The Indian in the Cupboard (19 page)

Little Bear stared at him, but did not deny it.

“Then look here. When he wakes up, you keep giving him these here pills. They’re iron, see? Build him up. And these as well, they’re for the pain. What we have to hope is that there won’t be no infection.”

“We need penicillin for him,” said Patrick, who had once had a bad cut on his foot that had turned septic.

Tommy looked at him blankly. “Penicillin? What’s that?”

Omri nudged Patrick. “They hadn’t discovered it in his time,” he whispered.

“Best thing I can suggest is a drop of brandy,” said Tommy, and, taking out a flask, poured something down Boone’s throat. “Look there,” he said cheerfully, “he’s getting a better color already. He’ll open his eyes soon, I wouldn’t wonder. Keep him warm, that’s the ticket. Now I must be getting back—waking up, I mean. If that there Minnie’s landed, I’ll be in demand, and no mistake!”

Omri carried him back to the cupboard.

“Tommy,” he said, “what if—what if the Minnie had fallen on
you?”

“Couldn’t a done, could it? If it had’ve, I wouldn’t be having this here dream, would I, I’d be singing with an ’eavenly choir! Cheeriby—hurry up and shut that door, I think I can hear ’em calling ‘stretcher bearer’ already!”

Omri smiled gratefully at him. He hated to send him back, but obviously he wanted to go.

“Good-by, Tommy—thanks. And good luck!” And he shut the door.

From the other end of the table, Little Bear suddenly called, “Omri come! Boone open eyes! Boone wake up!”

Omri and Patrick turned. Sure enough, there was Boone, staring up into Little Bear’s face.

“What happened?” he got out in a faint, shaky voice.

Nobody liked to tell him, but at last Little Bear had to confess.

“I shoot,” he said.

“Watcha talkin’ about, ya crazy Injun? Ah asked ya, what happened in the
picture?
Did them settlers beat the redskins and git to whur they wuz aimin’ to git to? Or did the redskins carry off the wimmin and scalp all the men, the dirty low-down savages?”

Little Bear drew in his breath. His head, which had been hanging in shame, came up sharply, and to Omri’s horror he actually saw his hand go to his belt for his knife. Luckily it wasn’t there. But he jumped to his feet.

“Boone shut mouth! Not insult Indian braves, or Little Bear shoot again, this time kill good, take scalp, hang on pole—Boone scalp too dirty hang on belt of Indian chief!”

And he snatched his chief’s cloak off Boone’s body and swirled it proudly back around his own shoulders.

Omri was shocked, but Patrick was laughing so hard he could scarcely hold it in. But he controlled himself enough to wrap Boone up in the cut-out blanket to keep him warm.

Omri snatched Little Bear up between finger and thumb.

“Oh so you’re a chief again, are you?” he hissed furiously. “Chiefs ought to know how to keep their tempers! Here.” He picked the broken headdress off the floor and fitted it lopsidedly onto Little Bear’s head. “Now, ‘Chief’—have a good look at yourself!” And he held Little Bear up before a mirror. Little Bear took one look, and then hid his face in his hands. “Just you remember what you did—to your friend!”

“Not friend. Enemy,” muttered Little Bear. But the anger had gone out of him.

“Whatever he is, you’ve got a job to do. Where are those pills? You’re to see that he gets them. We can’t—we can’t even see them. So it’s up to you! And when Boone is better, do you know what you’re going to do? You’re going to make him your blood brother!”

Little Bear shot him a quick, startled look. “Blood brother?”

“You both make little cuts on your wrists and tie them together so the blood mingles, and after that you can’t be enemies ever again. It’s an old Indian custom.”

Little Bear looked baffled. “Not Indian custom.”

“I’m sure it is! It was in a film I saw.”

“White man idea. Not Indian.”

“Well, couldn’t you do it, just this once?”

Little Bear was silent for a moment, thinking. Then Omri saw that crafty look that he knew of old coming onto the Indian’s face.

“Good,” he said. “Little Bear give Boone medicine, make him my brother when strong. And Omri put plasstick in box, make real wife for Little Bear.”

