* THE *

Other Avon Camelot Books by Lynne Reid Banks

the indian in the cupboard

LYNNE REID BANKS was born in 1929, the daughter of a Scottish doctor and
an Irish actress. In the early part of her life, she trained at the
Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and spent the next five years acting and
writing for the repertory stage. In 1953 she left the stage to become a
reporter, journalist and, finally, scriptwriter. She is best known for
her novel The L-Shaped Room, which was made into a film. The Indian in
the Cupboard, the widely acclaimed forerunner of THE RETURN OF THE
INDIAN, received the 1984 Young Reader's Choice Award of the Pacific
Northwest Library Association and the California Young Reader Medal
Award; it is available from Avon Books.

Avon Books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk
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For details write or telephone the office of the Director of Special
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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

LYNNE REID BANKS

Illustrated by William Geldart

AN AVON «CAMELOT BOOK

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation

105 Madison Avenue

New York, New York 10016

Copyright ©1986 by Lynne Reid Banks

Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 85-31119

ISBN: 0-380-70284-3

RL: 5.5

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S.
Copyright Law. For information address Doubleday & Company, Inc., 245
Park Avenue, New York, New York 10167.

The Doubleday edition contains the following Library of Congress
Cataloging in Publication Data:

Reid Banks, Lynne, 1929-The return of the Indian.

Summary: A year after he sends his Indian friend, Little Bear, back into
the magic cupboard, Omri decides to bring him back only to find that he
is close to death and in need of help. Sequel to "The Indian in the
Cupboard."

[I. Indians of North America-Fiction. 2. Toys-Fiction. 3.
Magic-Fiction]I. Geldart, Bill. II. Title.PZ7.B2262Re1986 [Fie] 85-31119

First Camelot Printing: October 1987

CAMELOT TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA
REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A. OPM 10 9 8

To all those who wrote to me, giving me ideas!

Chapter 1

A Defeat

Omri emerged cautiously from the station into Hove Road.

Someone with a sense of humor and a black spray can had recently added
an L to the word "Hove" on the street sign on the corner, making it
"Hovel Road." Omri thought grimly that this was much more appropriate
than "Hove," which sounded pleasantly like somewhere by the sea. Omri
would have liked to live by the sea, or indeed almost anywhere in the
world rather than Hovel Road. He had done his best to understand why his
parents had decided to move here from the other house in the other, much
nicer, neighborhood. True, the new house was larger, and so was the
garden. But the area was a slum.

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Omri's father objected strongly to Omri's calling it a slum. But then,
he had a car. He didn't have to walk half a mile along Hovel Road to the
station every day, as Omri did to get to school, and again-as now-to get
home in the gloomy afternoon. It was October and the clocks had gone
back. That meant that when he came out of the station it was practically
dark.

Omri was only one of many children walking, playing or hanging around in
Hovel Road at this hour, but he was the only one who wore school
uniform. Of course he took his blazer and tie off in the train and
stuffed them into his schoolbag, but that still left his white shirt,
black trousers and gray pullover. However he mussed them up, he still
stood out among the others he had to pass through.

These others all went to a local school where uniform was not required.
Under other circumstances, Omri would have begged his parents to let him
change schools. At least then he wouldn't have been an obvious outsider.
Or maybe he would. He couldn't imagine going to school with these kids.
After a term and a half of running the gauntlet of their mindless
antagonism every working day, he regarded them as little better than a
pack of wolves.

That group waiting for him on the corner by the amusement arcade. He
knew them by now, and they knew him. They waited for him if they had
nothing better to do. His passing seemed to be one of the highlights of
their day. Their faces positively lit up as they saw him

8

A DEFEAT

approach. It took all his courage to keep walking towards them.

At moments like this, he would remember Little Bear. Little Bear had
been only a fraction of Omri's size, and yet he had stood up to him. If
he had felt scared, as Omri did now, he never showed it. Omri was not
that much smaller than these boys. There were just so many of them, and
only one of him. But imagine if they'd been giants, as he was to Little
Bear! They were nothing but kids like himself, although several years
older. Except that they weren't like him. "They're rats," he thought, to
rouse himself for battle. "Pigs. Toads. Mad dogs." It would be shameful
to let them see he was afraid of them. He gripped his schoolbag tightly
by both handles and came on.

If only he had had Boone's revolver, or Little Bear's knife, or his bow
and arrows, or his ax. If only he could fight like a cowboy or an Indian
brave! How he would show that crew then!

The boy he had to pass first was a skinhead, like several of the others.
The cropped head made him look somehow animal-like. He had a flat,
whitish face and about five gold rings in one ear. Omri should have
detoured a bit to be out of range, but he would not swerve from his
path. The skinhead's boot shot out, but Omri was expecting that and
skipped over it. Then a concerted movement by the others jerked Omri
into evasive action. Speed was his only hope. He broke into a run,
hampered by his heavy bag.

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Several hands reached out to grab him as he passed. One caught and held
fast. He swung the bag and it hit home. The boy released his hold,
doubled over and said, "Uuoogh!" It reminded Omri of the time Little
Bear had fought Boone, the cowboy, and got kicked in the stomach-he'd
made the same noise.

Someone else clutched Omri's flying shirttail and he jerked away hard
and heard it rip. He swung around with his bag again, missed, found
himself turning in a circle after the bag. There was the sound of
jeering laughter. He felt hot rage flood under his skin. He was roused
now, he wanted to stop, to fight; but he saw their sneering, idiot
faces. That was all they were waiting for. They would beat him up-they'd
done it once before and he had stumbled home with a bloody nose and a
shoulder bruised from the pavement, and one shoe missing. His schoolbag,
too. He'd had to go back (Adiel, the elder of

10

A DEFEAT

his two brothers, had gone with him) and found all his books scattered
and the bag torn and half full of garbage.

An experience like that taught you something. He fled, hating himself
but hating his enemies worse. They didn't pursue him. That would have
been too much trouble. But their shouts and jeers followed him all the
way to his gate.

As he turned into it, he slowed down. He was on safe ground here. It was
a different world. The property had a high hedge which shut it off from
the street. The house was a nice house, Omri didn't deny that. He could
see into the warm, well-lit living room, with its familiar furniture and
lamps and ornaments and pictures.

His mother was in there, just putting a match to the open fire. Omri
paused in the twilight to watch. He loved to see the flames. These, too,
reminded him of Little Bear and the tiny fires he had made outside his
tepee, the love dance he had done around his fire when he had married
Bright Stars . . . Omri sighed. It was over a year since that time. But
not a single day had passed without his thinking about his Indian and
all the astonishing adventures they had had together.

Omri had grown up quite a bit in the meantime. There had been moments
when he would almost have liked to believe that he'd made the whole
thing up. A plastic Indian coming alive-absurd! He had tried to push it
to the back of his mind, but it wouldn't be pushed. It was as vividly
real to him as if it had happened this morning.

11

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

The little bathroom cupboard. His special key, which his mother had
given him. And magic. The magic that brought plastic people to life ...
It had happened, all of it . . . And yet, three days ago, Patrick had
behaved in that peculiar way. It had shaken Omri, shaken his belief in
his own memory.

Patrick, too, had moved out of the old neighborhood. When his parents
got divorced, he and his mother and brother had gone right away. This
had happened months ago. At first the boys had written to each other,
but somehow the letters had petered out. There'd been no contact between
them. Until, three days ago, Omri had been walking out the school gate
(their old school- Omri was now in his final year before high school)
and found Patrick waiting for him.

Patrick had grown. He looked different in the face as well. They just
stood in front of each other, grinning, not knowing what to say.

"How've you been?" said Patrick at last.

"All right," said Omri. "Have you moved back?"

"No. We're visiting. I thought I'd come and look at the old school."

They had begun walking towards the station.

"Do you like where you live now?" Omri had asked.

"Oh yeah, the country's all right. Once you get used to it. I've made a
few friends. And the cottage is nice. Seems funny with just the three of
us." Omri didn't press this

A DEFEAT

point. He could hardly imagine life without his dad, but then, his dad
didn't hit him, or hit his mother.

They chatted on rather awkwardly, with some silences, but it got better.
By the time they'd reached the station it was almost as if Patrick had
never gone away, as if they were still as close as they used to be. That
was why Omri didn't hesitate to say, "Where do you keep Boone and his
horse?"

Patrick seemed to stumble as he walked, like a hiccup with his feet.

"Who?"

A little cold shiver passed down Omri's back. He stopped. "Boone."

Patrick stopped too. He stared across Omri's shoulder at the station.
"What are you on about? Who's Boone?"

Omri narrowed his eyes. Could Patrick be serious, or was he teasing? But
Patrick wasn't a tease. "You know perfectly well. Your cowboy." There
was a silence. Patrick was rubbing his thumb against the side of his
finger, a quick, dry, nervous sound. "Like Little Bear was my Indian,"
said Omri. He couldn't quite believe what seemed to be happening, so he
rattled on, "I've still got him, of course. The plastic figure of him, I
mean. Remember? How he sat on his pony with Bright Stars in front of
him, and raised his hand to say good-bye just as we shut the cupboard
door, when we sent them back?"

The silence went on for what seemed like eternity. Then Patrick snapped
his head around and looked into Omri's face. "You're talking a load of
rubbish," he said

13

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

loudly. "I gave you a plastic Indian for your birthday. That's all I
remember." He looked at his watch. "My mum's waiting," he said shortly.
"Bye." And he ran off.

Now as Omri stood outside his new house in the gathering dark, a
possible solution to this troubling and incredible episode came to him.

Maybe Patrick doesn't want to remember, he thought. Because a thing like
that, well ... it makes you different from other people. It's a secret
you can never tell, not if you don't want everyone to think you're
crazy. It's lonely having a secret like that. If Patrick hadn't moved
away, if they could have kept talking about it and remembering together,
then he'd never have denied it, or started trying to pretend it never
happened.

Chapter 2 A Victory

Omri entered the house by the side door, which opened into the kitchen.
His black and white cat, Kitsa, was sitting on the drainboard. She
watched him out of her knowing green eyes as he came to get a drink of
water.

"You're not supposed to be up there, Kits," he said, "you know that."
She continued to stare at him. He flicked some water on her but she
ignored it. He laughed and stroked her head. He was crazy about her. He
loved her independence and disobedience.

He helped himself to a hunk of bread, butter and Primula cheese, and
walked through into the breakfast room. It was their every-meal room,
actually. Omri sat down and opened the paper to the cartoon. Kitsa came

15

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

in, and jumped, not onto his knee but onto the table, where she lay down
on the newspaper right over the bit he was looking at. She was always
doing this-she couldn't bear to see people reading.

Omri felt tired. It had been a long day. He laid his head on his arm,
bringing it level with Kitsa's face, and communed with her, eyeball to
eyeball. He felt sleepy and catlike. When his mother came bursting in,
it gave him a fright.

"Oh, Mum ... I wish you wouldn't bash about like that!"

"Omri!"

He looked at her. She had a strange look on her face. Her eyes and mouth
were wide open and she was staring at him as if she'd never seen him before.

He sat up straight, his heart beating. "What's up?"

"A letter came for you," she said in an odd voice to match her
goggle-eyed expression.

"A letter? For me? Who from?"

"I-I'm afraid I opened it."

She came over to him and gave him a long envelope, torn open at the top.
It had printing on it as well as his name and address in typing. Omri
stared at it. It said, "Telecom-Your Communications Service." He felt
numb inside. It couldn't be. It couldn't be. He didn't touch the letter,
which lay on the table beside Kitsa. For once, his mother didn't even
seem to notice that she was there -normally she chased her off.

16

A VICTORY

"Why did you open it?" Omri asked at last in a croaky voice.

"Darling, because I didn't look at the name. You boys don't get many
letters." She gave a short, rather hysterical laugh. Omri quite saw how
it could happen. He just wished ... he wished he could have been the
first to know.

"Well, go on-read it!"

He picked up the envelope and took out the letter.

Dear Omri,

We are delighted to inform you that your story, The Plastic Indian, has
won first prize for your age group in our Telecom Creative Writing
Competition.

We think it is a superb story, showing extraordinary powers of
imagination and invention. Our judges consider it worthy of publication.

Your prize, £300.00, will be presented to you at a party we are giving
for all prize winners on November 25th in the Savoy Hotel. A special
invitation card will be sent to you.

May we congratulate you on your success. Yours sincerely,

Squiggle Squiggle,

Competition Director for Telecom.

Omri kept his eyes on this letter long after he had

finished reading it. Inside, he was jumping up from his

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

chair, running around and around the room, hugging his mother, shouting
with triumph. But in reality he just sat there staring at the letter, a
deep glow like hot coals in his chest, too happy and astonished to move
or speak. He didn't even notice that his free hand was stroking Kitsa
from nose tip to tail tip again and again while she lay on the
newspaper, purring with bliss.

His mother woke him from his trance.

"Darling? Do you realize? Isn't it fantastic? And you never said a
single word!"

At this moment his father came in from outdoors. He'd been working in
the garden, as he often did, until it was actually too dark to see. Now
he stamped the mud off his shoes in the open doorway, but, for once,
Omri's mother didn't care about the mud, and fairly dragged him into the
room.

"Oh, do come and hear the news! I've been bursting to tell you all
day-Omri-tell him, tell him-"

Wordlessly, Omri handed his father the letter. There was a silence, then
his father breathed reverently, "God in Heaven. Three hundred pounds!"

"It's not the money!" cried his mother. "Look, look what they say about
his story! He must be brilliant, and we never even knew he had writing
talent!" She came to Omri and smothered him with hugs. "When can we read
it? Oh, just wait till the boys hear about this-"

His brothers! Yes. That would be almost the sweetest thing of all. They
always behaved as if he were too thick to do anything. And telling them
at school. His English

18

A VICTORY

teacher simply wouldn't believe her senses. Perhaps Mr. Johnson, the
headmaster, would get him up at Assembly and announce the news, and they
would all applaud, and he would be asked to read the story aloud . . .
Omri's head began to spin with the incredible excitement of it. He
jumped up.

"I'll go and get my copy and you can read it," he said.

"Oh, did you keep a copy?"

"Yes, that was in the rules." He stopped in the doorway and turned. "I
typed it on your typewriter when you were out," he confessed.

"Did you, indeed! That must have been the time I found all the keys
jumbled together." But she wasn't a bit annoyed.

"And I borrowed paper and carbon paper from Dad's desk. And a big
envelope to send it in."

His mother and father looked at each other. They were both absolutely
beaming with pride, as they had when Gillon had come home and announced
he'd broken a swimming record at school, and when Adiel had passed ten
O-level exams. Omri, looking at them, knew suddenly that he had never
expected them to have that look because of him.

"Well," said his father, very solemnly, "now you can pay me back. That
will be eleven and a half pence you owe me." His face broke into a great
soppy grin.

Omri raced upstairs. His heart was pounding. He'd won. He'd actually
won! He'd never dared to hope he would. Of course, he'd dreamed a bit.
After all, he had

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

tried his very best, and it was a great story to begin with.
"Imagination and invention," eh? That was all they knew. The real work
was in the way he'd written it, and rewritten it, and checked the
spelling until just for once he could be confident that every word was
right. He'd gotten Adiel to help with that part-without telling him, of
course, what it was actually for.

"Stirrup? Maize? Iroquois?"

"Iroquois!" Adiel had exclaimed.

"It's the name of an Indian tribe," said Omri. Fancy not knowing that!
Omri had now read so many books about American Indians that he'd
forgotten that not everyone was as knowledgeable on the subject as himself.

"Well, I haven't a clue how to spell it. I-R-O-K-W-"

"No, it's not- it's like French. Never mind, I know that one, I just
wanted to see if you did. Whiskey?"

Adiel spelt it, and then asked, "What on earth is this you're writing?
What a weird bunch of words!"

"It's a story. I've got to get it as good as I can."

"But what's it about? Let me see it," said Adiel, making a grab at the
notebook.

Omri dodged. "Leave off! I'll show you when it's finished. Now.
Bandage?" Adiel spelt this (actually Omri had it right) and then Omri
hesitated before saying, "cupboard?"

Adiel's eyes narrowed.

"You're not telling about the time I hid your so-called secret cupboard
after you'd nicked my football shorts-"

"I didn't-"

20

A VICTORY

"The time the key got lost and you made such an idiotic uproar? You're
not going to put me into any stupid school story."

"I'm changing the names," said Omri.

"You'd better. Any more words?"

Omri read on silently to the next longish word. "Magnanimous."

"Wow," said Adiel with heavy sarcasm. "Bet you don't even know what it
means."

"Yes I do: generous."

"Where'd you get it from?"

" 'The Iroquois were a tribe ferocious in war, stalwart in alliance,
magnanimous in victory,' " quoted Omri.

"You sound like Winston Churchill," said Adiel, but there was a trace of
admiration in his voice this time. "Don't make it too show-offy, will
you? You'll only lose marks if your teacher thinks you've copied it."

"I haven't written that, you jerk, " said Omri, "I'm just remembering
what I've read in a book." He was beginning to relish long words,
though. Later, he went through his story yet again to make sure he
hadn't used too many. His teacher was forever saying, "Keep it simple.
Stick to what you know." Little would anyone guess how closely he had
stuck to the truth this time!

And now . . . "Imagination and invention" . . .

He paused on the stairs. Had he cheated? It was supposed to be a made-up
story. It said so in the rules. Or had it? "Creative writing" meant
that, didn't it? You couldn't create something that had really happened
. . .

21

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

All you could do was find the best way of writing it down. Of course he
had had to make up bits of it; vivid as his memories of Little Bear and
Boone were, he couldn't remember every word they ever spoke. Omri
frowned. He didn't feel entirely easy in his mind, but on the other hand
. . . Nobody had helped him. The way he'd written the story was all his
own. Maybe it was okay. There wasn't much he could do about it anyhow.

He continued more slowly up the stairs to his own room, at the very top
of the house.

22

Chapter 3

The Way It Began

Omri was rather a private person. At least, he needed to be alone quite
a bit of the time. So his room, which was right up under the eaves of
the house, was perfect for him.

In the old house, his bedroom had been just one of several opening off
the upstairs landing, and at certain times of the day had been like a
railway station. His new room was off the beaten track. No one (in his
opinion) had any reason to come up here, or even pass the door. There
were times, now that he had it all arranged to suit himself, when he
forgot about how awful it was living in Hovel Road, when it seemed worth
anything to have a room like this.

It wasn't a very large room, so his father had built a

23

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

shelf high up under the skylight for him to sleep on. This was great,
because he could look up at the night sky. Under this bed shelf were his
desk and more shelves for his collections of old bottles, key rings and
wooden animals. The wall opposite the window was covered with his
posters-a mixture of old and new, from Snoopy and an early Beatles, to
the Police and a funny one about a flasher who gets caught in an
elevator. In pride of place were two large photographs of Iroquois
chieftains that he'd found in magazines. Neither of these Indians looked
remotely like Little Bear, but they appealed to Omri just the same.

His clothes were stored on the landing, so his room wasn't cluttered up
with them. That left quite a lot of space for his beanbag seats, a low
table (he'd sawed its legs to half their length after seeing a photo of
a Japanese room), his cassette radio, and his most recent acquisition:
an old chest.

He'd found this in the local market, coated with dirt and grease, bought
it for £2 after bargaining, and borrowed a cart from a marketman to drag
it around the corner to Hovel Road. He'd cleaned it with a scraper and
some sandpaper out in the garden, before hauling it up to his room.

It had "come up a treat," just as the man in the market had promised.
The wood was oak, the hinges iron, and it had a brass plate on it with
the name of its first owner. Omri had hardly been able to believe it
when he had removed the layers of dirt from this plate and read the

24

THE WAY IT BEGAN

name for the first time. It was L. Bear. L. Bear . . . Little Bear! Of
course it was pure coincidence, but, as Omri thought, "If I were
superstitious-!" He shined the brass every week. Somehow it, too, made
him feel closer to Little Bear.

The chest was not only interesting and beautiful, but useful. Omri used
it for storage. There was only one thing wrong with it. It had a lock,
but no key. So he piled cushions and other objects on it and pretended
it was a bench. That way, nobody who happened to be prying about in his
room (it still happened occasionally, mothers cleaning and brothers
poking about "borrowing") would realize that it contained a number of
interesting and private objects.

Omri knelt by the chest now and shifted to the floor a pile of
cassettes, a Bullworker (he was bent on developing his muscles), some
cushions and three copies of Mad magazine, among other bits of junk.
Then he opened the lid of the chest. It, too, was untidy, but Omri knew
where to burrow. On their way down the left-hand side in search of the
folder containing his prize-winning story, Omri's fingers touched metal,
and paused. Then, carefully, he moved some other things which were in
the way, and eased this metal object out.

It was a small white cabinet with a mirror in its door and a keyhole-an
old-fashioned bathroom medicine cupboard in fact. He stood it on the
Japanese table. The door swung open. Apart from a single shelf, it was
quite empty-as empty as it had been when he'd first received

25

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

it, a rather odd birthday present from Gillon, just over a year ago.

Omri sat back on his heels staring at it.

How clearly it all came back! The cupboard. The strange little key,
which had been his great-grandmother's, and which had mysteriously
fitted the commonplace lock and turned this ordinary little metal box
into a time machine with a difference. Put any plastic object-an ax, an
Indian tepee, a quiver of arrows-into it, close the door, turn the key .
. . and those things became real- miniature but real. Real leather, real
cloth, real steel. Put the plastic figures of human beings or animals
inside, and in the time it took to lock them in, they, too, became real.
Real and alive. And not just "living toys," but people from another
time, from their own lives, with their own personalities and needs and
demands . . .

Oh, it hadn't been all fun and games, as Omri had naively expected at
first. Little Bear was no toy, to submit tamely to being played with. He
was, for all his tiny stature, a ferocious savage, warlike and domineering.

Omri had soon realized that if any grown-ups found out about the
cabinet's magic properties, they would take it, and the Indian and
everything else, away. So Omri had had to keep it secret, and look
after, feed and protect his Indian as best he could. And when Patrick
had found out the secret and sneaked a Texas cowboy into the cupboard so
that he, too, could have a "little person," the trouble really started.

Little Bear and Boone were natural enemies. They

26

THE WAY IT BEGAN

came close to killing each other several times. Even their respective
ponies had caused endless difficulties. And then Adiel had taken the
cupboard one day, the key had fallen out of the lock and been lost, and
Omri, Patrick and the two little men had been faced with the dire
possibility that the magic was dead, that these minute and helpless
people would have to remain in Omri's time, his "giant" world, and in
his care, forever . . .

It was this, the terrible fright they had all had from this notion, that
had finally proved to Omri that he would have to give up his Indian
friend (for friends they were by then, of a sort) and send the little
people "back"-back to their own time, through the magic of the cupboard.
When the key was found, that's what they all agreed on. But it was so
hard to part that Boone (who was shamingly softhearted for a cowboy) had
cried openly, and even the boys' eyes were wet . . . Omri seldom let
himself think of those last moments, they upset him so much.

