The Children (15 page)

Shomake screams, sobs, and tears at a boy. He is thrown to the ground, where he lies sobbing for a moment, but then he is back on his feet, and fighting again. His small, thin form is filled with fury. What has come over him?

Has the entire world gone mad? But no, that is hardly possible. The sun still shines. In fits and starts I am aware of it, placid blobs of light creeping through the trees. But the sun is nothing to me now. I have suddenly become a creature of battle, and my only purpose in life is to fight, to fight and to fight and to fight.

“Dirdy nigger!” I hear Shomake scream. It is the same Shomake.

The curses pour from his lips in a rapid stream as he fights on. Now two of them have the enemy beneath them, and they are beating him unmercifully. How can the gentle Shomake beat a living being like that?

But I have business of my own, and my hands are full. This boy is smaller than I, and he has lost his stocking, so now things are more evenly matched. Tearing at each other, we roll over and over on the ground. We spit and claw and bite. I am crying, and he is crying, too; and while we fight, we hammer words at each other.

“Jew basted!”

“Lousy dinge!”

“Stinkin' sheeney, I'll cutcha up!”

“I'll tear yer nuts off!”

Basted—louse—shid—bitch—sheeney—nigger—shid—sonuvabitch—shidface—

The world is tossing, spinning. But the world has always gone round. Now I am seeing it. How strange to see the world go round!

“Niggerdinge!”

A face to beat at, a black face under me. There is no strength left in my arms, but nevertheless I continue to hammer away. Why doesn't the face disappear into the earth?

Then I am underneath. The world turns, and fists beat into my face. My fists? Hardly. I am crying, a little insane, I imagine. I spit, growl, catch a finger between my teeth.

I bite with all my strength. Warm, sweet blood wells out, and then the finger is torn away. Is it the same finger thrust into my eye? Screaming with pain, I twist my body, punch and claw at the thing above me.

There is no end and no surcease. Ishky has become a creature of battle. As long as the world is, he will fight.

We roll and roll. Dreadful fear comes into my heart; perhaps we are rolling to the edge of the bluff. If that is so, we will roll off, plunge down on the rocks. I surge away from the other, gain my feet.

And then, for an instant, I have a spreading glimpse of the battle. No, it isn't over; they are still fighting, and I know that they will fight on and on. Shomake is crying. Above all the other noise, I can hear him crying.

Why don't they give up? Why don't the niggers run away? Why don't we run away? Why don't I run away? I am only Ishky, and no fighter, nor is Shomake any more of a fighter than I am. Yet we keep on fighting. How is that?

“Goddammnigger!”

“Whitebitch!”

“Shiddinge!”

Face to face, we stand, throwing blows at each other. But there is no more force in the blows, no strength left in either of us. We know that, and we both cry bitterly. Is it possible that here, in the middle of all this fighting, I feel kinship with him? I don't know. I only know that I must go on fighting.

We fall again, roll over in each other's arms, doing no more damage, only hugging tightly. That is what the fighting has come to. Then, suddenly, I hear Ollie scream in triumph. The enemy tears himself from me, and I start to my feet weakly. But I don't run after him.

Can it be that the fight is over? I am dizzy, weak; I can't stop my tears or the shaking of my body. I sit down on the ground, holding my head in my hands. Let them come at me now. It makes no difference anymore. I am through with fighting; there is nothing at all left in me.

But the fight is over. It must be over. I see Shomake, who is standing by himself, crying, and trying to wipe the tears from his face. How small he looks now, and how beaten!

Most of the niggers are gone now. But Ollie is still fighting with Blackbelly. Then how long has it been? If nearly as long as it seemed to me, how is it that Ollie can remain upon his feet and fight?

All that are left are making a circle about Ollie and Blackbelly. Some were chasing the enemy, but now they are coming back. They are all gathering about Ollie and Blackbelly. I go nearer. Shomake is close to me, trying hard to smile. But how can he smile, when he is crying so hard?

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
HEY HAD GONE, ONE BY ONE, AND NOW ONLY BLACKBELLY
was left. He saw the end. Well, he had expected no more than this.

At first, he and Ollie had been together upon the ground, tearing at each other; now they were on their feet, face to face, exchanging blow for blow. And around them, in a crouching, battered, silent circle, stood the gang, waiting. In his fighting, Blackbelly could see that gang; and if red mists of heat and anger brought things to his mind human beings have long forgotten—then he saw the pack, crouched and ready, while the leaders of the pack fought.

Had it been that way once, when men were young? Did he remember, or did he know nothing beyond his fighting? Ollie would not be beaten. Handsome, insolent, blond, and still laughing through his tears of hate, he fought as he had fought in the beginning, lightly, eagerly. And, in that, Blackbelly realized his defeat. Doggedly he battled on, tired, moving little now, his short heavy legs anchored to the ground. He put his wide head down and fought, while tears streamed down his face.

And the pack waited for the kill.

Ollie saw victory. At any rate, the gang was behind him, waiting for his word. And Blackbelly, alone, wept tears of rage and disappointment.

They circled warily. The fight was telling, and their arms were heavy as lead. Ollie's freckled skin was cut and scratched, and in one place, from his cheek, blood was flowing freely. There was no strength left in his arms.

Then Blackbelly went down. Taking a step backward, he tripped over a rock, and in a moment, the gang was upon him. As they piled on top of him, Ollie stepped back and out of it, shaking his head dazedly.

