Fanfiction
Title: Fold
Author: Nakia F. R. Winere
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Slight Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn
Warning: Angst, subtextual slash
Summary: In the end, all that matters is what you've done.
Word Count: 4000
Tom’s blood surged with adrenaline, his guts churning in grim satisfaction as he spun around to face Quatermain. The old man was propped heavily against a pile of rubble, and was grinning to see the triumph in Tom’s expression.
But there was something wrong with Quatermain’s face, and Tom swallowed heavily as all of a sudden his joy sank hard through his feet. His breath hitched as he searched his friend for some kind of wound, some mark of blood or bullet. There was nothing, only the paleness of death creeping over that lined face, a ghost of the death that had followed Tom through all the seas of the world to this remote, snowy wasteland.
A hard knowledge gripped his heart, which stuttered in its beat. His hands and feet went numb, and his muscles refused to obey him as he willed himself to go to Quatermain’s side, to ease his friend’s passage into eternity. He could not.
“May this new century be yours, son,” Quatermain said, with none of the fear that had saturated Huck’s death in his voice, “as the old one was mine.”
The old man needed to no hand to hold, no sweet way into the blackness of his own finale. His end had come upon him in due time.
Tom set the Winchester down heavily, leaning on it as the spark faded from Allan Quatermain’s eyes.
No tears came, and his victory was bitter in his mouth.
The wind whistled all across the empty land, whipping up through the cracks in the stone to tear through Tom’s clothes and into his skin, and settle with the dust in his hair.
~~~~~
“No!”
The word was torn from Tom Sawyer’s throat, hoarse and desperate, and shattered the stillness of the night more effectively than the hail of gunfire that had preceded it. The momentum of the cry pulled at the rest of Tom’s being-his muscles tensed as he threw himself from his perch on the fire escape stairs, landing heavily on the ground and tearing after the guard of armored men who were disappearing quickly into the shadows.
His heart pounded, sending his blood pulsing through his veins and fueling the rage that consumed him, driving him past the pain of his gasping breath’s scorching his lungs, past the stiffness of his fingers around his rifle, and into the depths of unknown territory. Heedless of himself-focused only on those retreating, cowardly figures-he tore through the night as lightning through the sky. He skidded around a corner, and all in one fluid movement brought his rifle to set against his shoulder, aimed, and fired.
Three quick shots, then three more as he stepped forward once and then again-his eyes were filled with hot tears that blurred his vision and blinded him, and his hands were shaking as much as the rest of his body. He missed, and missed and missed, and finally a sob tore from him as the last of his enemies vanished, and he threw the gun down onto the cobblestones, turning tail and fleeing back the way he had come.
In a circle of orange lantern light, in the middle of the square that had been their battleground, laid Huck Finn.
He still lived, though the thread of life which lingered in his labored breathing was unraveling fast. Blood too bright against his pale skin welled at the corner of Huck’s mouth, and the dark russet curls of his hair were stuck to his forehead and neck with cold sweat. Tom knew there was not much time left: his every sensibility screamed for him to run, to fetch an ambulance, but his heart was heavy with the knowledge that there was no saving Huck Finn.
He stumbled closer, numb with pain and desperation, and fell to his knees some feet from his friend. He could see the fear and loneliness in Huck’s eyes-gone from cornflower blue to navy in these late hours, and his own throat closed in sympathy. That hurt struck chords in him, vibrating his senses until all he could hear was his own desperate pants for air.
More than anything he had wanted in his life, he wanted to go to his friend, to curl around him and protect him from the coming cold as he had not protected him from that bullet. More than seeing Arabia and England, elephants and tigers, he wanted to feel the warmth in Huck’s skin before it faded, feel their fingers twine together-but all his strength was gone, and he was collapsed to his knees on the cobblestones, gaze stretched out to his friend in a plea for forgiveness.
The anguish of the parting burned in him, and the stretch of forever was unbearable when it entered Tom’s mind, which failed under the pressure of the loss. He could think of nothing more than keeping that pain from consuming him.