When they'd reopened the cupboard door, there were the two groups:
Little Bear and the wife Omri had found him, Bright Stars, sitting on
Little Bear's pony, and "Boo-Hoo" Boone on his white horse-only now they
were plastic again. Patrick had taken Boone and put him in his pocket.
And Omri had kept the Indians. He had them still. He had packed them in
a little wooden box which he kept safely at the very bottom of the
chest. Actually it was a box within a box within a box. Each was tied
tightly with string. There was a reason for all this. Omri had wanted to
make them difficult to get at.

27

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

He had always known that he would be tempted to put Little Bear and
Bright Stars into the cupboard again and bring them back to life. His
curiosity about how they were getting on-that alone tormented him every
day. They had lived in dangerous times, times of war between tribes,
wars aided and encouraged by Frenchmen and Englishmen who were fighting
on American soil in those far-off days. Boone's time, the time of the
pioneering of Texas, a hundred years after Little Bear's era, was
dangerous too.

And there'd been another little man, Tommy the British medical orderly
from the First World War-they'd magicked him to life to help when Little
Bear was kicked by his horse, when Boone was dying of an arrow wound . .
. Tommy might, just might still be alive in Omri's world, but he would
be terribly old, about ninety by now.

By putting their plastic figures into the magic cupboard, by turning the
magic key, Omri had the power to recall them to life. To youth. He could
snatch them from the past. The whole business nearly blew Omri's mind
every time he thought at all deeply about it. So he tried not to think
about it too much. And to prevent his yielding to temptation, he had
given his mother the key. She wore it around her neck on a chain (it was
quite decorative) . People often asked her about it, and she would say,
"It's Omri's really, but he lends it to me." That wasn't the whole
truth. Omri had pressed it on her and begged her to keep it safe for
him. Safe . . . not just from get-

28

THE WAY IT BEGAN

ting lost again, but safe from him, from his longing to use it again, to
reactivate the magic, to bring back his friends. To bring back the time
when he had been-not happiest, but most intensely, dangerously alive
himself.

Chapter 4

The Sweet Taste of Triumph

When Omri came back downstairs with the copy of his story, his brothers
were both back from school.

Noticing that their parents were fairly gibbering with excitement, they
were both pestering loudly to be told what had happened, but, being
decent, Omri's mother and father were refusing to spoil his surprise.
However, the moment he entered the room his father turned and pointed to
him.

"It's Omri's news," he said. "Ask him to tell you."

"Well?" said Gillon.

"Go on," said Adiel. "Don't drive us mad."

"It's just that I've won a prize," said Omri with the

30

THE SWEET TASTE OF TRIUMPH

utmost carelessness. "Here, Mum." He handed her the folder, and she
rushed out of the room with it clutched to her bosom, saying that she
couldn't wait another minute to read it.

"Prize for what?" asked Adiel cynically.

"For winning a donkey race?" inquired Gillon.

"Nothing much, it was only a story," said Omri. It was such a long time
since he had felt this good, he needed to spin it out.

"What story?" asked Adiel.

"What's the prize?" asked Gillon at the same time.

"You know, that Telecom competition. There was an ad on TV. You had to
write in for a leaflet from the post office."

"Oh, that," said Adiel, and went into the kitchen to get himself
something to eat.

But Gillon was gazing at him. He paid more attention to ads, and he had
remembered a detail that Adiel had forgotten.

"The prizes were money," he said slowly. "Big money."

Omri grunted noncommittally, sat down at the table and shifted Kitsa,
who was still there, onto his lap.

"How much?" pressed Gillon.

"Hm?"

"How much?-Did you win? You didn't get first prize?"

"Yeah."

31

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Gillon got up. "Not-you haven't won three hundred quid?"

Adiel's face appeared around the kitchen door, wearing a look of comical
amazement.

"WHAT! What did you say?"

"That was the first prize in each category. I thought about entering
myself." Excitement and envy were in Gillon's voice now, making it
wobble up and down the register. He turned back to Omri. "Come on! Tell us."

"Yeah," said Omri again.

He felt their eyes on him and a great gleeful laugh rising in him, like
the time Boone had done a tiny brilliant drawing during Omri's art
lesson and the teacher had seen it and couldn't believe her eyes. She'd
thought Omri had done it somehow. This time was even more fun, though,
because this time he had.

He was sitting watching television some time later, when Adiel came in
quietly and sat down beside him.

"I've read it," he said after a while. His tone had changed completely.

"What?-Oh, my Indian story."

"Yes. Your Indian story." There was a pause, and then Adiel-his
exam-passing brother-said very sincerely, almost humbly, "It's one of
the best stories I've ever read."

Omri turned to look at him. "Do you really like it?" he asked eagerly.
Whatever rows he might have with his

32

THE SWEET TASTE OF TRIUMPH

brothers, and he had them daily, their good opinion mattered. Adiel's
especially.

"You know perfectly well it's brilliant. How on earth did you dream all
that up? Coming from another time and all that? It's so well worked out,
so ... I dunno. You actually had me believing in it. And working in all
those real parts, about the family. Blimey. I mean it was terrific. I
... now don't take this the wrong way, but I can't quite credit that you
made it all up."

After a pause, Omri said, "What do you mean? That you think I nicked it
from a book? Because I didn't."

"It's entirely original?"

Omri glanced at him. "Original? Yes. That's what it is. It's original."

"Well, congratulations, anyway. I think it's fabulous." They stared at
the screen for a while and then he added, "You'd better go and talk to
Mum. She's sobbing her eyes out."

Omri reluctantly went in search of his mother, and found her in the
conservatory at the back of the house watering her plants. Not with
tears-to his great relief she was not crying now, but she gave him a
rather misty smile and said, "I read the story, Omri. It's utterly
amazing. No wonder it won. You're the darkest little horse I ever knew
and I love you." She hugged him. He submitted briefly, then politely
extricated himself.

"When's supper?"

"Usual time,"

He was just turning to go when he stopped and looked

33

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

at her again. Something was missing from her general appearance. Then he
saw what it was, and his heart missed a beat.

"Mum! Where's the key?"

Her hand went to her neck.

"Oh . . . I took it off this morning when I washed my hair. It's in the
upstairs bathroom."

Omri didn't mean to run, but he couldn't help it. He had to see the key,
to be sure it wasn't lost. He pelted up the stairs and into his parents'
bathroom. The key was there! He saw it as soon as he went in, lying on
the ledge beside the basin with its silver chain coiled around it.

He picked it up. It was the first time he'd held it for a year. It felt
colder and lighter than he remembered. Its twisted top and complicated
lock part clicked into place in some memory pattern. And something else
clicked at the same time, something that had been hovering in his mind,
undefined, since he'd read the letter.

His story was original. Adiel had relieved his mind when he'd used that
word. Even if you didn't make a story up, if you had the experience, and
now wrote about it, it was original. So he hadn't cheated. But the story
wasn't only his. It also belonged to the little men-to Little Bear, and
Boone, and even to Tommy, the World War I soldier. (It belonged to
Patrick, too, but if Patrick had decided to deny it ever happened, then
he'd given up his rights in it.)

And suddenly Omri realized, as he looked at the key, that his triumph
wouldn't really be complete until he'd

34

THE SWEET TASTE OF TRIUMPH

shared it. Not just with his parents and brothers, or with the kids at
school. No prize, no party could be as good as what he was thinking
about now. This was his reason- his excuse to do what he'd been yearning
to do ever since that moment when the cupboard door closed and
transformed his friends back into plastic.

Only with Little Bear and Boone could he share the secret behind his
story, the most exciting part of all- that it was true.

He turned, went out of the bathroom and up the remaining stairs to his
attic room.

Not for long, he was thinking. "I won't bring them back for long. Not
long enough to cause problems. Just long enough to have a good talk. To
find out how they are."

Maybe Bright Stars had had a baby by now-a papoose! What fun if she
brought it with her-though it would be almost too tiny to see. Little
Bear had made himself a chief while he was with Omri, but when he
returned to his own place, his father might still be alive. Little Bear
wouldn't like being an ordinary brave again! And Boone-the "crying
cowboy" with a talent for art, a deep dislike of washing, and a heavy
thirst . . . It made Omri grin to think of him. Writing about the little
men and their adventures had made them so clear in his mind that it
hardly seemed necessary to do what he was going to do.

35

Chapter 5

From Dangerous Times

With hands that shook, Omri probed into the depths of the chest till he
found the box-within-a-box-within-a-box. He eased it out and closed the
lid of the chest and put the boxes on top. Reverently he untied the
string on the largest box, opened it, took out the next, and repeated
the operation.

In the last box, carefully wrapped in cotton, was the plastic group
consisting of a brown pony, an Indian brave, and a young Indian woman in
a red dress. The brave's left hand was upraised in farewell, his other
arm circled the woman's waist and held the rope rein. The woman, her
long brown legs hanging on each side of the pony's withers, had her
hands buried in its mane. The pony's head was alertly raised, its ears
almost meeting

36

FROM DANGEROUS TIMES

above its forelock, its feet braced. Omri felt himself quivering all
over as he stood the tiny figures on his hand and stared at them.

"You're coming back," he whispered-as if plastic could hear. But they
wouldn't be plastic long!

The cupboard was ready. Omri stood the figures not on its shelf but on
its metal floor. Then he took a deep, deep breath as if he were going to
dive into a cold, uncertain sea. He fitted the key into the lock, closed
the door, and turned it.

Let it still work. Let it-

He barely had time to think his thought before he heard the tiny,
familiar sound-minute unshod hoofs drumming and pawing on the metal!

Omri let his breath out in a rush. His heart was thumping and his hand
shook.

His fingers were still around the key. In a second he had turned it back
and opened the mirrored door. And there they were-

No. No-!

Omri's fists clenched. There was something terribly wrong. The three
figures were there, all right. The details of life, which the
dull-surfaced plastic blurred, were there again. The shine on the pony's
coat, the brilliance of the red dress, the warm sheen of brown, living
skin. But-

The pony was right enough. He was prancing and stamping his feet,
fretting his head against the rope. As Omri opened the door and the
light fell on him, he

37

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

pricked his ears again and whickered nervously. On his back sat Bright
Stars. But she was no longer in front. She sat back, almost on the
pony's haunches. And before her, but lying face down across the pony's
back, was a limp, motionless form.

It was Little Bear. Omri knew it, although he couldn't see his face. His
head and arms hung down on one side of the horse and his legs on the
other. His buckskin leggings were caked with earth and blood. Omri,
against his will forcing himself to peer closer, saw to his utter horror
where the blood had come from. There were two bullet holes, almost too
small to see, high up on his back.

Omri's mouth was wide open with shock. He looked at Bright Stars. She
was holding the pony's rein rope now. Her other hand rested on Little
Bear's broad shoulders as if to steady him and keep him from sliding off
the pony's back. Her face was frenzied. She had no tears in her eyes,
but they were so round Omri could see the sparks of light in the whites.
Her tiny teeth were clenched in a desperate grimace.

When she saw Omri, she started like a fawn with fear, but then the fear
faded from her face. Her hand left Little Bear's back for a moment and
reached itself out toward Omri. It was a gesture of frantic appeal. It
said, "Help us!" clearer than words. But Omri couldn't move or speak. He
had no notion how to help. He only knew that if he didn't, if someone
didn't, Little Bear would die. Perhaps . . . perhaps he was dead
already! What could he do?

38

FROM DANGEROUS TIMES

Tommy.

Tommy's medical knowledge was not exactly up to date. How could it be,
when he had only been a medical orderly in the First World War? But he
was the best idea Omri could come up with, shocked and numbed as he was.

He beckoned Bright Stars forward with one hand, and while she was
guiding the pony over the bottom edge of the cupboard, Omri reached back
into the smallest box. The plastic figure of the uniformed soldier was
at the bottom, complete with his bag with the red cross on it.

As soon as the cupboard was empty, the horse and riders clear of the
door, Omri slipped Tommy in and closed it again, turning the key forward
and back in a second. That was all the magic took.

"It'll be all right," he said to Bright Stars, as she sat on the pony on
the top of the chest near his face. "Tommy will fix him." Then he opened
the door again eagerly, and reached his hand in.

The bag was there. And the uniform, neatly folded, with the orderly's
cap upside down on top of the pile. And the boots. And the puttees, the
khaki bandages they wore around their legs in that war. Neatly rolled,
inside the cap. Nothing else.

Omri let out a cry. He slammed the cupboard door to shut out the sight
of that neat little pile of clothes, empty of their owner, who no longer
needed them. He knew instantly. He knew that Tommy didn't live to be an
old man. That one of those big German shells he had talked

39

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

about, those "Minnies," or perhaps some other weapon, had struck him
down. His snubby, cheerful face, his bravery and his gentle hands were
gone, with so many thousands of others, into the mud of the trenches.

Omri had never experienced death at close hand. No one he knew well had
ever died. An uncle had "jumped the twig," as his father called it, last
year, but in Australia. A boy at school had been killed in a car crash,
but he wasn't in Omri's class.

The realization of Tommy's death-even a whole year after he had last
seen him-came as a ghastly shock. He had no one to share this with-and
in any case, there was no time. Standing at his elbow was the pony,
tossing his head as if in impatience and heedlessness of anything which
delayed attention to his master. Bright Stars' enormous eyes were fixed
on him. Waiting. Trusting.

Later. He would think about Tommy, and mourn for him, later. Who would
understand better than Tommy that you have to look after the wounded
before mourning the dead? Rubbing his hand across his mouth, Omri looked
around helplessly, and then he faced Bright Stars.

How much English did she know? During her brief time with him, before,
he had never spoken directly to her-she had only spoken to Little Bear,
in their own language. Now he must make her understand.

"No good," he said slowly. "No help."

She looked blank, although the shining hope faded a little from her
face. To make matters plain, Omri opened the cupboard again and took
Tommy's plastic figure-

40

FROM DANGEROUS TIMES

which had come back, replacing the pitiful little pile of his
uniform-and stood it before the Indian girl. She slipped from the pony's
back and, holding the rope, touched the figure.

She seemed to realize at once that there was no help to be looked for
there. She turned swiftly back toward Omri.

"Help. You," she said in a clear, silvery voice.

Omri felt sheer desperation clamp down on his heart, already heavy with
sadness. He followed Bright Stars' pointing finger at the
lifeless-looking body across the pony.

"We must lay him flat," he said at last. It was all he could think of.
But it could not be all he could do. He must think-he must think!

He watched Bright Stars struggling to lift Little Bear's heavy body off
the horse. He helped as much as he dared, terrified his big clumsy
fingers would damage him, but at least he could make his hand into a
kind of platform to lower Little Bear to the ground. With his other hand
he pulled his box of tissues toward him and made a makeshift mattress
out of several of them. At least they were soft and clean. Soon Little
Bear was lying stretched on his stomaeh.

Omri had been through something like this before. When Little Bear had
shot the cowboy, Boone. That time, Tommy had been brought in to help. He
had had some tiny instruments, dressings and medicine. Crude as his
old-fashioned methods were, they had worked. Omri

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

felt poignantly the absence of an old friend, as one does -not just
missing the person, but missing his skills, his role in one's life. For
a moment, he felt almost angry with Tommy for being dead when he was so
badly needed.

Bright Stars, who was kneeling beside Little Bear, looked up. She said
something. It was some Indian word. Omri shook his head. Bright Stars
wrung her hands. She pointed to the two bullet wounds, and said the word
again, louder. It must be some special Indian remedy she wanted. And for
the first time, Omri thought: She might be better off where she came
from. She'd know what to do there.

But at least he could clean the wounds. He knew how to do that much. He
had some mouthwash, horrible stuff his mother made him gargle with when
he had a cold. The bottle was on his shelf. He jumped up and fetched it.
His head was spinning. He was beginning to realize how insane it had
been to start up with this business again; he was remembering the awful
sense of responsibility, the anxiety, the unending succession of
problems to be solved . . . and this time he didn't even have Patrick to
give him occasional support or good ideas.

Patrick . . . But Patrick was useless. He didn't even believe any more.

Omri soaked a bit of the cotton from the box with the disinfectant and
handed it to Bright Stars, making swabbing gestures to show her what it
was for. She caught on quickly. With light, delicate strokes she cleaned
the blood off Little Bear's back. No more seemed to be com-

FROM DANGEROUS TIMES

ing from the holes. Omri, remembering that injured people have to be
kept warm, and noticing that Bright Stars was shivering, snatched up one
of the gloves he'd worn to school and recklessly cut the little finger
off it with some scissors. The Indian was soon inside the woollen
finger, which was like a sleeping bag. Omri and Bright Stars looked at
each other.

"How?" Omri asked. "How did it happen?"

Bright Stars' face grew hard. "Soldier," she said. "Fight. Gun."

"In the back?" Omri couldn't help asking. It was hard to imagine anyone
as brave as Little Bear getting shot in the back.

"Fall horse," she said. "Little Bear lie. Ground. Soldiers shoot." She
pointed an imaginary weapon, a rifle or a musket, gestured one, two,
then waved her hand sharply to show the soldiers had run on, leaving
Little Bear to die.

"You saw this?"

She nodded fiercely. "Woman see. Soldier come village. Braves fight.
Soldier make fire in house. Kill many. Take prisoner. Braves chase. Out,
out-far! Bright Stars hide. See Little Bear fall. See soldier-" She
mimed shooting again. "Bright Stars run, catch pony, bring Little Bear
home to village. All fire! Dead brave! Woman cry! I shut eyes, not see.
Whoosh!" She made a strange noise like a rush of wind. Opened her
eyes-and pointed at Omri with a look of acted surprise.

"And suddenly you were here."

43

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

She nodded. "Spirits bring. You save."

Omri gazed at her. He had not the very faintest idea of what to do, and
here she was, trusting him.

"Don't you think you'd be better at home-in the village?" he suggested
helplessly.

She shook her head violently.

"Village all fire. Dead-dead!" She pointed everywhere on the ground. "No
help. Omri only help Little Bear brother."

Brother! Yes. Little Bear had swapped drops of blood with him in that
last moment, making them blood brothers. He must, he must find a way to
help! But how?

At that moment, Little Bear stirred and groaned.

Instantly, Bright Stars crouched beside him. Omri, whose eyes had begun
to get used to focusing on minute detail once again, noticed suddenly
that she had become fat. Could it be that-? But Little Bear was groaning
and muttering, his legs were twitching. Omri forgot about Bright Stars'
new shape for the moment.

"What's he saying?"

"Say, 'Omri, Omri,' " reported Bright Stars. There was more muttering,
and then she said, "Now say, 'Brother.' " She looked up at him with a
look he couldn't bear.

He stood up.

"Listen," he said hoarsely. "I have to bring help. I need-something ..."
He looked at her. "Lend me your moccasins." He pointed to her feet.
Bewildered but obedient, she bent and took off the soft shoes made of

44

FROM DANGEROUS TIMES

bead-embroidered animal hide, and gave them to him. He wrapped them
carefully in a twist of paper and put them in his pocket.

"Take care of him," he said. "I'll be back."

45

Chapter 6 Going for Help

Omri locked his bedroom door behind him and went downstairs.

It was Friday night (luckily, or he'd have had homework, which he
wouldn't have been able to do). His parents and Gillon were watching
television. Adiel had gone out with friends.

"Mum, d'you remember Patrick?" He spoke very casually.

"Of course I remember Patrick."

"He moved to the country."

"I know."

"I saw him last week."

"Where?"

"Outside school. He said his mother had come back for a visit."

46

GOING FOR HELP

"To her sister, I expect." His mother turned back to the set.

"Her sister? I didn't know Patrick had an aunt!"

"Don't be silly, of course you did. She lived three doors down from our
old house."

Omri frowned, remembering. "With those two revolting little girls?"

"Tamsin and Emma. Bonkins or something. Donkins. They're Patrick's cousins."

"D'you think Patrick might be there?"

"You can soon find out. I've still got her phone number in my book. It's
on the hall table."

Three minutes later, Omri had Patrick's voice in his ear.

"Patrick? It's me. Omri. I've got to see you."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight?"

"It's very important."

"Can't it wait?"

Omri sensed the reluctance in Patrick's voice. He understood it. "No."

"I'm watching a horror film."

"The horror film doesn't start till eleven-thirty," Omri retorted.

There was a silence.

"You're not going to start up with all that rubbish about-"

"I'm coming," said Omri shortly, and rang off.

47

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

He slipped out the back door and was soon running down Hovel Road for
the station.

Some of the shops, and the amusement arcade, were still open. So were
the pubs. Their glass doors let out a friendly glow and lots of loud
voices as Omri dashed past. In the amusement arcade the skinheads were
banging away at the space invaders, not noisy and comradely like the
pub-goers, but grim, intent, each bent over a machine. They didn't
notice him. Omri ran swiftly on, with a feeling of relief. This horrible
street was actually safer by night.

Sometimes you had to wait ages for a train, but tonight Omri was lucky,
though the journey-only three stops- seemed to take forever. At the
other end he began to run again, but he wasn't scared this time. He
found the house of their old neighbor and rang the bell. Patrick came
and stood looking at him in a far-from-welcoming way.

"Well, you'd better come in now you're here," he said.

It was a small house, just like their old one, even to the bicycles
crowding the narrow hall. Omri's mother had said, only half as a joke,
that the reason she'd wanted to move to the new house was so they
needn't ever have bikes in the hall any more. Patrick led the way
upstairs without a word, into a small back bedroom with a pair of
bunk-beds, everything pink and frothy.

"My aunt makes me sleep in this pouffy girls' room," he said. "Glad I'm
going home tomorrow." He sat down on the bottom bunk, leaving Omri
standing. There was a brief silence. Patrick glanced up at Omri. His
mouth was

48

GOING FOR HELP

pinched. His eyes said, "Don't talk about it." He was silently begging
Omri not to. But Omri was ruthless.

"Why are you pretending it never happened?" he asked sharply.

"What?" said Patrick. He had a sullen, stupid look, like those skinheads.

"You know what."

Patrick stared at the floor. He didn't move.

"I brought them back," said Omri.

Patrick stood up so suddenly he hit his head on the top bunk. His face
had gone white. He swore under his breath. Then he said, "I don't
believe you."

"I'm telling you. I put them in the cupboard and the same thing
happened. It-" (he didn't like to use the word "magic," somehow) "it's
still working. Just the same. Only-" Patrick was looking at him now,
frowning, incredulous, as if he'd woken from a dream to find the dream
was still going on. "The terrible thing is, Little Bear's been shot."

After a pause, Patrick muttered something under his breath.

Omri leaned forward. "What?"

"It's not true. None of it's true. We just . . . made it up," he half
whispered.

Omri took his hand out of his pocket and held something out to Patrick.
"Look. And stop kidding yourself."

Almost as if he was fighting fear, Patrick slowly looked. He blinked
several times. Then he put out his hand and

49

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

unwrapped the twist of paper. He stared for a long time at the tiny
beaded moccasins.

"They're real," breathed Patrick.

He turned away to the window and stood looking out into the darkness.
Omri let him adjust. When he turned around, he was the old Patrick
again. Older, but basically unchanged.

"How did it happen?"

Omri had a mad impulse to hug him. Now at least he was not alone with it.

"Some French soldiers shot him. I suppose he was French. You know the
Iroquois were fighting with the English, and the French were against
them. We've got to find a way to get the bullets out, or the musket
balls, or whatever they are."

"Easy," said Patrick. "Get Tommy back."

Omri swallowed. "He's dead."

Patrick's mouth fell open. "Dead?"

