At last they were ready, and Omri pocketed them and ran down to breakfast. He felt tense with excitement. He’d never carried them around the house before. It was risky, but not so risky as taking them to school—he felt that having family breakfast with them secretly in his pocket was like a training for taking them to school.
Breakfast in his house was often a dicey meal anyway, with everybody more or less bad-tempered. Today, for instance, Adiel had lost his football shorts and was blaming everybody in turn, and their mother had just discovered that Gillon, contrary to his assurances the night before when he had wanted to watch television, had not finished his homework. Their father was grumpy because he had wanted to do some gardening and it was raining yet again.
“I know I put them in the laundry basket,” Adiel was saying fretfully.
“If you did, I washed them, in which case they’re back in your top drawer,” said his mother. “But you didn’t, because I didn’t, and they’re not. Now listen to me, Gillon—”
“It’s only a bit of history, one mini little castle to draw, and a tiny paragraph to write,” said Gillon. “I can do it at school.”
“Stinking climate,” muttered their father. “Those onion sets will rot if I don’t get them in soon.”
“Gillon, did you borrow them?”
“I’ve got my own.”
Omri ate his cereal in silence, grinning to himself, hugging his secret. He slipped a couple of cornflakes into his pockets. “I bet Omri took them!” said Adiel suddenly.
Omri looked up. “Took what?”
“My shorts.”
“What on earth would I want your shorts for?”
“It might be your idea of a joke to hide them,” Adiel retorted.
This was not as outrageous as it sounds. It had, until very recently, been a common form of revenge, when Adiel or Gillon had been specially unbearable, for Omri to sneak some valuable possession and hide it.
Now, however, Omri felt very far away from such babyishness, and was quite insulted.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said.
“So you did,” said Adiel in triumph.
“I did not!”
“You’re red in the face—that’s proof you’re guilty!”
“I swear!” said Omri.
“They’re probably under your bed,” said their mother to Adiel. “Go up and have a look.”
“I have looked! I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Oh my God, it’s starting to hail now,” said their father despairingly. “So much for the apple blossom.”
Under cover of the moans that went up about the prospect of no apples in the autumn, and the exclamations about the size of the hailstones, Omri slipped his coat on and ran through the bouncing ice lumps to school. On the way he stopped under a protecting yew tree and took the little men out. He showed them each a large hailstone, which, to them, was the size of a football.
“Now, when we get to school,” said Omri, “you must lie very still and quiet in my pockets. I’m putting you in separate ones because I can’t risk any fighting or quarreling. If you’re seen I don’t know what will happen.”
“Danger?” asked Little Bear, his eyes gleaming.
“Yes. Not of death so much. You might be taken away from me. Then you’d never get back to your own time.”
“You mean we’d never wake up outa this here drunken dream,” said Boone.
“If that’s how you look at it—no.”
But Little Bear was staring at him very thoughtfully. “Own time,” he said musingly. “Very strange magic.”
Omri had never arrived at school with more apprehension in his heart, not even on spelling-test days. And yet he was excited too. Once he had taken a white mouse to school in his blazer pocket. He’d planned to do all sorts of fiendish things with it, like putting it up his teacher’s trouser leg (he had had a man teacher then), or down the back of a girl’s neck, or just putting it on the floor and letting it run around and throw the whole class into chaos. (He hadn’t actually dared do anything with it except let it peep out and make his neighbors giggle.) This time he had no such plans. All he was hoping was that he could get through the day without anybody finding out.
Patrick was waiting for him at the school gate.
“Have you got him?”
“Yes.”
His eyes lit up. “Give! I want him.”
“All right,” said Omri. “But you have to promise that you won’t show him to anybody.”
Omri reached into his right-hand pocket, closed his fingers gently around Boone, and passed him into Patrick’s hand.
The moment Omri had let go of him, things started to happen.
A particularly nasty little girl called April, who had been right across the playground at the moment of the transaction, was at Patrick’s side about two seconds later.