Tears clouded his vision, blurring the last sight of Huck he’d ever have, and he cursed the stars and fate and let out a resounding cry of utter agony, a moan and a cry that started deep inside him and gave voice to all the pains he had suffered in his life multiplied infinitely.
“Huck,” he whispered in the devastating aftermath. “Huck, please, no.”
Those words stirred something in his friend, and the reproachful remorse in Huck’s gaze weakened; his fingers curled against the wet stones, a small gesture to Tom that was lost on the other man.
Tom could not speak, for no words he could find were good enough to be the last. Sobs caught heavy in his throat, and he shook his head. Huck bit his lip, eyelids fluttering as if he were dizzy, before at last-in a circle of filthy lantern light-he slipped from life and faded away.
Tom could do nothing but lie on the cold, wet ground, fighting hard to remember what living felt like. The keen that exploded from him robbed him of his breath and his heartbeat, and for a single moment of elation blackness crept in around his vision and he thought that he had fallen through as well.
Light broke that illusion, and when morning came he had lost all semblance of life but his breath, lying broken and empty and exactly where he had fallen.
~~~~~
The puffs of breath that escaped him were little more than clouds of dew in the air before his face, and Tom Sawyer grin ruefully. It was near two in the morning, and all movement had ceased on the streets below. Good thing it was, too-snowflakes were beginning to crystallize and fall, and it was too cold to be anything but the first bite of winter.
He shifted his rifle in his grip, wincing at the chill of the muzzle and leaning back against the brick of the chimney that protruded from the rooftop he and Huck were hiding out on. From here he could see the entire harbor district, and though he was not as well hidden as he had been crouching above the eaves, at least he was warm.
“Shit,” came a whisper near his ear, and a further warmth suffused him as his partner elbowed him out of the way and settled down next to him, their arms pressed tight together. “’S fucking freezin’,” Huck muttered amicably, setting his Winchester across his knees and chafing his hands together.
Tom snorted softly and nodded. “We been out here for hours, and nothing’s happened. I don’t think he’s coming.”
“Don’t get off your guard now, Sawyer,” Huck said gruffly, jostling his friend. Tom grinned and shoved him back, sending him tumbling over.
A brief wrestling match ensued, and Tom pinned his friend to the cement of the roof, panting slightly.
“I’ll always beat ya,” he said cockily, tossing his hair out of his eyes. Huck dug his fingers into the other man’s gut, and a burst of laughter escaped from Tom-too loud for the hour.
“I’m sure you will,” Huck joked. “I’ll go down in some blaze ‘a glory, killed dead in a grand shoot-out, and here you’ll be dyin’ and old man in your bed.”
A chill seized Tom at the words, and he shuddered. “Don’t talk ‘bout dying, Huck. ‘S bad luck, innit?”
~~~~~
“You blame fool, Tom Sawyer!” Huck shouted, face crimson with rage. His fists were clenched at his sides and he glared at his friend across a vast expanse of inn chamber. Tom’s nose wrinkled in confusion and affront, and he shoved locks of his own messy blond hair from his eyes.
“Don’t you go hollerin’ at me about things! You done plenty of foolish stuff in your time, Finn, and no mistake!”
“Not things that coulda got me killed, I ain’t! I ain’t that stupid!”
Anger stiffened Tom’s muscles, and he glared at his friend, mouth working in an attempt to get something out in response to Huck’s hollering. Finally he gave up, for all that came to mind was a stream of apologies, a sense in him that responded to the hurt showing through in Huck’s eyes. He shook his head helplessly, and Huck groaned and sunk into a chair, propping his elbows knees and burrowing his face in his hands.
For a long moment the only sound was the fire popping in the hearth, and Tom stood awkwardly near the door, shuffling from foot to foot. Uncertainty gripped him, and sighed, starting forward with slow steps.
Huck did not look up when Tom knelt own in front of him, and Tom went sick with worry. He hadn’t thought his friend was truly angry-
“You can’t go doin’ that to me,” Huck whispered, voice raw and hoarse. He sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, looking up through a curtain of auburn hair at his friend. He chewed his lower lip and sat back in the chair.