"He must have been killed in the war. He said-last time, when we were
sending him back-that he could hear a big shell coming over. I bet it
was the one that got him."

Patrick stared at him, aghast. "D'you mean if we hadn't sent him back at
that minute-"

"I don't think that's how it works. His-his real, big body-that must've
still been there, in his time, lying asleep in the trench. The shell
would have killed him anyway."

Patrick pushed his hand through his hair.

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GOING FOR HELP

"And you say Little Bear's hurt?"

"Yes. Bright Stars is with him. She thinks the spirits brought her to me
to help save his life. I've got to do something. And I don't know what."
Omri checked the shrill edge of desperation in his voice.

Patrick sat still, thinking.

"What's happened to all your old plastic people?" he asked at last.
"That we used to play with."

"I think they're up in our loft."

"Mum threw mine away."

"Threw them away?" asked Omri, unbelievingly. "Without asking?"

"I hadn't played with them for ages."

"Why, anyway?"

"Look," said Patrick. "We've lost Tommy, but the magic still works. If
we could find a modern doctor-figure, he'd be even better."

This disloyalty to their dead friend struck both of them at once, and
Patrick flushed.

"I didn't mean . . . Tommy saved Boone's life, I know that. But we've
got to be realistic. There've been a lot of advances. New drugs, new
techniques. Haven't you got anyone in your collection who might-?"

Omri thought, and then shook his head.

"All mine were cowboys and knights and soldiers and stuff like that," he
said.

Patrick stood up.

"But there are modern ones. I've seen them. I've seen them very
recently." His face changed. He almost yelled:

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Wait!" and rushed from the room. A few minutes later, he was back.

"Look!"

In his hand was a large, flat cardboard box of brand-new plastic
figures. They weren't soldiers, or Indians. They were ordinary people
from now. One look told Omri what sort. Professional people. There was a
judge in a long wig, and several lawyers. There were businessmen with
briefcases, one in a bowler hat. There were scientists in laboratory
coats. There was a nurse. And-Omri let out a shout-there were doctors.
Two of them, to be exact. One was an ordinary doctor with a stethoscope
around his neck. And the other was a surgeon, in a green gown and mask.

Almost gibbering with excitement and relief-he felt as if he were
looking into Aladdin's cave-Omri peered closer. The man was bent over an
operating table. Yes! What Omri had been hoping for was the"re!
Instruments -trays of them-all part of the same group! Little Bear was
as good as saved!

"That's it!" he cried. "Come on, let's go!"

But, incredibly, Patrick was hesitating.

"What's wrong?" asked Omri impatiently.

"They're not mine."

"Oh, so what?-Whose are they?"

"My cousin's. She got them yesterday, for her birthday."

"We'll give them back!"

52

GOING FOR HELP

"Tamsin goes mad if you touch her things. She's sure to notice it's gone."

"But Little Bear may be dying."

Patrick gave a shrug. "Okay. Better wrap them up."

They found an old Safeways bag and dropped the whole box in. They were
just going downstairs when a door opened and a girl Omri remembered only
too well came out into the hall. Patrick stopped dead like a burglar
caught in the act.

"Oh, God, it's her," he muttered. "See you later . . ." But he didn't
turn tail. They just kept on going toward the front door.

Tamsin barred their way. She was a big girl for her age, with a
pronounced jaw and scowling brows.

"Where're you off to, Paddywack?" she asked tauntingly. She ignored
Omri, although she recognized him. They'd never been precisely pally.

"I'm going out for a bit."

"Does your mum know?"

"I was just going to tell her."

"I bet."

"I was. Excuse me."

As he brushed past her, some possessive instinct must have warned her.
She grabbed the bag. Patrick hadn't expected this, and let go of it. In
a flash she had opened it and peered in. The face she raised was
suddenly flushed with fury.

"You're stealing my present!" she said, slowly and menacingly.

53

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"No we're not! We were only borrowing it for the night."

"For the night! Are you crazy? I wouldn't let you borrow it for five
seconds."

Something was boiling up in Omri's head. There went everything they
needed to save Little Bear. That wretched girl was clutching it to her
as if they were trying to part her from a bag of gold.

"We were going to ask you!" he babbled untruthfully. "Please lend them
to us!"

'Wo." Her face and voice were of stone. He knew she would never give
way. An impulse born of desperation seized him. He reached out and tried
to snatch the bag back from her.

54

GOING FOR HELP

She held on, and screeched. The bag tore, the box fell out and its lid
came off. There on the floor lay the whole array of figures, held firmly
to their backing by elastic string. Omri didn't hesitate. He simply fell
on top of them, his fingers under him, clutching and wrenching. Tamsin
fell on top of him, clutching and wrenching him. He felt his ear being
wrung half off, his head being pounded, and his ankle kicked, sharp as a
dog bite, by Tamsin's pointed shoe. As they writhed, first one bicycle
and then a second crashed down on top of them.

A moment later a door slammed and an exasperated adult voice roared:

"Have you kids gone mad? Stop it this instant! Tarn-sin-!"

She and the tangle of bikes were hiked bodily off him, putting a stop to
the immediate torture, though aches lingered.

"They're nicking my present! They're nicking my models!" shrieked the
dangling Tamsin, threshing all her limbs in the air like a monstrous spider.

"Patrick?"

But Patrick was already at the front door and Omri was scrambling to his
feet.

"We don't want her models," he muttered. "It was only a joke!" And
before more could be said, they were outside.

Patrick's mother appeared in the doorway, crying after them: "Where do
you boys think you're'going?"

55

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Patrick yelled back, "I'm sleeping over at Omri's!" "Come back!" called
his mother. "You haven't got

your toothbru-u-ush!" But they were already around the

corner.

Chapter 7

Matron

Under the first streetlamp, Omri pulled up. His heart was hammering.

"Well?" asked Patrick eagerly. "Did you get it? Let's look!"

Omri had something in his hand. But he knew it wasn't the one he'd
wanted. It wasn't the surgeon-he would have been able to feel the square
shape of the operating table. It was a single figure. He held his hand
closed around it, afraid to look. What if it was only a lawyer or that
idiotic bowler-hatted businessman?

Slowly, in an agony of suspense, Omri uncurled his fingers. Both boys
slumped with despair. Omri gave a deep groan.

Then Patrick rallied.

57

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"It could be worse. Nurses have to know something."

"They can't operate. They're not trained."

"It's better than nothing."

They walked on, Omri sunk in gloom. Patrick kept trying to cheer him up.

"Listen. If he can hang on till tomorrow, we can go out and buy anything
we like. At the model shop they'll have the same set. Meanwhile at least
the nurse will be able to tell us how bad he is."

"If she doesn't drop dead when we bring her out of the cupboard," said
Omri. He was cursing himself for not managing to grab the surgeon. He
would also, incidentally, have liked to jump up and down on Tamsin's
stomach until she burst like a balloon. He was bruised all over.

Patrick of course had never seen the district where Omri now lived. As
they came out of the station, he paused, glanced down Hovel Road and
said, "Blimey. This is a bit rough."

Omri said nothing. They began to hurry towards his house.

"What are the kids like around here?"

"Well. You have to stand up for yourself."

They were passing the amusement arcade-on the other side of the street,
of course. It was just closing. The proprietor, a surly-looking Sikh,
was urging everyone out. There was a good deal of swearing, jeering and
shoving. A scuffle started. A rather small skinhead jostled an older
boy, who reacted by hurling him unceremo-

58

MATRON

niously into the road, where he was narrowly missed by a passing car.

"Crumbs!" exclaimed Patrick. "Did you see that?"

"Yes, and it'll be us next if they spot us," said Omri. "Come on!"

Omri's mother opened the door to his knock. She was furious.

"Where on earth have you been? Don't you ever go out again at night
without telling me-I've been frantic! Oh. Hallo, Patrick, fancy seeing
you. Are you planning to spend the night?"

Patrick looked daunted, but Omri had no time to pacify his mother. After
a brief "Sorry, Mum!" he dragged Patrick after him up the stairs, deaf
to her enquiries about where he'd been and where Patrick would sleep.

As soon as they had the door of his bedroom shut behind them, Omri
switched on the main light. He'd left his bedside lamp on so Bright
Stars wouldn't be in the dark. Patrick cautiously approached the chest,
his eyes wide, as if his unbelief had come back to him, and the sight of
the living miniature people struck him afresh as incredible. Bright
Stars had jumped to her feet as they came in. She recognized Patrick at
once and raised her hand to greet him.

"Hallo, Bright Stars," he said softly. "How's Little Bear?"

She stepped aside and pointed. Little Bear's eyes were open. They were
big with pain. He fastened them on

59

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Patrick, and then saw Omri. He didn't speak, but a look of joy came over
his face. He closed his eyes.

"Omri help now?" asked Bright Stars beseechingly.

"We're going to try." He wanted to tell her not to be too hopeful, but
he couldn't. He brought the figure of the nurse out of his pocket. He
and Patrick examined it again.

"She's wearing one of those weird high hats," said Patrick. "When I was
in hospital having my tonsils out, nurses with those sort of hats were
important. All the others scurried about when they came into the ward."

"Maybe she's a matron?" said Omri, who though he hadn't ever been in a
hospital, did not watch TV for nothing.

"Yeah, something like that. Come on, let's do it."

No matter what the circumstances, this was always a thrilling moment.
Into the cupboard went the little female figure in its blue uniform
dress and white apron and elaborate cap. Would she be old or young?
Awful or nice? Above all, how would she react when she saw them?

In the past the little people they had brought to life had been
superstitious enough, or drunk enough, to accept the fantastic
situation. Even Tommy had been easy to convince that he was dreaming.
But a modern person might have much more trouble accepting the facts.

A quick turn back and forth of the key, and instantly a severe voice
could be heard calling from inside the cupboard:

60

MATRON

"Nurse! NURSE! Phone through immediately and tell Maintenance there's
been a power cut in Ward 12! No need for alarm, ladies, just a little
electrical failure; we'll have the emergency generator working in no time!"

Omri opened the cupboard door.

"Ah!" cried the voice. "That's more like it! Now, what was I-"

And it stopped.

Omri swung the door right back. The matron stood there on the shelf
where they had put her, her hands coming slowly away from her hips. She
looked at the two enormous faces for a few seconds. Then she covered her
eyes, rubbed them, shook her head briskly, and looked again. Then she
said, "What's this, then, boys, some kind of trick? Put the mirrors away
and get back to your beds." Then, when nothing happened, her face
suddenly went as white as her cap. She did a kind of spin on one heel
and fell straight backwards off the shelf.

Omri just managed to catch her. He'd been half expecting something of
the sort. She lay in the palm of his hand in a dead faint. Omri marveled
at the feeling of her tiny warm limp body, in its crisp starched
clothes, alive . . . He transported her gently to the chest and showed
her to Bright Stars.

"White woman dead?" she asked, aghast.

"No, no. She's just had a fright. Make her sit up and put her head
between her knees." He showed her how. Bright Stars wasted no time.
After a minute or two, the matron showed signs of reviving. The first
thing she did

61

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

was reach up to check that her cap, which was like a white organdy
castle with flying buttresses and banners, was still in place.
Miraculously, it was.

She scrambled to her feet and stared around her. She was middle-aged,
Omri guessed from her face and voice. She wore glasses and no makeup and
looked formidable. He was glad that he was not a patient in her charge.
At the same time, she did look as if she knew her job-if only she was
not too terrified to do it.

He cleared his throat.

"I know it's hard to believe," he began, "But you've come through a
magic cupboard which has made you very small. Please don't be
frightened. You can think it's a dream if you like, or some kind of
trick, but there's nothing to be afraid of. After you've helped us, you
can go back to your . . . your normal life. Would you mind telling us
your name?"

The woman opened and shut her mouth several times like a goldfish. Then
she managed to say, very faintly, "You may call me Matron." Then she
swayed and put her hand to her forehead. "I must be going mad!" she
muttered. And she looked as if she might fall over again.

"Please! You're not mad. Don't faint!"

Matron stiffened at once and lifted her chin.

"Faint'? Me? Don't be absurd, I've never fainted in my entire life!" She
straightened her splendid cap and stared at them haughtily. "Matrons
don't faint! The very idea."

62

MATRON

Patrick opened his mouth, but Omri nudged him into silence.

"I beg your pardon," he said.

"Not that I wouldn't be grateful for a strong cup of tea," she remarked
severely. "Especially if there's any work to be done."

"There is!" Omri exclaimed eagerly. "I'll get you some tea later, but
could you please look at a patient for us?"

Bright Stars was already almost pulling Matron over to where Little Bear
was lying on the ground.

"Dear me," murmured the Matron. She adjusted her cap and her glasses and
knelt down beside Little Bear's prone form. After a brief but efficient
examination, she rose, looked over her glasses at Bright Stars,
evidently decided she was innocent of any crime, and turned her accusing
gaze on the boys.

"This man," she announced, "has been shot in the back."

"Yes, we know," said Omri.

"He needs an immediate operation to remove the bullets."

"We know," said Omri. "Only, they're not bullets, they're musket balls.
You see-"

"He must be taken at once to the nearest hospital. I recommend my
own-St. Thomas's."

"Matron," said Patrick.

"Yes, young man?"

"We can't. You see, St. Thomas's is our size, and he is

63

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

your size. They wouldn't be able to help him. Everything would be too
big for him. Don't you see?"

Matron closed her eyes for a moment, swayed visibly (Omri stretched out
a hand to catch her) and then righted herself with an effort.

"This is exceedingly peculiar," she said, "to say the very least. I
don't profess to understand what has happened to me. But still . . .
press on! What do you suggest?"

"Could he hold out until tomorrow?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Most unwise."

Omri's heart sank. "Couldn't- couldn't you do it?"

The Matron started violently. "/-? Perform the task of a surgeon? Such a
thing would be unthinkable. The etiquette of the medical profession
absolutely forbids it."

"But if it didn't?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean-could you do it, if you were allowed to?"

" 'Allowed to'! It is not a matter of permission."

"Well, then?-You see," Omri said, and now the same imploring note crept
into his voice as had been in Bright Stars' eyes, "there's no one else."

Matron turned and stared down at Little Bear for a long moment.

"But I have no equipment," she said at last.

Patrick threw back his head with a groan. "That's true

64

MATRON

. . . Of course! No one can operate without instruments! Why didn't we
think of that?"

"I did think of it," said Omri. "We've got instruments. Sort of."

Patrick turned to gape at him. "Where?" For answer, Omri reached again
for the plastic figure which had once been Tommy. Silently he put him
back into the cupboard and turned the key. When he opened the door,
there once again was the neat pile of clothes, the boots-and the bag
with the red cross on it.

Chapter 8

The Operation

"You're brilliant, " breathed Patrick as Omri delicately picked up the
tiny object. With his free hand he overturned one of the boxes in which
the plastic figures had been stored, spread Kleenex on it, and set the
bag in the middle.

Matron bustled over with a swish of starched apron. She started a little
at the sight of the battered old bag, but not half as much as she did
when she opened it. She fairly reeled back.

"Are you seriously suggesting that I pull bullets out of a man's back
with this antiquated collection of museum pieces!" she almost shrieked.

"Are they so very different from what you use today?" asked Omri
desperately.

66

THE OPERATION

Matron gingerly plucked a tiny hypodermic syringe from the bag and held
it up like a dead rat between finger and thumb.

"Look at it! Just look! I ask you!"

"Matron," Omri said earnestly. "You don't seem to understand. That's all
there is. It's the best we can manage. If you can't do it, he'll die.
Our friend. Please! All we ask is that you try."

Matron gave Omri an enigmatic look. Then she took hold of Tommy's bag
and briskly emptied it on the padded table. All sorts of microscopic
things came out. The boys could just make out the rolls of bandages,
dressings, dark bottles, and instruments packed in flat cases. She
examined these very minutely and then straightened up and said, "Of
course this is some kind of nightmare. But even in nightmares, it is my
policy to do my best."

Omri and Patrick clutched each other.

"You mean, you'll do it?"

"If you can provide me with an operating table, a bright light, some
disinfectant, and a strong cup of tea."

Omri could, and did, provide all those things. By this time it was one
o'clock in the morning and the whole household was fast asleep, but he
tiptoed downstairs and fetched disinfectant, cotton, some clean
handkerchiefs, and an electric kettleful of boiling water. He also
detached the cap from a tube of toothpaste and washed it out. That was
for a mug. Then he made some strong tea with a tea bag and added milk
and sugar. He hoped she

67

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

took sugar. He carried all this on a tray up the stairs very quietly.

When he returned to his room, Patrick had fixed up the box as an
operating table. Omri's bedside lamp, which had a flexible neck and a
100-watt bulb-his mother had a thing about reading in a bad light-had
been moved onto the chest. The light shone straight down onto the table,
making no shadows. There was Kleenex spread everywhere. It looked very
hygienic. Little Bear had already been laid on the table, and Matron,
armed with a tiny pair of scissors, was soon cutting up a handkerchief
to make a surgical gown for herself and an operating sheet for Little Bear.

"I shall need an assistant," she said briskly. "What about the Indian girl?"

"She doesn't speak much English."

"We'll see. She looks bright enough." She beckoned Bright Stars, who was
already at her elbow. "How!" she said in a loud voice. Bright Stars
looked puzzled. "When I point-you give," Matron went on. Bright Stars
nodded intently.

"You say. I do."

Omri was directed to pour a drop of disinfectant and some of the boiling
water into a small tin lid Patrick had prized off a box of candy-drops.
The water turned white. Matron dropped the instruments in, and after
some moments, poured off the liquid into another lid. Meanwhile, Omri
was dipping up a few drops of tea into the toothpaste cap.

68

THE OPERATION

"Ah! Thank you, dear," she said when she saw it. She seemed quite
cheerful now. She picked up the cap in both hands. It was, to her,
almost the size of a bucket, but she drank most of it at one go, and
smacked her lips. "That's more like it! What spinach is to Popeye, tea
is to me! Now then, let's get on with it."

The boys saw very little of the operation itself. The light shone
straight down on the white-covered table. Matron stood with her back to
them, working silently. Every now and then she would point at something
on the tray. Bright Stars would swiftly pick it up and hand it to her.
Only once or twice did she fumble, and then Matron would snap her
fingers impatiently. For a long time there was not a sound except the
occasional stamp of the pony's foot or the clink of metal.

Then Matron said, "I do believe we're in luck."

The boys, who had been afraid to come too close, though Matron had made
them both tie handkerchiefs around their faces, leaned forward.

"One-er-ball went in one side and straight out the other. Missed his
lung by a hairbreadth, I'm thankful to say. I've patched that up as best
I could. Now I'm playing hide-and-seek with the other one. I think it's
lodged against his shoulder blade. Not far in. I ... think . . . I've .
. . got it. Yes!" She made a sharp movement and then held up a minute
pair of tweezers. Whatever they held was far too small to see, but the
tips were red and Omri shuddered. Matron dropped the bit of metal into
the tray with a ping. Suddenly she began to laugh.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Whatever would St. Thomas's surgical staff say if they could see me
now!" she gurgled.

"Will he be okay?" Omri asked breathlessly.

"Oh, I think so! Yes, indeed! He's a very lucky lad, is your Indian friend."

"We're all lucky to have found you," said Omri sincerely.

Matron was stripping the wrapper off a large field dressing. "First
World War dressings," she was murmuring. "Amazing how they've lasted! As
if they were made last week!"

She indicated to Bright Stars that she should help her apply it to
Little Bear's back. Then they bandaged him between them, and after that
she wiped her perspiring face on a scrap of cotton.

"You can turn the light off now," she said. "Phew! I'm hot." Her
towering cap was collapsing like an ice palace, but she didn't seem to
care. "Any more tea?-What an experience! Wouldn't have missed it for the
world. Always thought I could do simple ops as well as any of those fat
cats . . . Oh dear, what am I saying?" And she chuckled again at her own
disrespect to professional etiquette.

After swigging down another bucket of tea and making sure Bright Stars
had some too, she checked Little Bear's pulse, gave Bright Stars some
simple instructions, and then said, "Gentlemen, I think, if you don't
mind, I'd better be getting back to St. Thomas's. Goodness alone

70

THE OPERATION

knows how they're coping without me! I'm afraid the unthinkable has
happened and I have fallen asleep on duty ... I will simply never live
it down."

She shook hands with Bright Stars, and then gave her a pat-not on her
shoulder, oddly, but on her stomach.

"Take care of your husband," she said. "And take care of yourself, too."
Bright Stars looked shy. "You'll have a nice surprise for him if he
doesn't come to very soon!" Then she waved to the boys, straightened her
wilted cap and, hiking up her skirt over her black stockings, clambered
back into the cupboard.

When she'd gone, Omri watched Bright Stars settling down at Little
Bear's side. He was still lying on the "table," warmly wrapped up and
sleeping soundly.

"What did she mean about a surprise?" he asked Patrick, who was yawning
hugely.

"Oh, come on! Didn't you notice?"

"Notice what?"

"Her big belly. She's going to have a baby."

"A baby! Wow! That'd be great!"

"Are you nuts? That's all we need!"

"Indian women manage by themselves," said Omri, who'd read about it.
"They don't make any fuss. Not like our mothers."

"I should think any mother'd make a fuss if she had to have you," said
Patrick. "Where do I kip?"

Omri was beginning to feel exhausted too, but it seemed heartless to go
to sleep.

Chapter 9

A Good Luck Piece

Little Bear's recovery was little short of miraculous. The operation was
a complete success. By the next day he was sitting up, demanding food
and other services, not particularly grateful for his deliverance and,
in general, very much himself as Omri remembered him.

He was unable to hide his delight at seeing Omri again. He tried to
conceal his feelings behind a mask of dignity, but through his wooden
expression his black eyes gleamed and a grin kept twitching at his stern
mouth.

"Omri grow much," he remarked between slurps of a mug of hot instant
soup. (There was a distinct shortage of toothpaste tops throughout the
house, which Omri's mother was to remark on.) "But still only boy. Not
chief, like Little Bear."

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A GOOD LUCK PIECE

"Are you a real chief now?" Omri asked. He was sitting on the floor
beside the chest, gazing in rapture at his little Indian, restored to
him, and, almost, to health.

Little Bear nodded impressively. "Father die. Little Bear chief of tribe."

Omri glanced at Bright Stars. How much had she told him of the tragedy
which had overtaken their village? She seemed to understand his thought
and signaled him quickly behind Little Bear's back. Omri nodded. Much
better not to say too much until Little Bear was stronger. He hadn't
asked any questions yet.

Patrick had stayed for breakfast and then, reluctantly, phoned his
mother. He came back up to Omri's room looking bleak.

"She says I've got to come back," he said. "We're leaving today. I asked
if I could stay and come back later, but she said I have to leave here
in an hour."

Omri didn't say anything. He didn't see how Patrick could bear to leave.
To make matters worse, Omri's parents had particularly asked if he could
stay over another night. They were going to a party that evening and
would be home late. Adiel and Gillon would be out too. There'd be a
baby-sitter of course, but she was a stodgy old lady, and Patrick would
be company for Omri. Omri thought Patrick's mother was being entirely
unreasonable, and said so. Patrick was inclined to agree.

