The Indian in the Cupboard Complete Collection. Lynne Banks Reid
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said Omri, and then stopped, and then started again. “The Indian isn’t plastic. He’s real.”
Patrick heaved a deep, deep sigh and put the cowboy back in his pocket. He’d been friends with Omri for years, ever since they’d started school. They knew each other very well. Just as Patrick knew when Omri was lying, he also knew when he wasn’t. The only trouble was that this was a non-lie he couldn’t believe.
“I want to see him,” he said.
Omri debated with himself. He somehow felt that if he didn’t share his secret with Patrick, their friendship would be over. He didn’t want that. And besides, the thrill of showing his Indian to someone else was something he could not do without for much longer.
“Okay. Come on.”
Going home they broke the law even more, riding on the road and with Patrick on the crossbar. They went round the back way by the alley in case anyone happened to be looking out of a window.
Omri said, “He wants a fire. I suppose we can’t make one indoors.”
“You could, on a tin plate, like for indoor fireworks,” said Patrick.
Omri looked at him.
“Let’s collect some twigs.”
Patrick picked up a twig about a foot long. Omri laughed.
“That’s no good! They’ve got to be tiny twigs. Like this.” And he picked some slivers off the privet hedge.
“Does he want the fire to cook on?” asked Patrick slowly.
“Yes.”
“Then that’s no use. A fire made of those would burn out in a couple of seconds.”
Omri hadn’t thought of that.
“What you need,” said Patrick, “is a little ball of tar. That burns for ages. And you could put the twigs on top to look like a real campfire.”
“That’s a brilliant idea!”
“I know where they’ve been tarring a road, too,” said Patrick.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t believe in him yet. I want to see.”
“All right. But first I have to give this stuff to my dad.”
There was a further delay when his father at first insisted on Omri filling the seed-tray with compost and planting the seeds in it then and there. But when Omri gave him the corn seed as a present he said, “Well! Thanks. Oh, all right, I can see you’re bursting to get away. You can do the planting tomorrow before school.”
Omri and Patrick rushed upstairs. At the top Omri stopped, cold. His bedroom door, which he always shut automatically, was wide open. And just inside, crouching side by side with their backs to him, were his brothers.
They were so absolutely still that Omri knew they were watching something. He couldn’t bear it. They had come into his room without his permission, and they had seen his Indian. Now they would tell everybody! His secret, his precious secret, his alone to keep or share, was a secret no more. Something broke inside him and he heard himself scream: “Get out of my room! Get out of my room!”
Both boys spun round.
“Shut up, you’ll frighten him,” said Adiel at once. “Gillon came in to look for his rat and he found it, and then he saw this absolutely fabulous little house you’ve made and he called me in to look at it.”
Omri looked at the floor. The seed-tray, with the longhouse now nearly finished, had been moved into the centre of the room. It was that they had been looking at. A quick glance all round showed no sign of Indian or pony, but Gillon’s tame white rat was on his shoulder.
“I can’t get over it,” Adiel went on. “How on earth did you do it, without using any Airfix glue or anything? It’s all done with tiny little threads, and pegs, and – look, Gillon! It’s all made of real twigs and bark. It’s absolutely terrific,” he said with such awe-struck admiration in his voice that Omri felt ashamed.
“I didn’t—” he began. But Patrick, who had been gaping at the longhouse in amazement, gave him a heavy nudge which nearly knocked him over.
“Yes,” said Omri. “Well. Would you mind pushing off now? And take the rat. You’re not to let him in here! This is my room, you know.”
“And this is my magnifying glass, you know,” echoed Gillon, but he was obviously too overcome with admiration to be angry with Omri for pinching it. He was using it now to examine the fine details of the building. “I knew you were good at making things,” he said. “But this is amazing. You must have fingers like a fairy to tie those witchy little knots. What’s that?” he asked suddenly.
They’d all heard it – a high, faint whinny coming from under the bed.
Omri was galvanized into action. At all costs he must prevent their finding out now! He flung himself on his knees and pretended to grope under the bed. “It’s nothing, only that little clockwork dolphin I got in my Christmas stocking,” he burbled. “I must have wound it up and it suddenly started clicking, you know how they do, it’s quite creepy sometimes when they suddenly start – clicking—”
By this time he’d leapt up again and was almost pushing the two older boys out of the room.
“Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of us?” asked Gillon suspiciously.
“Just go, you know you have to get out of my room when I ask you—” He could hear the pony whinnying again and it didn’t sound a bit like a dolphin.
“That sounds just like a pony,” said Adiel.
“Oh, beard it’s a pony, a tiny witchy pony under my bed!” said Omri mockingly.
At last they went, not without glancing back suspiciously several times, and Omri slammed the door, bolted it, and leant against it with closed eyes.
“Is it a pony?” whispered Patrick, agog.
Omri nodded. Then he opened his eyes, lay down again, and peered under the bed.
“Give me that torch from the chest-of-drawers.”
Patrick gave it to him and lay beside him. They peered together as the torch-beam probed the darkness.
“Crumbs!” breathed Patrick reverently. “It’s true!”
The pony was standing, seemingly alone, whinnying. When the torchlight hit him he stopped and turned his head. Omri could see a pair of leggings behind him.
“It’s all right, Little Bull, it’s me!” said Omri.
Slowly a crest of feathers, then the top of a black head, then a pair of eyes appeared over the pony’s back.
“Who they others?” he asked.
“My brothers. It’s okay, they didn’t see you.”
“Little Bull hear coming. Take pony, run, hide.”
“Good. Come on out and meet my friend Patrick.”
Little Bull jumped astride the pony and rode proudly out, wearing his new cloak and headdress. He gazed up imperiously at Patrick, who gazed back in wonder.
“Say something to him,” whispered Omri. “Say ‘How’. That’s what he’s used to.”
Patrick tried several times to say ‘How’ but his voice just came out as a squeak. Little Bull solemnly raised an arm in salute.
“Omri’s friend, Little