“What’ve you got there then, what did he give you?” she asked in her raucous voice like a crow’s.
Patrick flushed red. “Nothing! Push off!” he said.
At once April pointed her witchy finger at him. “Lookit Patrick blu-shing, lookit Patrick blu-shing!” she squawked. Several other children speedily arrived on the scene (as a certain type of child will, whenever somebody is getting taunted) and soon Patrick and Omri found themselves surrounded.
“What’s he got? Bet it’s something horrid!”
“Bet it’s a slimy toad!”
“A little wriggly worm, more like.”
“A beetle!”
“Like him!”
Omri felt his blood begin to get hot in his head. He longed to bash them all one by one, or better still, all at once—a giant knocking down hordes of enemies like skittles. He imagined them all rolling backward down a long wide flight of steps, in waves, bowled over by his flashing fist and flying feet.
The best he could manage in reality, though, was to lower his head, and, keeping his hand cupped stiffly over his left pocket, barge through the chanting circle. He caught one of them a good butt in the stomach, which was rather satisfying. Patrick was hot on his heels, and they belted across the playground and in through the double doors, which fortunately had just been opened.
Once inside, they were relatively safe. There were teachers all over the place, and any kind of fighting or taunting, above a sly pinch or a snide whisper, was out. Patrick and Omri slowed to a walk, went to their places and sat down, trying to look perfectly calm and ordinary so as not to attract their teacher’s attention. Their breathing gave them away, though.
“Well, you two, what are you puffing about? Been running?”
They glanced at each other and nodded.
“So long as you’ve not been fighting,” she said, giving them a sharp look. She always behaved as if a little fight was a long step along the road to hell.
Neither of the boys got much work done during the morning. They couldn’t concentrate. Each of them was too aware of the passenger in his pocket. Both Little Bear and Boone were restless, particularly Little Bear. Boone was naturally lazier; he kept dozing off in the dark, and then waking with a little jump that made Patrick very nervous. But Little Bear was scrambling about the whole time.
It was during the third period—when they were all in the main hall listening to the headmaster, whose name was Mr. Johnson, announcing plans for the end-of-year show—that Little Bear got really sick and tired of being imprisoned, and started to take drastic action.
The first thing Omri knew was a sharp prick in his hip, as if an insect had stung him. For a moment he was silly enough to think an ant or even a wasp had somehow got into his clothes, and he only just stopped himself from slapping his hand instinctively against his side to squash it. Then there came another jab, sharper than the first, sharp enough in fact to make Omri let out a short yelp.
“Who did that?” asked Mr. Johnson irritably.
Omri didn’t answer, but the girls sitting near him began giggling and staring.
“Was that you, Omri?”
�
�Yes. I’m sorry, something stuck into me.”
“Patrick! Did you stick a pencil into Omri?” (Such a thing was not unknown during assemblies when they were bored.)
“No, Mr. Johnson.”
“Well, be quiet when I’m talking!”
Another jab, and this time Little Bear meant business and kept his knife embedded. Omri shouted “Ouch!” and jumped to his feet.
“Omri! Patrick! Leave the hall!”
“But I didn’t—” began Patrick.
“Out, I said!” shouted Mr. Johnson furiously.
They left, Patrick walking normally and Omri dancing about shouting “Ow! OW!” at every step as Little Bear continued to dig the needlepoint of his knife in. The whole school was in hysterics of laughter (and Mr. Johnson was frothing with rage) by the time they reached the swing doors and departed.
Outside, they ran (well, Patrick ran and Omri performed a series of sideways leaps) to the far end of the playground. On the way Omri plunged his hand into his pocket, seized Little Bear, and dragged him out. The agony stopped.
