The Indian in the Cupboard Complete Collection. Lynne Banks Reid
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far as he had figured it out so far, the cupboard, or the key, or both together, brought plastic things to life, or if they were already alive, turned them into plastic. There were a lot of questions to be answered, though. Did it only work with plastic? Would, say, wooden or metal figures also come to life if shut up in the cupboard? How long did they have to stay in there for the magic to work? Overnight? Or did it happen straight away?
And another thing – what about objects? The Indian’s clothes, his feather, his knife, all had become real. Was this just because they were part of the original plastic figure? If he put – well, anything you like, the despised plastic tepee for instance, into the cupboard and locked the door, would that be real in the morning? And what would happen to a real object, if he put that in?
He decided to make a double trial.
He stood the plastic Indian tent on the shelf of the cupboard. Beside it he put a Matchbox car. Then he closed the cupboard door. He didn’t lock it. He counted slowly to ten.
Then he opened the door.
Nothing had happened.
He closed the door again, and this time locked it with his great-grandmother’s key. He decided to give it a bit longer this time, and while he was waiting he lay down in bed. He began counting to ten slowly. He got roughly as far as five before he fell asleep.
He was woken at dawn by Little Bull bawling at him.
The Indian was standing outside the felt tepee on the edge of the table, his hands cupped to his mouth as if shouting across a measureless canyon. As soon as Omri’s eyes opened, the Indian shouted:
“Day come! Why you still sleep? Time eat – hunt – fight – make painting!”
Omri leapt up. He cried, “Wait” – and almost wrenched the cupboard open.
There on the shelf stood a small tepee made of real leather. Even the stitches on it were real. The poles were twigs, tied together with a strip of hide. The designs were real Indian symbols, put on with bright dyes.
The car was still a toy car made of metal, no more real than it had ever been.
“It works,” breathed Omri. And then he caught his breath. “Little Bull!” he shouted. “It works, it works! I can make any plastic toy I like come alive, come real! It’s real magic, don’t you understand? Magic!”
The Indian stood calmly with folded arms, evidently disapproving of this display of excitement.
“So? Magic. The spirits work much magic. No need wake dead with howls like coyote.”
Omri hastily pulled himself together. Never mind the dead, it was his parents he must take care not to wake. He picked up the new tepee and set it down beside the one he had made the night before.
“Here’s the good one I promised you,” he said.
Little Bull examined it carefully. “No good,” he said at last.
“What? Why not?”
“Good tepee, but no good Iroquois brave. See?” He pointed to the painted symbols. “Not Iroquois signs. Algonquin. Enemy. Little Bull sleep there, Iroquois spirits angry.”
“Oh,” said Omri, disappointed.
“Little Bull like Omri tepee. Need paint. Make strong pictures – Iroquois signs. Please spirits of ancestors.”
Omri’s disappointment melted into intense pride. He had made a tepee which satisfied his Indian! “It’s not finished,” he said. “I’ll take it to school and finish it in my handicrafts lesson. I’ll take out the pins and sew it up properly. Then when I come home I’ll give you poster-paints and you can paint your symbols.”
“I paint. But must have longhouse. Tepee no good for Iroquois.”
“Just for now?”
Little Bull scowled. “Yes,” he said. “But very short. Now eat.”
“Er… Yes. What do you like to eat in the mornings?”
“Meat,” said the Indian immediately.
“Wouldn’t you like some bread and cheese?”
“Meat.”
“Or corn? Or some egg?”
The Indian folded his arms uncompromisingly across his chest.
“Meat,” said Omri with a sigh. “Yes. Well, I’ll have to see what I can do. In the meantime, I think I’d better put you down on the ground.”
“Not on ground now?”
“No. You’re high above the ground. Go to the edge and look – but don’t fall!”
The Indian took no chances. Lying on his stomach he crawled, commando-fashion, to the edge of the chest-of-drawers and peered over.
“Big mountain,” he commented at last.
“Well…” But it seemed too difficult to explain. “May I lift you down?”
Little Bull stood up and looked at Omri measuringly. “Not hold tight?” he asked.
“No. I won’t hold you at all. You can ride in my hand.”
He laid his hand palm up next to Little Bull, who, after only a moment’s hesitation, stepped on to it and, for greater stability, sat down cross-legged. Omri gently transported him to the floor. The Indian rose lithely to his feet and jumped off on to the grey carpet.
At once he began looking about with suspicion. He dropped to his knees, felt the carpet and smelt it.
“Not ground,” he said. “Blanket.”
“Little Bull, look up.”
He obeyed, narrowing his eyes and peering.
“Do you see the sky? Or the sun?”
The Indian shook his head, puzzled.
“That’s because we’re not outdoors. We’re in a room, in a house. A house big enough for people my size. You’re not even in America. You’re in England.”
The Indian’s face lit up. “English good! Iroquois fight with English against French!”
“Really?” asked Omri, wishing he had read more. “Did you fight?”
“Fight? Little Bull fight like mountain lion! Take many scalps.”
Scalps? Omri swallowed. “How many?”
Little Bull proudly held up all ten fingers. Then he closed his fists, opening them again with another lot of ten, and another.
“I don’t believe you killed so many people!” said Omri, shocked.
“Little Bull not lie. Great hunter. Great fighter. How show him son of Chief without many scalps?”
“Any white ones?” Omri ventured to ask.
“Some. French. Not take English scalps. Englishmen friends to Iroquois. Help Indian fight Algonquin enemy.”
Omri stared at him. He suddenly wanted to get away. “I’ll go and get you some – meat,” he said in a choking voice.
He went out of his room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
For a moment he did not move, but leant back against the door. He was sweating slightly. This was a bit more than he had bargained for!
Not only was his Indian no mere toy come to life; he was a real person, somehow magicked out of the past of over two hundred years ago. He was also a savage. It occurred to Omri for the first time that his idea of Red Indians, taken entirely from Western films, had been somehow false. After all, those had all been actors playing Indians, and afterwards wiping their