The Return of the Indian (16 page)

“We did it, we did it!”

“The way you switched the light on—terrific!”

“How you could hold that thing straight—I’d have tipped them all off, I was so excited!—Hey! Where is it?”

“I put it on the bed—”

They rushed back into the bedroom. Fickits was calmly ordering the men to clear up and cover the big guns.

When he noticed the boys, he left the men and edged to the back of the platform.

“Operation a success, sir?” he asked in a quiet tone.

“Definitely, Fickits. Well done!” said Omri.

“Did I say a sergeant, Fickits?” said Patrick. “I meant a captain.”

“Not me, sir! Too much responsibility.” He coughed. “Better get the men fell in and back to quarters as quick as possible, sir.”

“Yeah, right,” said Patrick. “Thanks again, Corporal, it was terrific.” And he started to carry them upstairs.

“See that everything’s all right up there,” said Omri.

“Okay.” Patrick reached the door and stopped. “I don’t mind so much now, missing the other battle,” he said. “Wasn’t this one
fantastic?”

“Yeah,” said Omri.

He was thinking how fantastic it was, too, that he would never be afraid to walk down Hovel Road again.
They would leave him severely alone from now on, and even if they didn’t … Having sent them flying like that, and after all he’d been through tonight, he couldn’t imagine them holding any terrors for him in the future.

He looked around the room. He was going to have a bit of explaining to do. The glass on a picture was cracked, and there were a number of pinholes, and some larger ones, in the wallpaper and the foot of the bed … Then there was the banister. And his own injuries … Well, he could tell his parents about the burglars, say there was a scuffle. Maybe they’d believe it. He hoped so.

He bent and picked his mother’s jewel box up off its face. He’d saved that for her, anyway. Under it was a cheap penlight. He picked it up. It was still lit. He switched it off and dropped it into his pocket. He might, if he felt like it, just hand it back to that little skinhead, if he bumped into him after school on Monday … Be a good laugh, to see his face.

Omri drew a deep breath of satisfaction and went downstairs to bring in the stuff piled in the front garden.

When everything was back in place, with Patrick’s help, except the banister rail, which needed gluing in three places, they made some hot chocolate to take Upstairs with some cold potatoes and other leftovers. They were both so keyed up they couldn’t feel their tiredness, and were prepared to sit up all night.

“I sent Matron back for some drugs and stuff she wanted,” Patrick said. “But she made me promise I’d get her again in the morning. She says she’s going to take a week’s leave from St. Thomas’s … She’s enjoyed all this, anyway.”

“Fickits, too.”

“Little Bear hasn’t enjoyed it.”

Omri didn’t answer. Every time he thought of the Indian
battle, it took away from his overwhelming pleasure in the one with the skinheads.

“Where’s Boone?” he asked suddenly.

“I sent him back too. He asked me to. Said the odd gunfight and saloon brawl would be a rest cure after all he’s been through … He said he’d like to see us soon, when things have quieted down.”

“What about his horse?”

“Oh, yes. I gave him the one that English cavalry officer was riding.” Patrick chuckled. “You should have heard him swear when I flicked him off! Boone was really pleased. Said he’s a beaut. Really, he was happy with it. And I bet the horse’ll be happier with him than with that snooty redcoat.”

When they reached the room, all was quiet. The candle had burnt out, so Little Bear had had to stop his dancing and chanting for the dead. One fire was out, the other was burning low. The Indians, including the wounded, were all asleep, except Little Bear, who sat cross-legged by the fire. Bright Stars was asleep beside him, the baby in the crook of her arm.

Patrick Struck a match and Little Bear looked up.

“We’ve brought food,” Qmri said.

“No eat,” said the Indian.

Omri didn’t press him. He just poured a toothpaste capful of hot chocolate and put it beside him with a piece of potato.

The match went out. They sat together in the dark,
with just the embers of the fire. The boys drank their chocolate. For a long time nobody spoke.

Then Little Bear said: “Why Omri bring Little Bear?”

For the first time in two days, Omri thought of his prize. It had gone completely from his mind. Now it seemed so trivial, he was ashamed to mention it.

“Something good happened to me, which was partly to do with you, and I wanted to tell you about it.”

“What good thing happen?”

“I wrote a story about you and Boone and it—well, it was good.”

“Omri write truth of Little Bear?”

“Yes, it was all true.”

“Omri write Little Bear kill own people?”

“Of course not!”

“You write before this happen. Next time, write Little Bear kill own braves.”

“You didn’t. The now-guns killed them. You couldn’t know.”

“Then, Little Bear fool!” came his bitter voice out of the dark.

There was a silence. Then Patrick said, “We were the fools, not you.”

“Yes,” said Omri. “We should have known better. We shouldn’t have interfered.”

“Inta-fear? Omri not afraid.”

“We should have let you alone.”

“Let alone, Little Bear die from French gun.”

There was a pause. Then Omri said, “You did beat the Algonquins.”

“Yes. Beat Algonquin thief. Not beat French.”

“Yeah, that was a pity,” said Patrick feelingly, “after all that.”

“Fewer dead the better,” muttered Omri.

“Good kill French!” Little Bear exclaimed, sounding more like his old self. “Kill French next time.”

“But not with the now-guns.”

After a silence, Little Bear said, “Now-guns good. Shoot far. Now Little Bear know shoot far. Next time not put own braves where bullet go. Omri give now-guns, take back!”

The embers of the fire flared a little. Bright Stars had risen to throw on another curl of wax. Now she crouched beside Little Bear and looked into his face.

“No,” she said clearly.

He looked at her.

“What no?”

She spoke to him softly and earnestly in their own language. He scowled in the firelight.

“What does she say, Little Bear?”

“Wife say, not use now-guns. Soon braves forget skill with bow. Woman not want son grow up without Indian skill. She say now-gun kill too many, too easy. No honor for chief or chiefs son.”

“What do you think?”

“Omri give now-guns if Little Bear think good?”

Omri shook his head.

“Then, what for I fight with wife? Give wife own way. Peace in longhouse, till next enemy come. Then maybe wife sorry!”

He scowled at her. She smiled, bent down and picked up the baby and laid it in his arms. He sat looking down at it.

“What’s his name?” Omri asked.

“Name must mean much,” mused Little Bear. “What ‘Omri’ mean?”

“Omri was a king. In the old days.”

“Omri name for big chief?”

Omri nodded.

“Then, Little Bear son name too for chief. For father, Little Bear, had first horse in all tribe. Call him Tall Bear. He sit high on horse, more high than all brave.”

Suddenly he clutched the baby to his chest, and turned his face upward with closed eyes as if bearing a strong pain.

“When son grow, Little Bear tell that Omri write story! Little Bear live in story even when gone to ancestors.
That
give honor, make son proud of father!”

“He’ll be proud of you, Little Bear. Without any help from me.”

Little Bear looked up at him, Then he stood up. The fire put out a sudden flare. He stood there, feet apart, his body glowing, his stern face for once untroubled.

“Omri good,” he said loudly. “Give
orenda
back to Little Bear!”

Orenda.
The life force.

And he held his son up high in both hands, as if offering him to the future.