.”

He laugh up bright. “You got this. Good, I hope so. Anyway, my educated guess is that there was another side to this story. There are feelings about white people here. You could call it superstition, or you might just say it’s prejudice. Anyhow, it’s been a long and thorny history.”

“But they Jesus, you believing that.”

“Oh, our citizens will worship Jesus dead on the cross, no question. But if some living, breathing white man tries to tell them what to do — well, it was a very unpleasant war. They do say civil wars are the worst.”

I look again upon the unblood dress. See where a fly got in this case, is looping scarum round. It stop in focus on the mankin shoulder.

I put my fingers to the glass, notice a sketch of blood on my own knuckle, hurt in gathering wood. Been two nights before, in making camp beside the highway. I grit to this remembering, come like rain morose in me.

Fly skit up, replace itself onto a reddish dress along.

“Anselm,” I say soft, “it be no way, they leave me free? Ain’t care to be Maria none. I mostly wish to go from here.”

“Don’t say that to people, senyora. And no, you can’t just leave.” He tap the glass beside my hand. When I look to him, his face gone tense. “Now, please pay attention. There are a lot of arguments going on right now about you. And when I leave you, I’m going to go and argue myself — that they ain’t kill you, just so you understand. But you’d make my life much easier if you’d just say, ‘Yes, I’ll complete the sacrament.’ Jesus will die for our sins again, and everyone will be happy.

“Honestly, if you want a white boy living in your rooms, I don’t think it would be the end of the world. Some people would be upset, but it’s wonderful gossip. It would spread joy among the common folk. However, I won’t be pouring your wine.

“It’s not too late, if that’s what you think. Tell me now: ‘Yes, Anselm, I’ll complete the sacrament. Now I understand.’ I’ll go and pass it on, and all your worries will be over.”

I look past him to a blooden dress. Its skirts be furrish, where the blood gone moldy. “But be some chance without this?”

“What if I say there isn’t? There is no chance, senyora, do this or else you are going to die.”

I swallow rough. “My people — children who been with me. They be hurt?”

Can see his eyes gleam like temptation. But this pass in wisty look. “Not really, senyora. But you’ll die, you will certainly die. Isn’t that enough?”

“Die or murder, what you saying.”

“If you fail your proof, Jesus dies anyway. Do you understand that?”

I nod, lost in darkness feeling. When Soledad been warning this, ain’t felt like truth. Now it come real. A poison cup I drink. Or I be took to burn in agonies. Be tomorrow, at a definite hour. This day be my whole life.

And now, my coward self begin its weaseling. Pasha self will comprehend, they kill him neverless. Yo, if I be dead, ain’t trust that no one fetch the posy cure. Then Driver die. And fear repeat: roo die the same, is only sense.

But then my heart skeer wrong. I see how Pasha watch my treachery, as I raise this spear. How I will stab, his suffering cry. How I turn, wet in his blood, from his unliving body. Yo, his blood hang here in ever witness.

And I know, this ain’t myself. I be only Ice Cream Star, a bird of hotness, fool for tears. This act ain’t mine, can never be in life. Ain’t strong for treachery.

Soon as I decide this, all my conscience come back clear. It realize, I never get the cure without the roo. Driver ain’t in this. It only be myself I waste.

I say soft, “Death ain’t no argument to me. Can die for this, be right.”

Anselm take his breath. When I look, he got some complicating sadness in his eyes. “I thought you were just ignorant. But now you’re making me wonder if you’re actually in love.”

“For Pasha? Nay, ain’t this.” I turn from the line of dresses, look where the Panish ermanos standing. They whisper with bald heads together, scalps drawn various with flowers. I smile strange, feel how I never learn these drawings’ meaning. Ain’t no time. And the glassen hall be painful in its actual self. Is here. Is all things join to my last life.

Anselm say, wisty slow, “You’re sure you understand?”

I shrug. “Kill Pasha, or I die. I understand enough.”

“You’re a very dangerous person, senyora. You’re making me have feelings. Oh, well. Let’s not despair just yet. With the right support, there’s always hope. Where there’s money, you know, there’s hope.” He perk then, his attention shift. “Perhaps we’d better go. The doctors will be wondering where we are.”

He wave the Panish ermanos to, turn to the elevator wall. I give one parting look at all the dresses, their red cowardesse. Go with shaky brightness in my legs.

38. OF MEDICALS

WE TAKE ANOTHER ELEVATOR TRIP, COME TO A DIFFERENT hall. Is grayish paint and grayish tiles. Got pue of bleaching wash. Come along this hall, and my mood changen to a joy bizarre. Begun to love this single day jalouse, my living body. Feel even happy, these ermanos got no danger self. Their life seem endless sweet. Already it be strange to me I ever been the same, can live uncounten days.

And Anselm pause before a door, gray painten like the rest. Open this door to brighter light. I go in with dreaming fear. Yo, I feel this fear like bliss — be mine, is life bonesse.

Here be two girlish children never met. From their shaven heads, all drawn upon, guess they ermanas. But they clothen different. Is almost like a rifle garment, but in bluish cloth. Anselm come behind, and speak some Panish to these medical strangers.

They talking, while I breathe the bleachen air, look at the room. Is bureau cabinets built along the walls, with petty signs in Panish. All be nett with curiose objects, jars and standing artifacts. Middy to the room, a table be, is covern with thin paper. Ain’t no chairs to this, and now I start to wonder what we do. I scout the room for some escape, but be no windows here. Be nothing.

Anselm explaining to the blue ermanas, sketch in the air with hands. They nod in sympathy, then they all look toward myself. Anselm say to me, “Okay. I’ll be outside. This shouldn’t take too long, and then you’re finished for today. The doctors just need to know if you’ve eaten anything this morning.”

“Eat?” I think to this, ain’t hardly recollect this day at first. Must go through every part before I say, “Ain’t eaten nothing.”

“Good, that’s helpful. Though I can’t see what they’d do about it, if you had. Oh, well, not our problem.” He turn back to the blue ermanas, speak some petty words. They both nod approval.

Then Anselm go, wave one hand fluttery over shoulder.

How they do this medical, be scary fascinations. First I must change to an uncraft dress, ain’t got no zip nor buttons. Ermana use some tuben object that attaching to her ears, press its cold end to my chest. Must breathe, and breathe again. Then some fatty bracelet going on my arm and puff up tight. Injection needle using backward — make its tiny hurt into my arm, then it pull blood into some cup. Cup taken out, and it replacing with another cup, which fill with blood the same. Be some queery feeling, watch my blood go splashen out. Feel I should fear, but I only admire its perfect red. Wonder if all children be so red, or if this meaning something. Then I must go to toilet room, piss in a plastic jar. Be finicky worst, how this jar feeling warm when I be done.

Then the small ermana take these blood and piss jars, covern tight. Go out in tasky mood. Now I must lie down. The tall ermana probing me with fingers. I try to bear this courteose, though it be weirdo miliations. She touch me like she testing fruit. In this, her face join seriose.

Last work, she put her palm flat on my stomach, pressing fast. Reach between my thighs. Push tensen fingers in myself inside. This be some ugly misery. Is like a petty rape. Almost, I start to fight this treatment, when my mind stop cold. Remember Anselm’s words: Maria is a virgin. Virgin Mother, Virgin Bride, Virgin Widow. Virgin virgin.

Now panic join in me. Feel these probing fingers and I wonder if this notice. Try figuring if it help to lie — say it been accidents, ain’t sex. Want to beg her, they ain’t kill me now, will leave me to my proof. Keep my last day, is all I want.

And the fingers ease from me. As she stand back, I see her face gone grim. She turn away. I try to see her face again, but she go hasty by. Pass out the door.

I sit up, breathing strange. Try to tell myself, ain’t been no hope. But all my loving mood be gone. Behind the door, come risen voices. Some argument be forward, and can feel, they arguing my life. I want to listen to the door, but sure will all be Panish. My life decide in mystery words. I cross arms to myself, is panic scorching in my mind. Try to think escapes, but these all baffle in the rifle children round this edifice. The elevator. Start thinking nonsense, how I crawl into a cabinet. Kill them with injection needle, stab their throat. Somehow I can.

Then the door come open hard. Fear catch in me when I see, it be the Panish ermanos. I stand to my feet, be saying, “What? What you want?” But they ain’t heed, they rush and catch me simple by my arms. Then my sense be gone, I fight in terrify scramble, kicking feet.

Ain’t knowledge in this minute. I kick the papern table hard and then my leg be caught. Is twisten. I kick my other leg, and this blow finish sound, but then my foot be caught. I get a freaken sorrow when I see is Anselm. He hold my foot with grit frustration, muttering words. I yell blind, “Yo leave me! Leave me free! Goddamn, ain’t done you nothing!”

Through this, Anselm speak in scolden voice. “It’s going to be all right. We’re going to be — all — right.” And I be on this papern table, held again. Some madness fear in me, that they go rape me. I tear my arms, hard as I can, and loose one hand a second. Bring this scratching by, and catch a blue ermana’s face. She wheel back screechen. But my hand be caught again before I even make a fist.

I start to say, “My proof tomorrow. Got to leave me for this,” and Anselm talking through, “Just calm yourself, we’re going to be all right. Please trust me.”

Then the tallish blue ermana be above. She got injection needle, smaller than the one before. I stare to this like it will give me knowledge. Then my arm be held in steely pain while she come bending close. Slip this needle in my fearing skin. Press the injection and I know, even before the blackness start its closing, I be done.

I try to say, “You leave my Sengles, they ain’t hurt for this,” but these words drown into darkness. And I still hear their voices talking in relief, relief malicieuse, as all my struggling empty into death.

39. THE NIGHT BEYOND OUR LIFE

WAKE FROM YOUR DEATH, CAN THINK YOU WILL SURPRISE. CAN be, you guess this be some ghosten afterworld. Rise with unconfidence, take time convincing life be real. Then can expect, you tearful gratty. Holler for your joy.

But I only waken slow, in usual laziness. First worden thought be, Ho, I living. I still be half in dream about some cows I got to steal. Only way to steal these cows be to convince with lies, but they frustrating cows ain’t comprehend my English speech.

Through these dreams, I feel myself lain on a springy bed. Ain’t wearing normal clothes, my arms be bare. Cows drift back into forgetting, and I start remembering the city, all its glassen lights. Even in sleep, I ain’t forgot this be my final day, and now I feel some gratty luxury, that life remain. My body real, is warm and tired.

Then it notice that some bigger person hold me from behind. Arm be loose around me, and their body resting to my back. Yo, is covering blankets — holding person lain upon these blankets. Cautieuse, I open eyes.

It be a princen sleeproom. Got furniture with every gaud and falala richesse. Fantasky rug and furnitures; painten pictures on the wall; brocks of swanly flowers. I be lain in a jumbo bed, with blankets broidern silver. Ain’t no one I can see. Even the stranger arm be hid in blankets. I keep careful still. I only lie considering a picture on the wall, show Jesus bloody on his sticks. Feel some defiance to this Jesus, left to die by coward Maria. But the golden frame be wolfen, carven thick with leaves.

Yo, as I attend this, it notice that my belly pinch. Be uncanny wrong, an almost pain, an almost hunger. Only then, I worry clear who holding me. I shift in natural fear, and I be loosen. Grandy arm flee by, is rummage commotion in the springy bed. I rise up panicking, catch for balance with a clumsy hand.

Behind be Pasha, staring his frosten eyes. We tense at each other, wild in startle.

Then he ease. Lips soften to a smile. “Ice. You bone?”

“We ain’t escape?”

“Nay. We here.”

I spy a window behind him, and my heart go small when I see it be dark. “Damn, is night?”

“Ya, is night. You sleeping long.”

“Goddamn, ain’t got to sleep.”

I feel that griping pinch again. Touch my hand down to my belly, seeking for its hurt. Flesh be healthy normal, got no injury can tell. Yo, between my legs, be something thicken. Is like a serviette for bleeding times. I touch this superstitious. Wonder if this bleeding can begin while they been probing me.

Pasha waring on me, got his rooish worry face. He say, “You bone? You want some water?”

“Water, sure. You right.”

He get up, go to a bureau and fetch a china brock. Pour water in a shope of carven glass. While he doing this, I pull the blankets by, look down myself. Almost expect to find some strangeness, but is me the same. Be wearing whitish silk, a nighting dress long to my knees.

Then Pasha bring the shope and I drink thirsty. In this, I tense my belly, try to find its injure place. Ain’t like no hurt I felt before. Is like they add some part to me, and this new part ain’t fitting right. I finish the shope and set it on the bed.

Pasha stood by with crossen arms. Got his same rooish clothes, though he took off his pocket jacket. Whitish tee look almost clean, but pants got mud to shin height. His blue eyes feroce with thought.

I say, “Where we be? Is still their — what it be?”

“Ministerio, ya. Room above.”

“How I come here?”

“Children here, ermanos, bring you.”

Take a second before this word ermanos recognize. Then Anselm come disgusting in my memory. “Ermanos, right. You talk to them? Swear, they doing something to me. I feel queery.”

Pasha look guilty at the floor. “We got wine. You want some wine?”

“Damn, answer questions. Sure I want some wine, but answer questions.”

“I talk to them, yes.” He turn by nerviose, go to a skinny-leggen table. Fetch a bottle, already been half drunk.

“They told you any knowledge?”

Pasha lift the wine, drink greedy. Then he come with sad respect and reach the bottle to me. I keep eyes on him while I drink. Wine be smooth and sour. I ease the bottle down and hold its cool against my pinching belly.

Pasha sit down on the bed, face worrying some problem. I start to think some better question, when he look up miserable and say, “Ice. You was pregnant.”

I ware on him precarious. “Pregnant? Like with enfant?”

“Ya, they say. Say to tell you.”

I press the bottle harder to my belly. “I be pregnant.”

“Nay.” He grimace to the floor. “Ain’t pregnant now. They end this.”

“End this? Nay, how they can — how they even known?”

“Can know.”

“Nay, how they know? Was nothing… I ain’t known.”

He shrug miserable. “Is ways.”

I lift the bottle to drink, and feel that pinching like a loneliness. Drink hasty, press the bottle to my belly again. Behind, some thought about preventing enfants come to me. Evil science. “Yo, what they do? They kill… what they do?”

“Ain’t like an enfant,” Pasha say low. “Only be beginning.”

“Be dead inside me?”

“Nay, is gone.”

“They take it? Mean, it living somehow?”

Pasha flinch. “Nay, Ice. Ain’t—”

“Sure. See this.” Hurt thicken in my chest. I go drink from the bottle, its last wine come seldom in my mouth. Bite on this taste and wonder how my baby with El Mayor will be. It been an enfant of my arms, can see it grow to three or four. El Mayor gone stupid prideful, if he known. If it live.