Meanwhile, they had this hour. They decided to spend it talking and
doing things for the Indians. The first thing Little Bear asked for was
his old longhouse, built by

75

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

himself when he'd been with Omri last year. Fortunately, Omri still had
it, or what was left of it. It had been made on a seed tray packed with
earth, but this had dried out in the interval, so that several of the
upright posts had come adrift and some of the bark tiles, so carefully
shaped by Little Bear and hung on the crosspieces, had shriveled and
dropped off.

When Little Bear saw his derelict masterwork he had to be forcibly
restrained from leaping out of bed immediately to repair it.

"How Omri let fall down? Why Omri not mend?" he shouted wrathfully.

Omri knew better than to argue.

"I couldn't do it like you can," he said. "My fingers are too big."

"Too big!" agreed Little Bear darkly. He stared at the longhouse from
his bed. Omri had spent the early hours, before anyone was awake, making
him a better bed from two matchboxes, giving him a headboard to sit up
against. His mind was roving in all directions, thinking of ways to make
Little Bear and Bright Stars more comfortable. He still had the old
tepee ... As soon as the Indian was a bit better, he would probably
prefer to use that, for privacy. Omri had fixed a ramp leading onto the
seed tray, and Bright Stars had begun to go up and down it carrying
bedding into the tepee, like a little bird making its nest. A fat little
bird . . . Omri wondered, watching her stagger to and fro, how long it
would be before her baby came.

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A GOOD LUCK PIECE

He was busy giving her a water supply. It was a sort of pond. The
container was the lid of a coffee jar, sunk into the earth of the seed
tray near the tepee. He was now making a proper bucket out of one of the
toothpaste caps, by piercing two holes in the sides with a needle heated
red-hot in the flame of an old candle he'd found, and threading in a
handle made from a bit of one of his mother's fine hairpins. That would
make it easier to carry. Of course, that was just the beginning of all
the things that would be needed if they stayed long.

Bright Stars vanished into the tepee, and Little Bear, who had been
watching her too, beckoned Omri closer.

"Soon I father!" he said proudly, and hit himself on the chest. A flash
of pain crossed his face.

"Yes," said Omri, "so you'd better rest up and get well."

"I well!" He shifted restlessly about on the matchbox bed. Suddenly he
said: "Where other brother?"

"What do you mean-my brothers?"

"No! Little Bear brother! Blood brother, like Omri."

It occurred to Omri and Patrick at the same moment whom he meant.

Patrick had also been busy. He had gone outside earlier and dug up a
very small turf of grass from the garden -a piece of living lawn about
six inches square, a paddock for the pony to graze on. It was to have a
fence around it, which Patrick was making out of twigs, string and glue.
Now he looked up from this with an unreadable look on his face.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"When your mum threw your models away-" began Omri slowly.

"Yeah?"

"Did she get rid of ... all of them?"

"As far as I know."

"You really are the pits, " said Omri between his teeth.

"Me? Why?"

"I suppose you just threw him in with the others and left him for your
mum to chuck in the dustbin!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know darn well! Boone."

Patrick dropped his eyes. Omri couldn't tell what he felt. He seemed
almost to be smiling, but Omri felt suddenly so furious with him that
this only made him angrier.

Though they had spoken quietly, Little Bear's sharp ears had caught the
gist.

"Who throw Boone? I want! Want see blood brother! Who throw, I kill!" he
roared.

Bright Stars emerged from the tepee at the first roar and darted to his
side. She forced him to lie on his back and pinioned him to the bed by
main force until he calmed down a little and evidently promised her to
behave. Then she hurried to the edge of the chest with a gleam in her
eyes that boded no good at all.

"Where Little Bear brother?" she demanded. "Little Bear want! No good
him get angry! Omri bring Boone. Now."

Omri's insides seemed to be churning up with an an-

78

A GOOD LUCK PIECE

ger no less strong than the Indian's. He turned on Patrick.

"You must have been mad to let your mother throw him away! Just because
for some idiotic reason you wanted to pretend none of it ever happened!
I'm going to kick your head in, you dim wally!" And he made a move
towards Patrick.

Patrick didn't step back. He stood with his hand in his pocket.

"He's here," he said.

Omri stopped short, jolted as if he'd stepped up a nonexistent step.
"What-?"

"He's here. In my pocket."

Slowly he withdrew his hand and opened it. Lying in the palm was the
crying cowboy, on his white horse. Boone!-as large as life. Or rather,
as small.

Omri uttered a shout of joy.

"You've got him! You had him all the time!" Then his grin faded. "Are
you mad? Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I'm not exactly proud of the fact that I still carry him everywhere,"
Patrick said.

"So you hadn't stopped believing?"

"I don't know. I wanted to. I tried to tell my brother about it once,
and he teased me for a solid week, saying I was a nut case, telling
everyone I believed in fairies. It really got me. Of course I couldn't
prove a thing, not even to myself. So I decided it never happened. But I

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

... I just kept Boone in my pocket all the time, like . . . well, sort
of for good luck."

Omri had picked up the figure of Boone tenderly and was examining it.
The horse's legs had become a bit bent, and Boone's beloved hat was
looking decidedly the worse for wear. But it was still, unmistakably,
even in plastic, Boone. It was the way they had last seen him, sitting
on his horse, in his ten-gallon hat, his hand holding a big red bandanna
to his nose, blowing a trumpet blast of farewell.

"Ah cain't stand sayin' good-bye. Ah jest re-fuse t'say it, that's all!
Ah'll only bust out cryin' if Ah do . . ."

"Come on, Boone!" whispered Omri. And he put him, without more ado, into
the cupboard and turned the key.

He and Patrick bent over eagerly, bumping heads. Neither of them brought
to the surface of his mind the deep fear they shared. Boone, too, had
lived in dangerous times. Omri knew now that time worked the same at
both ends, so to speak. A year had passed for him, and, in another place
and time, a year had passed for his little men. And an awful lot (and a
lot of it awful!) could happen in a year.

But almost at once their fears were laid to rest. There was a split
second's silence, and then, on the other side of the cupboard door,
Boone began battering and kicking it, and a faint stream of swear words
issued through the metal.

"Ah ain't puttin' up with it! No, sir, it ain't fair, it ain't dawggone
well right! Ah ain't bin drinkin', Ah ain't bin

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A GOOD LUCK PIECE

fightin', Ah ain't cheated at poker in over a week! Ain't no law kin
sling a man in jail when he's inny-cint as a noo-born babe, never mind
keepin' him shut in a cell so dark he cain't see his own mus-tash!"

The boys were too fascinated to do anything at first, even open the
door. They just crouched there, grinning imbecilically at each other.

"It's Boone! It's really him!" breathed Patrick.

But Boone, all unaware, and getting no response to his yells and blows,
now decided no one was listening, and his voice began to quaver.

"They done up and left me," he muttered. "Gone plumb away and left ol'
Boone alone in the dark . . ." There was a pause, followed by a long
nose-blow that shook the cupboard. "T'ain't fu- funny," he went on, his
voice now definitely shaking with sobs. "Don't they know a man kin be
brave as a lion and still skeered o' the dark? Ain't they got no
'magination, leavin' a fella ter rot in this pitch-black hell-hole? ..."
His voice rose on a shrill tide of tearful complaint.

Omri could not bear it a second longer. He opened the door. The light
struck through and Boone instantly looked up, his red bandanna dropping
to the floor between his knees. He jumped to his feet, staring, his
mouth agape, his battered old hat askew on his ginger head. The horse
backed off and snorted.

"Well, Ah'll be e-ternally hornswoggled!" Boone got out at last. "If it
ain't you-all!"

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Boone's Brain Wave

"Yes, it's us-all!-I mean, it's us!" said Patrick excitedly. He capered
about, stiff-legged, unable to contain himself.

Omri, too, was over the moon. "It's so good to see you, Boone," he
cried, wishing he could wring the little man's hand and bang him on the
back.

Boone, who must have fallen off his horse at some point, now scrambled
to his feet and dusted himself off. The horse came up behind him in the
cupboard and nudged him forcefully in the back, as if to say, "I'm here
too." Omri could just about stroke its tiny nose with the tip of his
little finger. The horse bunted it, nodding its head up and down, and
then exchanged whinneys with Little Bear's pony on the distant seed tray.

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BOONE S BRAIN WAVE

"And it's mighty good t'see you fellas!" Boone was saying warmly, as he
scrambled out of the cupboard. "Bin more'n a mite dull without mah
hallucy-nations . . . Wall Waddaya know, if it ain't the li'l Injun
gal!" Bright Stars had taken a few steps toward him timidly. He raised
his hat. "Howdy, Injun lady! Hey, but whur's th' other one? That redskin
that made me his blood brother-after he'd half killed me?" He looked
around the top of the chest, but Little Bear's matchbox bed had its back
to him. "Tarnation take me if'n Ah didn't miss that dawggone varmint
when Ah woke up that last time . . . Or 'went back,' or whatever ya call
it . . ." He rubbed his shirt front reminiscently. "Mah ol' pals thought
Ah'd gawn plumb loco when Ah tried t' tell 'em how Ah got my wound!"

"Are you okay now, Boone?"

"Me? Ah'm jest fine! Y' cain't kill Boo-hoo Boone s' easy, even if'n he
does look a mite soft. So whur's Li'l Bear? Lemme shake the hand that
shot me, t' show thur ain't no hard feelin's!"

Bright Stars didn't understand much of this, but she heard Little Bear's
name. She took Boone by the arm and drew him over to the bed. When Boone
saw the prostrate figure of the Indian he stopped short.

"Holy smoke, whut happened t' him?"

"He got shot too. By Frenchmen," Omri added in a low voice, and signaled
to Boone not to ask questions. But Boone was not the most tactful of men.

"Jee-hoshaphat! Never did trust them Frenchies. Got

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

one runnin' our saloon. Someday someone's gonna run him . . . right outa
town! Waters the whiskey, y' know," he added confidentially to Bright Stars.

At the word "whiskey," Little Bear opened his eyes (he had dropped off
to sleep) and tried to sit up. When he saw Boone bending over him he let
out a cry of recognition, and then fell back again with a hand to his
bandaged chest.

"Gee, the pore ol' savage!" said Boone, shaking his head. He sniffed.
"Not that he probably didn't deserve it, they're allus up to no good,
but all th' same Ah cain't stand to see a man in pain."

He wiped away a tear.

"He's much better now," said Patrick. "There's nothing to start crying
about."

Boone blew his nose loudly and plonked himself down on the bed.

"Tell me th' whole thing," he said.

"Not now," said Omri hurriedly.

"Why'n thunder not? Ah gotta hear sometime. C'mon, Injun. Or are ya
ashamed o' somethin' ya done to that Frenchie t' make him take a shot at
ya?"

Little Bear lay on the bed and stared up at Boone. There was suddenly
tension in the air as they all-Bright Stars, too-waited for him to
remember ... to ask.

Slowly he raised himself onto his elbows. His eyes had gone narrow, his
face taut and scowling. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide and let out a
wild cry. "Aaiiiiii!"

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BOONE S BRAIN WAVE

Bright Stars put her hands to her face, turned and fled up the ramp and
into the tepee.

"Whut got into her?" Boone asked, looking after her, puzzled.

But another anguished cry transfixed them all.

"Little Bear remember! Soldiers come-burn village! Burn corn! Many . . .
many . . ." He opened and closed his hands rapidly, holding up ten
fingers again and again. "Iroquois braves fight-but not enough-not got
guns-horses . . . Enemy break-burn-steal-kill . . . kill . . ."

His voice cracked. He stopped speaking.

Another man might have broken down and wept. But Little Bear just
stared, wild-eyed and frozen-faced. His mouth was shut in a straight
line, like a knife-cut in his hard face. Only his hands quivered at his
sides, and his fingers became hooks.

"Gee whiz, fella," muttered Boone at last. "That's too bad."

There was a long silence. Nobody moved. Little Bear lay on his back, his
eyes open. He seemed to be neither fully awake, nor asleep. Omri passed
a finger back and forth in front of those staring eyes-they didn't
respond. Omri, Patrick and Boone looked anxiously at each other.

"What shall we do?"

"Nuthin'," said Boone. "Pore guy's had a shock. Happened t' me once't.
Came to after Ah got knocked out in some kinda ruckus . . . couldn't
remember a thing. Started in talkin' and drinkin' jes like ever'thin'
was nor-

85

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

mal, when all of a sudden, it come back t' me. A lynchin'. A mob of
coyotes just strung a fella up for somethin' he didn't even do. Most
horriblest thing Ah ever saw. Ah jest laid there, seein' it all over
agin. Took me a danged long time t' git over it. An' that wasn't s' bad,
neither, as what he's a-seein' now, pore critter . . ."

Tears of sympathy were streaming down the cowboy's leathery cheeks.

"Them rotten Frenchies . . . Mixin' in ... Sneakin' up on 'em that-a-way
an' skeerin' thur wimmenfolk an' all. Gee. Ah sure would like to help
them pore folk, if'n it hadn't a happened s' long ago!"

This showed an extraordinary change of heart for Boone, who had been
absolutely down on Indians when they'd first known him. Omri said, "If
we sent them back now, it would be all still going on. If you wanted to
help, maybe we could send you back to their time-if Little Bear just
held on to you, you'd all go back together."

Boone, who had had his face buried in his red bandanna, froze for a
moment. His eyes slowly appeared above the red spotted cloth.

"Me?" he said in a quavering voice.

"Well, you said you'd like to help. You've got a gun, after all. And you
don't like Frenchmen. Maybe you'd like to shoot a few of them-"

"-Before they shoot me!" finished Boone. "That's a great idee, thanks a
lot. Things is tough and dangerous enough whur Ah come from, Ah mean,
when Ah come from, without goin' back a hundred years t' when things

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BOONE S BRAIN WAVE

wuz ten times worse. Come t' that . . . what's stoppin' you from lendin'
a hand t' the redskins if'n yer s' crazy about 'em?"

Patrick and Omri looked at each other, startled.

"We can't go back!" Patrick exclaimed. "How could we? We can't fit into
the cupboard!"

Boone looked at them, looked consideringly at the small bathroom
cabinet, less than a foot high, and then back at the boys again.

"That's true," he said grudgingly. "Ah reckon Ah cain't argue 'bout
that. But thur's still a way Ah kin think of, that ya could help 'em,
if'n you'd a mind ter."

"How?" they asked at once.

"What's that, down over yonder? It's s' danged far away, Ah cain't see
properly, but it looks to me like a whole bunch o' folks layin' in a
heap in a box."

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

The boys looked where he was pointing. Down on the floor was the biscuit
tin full of Omri's collection of plastic figures. He'd gone up to the
loft that morning to fetch it. Now he lifted it and put it on the chest,
the top of which was now getting rather crowded.

"Lift me up and lemme look," ordered the little man.

Patrick put his hand down close to him. Boone heaved himself on to it as
if he were scrambling on to a horse without a saddle. Patrick "flew" him
over the box. He lay down flat and peered over the side of Patrick's
hand, hanging on to his precious hat.

"Lookit that! Whatcha think ya got down there, if'n it ain't all kindsa
men with all kindsa shootin' irons? If'n you could stick 'em all in the
cupboard and bring 'em to life and then send 'em back with the Injuns,
they'd come out th' other end and send them Frenchies scooting back to
France as fast as greased lightnin'!"

Omri and Patrick looked at each other.

"Would it work?" breathed Patrick, his eyes alight.

Omri could see that it was not just the possibility of helping the
Indians that was getting him excited. From the very beginning, Patrick
had wanted to experiment with the cupboard. Omri had barely been able to
prevent him from stuffing dozens of soldiers in, bringing whole armies
to life and making them fight . . . This looked like just the excuse
he'd been wanting.

The idea had a strong appeal for Omri, too. But he was more cautious.

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BOONE S BRAIN WAVE

"We'd have to think about it," he said.

Patrick almost slammed his hand, with Boone on it, down again on the chest.

"You're always thinking!" he said disgustedly. "Why don't we just try it?"

Omri was frowning, trying to imagine. "Listen." He picked up a knight in
chain mail with a big helmet and a shield with a red cross on a white
ground. "If we put this one in, for instance, he'd come to us from the
time of Richard the First. He wouldn't know a thing about Indians. He'd
want to go off to Palestine and kill Saracens." He put the knight down
and picked up a soldier in a flat cap and khaki shorts. "This one's a
French Foreign Legionnaire. We couldn't even talk to him. Let alone to
an Arab tribesman or a Russian Cossack. They were great fighters, but
they wouldn't just agree to be in an army fighting Frenchmen in America
on the side of the Indians. They're not toys. Every one of them's a
person-I mean, if we brought them to life. We'd have to explain
everything, half of them wouldn't believe it, others might think they'd
gone crazy-"

But Patrick interrupted in high impatience. "Oh, what are you on about?
Who's talking about soldiers with swords and axes and old-fashioned
popguns? What about these?"

He dug his hand into the tin and came up with a fistful of British
soldiers. Some had self-loading rifles, others had submachine guns.
There was a howitzer, a 37-mm.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

antitank gun, three rocket launchers, and a variety of grenades. Omri
stared at the firepower bristling out between Patrick's fingers. They
had an army there, all right!

Patrick was already moving toward the cupboard, the handful of soldiers
ready to thrust in.

"No," said Omri, as he had once before. "Stop!"

"I'm going to do it!" said Patrick.

Just at that moment, they heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

As one, they turned and sat on the very edge of the chest, facing the
door, forming a human screen.

Omri's mother put her head in.

"Patrick, your mother just rang. Your cousin Tamsin has had a nasty fall
off her bicycle and your mother's going to stay and help your aunt, so
you won't be going home today."

Patrick's face lit up. "Great! That means I can stay the night here!"

"I'm sorry about your poor cousin."

"I'm not," said Patrick promptly. "I hope she broke a leg."

"Really, Patrick! That's not nice."

"Nor is she," said Patrick feelingly.

Omri's mother was looking at them curiously. "You do look odd, sitting
there like Tweedledum and Tweedle-dee," she said. "Are you hiding
something from me?"

"Yes," said Omri. It was always better to be quite frank

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BOONE S BRAIN WAVE

with his parents if possible. Luckily they didn't expect to be in on
everything he did.

"Oh, well," she said, "I hope it's nothing too awful. There'll be a bite
of lunch in a little while. I'll call you."

And she went off.

Patrick slumped with relief. "She's just not normal, your mum," he
muttered. "Mine wouldn't have rested till she'd had a good look ..." He
brought his hand from behind his back and opened it and looked at the
soldiers. The uncontrollable impulse to put them in the cupboard had
subsided, but he still wanted to very badly. Omri could see that.

91

Chapter 11

Target Omri!

Bright Stars was calling them.

She had come to Little Bear's bedside again and was now helping him to
struggle into a sitting position.

"I don't think he should sit up yet," said Omri anxiously. "Not-sit-up."
Bright Stars looked very worried, but Little Bear brushed her aside,
gritting his teeth.

"Little Bear sit. Stand. Go back and fight!"

"No. You can't. You're not strong enough."

"I strong enough! I chief. Chief not sit in far place when tribe in
trouble! Omri put in box. Omri send back! Chief Little Bear say."

But Omri was adamant. "You're not going anywhere till you're better."

He looked into the Indian's face. He understood very

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TARGET OMRl!

well how he must be feeling. Like a deserter, even though his getting
shot, and being here, were no fault of his own at all.

Once, Omri had been away on a week's school trip and when he got back he
found that while he'd been gone, his mother, alone in the house, had cut
herself very badly on a broken bottle. With her hand pouring blood she
had managed to get to the phone, an ambulance had come and she was soon
in hospital and safe. None of all this was any fault of Omri's or
anyone's. But he felt terrible- really guilty-about having been so far away.

So it wasn't hard to imagine how badly Little Bear felt the need to get
back to help his people. After all, he was their chief; he was
responsible for them. Who knew what was happening at the Indian
encampment at this very moment? Bright Stars was thinking about it too.
She was torn, Omri could see, between wanting to keep Little Bear in bed
and wanting him to go back and do what he had to do.

"Let's tell him about Boone's idea," suggested Patrick. "It might take
his mind off going back right away himself."

"Yeah! Ah had me a idee, all right!" chimed in Boone. "Say, why don't we
all have us a bite t' eat, not to mention a swig o' likker? And talk my
idee over? Ain't nuthin' like whiskey fer helpin' yer brain work, ain't
that so, kid?"

So Omri crept downstairs and extracted a small glassful of scotch from
his parents' drinks cupboard, and some food from the table which his
mother had laid for

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

lunch. She was not much of a fancy table-layer, and all there was, for
the moment, was Ryvita, butter and some rather tired-looking olives, but
that was better than nothing. He grabbed a bit of each and hurried
upstairs again.

He should have known better than to leave the room.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by a noise that sounded like a
loud chattering of teeth. Then there was a distinct pop, and something
went ping against the glass of whiskey he was carrying.

His eyes flashed to the cupboard. There, on the shelf in the middle of
it, were five miniature soldiers, raking the room with machine-gun fire.
On the chest below were several more. They were manning a small but
lethal-looking artillery piece.

Omri had no time to think. Dropping everything he threw up his hand to
protect his face and dashed forward through a hail of tiny bullets that
bit into his palm like wasp stings.

Patrick was standing aghast, too stunned, it seemed, to do anything.
Omri fell on the little men in their khaki uniforms, scooped them up,
weapons and all, and, shoving them back into the cupboard, slammed the
door. He heard another couple of rounds and the muffled boom of an
exploding hand grenade against the inside of the door before he could
gather his wits and turn the key.

Silence fell in the bedroom.

Omri's first act was to glance over his shoulder to check that Little
Bear, Bright Stars and Boone were all right. There was a line of bullet
holes through the top of

94

TARGET OMRl!

the headboard of the matchbox bed, but mercifully Bright Stars must have
persuaded Little Bear to lie down just before the shooting started, and
he was okay.

Bright Stars was holding the two horses, which were on Patrick's
paddock. They were rearing and plunging with terror, letting out shrill
neighs, while Bright Stars hung onto their reins.

Boone was, at first glance, nowhere to be seen, but then Omri made out a
tiny pair of cowboy boots and spurs sticking out from under the ramp. He
must have dived for cover when the attack began. Not particularly
heroic, but certainly by far the most sensible move open to him at the time.

Next, Omri gave his attention to his hand. Half a dozen droplets of
blood oozed from as many tiny breaks in the skin. Remembering when
Patrick had had a bullet in his cheek from Boone's gun, once, Omri
quickly started squeezing out the bullets, lodged just under his skin,
between finger and thumbnail. He didn't say a word to Patrick. What was
the use? Some people just never learn.

But Patrick had something to say, and in a voice that shook. "I could've
got them all killed."

Omri bit his lip. The bullets were actually just visible, minute black
specks. It hurt, getting them out, but it was rather satisfying, like
squeezing a blackhead.

"I just wanted to see what would happen," Patrick went on pleadingly.

"Well, now you've seen. Thanks a lot."

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Sorry."

"You're always desperately sorry when you've done something thick."

Patrick didn't argue. He bent down and pulled Boone out from under the
ramp by the feet. "It's okay, Boone. They've gone."

The little man was gibbering and shaking from head to foot. "Who in
tarnation were those guys?" he managed to ask.

"Soldiers."

"From when?"

