The Return of the Indian

by Lynne Reid Banks

  “We were mad … Where’s that bag of British soldiers we had in the garden?”

  “Here—but you’re not going—”

  “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!”

  “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. “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.

  “Fickets,” 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.

  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—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.

  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 ar-morpiercing shell up under his thumbnail.

  “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 foot-ball 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 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. 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.

  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 Indian 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,” Qmri 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, 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.”

  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 chiefs son.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Omri give now-guns if Little Bear think good?”

  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.

  “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.

  Published by Doubleday, a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.,

  1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036

  Doubleday and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin

  are trademarks of Doubleday, a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  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.”

  [1. Indians of North America—Fiction. 2. Toys—

  Fiction. 3. Magic—Fiction] I. Geldart, Bill.

  II. Title.

  PZ7.B2262Re 1986 [Fic] 85-31119

  eISBN: 978-0-307-47777-4