“Not tonight,” said Omri firmly. “We’ve had enough excitement. Tonight you stand guard over Boone, give him his pills when he needs them, drinks of water, and all that. Tomorrow, if everything’s all right, I’ll bring your woman to life. That’s a promise.”

O
mri had fully intended to go to sleep—Patrick did, almost immediately—but Omri couldn’t, tired though he was.

Instead, he lay in the candlelight, his head turned toward the table where Boone lay, and Little Bear sat cross-legged next to him, erect and watchful. Sometimes Omri would close his eyes, but he did no more than doze; each time he opened them, he would meet Little Bear’s unblinking stare.

It was partly the rat that kept Omri awake. It pattered around under the floor for hours, making Omri nervous, but it never came anywhere near the men. No, that wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was Omri’s thoughts.

What was he going to do?

He would bring Little Bear’s woman to life as he had promised. But then what?

It had been hard enough with only one little being to feed, protect, and keep secret. Much harder after Boone came. Now there’d be three—and one a woman. Young as he was, Omri knew that one woman and two men spelled trouble. And what if there should be children … ?

For all Little Bear’s unpredictable moods, his demands, his occasional cruelties, Omri liked him. He wanted to keep him. But he knew, now, that that was impossible. Whichever way he thought about it, the end was the same—disaster of some kind. Whatever magic had brought this strange adventure about must be put to use again, to send the little people back to their own place and time.

Having decided this, however sadly and reluctantly, Omri’s stressful thoughts let go their hold on him. He drifted off to sleep. When he opened his eyes again, dawn was breaking; the morning chorus of birds was just beginning. The candle had burned itself out. The rat had gone to sleep. So had Little Bear, nodding over his bow. Omri peered closely at Boone. The yellow field dressing on his wound moved steadily up and down; his skin had lost that gray look. He was better. Of course, Little Bear shouldn’t have gone to sleep, but just the same, he had done his best. Omri slipped out of bed.

His blazer was hanging from a hook at the back of his door. He took the paper bag with the woman in it out of the pocket. Moving on tiptoe, he went to the cupboard, took out the plastic soldier, put in the plastic Indian girl, and locked the cupboard door again.

When he heard little movements, he unlocked the cupboard and opened the door a crack, so she wouldn’t be frightened in the dark. Then he got back into bed, covered himself up all except his eyes, and stayed perfectly still to watch what would happen.

At first nothing did. Then, slowly, stealthily, the door was
pushed a little farther open. Out crept a beautiful Indian girl. There was enough light in the room now for Omri to see the black of her hair, the chestnut brown of her skin, the bright red of her dress. He couldn’t see her expression, but he guessed she was bewildered. She glanced all around, and at once spotted Boone lying on the ground and Little Bear dozing beside him.

She approached them cautiously. For a few moments she lingered behind Little Bear, clearly not sure whether she should touch and wake him or not. She decided against it, and, circling Boone’s feet, sat herself cross-legged on his other side, facing Little Bear.

She sat staring at him. The three of them were so utterly still that they might still have been plastic. Then a blackbird outside gave a particularly loud chirrup and Little Bear sat up sharply.

At once he saw her. His whole body gave a jolt. Omri felt a prickling up the back of his neck. The way they looked at each other! It went on a long time. Then, slowly and both together, they rose to their feet.

Little Bear spoke to her quietly in a strange language. She answered. He smiled. Standing there on either side of Boone, not touching, they talked for some minutes in low voices. Then he put out his hand and she put hers into it.

They stood silently. Then their hands dropped. Little Bear pointed at Boone and began talking again. The girl crouched down, touched Boone gently and expertly. She looked up at Little Bear and nodded. Then Little Bear looked around the room. He saw Omri.

Omri put his finger to his lips and shook his head, as if to say, “Don’t tell her about me.”

Little Bear nodded. He took the girl by the hand and led her to the seed box, up the ramp, and into the longhouse.
After a moment or two, he came out again. He ran the length of the table till he stood on its edge, as near to Omri as he could get.