"Now. Approximately."

"Boy! Am Ah glad Ah'll be daid before that kinda shootin' starts!" he
said fervently. "Did they getcha, kid?" he asked Omri anxiously as a
drop of blood splashed onto the chest beside him.

"Only a bit," said Omri, pressing a wedge of Kleenex to his hand.

"Did ya git any of the hard stuff?" Boone asked eagerly. "Now Ah really
need some!"

"Oh-I must've dropped it!"

Boone's face fell. But when Omri went to the door, he found that
although the glass had fallen to the floor, spilling most of the scotch,
it hadn't broken, and there was still a little left in the bottom. He
offered the glass to Boone, who promptly heaved himself up over the rim
and dived in head first. Hanging onto the rim by his boots, he started
lapping up the dregs of whiskey like a puppy.

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TARGET OMRl!

Omri couldn't help laughing.

"Oh, come on, Boone! You can't be that thirsty. Remember, you're
supposed to be civilized." And he hiked him out and poured the last
drops into a toothpaste-cap mug. "Save some for Little Bear."

Boone looked shocked.

"Ya cain't go givin' likker t' Injuns, don't ya know that? Drives 'm
crazy. They just ain't got the heads fer it. Anyways, ya couldn't give
him any. He's too sick."

"When you were wounded you said whiskey made you feel better."

"Yeah, guess Ah did, at that." He gazed sorrowfully down into his mug.
"Wal, if'n you're ready t' risk it-only don't blame me if he goes
loco-here." He handed the mug to Omri, who passed it to Little Bear, who
was sitting up again, examining the bullet holes in his bed.

"Boone sent you some whiskey, Little Bear."

"Not want," said the Indian at once.

"Why not? I thought you liked it."

"Firewater for feast. For make happy. Take from trouble. Little Bear
must keep head. Must think, then act. Give firewater Boone. He not need
think."

Boone received his drink back without reluctance. Omri picked up some
bits of Ryvita and olive from the floor and soon the little people were
all munching, though their opinion of olives was evidently not high.

"So mah idee could work," Boone remarked after draining his drink. "Ten
fellas like them, with guns like

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

that, an' those Frenchies would be on their knees, if they had any left,
beggin' the redskins to make powwow."

Patrick, who had been standing at the window, turned around. "That's
what I was thinking," he said.

Omri felt quite exasperated. How could they both be so stupid?

"What do you think, Little Bear?" Patrick asked eagerly. "What if we
made lots of soldiers like that real, and then joined them all to you
somehow and sent you all back together to your village? They could fight
the Frenchmen for you."

Little Bear grew still. His black eyes moved under his scowling brows
from one of them to another. For a moment Omri feared he would jump at
this tempting solution. But then, reluctantly, he shook his head.

"No good," he said gruffly.

"Aw! Why not? They'd jest shoot 'em to mincemeat in two minutes, and
ya'd be rid o' them forever. They'd never dare come back to bother ya no
more!"

"Now-soldiers not belong," said Little Bear. "They not fight for Little
Bear people. They fight on side of French soldier."

"If at all," said Omri. "Much more likely, they'd just sit down and
refuse to fight anyone, once they realized they weren't where they ought
to be."

"We could explain to them," said Patrick.

"You try explaining to a whole bunch of soldiers who're probably in the
middle of World War II or in Northern Ireland, that they're not to fight
the Nazis or

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TARGET OMRl!

the IRA, they're to go off and shoot eighteenth-century Frenchmen in the
middle of Virginia!"

"Well, who could you explain it to?"

And that was when Omri had his brain wave.

"I'll tell you who! Other Indians. "

Little Bear's head came around. He saw the point at once.

"Yes!" he cried immediately.

"What?" asked Patrick.

"Whatcha mean, kid?" asked Boone.

"Listen, listen!" cried Omri excitedly. "What we have to do is go out
and buy loads of Indians. Iroquois, like Little Bear. He'll tell us what
sort of clothes and things to look out for-though I think I know anyway.
Then we'll bring them to life, and Little Bear can talk to them, and we
can send them all back together when Little Bear's better, and-"

"Send back now! Most soon! I well, I better now!" Little Bear shouted.
Bright Stars came running to calm him, but he wouldn't be calmed. He
began shouting at her in their own language. She seemed very excited,
and clapped her hands and looked up at Omri with the shining eyes that
had given her her name.

"Spirits know Omri save," she said. "Save village, too!"

But Little Bear had something else on his mind. "Now-guns," he said.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"What?" Omri asked, not understanding.

"Now-soldiers no good. But now-guns good. Get Iro-quois brave,
plass-tick, many, many, then give braves now-guns like one make hole in
bed."

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Chapter 12

The Troops

The boys ate lunch decorously downstairs, so as not to arouse
suspicions, though it was sheer agony to leave the attic bedroom when so
much was going on. Little Bear was absolutely in torment, they could
see, and though Omri, for his part, was in no hurry to send him back, he
felt they must do something as soon as possible to further the plan.

Omri's parents were full of the party they were going to that evening.
Adiel and Gillon were going to the movies and were arguing fiercely
about which one. Gillon was carrying on a side argument with his parents
about the desirability of hiring a video, which, he assured them, would
save far more than it cost in the end. Parental reaction to this
excellent idea was, as usual, automatic and negative.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

All this could not help seeming ridiculously trivial to Omri, with so
much on his mind.

They had been out to the model shop before lunch. Omri had taken along
one of his books on Indians and tried to find the ones who were dressed
in the distinctive Iroquois clothes: floppy leggings with feather
decorations, moccasins gathered around the ankles, a sort of
sporran-thing hanging like an apron from the waist, turkey feathers in a
band around the forehead. Only, there weren't many like that. It was
extraordinary what a variety of Indian costumes there were, and the
model shop had what appeared to be representatives from a dozen tribes.

Omri knew how bitter the hatred between warring tribes could be. The
Algonquins, for instance, were the Iroquois's mortal enemies-it would be
no use bringing any of them. But since there weren't anything like
enough that he was sure were Iroquois, Omri had bought some others he
wasn't sure of, in the hope that Little Bear would recognize them as
belonging to some friendly Indian nation who would agree to help the
Iroquois in their hour of trial.

Patrick, book in hand, was at another shelf, looking at English soldiers
of differing periods. He wanted to find some who might have fought the
French in America. Omri wasn't keen on bringing any white men into it,
but Patrick said they were in it already.

"I bet they'd handle modern weapons better than a bunch of primitive
Indians, anyhow."

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THE TROOPS

Ornri told him not to be so racist, but when Patrick found some that
looked right, according to an illustration in the book, Omri made no
objection to buying even one mounted officer. The horse, a handsome
black, made him much more expensive.

The whole lot-about fifty assorted Indians and five soldiers-set them
back over ten pounds, which for Omri was two weeks' pocket money.
Patrick chipped in, though he hadn't brought much.

So now they had this bagful of potential allies for Little Bear and the
boys couldn't wait to get started. As soon as lunch was over, the rest
of the family scattered and the house became quiet. On the way upstairs,
Omri said, "Do you think we dare bring them outdoors?"

"I want to start putting things in the cupboard," said Patrick.

"So do I! I meant, bring the cupboard out too. Then, if any shooting
should start, it won't be so dangerous."

"Why should it be less dangerous outdoors?"

"I don't know . . . It just feels as if it would be."

"Well . . . okay. But what if your father or anyone comes out in the
garden?"

"Dad's painting in his studio. Anyway there's a hedged-off bit down at
the bottom which is just shrubs; he never goes there."

They found the little people waiting for them anxiously.

"Where Omri go so long time?" Little Bear demanded at once.

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"Calm down, we've been getting the men."

Little Bear sat up straight, his eyes glowing. "Show!"

"In a minute."

Carefully Omri lifted the matchbox bed onto the seed tray. "Bright
Stars, cover him up warmly. We're going outside."

She put the glove-finger around him to the armpits while Boone ran up
the ramp and pulled it up behind him. The two ponies were munching grass
in their fenced-off paddock. Omri picked the whole thing up, while
Patrick took the cupboard and the bag of new men. As an afterthought he
slipped Matron in his pocket. Omri did a quick reconnaissance to see
that nobody was around. Then they cautiously trooped down the stairs and
out the kitchen door into the back garden.

It was really a lovely place, far better than their old garden. It was
not just a rectangle of lawn with a few flower beds. It had nooks and
crannies. Omri headed for his favorite corner, a clump of bushes with a
patch of grass in the middle, where rhododendrons and other tall plants
kept prying eyes at bay. The sun was high and the place was sheltered
from the wind. Still, Omri suggested Little Bear should be put into the
longhouse to keep warm.

"No! Not want! Want be in sun! Sun give orenda."

"What's that?"

Little Bear looked baffled. "Not know orenda? Orenda for all men. Life
strength. Sun give. And rain. Orenda in animal, plant, all thing. Master
of Good make. Now Omri

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THE TROOPS

be Master of Good! Make brave, many, fight for Little Bear people."

Omri felt a cold shiver. He didn't like the idea of playing God. But it
was too late to back out now.

They laid the seed tray and the cupboard on the grass. Boone at once put
the ramp back in position, saddled his pony, tested his lasso, which he
kept coiled around the pommel, and set off for a ride. It was rough
going, as the grass in the shrubbery was not often mowed, but he didn't
seem to mind. "You fellas settle things. Ah'm goin' for a gallop!"

"Keep us in sight," said Patrick.

"That's same as sayin', keep the Rocky Mountains in sight!" laughed
Boone. He waved his hat at them and went racing off between the
grass-stems shouting "Yippee!" in the approved cowboy fashion. One of
the most satisfying things about Boone was the fact that he always
behaved exactly as the boys expected. This helped to balance Little
Bear. They never knew what to expect from him.

The boys now began to set out the little men they'd bought in lines for
Little Bear to inspect. Even though the Indian was well aware they
couldn't see him, he seemed to feel ashamed before them, lying in what
he called "white man bed." He made Bright Stars help him off it and onto
a stack of rhododendron leaves he ordered to be laid on the earth. It
looked very grand, like stiff layers of shiny dark green leather, but
not very comfortable, Omri thought.

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Little Bear sat cross-legged and stared narrowly at the Indian figures
one by one. Several times he demanded that one of them be brought and
laid before him for closer inspection. Some he discarded with an
imperious wave of his hand. Once, he uttered a deep growl.

"Why bring Algonquin enemy?"

"Sorry," said Omri, hastily removing the offending figure. "I thought he
was a Mohawk. He dresses like one."

"Mohawk part of Iroquois nation. Omri not see difference? Stupid. Big
eyes not best."

About three quarters of the men they'd bought were eventually approved.
Then Little Bear turned his eyes to the British soldiers.

THE TROOPS

They were rather splendid in their white breeches, scarlet coats, and
three-cornered hats, but Omri didn't think they looked very
businesslike. The white bands crossed on their chests and backs made
ideal targets. But perhaps the brilliance of their uniforms was intended
to intimidate the enemy. Anyway they were all armed with muskets tipped
with fearsome-looking blades. Omri bent one easily with his finger,
thinking how sharp and lethal they would be when the cupboard had done
its work and these bayonet swords became gleaming steel.

"These no good," Little Bear pronounced abruptly.

Patrick and Omri were astonished.

"What's wrong with them?" said Patrick. "Are they from the wrong time?"

"Right time. Near right. English soldier like that fight French in big
battle soon before. French win."

"Oh! Why?"

"Fight better. But also English dress stupid. This-

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

this-" He pointed contemptuously to the red coats and white trimmings.
"Catch sun. Call eye of French soldier. Gun point. Pshooo!" He made a
shooting noise. "No good if soldier proud. Must dress so enemy not see."

"How do the English soldiers dress-er-now?"

"More like Indian. Earth colors. Like leaf. Shadow. More good for hide.
Jump out on enemy. White man learn much from Indian."

"Now who's proud?" Patrick whispered to Omri.

"LITTLE BEAR HEAR THAT!" the Indian roared. Really, he had ears like a bat.

"Well, anyway, so you don't want us to bring these men to life?" said
Patrick hurriedly.

"Not need. Enough with braves and now-guns."

The boys exchanged glances. This was tricky. Little Bear was proud and
he wouldn't like the suggestion that the white men might be better with
modern weapons.

"Listen, Little Bear-" Omri began coaxingly.

Suddenly they froze. Omri heard his mother's voice calling him from the
house.

"Omri! Omri!"

"What?" he called back, getting quickly to his feet.

"Darling, Kitsa's caught a bird! Or a mouse or something. Anyway, she's
playing with it on the big lawn. Can you-?"

Omri's mind seemed to blow hollow like an egg. He stopped hearing what
his mother was saying. But Patrick was up and off in a flash, charging
through the bushes

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THE TROOPS

like a madman. Omri came behind him, the branches smacking him across
the face.

On the main lawn was Kitsa, her blackness and whiteness beautiful, sleek
and deadly in the sunshine. She was crouched and concentrated; her tail
tip just twitching, all else about her perfectly still.

There was something small and helpless and alive in the grass in front
of her.

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Chapter 13

A Death and a Healing

"KITSA!"

Omri screamed out her name. Startled, she turned her head. Both boys
were pelting towards her. Furious at the interruption, she turned back
and with one quick wiggle of her hips, she pounced. At almost the same
second, Patrick reached her.

Without time to think, he kicked her, or rather, kicked at her. She
started to jump away at the same second so that his foot, though it did
just about connect with her, merely accelerated her flight through the
air. With a yowl of outrage, empty-mouthed and thwarted, she fled.

Omri and Patrick fell to their knees on the spot Kitsa had so hastily
vacated.

The white horse was lying on its side. Its legs were

no

A DEATH AND A HEALING

moving but it was obviously hurt. It kept raising its head and whinnying
and then letting its head drop back again. Boone was lying half under
it. He didn't move.

Patrick very gently shifted the pony until he could lift Boone clear.
Suddenly Boone shot to his feet and shouted, "Am Ah daid? Did it kill me?"

"You look okay to me," said Patrick. His voice sounded to Omri like the
voice of a complete stranger. It was deep and gruff, like a man's. Boone
was looking around in a daze.

"Whut was it?"

"A cat."

"A cat! It was the biggest danged critter Ah ever seen in mah en-tire
life! It jest come from nowhere-one minute Ah was ridin' along, mindin'
mah own business, and suddenly-"

Then his eyes fell on his horse.

It raised its head again and whickered softly, as if asking him to help
it. There was a terrible moment of silence. Boone crouched by the
horse's head, stroking it, running his hands over it. He unbuckled the
saddle and lifted it clear, and very gently ran his hands over its white
side.

Then he took off his hat. It was a strange gesture. Omri had seen men do
it in films when they heard of someone's death. A gesture of respect, of
something stronger than respect. Boone stood up.

"Ribs is broke," he said. "Have t' finish him."

"Oh, no!" Omri heard himself say in a desperate voice.

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"Ain't no use keepin' him alive t' suffer. He's mah pal."

His voice, which cracked and dissolved into tears at the least thing,
was now perfectly steady.

Slowly he reached for his revolver.

Omri couldn't bear it. "Please, Boone! Don't! Surely we can save him!"

Boone shook his head. "He's too far gone. I gotta do it." He looked up
again. His face was strained but dry-eyed. "You boys turn yer backs.
This ain't fer kids to see."

Omri turned his back. Patrick didn't. Boone bent down. He whispered
something briefly into the horse's ear. Then he put his revolver to its
head. Omri didn't see this, but he heard the shot. Tears spurted from
his eyes. He couldn't check them. He wiped them hard and furiously with
both hands.

Why should he, who hardly ever cried any more, cry over the death of
Boone's horse, when Boone, who cried all the time, was so controlled?
Turning around, seeing Boone standing quietly beside the horse's body
with his hat in one hand and his smoking revolver in the other, Omri
tried to feel ashamed of his own weakness, but he couldn't. It was his
fault, partly, that this disaster had happened. They had been so
preoccupied with the Plan and the exciting prospect of bringing more
little people to life that they had let Boone ride off into a monstrous
wilderness, full of deadly dangers. That it should have

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A DEATH AND A HEALING

been Omri's own beloved little cat who had done this, just made
everything worse.

Irrational fury seized him. He crouched down. "I'll kill her," he ground
out between his teeth.

Boone looked up at him.

"Don't you kill nuthin', kid. Th' critter wuz only fol-lerin' its
instincks. Ya cain't blame a cat fer bein' a cat, even if'n it do fall
on a fella as fierce and sudden as a Texas hurricane."

"I'll-we'll get you another horse."

"Yeah, you do that. Ah'll git to be pals with it, same as I wuz with
this'n. Someday. Ah guess. A man ain't whole without a hoss."

He replaced his gun in its holster. "Jest now kin Ah have a shovel?"

Patrick swallowed, cleared his throat and said, "We'll bury him for you,
Boone."

"Thanks, son, Ah'd be obliged t' ya."

Omri fetched a trowel from the greenhouse and dug a small hole in a
flower bed just under a nodding chrysanthemum. Boone took the bridle off
the horse and laid the saddle over his arm. Then Patrick picked up the
body. It was still warm, and strangely heavy for its size. He laid it in
the hole and Omri covered it up and made a little mound. They stood for
a moment. Then Boone settled his hat back on his ginger head.

"C'mon, then," he said. "We'd best be gittin' back t' th' others, before
somethin' happens to them."

"3

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Patrick carried the cowboy back through the rhododendrons.

There was no sign of Little Bear and Bright Stars, and for a moment
Omri's heart seemed to leap into his mouth. But then Little Bear
walked-actually walked, though slowly and unsteadily-out of the ruined
long-house.

"Where you go? Why leave?" he demanded.

Patrick stooped and opened his hand so Boone could step out onto the
seed tray. As far as Omri could judge, the cowboy looked as always; but
Little Bear seemed to know at once that something had happened. He even
guessed what.

"Where horse?" he asked Boone.

"Daid," Boone answered shortly.

No more was said, but the Indian touched Boone briefly on the shoulder
before turning back to Omri.

"Now we put braves in box."

But this time it was Patrick who had been doing some thinking.

"Just a minute, Little Bear."

Little Bear turned to him. "What minute? Do now!"

"Okay, so say we bring forty Indians to life. Then what?-I mean, what
will happen right away? Because you can't go back and start fighting the
French right away."

"I go back ry-taway! Why no?"

"Because you're not well enough. No, Little Bear! You can't be. So we'll
have forty other people on our hands.

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A DEATH AND A HEALING

We'll have to feed them and look after them until you're ready. That
might be days-weeks."

"Who weak? I strong!"

"Seven days," said Patrick, holding up seven fingers. "That's a week."

Little Bear glowered. "No week. No wait. If stay here, not help tribe,
they make new chief."

"I tell you what," said Patrick. He reached into his pocket. "We'll get
Matron back. See what she says."

"May Tron?"

"Yes." Patrick held up the formidable little figure in her tall cap.

Little Bear made a face. "What use white woman with face like old beaver?"

"She saved your life, so you'd better not be rude. She's like a doctor."

Little Bear looked shocked. "No woman, doctor!" he exclaimed.

"Well, this one is. She took the metal out of your back last night. If
she says you're healed enough to fight, okay, we'll get started on your
army. If not-we'll wait."

And he put Matron in the cupboard.

When he opened the door, she was standing blinking at the sudden
sunlight. She had a newly starched cap perched on her head.

"Ah-ha!" she cried when she saw the boys. "I thought as much! The more I
thought about it, the more certain I was you'd need me again! So, do you
know what I did? I popped a few things into my apron pocket, just in case."

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

She hitched up her skirt and climbed over the rim of the cupboard.

"Think ahead," she said. "That's my motto." Then she saw Little Bear
standing before her with folded arms and uttered a shriek, but it was
not of terror.

"What on earth are you doing out of bed! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Not kill self," said Little Bear calmly. "Maybe kill you."

She bore down upon him. "Nonsense, my good man, you're delirious, and no
wonder. This is absolutely outrageous, twenty-four hours
after-ahem!-major surgery and here you are, on your feet instead of flat
on your back-I mean, on your front! Lie down at once!"

To the amazement of the boys, and no less perhaps to Little Bear's own
surprise, he found himself obeying her commands. Clearly it never
occurred to her that he wouldn't. He lay down on the pile of leaves and
she knelt to examine him. Bright Stars ran to help her. Together they
took off the dressings. Matron peered closely at the wounds, then sat
back on her heels.

"Unbelievable," she said. "Fantastic! If I didn't see it I would never
credit it. Beautiful! You know," she went on as she took a tiny bottle
and some cotton from her capacious pocket, "the trouble is, we live an
entirely unnatural and unhealthful life. Eat the wrong foods, don't
exercise enough . . . Look at this man. Just look! Superb specimen. Not
an ounce of fat on him. Bright eyes, perfect teeth, skin and hair
gleaming with health-splendid!

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A DEATH AND A HEALING

And if something does go wrong, his magnificent, well-oiled defense
system springs into action and hey presto! He's practically healed."

She washed the wounds, then took out a hypodermic needle, and squirted
it briefly at the sky.

"Just to be on the safe side," she said. "Trousers down!" And before
Little Bear could grasp her intention, she had pulled his buckskins down
and plunged the needle into his bottom.

Little Bear had borne a lot of pain without a flinch, but this
humiliation was too much. He let out a roar as if he'd been gored by a
buffalo.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"What a silly fuss! There! All over!" said Matron brightly, withdrawing
the needle and rubbing the spot briskly with the cotton. "Just in case
of infection, but really there's little fear of that. He's practically
as good as new. What a constitution! Of course," she added modestly, "I
didn't do a bad job on him, if I do say so myself."

"Would you think he'd be well enough to-well, to do something-pretty
active?" Omri asked.

"Try stopping him," said Matron. She rose to her feet and dusted the
earth off her knees. "Personally, if he were on my ward I'd say bed rest
for another day or so, but a body like his knows its own business best."

"Could he ride, say?"

"That's up to the horse!" quipped Matron, laughing rather horsily
herself. "Well, I must be off!"

Meanwhile, Little Bear, who had scrambled hastily to his feet, now drew
his knife and threatened her with it. But Matron, not at all alarmed,
wagged her finger at him.

"Tsk, tsk, naughty man! That would never do at St. Thomas's." She turned
her back on him without a qualm. Baffled, he lowered the knife.
"Astonishing, these primitives," she remarked to Omri as she strode back
to the cupboard. "Perfect control over the body-none at all over the
emotions."

Back in the cupboard she offered Omri her hand, and then burst out
laughing again.

"Aren't I silly? How could we shake hands? Oh, but do try! I'd just love
to shake hands with a giant, even if it is

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A DEATH AND A HEALING

all a very convincing dream." Omri took her tiny hand between finger and
thumb and solemnly shook it.

"Cheerio! Do call on me in any future hour of need!"

"We will," said Omri, closing the door.

He turned from the cabinet to find Little Bear's eyes fixed on him.

"Old white she-bear say I good," he said. "Now Patrick, Omri, keep word."

The boys looked at each other.

"Right," said Omri, taking a deep breath. "Let's get started."