“They say to tell you,” Pasha’s voice come low. “I ain’t want. But they say, important that you know.”

I look to him lonesome. “Sure it be important. Nor you keep this. Cannot keep things from me, Pasha.”

“Ya. Be sorry, Ice.”

His face grit in shame. And now I feel the heavy night, the indoor silence like a darkness. It whispern, You die also, soon. Dead mother of a murdern enfant.

Then my heart crave to my Sengles, how I never see them more. To Driver, his frustrating eyes whenever I talk risky. But never I see these eyes again, I never see him more. Nor I seeing El Mayor — is like all children die to me. Death be a final loneliness.

Or can be only Pasha die.

I look to Pasha, and notice some chapping redness on his lip. Then my grief rise huge.

“Damn,” I say low desperate. “I go think of this some other day. If it be other days. They put this filthy pain on me, I got no time.”

He grimace to the floor. “I know.”

“Right. They told about this proof?”

“Told me much, enough.”

“Much enough. I heard this also.” I look scary round. “Goddamn, they got a guard? Be any way we leave this place?”

He make his sorry grimace, shake his head. Pick at the blanket for a moment, then he look to me. “Ice? Ermanos told how you must kill me.”

I say quick, “Ain’t killing you.”

He frown unliking, start to speak, but I say, “Nay. Ain’t start this.”

He start to speak, and I say, “Cannot hear this shee again. Cannot.”

He start, and I say, “Pasha, damn!”

Then he shake his head and smile. Point toward the bottle.

I look to the bottle, puzzling. “Ho, you want some wine?”

Pasha nod. Make drinking motion.

I laugh, nosy sounding from my grief. “Nay, it finish. Sorry, I ain’t thinking.”

“I can talk?”

“Talk, so you ain’t say — what you know.”

“I show you trick. You bone to walk?”

“Guess I do.” I reach my feet toward the floor. Get some complaining nip inside, but I feel only riling to this. I stand and find my balance.

I follow Pasha to a door, is carven over with starry shapes. This open to another room enorme, with goldish fatty chairs and sofas. Floor be darkness wood, with grandy rug that pattern in wheeling flowers. Painten picture on the wall show a sleeper girl who touch her belly like myself.

Pasha go to a table with a plastic artifact upon. He lift the upward instrument of this. Stretch out a curly line. Roo put this instrument to his cheek and poke a button on the body. Can hear some buzzing. This repeat some times. Then it hush, and from the instrument come a tiny voice.

I startle well. Pasha give his mistooth grin, begin to talk in Panish. Plastic instrument answer small, and Pasha speaking back. Then he leave it down. Instrument sit back in its perch.

“Be some invention,” I say superstitious. “Phoner, it be this?”

“Tel-e-fone,” he say in roo pronouncing.

“Ya, telephone. First Electric’s cat been namen so. Is brainy goods.”

“Trick ain’t finish,” Pasha say. “You see.”

I frown to the telephone. Be naive in looks, white plastic with silver apprehensions on its face. Ain’t stirring none. I go and sit myself upon a sofa. Keep attention to this telephone, what it may do.

Then come a staggern knock. I flinch hard.

Pasha go easy to a door. Open, and a brown ermano look in nerviose. Ware on Pasha and talk some whispern Panish. Pasha speaking back, and the ermano reach a bottle. Roo take this helpful, raise it up to me like victory. “Want any other? Food?”

“Sure,” I say in falter mood. “Can want some food.”

“What you want?”

“Meat? Whatever they going to give.”

Pasha speak some Panish. Ermano asking back with nervy frown. The roo say, “Carnay, carnay.” Ermano laugh, he look at me particular warm. Then Pasha say some quick politeness, shut the door again.

“Going to be some minutes,” Pasha say to me. “It got to make.”

“Cherry trick. Think they bring us rifles?”

He laugh soft. “You ask.” Then he go to a fatty chair, fetch a corkrew from its seat. Begin to worm this at the bottle. I watch his jumbo self, his birchen and morose respect. Remember how he holding me in sleep, and get uncanny sadness. Think how we being like preventen enfants somehow — we caught inside this night that never have a living day. Our only life be in this night. My only people be himself.

Then Pasha change his grip, and yank. Cork’s plop startle in my nerves. Roo come forward, holding out the bottle.

I take it careful in both hands and say, “Ain’t kill you, all it is. We die, can die together. Yo, can be, is hell. We journey there in company.”

Pasha make a face. “Ain’t heaven?”

“Heaven be for Christings. Any little knowing this.” I sketch division with my hand. “We Sengles go to hell.”

“I be Christing. Born to.”

“Foo, you be a murdering roo. You come to hell with me.” I heft the bottle, drink a swallow. Lick the aftertightness from my mouth and say, “Know what you going to say in hell? You say, ‘Is normal.’ What you say.”

He go sit himself upon the sofa’s other part. Reach down, pick nerviose at crusten mud on his pant sleeve.

I say, “‘Tock vote. We burn forever, normal.’ What you say.”

“Can be,” he say unheeding. “Ice. You talking to them much? Ermanos?”

“Much enough. More than I wanting.”

“They tell their politics? Of war?”

“War be evil, but is sometimes needful, all I learn. Can guess all killing needful to these insects.”

“Ice Cream, you be hurting?”

“Nay.” I make a face. “What news you heard? Is something help us live?”

“What it is.” He look up tense. “Got plan, if you become Maria.”

“Ain’t much if. I need no goddamn ifs. I need some plan to live.”

Pasha look frustration. He reach and take the bottle from me. Raise and drink his hungry way, then rest the bottle down on his long thigh. Something in this actual leg remind: is Pasha dying also.

I take a ragged breath. “Be sorry. What you saying? Wars or like?”

“I think a better plan,” say Pasha. “How you get this cure.”

HIS FARTHER EXPLANATIONS ALL be Mariano histories. He learn this information while I still been gone to sense. This been eight hours of nothing, and he trying what he can — do flatteries to ermanos and ask every nosing question, till they rid him for mistrust. He add some telligence he known from roos, and find a plan. But sure, I cannot see at first, how any cure be in these facts.

It starting with their Jesus whites. When the city been young, the Nighted States still had some whitish children. Ain’t even roos, was sleepers who surviving WAKS somehow. These hide in lonely forests, fear all children for disease. If they see a blackish face, they flee, or fight like seven nightmares.

Then every girl who want to be Maria must depart in hunt. Choose her apostle twelve, and they roam perilous to find a Christ and capture him alive. Return like heroes, ya, she rule the city for her vally deed.

But as time depart, the richer Marianos start to cheat. Ever a whitish male be found — whatever person snaring him — they buying him for wealth. Rich people keep these whites in capture till the old Maria sicken. Then they choose what girl they like, and kit her with a ready Christ.

So years continue, and these forest whites exterminate to zero. But, in lucky help, the roos begin to send soldats. These first soldats come to the Nighted States for spying work. Look round, and they steal children, question them for informations. This been the truth about our Massa children stolen in years before.

But in Mariano lands, roos be like walking money. Any be seen, a thousand greedy children come in hunt. Roo capture to be Jesus, and he murder, all it is. No spy escape with life.

How this mattering to us, the roos ain’t know Marias much. To them, it mostly be a blankness where their children die. For this reason, now they leave Marias City harmless, while they raid Washington and Massa, either side.

OTHER FACTS MY PASHA learn be on the Mariano wars.

In years before, Marias City fight a hundred miles of distance. Gain towns into their ruling like they picking easy fruit. Northward, this be farms that feed the city meat and grain. South, is their obedient cities, Fort Dix, Penn and Ballmer. Their arrogance start to hope, they win the Nighted States entire. Make it catolico for God’s joy.

But their last wars been shameful lost. These been against the city Quantico, in farther south. The Quantico people call marines, and these marines is smart in violence. In two wars, they kilt the Marianos into shreds.

Most Marianos finish now with war. Was burnt and learnt. But be one wealthy burrow, Inúd, is always hot to fight. Inúds ain’t hear no coward reasons. All their love be fray.

Soledad ya be Inúd. Anselm-Pedro be — all children helping me is from this burrow. If I become Maria, I be theirs for politics. Then the Inúds expect a war on Quantico, to heal their pride.

PASHA TELL ALL THIS, and look at me with owl importance.

I scoff breath. “Foo, all I learn, you townie with ermanos. Heard their every life.”

“Be my work so.” Pasha shrug. “Friending. Find some use.”

“Nay, be saying, how no cure be in this?”

Then the door knock sharp. Pasha make a shushing gesture as he rise to open.

Brown ermano push a wheelie table in, spread thick with smelling meal. Child muttern Panish courtesy and leave with nervy haste.

Me-Pasha never fed from yesternight. Meal stop our talk. We eat standing, hush with greed. Get some fatty meat, is deery somewhat, but be soften dull. To this is tatoes and some bony greens and breaden cakes. I eat like brainless hound, most bite my fingers in my rush. In this, the pinching sorrow in my belly soften, feel like heat. Yo, I get some pleasure grief, how all this mystery be strange — the easy meal, the goldish chairs, the shining floor of oak. Picture girl who look out sorrowing bell, touch on her stolen enfant.

When my hunger fill, I go sit to a table by the window. Gaze into its glass, while Pasha eating undiscourage. First I watch my reflection. Ain’t mirror clear, all I can notice be the whitish garment, catch on my shoulders with thin ribbons.

Then I see, beyond into the night, is nothing there. Be grayish dark, but ain’t no trees nor buildings. Ain’t no ground. Is nothing, like we bury in grayish earth.

I put my face close to the window with some starting fear. Here I find some ground below, sky distance from myself. We caught up in the air like circling hawk. I grip the chair, unnerve. Stare down, and I begin to recognize trees. Be mousen size below. Among, be thousand itsy movements. First I think of insects, but soon it realize, be people. Their faraway deep come dizzy to my flesh, like falling in tender fright.

Then Pasha come, stand to the table. Look down to me sorrowing while I watch him in reflection. Through him show this bosky floor of life, careening far.

I say nerviose, “So how this bring us cure? Ain’t said.”

He nod scouty. Go off to a shelf and fetch a paper.

Paper be a map of Nighted States. It look like sleeper maps; show the country green with brownish scarring, town names writ in black. But, look more careful, New York City gone, instead is C. de las Marias. Below, is names from Pasha’s story: Fort Dix, Penn, Quantico. Farther south, be some peculiar names like Disney World and Drown. All the west and all the middy part be blank of towns.

Pasha let me scout the map a minute. When I look up questioning, he put his finger to Quantico. But he say, “Washington.”

“Washington?”

“Yes. Marianos call this Quantico. Be same as Washington city.”

“Shee.” I frown in closer, skeering somehow in my heart. “You saying, roos fight Quanticos next? This meaning, roos will lose?”

“Ain’t that.”

“Foo, admit these Quanticos can win.” I sit back disappointing. “You only being contradictory.”

“Nay, Quanticos ain’t win.” Pasha smile. “You can win.”

I distract to Pasha’s hand, tensen on the map. Notice how it cover in gentle hair, is yellow strewn. Got a deepish scar across the back, sort made from burning injury. “If we live, you saying, you want to make war on your roos?”

“Yes,” say Pasha in impressing voice. “Two cities fight. If Marianos fight by Quanticos, can win against the roos.”

“Ho, Marianos do this? Quantico be their enemy, ya.”

“You be Maria then.” He make impatient face. “Can figure this. Roos ain’t come till January. Be all time to do.”

I frown to the map. “I thought we never can beat your roos.”

“Can here. Roos bring only enough of soldats, guns, for Washington. You join, they ain’t expect. Is chance you win.”

“Chance? You saying, we can lose?”

“Yes.” Pasha wave his hand dismissing. “But if you losing, still can parley. Can get cure from this.”

“Parley? Roos will parley?”

“Yes. In war, is parleys. For… trade prisoners. Be different parleys.”

“Trade prisoners for cure. See this.” I narrow on his face, considering. “But if we lose, Marias City all be taken, ya?”

He make obvious face. “You fleeing then. Take cure and flee.”

I laugh surprise. “Foo, you got colder morals. Thought your roos was worser death.”

“Can win also.” Pasha shrug, get foolish smile himself.

“Marias children ain’t no wonderful themself. See this.”

Then we smiling to. I look at Pasha with good townie feeling. Seek his chappen lip, but it ain’t showing in this light. His beard begun to grow in these two nights, cheeks look doggish. Face soften in relief, his bigness arms is loose and spent.

Then my conscience whisper soft, Stab Jesus in the heart.

I shiver and sit back. Say low, “Can figure this tomorrow. If it be tomorrow. Got only hours, ain’t spend it all on futures we ain’t see.”

His eyes go uncertain. Look to the map, and touch a finger wisty onto Quantico.

I say, “Wish we can go outside. Hate this indoors, feel like I breathing my own breath.”

A moment he sit closen on his thought. Then he rouse himself, look up. “Be an outside room.”

“Foo, how no room can be outside? Is contradictions.”

“Nay, I show.”

Pasha stand up nervy. Go to some longish curtains, pull them open to glass doors. Through, can see a dimmish porch. Doily sort of metal chairs with flattish pillows to.

I feel some disappointments. Had a yearning for the woods. Wish it been some elevator, can step to forest from this room. But I make preciating face. “Is right.”

“Be cold for this,” say Pasha low. “I telephone you coat.”

“Ya,” I say, with forcen lightness. “Ask for Patagonia. They roaches robbing me.”

PASS SOME WAITING MINUTES before the ermanos bring my coat. We try to make some gladder conversation, memories that been. But every talk stray into death. Soon we guessing if it be no afterworld to see. Even hell come liking to our fear, but neither can believe.

I tell him how our Popsicle return from death one time. Say he seen a hell, where he met all the dead he ever known. Dead live in this hell like normal. They told him that the fire accustom, and when they hunt a turkey, it be ready cooked. Pasha laughing to this silly, when the knock come at the door.

Coat ain’t Patagonia. Be a bushy furren item, white and longness to the floor. But I settle to this, will not spend my final time frustrating. Clad it on, and we go out into the friendly cold.

Porch ain’t glorieuse for nothing, but got healthy air. I step to the raily edge, my bare feet chilling glad. Lean out, spying for the trees, and Pasha lean beside. Forest still be tiny strange, but look more real without the glass. Branches blowing, is restless with good life.

