The Key to the Indian by Lynne Reid Banks

it back, opened the door cautiously, and Omri shone the finger of light directly on to Little Bull. He was standing, arms slightly away from his sides, legs bent, as if he’d just landed from a jump.
    He straightened up, and shielded his eyes against the bright light. “Om-Ri?” came his gruff voice. He said Omri’s name as if it were two words.
    “Yes. Are you okay, Little Bull?”
    “I am O-Kay. You are O-Kay? Why is sun so strong my eyes see it only?”
    “It’s night. We have this special kind of light.”
    “Take from eyes. It makes me like night-mouse.”
    Omri swiftly redirected the pencil downward.
    “Better! You and father come now to my longhouse?”
    “We can’t come yet, Little Bull. We have to make arrangements. We can’t leave just like that.”
    Little Bull became thunderous. “You have small understanding! Trouble swallows the days. All press chiefs for wise words, to conquer fear. What can Little Bull tell them? Our land drinks our blood season by season in English wars, now King George says he has no more need of the Six Nations. English change their faces, break their word, let rebels take our land. Now we fight tribe against tribe instead of together as white enemies grow greater.”
    “The French?”
    “No! When Little Bull was young warrior, he fought the French. Now French lay down guns, go back to France. But now white enemy does not fight and then go back across the sea. Now they stay, move against Indians like wolf-packs, more and more. Much trouble. We must travel together. Now. We must sit in council.”
    “Little Bull,” said Omri’s father, “how will it be, in your place? What will people think when they see us?”
    “They will not see. Do your people here see me, see wife, see Boone? Not see because we are small here. Easy to hide. When you come to me, you small, too.” He looked up at them triumphantly. “O-Kay? Little Bull understands magic right?”
    “Yes,” said Omri. “But Little Bull, listen. When you come here, you – you bring a sort of toy to life. Last time I went, I was part of a picture on a tepee. I couldn’t move or speak oranything. You’ll have to have something ready for us to – to bring to life. We won’t be much use to you if we can’t talk or move.”
    Little Bull looked thoughtful. “Toy,” he said slowly. “What is ‘toy’?”
    “Something kids play with.”
    “‘Kids’?”
    “Children.”
    “Ah! We have toys. Small Indians and animals made from corn, animal skins, parts of tree. Wife makes good, makes for son and others. I will ask her, make toy like you. You come, bring alive.”
    “We need something of yours, to help us come to you,” Omri said. “Can you give us something? Anything.”
    Little Bull, after a hesitation, slowly took off his belt. “Wampum,” he said. “Worth much. You take care, give back.” He laid it across Omri’s outstretched hand. Omri shone the pencil torch on it. It was white with tiny purple marks. Omri knew about wampum – what he was looking at was shells strung together. But wampum was more valuable to the Indians than mere money.
    “I’ll take great care of it, Little Bull, don’t worry!”
    “Now send me back. Twin Stars will make toys. You come soon. Little Bull will wait. Wait hard .” He put out his hand and Omri touched it with his finger. “Brother. My heart has trust, you will come to our help,” he said gruffly.
    When he’d gone, Omri and his father examined the belt under a magnifying glass. Omri explained about wampum,how it was the Indians’ money, and how the patterns also recorded their history and events like treaties, in a symbolic language. “And look! See those few purple shells among the white, made into a pattern? Those are the most valuable ones! I bet only Little Bull has a belt with those in, because he’s a chief.”
    “I’ll take care of that,” said his father. He found a scrap of paper and wrapped the belt in it carefully, putting it away in his