“I’m sorry,” Tom replied, abashed. He tentatively set his hand on Huck’s, hoping to soothe some of the strain between them. “I didn’t mean….”
“I know you didn’t,” interrupted Huck, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Tom’s, holding Tom’s face between his hands. His breath was warm, his eyes shut with tears lingering in-but not falling from-his lashes. “I know, damn it. You still scared me. I still wouldna known what ta do if you’d ‘a got shot. We’re in this for danger, Tom, but we ain’t gotta be heroes all of the time.”
“I don’t try to get myself killed,” Tom started. “I really don’t.” He became aware that he sounded childishly earnest, though Huck didn’t seem to mind it at all.
“I know that, too,” Huck muttered, dropping out of the chair to kneel in front of Tom. Their knees touched, and their fingers were tangled together resting there. “You’re brave, Sawyer, and there ain’t nothin’ I can do to stop you from being so brave. You got no thought for yourself when you get into these things, so I gotta ask you to think ‘a me before you go jumping in somewheres you can’t tell whether you’re in more danger than’s worth the risk.”
“I’ll try,” Tom said truthfully. He would. He’d have done anything to wipe that look of fear off Huck’s face.
~~~~~
A bang exploded through the still air of Washington Mutual Bank as the heavy double doors flew inward, and the frightened patrons screamed and fell to the floor, cowering in their pastel silks and bright jewels. Sunlight flooded in, shooting like lightning over the gold inlay in the floor and arcing over the curves of finely carved marble that made up most of the counter.
Tom Sawyer’s voice wrung out strong and clear as he aimed his pistols at the four men standing idly near the counter.
“Drop your weapons! United States Secret Service!”
Huck Finn strode in, then, silent and scowling as he jerked his own guns from the holsters under his arms and covering his partner as they strode toward the would-be robbers.
The answer to that was a hail of gunfire, though most of it was misdirected and only took chunks out of the stone walls. A rain of dust filtered down, making it difficult to see, and a series of shouts told Tom that the men were escaping around his left.
Without thinking, he tore off in that direction, squinting ahead and aiming at the lurking shadows that moved steadily to the doors.
“Tom! Tom!”
He ignored the cries of his comrade.
A growl seized up in his throat, and with a yell he fired off both pistols, bullets singing and striking, sending another firework of stone down oven their heads. He was rewarded with a shout of pain, and bullets whizzed past his head, one skimming his arm with a needle of pain.
In another burst of momentum, he surged forward, tripping to a halt and firing rapidly at the fleeing figures. One fell, then another, and the third turned to face off with him.
The enemy was too far away-Tom hesitated to run into his range, but a bullet clipped his hair and he stumbled forward, hitting the ground even as the robber’s body jerked and toppled to the ground.
Tom turned, panting and covered in sweat and dust, to see Huck standing just behind him, pistol clenched in his left hand, a frown twisting his features.
“Thanks,” Tom blurted, but Huck shoved the gun into the holster and whirled on his heel to walk away.
~~~~~
Through the canopy of fluttering leaves overhead, the sun streamed down to light the dreary autumn days in gold and white, sending sparks of light off the surface of the water and swelling the carpet of dead leaves underfoot with warmth.
By the banks of the Mississippi, Tom and Huck drowsed, content in the knowledge that while they were here enjoying the last dying days of summer, the others were trapped in the schoolroom with the master, so fond of his hickory stick.
Tom shifted and rolled over, propping himself on his arms and gazing at his friend. Huck’s head rested on his arms, eyes closed, a half smile quirking his mouth. He was asleep, chest rising and falling slowly with the deep breaths of slumber. Whenever they escaped school, Tom was glad-Huck’s tongue earned him more lashings than was necessarily warranted, and Tom hated to see the look on his friend’s face whenever the master brought out the hickory. He remembered with the clarity of hindsight the welts that had often marred Huck’s back and shoulders when he’d been living with his pap, knew just what it cost Huck not to shudder or cry out.