Then come a cry below, and all the bosky darkness stirring forward — like someone tip the ground toward us, and all loose objects sliding to the edge. Be the children of these woods, come running toward the Ministerio. They sift through trees and crowd against some obstacle line I cannot see. Hundred voices raise and join into a storming larm. Yo, all these children lift their arms, reach toward us from their plummet depths.

I flinch from the railing feary. Pasha muttern rooish, wave me back. We prowl to hidden space. Breathe scary while the skree discourage slow, like sinking from its weight. Soon it only be one voice. Can hear how this child weaken hoarse and palter into silence. Only then we ease and settle in the doily chairs.

Clouds part above, and show a blanket of good stars. We both fix on this, and I expect our usual silence, but somehow I start to talk. First be talking sad of Driver, how I learn his sickness on the day that we found Pasha self. How I swearing Pasha ain’t a roo, for his protection. We both remember, talking, how I took his gun away. Talk about Karim, and how he die for nothing wrong — and we agree all murder be for nothing. Ain’t no reason worth a death. But we contradict this for the death of Deema Roo, and then we argue if we be deserving our soon death. Argue if we dying real, or if we save somehow. And we agree this death be funny, if it ain’t been us. Jesus self will laugh.

And Pasha tell me of his wars, and how he done all worst things you can do, more times than he remember, when he been dumb with pharmacies and murderous with fears, and then he need to just forget. He tell me stories of this, but he ask me that I never tell, if we both live beyond. I promise honesty to this, and so I never done. Then he say about the times he try to kill himself, but always he was found and made to live. Ya, he argue, like I known he will, that I can kill him also. Ain’t need him for the cure now — and it be like killing Deema, justice for his evil life. And I say again that I ain’t kill him, and Pasha say he thought I maybe changing, if I known his crimes — but any blindness known was something like, and I say nothing to this. Then Pasha take my hand, and I cry somewhat, but he never seeing in the dark. And we sit in hunting silence, smoke with our free hands, and coldness settle feroce on our bare faces, as the dawn begin to sneak its faintness into this black city crawling with unknowing children, and our mouths begin to taste of terrify and animosen love. Until the sun be risen dull, and knocking come, our death come knock impatient in the room. Yo, we ignore this hatred detail — until they come for us without no pity, soldiers and ermanos, talking disapproval, talking meaningless and pulling me, and I loose Pasha’s hand, and he look shame as I be led away, and I call back that I will find him. Ever hell be big, will find him there. And if it ain’t no hell, it been a bony night, was bone as any, and if we live, yo, if we live.

40. OF PROOFING

THIS DEATH MORNING SPENT IN GROOMING. BE EXASPERATION, how I live these final hours with strangers tugging at my hair and pinning cloth against my frighten skin. Everything is fingers. Start to flinch whenever I feel a touch.

Two girls who pester most be callen Altagracia and Mercedes. They nasty prettieuse, chub females with all paints upon. Both is skunking with perfume, and all their helping children skunk. Is only Altagracia-Mercedes speaking English, and it be Panish in its sort, pronounce in noses and confusions. But they keep pronouncing on, with scarcely taken breath.

Mostly they talk grooming yappit, until I hating my own ears, be angry that no child be born with ears. And while their voices pippet round, is always fear within. Any comfort I can think, I terrify the same, and my mind slip to needless maginations. I think of snake Felipe, apostle of Metropolitano. How he will smile like honey as he hand his murder cup. How this poison act, if it be painful. If I refuse to drink, how I be draggen out to burn. How it can be, that Ice Cream ain’t existing anywhere. Will be no me to know that I ain’t there.

And I must stand and raise my arms. Murder dresses clad on me, and strip away, flung off like grandy swans. Mercedes work with pins around my waist. Then must lean back with hair in faucet water, feeling devil miseries.

In this, I think to draw their talk to something that distract. So I ask if Marianos ever can bear with whitish children. Be dreaming how I save my Pasha, and he live among. So I ask, if be some white with kindly manners, how this been.

Then Altagracia make some pittering talk, how whites be Satan’s get, was made in person shape for our confusion. In their old America, whites had a bad religion where they worship paper money. Was mally churches callen banks, deciding all their laws. These whites live like diseases, all was homosexual selfish. Good black children was kept as slaves, or capture into gloomy prisons. She keep on with this blablabla, while she pluck at my face, until it be a nagging madness.

At last I speak up breathless, say, “Your people ain’t no differences. You worse. Be farts that blame the cheese.”

She startle back. “Senyora?”

I hush myself. Can guess that I look peevish as a boring mule. Only I muttern, “Get your own white people, kill them gratty. Pasha mine. Is townie children.”

“I not kill anyone, senyora.”

“Nay, you ain’t kill no one. I feed you to him first. Be right.” Here I begin to cry, and Altagracia-Mercedes cluck around me like two picking hens. Pat my face with serviettes and stroke me till I swat them.

When they finish me, I wear a dress like all the others. Top be covern in some pearls, the bottom feathery big. Hair braid with diamond jewleries, and Altagracia fix a band of pearlen beads atop, with straggling gauzen cloth loose down my back. Clip diamonds painful to my ears, string diamonds cold around my throat.

Then Altagracia say she teach me through the sacraments. She take me to a grandy room, is empty of no furnitures. Here we go through any witless actions. I must say “See” for “Yes,” and kneel and handle golden rings. This be the wedding sacrament. Then she giving me a wooden object like a boaten oar. I hold this embarrass, till she say, “When the wedding over, apostle Pedro give the spear.” Then I throw it angry to the floor, gone hot through all my skin. Altagracia cry, with scary looks, “I must to teach both ways. Is not my choice, senyora.”

So I stand trembling while she take the oar up in her hands. Show me how this murder done, explaining spears their use, like any fifteen child ain’t know. And here my coward heart begin to muttern its temptations. Truth, I cannot cause no wars to Washington if I be dead. Pasha only be one life. I win this cure, and every children save. Ya, Pasha thirty years, is like he living twice already. And I see Driver’s face in mind, his eyes gone furiose with pain. For all the murders Pasha done, one life. Roo ask for this himself.

And Altagracia tell how I must find my place, and use my weight. How I must force this spear until he die. Yo, all my body feel this thrusting blow. My muscles gather bright. Is even pride, how I be strong. Can do this work correct.

“When he dead, you kneel,” say Altagracia. “On the blood, is good. Spear clean with dress. You try, senyora?”

To this, I cannot bear no more. Say hoarsen furiose, “I seen. Now show the other way.”

So we do this action, I repeat its queery words, and go until we come to drinking cups. Then I be weak from every fear, and ask if I can have some wine. Or booze be better. But this ain’t allow.

They pick at me some more, and tell me cigarettes ain’t allow, and seeing Pasha ain’t allow, and pick at me. Try to pull me to a mirror, but I lie nasty that, among my people, mirrors ain’t allow. They take this with surprisen admiration. Yo, now ermanos gather in. Some rifle children coming, wearing different clothes, is reddish color, but their guns the same. All glance nerviose to me, ain’t nod or greet or nothing. Altagracia pull me to a middy place among these children. Give me last instructions, pick my hair a final time.

Then we all walking down some broaden stairs, go lower lower, any wearing time, until I feel they take me clear to hell. Wish I dying so without no proof indignity. But we come into the room of dandelion lights, the statue of the girlish cannibal. Walk out to the bluish street. And gathern to the streeten edge is all the normal people of Marias City, the littles and the jones, with dirty coats and needing faces, roaring in their thousand voice. All madden as I come along, is pointing fingers, grinning strange, and we walk through their skree that swell against the buildings’ rocky flanks. On the street be scattern flowers, whitish petals shivering and drifting in the wind. My ankles feel like angry water, but I walk correct. Concentrate upon the cutting bother of the heely shoes, and go with feary upright step, longing that I been a rifle child, ain’t got this pinching dress and freezing arms and death and death.

Rifles halt before an edifice savage in bellesse. Is towers and likenesses and curls, and all been carven out of stone. Ain’t believe in gods before, but cannot see how any person children make this edifice. A different fear become in me, that this real god exist. But my heart insist its hatred to any god who kill my Pasha for some fool performance, and I get some better valor, walking small into this vasty place.

Inside, be worse bellesse. A music come from loften height, some moaning instrument. Be thousand people sitting in benches, wearing churching clothes. All about is carven — flowers and curls and stony children. Be tall painten windows showing long-nose sleepers acting scenes. Forward is a stage with golden canopy upon. On steps before this, apostle Pedro stand. Wear a silvern dress, wash shiny to the floor.

Beneath the canopy be Pasha. He bounden to a stony cross with both his arms. Ain’t hanging, but he stand upon a granite step, feet bound the same. Look like normal rope they use, done up in fisher knots. He wearing brownish pants, is simple made, but all his chest be bare.

See him there, my heart go black. It rage without no mind. I try to look away, but my eyes need to him. Will see and see.

And I walk forward. Yo, the rifle children fall behind, stay guarding by the doors. Be thinking how I run, if I can make them shoot me somehow. Be the death I will prefer, but still be chance no cup will poison. If I do this killing, be good chance. And I go forward, remembering these gaga sacraments. Feel the sweat bright on my face. Pasha watch me come with dazen eyes. Pedro step aside.

I go and stand to Pasha, heart gone scrambling. Be almost blind without no thought, I only see one detail. Neat on his chest, there be a blooden mark. Show where my spear should go, is cut into his whiten skin. One shivering breath, it freak in me, they stabben him already. Kill him with some knife, left me no choice. But then my mind clear cold, can see this cut be scarcely bleeding. And it notice, roo got any scars along his chest — long nicks and dimples, purple and white. I get another madness, how he live beyond these every wounds. Sure, he surviving any stab I do.

Then Pasha swallow at his throat. I look up to his frosten eyes. They terrify in strangeness, like he fear me now, too late.

Yo, we stare together, two small terrors in this giant room. Behind us, children watching from their benches, and the rifles watching, as the moaning song close to its finish. All come silent.

I crouch down to my knees. Gather the skirt around myself. Look up to Pasha again, and mouth his name, but he be looking by. His bluish fright gone to the watching room.

Then apostle Pedro come toward me, stepping careful. I watch to his face, and feel all hatred I can find. Hate his melancholy looks, I hate his gracile hands. Silvern cloth got broidery upon, in complicating flowers, and I hate these flowers, all my bitter living hate him.

He speak. Is Panish, chanten long, his voice be like complaining water. Yo, he coming to a pause. And I remember, and say, “See.”

Then he put his hand soft to my head, and speak again. I be almost longing to his gentle touch, his haten touch. He pause again, and I say, “See.” Rise to my feet, with trembling gone all through me. Hold out a trembling hand. Pedro catch it still. He fit a ring onto my finger.

Ring be carven gold, fit loose. I want to shake it free — but I close fingers on it. Nor I brave to look at Pasha. I stare frighten into nothing.

Speech begin again, and now a blackdress child come up, is carrying an actual spear.

Spear ain’t prettieuse like every object here, is plain for use. Shaft be oaken, blade is longer than no knife. Its edges perfect sharp. Any girlish arm can kill with this. My hands guess how this hold, what force it take.

Then Pedro take the spear, step graciose to me and hold it out. I take it with some sudden greed, and hold it well in both my hands. Pedro’s face change warm. His eyes skit up to Pasha, wanting. Suffer how he want. I stare on Pedro, and my breath come faster, hands grip well.

Be only a lurking moment that I look to Pedro’s throat. See how this throat can stab. My arms join, brighten in their hate.

Yo, when I look to Pedro’s eyes, he seen. He frozen blank, got superstitions in his pressen mouth. I be gratty for this alone. I hand the spear back smiling and say clear, “No puedo. No.”

Pedro take the spear with wisty blinking of his eyes. My arms go trembling down again, while behind, is muttering in the benches, children sighing somehow. I look back to Pasha. He still ware on me with frighten blankness. Rain-color eyes look almost white.

Pedro step away, and with no feeling sense, I go to knees again, work at my Pasha’s bounden feet. Behind, the children muttern, and I feel hotness in my face. Begin to hurry, fear that someone stop me. I stand to work his handen knots, and feel my Pasha’s frighten breath, hot at my nape. Rope chafe my fingers, and my belly pinching deep again as I free his last knots. Pasha never look to me. He only step down, stumble on bare feet. Stop with some different fright, and I turn perilous.

Apostles stand behind. All wearing garb like Pedro’s, washing silvern to the floor. Cups is gold, with reddish stones. A moment, I expect that Pasha fight through these, we run. But nothing be. We stand the same, and when I look at him, he stare to nothing. One hand press his chesten wound.

Then I tell myself, I drink some wine. All I must do. If it be death, this dying do itself. I only drink. And the apostles all step forward, as the music start again, its moaning wind and voice.

First apostle coming be Simón Zelote, tearful soldier. Hold his cup out, and his handsome jawbone face show nothing. I reach and take the cup. When he release, its weight surprise my hands. It take some strength to hold this, and I look defiance to the gold, the darken wash within. Ain’t look like wine, is almost black. But I raise it, tense with spite. Gold chill my lips, I tip it clumsy. Then it taste too sweet for wine. Be squinting at this wrongness. All my throat join to reject it, but I swallow harsh. Wait for the pain, the wasting feeling. What it be.

Simón Zelote reach his hand. I be blind in wondering as he grasp the cup. My hands come loose away, and nothing been. I stand the same. I look, alive, up to the next apostle. Got better courage, and be comfort that I ain’t recognize his face. Be some apostle who never asken questions, got no care. Wine be the same, a sweetish gulp and nothing. He take the cup, and I be feeling gratitudes when I see the next apostle be Juan, young child who favor me. I drink his wine with almost greed, gladden in its safety. Then come posy Bartolomeo, child who ask about the clause. Feel worse to this, been something maudy in him, but I take his wine, drink hard. I almost drop this cup. He must catch it hasty from my loosing hand.

Then my fears begin to waste, be tired of this fright. I only force my strength to meet these coming faces, take their cups and drink, and drink again. Be wishing only for the end. Be gratty now to die, ain’t bear to agony more in fear. And it go on, some unlikely stretching time, repeating and repeating. Music moan, disturbing in my ears. The crowd stare cold. I begin to notice the apostles’ expressions, who be nervy, who be calm. Girlish apostle frown at me so hard, she rumple her chin. Yo, prettieuse Santiago wink, like this be littlish game. Only after I drink his cup, I guess he want to reassure. Was hinting, this ain’t poison. I look after him in wish, long to his sympathy. Then I look back and see Felipe.

Child looking maladies of fright. Face be bright with sweat, jaw clench. Hands grip knuckly to the cup. Is like he try to crush it gone.

