The Key to the Indian. Lynne Banks Reid

      “That’s exactly what I thought, at first. It’s not fun. Not always. It’s – I mean, it’s real people.”

      “Yes. Of course I realised that when I saw them. I just… I suppose I just—”

      “It’s natural, Dad. You have to kind of get into it. But things really happen. You do have to – to think ahead. You can’t just – do things.”

      “On impulse.”

      “Right.”

      “Yes. I see that. Anything could happen. Obviously you mustn’t change anything back there.”

      “No,” said Omri with great feeling. He didn’t want to even think about the time he had feared he’d changed something so drastically that he, himself, might never have been born.

      They walked on slowly. Then his father said, “But your wooden chest was destroyed in that freak storm. So what could we use?”

      Omri thought of telling his dad that the storm, too, had happened because of the key. But he had a strange feeling of wanting to protect him from too much knowledge. He might scare him and then he would back off. Not that his dad was a coward, but you wouldn’t have to be one to be scared of magic that could bring a hurricane all the way from the Texas of a hundred years ago, to rampage over England destroying everything in its path…

      So he just said, “Well, it has to be big enough to hold us both. And it has to have a keyhole for the key.”

      “But if we were both in it together, who’d turn the key?”

      “Yes. That’s the problem we had before. Patrick and I could never go back at the same time.”

      They had tramped on for a while in silence, and at last his dad said, “This is very difficult to get your mind around.”

      Omri knew it. But Little Bull’s urgent looks and words pressed on his brain.

      His dad was frowning. “We need to do some research. Read up on the history. Find out what was happening back then.”

      “What is happening.”

      “What is happening…” He was furrowing his brows. He looked remarkably like Omri, when he did that. “It seems as if it’s all happening at once. History… time… in layers, kind of. When we ‘go back’, if we find a way to, we’ll just – drop through a number of layers and be back in Little Bull’s time.”

      Omri thought that was a good way of putting it.

      “But how can we be sure of getting to the right layer?” asked his father.

      “That’s easy. We have to either go back with Little Bull, or with something of his, something that belongs to the right time and place. The magic latches on to that.”

      “Like a kind of ticket to the right destination.”

      They had walked on, frowning, thinking.

      Little Bull was no longer with them. He, Twin Stars and their baby son, Tall Bear, as well as Matron and Fickits, had all been sent back through the cupboard as soon as they’d had a talk, right after meeting Omri’s father. They’d all been anxious to return to their own time, especially Matron – a superior sort of nurse, who had been in the middle of her rounds at St Thomas’s Hospital in the London of 1941. The bombing of the city in World War Two had begun, and she was frantically busy. Sergeant Fickits had just been preparing for a drilling session with his trainees in his time, which was back in the nineteen-fifties.

      As for the Indians, after a short, tense speech by Little Bull (during which Twin Stars allowed Omri to hold the baby, Tall Bear, in the palm of his hand, a sensation so entrancing that Omri had frankly not listened very carefully) they had asked to be sent back, too, but with the proviso that Omri and his father should make every effort to follow them soon.

      “I need counsel,” Little Bull had said forcefully. “English change toward Iroquois friends. Many years Iroquois fight at side of English against French. Many warriors die. Now they turn from us. Our people do not understand, need chiefs to tell what best to do.” He shook his head, scowling. “Our need is for English man. Wise man, explain what is in English heads,” he said, staring at Omri’s father challengingly.

      Next day on the cliff top, Omri’s father said, “I know something about what the Europeans did to the Indians. It’s not a pretty story… I don’t know what we can do to help, but if our damned ancestors are up to some tricks, which they probably are – were – are, the least we can do is find a way to get in there and give the Indians a hand.”

      And now here they all were at the supper table, and Omri’s dad was gassing on about going camping. What was he up to?

      Everyone was talking. Their mother was on her feet again collecting plates with a great clatter, saying that if there really was a camping holiday in prospect, they’d better do some serious planning, not go at it half-cocked like last time. Gillon was already leafing through the Yellow Pages looking for suppliers of camping equipment, and Adiel was asking if they could go as far as Dartmoor, where they could really feel they were away from civilisation. Their dad was giving every impression of being absolutely serious about the whole project. Only Omri hadn’t joined in.

      “When could we do it?” said Adiel, who seemed quite fired up now.

      “Oh, I thought in the half-term holiday,” said their father.

      “Great! Let’s go for it!”

      “There’s a firm here says they do luxury tents,” said Gillon. “No point spending money on some ratty old tent that’ll drop to pieces or let the rain in.”

      “No point spending money on some palatial tent that you’ll only use once, if that,” said their mother. “I’ll believe all you laid-back city types are going camping when I actually see it.”

      “Well, you won’t see it, Mum,” said Adiel reasonably. “You’re not coming, are you.”

      Their mother stopped in the doorway with a pile of dirty plates and there was a moment’s silence. Then she turned and regarded them all with narrowed eyes.

      “Well now. Maybe you’d better not count on that. I happen to be the only one in this entire family who has actually had some camping experience. Oh yes!” she added as they all gawked at her, “I was quite the little happy camper when I was in the Girl Guides.”

      “Mum! You weren’t a Girl Guide! You couldn’t have been!” they all – even Omri – yelled.

      She drew herself up. “And why not? As a matter of fact I was a platoon leader. I had more badges than anyone else.”

      “How many?”

      “Eleven and a half. So there.” She turned, walked out, head in air.

      “What was the half-badge for?” their dad called after her.

      “Making a fire without matches,” she called back. “Only it went out.”

      They were all silent for a moment. Then Gillon went back to the Yellow Pages. “Five-man tents, five-man tents,” he muttered.

      “I wish I were a cartoonist,” said their father. “I would love to draw your mother smothered with badges, lighting a fire without matches.” He winked at Omri. It was one of his slow winks, a wink that said, You and I know what this is all about. But Omri didn’t. All he knew was that he couldn’t wait to get his dad alone and find out.