The Indian in the Cupboard by Lynne Reid Banks
“How do I know?” said Patrick sulkily. But his hand crept down and delicately explored the slight bump on the top of his leg where his pocket was. Omri held his breath. “Yeah, they’re okay. They’re moving,” Patrick muttered.
Omri went out into the playground. He felt too jumpy to stay indoors, or eat, or anything. How would he get them back from Patrick, who, quite obviously, was not a fit person to have charge of them? Nice as he was, as a friend, he just wasn’t fit. It must be because he didn’t take them seriously yet. He simply didn’t seem to realize that they were people.
When the bell rang Omri still hadn’t come to any decision. He hurried back into school. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Omri looked around for him frantically. Maybe he’d gone into the toilet to be private and give the men something to eat. Omri went in there and called him softly, but there was no answer. He returned to his place in the classroom. There was no sign of Patrick. And there continued to be no sign of him till about halfway through the lesson—not one word of which Omri took in, he was so worried.
At last, when the teacher turned her back to write on the board, Patrick slipped around a partition, rushed across the room silently, and dropped into his chair.
“Where have you been?” asked Omri under his breath.
“In the music room,” said Patrick smugly. The music room was not a room at all, but a little alcove off the gym in which the musical instruments were stored, together with some of the bulkier apparatus like the long horse. “I sat under the horse and fed them,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Only they weren’t very hungry.”
“I bet they weren’t,” said Omri, “after all they’d been through!”
“Cowboys and Indians are used to rough treatment,” Patrick retorted. “Anyway, I left some food in my pocket for later if they want it.”
“It’ll get all squashy.”
“Oh so what? Don’t fuss so much, they don’t mind!”
“How do you know what they mind?” said Omri hotly, forgetting to whisper. The teacher turned around.
“Oh ho, so there you are, Patrick! And where have you been, may I inquire?”
“Sorry, Miss Hilton.”
“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked where you’d been.”
Patrick coughed and lowered his head. “In the toilet,” he mumbled.
“For nearly twenty minutes? I don’t believe you! Are you telling me the truth?” Patrick mumbled something. “Patrick, answer me. Or I’ll send you to the headmaster.”
This was the ultimate threat. The headmaster was very fierce and could make you feel about two inches high. So Patrick said, “I was in the music room, and that’s true. And I forgot the time.”
And that’s not true, added Omri silently. Miss Hilton was nobody’s fool. She knew it too.
“You’d better go and see Mr. Johnson,” she said. “Omri, you go too, chattering away there as usual. Tell him I said you were both disturbing the class and that I’m extremely tired of it.”
They got up silently and walked through the tables, while all the girls giggled and the boys smirked or looked sorry for them, according to whether they liked them or not. Omri glanced at Patrick under his eyebrows. They were in for it now.
Outside the headmaster’s office they stopped.
“You knock,” whispered Omri.
“No, you,” retorted Patrick.
They dithered about for a few minutes, but it was useless to put it off, so in the end they both knocked together.
“Yes?” came a rather irritable voice from inside.
They edged around the door. Mr. Johnson was seated at his large desk, working at some papers. He looked up at once.
“Well, you two? What was it this time—fighting in the playground or talking in class?”
“Talking,” they said, and Patrick added, “and I was late.”
“Why?”
“I just was.”
“Oh don’t waste my time!” snapped Mr. Johnson. “There must have been a reason.”
“I was in the music room, and I forgot the time,” Patrick repeated.
“I don’t remember you being especially musical. What were you doing in the music room?”
“Playing.”
“Which instrument?” asked Mr. Johnson with a touch of sarcasm.
“Just—playing.”
“With what?” he asked, raising his voice.
“With a—with—” He glanced at Omri. Omri threw him a warning grimace.
“What are you pulling faces about, Omri? You look as if someone’s just stuck a knife into you.”
Omri started to giggle, and that set Patrick off.