And I know, in evil calm, be now. I look back to the rifle children at the farther door. Wonder how they doing, if I yell that this be poison. Spill it like an accident. Behind, be thought of burning — and how, when I be draggen out, all children see my cowardesse.

Then I reach to the cup from simple habit. Felipe flinch, but ease himself and leave it to my hands. I take its sickening weight, and glance around the watching children, how they waring on this sight. Be like they know, they spitely curiose. Then all my fear be gone. Is only the metal weight in my two hands, the dream bellesse around. Felipe’s face be cringing dread, and I feel scorn against this weakness.

I raise the cup in simple strength. Find the cold edge with my lips.

Taste duller than the other wine, but I swallow without thought. And I look back to weak Felipe, thinking how he watch me die. My mind say, Now I die, see what it be. If it be anything. I look to the painten windows, the complicating reds and blues of drown sunlight, wait for this mystery. My heart beat skitty, like a hand-caught bird his frighten heart.

But nothing be. I breathe, and feel my scary hands tight on the cup. Nothing be. Felipe watching to me, never move to take the cup. Look only changing fear. Yo, my own fear start again. Keep waiting for the pain, until is hope and panic and every struggling need inside myself. Then sudden, Felipe reaching out, his face gone sick. I give the cup to him with almost guilt. He look inside, check that I drank.

Then his eyes widen to me. Grown shiny now with tears. He whisper something helpless, be a prayer or beggary.

And he turn and stagger by, a silvery change in my blur sight. I stand empty-hand and sick. Feel dizzy through my body, like it poison with its life.

Then Pedro coming last, is looking tired in relief. He hand his cup like normal guesting. This I drink thankful for its wine. Wish there been more. And Pedro take his cup and I be cold with sweat and living weak. Some madness smile come on my face. Pedro make a two-stick sign into the air before me. Speak some louder words, and all the people in the benches say up, sudden and bold, “Amen.”

And Pasha take my hand in his cold sweaten hand, and we walk back. Go between these benches, all the children standing to their feet. Guards gather to us at the door, but no one touching us. No tardy poison work in me. It be no harm.

So we walk out to the street, its sunlight and its ravish voice. Walk into the shouting city, city that I rule.

41. OF ANSELM WEASEL

SCARCE REMEMBER HOW WE STARTING BACK, GET ONLY SCRAPS of knowledge. My elbow caught by Pedro, he whispern gratulations in my ear. Then he gone. We in the road, among the redcoat guards, the thousand strangers screaming wild against the gray and sunlit buildings. Pasha by me looking ghosty weird. Somewhere we stopping, caught, where children run into the road before. Get some skirmish there, and all red soldiers gather to me-Pasha, ware their guns around.

One turn to me and call above the noise, “They clear soon. No have frighten.”

Comprehend this poory, but I say, “I be Maria now?”

Child look like he scary from no answer, but he nod.

My heart clear sweet. I say, “My brother, can I get that rifle?”

He startle in his eyes. Be a skinny male, look mostly fifteen like myself. And he look troubling round, like someone rescue him from this confusion. Then he try, “No need. We rifle for you.”

“Want your rifle,” I say. “Damn, I asking this.”

Ain’t expect result, but he go meek. Reach his gun. I take its weight, its loving coldness. Try to nod my friendship to him, but he turn away. Then I look to Pasha with some pride, but he watch forward at the altercation. So I hold the rifle different ways in privy joy. Ain’t right as my Kalash, but still is bold in heaviness. Its trigger loop fit to my finger sweet.

Then the skirmish clearing, we walk on. I hold the rifle to my waist, walk glad in weapon bravery. When we catch again into some fool commotion, I crouch down. Reach beneath my fluffet skirt, unhook my heely shoes. Twist these off, and sigh joyeuse. Crouching there, the yells be dull among all standing bodies. I catch a trodden flower in my hand, and remember how I going to live. Ain’t be my last flower, and I laugh toward the dirty street and feel my bony rifle and my flower and my life.

In this gratty moment, I dream how I can escape. But Sengles catch in mind — must wait until they bringing safe. And, strange behind this, come a ravish memory of our war. Truth, we want this city and its thousands. They fight for the cure. Then all my blood exhilarate, is like careening light within.

I look up dizzy and find Pasha narrowing on me. He shout through the noise, “They give you gun?”

“Nay, I ruling here,” I shout. “Take what I like.”

“Give me.”

I stand up glad on naked feet and hand the rifle easy. Then my loot be by. We moving forward, Pasha got my rifle at his other side. Keep it ready, like he done in all our Massa journey. Redcoat guards squint at the roo disliking, muttern Panish. But I ain’t minding this. Ain’t even scarcely miss my gun. I watch on Pasha, how his naked chest look chickenish in the cold, and feel some vasty love. Love the frosten air and love my bare feet on the gritten road, yo, this whole moron city shout my love in millions, ring the sky.

When we come to the Ministerio steps, guards start to filter back, and all relief be thankful. I hitch my dress and scramble up the steps like eight joyeuse. Pasha running after, gun caught easy like he do. Another range of guards be there, they open doors to us, and then we be inside, like falling in a bed of silence. No one even there. My feet come smooth onto the tilen floor.

Then I grab Pasha’s arm. He turn to me, his face uncanny soft. I say, “We living, roo. You even guess that this can happen?”

“Yes.”

I laugh up wild and grab him round his chest. Crush him hard, and he begin to laugh, a beagling sound. He arm me round and heft me in the air, until I kick his leg. Then he loose me, and I stand with hands up to his shoulders, saying, “Shoo, I save your life. We fair now, one for one.”

Pasha laugh and touch my cheek, his face go drunk with feeling. Eyes be lit and starry, grin confuse with my same love.

Then behind, a glassen door come open. I look round, still grinning, feeling happy to all children made. But then I see, is Anselm.

Only in this moment, I recall my robben enfant. Pasha stiffen hostile by. As Anselm come up smiling, I touch conscious to my belly. All my various temperaments gone dizzying, joy and rage and grief.

“Santa Maria,” Anselm say, and stoop himself somehow.

I grit my breath and say, “Should call me Ice Cream like a person.”

Anselm straighten up, touch fingers to his hearten chest. “A first point of etiquette. When people greet Maria, they expect to kiss her ring. That’s the routine.”

“Ain’t interesting what you expect. Yo, where my Sengles be?”

“Your people, yes.” Anselm make mischief smile. “Your apostles are in your rooms, although they’ve scattered into hiding. They don’t seem to like each other much.”

“Yo sho, they hide. You capture them with guns, what else they done? And where my other Sengles?”

“Everyone you want will come. Please trust that, santa reina. Now I was wondering — it’s very selfish of me, but I was hoping I could speak to you alone. Is that possible?”

“Ain’t going to kill us now?”

“Oh, no.” He shake his head like this be some ridiculous.

I look to Pasha, who be heeding narrow. “You bone here, Pasha? Going to parley.”

Pasha make sour face. “Want rifle?”

“No,” say Anselm quick. “That really won’t be necessary. Maria?”

“Yo, we can talk. Ain’t guess you going to like this talk.”

“That’s very kind. I think we can find a private space, if you’ll just follow me.”

HE LEAD ME TO THE ELEVATOR hall, is talking boringness about my rooms. How this be the top three floors of this whole Ministerio. I sharing these with my apostles, ya and Jesus bringing there. These floors be callen the iglesia, and he go in blablabla about their wonder furnitures. Soon my mind distract to thinking how I going to fear this Anselm. Be dreaming how I bring him to my rooms, and all apostles beat him, when he say, “Maria. Are you listening?”

“Nay, ain’t listening. What you need?”

He hold up a scrap of metal. Narrow on this well, I recognize its use. A key.

“You use this key to call your elevator,” Anselm say. “The other elevators won’t go to your floors. It’s to ensure your privacy.”

I reach for the key, but he draw back his hand. “No, santa reina. This is mine. I’ll have yours sent up later.”

He plug this key into a golden plate upon the wall. Elevator swallow its doors. I go in reluctant, still be chewing on my angers. This elevator bigger than the other, almost roomen size. Got velvet walls and hanging pictures. Anselm step in and poke a button. Doors knit up, the elevator start to drift above.

I take my breath. “Yo, heed. I got—”

“No, wait.” Anselm hold hand up sharp. “First, I need to congratulate you. Your proof went well, didn’t it?”

I narrow eyes. “Sure, be alive.”

“Yes, it was lucky, wasn’t it? Now hold on.” Anselm turn and poke another button. Elevator shudder and stop. I look to the doors expecting that they open, but is nothing. Be unfriendly silent in this closen place, feel like a deafness.

“So.” Anselm smile back to me. “I was interested in your impressions. For instance — were there any moments when you felt nervous?”

“Nervous. Nerviose, I guess? Been nervous since I met you people.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But you didn’t feel uncertain about one apostle in particular?”

“How you meaning?”

“I’m meaning that Felipe seemed very — nerviose. To me.”

I frown on him closer. “You was there?”

“Front-row seat, senyora. I am the director of the Ministerio, naturally I was there.”

“Yo sho, Felipe mostly ruin his pants with fear. If he got pants.”

“Yes, and I think he was surprised at the outcome, don’t you?”

“What you saying? Damn.”

“Well, Felipe seemed very confident that God was going to strike you.” He frown like he consider this question. “Perhaps it was religious conviction.”

“You saying, he thought his cup been poison.”

“If you want to put it that way.” Anselm make a blissen smile. “I, however, wasn’t surprised at all. Why do you think that is?”

I make a face. “You pour this wine?”

“Oh, no, senyora. They do that themselves, of course.”

“Foo, you going to tell me or you ain’t. Boring, these confusions.”

Anselm look politeness to this. Seem he expect that I will ask again, but I go stare beyond. Pull on my pearlen headband. Start to find the pins is holding this, and tug them out.

At last, he sigh and say, “Well, like most impossible things, it was a matter of money.”

I shrug, tug out another pin. “You paying this Felipe?”

“Oh, no. We paid a gentleman who provides poisons.”

My hand pause in my hair. “Someone who providing poisons?”

“Yes, senyora. A gentleman who’s very far away right now — and very rich. After all, Felipe paid him also. Now, you may know that some poisons are completely tasteless and odorless. Some are also harmless. This one was the poison we call water.”

Now Anselm gaze on me with bright congratulation smile. I magine how Felipe buying poison — what he think. But be a jar of normal water. He pour this, trembling, in his wine. Go scary to my murder.

Can feel, is vally mischief, but my eyes got only hatred. Yo, it notice behind Anselm on the wall, a painten picture hang. Show a girl with armen enfant. Both got gold circles drawn around their heads, and the baby reach up thoughtful to his mother’s face.

“In a case like this,” say Anselm, “we usually say ‘Thank you.’”

I say cold, “You save myself, is gratty. But you kill my enfant.”

The happy vanish from his face. “Of course. I shouldn’t have forgotten.”

“Forgotten? You forget your killing easy.”

“No.” His voice come thin. “I forgot that you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough. You—”

“No, I’m sorry. You really don’t.”

Then we glaring one to one. His chubben face be gathern in some mally telligence. Notice to me how his beardskin gone in stubble, this passen night. Shaven head be grown the same, confuse the spidery drawings there like dirt.

“Please listen,” he say cold. “I’ll make this short, and hopefully we will never have to mention it again. There are many, many things you can do as Maria. Having a baby is not one of them. Let me repeat: you cannot have a baby. I saved your life not once but twice yesterday. Now, an ordinary person would say, ‘Thank you, Anselm. Thank you for saving my life, not once but twice.’ But you are Maria, so whatever you do is right — it’s the will of God, and I do not question it.

“Now, I know that you are a virgin, and you will stay a virgin, because you are Maria. Therefore you could never be pregnant again. That cannot happen. And because I feel very strongly that it cannot happen, I had the doctors make sure it cannot happen — at considerable risk to myself. Now, an ordinary person might say, ‘Thank you, Anselm. I can see you’ve done me an incredible favor.’ And I hope someday when you understand this better, I will hear that thanks from you.

“The reason you will thank me is that, even after you stand your proof, there is one thing that can make you a false Maria. If you are not a virgin. So please don’t give anyone the idea that you aren’t a virgin. A false Maria must be killed, and we would all like to relax now. I hope you agree.

“Regrettably, a few people know about this incident. Someday, one of them may talk. If that day comes, I will deny it. It will be my word against theirs, and I will win that contest. Unless — I hope you’re listening now — unless I change my mind about you.”

“Nay.” I shake my head, unnerve. “They doctors doing what?”

Anselm sigh out heavy. “It’s a tiny piece of metal. In a day or two, you won’t even feel it.”

“Metal?” I startle cold. Touch to the cloth against my belly. “Inside myself?”

“It won’t do you any harm. It’s very small.”

I grip the lacen cloth. Look scary to the picture, enfant reaching to his mother. Get a troubling feeling, if these golden circles mean they dead. “Cannot get no enfants?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“But can this fix?”

“It can. But it won’t.”

I shake my head again. “Nay, why you want to ruin me so?”

“I just told you. Senyora, were you listening?”

“Yo, I know. You saying.” I try to figure reasons, but all my mind be on this artifact. Little piece of metal, some unperson thing inside.

Anselm say, soft in my thought, “You won’t appreciate this, but we risked a great deal ourselves by doing this. It’s a very serious crime here.”

I take a ragged breath. “Preventing enfants, right. Seriose crime you do to me, first day I come.”

“I promise, this is not how we usually welcome visitors to Marias.”

“And now you know I got this thing, you kill me any time you like. What you saying.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I trusted you to make your own decisions. But I don’t.”

“Damn, what you even want from me?”

“I want this city to be run responsibly. You can’t do it. You don’t know anything. You cannot make the decisions you need to make. And, as of this moment, you are — in name — the ultimate power here.” He make a narrow smile. “Another problem that’s been solved. Thank you, Anselm.”

“Foo, it need no threats. You tell me what to do, I heed.”

“That’s funny. I seem to remember you didn’t listen to my last piece of advice.”

“On Pasha?” I scoff breath. “Is differences. This been a life.”

“Maria,” he say soft, “there are four hundred thousand people living in the lands you govern. And if you last with us, you’ll see some of those lives lost, through decisions we have to make. Your Russian boyfriend is only a detail from my point of view, I’m sorry.”

Take me thinking time to even comprehend this speech. Then I want to cavil — say I never care to rule this city — but my conscience stray to Quantico, and every hope be rotten.

I look back sorry at that enfant picture, and Anselm frown. He turn and look himself. Huff breath and say, “Well, that’s unfortunate.” Then he reach and poke a button. The elevator shift again.

