The Indian in the Cupboard

by Lynne Reid Banks

  “Beard,” said Patrick, which was their school slang for “I don’t believe you.”

  Instead of insisting, Omri said nothing more, and that led Patrick to ask, “Why did you say that, about him speaking?”

  “He does.”

  “Itchy beard.” (Which of course means the same only more so.)

  Omri refused to get involved in an argument. He was somehow scared that if he talked about the Indian, something bad would happen. In fact, as the day went on and he longed more and more to get home, he began to feel certain that the whole incredible happening—well, not that it hadn’t happened, but that something would go wrong. All his thoughts, all his dreams were centered on the miraculous, endless possibilities opened up by a real, live, miniature Indian of his very own. It would be too terrible if the whole thing turned out to be some sort of mistake.

  After school Patrick wanted him to stay on the school grounds and skateboard. For weeks Omri had longed to do this, but had never had his own skateboard till now. So it was quite beyond Patrick’s understanding when Omri said, “I can’t, I have to get home. Anyway, I didn’t bring it.”

  “Why not? Are you crazy? Why do you have to get home, anyway?”

  “I want to play with the Indian.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Can I come?”

  Omri hesitated. But no, it wouldn’t do. He must get to know the Indian himself before he even thought of introducing him to anyone else, even Patrick.

  Besides, the most awful thought had come to Omri during the last lesson, which had made it almost impossible for him to sit still. If the Indian were real, and not just—well, moving plastic, as Pinocchio had been moving wood, then he would need food and other things. And Omri had left him shut up in the dark all day with nothing. Perhaps—what if there were not enough air for him in that cupboard? The door fitted very tight. How much air would such a very small creature need? What if—what if the Indian were—what if he’d died, shut up there? What if Omri had killed him?

  At the very best, the Indian must have passed a horrible day in that dark prison. Omri was appalled at the thought of it. Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into that silly row at breakfast instead of slipping away and making sure the Indian was all right? The mere thought that he might be dead was frightening Omri sick. He ran all the way home, burst through the back door, and raced up the stairs without even saying hello to his mother.

  He shut the door of his bedroom and fell on his knees beside the bedside table. With a hand that shook, he turned the key in the lock and opened the cupboard door.

  The Indian lay there on the floor of the cupboard, stiff and stark. Too stiff! That was not a dead body. Omri picked it up. It was an “it,” not a “he” anymore.

  The Indian was made of plastic again.

  Omri knelt there, appalled—too appalled to move. He had killed his Indian, or done something awful to him. At the same time he had killed his dream—all the wonderful, exciting, secret games that had filled his imagination all day. But that was not the main horror. His Indian had been real—not a mere toy, but a person. And now here he lay in Omri’s hand—cold, stiff, lifeless. Somehow through Omri’s own fault.

  How had it happened?

  It never occurred to Omri now that he had imagined the whole incredible episode this morning. The Indian was in a completely different position from the one he had been in when Patrick gave him to Omri. Then he had been standing on one leg, as if doing a war dance—knees bent, one moccasined foot raised, both elbows bent, with one fist (with the knife in it) in the air. Now he lay flat, legs apart, arms at his sides. His eyes were closed. The knife was no longer a part of him. It lay separately on the floor of the cupboard.

  Omri picked it up. The easiest way to do this, he found, was to wet his finger and press it down on the tiny knife, which stuck to it. It, too, was plastic, and could no more have pierced human skin than a twist of paper. Yet it had pierced Omri’s finger this morning—the little mark was still there. But this morning it had been a real knife.

  Omri stroked the Indian with his finger. There was a painful thickness in the back of his throat. The pain of sadness, disappointment, and a strange sort of guilt burned inside him as if he had swallowed a very hot potato that wouldn’t cool down. He let the tears come, and just knelt there and cried for about ten minutes.

  Then he put the Indian back in the cupboard and locked the door because he couldn’t bear to look at him any longer.