Blackbelly struggled for a moment under the mass of squirming bodies, and then he lay still. And Ollie stood there, staring.

“Holdim!” Kipleg shouted. “Hol' duh black basted!”

“Gottim.”

“Hey, Ollie, whaddya wan' us tuh do?”

“Geesus—”

But he knew it was over, and the fight gone from him at last, he lay still under the pile of bodies. Breathing, his body heaved and groaned, and from between his clenched lips came little moans of pain. But he no longer cried. Now he didn't care. The battle had come, and now the battle was gone, and slowly there filtered into his mind the meaning of defeat.

Hate grew in him like a slow fire, hate so furious that if it had been translated into strength, he could have thrown the pile of bodies from him.

TWENTY-NINE

I
N THE BEGINNING, WHEN THE FIGHT STARTED, THOMAS
Edison was the only one who held back. He crouched alone by a rock, pressing against it, trembling, and from there he saw Ollie and Blackbelly crash. His eyes grew wider as the two gangs spilled into the fight. He pressed his hands to his large face, his mouth hanging open with fear.

But he stayed then; for the sight was fascinating and wonderful and terrible. It was only when the battle surged over toward him that he ran away. Nobody noticed him, nobody remembered him; but he thought that both gangs would be after him. He didn't look back, he was so certain that a mob of screaming boys with murder in their hearts would be speeding after him.

He climbed up and over the rock, and then he stumbled through a clump of heavy thickets. Branches beat at his face, and he fought them aside as if they were living things. He began to climb, until his heart pounded like a triphammer; and then, losing his footing, he rolled back, over and over, like a limp bundle of clothes.

Scratched and bleeding, he brought up against a tree near the bottom of the bluff. There, for just a moment, he lay still; then he stirred, moved his oversize head. He began to whimper like a hurt animal, and he slapped his hands against his face. Holding his eyes tightly shut, he moved his head, as if peering here and there. Then he opened his eyes, stared behind him in terror.

But nobody came—

Groaning, he stood up, and he climbed again. Step by step, he pulled himself along, until he had reached the top of the bluff, where he lay upon his stomach, inert and sobbing.

Then he turned to look. From where he was, the gangs were hidden, but before and beneath him spread the peaceful misty city, the crawling river and the bridges. He stared and stared, and then he smiled. He began to walk, but in a little while he was crying again. His head hurt.

It was a long way back to the block, and he shambled slowly. Often, he looked behind him, and once he said, softly:

“Ollie—I ain' yella.”

On the streets, he ran, and when he reached the block it appeared to open its arms to him. How quiet and peaceful and familiar it was, with its two walls of flat houses, with its sun-baked pavement!

His head hurt terribly. One hand, which he looked at continually, was cut and bleeding, but he didn't mind that so much as his head. It seemed to him that his head was swelling and swelling; and soon it would burst. Then what would become of him? The thought brought tears, and they cut more grooves in the dirt that covered his face.

Almost at his house, he imagined Ollie was calling him, like this, “Hey, yuh goddam Thomas Edison loony!” Stopping, he stared behind him; but there was nobody on the street, nobody at all. Then where was Ollie?

“Awright, Ollie,” he whispered pleadingly.

He came to his house as an animal comes to its lair, opened the door, and crawled slowly into the dim hall. The darkness was good and restful, like a mother. Then he knew that he wanted Oloman.

“Oloman,” he said.

He opened the door, went into the kitchen, where she sat, rocking and knitting—soft rhythm, rocking and knitting. He swayed his head from side to side.

“Oloman,” he said.

She turned to look at him, and then she limped to his side, shaking her old, withered head.

“Poor fool—what have they done to you now?”

“My head hurts.”

“Aye, and you're cut and bruised, poor fool.” She took a wet rag, water, and she began to wash and soothe him, whispering to him all the while.

Ah—there was no one like Oloman, no one at all. He purred and wilted under her hands, stretching himself. But inside his head, it made no difference, and he was still growing and growing.

“Duh head, Oloman.”

“Yes, poor fool—only close your eyes, and try not to think. Thinking is not in its way for such as you. Do not think, and rest that large poor head of yours.”

“Yeah—yeah—”

“And tell the. old woman what happened.”

“Ollie, Oloman.”

“Aye, the beast! Don't I know him for the beast he is, out of my own blood? Tell me what Ollie did to you, my poor scatterbrain fool.”

“He made me fight.”

“Eh? How's that? If he was beating you!—”

“I runaway.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Yes, poor fool, we must know how to run from them that are stronger. That is the only way there is out of it.”

“I fell, den.”

“Poor fool, poor fool,” she sighed.

She sat down, and he pressed up against her, trying to forget his pain in her comfort, in the warm assurance her presence gave him. She rocked and knitted, while he mumbled to himself, pressing his hands against his head. Then he stumbled to his feet. His head was still swelling and swelling; he knew that it would never stop: in that way, it would go on swelling until it burst. But not in here. He knew that it must not burst in here, where everything was so close and comfortable. It would frighten Oloman.

He walked toward the door, slowly.

“Where to now, poor addlebrain?”

He went out of the door, shaking his head, and outside he stood with his face turned up, soaking the sunshine into himself. He smiled a little. Out here— Let it burst, because it would harm nobody but himself. And he was not afraid of the harm it would do him, not afraid anymore.