The Indian in the Cupboard Read Online Free

the box where he kept his Action Man things he had brought a plastic mug. It was much too big for the Indian but it was the best he could do. Into it, with extreme care, he now poured a minute amount of Coke from the huge bottle.
    He handed it to the Indian, who had to hold it with both hands and still almost dropped it.
    “What?” he barked, after smelling it.
    “Coca-Cola,” said Omri, enthusiastically pouring some for himself into a cup.
    “Firewater?”
    “No, it’s cold. But you’ll like it.”
    The Indian sipped, swallowed, gulped. Gulped again. Grinned.
    “Good?” asked Omri.
    “Good!” said the Indian.
    “Cheers!” said Omri, raising his cup as he’d seen his parents do when they were having a drink together.
    “What ‘cheers’?”
    “I don’t know!” said Omri, feeling excessively happy, and drank. His Indian—eating and drinking! He
was
real, a real, flesh-and-blood person! It was too marvelous. Omri felt he might die of delight.
    “Do you feel better now?” he asked.
    “I better. You not better,” said the Indian. “You still big. You stop eat. Get right size.”
    Omri laughed aloud, then stopped himself hastily.
    “It’s time to sleep,” he said.
    “Not now. Big light. Sleep when light go.”
    “I can make the light go,” said Omri, and switched out his bedside lamp.
    In the darkness came a thin cry of astonishment and fear. Omri switched the light on again.
    The Indian was now gazing at him with something more than respect—a sort of awe.
    “You Great White Spirit?” he asked in a whisper.
    “No,” said Omri. “And this isn’t the sun. It’s a lamp. Don’t you have lamps?”
    The Indian peered where he was pointing. “That lamp?” he asked unbelievingly. “Much big lamp. Need much oil.”
    “But this isn’t an oil lamp. It works by electricity.”
    “Magic?”
    “No, electricity. But speaking of magic—how did you get here?”
    The Indian looked at him steadily out of his black eyes.
    “You not know?”
    “No, I don’t. You were a toy. Then I put you in the cupboard and locked the door. When I opened it, you were real. Then I locked it again, and you went back to being plastic. Then—”
    He stopped sharply. Wait! What if—he thought furiously. It was possible! In which case …
    “Listen,” he said excitedly. “I want you to come out of there. I’ll find you a much more comfortable place. You said you were cold. I’ll make you a proper tepee—”
    “Tepee!” the Indian shouted. “I no live tepee. I live longhouse!”
    Omri was so eager to test his theory about the cupboard that he was impatient. “You’ll have to make do with a tepee tonight,” he said. Hastily he opened a drawer and took out a biscuit tin full of little plastic people. Somewhere in here was a plastic tepee … “Ah, here!” He pounced on it—a small, pinkish, cone-shaped object with designs rather badly painted on its plastic sides. “Will this do?”
    He put it on the shelf beside the Indian, who looked at it with the utmost scorn.
    “This—
tepee?” he said. He touched its plastic side andmade a face. He pushed it with both hands—it slid along the shelf. He bent and peered in through the triangular opening. Then he actually spat on the ground, or rather, on the shelf.
    “Oh,” said Omri, rather crestfallen. “You mean it’s not good enough.”
    “Not want toy,” said the Indian, and turned his back, folding both arms across his chest with an air of finality.
    Omri saw his chance. With one quick movement he had picked up the Indian by the waist between his thumb and forefinger. In doing this he pinned the knife, which was in the Indian’s belt, firmly to his side. The dangling Indian twisted, writhed, kicked, made a number of ferocious and hideous faces—but beyond that he was helpless and he evidently knew it, for after a few moments he decided it was more dignified to stop struggling. Instead, he folded his tiny arms across his chest once again, put his head