I feel some sick relief. “We finish, ya? Can see my children?”

“Soon.” Anselm sigh. “But you have a ceremony first. It’s the signing of the clause, to reinstate our glorious apostles. So — if it’s not too rude to ask — I do hope you can write?”

42. THE PARLEY FOR MY WAR

CEREMONY BE IN TRONO ROOM, A HALL ENORME. GOT CEILING painten rich with blue and clouds and flying enfants. Be flower trees in silver jars, make rows along the tallish walls. Between this, all the floor be empty — dapple tile and nothing. Only is one goliath chair, of carven gold and gems.

This be Maria’s trono, where I sit in tall discomfort. Apostles kneel below, still in their silvern garb of proof. Their robes wash on the tiles around, look like they spilt somehow. Ya, Anselm spilt along, in duller brown.

They start by chanting unison, a Panish prayer of endlessness. Through this, I feel a lonely conscience, how my children wait above in my iglesia rooms — Driver and El Mayor; my Keepers Eight in noise familiar. All my hurt insist toward them, as the Panish moan, the painten enfants flirt their wings above.

I distract the time by finding snake Felipe with my eyes. Want to feel my fear again, like touching a wound to check its pain. But he seem small unconfident, knelt in his silvern wash. Then I seek Simón Zelote — the child in soldier clothes who weep terrific at my questioning. Look and look, but cannot find, until I doubt my wits. But when I count their numbers, be eleven. He ain’t there.

Ain’t time to wonder this, when Pedro rise up from their line. He carry a slice of whitish papers. Silver pen be lain across. Come toward me, prayering still, and stoop himself as he come close. When I take the papers, the apostles all stand up and hush.

All this signing be, must write my name. Ain’t my Ice Cream name, is now “Maria XXVII, SR de la C. de las Marias.” Name be printen in the signing place, need only copy this. Yo, Anselm said I must make show of reading. This be drill. So I page through with scarce attention, fidgeting the pen — until I spy the line on war.

It read, “The apostles above named have the power to declare war and to decide the military strategy of Ciudad de las Marias, independently from any other person or body.”

Here I put the pen down sharp. Read the line again-again, until its meaning clear. Then I scout through all the pages, look for other talk of war. Can feel the time prolong, feel the apostles’ scalding eyes, while I frown through all longhead words. Ya, be no other mention. Is only this — all war be theirs.

When I look back to them, apostles tired in frustration. Anselm fixing on me mally. Threats watch from his eyes.

“I write my name,” I say, “then it be done? Your powers keep?”

Anselm say in voice like poison honey, “That is the point.”

“Then nay. Is something I must ask before.”

A groaning sigh go through them all. Even Pedro grit his face, clutch silver dress in hands.

“Please, santa reina,” Anselm say. “I think you have our full attention.”

I START THE PARLEY for my war with tactic carefulness. First, I say how roos maraud in Massa now, steal every child. Tell every evidence I know: the radio speech, the photographs, the guns that Pasha-Deema bring. And I explain the cure its promise — how roos live to seventy years, like sleepers of the past.

Can see from Anselm’s eyes that he already heard this news. Pedro look the same, and be some others, though their names forgot. Must figure Soledad told them every fact, this passen night. But snake Felipe stare at me in daze, like all his blood be mysteries. Bright superstitions woken in his eyes.

Yo, when I tell the plan for war with Quantico, they all change tempers. Faces grit misliking. They start frowning each to each. Feel in myself, how Quantico been their yeary enemy. Is like I begging Sengles that they fight for Armies, old in hatred. I hear my voice come beggarish, and I haste to my end. “So I require a war from you. Must fight the roos from Nighted States and take their useful cure. Hope you agreeing this, for all our lives.”

Be a breath of achen silence. A drop of sweat go anting from my armpit, tickle down.

Then come a barking laugh from Santiago — prettieuse child who worn jeans to my questioning. He say, “You want us to fight for Quantico?”

“Yes.” I hold my face correct. “How it result, I do.”

“That’s hilarious.” He look around. “Who wants to tell the Marines?”

“Thank you.” Anselm make a narrow smile. “Would anyone else like to comment?”

Here puppyish Juan speak up. “But, santa reina, there’s no proof. It’s only something Jesus told you.”

“No sho.” I scoff my breath. “Seen other roos. Ya, been the photographs.”

“But, senyora,” Anselm say in helpful voice, “about the cure, it’s only him. And that is the main point.”

“Nay, been the radio speech. Roos offering cure, was said direct.”

Anselm raise a finger. “And I forget — why didn’t you take this generous offer?”

“Was lies,” I say impatient. “They only wanting us for use.”

“And you knew this how?”

“Ya, Jesus told us. So?”

“Jesus.” Anselm draw a circle in air with finger. “We are back where we started.”

Now Pedro say, in caring voice, “Please try to understand, senyora. You’re asking us to give our army to Quantico — to our enemies.” He spread his hands like helplessness. “We can’t risk the city’s safety on the basis of one stranger’s story. Jesus’, of course. I don’t mean yours.”

“And the whites aren’t coming here,” say Juan. “If they attack Quantico, that’s good for us.”

“Nay, be the cure,” I say annoying. “Why we need to fight.”

“But please,” Anselm say in, with looks of friendly understanding. “We can address this to everyone’s satisfaction. We’ll just send someone east — to your Massa, santa reina.”

A moment, the apostles only frown at him, confusing. Then most their faces ease.

“Send someone to Massa?” I say unbalance. “How this help?”

Anselm gesture like simplesse. “It should be easy to find proof. If everything you say is true, we’ll find a war in progress.”

“But you find no cure,” I say. “This going to be in Quantico only.”

“But, senyora,” Juan say, his puppy face bright seriose, “we’d find white men to question. That’s what Anselm’s thinking. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Anselm smile to me. “We’ll capture some. It’s what we do.”

“That’s good,” say Pedro. “If they all tell the same story, it would give me much more confidence. And if everything else checks out.”

I shake my head. “Why you ain’t go to Quantico direct? When January come, be any thousand roos to ask.”

“Wait,” say Anselm. “To be clear — right now, there are no roos in Quantico?”

I shoo my hand. “Been said. Ain’t there till January month.”

Anselm nod. “So if we go to Quantico now, we’ll only find… Marines. And I don’t think they’ll be very happy to see us.”

Around the room, be preciating laugh. Bell Santiago muttern, “It would be pretty funny, till they shot you.”

I say frustrating, “Shee, can tell them why. Must warn them anyhow.”

“When we’re certain, yes.” Anselm knit his hands together. “But for now, the only way to be certain is to send a party to Massa. If they find this army of white men, if they capture some for questioning — it’s a different situation. I hope that’s clear?”

Here I notice snake Felipe narrowing on Anselm hard. Now it come queery to me, Felipe ain’t spoken all this time. Child been all mouth the day before.

I take courage up and say, “Felipe, what you thinking?”

He startle, look down to the floor. Even his silver dress look flustern, like disturbing water. “I think… I’m not sure what this search is for.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Anselm say unpleasant. “I did just explain it twice.”

I say, “So you believe, Felipe?”

He frown annoying. “I don’t know.”

“That’s what the search is for,” say Anselm. “So that we can know.”

Felipe look to Anselm cold. “I’d like to hear who’s going, at least.”

Young Juan say up quick, “I’ll go. I’d like to go.”

“So Juan is going?” Felipe say, his eyes still hard on Anselm.

“And Juan will take his guard, I expect,” say Anselm. “That’s twenty men?”

Juan nod with warry looks. “Twenty-two.”

“And perhaps we could have the penal company?” Anselm smile sharp to Felipe.

Felipe startle, frown his mouth. Before he answer, prettieuse Santiago break in rude, “The penal company? Why not send real soldiers? Just ask Simón.”

Anselm flinch to this, say thin, “I’d rather not disturb Simón Zelote right now. So, Felipe?”

“I get it,” Felipe say with some unliking. “You can have them.”

“So, Juan, his guard, the penal company — that’s eighty, altogether.” Anselm look to me. “Is that acceptable to you, senyora?”

Now my blood be bad with doubts. Ain’t comprehending much, but sure can feel, they plan all this before. Most likely be, when Soledad told her story, they begin to plan. Anselm and his friendly apostles figure through the night, decide this search for evidence.

Ain’t see how this be differences — can think for hours or think for minutes, still they want their proof. But mistrust be loud, is like a stank in every thought. Ya, when I looking to Felipe, all his face morose with hate. He stare on Anselm like he watch some poison insect, wish he got a shoe to crush it.

“Yo, what this penal company be?” I say. “If they ain’t soldiers, what they be?”

“They are soldiers,” Pedro say assuring.

“They’re criminals.” Santiago laugh. “They get out of prison to fight in wartime.”

Anselm say, “The penal company we have now already fought in our last war. So they aren’t fresh from prison, senyora. Really, they’re like any other soldiers.”

“Traditionally, they’re sent to dangerous duties,” Pedro say. “And this — if you’re correct, senyora — is certainly dangerous.”

I doubt around this, but can see no wrong. Sure, what I known of Mariano crimes, these penals can be bone as any.

“Is well enough,” I say at last. “But I will like to go myself.”

They all get puzzling eyes. Juan say uncertain, “Go yourself?”

“I go to Massa,” I say clear. “Can help to find these roos.”

This bring a storm of every nay. It be unthinkable and crazy. Even Felipe say it be impossible for danger — is funny, when he only try to kill me an hour before.

At last, I yell into their noise, “Bone! But I will send some child my own! Or I ain’t sign no clause, can be forgot!”

They hush with various disturbance. Ya, can notice, most these children look to Anselm seeking help.

First moment, Anselm spite his eyes. Pluck his brownish dress like clothes themself be an exasperation. But soon his face go mild again. Can see, he find a better thought.

“That’s actually a good idea,” he say. “Your people know the region. Send whoever you like, senyora. It’s nice that you want to participate. And now that that’s all settled, can we get back to our original purpose?”

He look suggesting to the clausen papers on my knees. Then all apostles perk themself, like hounds who smell their meal.

I stare a moment, lost in doubts. Think how it can be, if I demand the war begin, before I sign their mally clause. But if these fool apostles do their search, they learn the cure be real. Then sure, all other plans be by. They need this cure like any person. Ever they be reptiles, ain’t no reptile glad to die.

Murder dress feel sticky now, is itching on my sweaten back. Yo, the windless silence ache. Everything be tight and wrong. But I take the pen in feeble hand, fish out the signing page. And I look down, seek my new name.

43. SIMÓN AND THE MARIA GONE

AIN’T HEED HOW THE APOSTLES LEAVE. THEIR STOOPINGS PASS IN corner-eye, their Panish mutters pass. Light flutter in the glassen door as it come open-shut.

Then only Anselm stand below my chair, the clause glad in his hand.

“I must congratulate you,” he say. “That was genuinely exciting.”

Some time, I only trace my finger on the chairy arm. Got shape of golden pigeon that sink claws into a golden heart. Eyes be bluish gems, stare no expression to the lectric light.

At last, I look to Anselm. “How long this hunt for roos can take?”

“Not long. Ten days, perhaps. They can take trucks out to where the road ends. And then they’ll pick up horses.”

“Shoo, ain’t known you keeping horses. Seen no horses there.”

“But your horses are there.” Anselm make his mischief smile. “I’m sorry, senyora, it wasn’t possible to bring them back so quickly. And as you see, it was lucky, after all.”

“Lucky,” I say short, “if you ain’t plan this all before.”

“Oh, are we being honest now? That’s nice.” He stretch with catly satisfaction. “Senyora, may I sit? I’m actually tired after that.”

“Sure can sit. You want this chair?”

He laugh soft. “Oh, no. Far too symbolic.”

He settle frogleg on the tilen floor without no circumstance. Set the papers on his knees, start shuffling through with gratty smile. Truth, I get relief myself, now all apostles gone. After all their strangeness, Anselm feeling mostly like a friend.

I say, “Can ask you something, Anselm?”

“You have a voice, and I have ears.” He fish out my signing page and laugh. “Oh, look. Your handwriting. Oh, no.”

“Heed, where Simón Zelote been?”

He set the papers down. Look to the flying children on the ceiling, mourning eyes, like they commiserate his always problems. “Well, she notices things,” he say in underbreath. “She isn’t stupid.”

“Going to notice. And when you said you ain’t disturb Simón Zelote. What this been?”

“Well, Simón is our ranking general. So if we sent regular soldiers on this search, we’d have to ask him. And that would disturb him.”

“Then how the penals be Felipe’s, if they soldiers also?”

“The prison is in his burrow — it’s really a bureaucratic detail, santa reina. Not interesting.”

“But why Simón Zelote ain’t been here?”

Anselm sigh. “Okay. But this will be your final lesson of the day. I am really tired beyond words. So, perhaps you noticed Simón crying yesterday?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “Was weeping like a messy two. Be weirdo generals.”

“This is something you can probably understand. Maria often has a favorite apostle. We call this a Joseph. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“Nay. Be nothing helpful.”

“I think we’re past the point of mincing words. Simón was the lover of the last Maria. Repeat that wherever you like, it makes no difference now. Which is a great relief.”

Almost, I ask if this Maria got device preventing enfants. If Anselm rule her so, with maudy threats. But now my anger tired.

“So she sicken bad.” I shrug. “Why he going to sorrow.”

“It’s more than that. You see, when there’s a new Maria, the former Maria doesn’t just leave her place. She gracefully departs from life.” He flutter his hand toward the cloudy ceiling.

“Depart from life. She kill herself?”

“Thank you. You understand.”

“Nay, why she doing this?”

“Well, usually for religious reasons. We don’t like to have two living gods. In fact, we dislike it so much, her suicide isn’t always strictly voluntary. But in this special case — although very few people know this — Maria died three days ago.”

Still be puzzling on this voluntary, when his last words come plain. “She dead?”

“Yes. That’s something you should not repeat. There must always be a Maria — every second of every day. If Maria is dead, there is no god. And worse, there is no government.” Anselm narrow eyes. “Of course, Felipe wanted to go on pretending the last Maria was still alive. He didn’t want a real god, unless he had chosen her himself.

“But happily, that’s behind us now. Tonight, you’ll hear the bells ringing to announce her death — and there the crisis ends.”

Be worrying this when something inkle doubtful in my mind. Is from what Pasha saying yesternight, about the Jesus whites. How rich people buying them, to keep until Maria sicken. Then they choose some girl obedient, give her Christ to use.

But now they got no roos in storage. If Anselm kill myself, can be no proof, and no Maria new. I pick around this, working thoughts, while Anselm square the clause in hands. Stand weary to his feet.