Chapter 14

Red Men, Red Coats

Bringing forty Indians to life sounds like quite an undertaking, but it
took a remarkably short time to accomplish. They did a few first, just
to be on the safe side; but when the first half dozen had clambered out
of the cupboard and were at once greeted by Little Bear, who regaled
them in his strange language, which they all seemed to understand, Omri
and Patrick didn't delay further.

"Let's put all the rest in at once!" said Patrick excitedly, and this
time Omri made no objections.

Soon the seed tray was jammed with men, milling around, sitting on
Patrick's fence, admiring Little Bear's pony, exclaiming in dismay at
the ruined longhouse, gazing covertly at Bright Stars and examining the
paintings

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RED MEN, RED COATS

on the side of the tepee. One or two tried to enter this, but Little
Bear barred the way. Boone was in there. None of them knew how the
Indians might react to him, so they'd decided to hide him.

The new Indians didn't pay any attention to the boys at first, or to
anything in what, to them, was the distance. Everything on the seed tray
was in scale with them, and soon they settled down in rows,
cross-legged, to listen to what Little Bear had to say.

He dragged the matchbox bed into position before the tepee and stood on
it, making it a platform. From there he addressed them in a loud,
commanding tone for several minutes.

Omri and Patrick sat well back, shaded by bushes.

"It was a good idea of yours to be outdoors," whispered Patrick. "Seems
more natural, and there aren't huge bits of furniture and so on to worry
them."

Omri didn't react to this praise for his idea. If they had stayed
inside, Boone's horse would still be alive.

They watched. After a while, Little Bear stopped speaking and beckoned
imperiously to the boys, who crawled forward on their knees till they
hung over the seed tray. Little Bear pointed to them dramatically, and
all the little Indians turned to look.

Their reaction was curiously unsensational. Some uttered muted cries;
one or two leapt to their feet, but then sank down again after glancing
at Little Bear and seeing him unafraid. Evidently he had given them some
explanation for the presence of giants in their midst, which

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

they had no difficulty in accepting. The "Great Spirits" business, no
doubt. Omri couldn't help smiling at Little Bear's obvious pride in
having such beings at his command. It clearly gave him a lot of prestige
in the eyes of these tribesmen he was hoping to lead into battle.

After a few more words to his audience, Little Bear turned to the boys.

"Make now-guns," he ordered.

They knelt, irresolute. Omri had never really taken to the idea of
Indians running amok with machine guns, hand grenades and artillery.
Anything could happen, especially if they got overexcited. But Little
Bear was scowling horribly at their hesitation.

"Make now-guns now!" he thundered. "Little Bear give word to braves!"

"Oh, dear," said Patrick ironically. "That does it, then. I'd better
fetch them."

He jumped to his feet. Omri said, "While you're in the house, ask my mum
to give you something for us to eat. For them to eat."

"Anything else you can think of?"

"Yes. Bring some horses for Boone to choose from."

"One thing at a time," said Patrick. "Boone'd better stay out of sight."
And he pushed off through the bushes.

While he was gone, Omri thought he ought to have a word with Little Bear.

"These now-guns, as you call them, are very, very powerful. And they're
complicated. They can't be used without special training."

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RED MEN, RED COATS

Little Bear curled his lip in scorn.

"I see what soldier do. Point gun. Pull trigger, like gun French,
English soldier fight with Indian. But kill more! Shoot many, many!"
Little Bear made a noise like the chatter of a machine gun. The other
Indians reacted with excitement.

"But the bigger ones-"

"Omri show how!"

"You don't think / know, do you? As you keep reminding me, I'm only a boy."

Little Bear frowned. The rows of seated Indians below him seemed to
sense his doubt, and began murmuring to each other uneasily. Little Bear
raised his hand to silence them.

"Omri put now-soldier in box. Him show."

Omri considered. There was actually no option to bringing some modern
soldiers to life, however briefly, because their plastic figures were
attached to their weapons. Omri's plan had been to do as he had done
once before, when he'd wanted a bow and arrows for Little Bear. He had
brought an old Indian to life and taken his weapons from him, meaning to
transform him at once back into plastic. But he had promptly dropped
dead of a heart attack. Omri thought that some artillery sergeant might
be made of sterner stuff. Perhaps it would be worth a try.

"And what about these?" he asked, holding up a soldier from the time of
George the Third (who, according

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

to a verse Omri recalled from somewhere, "ought never to have occurred").

"Try," said Little Bear tersely.

Feeling a bit guilty at doing it without Patrick, Omri put the five
scarlet-clad soldiers into the cupboard. At once the clattering of metal
on metal announced that the soldiers and their mounted officer were
ready to emerge.

"Little Bear, you'd better go in there with them. Better if you talk to
them first, and decide if you want them."

"Good!"

Omri opened the door a crack and Little Bear slipped over the edge of
the seed tray straight into the cupboard. Omri put his ear to the
opening at the top to listen.

Little Bear began at once to harangue the British officer in his broken
English. Omri heard the word "French" and the word "kill" but he
couldn't make out much more until the shrill bark of an English voice
cut him short.

"Who do you think you are, giving orders to an officer of His Majesty's
20th American Regiment, you filthy savage!"

There was a deathly silence. Then Little Bear shouted: "I no savage! I
Iroquois chief! Iroquois fight at side of English soldier! English happy
have Indian help, braves spill blood in English quarrel, now I ask help
from English! Why redcoat give insult?"

There was a brief pause, and then the English voice said, with icy
contempt: "Insolent bounder! Kill him, Smithers."

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RED MEN, RED COATS

Omri put his hand on the door to slam it shut, but another voice spoke.

"Is that wise, sir? After all, we have used them in the past."

"Plenty more where he came from."

"But if he's a chief, sir-might lead to trouble-"

"Of course, Smithers, if you're squeamish, I'll do it myself!-Here! Come
back, you blackguard-"

But it was too late. Little Bear had already slipped silently over the
bottom rim of the cupboard and was throwing his weight against the door.
Omri was very happy to assist him, and in short order the arrogant
British redcoats were reduced to their plastic condition again.

Little Bear, his eyes slits of rage and every tooth in his head bared,
gave Omri a look of reproach. Omri felt he was being blamed just because
he was English too.

"Surely they're not all like that," he muttered.

"Some English no better than French" was all Little Bear had to say.
"Braves fight alone."

Just then, Patrick came crashing back through the rhododendrons. He had
a tray in his hand, on which were two glasses of milk, two packets of
salted peanuts and a couple of red apples. Also a paper bag containing
the "now-soldiers." Omri only hoped they might do something to redeem
the character of the British Army in the eyes of his Indian.

There was a pleasant interlude while they fed the Indians. They crushed
some of the nuts between two more or

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

less clean stones and served the bits on platters made from the round
leaves of a nasturtium. Patrick bit a piece off one of the apples and
broke it up small, while Omri filled and refilled the toothpaste caps
which were passed reverently from hand to hand along the rows of seated
braves. Among them, they put away nearly half a glass of milk.

Boone, who had been peeping from behind the flap of the tepee, sent a
private message with Bright Stars, suggesting a bit of "the hard stuff'
should be added to the milk "to put fire in belly," as Bright Stars
solemnly explained. Boone evidently felt it would be no bad thing if
these Indians did go a bit loco. But Omri and Patrick agreed that
everyone ought to keep a clear head.

Then it was time to bring the modern soldiers to life again and see what
could be done about guns.

After consultation with Little Bear, they began with a hulking Royal
Marine corporal, kneeling behind his machine gun. He was the one who had
sprayed Omri with bullets, so Omri had a sort of warped affection for him.

"We can't risk Little Bear again," said Omri. He had told Patrick what
had happened with the eighteenth-century soldiers. "A modern soldier
would probably be just as unbelieving about a Red Indian as he would
about finding himself tiny."

"We'll just have to hope he can accept it, somehow. After all, he's seen
us once, the first shock's over. Come on, no good putting it off."

Patrick slipped the corporal into the cupboard.

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Chapter 15

Corporal Fickits

"We'll have to watch it. Last time I did this, they all just started
shooting like mad the second the door opened."

So they opened the door the merest crack at first, and Omri put his
mouth to it and said, "Don't shoot! We want to talk to you."

A very ripe soldierly oath answered him, followed by: ". . . I've gorn
off me trolley again!"

"Just don't shoot. Okay?" And Omri slowly swung the cupboard door open.

The corporal had stood up. He gazed around. The machine gun gleamed in
the sun, oiled and ready for action.

"Blimey, now I'm outdoors! What the 'ell is goin' on?"

Omri went into his spiel. "Of course it must seem

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

incredible, but the fact is, for the moment you've become small. You can
tell your grandchildren about it . . . And it's going to get even more
interesting. What we want is for you to tell some friends of ours, who
are your size, how to work your machine gun."

"And 'oo are they planning to shoot wiv it, if it's not a rude answer?"

"Well, you see-" But it was too complicated. Omri looked helplessly at
Patrick.

"Who do you shoot with it?" Patrick cut in quickly.

The man gave a barking laugh. "The Queen's enemies, and anyone else who
looks sideways at the Royal Marines."

"And are you an expert on guns-I mean all kinds?"

"You could say so. We're trained to 'andle just about anything. And
anybody."

The boys gave each other a quick look. This suited them.

"Right," said Patrick briskly. "Here's your chance to prove it. I'm
going to put you and your machine gun in front of a bunch of men. And
you're going to demonstrate how to use it. You'll go through it once,
and then let some of them try it. Only, be careful, we don't want
anybody hurt-this is only a training exercise."

The corporal's face had gone rigid and he stood at attention while
Patrick spoke. Then he gave a smart salute.

"Sir!"

"What's your name, Corporal?"

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CORPORAL FICKITS

"Fickits, sir, Corporal Royal Marines Willy Fickits."

"How much ammunition have you, Corporal?"

"Three 'undred rounds, sir."

"Don't waste any."

"Sir!"

"Now, don't be scared when I pick you up."

The corporal's adam's apple jumped as he swallowed, but his face didn't
change.

"Sir!"

Patrick carried the man, stiff as a tiny pencil, between finger and
thumb and set him down, still at attention, on the platform. At the
sight of him there was a buzz of astonished interest among the Indians,
most of whom leapt to their feet. The corporal allowed his eyes to rove
briefly across the mass of half-naked redskins. His adam's apple did a
jig in his throat and his eyes popped. Then his rigid expression came back.

Meanwhile Omri had carefully lifted the machine gun out of the cupboard
and set it beside him. The nearness of his weapon seemed to restore him.

"Begin, Corporal!" said Patrick, who found he rather liked giving orders
he knew would be instantly obeyed.

"Right, men!" Fickits barked. "Pay attention! I am about to demonstrate
the workings of this 'ere weapon, a marvel of military science. I will
first break it dahri and put it back together-"

"Never mind that, Fickits," interrupted Patrick. "Just show them how to
shoot with it."

The corporal instantly changed tack.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"I will first demonstrate the method of firing." He dropped to one knee,
aimed over the heads of the crowd, and fired off a short but noisy
burst. Bullets whistled through the air and caused a flurry among the
rhododendron leaves.

The Indians watched this impassively. They didn't seem to grasp what had
happened. But Little Bear leapt up beside Fickits and shouted something.
He must have told them that each bang represented a bullet, or with luck
a dead enemy. At that, the Indians jumped up and started yelling
excitedly and pushing towards the platform. Almost at once a fight broke
out among those wanting to be the first to try the gun. Corporal Fickits
stared at the scrimmage in dismay.

"You'd better give these blighters some orders, sir!" he shouted at
Patrick above the uproar. "Coin' on like that, it won't do, sir!"

"It's your gun, Corporal! You give the orders!"

"Me, sir? Ain't there an officer about, sir? Or at least a sergeant!"

The scrimmage below was getting wilder. One burly Indian had already
laid two others out cold and was scrambling up onto the platform.

"You're in charge, Corporal! Go on, tell them to behave. They'll listen
to you!"

After a baffled moment, Fickits saw that the Indian had laid hands on
his gun and was swinging the barrel wildly in all directions. This
galvanised him into action.

"TAKE YER 'ANDS ORF THAT GUN!" he bellowed.

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CORPORAL FICKITS

His voice was not that of a corporal, but of a regimental sergeant
major. All at once the howling mob of Indians fell silent. Even Little
Bear looked impressed. The Indian at the gun found himself hiked upright
by his hair (all Fickits had to get hold of) and flung off the platform.

"Nah then, you bunch of 'orrible little men!" roared Fickits. "You touch
this 'ere weapon when I says you will touch it, and NOT BEFOWER, DO YOU
UNDERSTAND THAT? Or you will find yourselves wishin' that your mothers
'ad never met your fathers, IS THAT CLEAR???"

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

There was a profound silence. Even the birds in the bushes seemed stunned.

"Wow," breathed Patrick. "That's telling them."

Corporal Fickits proved a godsend. He knew a great deal about military
hardware, not only machine guns. As fast as Omri put the soldiers into
the cupboard, made their weapons real, removed them from their owners,
and placed them on the matchbox platform, Fickits instructed his
now-obedient students how to work them. Soon they had two field guns,
ten hand grenades, three bazookas, two more machine guns, and a small
pile of automatic rifles. The Indians appeared to like these best. When
they discovered that they could actually run while firing them, it took
all Corporal Fickits' newfound authority to keep any kind of order, and
even so it was a miracle that no one got hurt during the training. The
boys set up stripped twigs and round pieces of trimmed bark as targets,
but as there was a limited amount of ammunition, every Indian was given
only five rounds to practice with.

Fickits was uneasy about the larger guns.

"Firing artillery, sir, ain't something you do any old how. Any 'alfwit
can blast off with the 'andguns, sir, or throw a grenade, but if you'll
take my advice you'll leave the ordnance pieces out of it. You need a
properly trained crew for artillery, sir. Not rabble like this lot, sir."

"If that's your advice, Corporal, we'll follow it," said Patrick.

Corporal Fickits' expression did not change, but he

132

CORPORAL FICKITS

seemed to swell up inside his uniform like a miniature pouter pigeon.

"Thankysir!" he said, making it all one word.

Little Bear was getting impatient.

"Braves know shoot now-guns," he said urgently. "Time go back!"

Omri had been, he now realized, secretly dreading this moment. There was
his Indian, not yet fully recovered, no matter what anyone said, about
to be plunged into a life-or-death situation.

But he knew there was no way to avoid it. People had to do what they had
to do. However, that didn't mean Bright Stars had to go into danger.

"Can you leave Bright Stars here?" Omri asked.

"Yes," said Little Bear. "Leave wife. Omri take care. Bring old white
she-bear when time come for Little Bear son. But no let stab with claw
in backside!"

Omri and the Indian looked at each other for a moment.

"Good luck," said Omri.

"Need help from Great Spirits. Then fight well, win against French,
Algonquin enemy."

"Did the Algonquins help attack your village?"

"Algonquin lead. French follow. Now go back. Take vengeance."

"I wish I could see it," said Omri.

"And me," added Patrick, who had overheard.

It took some time to assemble the now heavily armed Indian troop and
prepare them to leave. Bright Stars

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

directed Omri to bring her some flowers, which she crushed in her hands,
producing a colored pulp with which she smeared Little Bear's face in
streaks. Others were decorating themselves with mixtures of mud and some
other colors they had had with them.

Every time a bird flew overhead they all looked up apprehensively. Omri
thought they were afraid it might attack them (as indeed it might, had
the boys not been there to guard them) but Little Bear, after one such
overpass, said:

"Bad omen if shadow fall on braves before battle." The last Indians were
leaving Bright Stars' pool, smearing patterns of mud on their torsos.
Omri looked at the now murky water in the coffee-jar lid. It had a
reddish look where the sinking sun caught it. He turned away, glad that
he didn't believe in omens.

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Chapter 16

"If'n Ya Wanna Go Back . . ."

Corporal Fickits marched his troops into the cupboard and lined them up
in two ranks in the bottom of it. The machine guns were lifted in.
Fickits saluted Patrick. "Trainees drawn up and ready, sir!"

"Thanks, Corporal. You've done a good job."

"Thankysir."

"Now you're going back where you came from, Fickits. Don't forget how it
feels to give orders. You'll be a sergeant in no time."

Fickits permitted himself a grin. "Yessir. Thankysir."

Omri told Little Bear to instruct his men each to put a hand on the
shoulder of the man beside or in front of

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

him, so the whole group was physically linked. "And they must all be
linked to you, Little Bear, so you'll take them back with you."

Little Bear was in the paddock, fetching his pony. He had to get Bright
Stars to give him a leg up. He bent over and put his hand on her black
head. She gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling, this time with tears. She
seemed to be begging him for something, but he shook his head. Suddenly
she reached up, seized his hand, and pressed it to her cheek. Then she
turned and ran into the tepee.

As she entered, Boone's face appeared at the flap.

"Hey! Pssst! Injun!"

Little Bear, who was riding toward the ramp, turned his head.

"Give it to those Frenchies!"

"I give."

Little Bear mounted, waved at the boys, rode down the ramp and, catching
the reins up chest-high, galloped to the cupboard. His pony jumped the
bottom rim and swerved to a sudden stop to avoid the ranks of Indians.
Little Bear barked a command. All the Indians put their hands on each
other's shoulders. The nearest brave put his on the pony's rump.

"Omri shut door, send!" ordered Little Bear. His face was burning with
impatience.

Omri gave himself a second to take in the group. The painted braves in
their double row looked proud, ferocious, eager. They were obviously
looking forward to the coming battle without a trace of fear. The weaponry

136

IF N YA WANNA GO BACK . . .

caught the sun and glistened with readiness to do what it had been made
to do. For a moment, Omri was swamped by doubts. It was like . . . like
mailing death. Why should he help to kill people . . . ? But he was
caught up in it now.

"Go on!" urged Patrick. "Send them!"

"Wait--Fickits!" said Omri. He picked up the little corporal, who was
standing at attention just outside the cupboard, and set him by himself
on the shelf. Then he shut the door firmly and turned the key.

For a long moment, they didn't breathe. Then Omri opened the door. His
hand was shaking and he jiggled the cupboard a bit as he did it. Two or
three of the Indian figures, now plastic, fell over. It was like
dominoes, each knocking down another until most of them lay tumbled
across each other on the floor of the cupboard. Only Little Bear and
Fickits and a couple more were still upright.

The boys stared at the scene in a dismay they couldn't control. Boone,
who had crept to the edge of the seed tray and was leaning over to look,
voiced their feeling.

"Looks like a massacree, don't it?"

"Don't be stupid, Boone!" Patrick almost shouted. "They're just plastic
now. They fell over because Omri jogged the cupboard."

"Sure," said Boone hastily. "Sure, Ah know that! Ah wuz just sayin'-"

"Well, don't!"

"You ain't superstitious, are ya?"

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Of course not!"

Now there was a feeling of intense anticlimax. There seemed nothing they
ought to do. It was getting chilly. They sat for a bit, but that became
intolerable because of what they were all imagining.

"Let's go in."

Again Patrick took the cupboard, with its contents, and the bag of
weaponless British soldiers, and Omri took the seed tray.

Bright Stars and Boone retreated into the tepee, just in case they met
anyone on the way back upstairs, which was just as well, because as they
passed Gillon's bedroom on the first floor, the door opened and out he came.

Omri and Patrick started guiltily. They couldn't help it.

"What's all that?" Gillon asked, not because he particularly wanted to
know but just out of idle curiosity.

"Just some stuff we've been mucking about with," said Omri. He tried to
push past, but Gillon stood in his path.

"Oh, it's that fantastic little house you made last year," said Gillon.
"And the leather tepee. Often wondered what had happened to that. Never
seen one like it in the shops ..." Before they could do anything, he'd
picked the tepee up to examine it.

It was one of the worst moments of Omri's life. There was nothing he
could do. There were Bright Stars and Boone, crouching on the earth,
exposed-discovered. Everything seemed frozen-neither Patrick nor Omri
could move, and the little people sat absolutely motion-

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IF N YA WANNA GO BACK

less. Omri's eyes were fastened to them were so obviously alive-so
vulnerable! JHe w< condemned man waits for the ax to fall on his n\
Gillon to notice them.

Gillon, however, was looking only at the tepee in his hands.

"This really is a mini-marvel," he said. "I love the paintings. Has Dad
seen these?" He peered closer. "This little beaver-and the porcupine . .
. they look dead genuine, like those cave paintings we saw in France . .
. And the way the poles are attached, inside, it's really a work of art."

With that he plonked it carelessly back on the earth, nearly knocking
Boone's head off, and swung away down the stairs singing a pop song at
the top of his lungs.

Patrick did a perfect imitation of Matron, spinning on his heel and
falling in a mock faint on the landing. He lay there with the cupboard
on his stomach and his eyes wide open and crossed. After a second he sat up.

"Whew, that was close!"

Omri was still rooted to the spot. Boone was lying, half in, half out of
the tepee, on his back. His eyes looked crossed too-quite genuinely.
After a few moments he wriggled all the way out and stood up, wiping the
sweat off his face.

"Jeez, son," he complained, "d" ya have t' skeer a fella like that? An'
the li'l lady . . . Tain't right, with her bein' the way she is,
skeerin' her that-a-way. Might bring somethin' on."

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Ah shoulda gone with "em," he said. "Ah knew at the time Ah shoulda."

"That would've been crazy, Boone," said Patrick. "Someone would have
shot you just because you look different, and you're white."

"Mebbe Ah could've stayed in the tepee and shot the Frenchies from
cover. Ah could've done somethin'. Thet Injun's mah blood brother. His
fight oughta be mah fight!"

"We need you here, Boone."

"Whut fur? Ah ain't no use here!"

"Well," said Omri, "you can help with the baby."

Boone's jaw dropped. "Me? Watcha take me for? Babies is wimmin's bizness!"

Just at that moment, they heard a little cry from inside the tepee. It
wasn't a baby's cry. In a flash Boone was crouched at the flap.

"Lemme in, lady, ya cain't be alone in thur! Ah'll help ya! Ah brung a
dozen calves into the world, an' a foal once't, an' they're a lot
bigger'n a baby-Ah know whut t'do!"

There was a pause, and then a slight movement at the tent flap. Boone
grinned a rather wobbly grin over his shoulder at the boys.

"Ya see? She trusts me," he said. "Don't fret, now. Li'1 Bear'11 be glad
he made me his brother, you wait." The flap was loosened and Boone
started to crawl in. But just before he disappeared, he turned once more.

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IF N YA WANNA GO BACK . . .

"Ah wuz thinkin'," he said. "If'n ya really wanted to go back, and watch
the battle-"

The boys looked at each other, then leaned forward incredulously to listen.

"Wal, whut Ah wuz wonderin' wuz . . . Does it have t'be the cupboard?
Mebbe it ain't the cupboard so much as that thur fancy key. Did ya ever
try the key in somethin' bigger? Like that great big box, for instance,
that we wuz all on before."

Another little cry, more of a gasp, came from inside the tepee.

"S" long, boys-wish us luck!" Boone said, and crawled the rest of the
way, leaving both boys in a ferment of excitement at the possibilities
of this amazing new idea.

Chapter 17

As Far As You Can Go

"Would it work?"

"How do I know? I never thought of it."

"We never asked ourselves whether the cupboard was

part of what makes it happen. Maybe he's right. Maybe

the cupboard's just a cupboard, and the magic thing is

the key."

