The Return of the Indian (13 page)

Patrick climbed into the chest and crouched down.

“Here,” he said, handing Omri the key. “Close the lid and send me.”

“Touch the tepee with one finger,” said Omri.

“Okay, I am. Now.” Patrick’s voice was trembling a little, but not much.

“What about Boone?”

“He said he felt bad and wanted to help. Send us, will you, before I lose my nerve!”

Omri closed down the lid, put the key in the lock, and locked the chest.

It was such a simple action. What had it caused?

After a moment he unlocked the chest again, and, with icy cold hands, opened it. He didn’t know what to expect. Would Patrick have disappeared?

Patrick lay inside it. At least, his body lay there. Omri reached in and touched him. He felt cold.

“Patrick!
Patrick!”
But he was not really expecting a response. Patrick was as far away as anyone can be who isn’t actually dead.

Down in the bottom of the chest, near Patrick’s uncon-scious head, was the seed tray. Patrick’s limp hand was resting on it. Everything else on it was the same—the grass patch, the longhouse, the pool—except for one thing. The tepee was made of plastic. The paintings on it were crude, mass-produced; the poles were pink and molded in one with the tent. Gently Omri lifted it. What he saw underneath gave him the biggest shock he’d had yet.

The plastic figure of an Indian girl lay on a pile of
cotton bedding. A cowboy was kneeling by her on one knee. In his arms was a tiny naked plastic baby, smaller than Omri’s little fingernail.

Omri gasped. Then, on an impulse, he reached in and lifted the seed tray and its contents out of the chest. Then he slammed down the lid and turned the key. About half a minute had passed since he had “sent” Patrick. At once he heard him moving inside and threw back the lid.

Patrick raised his head. His face was white and dazed.

“Don’t!” he gasped.

“What happened?” shouted Omri.

“I’d hardly got there! It’s fantastic—listen—I was part of the tepee!”

“Wha-at!”

“I can’t explain! I was in the tepee—not in it—I
was
it!

I was on the outside of it—I could see everything! The place is—it’s—I hadn’t time to look properly, I could just—Send me back, will you? Send me back
now!”

He reached up and tried to pull down the lid. But Omri braced himself against it.

“Get out. It’s my turn.”

“You didn’t even want to go—”

“Well, I do now.”

Omri was almost unable to speak for excitement. He was trying to drag Patrick bodily out of the chest.

Patrick, resisting, grated out, “Leave off! Listen—I heard a baby crying in the tepee—”

“I know. It’s Bright Stars’. Get
out
, will you?—Were you small—?”

“I don’t know how big I was, but I couldn’t move—Listen, it’s not fair, let me go back, let me stay for a bit, you hardly let me—”

“I’ve got to see!” Omri said frenziedly. “Let me just look! Give me five minutes, by your watch, then you can have five, I swear—”

Patrick gave way. He changed places with Omri.

“You’d better take the tepee—”

“The tepee won’t work now, all that will happen is, you’ll bring them back. I’ve got her moccasins in my pocket. Those ought to do. Go on, get on with it!”

“Five minutes!” said Patrick, and locked the chest.

There wasn’t a second in which to catch a breath or even feel scared. Omri was curled in the dark innards of the chest, he heard the lock click, and then, immediately, he felt sunlight shining on him. He tried to open his eyes but found they were already open—at any rate he could see. And he could hear. That was all he could do. He not only couldn’t move, he couldn’t try to move; but he didn’t feel uncomfortable or as if he were tied up. He just had nothing to move
with
and that was that.

Spread out before him was a ruined Indian village. It was evening. The sun was a red ball sinking toward the rocky edge of a hill. The village was in a clearing in a forest of pine and maple trees. The maples were all the colors of fire. It was as if the fires in the village, which had
now burnt out, had kindled more fires in the surrounding woods.

