The Indian in the Cupboard. Lynne Banks Reid
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Suddenly his searching eyes fell on an open tin of sweetcorn. He found a paper plate in the drawer where the picnic stuff lived, and took a good teaspoon 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 ‘fire-water’ in films, which was presumably a hot drink, and Omri dared not heat anything. Ordinary non-fire water would have to do, unless … What about some Coke? That was an American drink. Luckily there was a bit in a big bottle left over from the birthday party, so he took that. He did wish there were 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 sweetcorn. 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, 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 smelt 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 toothmug.
“Fire-water?”
“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 toothmug 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 marvellous. 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 it on again.
The Indian was now gazing at him with something more than respect – a sort of awe.
“You 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 not 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