The Return of the Indian (4 page)

The realization of Tommy’s death—even a whole year after he had last seen him—came as a ghastly shock. He had no one to share this with—and in any case, there was no time. Standing at his elbow was the pony, tossing his head as if in impatience and heedlessness of anything which delayed attention to his master. Bright Stars’ enormous eyes were fixed on him. Waiting.
Trusting
.

Later.
He would think about Tommy, and mourn for him, later. Who would understand better than Tommy that you have to look after the wounded before mourning the dead? Rubbing his hand across his mouth, Omri looked around helplessly, and then he faced Bright Stars.

How much English did she know? During her brief time with him, before, he had never spoken directly to her—she had only spoken to Little Bear, in their own language. Now he must make her understand.

“No good,” he said slowly. “No help.”

She looked blank, although the shining hope faded a little from her face. To make matters plain, Omri opened the cupboard again and took Tommy’s plastic figure—which
had come back, replacing the pitiful little pile of his uniform—and stood it before the Indian girl. She slipped from the pony’s back and, holding the rope, touched the figure.

She seemed to realize at once that there was no help to be looked for there. She turned swiftly back toward Omri.

“Help. You,” she said in a clear, silvery voice.

Omri felt sheer desperation clamp down on his heart, already heavy with sadness. He followed Bright Stars’ pointing finger at the lifeless-looking body across the pony.

“We must lay him flat,” he said at last. It was all he could think of. But it could not be all he could do. He must think—he must think!

He watched Bright Stars struggling to lift Little Bear’s heavy body off the horse. He helped as much as he dared, terrified his big clumsy fingers would damage him, but at least he could make his hand into a kind of platform to lower Little Bear to the ground. With his other hand he pulled his box of tissues toward him and made a make-shift mattress out of several of them. At least they were soft and clean. Soon Little Bear was lying stretched on his stomach.

Omri had been through something like this before. When Little Bear had shot the cowboy, Boone. That time, Tommy had been brought in to help. He had had some tiny instruments, dressings and medicine. Crude as his old-fashioned methods were, they had worked. Omri
felt poignantly the absence of an old friend, as one does—not just missing the person, but missing his skills, his role in one’s life. For a moment, he felt almost angry with Tommy for being dead when he was so badly needed.

Bright Stars, who was kneeling beside Little Bear, looked up. She said something. It was some Indian word. Omri shook his head. Bright Stars wrung her hands. She pointed to the two bullet wounds, and said the word again, louder. It must be some special Indian remedy she wanted. And for the first time, Omri thought: She might be better off where she came from. She’d know what to do there.

But at least he could clean the wounds. He knew how to do that much. He had some mouthwash, horrible stuff his mother made him gargle with when he had a cold. The bottle was on his shelf. He jumped up and fetched it. His head was spinning. He was beginning to realize how insane it had been to start up with this business again; he was remembering the awful sense of responsibility, the anxiety, the unending succession of problems to be solved … and this time he didn’t even have Patrick to give him occasional support or good ideas.

Patrick
… But Patrick was useless. He didn’t even
believe
any more.

Omri soaked a bit of the cotton from the box with the disinfectant and handed it to Bright Stars, making swabbing gestures to show her what it was for. She caught on quickly. With light, delicate strokes she cleaned the blood off Little Bear’s back. No more seemed to be coming
from the holes. Omri, remembering that injured people have to be kept warm, and noticing that Bright Stars was shivering, snatched up one of the gloves he’d worn to school and recklessly cut the little finger off it with some scissors. The Indian was soon inside the woollen finger, which was like a sleeping bag. Omri and Bright Stars looked at each other.

“How?” Omri asked. “How did it happen?”

Bright Stars’ face grew hard. “Soldier,” she said. “Fight. Gun.”

“In the back?” Omri couldn’t help asking. It was hard to imagine anyone as brave as Little Bear getting shot in the back.

“Fall horse,” she said. “Little Bear lie. Ground. Soldiers shoot.” She pointed an imaginary weapon, a rifle or a musket, gestured one, two, then waved her hand sharply to show the soldiers had run on, leaving Little Bear to die.

“You saw this?”