There were few longhouses left standing. Many had been burnt to the ground. They had stopped smoldering but their blackened ruins gave the view a look of desolation. A number of women were moving about. Some were carrying water, some were cooking, others were helping injured men. There were Indian children of all ages, and quite a few dogs. Hardly any young men.

Omri could see no signs of anything resembling a battle. What had become of the troop of well-armed Indians they’d dispatched less than an hour ago? Had they gotten lost on the way …?

Suddenly he heard a sound from behind him. It was unmistakably the strange, chuckling cry of a newborn baby. Omri tried to look round but found that he couldn’t. Whatever he was, he was stuck to the outside of the tepee, and that meant he couldn’t see in.

A very queer and comic thought came to him.

“I wonder if I’m the beaver or the porcupine?”

He didn’t have time to consider this before he heard Boone’s voice.

“He sure is a fine li’l fella,” he said. His voice was choked with emotion. “Ever’ thin’ jest whur it oughta be. Now you give him a swig o’ milk, ma’am, an’ Ah’ll go ask the boys fer somethin’ fer you, t’give ya back your stren’th.”

There was a movement to Omri’s left and Boone came into view, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. Amazingly,
he was full size. Or, no, of course that wasn’t amazing at all.

“A fine li’l fella,” he was muttering to himself, sniffing and shaking his head. “Gee whiz, ain’t nature wonderful! Ah kin hardly—”

He stopped dead and stared around him in horrified astonishment.

“Holy jumpin’ catfish! Whur am Ah?”

Omri was aching to tell him, but he could no more talk than he could move. However, Boone was no fool. He realized soon enough what had happened. After a few seconds spent taking in the scene, he turned and dived back into the tepee. Fortunately, no one seemed to have seen him.

“Hey, li’l lady, do you know whur we’re at? Ah do believe we’re in yor village! No, no—now, don’t you go gittin’ up—gee, I shouldn’t oughta’ve told ya—”

A moment later, Bright Stars emerged, her baby in her arms. She looked tired and a bit bedraggled, but other-wise fine. Beautiful. Omri, who had only seen her tiny till now, had never appreciated how beautiful she was.

An Indian woman was passing. She noticed Bright Stars, and reacted to the baby. She called to others. Soon there was a crowd of women around Bright Stars, much chattering talk, and a lot of pointing, all westward toward the setting sun. Omri hoped Boone would have sense enough to stay in the tepee, and he did. After a minute or two, Bright Stars moved to go back in. Several of the
other women wanted to come with her, but she sent them away.

Now Omri strained to hear the conversation in the tepee behind him.

“Whut’s goin’ on?” asked Boone as soon as she reen-tered.

“Woman say, strange thing happen. Little Bear come with many brave. Go to hills. Wait for new attack.”

“Whut attack?” asked Boone in alarm.

“Soldier maybe not come back. Algonquin come. Take women, food, furs.”

“They didn’t git any loot when they come last time?”

“No. Iroquois fight, drive off. Algonquin burn, kill some, get nothing. Now village wait. Little Bear wait in hills. Algonquin come back when sun go.”

“But the sun’s almost gone now!” said Boone, his voice going squeaky.

“Yes,” said Bright Stars quietly.

After a moment, Boone’s voice said, “Ain’t ya skeered? With yer baby an’ all?” Bright Stars didn’t answer. After a while she said, “Little Bear near. And Great Spirits. No bad come.”

Omri’s eyes—or the porcupine’s, or the beaver’s, whosever he was looking through—were fixed on the sun. It was sinking behind the rocky hillside so fast he could see it move. Only a jagged slice of it was left. Darkness was coming, and his five minutes was more than up. Why hadn’t Patrick taken him back?

There was an air of fear about the village. As twilight fell, the villagers seemed to be preparing to decamp. Such men as were left—mainly old, plus some wounded or unfit ones—were giving Orders, and the women were running here and there, packing things into bundles. Others came with buckets of water and put out the few cooking fires that were burning, removed the pots and rounded up the children. A few dogs were dashing about, barking excitedly, sensing something in the hurrying and the anxious voices.

