The Indian in the Cupboard Trilogy - Lynne Banks Reid

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then, when that didn’t seem firm enough, a bit of old felt from a hat that had been in the dressing-up crate. It was fawn coloured, fortunately, and looked rather like animal hide. In fact, when it was pinned together at the back with a couple of safety-pins and a slit cut for an entrance, the whole thing looked pretty good, especially with the poles sticking up through a hole in the top.

      Omri stood it up carefully on the chest-of-drawers and anxiously awaited Little Bull’s verdict. The Indian walked round it four times slowly, went down on hands and knees and crawled in through the flap, came out again after a minute, tugged at the felt, stood back to look at the poles, and finally gave a fairly satisfied grunt. However, he wasn’t going to pass it without any criticism at all.

      “No pictures,” he growled. “If tepee, then need pictures.”

      “I don’t know how to do them,” said Omri.

      “I know. You give colours. I make.”

      “Tomorrow,” said Omri, who, despite himself, was beginning to feel very sleepy.

      “Blanket?”

      Omri fished out one of the Action Man’s sleeping-rolls.

      “No good. No keep out wind.”

      Omri started to object that there was no wind in his bedroom, but then he decided it was easier to cut up a square out of one of his old sweaters, so he did that. It was a red one with a stripe round the bottom and even Little Bull couldn’t hide his approval as he held it up, then wrapped it round himself.

      “Good. Warm. I sleep now.”

      He dropped on his knees and crawled into the tent. After a moment he stuck his head out.

      “Tomorrow talk. You give Little Bull meat – fire – paint – much things.” He scowled fiercely up at Omri. “Good?”

      “Good,” said Omri, and indeed nothing in his life had ever seemed so full of promise.

       3

       Thirty Scalps

      Within a few minutes, loud snores – well, not loud, but loud for the Indian – began to come out of the tepee, but Omri, sleepy as he was himself, was not quite ready for bed. He had an experiment to do.

      As 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 posterpaints 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

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