She nodded fiercely. “Woman see. Soldier come village. Braves fight. Soldier make fire in house. Kill many. Take prisoner. Braves chase. Out, out—far! Bright Stars hide. See Little Bear fall. See soldier—” She mimed shooting again. “Bright Stars run, catch pony, bring Little Bear home to village. All fire! Dead brave! Woman cry! I shut eyes, not see. Whoosh!” She made a strange noise like a rush of wind. Opened her eyes—and pointed at Omri with a look of acted surprise.

“And suddenly you were here.”

She nodded. “Spirits bring. You save.”

Omri gazed at her. He had not the very faintest idea of what to do, and here she was, trusting him.

“Don’t you think you’d be better at home—in the village?” he suggested helplessly.

She shook her head violently.

“Village all fire. Dead—dead!” She pointed everywhere on the ground. “No help. Omri only help Little Bear brother.”

Brother! Yes. Little Bear had swapped drops of blood with him in that last moment, making them blood brothers. He must, he must find a way to help! But how?

At that moment, Little Bear stirred and groaned.

Instantly, Bright Stars crouched beside him. Omri, whose eyes had begun to get used to focusing on minute detail once again, noticed suddenly that she had become fat. Could it be that—? But Little Bear was groaning and muttering, his legs were twitching. Omri forgot about Bright Stars’ new shape for the moment.

“What’s he saying?”

“Say, Omri, Omri,’” reported Bright Stars. There was more muttering, and then she said, “Now say, ‘Brother.’” She looked up at him with a look he couldn’t bear.

He stood up.

“Listen,” he said hoarsely. “I have to bring help. I need—something …” He looked at her. “Lend me your moccasins.” He pointed to her feet. Bewildered but obedient, she bent and took off the soft shoes made of
bead-embroidered animal hide, and gave them to him. He wrapped them carefully in a twist of paper and put them in his pocket.

“Take care of him,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

Omri locked his bedroom door behind him and went downstairs.

It was Friday night (luckily, or he’d have had home-work, which he wouldn’t have been able to do). His parents and Gillon were watching television. Adiel had gone out with friends.

“Mum, d’you remember Patrick?” He spoke very casually.

“Of course I remember Patrick.”

“He moved to the country.”

“I know.”

“I saw him last week.” “Where?”

“Outside school. He said his mother had come back for a visit.”

“To her sister, I expect.” His mother turned back to the set.

“Her
sister?
I didn’t know Patrick had an aunt!”

“Don’t be silly, of course you did. She lived three doors down from our old house.”

Omri frowned, remembering. “With those two revolting little girls?”

“Tamsin and Emma. Bonkins or something. Donkins. They’re Patrick’s cousins.”

“D’you think Patrick might be
there?”

“You can soon find out. I’ve still got her phone number in my book. It’s on the hall table.”

Three minutes later, Omri had Patrick’s voice in his ear.

“Patrick? It’s me. Omri. I’ve got to see you.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“It’s very important.”

“Can’t it wait?”

Omri sensed the reluctance in Patrick’s voice. He understood it. “No.”

“I’m watching a horror film.”

“The horror film doesn’t start till eleven-thirty,” Omri retorted.

There was a silence.

“You’re not going to start up with all that rubbish about—”

“I’m coming,” said Omri shortly, and rang off.

He slipped out the back door and was soon running down Hovel Road for the station.

Some of the shops, and the amusement arcade, were still open. So were the pubs. Their glass doors let out a friendly glow and lots of loud voices as Omri dashed past. In the amusement arcade the skinheads were banging away at the space invaders, not noisy and comradely like the pub-goers, but grim, intent, each bent over a machine. They didn’t notice him. Omri ran swiftly on, with a feeling of relief. This horrible street was actually safer by night.

Sometimes you had to wait ages for a train, but tonight Omri was lucky, though the journey—only three stops—seemed to take forever. At the other end he began to run again, but he wasn’t scared this time. He found the house of their old neighbor and rang the bell. Patrick came and stood looking at him in a far-from-welcoming way.

“Well, you’d better come in now you’re here,” he said.

It was a small house, just like their old one, even to the bicycles crowding the narrow hall. Omri’s mother had said, only half as a joke, that the reason she’d wanted to move to the new house was so they needn’t ever have bikes in the hall any more. Patrick led the way upstairs without a word, into a small back bedroom with a pair of bunk-beds, everything pink and frothy.