Then my mind focus sudden. I break into precarious laugh. “Goddamn! You catching Christs in Massa! What you needing there. Yo weasel!”

He give unshaming smile. “Well, I suppose we will, senyora.”

“All Pedro’s shee, goddamn! They even questioning these roos?”

“Of course. The questioning is real. We have two reasons for the search. At least two.”

“But then you choose a new Maria, ya? And I depart from life.”

“But not at all, santa reina. We often keep these Christs for years. And I don’t want to kill you at all. I think it would give me bad dreams.” He make regretful smile. “Still, we need the option.”

Then he regard me curiose while I regard him back. I try to read some meaning in his face, but be no use. Feel like I stare into a light and only hurt my eyes.

At last he say, “Now, before I go, I have a question of my own. Just something I’ve been wondering as we talked. That baby of yours — I don’t suppose it was Jesus’?”

This startle through my tired nerves. “No sho, it ain’t.”

He nod with comfort smile. “Then, santa reina, I have a request. On this search, please send the boyfriend. The father, whoever it is. The situation with the last Maria, with Simón — it wasn’t ideal.”

“Foo, ain’t your trouble, who I send.” A superstition creep my skin.

He nay his finger, smiling sweet. “Everything is my trouble. So you’ll send the father, please. Now, do enjoy the rest of your day. The guards will see you into your elevator. I’m sorry, I will get you that key.”

Then he cross to the door with easy gladness in his motion. Door swing brightening and release its light.

44. MY WORST APOSTLE MET

IN THE ELEVATOR, I LEAN NERVY TO THE WALL, GUESS HOW MY IGLESIA rooms will be. If my children hide there still, and how I bear to see the NewKing. How I bear Soledad. If Pasha be there yet, and if he learning any telligence.

Doors open soft, and I step out. Be dandelion lights and ruggen hallways, hush in all directions. Painten sleepers look sad from their frames like they beg freedom self. Yo, soon, I recognize this place. Is where me-Pasha spent our yesternight in feary wait. This be the hall where I been draggen out, its quiet light the same.

First door I seeing be the sleeproom, where I woken with the roo. Is parten on a dull unlight. I go to scout inside.

On the grandiose bed, El Mayor lain, sleeping loose. Wear clothes is mostly normal, churching suit with whiten shirt. First Runner curlen by his feet in Marias finery gown — a fall of washen pink, look queery on this child austere.

Then my spirit catch in teeth. I hold in perilous thought.

Truth, El Mayor been obvious choices for the Massa search. I send him, I be sending my best eyes. Child smart as books. But sure, if Anselm want to rid him, El Mayor be rid entire.

Could ask him neverless, with proper warning of his risk — but when I think of doing this, my heart go false. Cannot. Nor I be brave to tell him on the enfant, how it murdern. Gone vally to my death, but I be weak to say no hurt.

I step back superstitious from this door. Go on, with sad excuses in my mind.

I come next to the sofa room, without no clear intention. Room empty of no people, but its doors be open to the outside porch. A knifen breeze come in. Yo, through the glassen doors, can see a child outside, is bigly made.

He show in profile, and the glitter sun confuse his face. But his hair be croppen like a Sengle’s, rough correct. I step to the doorway gratty, drawing breath for Driver’s name.

Then he startle to me, and is Crow.

Almost, I turn away. But Crow’s hurt eyes catch to my guilt. And I step out to the cold. Watch Crow’s deep-known face, the unchin jaw and lashy eyes. He wearing Mariano clothes — a churching suit of perfect black — but all his skin look tired from weather. And Crow be watching with no comfort, stare like I be no one.

I say soft, “Salue, my Crow.”

“Salue.” He duck his head in nerves.

“Be sorry for your feathers,” I say weaker. “How… they shot.”

He shrug like this be stupid mentions. “You save me, I guess.”

“Ya, and I be gratty for that leaf you sent. Your warning.”

He grit closer now. His face look mostly like denials, like he going to say it been no leaf. But he say, “Ain’t guess you want no warning.”

“How I ain’t?”

“Thought you come to Mamadou yourself.”

Go guilty in my heart, but I say quick, “Nay, why I go to him?”

Crow laugh undervoice. “You be his queen. Ain’t remember to you?”

“Shee, he keeping that?”

“Yo sho, he keep it.” Crow laugh pitchy, rub his mouth. “Got some resentment, I ain’t know.”

“Ain’t chase us all that way for this, I hope.”

Crow’s laughter pass like it ain’t been. He look back to the raily edge. “Nay. Ain’t for this.”

I follow his eyes out to the tower buildings, a jaggen crowd of gray. By sunlight, can see they ill bekept. Windows mostly gone, is moss along their stain concree.

I say unhappy, “Mamadou told they others, how I be his queen? Told Driver?”

To this, Crow’s eyes disgust. “Nay, he ain’t talking much, himself. Can keep your prettieuse lies.”

“Lies? Nay, what this going to mean?”

“Be all you caring for, that Ice Cream keep in admiration.”

I startle ugly. “What this be? Nay, how you always be so vicious?”

“Only be saying how you do. Is how you be, but you ain’t never seeing, Ice Cream God.”

“God? You lost your final brains?”

“You god here, what I heard. Heard all this story. How you save the roo.”

“Truth, ain’t kill him. And I save yourself. And so?”

Crow turn outrage eyes to me. “How he precieuse? He killing us. He kill us glad.”

I take a ragged breath. “Karim, you meaning?”

“Yo sho.” His face go twisten. “I kill your roo. Want only chances.”

“Roo come to save my life at Army camp. Ain’t been—”

“And what you come there for? Shee, save your life! No person murder you!”

“I been there for the Christings, damn! And Deema trying — nay, you wrong. You wrong.”

“But why Karim must die for this?” Crow raise a sudden fist. “Roo kilt him why?”

“Ain’t Pasha—” Then I catch my voice. Brace in the freezing wind, and Crow’s eyes fix on me, is agonies. And it realize, he ain’t know I ask for Karim his death. Know nothing.

I say, with falseness burning in my chest, “Pasha, he had no time to think. Was seconds.”

“But why the roo be living still?” Crow’s voice break high. “Why he ain’t dead?”

“Damn, he ain’t known! He seen me hurt, and shoot. Ain’t be his blame!”

Crow stare through a breath of rage. Then he say rough, “Ain’t going to kill your roo, ain’t fear. Keep all your filthen males, you safe.”

“My males? Goddamn—”

“I wish I never send that leaf! Shee for yourself! You poison!”

“And what that leaf been even for? If they ain’t come to steal me?”

“Mamadou going to steal you! Shee!”

“You said, the Armies ain’t been there for me. You only said!”

Crow open his mouth, but bite down on his words. He look back to the city. “We coming… ain’t for that. But Mamadou thinking, if he get you, you will speak for him.”

“Speak for him?”

“Ya. Be yourself, he thought they others heed.”

“What I will speak?”

Crow frown, his eyes gone blank. Raise one hand toward his face, like seeking to take some troubling thought away from there. Say with scarcely breath, “Ask them to war.”

“War?”

Crow start to speak, but then his face go wrong. He breathe out hard.

A coldness inkle in my heart. “To roos? He warring to the roos?”

Crow nod and gesture with one hand, like waving at some knowledge. Eyes spark in sudden tears.

“Crow, what been? Why — what the roos done?”

“We the only people left,” Crow say in strangle voice. “What they done. Roos kill them all.”

THEN HE BEGIN HIS STORY, on this lofty edge of nothing, where dead towers watch their broken eyes. Wind suffer in my flesh and beat my braids against my naked shoulders, while Crow tell the final memories from our Massa woods.

45. THE ROOS IN MASSA WOODS

THAT DEEMA TOLD WHAT GOING TO BE.” SO CROW BEGIN HIS TALE. “Always been telling, if we hurt him, roos kill us with every torture. He love to tell us stories, what they do. So, how he kilt… ain’t nothing change to eyes. But every person known.

“What Mamadou want, we hide. Ain’t wait in camp like easy bait. But half they feathers never heed. OldKing Hak, ya any person close to him, ain’t heed. How they saying, Mamadou turn coward since he shot. They choose a different NewKing, call him digger, worm, all that.

“Can know, they people dead. They all be dead.”

BEEN SEVEN FEATHERS, ya and Crow, who leave with Mamadou. Go with vindictions from their people, go with only carrying goods, and stash themself into an evac in the wrecks of Lowell City. Building be six floors of decay walls and unglass windows. Been left by even mice and birds, its only life be rot. In this unlucky home, they make a camp with sheepskin rugs. Set their carven gods around, and blacken the moldy ceilings with the fire of sacrifice.

Then all they do, they scout for roos. Go seek the woods, the broken city; haunt the ash of Tophet gone. Creep superstitious by Lowell mill, that lost its noisy hundreds. Lectricity dark, its turbines hush — but on the walls be always dozen children waring out with guns. Worst strangeness, these be often Christwives. Yo, how the feathers learn, these wives will shoot at any moving life.

Crow tell me, “We been in this evac, I ain’t know. Two weeks. Nay, I ain’t knowing days. Time it finish, all they feathers do, they booze and fight. Beat myself, you know that. And Mamadou healing, but he changen. Ain’t want no one talking to him. Always staring like he hate. But how it been, you only seen him, and you known he going to live. Who stay by him, can live.

“Yo, all that hunting that we do, we never seen the roos. Seen nothing till the plane.”

TIME THE PLANE APPEAR, been middy meal. The NewKing’s feathers sitting to a corny stew. They telling dreams, like Armies do, and gray Yusuf make joking prophecies from these stories. Day risen clean, the buildings all be fuzzy bright with sun.

First knowledge been a deafen scouring. It grow impossible, be loud like nothing that belong in life. Noise tremble in the walls, ring in their skulls, buzz wrong in flesh. Feathers go sprinting to the windows, screaming fear unheard. Expect to see the sky torn end to end, a hell of lightnings. But all been blue and simple, while the noise grow past no bearing. Be like some invisible monster crush the world entire.

When they spy the rooish plane, it seem a petty detail. Ain’t even move its wings. Is still. Fly like an object thrown, and cannot feel how all the noise come from its posing tininess.

It go as quick as bats, and score the blue with whitish smoke. And it come around, bring its goliath noise again. When it fly toward the Armies, they all duck, go flailing down. But when the sound retreat, they rise. Lean out again with showing courage. Musa fire his pistol at it, but be stupid helplessness, like shooting at a cloud.

Then in the farther city, rise a trembling light against the day. A deeper thunder follow, shuddering in the planken floor. Yo, when the plane pass round again, can notice petty sheddings falling underneath its body, like it drop its shee below. Brightness waken from this shee, that thunder loosen out. And they understand, is bombs. Stuff from fable histories, is happening now in sight.

Ya, as they comprehend, the plane turn off like losing interest. Some time its noise go weaker, before the hush close sudden in.

On the bland horizon, is left a leaning trunk of smoke. Keep sturdy white, and spread its haze into the morning clear. Ain’t no sound from this. Can only hear the normal flies that bother their forgotten meal.

“SO ALL THEY FOOLS TALK BIG, you know how. Want to join the roos again, like they each getting planes from this. Sure, no one going to say they frighten. Bombs been wolfen. Cool. The other feathers left in camp, they frighten. Shee they going to talk.

“Then Mamadou tell them to go scout. Wish you seeing, how they change. They pissing terrify. Run off, but I ain’t guess they scouting much. Hide, be more like.

“Yo, Mamadou send me separate with Malik to find the bombing place. Ain’t lying — if Malik ain’t been, I gone to hide myself. Keep thinking, bomb been poison. Ain’t want to breathe.

“So anyone known, this been the mill. There in the city, ain’t be nothing else. So we gone there.”

Been twenty minutes walking, and they pass this in a boding silence. Both be walking jittery, checking to the sky for planes. Yo, as they come, the air go thick. Be stinging dust that blow about, must squint to almost blindness. It got a teasing warm, that fickle and vanish in the wind. A weirdo pue begin, is teary sharp like onion smell, as they come to the mill canal.

The mill be gone. Where it risen tall and large, is smoke and empty sky.

This goneness take them both in spooking. Be a moment, Crow decide this ain’t the place, they stray somewhere. But the water recognize, glut with dust and rubble as it be. Ya, in changes of the breeze, Crow see a piece of house wall left, a set of broken windows. In one, is curtains moving, dabble across the jaggen shapes of glass. Fire freak bright among. In the water, be mounds of brick, with splinter wood stuck out in points. By one of these, a yellow shirten shape float in the cloudy water. Crow cannot tell if this be someone drown or only empty clothes.

Beyond this, cannot see no people. Be no crying voice. Can only hear the trampling noise of fire, its crackle. Their own short breath.

Without no word, they start to skirt the mill upwind. Come past a city building that been hit, its upper part collapse. Here the air be dull with smoke, must pull shirts over mouths. Then, along the mill side, can see the wreck of easter gate. Its bridge be broken off halfway, precarious in air.

On this bridgen edge stand small First Runner. Her face be sparkling blood.

Malik see his sister, and he yell. Go sprinting, leaping wreckage. Come to the gate and scramble up its ruin. Some bricks kick out from underfoot, and he slip clumsy as First Runner turn and run to him. He catch her in his arms, and as he lift her, she begin to wail. Crow stop below and stare up with no notion what he do. Is only scary from this wail. He want to run away and never learn no farther knowledge.

Malik turn back, skid down an avalanche of brick. As he release First Runner down, Crow see the scarlet glittering spread across her cheek. Is blood and glass. All her clothes be wet and various red with blood and brick dust.

Then she start telling, loud and strange, be people in this ruin. They all was screaming. She try to swim across, but it be burning still. Been too hot. Water itself been hot. She talk on, garbling, how it been some roos, she watch these from a window by. Been fifty roos, ain’t guess how many. Lowell guards fire shots at them, been shooting backen forth. But these roos run off, is gone. Then come the plane, the bombs, she been thrown down.

And she begin again to say, how people be in there. Must help them, but it still be burning. She say these contradictions, until Crow shout at her in nerves. Then First Runner hush, touch to her bloody face in puzzle. Ain’t seem to even notice when Malik grip to her hand.

Malik say soft, “They kilt, my sister.”

“I know,” First Runner say with fixen stare. “We got to help them.”

But when they turn away, First Runner come without no cavil. Start to pick glass from her face as they pass to the normal day, where all the buildings whole and stupid-looking with their blank unhurt.