  That night at supper he couldn’t eat anything, and he couldn’t talk. His father touched Omri’s face and said it felt very hot. His mother took him upstairs and put him to bed and oddly enough he didn’t object. He didn’t know if he was ill or not, but he felt so bad he was quite glad to be made a fuss of. Not that that improved the basic situation, but it was some comfort.

  “What is it, Omri? Tell me,” coaxed his mother. She stroked his hair and looked at him tenderly and questioningly, and he nearly told her everything, but then he suddenly rolled over on his face.

  “Nothing. Really.”

  She sighed, kissed him (or rather, the back of him), and left the room, closing the door softly after her.

  As soon as she had gone, he heard something. A scratching—a muttering—a definitely alive sound. Coming from the cupboard.

  Omri snapped his bedside light on and stared wide-eyed at his own face in the mirror on the cupboard door. He stared at the key with its twisted ribbon. He listened to the sounds, now unmistakable.

  He tremblingly turned the key and there was the Indian, on the shelf this time, almost exactly level with Omri’s face. Alive again!

  Again they stared at each other. Then Omri asked falteringly, “What happened to you?”

  “Happen? Good sleep happen. Cold ground. Need blanket. Food. Fire.”

  Omri gaped. Was the little man giving him orders? Undoubtedly he was! Because he waved his knife, now back in his hand, in an unmistakable way.

  Omri was so happy he could scarcely speak.

  “Okay—you stay there—I’ll get food—don’t worry—” he gasped as he scrambled out of bed.

  He hurried downstairs, excited but thoughtful. What could it all mean? That the moment the cupboard door closed, the Indian went to sleep? It was puzzling, but he didn’t bother worrying about it too much. His main concern was to get downstairs without his parents hearing him, get to the kitchen, find some food that would suit the Indian, and bring it back without anyone asking questions.

  Fortunately his parents were in the living room watching television, so he was able to tiptoe to the kitchen along the dark passage. Once there, he dared not turn on a light, but there was the refrigerator light and that was enough.

  He surveyed the inside of the refrigerator. What did Indians eat? Meat, chiefly, he supposed—deer meat, rabbits, the sort of animals they could shoot on their land. Needless to say there was nothing of that sort.

  Biscuits, jam, peanut butter, that sort of thing was no problem, but somehow Omri felt sure these were not Indian foods. Suddenly his searching eyes fell on an open tin of sweet corn. He found a paper plate in the drawer where the picnic stuff lived, and took a good teaspoonful of corn. Then he broke off a crusty corner of bread. Then he thought of some cheese. And what about a drink? Milk? Surely Indian braves did not drink milk? They usually drank something called “firewater” in films, which was presumably a hot drink, and Omri dared not heat anything. Ordinary nonfirewater would have to do, unless … What about some Coke? That was an American drink. Lucky there was a bit in a big bottle left over from his birthday, so he took that. He did wish there was some cold meat, but there just wasn’t.

  Clutching the Coke bottle by the neck in one hand and the paper plate in the other, Omri sneaked back upstairs with fast-beating heart. All was just as he had left it, except that the Indian was sitting on the edge of the shelf dangling his legs and trying to sharpen his knife on the metal. He jumped up as soon as he saw Omri.

  “Food?”
he asked eagerly.

  “Yes, but I don’t know if it’s what you like.”

  “I like. Give, quick!”

  But Omri wanted to arrange things a little. He took a pair of scissors and cut a small circle out of the paper plate. On this he put a crumb of bread, another of cheese, and one kernel of the sweet corn. He handed this offering to the Indian, who backed off, looking at the food with hungry eyes but trying to keep watch on Omri at the same time.

  “Not touch! You touch, I use knife!” he warned.

  “All right, I promise not to. Now you can eat.”

  Very cautiously the Indian sat down, this time cross-legged on the shelf. At first he tried to eat with his left hand, keeping the knife at the ready in his right, but he was so hungry he soon abandoned this effort, laid the knife close at his side and, grabbing the bread in one hand and the little crumb of cheese in the other, he began to tear at them ravenously.

  When these two apparently familiar foods had taken the edge off his appetite, he turned his attention to the single kernel of corn.

