LITMIR.BIZ

       5 From Dangerous Times

      With hands that shook, Omri probed into the depths of the chest till he found the box-within-a-box-within-a-box. He eased it out and closed the lid of the chest and put the boxes on top. Reverently he untied the string on the largest box, opened it, took out the next, and repeated the operation.

      In the last box, carefully wrapped in cotton-wool, was the plastic group consisting of a brown pony, an Indian brave, and an Indian girl in a red dress. The brave’s left hand was upraised in farewell, his other arm circled the girl’s waist and held the rope-rein. The girl, her long brown legs hanging on each side of the pony’s withers, had her hands buried in its mane. The pony’s head was alertly raised, its ears almost meeting above its forelock, its feet braced. Omri felt himself quivering all over as he stood the tiny figures on his hand and stared at them.

      “You’re coming back,” he whispered – as if plastic could hear. But they wouldn’t be plastic long!

      The cupboard was ready. Omri stood the figures, not on its shelf but on its metal floor. Then he took a deep, deep breath as if he were going to dive into a cold, uncertain sea. He fitted the key into the lock, closed the door, and turned it.

       Let it still work. Let it…

      He barely had time to think his thought before he heard the tiny, familiar sound – minute, unshod hooves drumming and pawing on the metal!

      Omri let his breath out in a rush. His heart was thumping and his right hand shook.

      His fingers were still round the key. In a second he had turned it back and opened the mirrored door. And there they were…

      No. No!

      Omri’s fists clenched. There was something terribly wrong. The three figures were there, all right. The details of life, which the dull-surfaced plastic blurred, were there again. The shine on the pony’s coat, the brilliance of the red dress, the warm sheen of brown, living skin. But…

      The pony was right enough. He was prancing and stamping his hooves, fretting his head against the rope. As Omri opened the door and the light fell on him, he pricked his ears again and whickered nervously. On his back sat Twin Stars. But she was no longer in front. She sat back, almost on the pony’s haunches. And before her, but lying face-down across the pony’s back, was a limp, motionless form.

      It was Little Bull. Omri knew it, although he couldn’t see his face. His head and arms hung down on one side of the horse and his legs on the other. His buckskin leggings were caked with earth and blood. Omri, against his will, forced himself to peer closer, and saw to his utter horror where the blood had come from. There were two bullet-holes, almost too small to see, high up on his back.

      Omri’s mouth was wide open with shock. He looked at Twin Stars. She was holding the pony’s rein-rope now. Her other hand rested on Little Bull’s broad shoulders as if to steady him and stop him sliding off the pony’s back. Her face was frenzied. She had no tears in her eyes but they were so round Omri could see the sparks of light in the whites. Her tiny teeth were clenched in a desperate grimace.

      When she saw Omri, she started like a fawn with fear, but then the fear faded from her face. Her hand left Little Bull’s back for a moment and reached out toward Omri. It was a gesture of frantic appeal. It said Help us! clearer than words. But Omri couldn’t move or speak. He had no notion how to help. He only knew that if he didn’t, if someone didn’t, Little Bull would die. Perhaps – perhaps he was dead already! What could he do?

      Tommy.

      Tommy’s medical knowledge was not exactly up to date. How could it be, when he had only been a medical orderly in the First World War? But he was the best idea Omri could come up with, shocked and numbed as he was.

      He beckoned Twin Stars forward with one hand, and while she was guiding the pony over the bottom edge of the cupboard, Omri reached back into the smallest box. The plastic figure of the uniformed soldier was at the bottom, complete with his bag with the red cross on it.

      As soon as the cupboard was empty, the horse and riders clear of the door, Omri slipped Tommy in and closed it again, turning the key forward and back in a second. That was all the magic took.

      “It’ll be all right,” he said to Twin Stars, as she sat on the pony on top of the chest near his face. “Tommy will fix him.” Then he opened the door again eagerly, and reached his hand in.

      The bag was there. And the uniform, neatly folded, with the orderly’s cap upside down on the top of the pile. And the boots. And the puttees, the khaki bandages they wore round their legs in that war, neatly rolled, inside the cap. Nothing else.

      Omri let out a cry. He slammed the cupboard door to shut out the sight of that neat little pile of clothes, empty of their owner who no longer needed them. He knew, instantly. He knew that Tommy didn’t live to be an old man. That one of those big German shells he had talked about, those ‘Minnies’, or perhaps some other weapon, had got him. His snubby, cheerful face, his bravery and his gentle hands were gone, with so many thousands of others, into the mud of the trenches.

      Omri had never experienced death at close hand. No one he knew well had ever died. An uncle had jumped the twig’, as his father called it, last year, but in Australia. A boy at school had been killed in a car crash, but he wasn’t in Omri’s class.

      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, heedless of anything which delayed attention to his master. Twin Stars’ bright, staring 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 Twin 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 Bull, 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 Twin 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

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