“Somebody just did!” spluttered Patrick.
Mr. Johnson was in no such jolly mood, however. He was scowling horribly.
“What are you talking about, you silly boy? Stop that idiotic noise!”
Patrick’s giggles were getting worse. If they hadn’t been where they were, Omri thought, Patrick would have folded up completely.
“Someone—did—stick a knife into him!” hiccuped Patrick, and added, “A very small one!” His voice went off into a sort of whinny.
Omri had stopped giggling and was staring in awful anticipation at Patrick. When Patrick got into this state he was apt to do and say anything, like someone who’s drunk. Omri took hold of his arm and gave it a sharp shake.
“Shut up!” he hissed.
Mr. Johnson got up slowly and came around his desk. Both boys fell back a step, but Patrick didn’t stop giggling. On the contrary, it got worse. He seemed to be getting completely helpless. Mr. Johnson loomed over him and took him by the shoulder.
“Listen here, my lad,” he said in fearsome tones. “I want you to pull yourself together this moment and tell me what you meant. If there is any child in this school who so far forgets himself as to stick knives into people, or even pretend to, I want to know about it! Now, who was it?”
“Little—Bear!” Patrick squeaked out. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Omri gasped. “Don’t!”
“Who?” asked Mr. Johnson, puzzled.
Patrick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was now speechless with nervous, almost hysterical laughter.
Mr. Johnson gave him a shake of his own that rocked him back and forth on his feet like one of those weighted dolls that won’t fall down. Then, abruptly, he let him go and strode back to his desk.
“You seem to be quite beyond yourself,” he said sharply. “I think the only thing I can do is telephone your father.”
Patrick stopped laughing instantly.
“Ah, that’s better!” said Mr. Johnson. “Now. Who did you say had stabbed Omri?”
Patrick stood rigid, like a soldier at attention. He didn’t look at Omri, he just stared straight at Mr. Johnson.
“I want the truth, Patrick, and I want it now!”
“Little Bear,” said Patrick very clearly and much louder than necessary.
“Little who?”
“Bear.”
Mr. Johnson looked blank, as well he might.
“Is that somebody’s nickname, or is this your idea of a joke?”
Patrick gave his head one stiff shake. Omri was staring at him, as if paralyzed. Was he going to tell? He knew Patrick was afraid of his father.
“Patrick. I shall ask you once more. Who is this—Little Bear?”
Patrick opened his mouth. Omri clenched his teeth. He was helpless. Patrick said, “He’s an Indian.”
“A what?” asked Mr. Johnson. His voice was very quiet now. He didn’t sound annoyed anymore.
“An Indian.”
Mr. Johnson looked at him steadily for some seconds, his chin resting on his hand.
“You are too old to tell those sort of lies,” he said quietly.
“It’s not a lie!” Patrick shouted suddenly, making both Omri and Mr. Johnson jump. “It’s not a lie! He’s a real live American Indian!”
To Omri’s utter horror, he saw that Pat
“Now then, Patrick, none of that,” he said gruffly. But Patrick misunderstood. He thought he was still saying he didn’t believe him.
He now said the words Omri had been dreading most.
“It’s true and I can prove it!”
And his hand went to his pocket.
Omri did the only thing possible. He jumped at him and knocked him over. He sat on his chest and pinned his hands to the ground.
“You dare—you dare—you dare—” he ground out between clenched teeth before Mr. Johnson managed to drag him off.
“Get out of the room!” he roared.
“I won’t!” Omri choked out. He’d be crying himself in a minute, he felt so desperate.
“OUT!”
Omri felt his collar seized. He was almost hiked off his feet. The next thing he knew, he was outside the door and hearing the key turning.
Without stopping to think, Omri hurled himself against the door, kicking and banging with his fists.