Safe in a sheltered corner behind some privet bushes, Omri held his persecutor at eye level and shook him violently, the way you shake a bottle of medicine. He called him the worst names he could possibly think of. When he’d run out of swear words (which was not for some time) he hissed, like Mr. Johnson, “What do you mean by it? How dare you? How dare you stick your knife into me?”
“Little Bear dare! Omri keep in dark many hours! Little Bear want see school place, not lie in hot dark! No breathe, no see! Want enjoy!”
“I warned you you wouldn’t, it’s not my fault you made me bring you! Now you’ve got me into trouble.”
Little Bear looked mulish, but he stopped shouting. Seeing this evidence that a truce was on its way, Omri calmed down a bit too.
“Listen. I can’t let you see because I can’t take you out. You have no idea what would happen if I did. If any of the other children saw you they’d want to grab you and mess you about—you’d hate it, and it would be terribly dangerous too, you’d probably get hurt or killed. You’ve got to lie quiet till school’s over. I’m sorry if you’re bored but it’s your own fault.”
Little Bear thought this over and then he said a most astonishing thing.
“Want Boone.”
“What? Your enemy?”
“Better enemy than alone in dark.”
Patrick had taken Boone out of his pocket. The little cowboy was sitting on his hand. They were gazing at each other. Omri said, “Boone, Little Bear says he wants you. He’s lonely and bored.”
“Well, ain’t that jest too bad!” said Boone sarcastically. “After he tried to kill me, now he’s come over all lovey-dovey. Listen, you redskin!” he shouted through cupped hands across the yawning gulf between Patrick and Omri. “Ah don’t care how lonesome y’are! Ah don’t care if’n ya drop down daid! Th’ only good Injun’s a daid Injun, d’ ya hear me?”
Little Bear turned his head haughtily away.
“I think he’s lonely too, really,” said Patrick in a whisper. “He’s been crying.”
“Oh no, not again!” said Omri. “Honestly, Boone—at your age—”
Just then they heard their teacher calling them from the school door.
“Come on, you two! You’ve not got the day off, you know!”
“Give me your knife,” said Omri to Little Bear on a sudden impulse. “Then I’ll put you together.” With only a moment’s hesitation, Little Bear handed over his knife. Omri slipped it into the small breast pocket of his shirt, which was empty and where it wouldn’t easily get lost. Then he said to Patrick, “Let me have Boone.”
“No!”
“Just for the next lesson. Then at lunchtime you can have both of them. They’ll keep each other company. They can’t do each other much damage in a pocket.”
Reluctantly Patrick handed Boone over. Omri held them one in each hand so they were face to face.
“Be good, you two. Try talking to each other instead of fighting. But whatever you do, don’t make any noise.” And he slipped them both into his left-hand pocket and he and Patrick ran back to the school buildings.
Trouble with Authority
What was left of the morning passed uneventfully. Omri even got a few sums done. By the time the first whiffs of school lunch were beginning to flood through the classrooms, Omri was congratulating himself on a stroke of genius in putting the two little men together. There had not been another peep out of either of them, and when Omri took an opportunity (when the teacher’s back was turned) to open his pocket stealthily and peer down into it, he was pleased to see them, sitting in the bottom of it, face to face, apparently having a conversation, for they were both gesticulating with their arms—there was too much noise all around for Omri to be able to hear their tiny voices.
He had given some thought to the matter of their lunch. He would separate them for that, one into each pocket, and slip some dry bits of food down to them. Omri let himself play with the wonderful fantasy of what the other kids’ reaction would be if he casually brought them out and sat them on the edge of his plate. … Funny to think that he would certainly have done it, only a week ago, without thinking about the dangers.
The bell rang at last. There was the usual stampede, and Omri found himself in the line next to Patrick.
“Come on then, hand them over,” Patrick whispered over his tray as they shuffled forward toward the fragrant food slots.
“Not now, everyone’d see.”
“You said at lunchtime.”
“After lunch.”
“Now. I want to feed them.”
“Well, you can have Boone, but I want to feed Little Bear.”