Grinning at the sentimentality of his thoughts, he reached out to brush the hair off his friend’s brow. At that soft touch Huck stirred, blinking at Tom with bleary eyes, grinning and shoving his friend off.
“Time’s it?” he asked, swiping his eyes.
“Dunno. Most suppertime, I’d bet,” Tom replied, face flushed and heart skittering anxiously.
Huck licked his lips. “We could stay out,” he offered.
“Yeah,” agreed Tom, settling back and enjoying the crackling of the leaves beneath his body as he settled back down. He closed his eyes as the air grew chill and darkness melted down upon the world, staining everything blue and purple and black, and shrouding the proper world in mystery.
Here the world was wide-open, though, and the boys found themselves entrenched in a childhood they had long left behind, scrambling through the trees and digging their fingers into the soft earth in places where they remembered having buried marbles and buttons and other boy treasures.
Their laughter was clear and carried far, full of memory and a moment of happiness in their gradually dimming world.
Together they plunged into the currents of the Mississippi, naked and sleek under the moon, clinging together and forcing each other under, flipping water in shimmering arcs and slicing down into the murky depths of the river.
They allowed themselves to be carried through the water to Jackson’s Island, where they beached themselves on the north shore, ripe with the remembrance of Indian summers. It seemed that here, on this secluded island, there was a shroud on the boredom of impending adulthood, and the ghosts of the past wandered free, infecting them both with cheer and sending them tumbling through the drifts of wet sand.
“I’ll scalp you,” Tom muttered into Huck’s shoulder, tugging his hair playfully and nipping his skin.
Huck’s chuckle caught in his throat, and he flipped Tom over and pinned him to the earth, muttering, “Naw, the day’s mine.”
“It’s always been yours,” Tom said teasingly, his spirit gentled by the play, a relaxation stealing over him. Their limbs tangled and their fingers wove together.
~~~~~
Tom Sawyer’s mind was wandering. He had his chin propped in his hand, and his eyes where anywhere but on the schoolmaster-just as his mind was anywhere but on his lesson. His foot twitched under the desk which had recently shrunk in accordance with his growth spurt. Now towering compared to the other boys of his grade, he rested at what Aunt Polly had estimated was five-foot-ten. This-along with his tousled blond hair and deep-set hazel eyes-rendered him quite handsome, and had the girls chasing after him when he’d rather be off having mischief with Huck or Joe. Even now, Mary Higgins had seen his distraction and was attempting from across the school room to catch his eye. She was pretty enough, Tom supposed, but a bit slow-witted.
In lieu of thinking of girls-who were boring and ruined any attempts he had at fun anyway-he got to thinking of things he’d do once school was let out for the day. The boys had long since outgrown playing at pirates and robbers-once their voices had started to crack and deepen, those things had gone under the bed along with marbles and old coat buttons and other little-boy collections. Instead now they fished and hunted, and went on long hikes up through the hills west of town, trying to find new ways into McDougal’s Cave.
Soon, though, he was tired of thinking of adventures. They could rarely be classified as “adventures” anyway, which annoyed Tom to no end. He wanted something exciting to happen, something strange. Nothing ever did in St. Petersburg. Only Huck Finn ever had anything interesting happen to him, like that time he went down south with Jim.
Huck was sitting three rows in front of him, because they weren’t allowed to sit with each other anymore, and looking quite as dejected as Tom felt. He was hunched over his book, but it was obvious he wasn’t reading. Tom leaned forward a bit in his seat, meaning to somehow signal his friend, but he frowned. Huck’s face was drawn and pale-his shoulders were stiff, his fingers still. Tom resolved to ask if he were all well when they were let out for dinner.
~~~~~
Graveyards were dismal places, Tom sawyer decided, as he wandered slowly through the pale gray tombstones. He could see the blue shadows of names etched in the stone, and was thankful that though his fingertips traced those fine carvings, they could not read the names and faces engraved along with the words. The deeper he found himself in amid the graves, the more twisting trees he recognized, the tighter his throat became. His mind fogged with a grief that had yet to pass, and would remain seated in his mind as long as he lived.
