“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. Each boy lifted out his own and helplessly examined it. The life-giving details were blurred – plastic can’t show fine beadwork, the perfection of hair and muscle, the folds of cloth, the sheen of a pony’s coat or the beauty of a girl’s skin. The figures were there, but the people, the personalities, were gone.
Patrick’s eyes met Omri’s. Both were wet.
“We could bring them back. Just as quick,” he said huskily.
“No.”
“No… I know. They’re home by now.”
Omri put his group, the Indian, the girl and the pony, on the shelf nearest his bed where he could see it easily. Patrick slipped the mounted cowboy into his pocket, cupping his hand round it almost as if to keep it warm.
Then Omri took the key and left the room.
His mother was in the kitchen getting everyone a hot drink before bed. She took one look at Omri’s face and her hands became still.
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Mum, I want you to keep this key. I lost it. Lucky I found it again, but you told me it was important… Better if you keep it. Please.”
She nearly refused, but then, looking at him, she changed her mind and took the key from him.
“I’ll get a chain and wear it,” she said, “like I always meant to.”
“You won’t lose it, will you?”
She shook her head, and suddenly reached for him and hugged his face against her. He was shaking. He broke away and ran back to his room, where Patrick was still standing with his hand in his pocket gazing at the cupboard.
“Come on, I’m going to put all sorts of medicines in it,” Omri said loudly. “Bottles of pills and stuff Mum’s finished with. We’ll pretend it’s a doctor’s drug-cupboard, and we can mix lots of them together…”
His voice petered out. Those were silly games, such as he had played – before. He didn’t feel the slightest interest in them now.
“I’d rather go for a walk,” said Patrick.
“But what shall I do with the cupboard?” asked Omri desperately.
“Leave it empty,” said Patrick. “In case.”
He didn’t say in case what. But he didn’t have to. Just to know you could. That was enough.
This novel was originally written in the late 1970s when my sons were still children. We had come back from Israel, where all the boys were born and where we lived in a kibbutz. Now we were living in London in quite a big house and we were having a struggle keeping it all together. I was pretty rattled a lot of the time because I had to keep writing books while trying to run a home. An American friend of mine told me, “You’re a pioneer – yours is the first generation of middle-class women