Omri watched all this in growing alarm. The minutes were ticking by. Being apparently nothing more than a picture on the side of a tepee, he couldn’t see how he could be in danger himself, but he was desperately worried about Bright Stars, Boone and the baby.

After a while, one of the old women came around the tepee into Omri’s sight. She was hobbling along as fast as she could, gazing up at the tepee with gaping mouth as if it had dropped from nowhere (as, in a way, it had). She bent at the flap and called. Bright Stars answered. The old woman hobbled away again, her white hair glowing in the deep twilight. The tall pines around the camp now stood out black against the darkening sky.

Omri heard Bright Stars in the tepee say to Boone: “Village leave now.”

“Whut’s that? Leave fur where?”

“Hide in wood.” There was a pause. Then she said doubtfully, “Boone come?”

“No. Ah cain’t.”

“Why no? Here not safe.”

“There
not safe! Not fur me. Ah don’t fit in, gal. You know that.”

Bright Stars said no more. There was a pause; then the tepee flap opened and she came out with her baby wrapped up in some hide torn from her skirt. She turned in the opening. There was a very soft look in her eyes as she looked, presumably at Boone, standing out of Omri’s sight inside. Then she hurried away, mingling with the knot of other Indians in the center of the village.

Soon they were forming into a rough procession. It was almost too dark to see now, but Omri could just make them out as they silently made their way out of the circle of ruined and half-burnt buildings. Even the dogs were quiet now as they trailed along after the villagers.
One of them, lingering, passed the tepee. He paused to leave his mark against the side of it, and for a moment he looked up, straight at Omri. His lips drew back over teeth which shone white in the darkness and he whined uneasily—the hair on his back stood up straight. Then he tucked his long tail between his legs and shot off after the others.

Soon the last rustles and murmurs subsided and there was a deep silence, broken only by the call of a single owl. Bird—or a signal?

Omri had never known real fear. All he could compare this with was Walking up Hovel Road and knowing he had to pass the skinheads who were waiting for him. That seemed to him now like nothing at all. What was the worst they could do to him, after all? A black eye, a few bruises? This was in another category of fear altogether.

Yet, what was he afraid of? Nothing could happen to
him.
At any second now, Patrick would turn the key in the lock of the chest and recall him to his body, to normality, to the utter, blissful safety of his own life, which he had never thought about before, far less appreciated.

So what was this icy feeling which could only be terror?

Perhaps it was for Boone. Boone was behind him in the tepee, no longer a tiny figure, but a full-sized man, out of his place, out of his time. Visible, solid, vulnerable, and quite alone. How lonely could you be? Omri could hardly imagine how Boone must be feeling as he waited in the tepee for some unknown thing to happen.

And suddenly it did.

It began with another hoot from the owl. Then Omri saw a swift movement to one side of him, close to the edge of the clearing. Then again, on the other side. Then a man’s figure, crouched low, scurried past him. And abruptly the whole clearing seemed to be full of moving men.

They were not Frenchmen, of course. They were Indians. Little Bear’s men, returning to defend the place? Omri strained to see them. All he could make out was glimpses of leggings, of a head feather—the flash of an axhead catching the starlight. Then he saw that several men were raking wood from the cooking fires into one heap in the center of the ring of longhouses. Shadows began to spread from a light source in the midst of the
men. Suddenly a flame leapt high, and another. The fire had been lit. And at once Omri could see.

These weren’t Little Bear’s men! Their clothes were different. Their heads were shaved. Their headdresses—even their movements—were alien. Their faces, too—their faces! They were wild, distorted, terrifying masks of hatred and rage.

They were Algonquins, come to sack the village.

In the light of the central fire, they ran to and fro, dozens of them—scores. It took only moments to find out that they had been outwitted, that the village was empty and there was nothing to steal, no women to carry off. Their anger burst out in howls and yelps. Through this outburst Omri heard a smothered groan below him. Boone! … he must be peering out at the awful scene.