Along with the grief came a bundle of emotions that hadn’t entered his mind on his wild flight for vengeance-guilt, despair, confusion, and love. He shook his head, but did not wipe away the tears that were his first since the most fateful night of his life.
Now, as Tom knelt on the pile of earth sprouting grass and small dandelions in the first days of spring, he knew that the mindless agony which had gripped him upon Huck’s death was better than this reminiscing, for in it he had been numb and unable to hear the What if’s that assailed him these new days.
A heavy sigh escaped him, and he ducked his head in sudden shame. “I’m not living, Huck,” he murmured, then laughed weakly. “Ah, listen to me, talkin’ to nothing but a corpse and a cold grave. I must sound a right fool, huh? No one here to listen, though, so might ‘s well.”
He swallowed, fingers twisting in his lap, face twisted with weeping. For a moment he said nothing more, then only, “I’m sorry.” He pressed his hands against the unyielding earth, letting the dirt run through his fingers as he reached to trace Huckleberry Finn 1880-1899.
The things that followed were important-meaningless epithets chosen by those who had known Huck by reputation or rumor, who knew little more than how to spell his name. Tom knew that all that had been his friend had been imbued in his name, in the twang with which he’d spoken Finn, the wrinkle of his nose whenever anyone called him Huckleberry, the way he’d laughed when Tom had called him “Hucky.”
“There ain’t nothing else to say,” Tom whispered hoarsely. “There just ain’t. I could say I loved ya, and I miss ya, and I wished it’d never ‘a happened, but it did and there ain’t no use crying over spilled milk, as they say.”
He sniffed and coughed and struggled to keep a fresh pain-the shadow of the anguish that had almost lost him his mind-welled in him. He’d come half expecting some ghost of Huck to rise up and greet him, some memory, something to appease the need inside him.
Instead there was only this empty graveyard and the wind whistling through the treetops, the drops of dew still clinging wetly to the pale grass that covered everything.
“I’ll carry you with me into the new century,” he promised dully, drawing one empty cartridge from his pocket and fingering it. “You and Allan both, since I lived and both you died, and we got to work with what we got, don’t we?”
He pressed the cartridge into the earth, covering it with pebbles and rocks and dirt until it was no longer visible.
Then, though his heart urged him to linger, he heaved himself to his feet. He stood staring down at the grave, unable to either stay or to move on, and finally he threw his head back and gazed at the sun, where it was emerging from the distant horizon, casting it’s light all across the graves and the lake only a mile from them, and beyond the wild plains and the Rocky Mountains and after that the ocean.
The End
Author: Nakia F. R. Winere
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Slight Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn
Warning: Angst, subtextual slash
Summary: In the end, all that matters is what you've done.
Word Count: 4000
Tom’s blood surged with adrenaline, his guts churning in grim satisfaction as he spun around to face Quatermain. The old man was propped heavily against a pile of rubble, and was grinning to see the triumph in Tom’s expression.
But there was something wrong with Quatermain’s face, and Tom swallowed heavily as all of a sudden his joy sank hard through his feet. His breath hitched as he searched his friend for some kind of wound, some mark of blood or bullet. There was nothing, only the paleness of death creeping over that lined face, a ghost of the death that had followed Tom through all the seas of the world to this remote, snowy wasteland.
A hard knowledge gripped his heart, which stuttered in its beat. His hands and feet went numb, and his muscles refused to obey him as he willed himself to go to Quatermain’s side, to ease his friend’s passage into eternity. He could not.
“May this new century be yours, son,” Quatermain said, with none of the fear that had saturated Huck’s death in his voice, “as the old one was mine.”
The old man needed to no hand to hold, no sweet way into the blackness of his own finale. His end had come upon him in due time.
Tom set the Winchester down heavily, leaning on it as the spark faded from Allan Quatermain’s eyes.
No tears came, and his victory was bitter in his mouth.
The wind whistled all across the empty land, whipping up through the cracks in the stone to tear through Tom’s clothes and into his skin, and settle with the dust in his hair.
~~~~~
“No!”
