to a ‘stinkin’ redskin’ at all, but he actually seemed rather to fancy the idea.
“T’ain’t jest anyone gits ter be blood-brother to an Injun chief, y’know,” he said proudly, as he rolled up his sleeve and Twin Stars carefully swabbed his arm with soap and water. But when he saw Little Bull sharpening his knife on a pebble he turned pale.
“Hell! It’ll hurt!” he muttered, but Patrick told him not to be a coward.
“It’s only a nick, it’s nothing at all!”
“Easy fer you!” retorted Boone. “I ain’t sure this is sich a nice idee, after all…”
But he cheered up when he saw the campfire being kindled, and smelt the meat Twin Stars was cooking on a pointed stick; and when Omri gave him a good swig from the dropper he swaggered up to Little Bull and offered his arm with a drunken flourish.
“Chop away, brother!” he said loudly.
Little Bull went through a whole routine first, cleaning himself, offering up loud chanting prayers to the spirits and performing a marvellous stamping dance round the fire. Then he nicked his own wrist with the point of his knife. The blood welled up. Boone took one look and burst into tears.
“Ah don’t wanna! Ah changed m’mind!” he bawled. But it was too late for that. Little Bull seized his arm, and before Boone knew what was happening the deed was done.
Twin Stars bound their wrists together with a strip of hide torn from the hem of her red dress. Boone looked at it in a bemused way and said, “Gee whiz. We done it! I’m part-Injun! Wal… Ah guess Ah cain’t say nothin’ ’gainst ’em in the future.”
Then the two ‘brothers’ sat on the ground. Little Bull took out a short-stemmed pipe and some rather evil-smelling tobacco, and he and Boone took it in turns to puff at it. Twin Stars served them the cooked meat, and all the rest of the feast. Patrick and Omri offered their congratulations and tucked into their own food. They kept the campfire going with tiny bits of broken matchsticks and a bit of coal-dust Omri had collected from the outside bunker, which, when sprinkled on the flame, made it spit minute sparks. Looking at it, and the three little figures round it, the boys gradually lost their sense of size altogether.
“I feel as if I were the same as them,” murmured Patrick.
“Me too,” said Omri.
“I wish we were all the same size, then there’d be no problem.”
“Don’t be funny! No problems, with two full-grown Indians and a crying cowboy?”
“I meant, if we were small. If we could enter their world – sleep in the longhouse – ride the ponies—”
“I wouldn’t mind eating one of those hamburgers,” said Omri.
Twin Stars was now crouched by the fire, tending it, singing softly. One of the horses whinnied. Boone seemed to have dropped off to sleep, leaning on Little Bull’s shoulder. Little Bull alone was aware of the boys, watching them. He beckoned to Omri with his free hand.
When Omri bent to hear him, he said, “Now!”
“Now? You mean, to go back?”
“Good time. All happy. Not wait for morning.”
Omri looked at Patrick. He nodded slowly.
“When you go into the cupboard,” Omri said, “you must hold Twin Stars. Or she may not go back with you.”
“Woman go back with Little Bull. Little Bull hold, not let go. And horse! Little Bull only Iroquois with horse!”
“But Boone must go separately. Don’t drag him back to your time, your people would kill him even if you are his new brother.”
Little Bull looked at Boone, asleep at his side, and at their joined wrists. Then he took his knife and cut the thong that bound them together. Patrick gently lifted Boone up.
“Don’t forget his hat! He’d never forgive us if we let him leave that behind.”
To be safe, they sat Boone on his horse. Cowboys often ride in their sleep, and he didn’t stir as Little Bull led him down the ramp, across the table and up another ramp that Omri stood against the rim of the cupboard. Then Little Bull went back to the seed-tray. Carefully he and Twin Stars put out the fire with earth. Little Bull took a last look at his longhouse. Then he put Twin Stars on to his pony’s back, and led them after Boone.
They stood all together in the bottom of the cupboard. Nobody spoke. Omri had his hand on the door when Patrick suddenly said, “I’m going to wake Boone up. I don’t care, I’ve got to say goodbye to him!”
Hearing his name, Boone woke up by himself, so suddenly he nearly fell off his horse and had to clutch the high pommel of his saddle.
“Watcha want, kid?” he asked Patrick, whose face was close to him.
“You’re going home, Boone. I wanted to say goodbye.”
Boone stared at him and then his face slowly crumpled.
“Ah cain’t stand sayin’ goodbye,” he choked out as tears began to stream. He pulled a huge grubby handkerchief from his pocket. “Ah jest re-fuse t’say it, that’s all! Ah’ll only bust out cryin’ if Ah do.” And he blew a trumpet-blast on his nose.
Omri and Little Bull were staring at each other. Something else was needed – some special farewell. It was Little Bull who thought of it.
“Omri give hand!”
Omri put his hand forward. The pony braced his legs but Little Bull held him steady. He took hold of Omri’s little finger, drew his knife and pricked it in the soft part. A drop of blood appeared. Then Little Bull solemnly pressed his own right wrist against the place and held it there.
“Brother,” he said, looking up at Omri with his fierce black eyes for the last time.
Omri withdrew his hand. Little Bull jumped on to the back of his pony behind Twin Stars, holding her round the waist so that he, she and the pony made one unit which could not be separated during whatever kind of unearthly journey they had to make together through the unknown regions of time, space – proportion.
Little Bull raised his arm in the Indian salute.
Omri put his hand on the door. He could hardly bear to do it. He had to set his teeth. Boone and his horse stood patiently, but the Indian’s pony started to prance and sidle. It put up its head and gave a long challenging neigh.
“Now!” cried Little Bull.
Omri drew in his breath, closed the door and turned the key.
He and Patrick stood frozen with the sadness, the strangeness of it. The magic was working at this moment… Both of them silently counted ten. Then, very slowly, Omri, whose hand had not left the key, turned it back again and swung open the door.
There they were, the two plastic groups – forms, outlines, shells of the real, real creatures they had been.