They turned both at once to look at the chest. The top of it still had
scattered bits of Kleenex, boxes

and other things on it. Omri went over to it and swept all

this off. Then he opened it. It was full of his private stuff. "It's not
big enough to hold both of us at once." "We couldn't both go together
anyway, you wally." "Why not?" Then he realized. Of course! Someone

would have to stay behind or there'd be nobody to turn

the key.

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AS FAR AS YOU CAN GO

"Who'll try it first?" Patrick was asking.

Omri looked at him. "Are you serious? You really want to try it?"

"Of course! Don't you?"

Omri looked around the room. Despite irritations, he was happy with it,
with his life. He wasn't eager to risk losing either of them.

"Have you thought about the dangers?"

"Coward!"

"No I'm not. You're rushing in like you always do. Just stop and think a
bit. First, if it does work at all, how can you be sure you'd go back to
Little Bear's time, to his village, and not somewhere else? You could
find yourself anywhere. And any when." Patrick looked mulish. "Apart
from that, what about size?"

"Size?"

"Yes. If they reach us small, we'd reach them small. Wouldn't we? Of
course there was no plastic then. We'd have to be in dolls or-totem
poles or something. I don't think it's cowardly not to fancy waking up
in an Indian village two hundred years ago, at the top of a totem pole."

For answer, Patrick knelt down by the chest and started lifting things
out of it. "Give me a hand with all this rubbish" was all he said.

Omri helped him silently until the chest was empty. Then he said, "After
all that, probably the key won't even fit this lock." His heart was
pounding and he knew he hoped it wouldn't.

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Patrick got up and fetched the key. Without closing the lid of the
chest, he put it in the lock and turned it. It turned easily. The lock
part clicked. Patrick removed the key and looked at it.

"My guess is, this key fits pretty well any lock," he said slowly.

Omri took a deep breath. Once again, he was caught up in something he
felt overwhelmed by.

"Who'll go first?"

"I will," said Patrick.

"Wait a minute!"

"What now?"

"You've got to have something with you, something of Little Bear's.
Otherwise you haven't a hope of finishing up in the right place!"

Patrick stopped. "What have we got of his?"

"The longhouse."

"That's no use. The longhouse was made here; he didn't bring it from his
time."

"Then, there's only the tepee."

They looked over at Omri's desk. The tiny tepee stood up from the seed
tray, its poles sticking through the top, its beautiful bold animal
designs on its cone-shaped panels.

"That came from somewhere else. The Iroquois didn't have tepees, only
longhouses. Besides, we can't move that. Bright Stars is having her baby
in it."

Patrick said slowly, "If I took her, I'd be sure to go back to the right
place. She'd take me."

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AS FAR AS YOU CAN GO

"Patrick, you can't! Take her back into the middle of a battle?"

"Listen, it's her village, it's her place. If not for the accident of
you bringing them when you did, she'd be there now. I bet it's where
she'd rather be, if you asked her-didn't you see how she was begging
Little Bear just before he left?"

"But he wanted-"

"Listen, shut up! You're always arguing. I've made up my mind. I'm not
going to miss this chance. I want to see the battle. Don't let's have a
fight over it or somebody's sure to get hurt. And it might not be one of
us."

He went to the desk and fetched the seed tray and brought it back and
laid it carefully in the bottom of the chest. Omri watched, feeling
terribly agitated. He wanted to fight Patrick, but that was impossible
now-he should have done it earlier. Now if they started struggling
something awful could happen to Boone or Bright Stars.

His mind was racing. "I'm the one who'll have the key," he thought. He
would have control. He could send them for five minutes, or one minute,
or less, and then, just by turning the key in the lock again, he could
recover them. That was how it worked. What could happen in such a short
time? And he couldn't help admiring Patrick's courage. Omri admitted to
himself that he would not have been willing to go first, and not just
because of Bright Stars, either.

Patrick climbed into the chest and crouched down.

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Here," he said, handing Omri the key. "Close the lid and send me."

"Touch the tepee with one finger," said Omri.

"Okay, I am. Now." Patrick's voice was trembling a little, but not much.

"What about Boone?"

"He said he felt bad and wanted to help. Send us, will you, before I
lose my nerve!"

Omri closed down the lid, put the key in the lock, and locked the chest.

It was such a simple action. What had it caused?

After a moment he unlocked the chest again, and, with icy cold hands,
opened it. He didn't know what to expect. Would Patrick have disappeared?

Patrick lay inside it. At least, his body lay there. Omri reached in and
touched him. He felt cold.

"Patrick! Patrick!" But he was not really expecting a response. Patrick
was as far away as anyone can be who isn't actually dead.

Down in the bottom of the chest, near Patrick's unconscious head, was
the seed tray. Patrick's limp hand was resting on it. Everything else on
it was the same-the grass patch, the longhouse, the pool-except for one
thing. The tepee was made of plastic. The paintings on it were crude,
mass-produced; the poles were pink and molded in one with the tent.
Gently Omri lifted it. What he saw underneath gave him the biggest shock
he'd had yet.

The plastic figure of an Indian girl lay on a pile of

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AS FAR AS YOU CAN GO

cotton bedding. A cowboy was kneeling by her on one knee. In his arms
was a tiny naked plastic baby, smaller than Omri's little fingernail.

Omri gasped. Then, on an impulse, he reached in and lifted the seed tray
and its contents out of the chest. Then he slammed down the lid and
turned the key. About half a minute had passed since he had "sent"
Patrick. At once he heard him moving inside and threw back the lid.

Patrick raised his head. His face was white and dazed.

"Don't!" he gasped.

"What happened?" shouted Omri.

"I'd hardly got there! It's fantastic-listen-I was part of the tepee!"

"Wha-at!"

"I can't explain! I was in the tepee-not in it-I was it! I was on the
outside of it-I could see everything! The place is-it's-I hadn't time to
look properly, I could just -Send me back, will you? Send me back now!"

He reached up and tried to pull down the lid. But Omri braced himself
against it.

"Get out. It's my turn."

"You didn't even want to go-"

"Well, I do now."

Omri was almost unable to speak for excitement. He was trying to drag
Patrick bodily out of the chest.

Patrick, resisting, grated out, "Leave off! Listen-I heard a baby crying
in the tepee-"

H9

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"I know. It's Bright Stars'. Get out, will you?-Were you small-?"

"I don't know how big I was, but I couldn't move- Listen, it's not fair,
let me go back, let me stay for a bit, you hardly let me-"

"I've got to see!" Omri said frenziedly. "Let me just look! Give me five
minutes, by your watch, then you can have five, I swear-"

Patrick gave way. He changed places with Omri.

"You'd better take the tepee-"

"The tepee won't work now, all that will happen is, you'll bring them
back. I've got her moccasins in my pocket. Those ought to do. Go on, get
on with it!"

"Five minutes!" said Patrick, and locked the chest.

There wasn't a second in which to catch a breath or even feel scared.
Omri was curled in the dark innards of the chest, he heard the lock
click, and then, immediately, he felt sunlight shining on him. He tried
to open his eyes but found they were already open-at any rate he could
see. And he could hear. That was all he could do. He not only couldn't
move, he couldn't try to move; but he didn't feel uncomfortable or as if
he were tied up. He just had nothing to move with and that was that.

Spread out before him was a ruined Indian village. It was evening. The
sun was a red ball sinking toward the rocky edge of a hill. The village
was in a clearing in a forest of pine and maple trees. The maples were
all the colors of fire. It was as if the fires in the village, which had

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AS FAR AS YOU CAN GO

now burnt out, had kindled more fires in the surrounding woods.

There were few longhouses left standing. Many had been burnt to the
ground. They had stopped smoldering but their blackened ruins gave the
view a look of desolation. A number of women were moving about. Some
were carrying water, some were cooking, others were helping injured men.
There were Indian children of all ages, and quite a few dogs. Hardly any
young men.

Omri could see no signs of anything resembling a battle. What had become
of the troop of well-armed Indians they'd dispatched less than an hour
ago? Had they gotten lost on the way . . . ?

Suddenly he heard a sound from behind him. It was unmistakably the
strange, chuckling cry of a newborn baby. Omri tried to look round but
found that he couldn't. Whatever he was, he was stuck to the outside of
the tepee, and that meant he couldn't see in.

A very queer and comic thought came to him.

"I wonder if I'm the beaver or the porcupine?"

He didn't have time to consider this before he heard Boone's voice.

"He sure is a fine li'l fella," he said. His voice was choked with
emotion. "Ever'thin'jest whur it oughta be. Now you give him a swig o'
milk, ma'am, an' Ah'll go ask the boys fer somethin' fer you, t'give ya
back your stren'th."

There was a movement to Omri's left and Boone came into view, blowing
his nose and wiping his eyes. Amaz-

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

ingly, he was full size. Or, no, of course that wasn't amazing at all.

"A fine li'l fella," he was muttering to himself, sniffing and shaking
his head. "Gee whiz, ain't nature wonderful! Ah kin hardly-"

He stopped dead and stared around him in horrified astonishment.

"Holy jumpin' catfish! Whur am Ah?"

Omri was aching to tell him, but he could no more talk than he could
move. However, Boone was no fool. He realized soon enough what had
happened. After a few seconds spent taking in the scene, he turned and
dived back into the tepee. Fortunately, no one seemed to have seen him.

"Hey, li'l lady, do you know whur we're at? Ah do believe we're in yor
village! No, no-now, don't you go gittin' up-gee, I shouldn't oughta've
told ya-"

A moment later, Bright Stars emerged, her baby in her arms. She looked
tired and a bit bedraggled, but otherwise fine. Beautiful. Omri, who had
only seen her tiny till now, had never appreciated how beautiful she was.

An Indian woman was passing. She noticed Bright Stars, and reacted to
the baby. She called to others. Soon there was a crowd of women around
Bright Stars, much chattering talk, and a lot of pointing, all westward
toward the setting sun. Omri hoped Boone would have sense enough to stay
in the tepee, and he did. After a minute or two, Bright Stars moved to
go back in. Several of the

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other women wanted to come with her, but she sent them away.

Now Omri strained to hear the conversation in the tepee behind him.

"Whut's goin' on?" asked Boone as soon as she reen-tered.

"Woman say, strange thing happen. Little Bear come with many brave. Go
to hills. Wait for new attack."

"Whut attack?" asked Boone in alarm.

"Soldier maybe not come back. Algonquin come. Take women, food, furs."

"They didn't git any loot when they come last time?"

"No. Iroquois fight, drive off. Algonquin burn, kill some, get nothing.
Now village wait. Little Bear wait in hills. Algonquin come back when
sun go."

"But the sun's almost gone now!" said Boone, his voice going squeaky.

"Yes," said Bright Stars quietly.

After a moment, Boone's voice said, "Ain't ya skeered? With yer baby an'
all?" Bright Stars didn't answer. After a while she said, "Little Bear
near. And Great Spirits. No bad come."

Omri's eyes-or the porcupine's, or the beaver's, whosever he was looking
through-were fixed on the sun. It was sinking behind the rocky hillside
so fast he could see it move. Only a jagged slice of it was left.
Darkness was coming, and his five minutes was more than up. Why hadn't
Patrick taken him back?

153

Chapter 18 Algonquin

There was an air of fear about the village. As twilight fell, the
villagers seemed to be preparing to decamp. Such men as were left-mainly
old, plus some wounded or unfit ones-were giving orders, and the women
were running here and there, packing things into bundles. Others came
with buckets of water and put out the few cooking fires that were
burning, removed the pots and rounded up the children. A few dogs were
dashing about, barking excitedly, sensing something in the hurrying and
the anxious voices.

Omri watched all this in growing alarm. The minutes were ticking by.
Being apparently nothing more than a picture on the side of a tepee, he
couldn't see how he could be in danger himself, but he was desperately
worried about Bright Stars, Boone and the baby.

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After a while, one of the old women came around the tepee into Omri's
sight. She was hobbling along as fast as she could, gazing up at the
tepee with gaping mouth as if it had dropped from nowhere (as, in a way,
it had). She bent at the flap and called. Bright Stars answered. The old
woman hobbled away again, her white hair glowing in the deep twilight.
The tall pines around the camp now stood out black against the darkening
sky.

Omri heard Bright Stars in the tepee say to Boone: "Village leave now."

"Whut's that? Leave fur where?"

"Hide in wood." There was a pause. Then she said doubtfully, "Boone come?"

"No. Ah cain't."

"Why no? Here not safe."

"There not safe! Not fur me. Ah don't fit in, gal. You know that."

Bright Stars said no more. There was a pause; then the tepee flap opened
and she came out with her baby wrapped up in some hide torn from her
skirt. She turned in the opening. There was a very soft look in her eyes
as she looked, presumably at Boone, standing out of Omri's sight inside.
Then she hurried away, mingling with the knot of other Indians in the
center of the village.

Soon they were forming into a rough procession. It was almost too dark
to see now, but Omri could just make them out as they silently made
their way out of the circle of ruined and half-burnt buildings. Even the
dogs were quiet now as they trailed along after the villagers.

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

One of them, lingering, passed the tepee. He paused to leave his mark
against the side of it, and for a moment he looked up, straight at Omri.
His lips drew back over teeth which shone white in the darkness and he
whined uneasily-the hair on his back stood up straight. Then he tucked
his long tail between his legs and shot off after the others.

Soon the last rustles and murmurs subsided and there was a deep silence,
broken only by the call of a single owl. Bird-or a signal?

Omri had never known real fear. All he could compare this with was
walking up Hovel Road and knowing he had to pass the skinheads who were
waiting for him. That seemed to him now like nothing at all. What was
the worst they could do to him, after all? A black eye, a few bruises?
This was in another category of fear altogether.

Yet, what was he afraid of? Nothing could happen to him. At any second
now, Patrick would turn the key in the lock of the chest and recall him
to his body, to normality, to the utter, blissful safety of his own
life, which he had never thought about before, far less appreciated.

So what was this icy feeling which could only be terror?

Perhaps it was for Boone. Boone was behind him in the tepee, no longer a
tiny figure, but a full-sized man, out of his place, out of his time.
Visible, solid, vulnerable, and quite alone. How lonely could you be?
Omri could hardly imagine how Boone must be feeling as he waited in the
tepee for some unknown thing to happen.

And suddenly it did.

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It began with another hoot from the owl. Then Omri saw a swift movement
to one side of him, close to the edge of the clearing. Then again, on
the other side. Then a man's figure, crouched low, scurried past him.
And abruptly the whole clearing seemed to be full of moving men.

They were not Frenchmen, of course. They were Indians. Little Bear's
men, returning to defend the place? Omri strained to see them. All he
could make out was glimpses of leggings, of a head feather-the flash of
an axhead catching the starlight. Then he saw that several men were
raking wood from the cooking fires into one heap in the center of the
ring of longhouses. Shadows began to spread from a light source in the
midst of the

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

men. Suddenly a flame leapt high, and another. The fire had been lit.
And at once Omri could see.

These weren't Little Bear's men! Their clothes were different. Their
heads were shaved. Their headdresses- even their movements-were alien.
Their faces, too- their faces! They were wild, distorted, terrifying
masks of hatred and rage.

They were Algonquins, come to sack the village.

In the light of the central fire, they ran to and fro, dozens of
them-scores. It took only moments to find out that they had been
outwitted, that the village was empty and there was nothing to steal, no
women to carry off. Their anger burst out in howls and yelps. Through
this outburst Omri heard a smothered groan below him. Boone! ... he must
be peering out at the awful scene.

Now the Indians were dipping branches into the big fire to make torches.
They were dancing and shouting and leaping. Several of them were running
to the few unburnt longhouses. And suddenly Omri knew.

He knew what he had feared. They were going to burn the tepee. And he
was part of it!

The tepee was on the edge of the clearing. There were other things to
set on fire first. But they would get to him! They were coming closer,
their howls fiercer, their torches swirling in clouds of smoke above
their half-naked heads.

Omri began screaming silently.

Patrick! Patrick! Do it now! Turn the key, bring me home, save me!

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He saw an Indian making straight for him. His face, in the torchlight,
was twisted with fury. For a second Omri saw, under the shaven scalp
decorated with a single scalp lock, the mindless destructive face of a
skinhead just before he lashed out. The torch went back with the man's
right arm, there was a split second's pause, and then it came hurtling
through the air and struck the panel of hide just beside Omri.

It slithered down to the ground and lay there, its flame chewing the
bottom edge. The Algonquin licked his lips, snarling like the dog, and
ran back to the central fire.

Omri had not realized he could smell as well as see and hear. Now he
smelt the smoke, the stench of burning hide. It was dry and it caught
quickly. In helpless horror Omri watched the burnt area growing up
beside him like the letter A edged with flame. He hardly noticed another
Indian approaching from the other side with another blazing brand until
suddenly, out of the daze of fear he had fallen into, Omri heard a loud
bang.

The Indian left the ground briefly. His fingers jerked open. The torch
fell. Then the man did the same, dropped like a stone, and lay
motionless on his back while the branch burnt harmlessly beside him.

All the others stopped dead, their grim faces turned toward the tepee.

The shot had come from below. Omri saw the tip of a revolver barrel
poking out of a slit in the hide just underneath him. And as the whole
pack of Algonquin began to run, howling and yelling, toward the tepee,
their mon-

THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

strous shadows sliding along the ground ahead of them, more shots rang
out, and two, then three more Indians fell.

The others hesitated, then scattered. The fire burnt clear in the
center, unattended. The fire that was eating the tepee burnt too.
Inside, behind him, Omri could hear and even feel Boone frantically
beating at the licking flames with something-his hat, perhaps-and
cursing. But it was useless. The fire was spreading.

Get out, Boone! Run, Boone, run into the forest, save yourself!

Smoke flowed past the painted animal Omri was inhabiting and blinded him.

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The Terror of the Battle

From the dark heart of the fear, Omri heard a new sound.

He could see nothing now. But through the snapping of the flames, which
were already licking at him, came a sudden deafening rattle.

Then isolated bangs. Nearer and nearer. With no other warning, something
exploded almost under him. The tepee crashed to its side. Omri felt it
on top of him. The fire noise stopped and so did the smoke, though the
smell was still there. The falling tepee had put the flames out. There
was a sensation of heaviness, then of threshing, and he could hear
Boone's rich cursing as he struggled to get out of the crumpled,
half-burnt folds of the tent.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

In his struggles, he turned the whole thing over. Now Omri was staring
up at the night sky. He could see the stars, with smoke drifting close
above him, and the reflection of the central bonfire on a few pine tops.

A cowboy boot loomed for a second against the starlight, and came down,
narrowly missing Omri. Boone stood above him, astride him, firing into
the surrounding darkness once, twice. "Take that, ya flea-bitten
coyote!" he yelled. Then a click . . . Omri found he had been counting.
That was the sixth, and last, bullet.

The rattle came again, closer, and Boone flung himself down on the
fallen tepee-on Omri. Omri could smell his sweat now, feel how his heart
was thundering through his shirt, hear him muttering a mixture of curses
and prayers . . . The machine-gun bullets whizzed overhead. There was
the numbing crash of another hand grenade exploding somewhere near the
big fire.

Now, to the noise of explosions, were added shrieks and screams of
terror, and other shouts, war cries, as Little Bear's men descended from
ambush onto the hapless Algonquins. Omri heard the thunder of a single
pair of hoofs drumming on the ground beneath him. Boone rolled aside,
and at almost the same moment the stars were blotted out as the pony
cleared tepee, Boone and all in a wild leap. As it galloped on, Omri
caught a glimpse of Little Bear on its back, waving a rifle above his
head, riding down three fleeing Algonquins.

The noise of the firing was now continuous and deafening. Omri could see
the flash oflarge and small explo-

162

THE TERROR OF THE BATTLE

sions in the dark. The tide of the battle swept to and fro chaotically.
Twice or three times, small groups of Indians -whether friends or
enemies, Omri couldn't tell-raced across the fallen tent. One tripped
over Boone and went flying. His bare foot scraped Omri's face.

It was the nightmare to end nightmares. Utterly powerless, unable to
move or escape or fight back or even close his eyes and ears, Omri had
long since stopped hoping that some miracle would save him. He had
totally forgotten Patrick, forgotten his other life. He was a helpless
witness to the chaos and carnage of war; he was part of it, yet not part
of it. It seemed it would go on forever, or until some kind of oblivion
engulfed him . . .

Then, in the tenth part of a second, it ended.

The noise, the smoke, the cries-the terror-the helplessness. Gone . . .

Silence.

He lay curled up in darkness on something hard. He could feel his body,
his wonderful, three-dimensional body . . . Light fell on him, and warm
air. And he heard Patrick's voice, with panic in it, calling his name.

He lifted himself slowly. One hand clutched the edge of the chest. The
other went to the right side of his face. Patrick was staring at him,
aghast, as if he saw a stranger.

"God, Omri! Are you all right?"

Omri didn't answer. The side of his head felt funny. He took his hand
away and some black stuff was on his fingers. Something was odd about
his nose, too. He felt

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

something running out of it. He looked down. There was blood on his
sweatshirt.

"What's happened to you? You look-your nose is bleeding, and your hair-!"

None of that mattered. The blood and the singed and blackened hair meant
nothing. They didn't give him any pain or any fear, at least none that
he would call fear now. Stiffly Omri crawled out of the chest, trying to
get his mind back together, to clear it and to adjust.

Patrick was babbling something about Omri's mother.

"She just came in, I couldn't do anything, she made me go downstairs to
the phone, and then she wouldn't let me go back up again-she kept asking
where you were, she delayed me, I was going crazy, she wouldn't let me
go ... Omri, I'm sorry, you look terrible, as if you'd nearly been
killed or something-what happened? Is it over? Should we bring the
others back?"

Omri had a pad of something pressed to his nose. His head, where the
fire had licked, was beginning to sting. It was awfully hard to think.
He remembered what Boone had said about Little Bear, and kept repeating
to himself: Pore critter's had a shock. Pore critter . . . The "poor
creature" was himself.

The others . . . He turned suddenly.

"Get Boone back!" he shouted. "Not the others, but get Boone! Hurry!"

Patrick snatched up the plastic tepee, and Boone's figure from under it.

"Don't forget his hat!" Omri said idiotically. Patrick

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THE TERROR OF THE BATTLE

scrabbled about in the earth of the seed tray, and almost threw it after
the figure and the tent. He slammed down the lid of the chest, turned
the key . . .

"If only he's not dead . . ." breathed Omri. His head was beginning to
ache piercingly from the burnt side. Patrick threw up the lid again.

They looked down into the belly of the chest. The tepee was a crumpled
wreck, twisted and blackened. Boone lay on top of it. He was very still.
For one horrible moment, Omri thought a stray bullet or the blast from
an explosion must have killed him. But then he raised his red head and
looked up at them.

"Is it over?" he called.

"It's over for us, Boone," said Omri.

Gently he lifted him out.

"Wuz you there too? Whur was ya, son?"

"You were lying on me part of the time," said Omri.

Boone didn't try to puzzle this out.

"Dang me if'n it wuzn't the most fearsomest thing Ah ever bin through in
mah en-tire life!"

"Me, too," said Omri soberly.

Patrick was staring at them. "Have I missed it?" he said. "Is it over?"

"I don't know," said Omri.

With a sudden movement, Patrick leapt into the chest.

"What are you doing?" cried Omri, although he knew.