The word was torn from Tom Sawyer’s throat, hoarse and desperate, and shattered the stillness of the night more effectively than the hail of gunfire that had preceded it. The momentum of the cry pulled at the rest of Tom’s being-his muscles tensed as he threw himself from his perch on the fire escape stairs, landing heavily on the ground and tearing after the guard of armored men who were disappearing quickly into the shadows.
His heart pounded, sending his blood pulsing through his veins and fueling the rage that consumed him, driving him past the pain of his gasping breath’s scorching his lungs, past the stiffness of his fingers around his rifle, and into the depths of unknown territory. Heedless of himself-focused only on those retreating, cowardly figures-he tore through the night as lightning through the sky. He skidded around a corner, and all in one fluid movement brought his rifle to set against his shoulder, aimed, and fired.
Three quick shots, then three more as he stepped forward once and then again-his eyes were filled with hot tears that blurred his vision and blinded him, and his hands were shaking as much as the rest of his body. He missed, and missed and missed, and finally a sob tore from him as the last of his enemies vanished, and he threw the gun down onto the cobblestones, turning tail and fleeing back the way he had come.
In a circle of orange lantern light, in the middle of the square that had been their battleground, laid Huck Finn.
He still lived, though the thread of life which lingered in his labored breathing was unraveling fast. Blood too bright against his pale skin welled at the corner of Huck’s mouth, and the dark russet curls of his hair were stuck to his forehead and neck with cold sweat. Tom knew there was not much time left: his every sensibility screamed for him to run, to fetch an ambulance, but his heart was heavy with the knowledge that there was no saving Huck Finn.
He stumbled closer, numb with pain and desperation, and fell to his knees some feet from his friend. He could see the fear and loneliness in Huck’s eyes-gone from cornflower blue to navy in these late hours, and his own throat closed in sympathy. That hurt struck chords in him, vibrating his senses until all he could hear was his own desperate pants for air.
More than anything he had wanted in his life, he wanted to go to his friend, to curl around him and protect him from the coming cold as he had not protected him from that bullet. More than seeing Arabia and England, elephants and tigers, he wanted to feel the warmth in Huck’s skin before it faded, feel their fingers twine together-but all his strength was gone, and he was collapsed to his knees on the cobblestones, gaze stretched out to his friend in a plea for forgiveness.
The anguish of the parting burned in him, and the stretch of forever was unbearable when it entered Tom’s mind, which failed under the pressure of the loss. He could think of nothing more than keeping that pain from consuming him.
Tears clouded his vision, blurring the last sight of Huck he’d ever have, and he cursed the stars and fate and let out a resounding cry of utter agony, a moan and a cry that started deep inside him and gave voice to all the pains he had suffered in his life multiplied infinitely.
“Huck,” he whispered in the devastating aftermath. “Huck, please, no.”
Those words stirred something in his friend, and the reproachful remorse in Huck’s gaze weakened; his fingers curled against the wet stones, a small gesture to Tom that was lost on the other man.
Tom could not speak, for no words he could find were good enough to be the last. Sobs caught heavy in his throat, and he shook his head. Huck bit his lip, eyelids fluttering as if he were dizzy, before at last-in a circle of filthy lantern light-he slipped from life and faded away.
Tom could do nothing but lie on the cold, wet ground, fighting hard to remember what living felt like. The keen that exploded from him robbed him of his breath and his heartbeat, and for a single moment of elation blackness crept in around his vision and he thought that he had fallen through as well.
Light broke that illusion, and when morning came he had lost all semblance of life but his breath, lying broken and empty and exactly where he had fallen.
~~~~~
The puffs of breath that escaped him were little more than clouds of dew in the air before his face, and Tom Sawyer grin ruefully. It was near two in the morning, and all movement had ceased on the streets below. Good thing it was, too-snowflakes were beginning to crystallize and fall, and it was too cold to be anything but the first bite of winter.
He shifted his rifle in his grip, wincing at the chill of the muzzle and leaning back against the brick of the chimney that protruded from the rooftop he and Huck were hiding out on. From here he could see the entire harbor district, and though he was not as well hidden as he had been crouching above the eaves, at least he was warm.
