Free The Country of Ice Cream Star by Sandra Newman

boys?’
    ‘Who–’ My voice choke in my throat. ‘Nay, who will take me? Mamadou?’
    ‘Is Armies. Ain’t no who.’
    ‘Nay, how this be about myself?’
    ‘Shoo, my sister. Ain’t about yourself.’
    ‘Nay, Mamadou ain’t try this. Is only talk. Is only how they insects talk. They never dare.’
    Driver shake his head, frustrate. Turn back to his fire. My weakness dry while he reach out and bed a new log in the embers. Now he grow a silent anger, sure I know him well. I crave to tell him what he need. But Mamadou be red in my hurt conscience. My pride be loud, and I stare blind, and cannot make my mind think sense.
    At last, I say, ‘But while you strong, they leaving us?’
    ‘Ice Cream.’ His shoulders tense. ‘Must think beyond this.’
    ‘But if you keep–’
    ‘I ain’t. You cannot think this way.’
    ‘Nay, posies is our trouble, brother. Can be help for posies. Children live to seventy in sleeper times, you know this tale.’
    Driver stand up from his fire, his lips gone tight in rage. ‘Ain’t sleeper times.’
    ‘Yo sho, the roo–’
    ‘The roo. He give you pharmacies for this?’
    ‘Nay, but–’
    ‘You know he ain’t.’ He spit into the fire. ‘Beast telling lies andbaby children go believe these lies. Can leave me from your noise. This talk be done.’
    ‘Ain’t even listen. If we–’
    ‘Nay, can go. Go on!’
    I stand up to my feet. ‘Ain’t be no slaving. All I say.’ Driver start to me in anger, but I turn by quick and stalk to Money. I catch her mane and mount, kick her into a hasty trot. ABC come chase behind, and bark her worry bright.
    Yo while I ride, my heart be clear. I know what I will do. Be something Driver ain’t forgive, what no good child forgive. But if evil can save Driver, I will love all filth. And I heel Money to a gallop. Already be pulling the pistol from my belt in readiness, as I ride hard to fetch the roo.

10
    OF PASHA ROO HIS LIES
    It been two weeks since we found Pasha Roo, and he accustom well. No one think to fear him now. Is horsen in his mild respect. He townie with our littles, ya, he doing tasks his own. Nor he ever budge to leave. Is there and there, like rooten plant.
    Yo, every day of those two weeks, I ask him on his age. At nighting camp, the roo must talk to me or he ain’t smoke. Most meals I give him from my hand, nor any a bite he take without an answer. Keepers taking gifts from me to teach him English speech. The roo be duteous to this. He always trying, asking words, and soon can talk as good as threes.
    But all my trials end in frustration. Be English or be rooish, he ain’t know one truthful word.
    Our first talk go like this:
    ‘Where your other roos be?’
    ‘Far.’ He give me friendly smile. ‘Ain’t fear.’
    ‘Ain’t fearing, only wondering. And every roo live thirty years?’
    ‘Nay,’ say Pasha, eyes gone careful.
    ‘How you live so long?’
    ‘Ain’t kilt.’
    ‘Nay, why you ain’t got posies?’
    ‘Posies?’
    Here we snag and go no farther.
*
    I tell Keepers to explain him posies.
    Keepers sniff and say, ‘He know this well. You seen his teeth half gone? Was lying rot them out.’
    ‘Nay, he truthful in this case,’ I say, for I ain’t know him yet. ‘Explain him posies, little. Will be cigarettes for you, and meat.’
    Our second parley sound like this:
    ‘Roos all living thirty years?’
    ‘Nay, been lucky, me.’
    I given him a bag of raisin cakes, he eat this vally fast. The sparkly noising of the plastic bag pick at my nerves.
    I say, ‘What luck? You ain’t get posies how?’
    Pasha concentrate on cake. No thought be in his face. His hand slip in the bag, flee to his mouth. Mouth labor like a mill.
    ‘How you ain’t got posies? Hear me speak.’ I reach and grab the bag. His careless hand hit mine and all his body startle.
    He study how I tie the bag. At last, he lick his lips and say, ‘An insect.’
    ‘Insect?’ I stop my tying.
    Pasha start to talk all speeds, his eyes still