“Don’t show him, Patrick, don’t show him! Patrick, don’t, I’ll kill you if you show him!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Footsteps came running. Through his tears and a sort of red haze, Omri saw Mrs. Hunt, the headmaster’s elderly secretary, bearing down on him. He got in a couple more good kicks and shouts before she got hold of him and, with both arms around his waist, carried him, shrieking and struggling, bodily into her own little office.
The minute she put him down he tried to bolt, but she hung on.
“Omri! Omri! Stop it, calm down, whatever’s come over you, you naughty boy!”
“Please don’t let him! Go in and stop him!” Omri cried.
“Who? What?”
Before Omri could explain he heard the sound of footsteps from the next room. Suddenly Mr. Johnson appeared, holding Patrick by the elbow. The headmaster’s face was dead white, and his mouth was partly open. Patrick’s head was hung down and his shoulders were heaving with sobs. One look at them told Omri the worst. Patrick had shown him.
Art and Accusation
Mr. Johnson opened and shut his mouth for several seconds without a sound coming out. At last he croaked: “Mrs. Hunt … I’m afraid I’m unwell. … I’m going home to bed. … Will you take charge of this child. …” His voice dropped to a mumble like an old man’s. Omri just caught the words, “… back to their lessons …” Then Mr. Johnson let go of Patrick’s arm, turned, walked most unsteadily to the door, and then put his hand on it and swayed as if he might fall over.
“Mr. Johnson!” said Mrs. Hunt in a shocked tone. “Shall I call a taxi … ?”
“No … no … I’ll be all right. …” And the headmaster, without looking back, tottered out into the corridor.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Hunt. “Whatever have you been doing to the poor man?”
Neither of them answered. Omri was staring at Patrick, or rather, at his pocket. Patrick’s shoulders were heaving and he was not looking at anybody. Mrs. Hunt was obviously flummoxed.
“Well. You’d better go to the toilet and wash your faces, both of you, and then go back to your classroom as fast as you can toddle,” she said in her funny old-fashioned way. “Run along!”
They needed no second telling. Neither of them said a word until they were in the boys’ toilet. Patrick went straight to a basin and began running the cold water. He splashed some onto his face, getting his collar soaked. Omri stood watching him. Obviously he was as upset as Omri, if not more so. Once again Omri felt their friendship trembling on the edge of destruction. He drew a deep breath.
“You showed him,” he said at last in a trembling voice.
Patrick said nothing. He dried his face on the roller towel. He was still gasping the way one does when one’s been crying.
“Give them back to me. Both of them.”
Patrick reached slowly into his pocket. He put his closed hand backward. Omri looked as his fingers slowly opened. Little Bear and Boone were sitting there, absolutely terrified. They were actually clinging on to each other. Even Little Bear was hiding his face and they were both trembling.
With infinite slowness and care, so as not to frighten them more, Omri took them into his own hand. “It’s all right,” he whispered, bringing them near to his face. “Please. It’s all right.” Then he put them carefully in his pocket and said to Patrick in a low voice, “You stupid fool.”
Patrick turned. His face gave Omri more of a jolt than Mr. Johnson’s had. It was white-mottled-red, with swollen eyes.
“I had to!” he said. “I had to! He’d have phoned my dad! They’d have made me tell in the end. Anyhow, he didn’t believe in them. He thought he was seeing things. He just stood there, gaping at them. He didn’t even touch them. When they moved he gave a yell and then I thought he was going to fall over. He went white as a ghost. You saw. He didn’t believe his eyes, Omri, honest! He’ll think he dreamed it!” Omri went on looking at him stonily. “Can’t I—can’t I have Boone?” asked Patrick in a small voice.
“No.”
“Please! I’m sorry I told—I had to!”
“They’re not safe with you. You use them. They’re people. You can’t use people.”
Patrick didn’t ask again. He gave one more hiccuping sob and went out.
Omri took the little men out of his pocket again and lifted them to his face. Boone was lying flat on his front, holding his big hat down over his ears as if trying to shut out the world. But Little Bear stood up.