“Do you like her?” Omri asked.

Little Bear put his hands to his belt and unfastened it. “I like. Fit wife for chief. I pay much for her.” And he handed Omri the belt, made of the shiny white beads. “Now Omri hear Little Bear. Woman say, Boone good. Not die. Little Bear pleased. Omri take Boone, put in longhouse. Woman take care, give little medicines.” He held up the pill boxes. “Omri get food. Make wedding feast.”

“How can you have a wedding feast with only two Indians?”

“Yes … not good. Omri make more Indian, come to feast?” he asked hopefully. When Omri shook his head, Little Bear’s face fell.

“Little Bear, wouldn’t you rather have your wedding feast at home with your own tribe?”

Little Bear was no fool. He understood at once. He stood still, staring at Omri.

“Omri put in box. Send back,” he said. His voice was very flat—Omri couldn’t tell if he liked the idea or not.

“What do you think? Wouldn’t it be better?”

Very slowly, the Indian nodded his head. “And Boone?”

“Boone too.”

“Make him my brother first.”

“Yes. Then I’ll send you all back.”

“When?”

“When Boone’s well enough.”

Once Omri had decided, every day that passed was important because it was one day nearer to the last.

Patrick was as sad as he was, but he didn’t argue against Omri’s decision.

“It’s the only way, really, Patrick said. After that he didn’t talk about it anymore, he just tried to be at Omri’s house as much as possible.

He couldn’t do things with Boone much, of course, even though, in a day or two, Boone was sitting up in the longhouse and demanding to talk to his horse (which was brought to the entrance for the purpose) and whining for all sorts of special food. And drink.

“Ah cain’t be expected t’ git mah strength back if ya won’t gimme some o’ the hard stuff,” he nagged. He even pretended to have a relapse. Omri pinched a nosedropperful of whiskey from his parents’ drinks cupboard and squeezed a large drop down Boone’s throat before the Indian girl (whose name was Bright Stars, a reference to her shining eyes, Omri supposed) had succeeded in conveying the fact that Boone was perfectly all right and that his faint was faked.

Still, after he’d had his drink Boone seemed so much better that Omri and Patrick decided it wouldn’t do him any harm (“He’s used to it, after all!”) and thereafter Boone got a liquor ration three times a day. And did very well on it.

“He’ll be ready to go back tomorrow,” said Omri on the fourth day, when Boone, having had a leg up from Little Bear, managed to ride his horse around the seed box at a steady walk. “They’ll probably look after him better than we can, in his own time.”

A thought struck him, and he fished out of his pocket the drawing Boone had done.

“Boone, is this your hometown?”

“Shore is!”

Omri studied it closely under the magnifying glass. A way up the street he saw a little sign reading “Doctor.”

“Is he a good doctor?”

“’Bout as good as any out West, Ah reckon. Fish a bullet out of a man’s arm or cut his foot off fer snakebite as neat as
kin be. I seen him bring a pal o’ mine back from the dead, near enough, by puttin’ a hot coal in his belly button. He never operates till a man’s dead drunk,
and
he don’t charge extry for the likker neither!”

Omri and Patrick looked at each other. “You’d feel that you were in good hands, with this—er—doctor looking after you?” Patrick asked worriedly.

“Shore would! Anyhow, don’t need no sawbones now, m’wound’s healin’ up fine. S’long as Ah git mah whiskey, Ah’ll be as good as new.”

Boone bore not the slightest ill will toward Little Bear for having shot him.

“That there’s a Injun’s natural nature. Pore simple critter c’d no more help himself than Ah kin keep away from mah horse and mah bottle!”

The night before Omri had decided to send them back, they held the brotherhood ceremony.

“I wish we could ask
our
brothers!” said Patrick to Omri at school that day. “Supposing we tell them one day about this—they’ll never believe us.”

“Sending them back,” said Omri slowly, “doesn’t mean the magic won’t work anymore. I’m going to put the key away somewhere so I won’t be tempted; but it will always be there.”