Lynne Banks - Return of the Indian

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 all he could do. He must think. He must think!

He watched Twin Stars struggling to lift Little Bull’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 Bull to the ground. With his other hand he pulled his box of tissues towards him and made a makeshift mattress out of several of them. At least they were soft and clean. Soon Little Bull was lying stretched on his stomach.

Omri had been through something like this before – when Little Bull 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.

Twin Stars, who was kneeling beside Little Bull, looked up. She said something. It was some Indian word. Omri shook his head. Twin 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 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 flooded a bit of the cotton-wool from the box with the disinfectant and handed it to Twin 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 Bull’s back. No more seemed to be coming from the holes. Omri, remembering that injured people have to be kept warm, and noticing that Twin 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 Twin Stars looked at each other.

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

Twin 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 Bull getting shot in the back.

“Horse fall,” she said. “Little Bull 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 Bull 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! Twin Stars hide. See Little Bull fall. See soldier…” She mimed shooting again. “Twin Stars run, catch pony, bring Little Bull 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 Bull brother.”

Brother! Yes. Little Bull had swopped 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 Bull stirred and groaned.

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

“What’s he saying?”

“Say, Omri, Omri’,” reported Twin 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 homework, 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.”