“You said I could have them both!” said Patrick, no longer in a whisper. Others in the line began to turn their heads.
“Will you shut up?” hissed Omri.
“No,” said Patrick in a loud, clear voice. He held out his hand.
Omri felt trapped and furious. He looked into Patrick’s eyes and saw what happens even to the nicest people when they want something badly and are determined to get it, come what may. Omri slammed his empty tray down on the floor and, taking Patrick by the wrist, pulled him out of the line and into a quiet corner of the hall.
“Listen to me,” Omri grated out between teeth clenched in anger. “If you let anything happen to Little Bear, I will bash you so hard your teeth will fall out.” (This, of course, is what happens even to the nicest people when they are in a trap.) With that, he groped in his pocket and brought the two little men out. He didn’t look at them or say good-by to them. He just put them carefully into Patrick’s hand and walked away.
Omri had lost his appetite, so he didn’t get back in the line; but Patrick did. He even pushed a bit, he was so eager to get some food to give to the cowboy and the Indian. Omri watched from a distance. He wished now he hadn’t been too angry to give Patrick some pretty clear instructions. Like telling him to separate them. Now that he thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to feed them in a pocket. Who wants to eat something that’s descended between two layers of cloth and collected bits of dust and fluff? If he’d still had them, he would have taken them to some private place and taken them out to eat properly. Why had he ever brought them to school at all? The dangers here were too awful.
Watching, he suddenly stiffened. Patrick had reached the food slot now, and received his dinner. He almost ran with it to a table—he did try to go to one in the outside row near the windows, but a lunch lady stopped him and made him sit in the middle of the hall. There were children all around him and on either side. Surely, thought Omri, surely he wasn’t going to try to feed them there?
He saw Patrick take a pinch of bread and slip it into his pocket. He wasn’t wearing a jacket; the men were in his jeans pocket. Fortunately the jeans were new and loose, but still he had to half stand up to get the bit of bread in; when he was sitting down the people in his pocket must be pretty well squashed against
his leg. Omri imagined them trying to eat, held down flat by two thick layers of cloth. He could almost see Patrick imagining it, too. He was frowning uneasily and shifting around in his chair. The girl next to him spoke to him. She was probably telling him not to wriggle. Patrick said something sharp in reply. Omri sucked in his breath. If only Patrick wouldn’t draw attention to himself!
Suddenly he gasped. The girl had given Patrick a hard push. He pushed her back. She nearly went off her chair. She stood up and pushed him with all her might, using both hands. He went flying over backward, half onto the boy on the other side of him, who jumped from his place, spilling part of his dinner. Patrick landed on the floor.
Omri didn’t stop to think. He raced toward him across the hall, dodging in and out among the tables. His heart was hammering with terror. If Patrick had fallen on them! Omri had a terrible, fleeting vision of the pocket of Patrick’s jeans, with blood stains spreading—he clamped down on his imagination.
By the time he got there, Patrick was back on his feet, but now the other boy was angry and clearly looking for a fight. The girl on his other side looked ready to clobber him too. Omri pushed between them, but a stout lunch lady was ahead of him.
“ ’Ere, ’ere, what’s goin’ on?” she asked, barging in with her big stomach and sturdy arms. She grabbed Patrick with one hand and the other boy with the other and kind of dangled them at arm’s length like a pair of cats. “No fighting in ’ere, thank you very much, or it’ll be off to the ’eadmaster’s office before you can say knife, the ’ole boomin’ pack of you!” She dumped them down in their separate chairs as if they’d been bags of shopping. They were both thoroughly tousled and red-faced. Omri’s eyes shot down to Patrick’s thigh. No blood. No movement either, but at least no blood.
Everyone began to eat again as the stout lunch lady stamped away, tut-tutting as she went. Omri leaned over the back of Patrick’s chair and whispered out of a dry mouth, “Are they all right?”
The Indian in the Cupboard Page 9