“Big man shout. Give fear!” he said angrily. “Small ears—big noise—no good!”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said Omri. “But it’s okay now. I’m going to take you home.”
“What about wife?”
His promise! Omri had forgotten all about that.
Another Indian! Another live little person to worry about … Omri had heard about people going gray-haired almost overnight if they had too much worry. He felt it might easily happen to him. He thought back to the time, only a few days ago, when this had all started, and he had fondly imagined it was all going to be the greatest fun anybody had ever had. Now he realized that it was more like a nightmare.
But Little Bear was looking at him challengingly. He had promised.
“Right after school,” he said, “we’ll go to the shop.”
There was still another hour of lessons to be got through. Fortunately it was two periods of art. In the art room you could go away into a corner and even sit with your back turned to the teacher if you liked. Omri went to the farthest and darkest corner.
“Omri, don’t try to draw there,” said the art teacher. “You’re in your own light—it’s bad for your eyes.”
“I’m going to draw something huge anyway,” said Omri.
All the others sat near the long windows. He was quite alone, and if the teacher approached him he would hear her feet on the bare floor. He suddenly felt he must—he simply must get a little fun out of this somehow. He cautiously fished Little Bear and Boone out of his pocket.
They stood on the sheet of white drawing paper as if on a stretch of snow, and looked about them.
“This school place?” asked Little Bear.
“Yes. Sshhh!”
“Sure don’t look much like the school Ah went to!” exclaimed Boone. “Whur’s the rows of desks? Whur’s the slate ’n’ bit o’ chalk? Why ain’t the teacher talkin’?”
“We’re doing art. We can sit where we like. She doesn’t talk much, she just lets us get on with it,” replied Omri in the softest whisper he could possibly manage.
“Art, eh?” asked Boone, brightening up. “Say, that wuz mah best subject! Ah wuz allus top in art, on’y thing Ah wuz any good at! Still draw a mite when Ah gits a chance, if’n ain’t nobody around t’ laugh at me.” He reached into the pocket of his own tiny jeans and
Omri nodded. Boone strode to the very center of the paper, looked all around at the white expanse stretching away from him in every direction, and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Then he knelt down and began to draw.
Little Bear and Omri watched. From the microscopic point of Boone’s pencil there developed a most amazing scene. It was a prairie landscape, with hills and cacti and a few tufts of sagebrush. Boone sketched in, with sure strokes, some wooden buildings such as Omri had often seen in cowboy films—a saloon with a swinging sign reading “Golden Dollar Saloon” in twirly writing; a post office and general store, a livery stable, and a stone house with a barred window and a sign saying “Jail.” Then, moving swiftly on his knees, as it were from one end of his “street” to another, Boone drew in the foreground—figures of men and women, wagons, horses, dogs, and all the trappings of a little town.
From Boone’s point of view, he was drawing something quite large, making the best use of his vast piece of paper; but from Omri’s, the drawing was minute, perfect in its detailing but smaller than any human hand could possibly have made it. He and Little Bear watched, fascinated.
“Boone, you’re an artist!” Omri breathed at last, when Boone had even made the mud on the unpaved street look real. Little Bear grunted.
“But not like real place,” he said.
Boone didn’t trouble to answer; in fact, he was so absorbed he probably didn’t hear. But Omri frowned. Then he understood. Of course! Boone’s town was part of an America that was not thought of during Little Bear’s time.
“Boone,” he whispered, bending his head down, “what year is it—your town—your time?”
“Last time Ah saw a newspaper it was 1889,” said Boone. “There! That’s mah drawin’. Not bad, huh?”
“It’s absolutely brilliant,” said Omri, enthralled.
“Omri!”
Omri jumped. His two hands instantly cupped themselves over the two men.
From the other side of the room, the teacher said, “I see it’s no use trying to stop you chattering. You even do it when you’re alone! Bring me your picture.”