“My aunt makes me sleep in this pouffy girls’ room,” he said. “Glad I’m going home tomorrow.” He sat down on the bottom bunk, leaving Omri standing. There was a brief silence. Patrick glanced up at Omri. His mouth was
pinched. His eyes said, “Don’t talk about it.” He was silently begging Omri not to. But Omri was ruthless.

“Why are you pretending it never happened?” he asked sharply.

“What?” said Patrick. He had a sullen, stupid look, like those skinheads.

“You know what.”

Patrick stared at the floor. He didn’t move.

“I brought them back,” said Omri.

Patrick stood up so suddenly he hit his head on the top bunk. His face had gone white. He swore under his breath. Then he said, “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling you. I put them in the cupboard and the same thing happened. It—” (he didn’t like to use the word “magic,” somehow) “it’s still working. Just the same. Only—” Patrick was looking at him now, frowning, incredulous, as if he’d woken from a dream to find the dream was still going on. “The terrible thing is, Little Bear’s been shot.”

After a pause, Patrick muttered something under his breath.

Omri leaned forward. “What?”

“It’s not true. None of it’s true. We just … made it up,” he half whispered.

Omri took his hand out of his pocket and held something out to Patrick. “Look. And stop kidding yourself.”

Almost as if he was fighting fear, Patrick slowly looked. He blinked several times. Then he put out his hand and
unwrapped the twist of paper. He stared for a long time at the tiny beaded moccasins.

“They’re real,” breathed Patrick.

He turned away to the window and stood looking out into the darkness. Omri let him adjust. When he turned around, he was the old Patrick again. Older, but basically unchanged.

“How did it happen?”

Omri had a mad impulse to hug him. Now at least he was not alone with it.

“Some French soldiers shot him. I suppose he was French. You know the Iroquois were fighting with the English, and the French were against them. We’ve got to find a way to get the bullets out, or the musket balls, or whatever they are.”

“Easy,” said Patrick. “Get Tommy back.”

Omri swallowed. “He’s dead.”

Patrick’s mouth fell open.
“Dead?”

“He must have been killed in the war. He said—last time, when we were sending him back—that he could hear a big shell coming over. I bet it was the one that got him.”

Patrick stared at him, aghast. “D’you mean if we hadn’t sent him back at that minute—”

“I don’t think that’s how it works. His—his real, big body—that must’ve still been there, in his time, lying asleep in the trench. The shell would have killed him anyway.”

Patrick pushed his hand through his hair.

“And you say Little Bear’s hurt?”

“Yes. Bright Stars is with him. She thinks the spirits brought her to me to help save his life. I’ve got to do something. And I don’t know
what.”
Omri checked the shrill edge of desperation in his voice.

Patrick sat still, thinking.

“What’s happened to all your old plastic people?” he asked at last. “That we used to play with.”

“I think they’re up in our loft.”

“Mum threw mine away.”

“Threw them away?” asked Omri, unbelievingly. “Without asking?”

“I hadn’t played with them for ages.”

“Why, anyway?”

“Look,” said Patrick. “We’ve lost Tommy, but the magic still works. If we could find a
modern
doctor-figure, he’d be even better.”

This disloyalty to their dead friend Struck both of them at once, and Patrick flushed.

“I didn’t mean … Tommy saved Boone’s life, I know that. But we’ve got to be realistic. There’ve been a lot of advances. New drugs, new techniques. Haven’t you got anyone in your collection who might—?”

Omri thought, and then shook his head.

“All mine were cowboys and knights and soldiers and stuff like that,” he said.

Patrick stood up.

“But there
are
modern ones. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen them very recently.” His face changed. He almost yelled:
“Wait!” and rushed from the room. A few minutes later, he was back.

“Look!”

In his hand was a large, flat cardboard box of brand-new plastic figures. They weren’t soldiers, or Indians. They were ordinary people from now. One look told Omri what sort.
Professional
people. There was a judge in a long wig, and several lawyers. There were businessmen with briefcases, one in a bowler hat. There were scientists in laboratory coats. There was a nurse. And—Omri let out a shout—there were doctors. Two of them, to be exact. One was an ordinary doctor with a stethoscope around his neck. And the other was a surgeon, in a green gown and mask.