WHEN THEY COME BACK to their evac, it be no one there. Malik clean down First Runner’s cuts, using his knife to pick some deeper splinters from her skin. She hold careful without tears. Only shut her eyes sometimes, take breath. Ya, Crow gone standing to the window, watch the smoke from Lowell mill, when steps sound on the stairs.

Mamadou come in alone. Is wrapping his arm back to himself, been washing it below. His face be tired from pain, and he look to First Runner cold with no surprise.

Malik explain, this be his sister. Say how the mill be gone, and he repeat First Runner’s sayings, how she seen the roos, been shooting. How they all was screaming. Crow add nervy in, “It been no voices when we come.”

Mamadou finish with his arm and pin the bandage to. Say easy, “I remember her.”

Then he kneel down by First Runner. She sit dazen, trace her fingers through a sheepskin rug. And Mamadou ask her quiet, if she been keeping watch for El Mayor. She nod to this, but never look. Stare on her working fingers.

“Sure you meant to follow them,” the NewKing say like logic.

She glance toward Malik, look back at Mamadou with blank mistrust.

Mamadou say soft, “Yo, where they gone?”

Here the other feathers run up noisy on the stairs. Come in with all their talk, kick round their goods, seek for some booze. But soon they hush, come staring at First Runner and the NewKing, where they matching stubborn looks.

“Where they gone?” say Mamadou.

First Runner say with sudden hatred, “Cannot tell you. Got instructions.” Her blooden face gone in its sweat, hand gripping in the sheepskin fur. Malik stand tense behind, look feary from the NewKing to his sister. Ya, all the feathers watching, from wherever they fetch up.

“Nay, you going to tell,” say Mamadou, like he giving news.

“Is threats?” she say in breathless voice. “This do you nothing. Cannot tell.”

“Ain’t threats. I known you from an enfant, how I know. Guess I remember you better than you remember me.”

She frown to the sheepskin, grit her mouth. “You ain’t know me.”

But Mamadou stand away, uncaring. And he tell the feathers that they leaving Massa woods, will follow after the people gone.

CROW TELL ME, “Sure, he got some plan. Been planning every days for this. But how he never saying what it be… ain’t plans we going to like.

“But all they feathers run to do his word. Pack their goods, and talking like… like every Massa townie now. Like Lowells going to want themself. Ain’t even wonder how we going to find they other Massas. Mamadou said, and all it is.

“But sure, I gone with them. Ain’t staying there alone, no sho.”

WHERE THE NEWKING LEAD them first, been to the Armies’ horsen field. Be dusking, and they scout into the woods with nervy dread. Been days since no one seen the other Armies. Cannot guess their moods. Ya, anyone expect, the horses guarding in these risky days.

But they find the horses normal, tether to dragging logs. No child be by, no threat. They mount, and Mamadou lead them down the path to Army camp. All wonder why he take them to this risk, but no one brave to ask. So they follow through these woods they know, into the dusty grass, the huts still standing where they been, and past where Yas and Bardo lie unmoving in their blood. Past Peter Christing-born, and startle a fox is chewing Peter’s guts. Ride past a gut-shot hound, is staring blind into the sky, and Mamadou rein his horse before the simper house. He unmount clumsy with his one good arm.

Been only Crow and Musa gone with Mamadou into the house. And, like they known it going to be, all people kilt inside. Musa go hunting through the bodies, find his enfant Faisal. Crouch and chase the green flies from his face and cry some strangle noise. Can hear another feather puking miseries outside.

Mamadou watch on this with face besweaten. He skinny from his sickness, and his face look skullish dread. He look like he belong to this hell unworld. Can see he known what he will find; seen this in his hatred dreams, these days. And he stand there with his starving looks, the king of these red children. King of flies and murder.

Crow go out again, ain’t want to bear this. Come and take his horse’s reins from Malik, who stand bewept and strange. Ya, First Runner sit her horse beweepen. She say to Crow, “Be Gosha dead?” He know no Gosha, but he say, “They dead.”

Then Mamadou come out. He walk straight to First Runner and polite her with her Lowell name. Is speaking soft, though his face still besweaten, eyes feroce. He say, “Can fight roos with a hundred, but I cannot fight with eight. I know you gone to Lowells, but you be our child. You strong. Now tell me where they others gone. We going to make this right.”

AND IN THESE FARTHER DAYS, following on the highway in our chase, all feathers come into belief, they bring war to the roos. Nights, they burning sacrifice to Shango god, and swear this war. Journey been terrify and strange, was watching for roos with every step. They watch the sky their enemy, wake to each sound in nighten woods. Ya, they live among their ghosts of feathers and of slaves, until they feeling like a troop of dead, bound in revenge for their own killing.

And when Marias soldiers took them, Yusuf object in voice. Yell frustration how they must be free, they going to war. He keep on swearing though these strangers never comprehend. But Crow been glad in capture, feel they save from their insanity — until they taken to that Citgo wall, and Yusuf yelling weak annoyance, and some boy shoot Yusuf cold.

Then it going like I know — Crow and Mamadou kept apart, the other feathers shot and shot. Nat Mass Armies finish in easy minutes. And all this night behind, Crow think, if Pasha never kilt Karim, Karim come to this wall, will die the same. And Crow only wonder, how no child surviving ever — how he live no sixteen years, when every day can be a gun, a moment’s anger. Live these years, and still remain, unwanten, like a punishment. Crow condemn to stay in this world, naked from no covering earth, this world where no good child belong.

46. THE GUNROOM TALK

SO CROW TELL HIS STORY, STANDING ON THIS PORCH ABOVE THE murmuring city of Marias, while the Vember cold grip in my flesh. When he finish, we look east, like we can see the Massa woods from here. Like it will come back to our wishing, how it ever been. And, senseless, I remember a day when Crow and me and Hate You gone for bait worms in a brook by Tophet. How we watch the Christings’ grandy house and plan to steal some cider. Hate You creep toward the barn in bravery, but a mule bray loud, and she come scrambling back in tears. When we was sixes, new to life.

A wolfen sadness chill me. I look at Crow and feel a freezing in my bones like heartbreak.

Crow grip his hands in fists. Frown to them like he wonder at their life, that they can feel and move. Then he loose his hands, say low, “He want to talk to you. The NewKing.”

“Nay, why?” I take a frightening breath.

“I ain’t know.” Crow shrug resenting. “Ever he want.”

“He wanting me to speak for war somehow? To children here?”

“Ain’t wondering this. Shee his wars.” Crow squint back to the city. Can see his old hostilities begin, his shoulders tense.

I look to the farther sky. Be thinking sorry, be no sense to see the NewKing now. Got better troubles than himself — my war, the search to Massa woods. But here a notion pinch.

Be on the search to Massa, how I fearing to send El Mayor. But who must go, be Mamadou. Is obvious like eyesight. Be dangers natural to himself; be wars he want himself. And it be like a grief I always known, and struggle to forget.

Then Crow say, low into my thought, “I going now. Guess I find Driver.”

This name distract my feeling. I look to Crow in quick relief — expect somehow, I go with him. We sit by Driver for some easy time, all maladies apart.

But Crow ain’t even look to me. Turn hasty to the door.

I take a breath jalouse and say, “You know he callen dead? Our — our good child be?”

Crow catch on this. Look back to me, hate brilliant in his eyes. “Shee, I ain’t Sengle now. Can leave your rules. Be dead myself.”

Then he stalk off into the gleam iglesia. Pass a door, and in a second’s breath, he lost entire. Even his footsteps vanish, swallow in all rugs and walls. Leave only a mally wish, a misery where he always gone.

A MINUTE BEHIND, I go myself. Come through the sofa room and feel some fear to be alone. Be thinking of my Pasha’s tales of crimes he done. How these crimes been real sometime. Was done to children like the Christings, like the simpers and their enfants. Yo, Pasha been right that I should kill him. Crow be right, was selfishness that I ain’t want my Pasha dead. And I should die for green Karim. Yo, the feather slavers — how Soledad shooting them, was sunlight justice. But Soledad should die for this, been murder neverless. And I cannot see how any child can be forgiven. I try to think of people who hurt no one, but cannot see them different. Circumstances be, they find the evil that they do.

In the hall, I find the tennish ermana with the jutting ears. She got a filler pen in hand, is drawing on her fingernails. When she see me, she startle back. Muttern santa reina, and slip the pen into some pocket in her browndress clothes.

“Salue,” I say. “You needing something?”

She nod with confusen look. “I wait for you. Brought your key.”

“Key for… elevator, ya?”

“Elevator.” She flash a gaptooth smile, hold out the key. Her fingernails got hearten shapes upon, in shaky blue. I take the key, warm from her palm.

Then she say whispern, “Santa reina, downstairs wanted me to say… we English for you.”

“English?”

“Was always spaniels Maria, it’s everybody says you’re different. See, you know what spaniels is?”

This baffle in my sorry nerves. I only shake my head.

“Spaniel, that means Spanish. Rich. Apostles, they’s all spaniels. But most people here, we’re English. Working people is. The spaniels, they don’t want no English Maria. Braw, no. But we’re for you, they… the kitchen people and downstairs, they told me I should say. I’m sorry if it’s wrong.”

“Nay, be no wrong. Ain’t comprehending much, but you be bone.”

“Comprehend? Oh, sorry, cause I’m Loisaida people, so I talk so bad. I’m sorry.” She hang back, smiling anxy, clutching hands into her dress.

Then I get a different thought. Say low in courtesy, “What be your name, my ten?”

She scratch her forehead, shy. “Tamara.”

“Bone, Tamara. Can do some help for me?”

“Yes, santa reina. Course.”

“Be gratty. You know Mamadou? Apostle so.”

“No, please. Don’t know.”

“Be a bigly jones, scar cheeks. Got his arm bound up.” I cock my arm against myself.

To this, her eyes go frighten. I say, “You know him, right. He be here?”

She shake her head unready. “Santa reina, please. He left.”

I startle. “How, he left?”

“Gone outside.” She point the windows. “Next house, the firing range there.”

“Next house? Foo, they allowing him outside?”

“Course.” She shrug like obvious questions. “Do what he likes. He’s an apostle. I should bring you?”

A moment, I only clutch the key in my besweaten hand. Then I say in narrow breath, “Be gratty, Tamara. Guess this can be right.”

WHERE SHE TAKE ME, be some walk along the outer street. Four redcoat guards come worrying along, and I distract my nerves by asking them their names. They pronounce these with delighting shyness. Yo, I notice — what I scarcely heeding in my early fears — two sky towers, taller than no heights I ever seen. These got no normal walls. Is made entire of darkish windows. Glass be mostly shattern, and it look like their tremendous skin been eaten rough by moths.

House where Mamadou gone be like a smaller Ministerio. Is flights of whitish stone, with carvings fancifying its big door. On its lower floors, the windows gone and blind. Replace with brick. Coppery letters on its front read, CUARTEL DE LA DEFENSA, BRIGADA MUNICIPAL DEL BARRIO QUINTA.

We come into a grandy room, got nothing in itself but doors. Is muffle banging in the walls, like someone hammer nails. Some browncoat soldiers there be smoking, leaning careless to a wall. When they see myself, they straighten frightening. Tamara call some Panish, and one soldier skit toward a door.

When he opening this door, the hammering come ferocious loud. Be guns. I think in sudden fright, they shooting Mamadou there. But when I check Tamara’s face, she got exciting smile. Skree breathless through the larm, “He’s there, senyora. You can see.”

Then my comprehending quit. Cannot guess what morons hunt with guns inside some house. May be rats they kill, but no considerate child chase these with bullets. Ain’t surprises they lose all their windows.

Soldier by the door go yell. In second’s change, the gunfire hush. Then come any-number soldiers from the open door. All stare on me with biggen eyes and muttern santa reinas. Point rifles to the ceiling as they gather to the wall.

At last, the soldier by the door call Panish back to us.

Tamara turn to me. “Senyora, can apostle Mamadou keep his gun? Man’s asking.”

“Shoo, he got a gun?”

“Course. Here’s the firing range. But he can keep it?”

“Sure, can keep it,” I say wondering.

“Then good.” Tamara stoop her courtesy. “He’s there.”

GUNROOM BE UNTOLD IN LENGTH, and empty of no furnitures. Floor littern with spent bullet shells, look strawly in their scatter. On the farther wall, be grandy paper drawings hung — pictures of children, sketchen plain, and all been shot some dozen times. In other circumstance, can laugh, what nasty fool invent this game. But in the middle room is Mamadou.

He wearing his same clothes from Massa woods, jeans and unwritten tee. They dirty with their use, and loose upon his thinner body. Right arm unbound, but still he got a bandage thick beneath his shirt. Pistol held in this right hand. Hand smart as ever been, although his arm hold careful, stiff. Yo, even in his injury, in grimness of his children lost, he bell like hungry night.

Ain’t neither of us say no greeting. I only turn and close the door, heart snatching in my chest. Think how I be his queen — and how I lain, confuse, while Pasha shoot him. How I approve the killing of Karim, and if he heard or known. Yo, as the door come shut, my belly pinch, sharp like a hating word. And it realize cold, this murdern baby can be his. Enfant can be Mamadou’s get, from the killing morning of roo Deema, of Karim.

When I turn back from the door, he got his pistol in his belt. Hand touching on his bandage, but his face be cold the same.

“NewKing,” I say weak, “I got an ask.”

He narrow mouth but say no word. His eyes drift to my naked shoulders. Study there, and thinking gather in his tired eyes.

I say on hasty, “How it is. This city in my ruling now. So, how I decide, we going to war upon the roos.”

His face shift slightish to this, like he taste its meaning in his mouth. He say low, “Been easy done.”

“Ain’t done,” I say annoying. “Why I be here.”

“Heard no ask.” He look back to my face.

“Yo, how it is.” I take a breath. “The children here ain’t trust the cure without no evidence. Nor they will fight unless it be. So they send a search to Massa. Catch some roos for questioning.”

His eyes light into mockery. “They trust some roos before yourself?”

“Be my roo they ain’t believe. Guess they ask various roos, be different. Or they plan to torture them. Ain’t know their vicious thoughts. I only want to ask, if you will go.”

Then all telligence vanish from his eyes. Is only grief.

My heart make smaller fist. Can feel, I been a fool, I ain’t expect this. What Massa being now, no person strong to see again.

I say, “Ain’t got to go. Can send—”

“I do it.”

We watch each other careful then. He got hazard looks, like he may break in sudden rage. Yo, I can feel my body’s blood, its knowing.

I swallow at my achen throat. “Ain’t answer yet. Be other matters.”

“I do it. Be no questions.”

“Damn, ain’t heard.”

His hand move sharp down to the gun, like he will shoot me for annoyance. But he only say, “So tell your matters.”