  “What?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Corn. Like you have—” Omri hesitated. “Where you come from,” he said.

  It was a shot in the dark. He didn’t know if the Indian “came from” anywhere, but he meant to find out. The Indian grunted, turning the corn about in both hands, for it was half as big as his head. He smelled it. A great grin spread over his face. He nibbled it. The grin grew wider. But then he held it away and looked again, and the grin vanished.

  “Too big,” he said. “Like you,” he added accusingly.

  “Eat it. It’s the same stuff.”

  The Indian took a bite. He still looked very suspicious, but he ate and ate. He couldn’t finish it, but he evidently liked it.

  “Give meat,” he said finally.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t find any tonight, but I’ll get you some tomorrow,” said Omri.

  After another grunt, the Indian said, Drink!

  Omri had been waiting for this. From the box where he kept his Action Man things he had brought a plastic mug. It was much too big for the Indian but it was the best he could do. Into it, with extreme care, he now poured a minute amount of Coke from the huge bottle.

  He handed it to the Indian, who had to hold it with both hands and still almost dropped it.

  “What?” he barked, after smelling it.

  “Coca-Cola,” said Omri, enthusiastically pouring some for himself into a cup.

  “Firewater?”

  “No, it’s cold. But you’ll like it.”

  The Indian sipped, swallowed, gulped. Gulped again. Grinned.

  “Good?” asked Omri.

  “Good!” said the Indian.

  “Cheers!” said Omri, raising his cup as he’d seen his parents do when they were having a drink together.

  “What ‘cheers’?”

  “I don’t know!” said Omri, feeling excessively happy, and drank. His Indian—eating and drinking! He was real, a real, flesh-and-blood person! It was too marvelous. Omri felt he might die of delight.

  “Do you feel better now?” he asked.

  “I better. You not better,” said the Indian. “You still big. You stop eat. Get right size.”

  Omri laughed aloud, then stopped himself hastily.

  “It’s time to sleep,” he said.

  “Not now. Big light. Sleep when light go.”

  “I can make the light go,” said Omri, and switched out his bedside lamp.

  In the darkness came a thin cry of astonishment and fear. Omri switched the light on again.

  The Indian was now gazing at him with something more than respect—a sort of awe.

  “You Great White Spirit?” he asked in a whisper.

  “No,” said Omri. “And this isn’t the sun. It’s a lamp. Don’t you have lamps?”

  The Indian peered where he was pointing. “That lamp?” he asked unbelievingly. “Much big lamp. Need much oil.”

  “But this isn’t an oil lamp. It works by electricity.”

  “Magic?”

  “No, electricity. But speaking of magic—how did you get here?”

  The Indian looked at him steadily out of his black eyes.

  “You not know?”

  “No, I don’t. You were a toy. Then I put you in the cupboard and locked the door. When I opened it, you were real. Then I locked it again, and you went back to being plastic. Then—”

  He stopped sharply. Wait! What if—he thought furiously. It was possible! In which case …

  “Listen,” he said excitedly. “I want you to come out of there. I’ll find you a much more comfortable place. You said you were cold. I’ll make you a proper tepee—”

  “Tepee!” the Indian shouted. “I no live tepee. I live longhouse!”

  Omri was so eager to test his theory about the cupboard that he was impatient. “You’ll have to make do with a tepee tonight,” he said. Hastily he opened a drawer and took out a biscuit tin full of little plastic people. Somewhere in here was a plastic tepee … “Ah, here!” He pounced on it—a small, pinkish, cone-shaped object with designs rather badly painted on its plastic sides. “Will this do?”

  He put it on the shelf beside the Indian, who looked at it with the utmost scorn.

  “This—tepee?” he said. He touched its plastic side and made a face. He pushed it with both hands—it slid along the shelf. He bent and peered in through the triangular opening. Then he actually spat on the ground, or rather, on the shelf.

  “Oh,” said Omri, rather crestfallen. “You mean it’s not good enough.”