"Send me back! I've missed everything, and you've seen it! Send me back-"

"No."

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"You've got to! It's only fair."

"Never mind fair. You don't know what you're talking about. It was . . .
Never mind that you missed it. You're lucky."

"But-"

"It's no use. I wouldn't send you now for a million pounds."

Patrick saw he meant it, and when he looked at Omri's face, brave as he
was he couldn't really be sorry.

He climbed slowly out again. "Tell me about everything," he said.

Omri told him, with Boone chipping in. Boone had accounted for three,
possibly four Indians before he ran "plumb outa bullets."

"You'd better do something about that burn," Patrick said at the end.

"Yeah . . . What, though?"

"You're going to have to let your mum see it sometime."

"How'11 I explain it? And my nosebleed?"

Patrick said the nosebleed was nothing-"We could have had a fight." The
burn was the problem. Half the hair on that side of his head was gone
and there was a big red blister.

"Well, you don't have to worry about explaining it now," said Patrick.
"They've gone out."

"Who?"

"Your lot, your parents and your brothers."

"Is the baby-sitter here?"

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THE TERROR OF THE BATTLE

"Not yet, she's late. Can you cope till morning?"

Omri didn't know. He supposed so. He was ashamed to admit how his heart
had sunk when Patrick said his mother wasn't in the house. He suddenly
wanted her. He wanted to tell her everything and let her take care of
it, and him. Well, he couldn't, that was all. Just as well, perhaps.

Boone, exhausted, flopped down in the longhouse for a sleep, after
flinging back the last of the whiskey. Patrick and Omri slipped down to
the next-floor bathroom and found some ointment, which Omri rubbed on
his own head. The sight of himself in the mirror scared him silly. His
face was white, red and black. He felt he could be doing with some
whiskey himself, but he made do with an aspirin.

"What about the others?" asked Patrick.

"I don't know."

Omri felt the whole thing had gone well beyond his control. Having seen
Boone, Little Bear and Bright Stars full size, he could no longer think
of them in the same way. Some part of him-until the battle-had still
thought of them as "his," not toys exactly, but belonging to him, within
his orbit. This illusion was now gone. What was happening back in the
village? Whatever it was, he was responsible for it. He couldn't avoid
the realization that he had sent devastating modern weapons back in time
and that they had certainly killed people. "Baddies," of course . . .
But who were baddies? If Patrick, a year ago, had made him a present of some

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

other plastic Indian, it might just as well have been an Algonquin, and
then the Iroquois would have been the baddies. Suddenly Omri felt the
nightmare was not there, but here.

"I think we should bring them back," said Patrick.

"Bring them back if you want to," said Omri, who suddenly felt tired to
death. "I've got to sleep." He started back up the stairs to his room,
and stopped. Not up there. He wanted . . . neutral ground. He turned and
went down again.

"Where are you going?" asked Patrick.

"Down to the living room. I'm going to sleep on the sofa."

"What when the baby-sitter comes?"

"Shove her in the breakfast room." He stopped, and met Patrick's eyes.
"Don't do anything stupid," he said. "I really can't cope with any more."

"I'll take care of everything," said Patrick.

Omri went on, his feet like lead weights. In the living room he didn't
even put the light on, just threw himself onto the sofa, where in two
minutes he was fast asleep.

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Chapter 20

Invasion

He slept without dreams for two hours. Then something woke him.

He lifted his head sharply. His mother hadn't closed the curtains, so a
little light came in from the street. He felt strange, but he saw at
once where he was and remembered why he was there. He was by no means
ready to wake up-so why had he?

Then he saw there was somebody in the room.

Coming in, rather. Through an open window, facing the front garden,
which shouldn't have been open. It was the sound of it opening, and the
draught of cold night air, which had awakened him. He was peering over
the arm of the sofa, which lay in deep shadow at the farthest end of the
living room. He could see the clear silhouette

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

of a male figure stealthily putting first one leg and then the other
over the sill, and ducking his head under the half-raised window frame.
A bare head, which gleamed dully in the diffused lamplight from beyond
the high front hedge.

For a second, Omri thought it was an Algonquin. But there was no scalp
lock on that shaven skull. It was a skinhead. No-not just one. Once in,
the first figure bent and beckoned, and from the shadows outside
appeared another, and then another. One by one they climbed silently
into Omri's house.

In a flash he remembered last night (was it only last night?) when he'd
come down to fetch Bright Stars something to eat. He'd seen a hairless
head go past the kitchen window, and then put it from his mind. They
must have been looking the place over, "casing the joint," making plans
for a time when the family would be out . . .

Where was the baby-sitter?

Normally she would be in here, watching television. But the set sat
darkling in its corner. The intruders made towards it, laid hands on it.
While one unplugged it and rolled up the cord, the other two lifted it
between them. Would they try to take it out by the window . . . ? No.
They carried it silently to the door. The cord holder opened it and they
went out.

Omri swung his legs swiftly to the floor and stood up, holding his
breath. His heartbeat was extraordinarily steady; in fact he felt calm
and clear-headed. There was

170

INVASION

another door to the living room, and it was the one nearest the foot of
the stairs. Moving across the carpet without a sound, he slipped out of
the room and glanced toward the front door.

It was open. The skinheads were going down the path, but they weren't
yet ready to make off. They put the television down in the front garden
just behind the hedge. Omri knew they would then turn and come back for
more. He took two swift steps to the stairs and raced up them silently,
two at a time.

He must phone the police.

No, he couldn't. The only phone was in the hall.

He must do something. He couldn't just let them get away with it. It was
bad enough they made his life a hell in Hovel Road, without invading his
territory. But the inescapable fact was that they were years older than
Omri, there were three of them, they probably had knives.

He reached his attic bedroom out of breath and opened the door as
quietly as he could. He stopped. It was full of strange small lights and
flickering shadows.

The first thing he saw was Patrick, fast asleep on cushions on the
floor. Then he noticed that the cupboard had been returned to the top of
the chest, and so had the seed tray. There seemed to be a lot of
activity going on on its much-trampled earth surface. Omri moved forward
to look closer.

An astonishing scene met his eyes.

The ruined longhouse had been turned into a sort of scratch hospital.
Clean pages evidently torn from a note-

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

book had been laid on the floor. In a double row, with a walkway between
their feet, lay a number of wounded Indians. They appeared to have been
well looked after. The ones Omri could see, through the holes in the
long-house roof, were bandaged and covered with warm blankets, made of
squares cut from Omri's sports socks-he recognized the green and blue
stripes on the white toweling. Bright Stars was there, her baby tied to
her back, moving among them with a bucket, giving them drinks.

At either end of the building burned a small fire of matchsticks and
shavings of candlewax, each tended by an unwounded Indian. Around the
fires, wrapped in glove-finger sacks, more braves lay asleep.

Omri's eyes went to a bright light at one end of the seed tray. The stub
of the candle had been stuck into the earth and lit. Around it,
muttering and chanting, Little Bear moved in a slow sort of dance. His
shadow, hugely enlarged, was flung all over the walls of Omri's room,
and the thin, weird, wailing note of his chant struck Omri's heart with
sadness.

Near the candle was the paddock. It was like a graveyard. Laid out on
the grass were some small, still shapes, covered with squares of white
cotton blotted with drops of red. Omri counted them. There were eight.
Eight out of forty. And all those injured. How?-when they had ambushed
the unsuspecting enemy, with far superior weapons?

It took only a few seconds for Omri to take all this in.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Then, out of the depths of the longhouse, bustled a little figure in
blue and white, with a tall, flowing cap.

"Well!" she exclaimed when she saw him. "Here's a nice how do y' do!
Call this a casualty ward? I'd rather be Florence Nightingale-she had it
easy! Whoever let these poor, simple fools loose with modern weapons
ought to be shot themselves!"

"What happened?" asked Omri, dry-mouthed.

"What was bound to happen. They were shooting each other! From what I
can make out from their leader, they encircled the enemy, then blasted
off from all sides, never realizing how far the bullets would travel.
The shots that didn't hit an enemy were likely to hit an ally coming the
other way! I've fished so many bullets out tonight I could do it with my
eyes shut . . ."She bustled back to work, tutting loudly.

Omri bent and shook Patrick awake.

"Get up. We've got burglars downstairs."

Patrick jerked upright. "What!"

"Skinheads. Three of them. They must think the house is empty. They're
going to clean us out. Only, they're not, because we're going to stop them."

"We are? How?"

"Where are the guns the Indians had?"

"They're in the cupboard. I think they've damaged a lot of them."

"We were mad . . . Where's that bag of British soldiers we had in the
garden?"

"Here-but you're not going-"

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INVASION

"And where's Fickits?"

"He's in with them."

Omri was frantically emptying the paper bag onto the chest. He found
Fickits at once and almost threw him into the cupboard, remembering just
in time to take the jumble of rifles, tommy guns and machine guns out
first. He locked and unlocked the door, and in the next moment Fickits
was standing bewildered by the pile of guns.

"Corporal! Check those weapons."

Fickits, rubbing his eyes, at once came to attention, and then began
disentangling what now appeared to be a pile of scrap. Omri meanwhile
was putting handfuls of soldiers recklessly into the cupboard. Patrick
was at his shoulder.

"You're crazy! You're always telling me not to-"

"Shut up and bring me something flat."

"Like what-?"

Omri turned on him fiercely. "Use your head! Anything! A tray, a book!
My loose-leaf will do! Be quick!"

Patrick did as he was told. Omri closed the cupboard but didn't turn the
key.

"Corporal!"

"Yessir?"

"How much ammo is left?"

"Ammo, sir? More like, how many workin' weapons. Them redskins 'ave
wreaked 'avoc, sir. Absolute 'avoc. I was afraid of this, sir. These
'ere are precision instruments, sir, they're not bloomin' bows an' arrers!"

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

"Never mind that now. I'm going to put you in charge of a-an operation,
Fickits."

"Me, sir?"

"-Not Indians this time; British troops. And they're going to mount an
attack on three people my size."

"Gawd 'elp us, sir! 'Ow can we?"

"Just do as I tell you, Corporal, and make them do as you tell them. Okay?"

Fickits gulped noisily, then straightened himself.

"As long as most of 'em are Marines, sir, I expect we shall manage."

"Good man! Stand by to reassure them as they come out."

"No need for mollycoddling 'em, sir. The light's poor; I'll just tell
'em we're on night maneuvers."

Omri turned the key in the lock, and opened the door at once. He was
glad the light in the room was dim. Patrick thrust Omri's large, flat
loose-leaf book in front of the cupboard, and out on to it poured twenty
or thirty tiny khaki-clad figures. Some of them still had their weapons;
others, obeying Fickits' barking orders, began to man some of those the
Indians had used. The room filled with the metallic sounds of weapons
being loaded.

"Shall we use the big guns this time, sir? Now we've got the crews?"
Fickits asked Omri aside.

"Yes. Marshal them all on here, and tell the men to prepare for an
all-out attack when you give the word."

"No trouble, sir. Just don't-er-" He coughed.

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INVASION

"Don't thrust yourself forward, sir. They 'aven't spotted anything
unusual yet, if you take my meaning."

Patrick had caught the spirit of the thing and was feverishly sorting
out every bit of hardware he could find in the biscuit tin and getting
the cupboard and key to work on it. Soon the men, who were armed with
light arms, machine guns, portable antitank rockets, and even a
"bunker-buster"-a Milan missile-were in position, drawn up on three
sides of a square with their backs to Omri. Though this was a formidable
array, Omri did not feel even the faintest scruple.

"Pickets," he whispered, "I'm going to transport you all. When you can
see your targets, give the order to fire at will!"

"Sir!"

"And don't worry! Nobody's going to get hurt."

"You hope," muttered Patrick as they started down the darkened stairs.

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Chapter 21

Battle of the Skinheads

They moved silently down through the darkness. Omri could feel, through
his hands holding the edges of the loose-leaf platform, the faint
vibrations of life. He could also, for the first time since it happened,
feel the sting where the row of minute bullets had pierced the skin of
his palm.

On the first landing he nudged Patrick to a stop.

Low down on the bottom flight of stairs was one which always creaked. He
heard it creak now. He changed direction and slipped through a half-open
door into the bathroom.

He and Patrick stood behind this door. There was another door to this
room, which led into his parents' bedroom, and it, too, was ajar. They
saw a faint light-

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BATTLE OF THE SKINHEADS

the sort made by a penlight-feeling its way about on the landing, and
heard the stealthy sounds of the skinheads following it. Then a faint
whisper:

"Let's try in 'ere-"

The finger of light vanished, to appear again through the other door.
The intruders were in Omri's parents' room. He could hear them moving
furtively about, then the soft whine of a wardrobe opening.

"Gaaah-no fur coats . . ."

Omri and Patrick stood rooted, hardly breathing. Omri was almost praying
that, in the darkness, no soldier would press a trigger by mistake.
Suddenly the torchlight was within two feet of them on the other side of
the door.

"Look 'ere, Kev! . . ."

Omri set his teeth. He knew what they'd found. A little oak chest with
small, shallow drawers in which his mother kept the few bits of jewelry
she owned, most of it old silver inherited from her mother. It was very
precious to her, though it wasn't specially valuable. Omri heard the
scrape of the wooden drawers, and then:

"We can flog this lot ... Let's just take the 'ole thing-"

And then another voice, farther away but audible because they thought
they were safe and were getting careless:

" 'Ere! I'm goin' to take a leak on their bed-"

And there was a burst of stifled sniggering.

That did it.

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Before Omri could even signal, Patrick had let out a growl of disgust
and flung the door open.

"The light-switch! Beside you!" Omri shouted.

There was an agonizing second while Patrick groped. Then the top light
came on, flooding the bedroom with brightness. The skinheads froze in
grotesque positions, like children playing statues. Their ugly faces
were turned toward the boys, their eyes popping, their loose mouths gaping.

Omri rushed in like an avenging fury, and stopped, the loose-leaf
platform with its contingent of men thrust out in front of him.

" 'Ere, wot the 'ell-"

Then Fickits' sergeant-major voice rang shrill and clear:

"FIRE AT WILL!"

The biggest skinhead snarled and made a dive towards Omri. For a split
second he loomed menacingly. Then there was a concerted burst of fire,
and suddenly tiny red spots appeared on his face in a line, from the
bottom of one cheek, diagonally across his nose to the top of the other.
He stopped dead in his tracks, let out a howl of pain and outrage, and
clapped his hands to his face.

"I bin stung! It's 'ornets! Get 'em orfa me!"

Behind him, his mate started towards Patrick, hands reaching out to grab.

"I'll get 'em-little nerds-"

But all he got was the miniature equivalent of an armor-piercing shell
up under his thumbnail.

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BATTLE OF THE SKINHEADS

"OWWW!" he shrieked, and let out a string of curses, shaking his hand
and dancing in agony.

The third and smallest of the gang had been gazing at the object Omri
held, and he, unlike the others, had seen. He now let out a sound that
started as a moan and ended in a scream.

"UughhhhhAAAOWEEEE!"

He then flew into a panic, dashing here and there in short spurts,
yelling, " 'Elp! They're alive, I seen 'em, they're alive!"-through the
crump and crack and chatter of the guns, which were firing continuously.
The other two also turned and tried to flee, but all sense of direction
had deserted them. They bumped into the furniture, the walls and each
other, swearing and howling, and giving great leaps into the air every
time they were hit in a sensitive spot. Omri and Patrick added to the
uproar by shouting encouragement to their little men. Patrick was
jumping about as if at a prizefight or a football match. Omri had to
stay still to hold the firing platform steady, but he opened his throat
on a long shout of excitement as the three invaders finally found the
other exit and fled through it, pell-mell.

"Cease fire!" cried Patrick.

"CEASE FIRE!" bawled Fickits.

There was a fraction of a second's silence. Then the boys heard the
skinheads shoving and swearing on the stairs. One of them tripped; there
was a series of satisfying thumps, and then a loud crack as one of the
banisters broke. The boys, hurrying down to the half landing, saw

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

them fleeing along the path and heard the clatter of their boots
receding along Hovel Road, accompanied by sounds of anguish.

The boys turned and hugged each other.

"We did it, we did it!"

"The way you switched the light on-terrific!"

"How you could hold that thing straight-I'd have tipped them all off, I
was so excited!-Hey! Where is it?"

"I put it on the bed-"

They rushed back into the bedroom. Fickits was calmly ordering the men
to clear up and cover the big guns.

When he noticed the boys, he left the men and edged to the back of the
platform.

"Operation a success, sir?" he asked in a quiet tone.

"Definitely, Fickits. Well done!" said Omri.

"Did I say a sergeant, Fickits?" said Patrick. "I meant a captain."

"Not me, sir! Too much responsibility." He coughed. "Better get the men
fell in and back to quarters as quick as possible, sir."

"Yeah, right," said Patrick. "Thanks again, Corporal, it was terrific."
And he started to carry them upstairs.

"See that everything's all right up there," said Omri.

"Okay." Patrick reached the door and stopped. "I don't mind so much now,
missing the other battle," he said. "Wasn't this one fantastic?"

"Yeah," said Omri.

He was thinking how fantastic it was, too, that he would never be afraid
to walk down Hovel Road again.

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BATTLE OF THE SKINHEADS

They would leave him severely alone from now on, and even if they didn't
. . . Having sent them flying like that, and after all he'd been through
tonight, he couldn't imagine them holding any terrors for him in the future.

He looked around the room. He was going to have a bit of explaining to
do. The glass on a picture was cracked, and there were a number of
pinholes, and some larger ones, in the wallpaper and the foot of the bed
. . . Then there was the banister. And his own injuries . . . Well, he
could tell his parents about the burglars, say there was a scuffle.
Maybe they'd believe it. He hoped so.

He bent and picked his mother's jewel box up off its face. He'd saved
that for her, anyway. Under it was a cheap penlight. He picked it up. It
was still lit. He switched it off and dropped it into his pocket. He
might, if he felt like it, just hand it back to that little skinhead, if
he bumped into him after school on Monday ... Be a good laugh, to see
his face.

Omri drew a deep breath of satisfaction and went downstairs to bring in
the stuff piled in the front garden.

183

Epilogue by the Fire

When everything was back in place, with Patrick's help, except the
banister rail, which needed gluing in three places, they made some hot
chocolate to take upstairs with some cold potatoes and other leftovers.
They were both so keyed up they couldn't feel their tiredness, and were
prepared to sit up all night.

"I sent Matron back for some drugs and stuff she wanted," Patrick said.
"But she made me promise I'd get her again in the morning. She says
she's going to take a week's leave from St. Thomas's . . . She's enjoyed
all this, anyway."

"Fickits, too."

"Little Bear hasn't enjoyed it."

Omri didn't answer. Every time he thought of the In-

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EPILOGUE BY THE FIRE

dian battle, it took away from his overwhelming pleasure in the one with
the skinheads.

"Where's Boone?" he asked suddenly.

"I sent him back too. He asked me to. Said the odd gunfight and saloon
brawl would be a rest cure after all he's been through . . . He said
he'd like to see us soon, when things have quieted down."

"What about his horse?"

"Oh, yes. I gave him the one that English cavalry officer was riding."
Patrick chuckled. "You should have heard him swear when I flicked him
off! Boone was really pleased. Said he's a beaut. Really, he was happy
with it. And I bet the horse'll be happier with him than with that
snooty redcoat."

When they reached the room, all was quiet. The candle had burnt out, so
Little Bear had had to stop his dancing and chanting for the dead. One
fire was out, the other was burning low. The Indians, including the
wounded, were all asleep, except Little Bear, who sat cross-legged by
the fire. Bright Stars was asleep beside him, the baby in the crook of
her arm.

Patrick struck a match and Little Bear looked up.

"We've brought food," Omri said.

"No eat," said the Indian.

Omri didn't press him. He just poured a toothpaste capful of hot
chocolate and put it beside him with a piece of potato.

The match went out. They sat together in the dark,

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

with just the embers of the fire. The boys drank their chocolate. For a
long time nobody spoke.

Then Little Bear said: "Why Omri bring Little Bear?"

For the first time in two days, Omri thought of his prize. It had gone
completely from his mind. Now it seemed so trivial, he was ashamed to
mention it.

"Something good happened to me, which was partly to do with you, and I
wanted to tell you about it."

"What good thing happen?"

"I wrote a story about you and Boone and it-well, it was good."

"Omri write truth of Little Bear?"

"Yes, it was all true."

"Omri write Little Bear kill own people?"

"Of course not!"

"You write before this happen. Next time, write Little Bear kill own
braves."

"You didn't. The now-guns killed them. You couldn't know."

"Then, Little Bear fool!" came his bitter voice out of the dark.

There was a silence. Then Patrick said, "We were the fools, not you."

"Yes," said Omri. "We should have known better. We shouldn't have
interfered."

"Inta-fear? Omri not afraid."

"We should have let you alone."

"Let alone, Little Bear die from French gun."

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EPILOGUE BY THE FIRE

There was a pause. Then Omri said, "You did beat the Algonquins."

"Yes. Beat Algonquin thief. Not beat French."

"Yeah, that was a pity," said Patrick feelingly, "after all that."

"Fewer dead the better," muttered Omri.

"Good kill French!" Little Bear exclaimed, sounding more like his old
self. "Kill French next time."

"But not with the now-guns."

After a silence, Little Bear said, "Now-guns good. Shoot far. Now Little
Bear know shoot far. Next time not put own braves where bullet go. Omri
give now-guns, take back!"

The embers of the fire flared a little. Bright Stars had risen to throw
on another curl of wax. Now she crouched beside Little Bear and looked
into his face.

"No," she said clearly.

He looked at her.

"What no?"

She spoke to him softly and earnestly in their own language. He scowled
in the firelight.

"What does she say, Little Bear?"

"Wife say, not use now-guns. Soon braves forget skill with bow. Woman
not want son grow up without Indian skill. She say now-gun kill too
many, too easy. No honor for chief or chief's son."

"What do you think?"

"Omri give now-guns if Little Bear think good?"

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THE RETURN OF THE INDIAN

Omri shook his head.

"Then, what for I fight with wife? Give wife own way. Peace in
longhouse, till next enemy come. Then maybe wife sorry!"

He scowled at her. She smiled, bent down and picked up the baby and laid
it in his arms. He sat looking down at it.

"What's his name?" Omri asked.

"Name must mean much," mused Little Bear. "What 'Omri' mean?"

"Omri was a king. In the old days."

"Omri name for big chief?"

Omri nodded.

"Then, Little Bear son name too for chief. For father, Little Bear, had
first horse in all tribe. Call him Tall Bear. He sit high on horse, more
high than all brave."

Suddenly he clutched the baby to his chest, and turned his face upward
with closed eyes as if bearing a strong pain.

"When son grow, Little Bear tell that Omri write story! Little Bear live
in story even when gone to ancestors. That give honor, make son proud of
father!"

"He'll be proud of you, Little Bear. Without any help from me."

Little Bear looked up at him. Then he stood up. The fire put out a
sudden flare. He stood there, feet apart, his body glowing, his stern
face for once untroubled.

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EPILOGUE BY THE FIRE

"Omri good," he said loudly. "Give orenda back to Little Bear!"

Orenda. The life force.

And he held his son up high in both hands, as if offering him to the future.

189