“What it is. Can be, they want to kill you.”

Mamadou’s body ease. He laugh in underbreath. “I knowing this.” He shake his head, like wondering how no child miss obvious facts. Look to my dress again. “I do it. But I can like to bring some child my own.”

“Guess they allowing this,” I say uncertain. “You bring Crow?”

“Crow, can be.” He shrug. “First Runner, who I mostly want.”

First, I think this be some joke. Ain’t bringing smallish girls for his protection, be no sense. But Mamadou waiting simple, like this been some sane requirement.

“Shee,” I say. “Been worse enough, they Lowells left her there. How every fool use tens for their war business, ain’t believe.”

He shake his head. “You ask her.”

“Child be ten. Ain’t bringing her to that.”

“Got reasons.”

“Reasons how?”

“Nay, Sengle.” Mamadou smile insulting. “Ask her.”

Now I exasperate for truth. I frown past him toward the drawings — outline pictures with no face, torn various with holes. The Citgo murders flash in mind, First Runner weeping in the dirt.

Then my anger weaken to a bitter pointlessness. Can guess, whatever arrogance he believe, First Runner never go. Nor El Mayor approve. Be squabbling over fantasies.

“Will ask her,” I say softer, gazing still upon the drawings. “Ya, be one other matter. The Marianos question roos in Massa, how I said. And they going keep some roos. Want Christs to make a new Maria.”

“Nay,” he say in voice like sudden knife. “They take no Christs.”

When I look to him, his eyes be dangerous black again. I say tense, “Ain’t yours to worry.”

“They kill you if they doing this.” His voice disgust. “Ain’t heard?”

“Sure I heard. Heard all communications, how they kill me. But what be important, they can have some other plan. If they only catching Christs, be bone. But—”

“Going to do what I will do. Need no instructions, girlish.”

A moment, we be only glaring on each other, hate and nerves. Then Mamadou shake his head again. Walk sudden to the door.

I take frustrating breath, think how I chase him past all staring guards. But when he reach the door, he only fidget at the handle. A petty click result. A lock.

Click be uncanny in my nerves. Already I know, but I say stubborn, while he walking back, “Nay, heed. They think I sent you there to kill their Christs, be only grief. Ain’t sense to—”

When he reach to me, I scare through all my blood. But he only take my ear in hand like casual nothing. Pull its diamond earring free. Consider it with eyes, then slip this diamond in his pocket. My skin still startle from his hand, ain’t comprehend how it be gone.

“I do your expeditions,” he say. “Nor it be no new Maria. They fight our war, then I will take you out of this. What going to be.”

“Nay, NewKing. Ain’t—”

“But when is done — you mine. You comprehending this?”

I touch thoughtless to my ear. Say rough, “Nay, ain’t about that.”

Then, before I can expect, he reach and catch my braids. Raise his other hand, and form it round my throat like choking. I feel my blood beat frightening in his hand. He feel my headlong blood.

Can see his face exhilarate and need. Feel how his kiss will be, and how we struggle on the floor, our knifen-fist of loving war. Yo, tears come vicious to my eyes. Be like a death somehow, be like my love itself go weep.

I snatch his hand out of my hair. Twist free with gasping heart, and say, “Cannot.”

A moment, all his body disbelieve. He move to grab me rough. But then he hold himself, shift back. See me again in hard surprise.

And — what I never seen before — the NewKing hurt for me. He love but cannot, like a normal child who bleed his want. Yo, even this be arrogance in him, be cold and grandiose. Is like a blackness sky that hurt with lightning.

He step back in stiff respect. Say cold, “Is bone, Maria.” Turn like carelessness, stalk to the door without no backward look. Open to a room of startling faces, and he gone.

47. LAST TALKS OF THIS ENORMOUS DAY

TAMARA TRAIL ME BACK WITH CURIOSE LOOKS, BUT I AIN’T GOT NO talk. She leave me by my elevator, and I go up alone. Stare empty at the painting there — white mother smiling foolish while her enfant reach his pinkish hand. Gold rings for death around their heads.

And I come out to my rooms without no expectation fear. Be figuring only if First Runner sleeping still, if I must wake her. How I ask on Massa, and lead her into safe refusal. How El Mayor will help.

Yo, as I walk into the shadow hall, be Driver coming toward.

HE WEAR SOME MARIANO CLOTHES — shirt of fashion white, black pants. This stranger garb show all his skinniness like new surprise. Neck be shrunken in its collar, sleeves hang empty-looking. Ain’t the brother that I known — child who can break a table with simple hands, child solid as a fact — and in my first distress, I want to hide like he be nightmares.

But when he see me, he go easy. Eyes relieve and smile. All his monthen bitterness gone, like dirt that rinse away.

“Been looking for you,” Driver say.

I smile uncertain. “You gratty met.”

Then his eyes sketch to my dress, his smile break into laugh. “Foo, sister. Guess they fix your grooming. You look like one of these.” He reach and stir the glassy dangles on a dandelion light.

My heart light irresponsible. “Dress precieuse yourself.”

He make a face of joke disgust. Find a tabbet on the wall and switch the dandelion on. It light up stupid brilliant, and we both go laugh again.

Driver shake his head, still grinning. “You mind, when you was six, you get some hatred to all clothes? Must sit on you to dress you.”

“Ain’t remember.” I smile foolish. “Remember how you make me wash.”

“I only try this once. Still got a scar.” He touch his wrist.

“That scar been warry cuts. You lying air.”

“Been Ice Cream teeth, it been.”

“Shoo, they sitting on me also. Dress been force, you know that right.”

To this, a weakness trouble in his eyes. He frown away. “The children here… they leave you now? You safe?”

“Ho, guess you heard about their proof?”

He start to nod, but break in coughing. Put fist to his mouth and say between, “Ermano — told us. But — they leave you now?”

My heart go tight again. Remind all Anselm’s threats, the Christs they bringing back from Massa. But I say, “Yo sho. I be Maria now, be past no harm.”

He sigh, and bring another cough. Touch his throat annoying. “Ya, they told us yesternight. Ain’t slept for much.”

“Never thought they tell you, shoo. Be sorry that you worry.”

“Need no sorries.” Driver get his sergeant face, a strict considering. “Ain’t weeping if they kilt the roo, myself. But how you done, be vally.”

“Foo vally. Stubborn, all it is.”

This he leave in disregard. Frown seriose and say, “But, Ice, ain’t want you risking so again. Was thinking yesternight.”

“How again? Been said, is done.”

“Nay, sister. What it is…” He cross his arms, get difficult looks. “Ain’t necessary you go to roos. Should stop you weeks before.”

“Foo, how?” I say, surprise. “Ain’t going to stop me.”

He shake his head. “Yesternight, been thinking. Was my own selfishness, I never stop you. Fearing for myself.” His voice go harsh to this, most like he going to cough again. But he only grit his mouth. Thumb find a posy on his finger, fidget at its redden sore.

Then I comprehend his moods. Child spent the night in waiting for my death, and thinking every guilt. Now his angers be forgot — like how my every gripe at Driver vanish like uncaring things, the day I learn his sickness.

“Shoo, brother,” I say soft. “All this be by, ain’t be no subjects. We warring for the cure now. City going to fight these roos.”

THEN I EXPLAIN THE PLAN ENTIRE — from Pasha’s news of Quantico to my apostle parley. Only, I give this history some changes for his comfort. I tell about the search to Massa, but never mention Christs, or doubts about Anselm’s intentions. And I say easy certainties, that we defeat the roos — how they surprising helpless by our thousand-thousand guns.

As my tale continue, Driver’s eyes flash with peculiar feeling. He smile, but bite his lip and frown again. Look almost shame. Keep rubbing at his throat, like he will soothe its natural fear. All these changes sting my guilt — but I keep talking glad, my voice ring strong.

At last, he smile correct. Say soft, “This grandy city war for us. They roos be sorrier.”

“Truth,” I say with falsen lightness. “Be some sorry roos.”

“Roos coming January, ya?”

“January. Be only a month to wait.”

Driver shake his head and look up smiling to the dandelion light. “A month. Ain’t to believe.”

I watch him now with misery grown. Be comprehending, I must tell these lies to all my Sengles. Ya, Soledad be townie here — will learn all facts without myself. Must beg that she ain’t telling Driver, for no circumstance.

To this, a better notion come. I say, “Ho, Soledad be by?”

His face go harsh. “Nay, why?”

“Only to ask her on this place. Politics, you know how.”

“She gone.” He set his jaw. “I told her I ain’t want her by.”

“Ya?” I say feeble. “Where she gone?”

“Gone where they tolerating murder.”

Now his face be only hatred. Is like our journey weeks, when he been vicious on myself.

I clench my hands. “But, brother… it been reasons why she kilt they feathers.”

“Been reasons she will kill our Crow? She going to shoot him, if you ain’t been by.”

His eyes hate into mine, and I say weak, “Can be. You right.”

“And she must risk yourself? Know why she doing this? To be apostle. Rich without no work.”

“Ain’t been only this. How she believe—”

“Got her religions, sure. But I can live by her?” He clench his hands, then flinch. Frown angry at his posy fingers.

Now my heart be simple hurt. Politics be forgot; yo, any angry vengeance gone. I only feel how Soledad love my brother, all our journey weeks. And without her, he been alone. No Sengle hear his voice. Will be alone in sickness, days to come, in this abnormal place.

But I say, sad past no help, “Ain’t want to live by her myself.”

Driver ease his hands, his eyes gone sensitive with pain. “Ya, need no more talk. She gone. Gone to her people somewhere.” He cough again, and all his face look shaming hurt. He cough again.

“You bone?” I say unhappy. “Sure, must be physicians here.”

“I only need some rest. Ain’t slept.”

“It be a sleeproom by. Was El Mayor there, but—”

“Nay, I got a room below. Be bone.”

Then we standing clumsy, caught in opposites and wants. I glance down to my precieuse dress, my hands in clean unhurt. Muttern soft, “Be bone, yo sho.”

He nod. “Sleep better now I seen you.”

“Sure,” I say. “You only keep yourself. We all be right.”

WHEN DRIVER GONE, I walk straight to the sleeproom. Door still parten, El Mayor — First Runner where they was. I stare on them a longer moment, knowing I should wake them. Convince First Runner from no Massa search. But at last I close the door behind myself with careful softness.

Be tricky work to cross this jumbo bed. I ware on El Mayor — First Runner, how their sleeping change. El Mayor lain with back to me, scarce move with breath. But when I soften down to him, his body startle gentle. I touch my arm around, and his hand fumble to my wrist and pull me to. I form myself against him and he settle into sleep again.

Then I lie to him quiet. He breathe against me, and be relief, how our two bodies know each other. Is like a pharmacy that hush and soften in my blood. Some while, I worry on my Sengle littles, how they bringing here. Fret on the search and Mamadou, on Driver’s sickly looks. But soon, this misery weigh me into sleep. Fall into struggling dreams, and wake sometimes and grip to El Mayor more needy. And sleep again and every sadden kindness be in this; is like I dream into a heaven for all children waste with grief.

Yo, in the farther hours, I wake startling to a noise. Be a pounding note, repeating dull outside the nighten windows. Sound go on persisting, until it inkle in my mind: is bells. Ring for Maria gone, the lover of sad Simón Zelote. Cry her death to every knowledge.

Then First Runner’s voice come by my feet. “Ice Cream? You waking?”

I shift my head to see her. She half risen, looking fright. Her scabben cheek be swollen somewhat, and her left eye open squinty.

She whisper, “What it be?”

“Is only churching music,” I say whispern. “Bells they ring.”

“Ain’t them? The roos?”

“Nay, nothing harm us here. We good.”

But she still look her scary eyes. I take my arm from El Mayor and reach. “Shoo, you come here. It need no fearing.”

She crawl to, cringing low, like she expect these bells crash in the windows. Come to my arms and duck in tight. I go whispering, “Be no roos, be nothing mally here, be safe.” Then I hush and only let her hear my quiet breathing, until her breath come slow the same.

At last, she look up to me, shaming gentle in her eyes. “Ain’t sleep with no one since I been a little.”

“Can share one night. Ain’t mean you little none.”

“Nay, I know. Person going to frighten for a while behind this, Mamadou say.”

I swallow at this name, but say assuring, “Sure they do. He right.”

Then her face tense, like she distrust. She touch her scabben cheek. “You know what been in Massa?”

“Ya, I know.”

“You know.” Her eyes relieve. “And you ain’t feary.”

“Sure. You keep by me.”

“Nay,” she say pickety. “I only think, ain’t necessary children fear from this. You ain’t. The NewKing ain’t.”

I bide a minute in my thought, feel how her smallness breathe. Then I say, “The NewKing never fearing much, no sho. Is even going back to Massa.”

Expect, she scare again, but her bruise face be only puzzles. “Nay. Why he ain’t told me?”

“Decide this while you sleeping. He going to catch some roos. He never fearing them, can see.”

“Can go with him? He said?”

I tense misgiving. Feel the bells continue and I try my mind for help. Yo, First Runner watch in need. Look tiny in her injury, in pinkish Mariano dress with lacy flowers on its neck.

“El Mayor will want you here,” I say. “Can need you, companiera.”

“Nay, Lowell gone,” she say like facts. “You ask the NewKing if I come?”

“My ten, you want to hunt the roos? You shivering here from only bells.”

“Be his to choose,” she say with peeving mouth. “He going to want me.”

“Ain’t think he want you safe?”

“Be safer by the NewKing. Safe as wolves, how Mamadou say. He said he want to leave me?”

Then her eyes beg all their feeling. She start to pick her scabben cheek with fingernail, in nervy fidget. Ya, can see her face grow in betrayals, painful dark.

“Leave your hurt, you do infections.” I touch her picking finger. “Now I going to tell you truth. The NewKing ask for you particular.”

“He ask for me?” Her face clear in relief.

“But he ain’t need you, ya. Child big in years, can keep himself.”

“He ask for me. Yo, see?”

Before I can object again, she nest her head down to my shoulder. Can feel, she find her happy endings, want no onward tale.

Some time, I stroke her shoulder, think vindictions on the NewKing. Bells ring on, sound like they calling fool, fool, fool.

Then, above the sofa, I notice the picture of crossen Jesus — picture I seen yesternight, when we been waiting for our proof. Is painten brownish-reddish, with a blackness sky behind. Jesus agony in his blood and loosen down with pity face. Is like he wanting admiration for his feebleness.

I feel the paining of the bells, and think, Nay, death be easy, coward. And I close my eyes exhausting, holding to First Runner soft. Be gratty we survive our proof. We live into our war.