  “Not want toy,” said the Indian, and turned his back, folding both arms across his chest with an air of finality.

  Omri saw his chance. With one quick movement he had picked up the Indian by the waist between his thumb and forefinger. In doing this he pinned the knife, which was in the Indian’s belt, firmly to his side. The dangling Indian twisted, writhed, kicked, made a number of ferocious and hideous faces—but beyond that he was helpless and he evidently knew it, for after a few moments he decided it was more dignified to stop struggling. Instead, he folded his tiny arms across his chest once again, put his head back, and stared with proud defiance at Omri’s face, which was now level with his own.

  For Omri, the feeling of holding this little creature in his fingers was very strange and wonderful. If he had had any doubts that the Indian was truly alive, the sensation he had now would have put them to rest. His body was heavier now, warm and firm and full of life—through Omri’s thumb, on the Indian’s left side, he could feel his heart beating wildly, like a bird’s.

  Although the Indian felt strong, Omri could sense how fragile he was, how easily an extra squeeze could injure him. He would have liked to feel him all over, his tiny arms and legs, his hair, his ears, almost too small to see—yet when he saw how the Indian, who was altogether in his power, faced him boldly and hid his fear, he lost all desire to handle him—he felt it was cruel, and insulting to the Indian, who was no longer his plaything but a person who had to be respected.

  Omri put him down gently on the chest of drawers where the cupboard stood. Then he crouched down till his face was again level with the Indian’s.

  “Sorry I did that,” he said.

  The Indian, breathing heavily and with his arms still folded, said nothing, but stared haughtily at him, as if nothing he did could affect him in any way.

  “What’s your name?” asked Omri.

  “Little Bear,” said the Indian, pointing proudly to himself. “Iroquois brave. Son of chief. You son of chief?” he shot at Omri fiercely.

  “No,” said Omri humbly.

  “Hm!” snorted Little Bear with a superior look. “Name?”

  Omri told him. “Now we must find you another place to sleep—outside the cupboard. Surely you sleep in tepees sometimes?”

  “Never,” said Little Bear firmly.

  “I’ve never heard of an Indian who didn’t,” said Omri, with equal firmness. “You’ll
have to tonight, anyway.”

  “Not toy,” said the Indian. “This no good. And fire. I want fire.”

  “I can’t light a real fire in here. But I’ll make you a tepee. It won’t be very good, but I promise you a better one tomorrow.”

  He looked around. It was good, he thought, that he never put anything away. Now everything he needed was strewn about the floor and on tables and shelves, ready to hand.

  Starting with some pick-up sticks and a bit of string, he made a sort of cone shape, tied at the top. Around this he draped first a handkerchief, and then, when that didn’t seem firm enough, a bit of old felt from a hat that had been in the dressing-up crate. It was fawn-colored, fortunately, and looked rather like animal hide. In fact, when it was pinned together at the back with a couple of safety pins and a slit cut for an entrance, the whole thing looked pretty good, especially with the poles sticking up through a hole in the top.

  Omri stood it up carefully on the chest of drawers and anxiously awaited Little Bear’s verdict. The Indian walked around it three times slowly, went down on hands and knees and crawled in through the flap, came out again after a minute, tugged at the felt, stood back to look at the poles, and finally gave a fairly satisfied grunt. However, he wasn’t going to pass it without any criticism at all.

  “No pictures,” he growled. “If tepee, then need pictures.”

  “I don’t know how to do them,” said Omri.

  “I know. You give colors. I make.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Omri, who, despite himself, was beginning to feel very sleepy.

  “Blanket?”

  Omri fished out one of Action Man’s sleeping rolls.

  “No good. No keep out wind.”

  Omri started to object that there was no wind in his bedroom, but then he decided it was easier to cut up a square out of one of his old sweaters, so he did that. It was a red one with a stripe around the bottom, and even Little Bear couldn’t hide his approval as he held it up, then wrapped it around himself.

  “Good. Warm. I sleep now.”

  He dropped on his knees and crawled into the tent. After a moment he stuck his head out.