Read Online The Children by Howard Fast - Free Book Online

Ishky, and then he forgot about Ishky. He clenched his fists.

TWELVE

    S LOWLY, WEIGHING HIS CHANCES, OLLIE ADVANCED TO the battle. Now for Ollie, this was no new thing. Life was, always, eat or be eaten. No law existed beyond the strength of your body, the quickness of your fists. This land he lived in was the land of fang and claw. A man stood in himself; the weak perished and the strong became stronger. And if you were strong enough, you became king. Now he was king.
    They were going to fight. In neither’s mind was there any doubt about that. Nevertheless, in the way of those who live by fang and claw, they could not advance to the fight immediately. Perhaps their challenges and blustering hearkened back to something deep in the human makeup, that civilization has successfully bred out. The trained killer can strike like a snake. They were children of battle; but they were not trained killers.
    Ollie advanced without hate, but he knew how necessary hate was to successful fighting, and, inside of himself, he fanned his rage, thinking of all the vile things that had ever been attributed to Negroes. Wary, perched upon the balls of his feet, his eyes shot about him. Dangerous land this. He tried not to think of that, tried to think only of what he would do to Blackbelly.
    â€œHey, yuh dirdy nigger,” he called.
    Blackbelly eyed him from between thick, dark lids. Blackbelly’s eyes were slits of yellow and brown. He stood like a brown stump on the sun-baked street.
    â€œRun off, white boy,” he said.
    â€œI ain’ runnin’ from no nigger.”
    â€œI’ll break yer ass, white boy.”
    â€œJus’ try it!”
    â€œBoy—yuh wanna fight?”
    â€œI ain’ fightin’ no yella niggers!”
    â€œYer yella.”
    â€œWho’s yella?” demanded Ollie. Then he glanced down at Ishky, who was now sitting up, drawing himself over to one side. Ishky knew what was coming, and he watched eagerly. And Ollie—here in enemy country, with the fight close upon him, Ollie drew quickly upon some fancied kinship of skin. Or perhaps it was the old instinct of the feudal lord to protect his serf. Anyway, he threw a finger at Ishky.
    â€œWhatcha hittim fer, Blackbelly?”
    â€œDoncha call me Blackbelly.”
    â€œI’ll call any goddam nigger what I wan’.”
    â€œDoncha call me dat agin,” Blackbelly warned.
    â€œWhatcha wanna hittim fer?”
    â€œNunna yer goddam business.”
    â€œWhoya cussin’?”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œDen eat it!”
    â€œMake me.”
    Ollie leaped at him. Blackbelly crouched, his arms working like pistons, his feet moving slowly and steadily. Blackbelly was the heavier by a good fifteen pounds, but Ollie moved like a cat, leaping in and out, swaying upon the balls of his feet, pounding always at Blackbelly’s face. Sometimes, they closed, standing toe to toe, beating each other as well as they could. Then they would leap apart, stare at each other, panting. Ollie’s blond skin was splotched and bruised. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.
    Blackbelly wanted to beat the other down. Closer to earth than Ollie, he could see himself standing as he was through all time, and presently the white boy would be gone. Instinctively, perhaps, he knew that there was nothing lasting about Ollie. He himself was too solid to be destroyed, too solid.
    And Ollie fought with red rage in his heart, feeling nothing—unless it was the stretching of time. Minutes appeared to be hours, until it seemed to him that he had been fighting forever. And he would go on fighting forever. Tears streamed down his face, soft curses wrenching themselves from between his clenched lips.
    â€œGoddamit—dat!”
    â€œWhite basted!”
    â€œLousy—”
    â€œYella—”
    Ishky was screaming, “Ollie—Ollie, kill duh lousy nigger, killim, Ollie!”
    Sharp pains in his hands, lights before