“Shit,” came a whisper near his ear, and a further warmth suffused him as his partner elbowed him out of the way and settled down next to him, their arms pressed tight together. “’S fucking freezin’,” Huck muttered amicably, setting his Winchester across his knees and chafing his hands together.
Tom snorted softly and nodded. “We been out here for hours, and nothing’s happened. I don’t think he’s coming.”
“Don’t get off your guard now, Sawyer,” Huck said gruffly, jostling his friend. Tom grinned and shoved him back, sending him tumbling over.
A brief wrestling match ensued, and Tom pinned his friend to the cement of the roof, panting slightly.
“I’ll always beat ya,” he said cockily, tossing his hair out of his eyes. Huck dug his fingers into the other man’s gut, and a burst of laughter escaped from Tom-too loud for the hour.
“I’m sure you will,” Huck joked. “I’ll go down in some blaze ‘a glory, killed dead in a grand shoot-out, and here you’ll be dyin’ and old man in your bed.”
A chill seized Tom at the words, and he shuddered. “Don’t talk ‘bout dying, Huck. ‘S bad luck, innit?”
~~~~~
“You blame fool, Tom Sawyer!” Huck shouted, face crimson with rage. His fists were clenched at his sides and he glared at his friend across a vast expanse of inn chamber. Tom’s nose wrinkled in confusion and affront, and he shoved locks of his own messy blond hair from his eyes.
“Don’t you go hollerin’ at me about things! You done plenty of foolish stuff in your time, Finn, and no mistake!”
“Not things that coulda got me killed, I ain’t! I ain’t that stupid!”
Anger stiffened Tom’s muscles, and he glared at his friend, mouth working in an attempt to get something out in response to Huck’s hollering. Finally he gave up, for all that came to mind was a stream of apologies, a sense in him that responded to the hurt showing through in Huck’s eyes. He shook his head helplessly, and Huck groaned and sunk into a chair, propping his elbows knees and burrowing his face in his hands.
For a long moment the only sound was the fire popping in the hearth, and Tom stood awkwardly near the door, shuffling from foot to foot. Uncertainty gripped him, and sighed, starting forward with slow steps.
Huck did not look up when Tom knelt own in front of him, and Tom went sick with worry. He hadn’t thought his friend was truly angry-
“You can’t go doin’ that to me,” Huck whispered, voice raw and hoarse. He sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, looking up through a curtain of auburn hair at his friend. He chewed his lower lip and sat back in the chair.
“I’m sorry,” Tom replied, abashed. He tentatively set his hand on Huck’s, hoping to soothe some of the strain between them. “I didn’t mean….”
“I know you didn’t,” interrupted Huck, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Tom’s, holding Tom’s face between his hands. His breath was warm, his eyes shut with tears lingering in-but not falling from-his lashes. “I know, damn it. You still scared me. I still wouldna known what ta do if you’d ‘a got shot. We’re in this for danger, Tom, but we ain’t gotta be heroes all of the time.”
“I don’t try to get myself killed,” Tom started. “I really don’t.” He became aware that he sounded childishly earnest, though Huck didn’t seem to mind it at all.
“I know that, too,” Huck muttered, dropping out of the chair to kneel in front of Tom. Their knees touched, and their fingers were tangled together resting there. “You’re brave, Sawyer, and there ain’t nothin’ I can do to stop you from being so brave. You got no thought for yourself when you get into these things, so I gotta ask you to think ‘a me before you go jumping in somewheres you can’t tell whether you’re in more danger than’s worth the risk.”
“I’ll try,” Tom said truthfully. He would. He’d have done anything to wipe that look of fear off Huck’s face.
~~~~~
A bang exploded through the still air of Washington Mutual Bank as the heavy double doors flew inward, and the frightened patrons screamed and fell to the floor, cowering in their pastel silks and bright jewels. Sunlight flooded in, shooting like lightning over the gold inlay in the floor and arcing over the curves of finely carved marble that made up most of the counter.
Tom Sawyer’s voice wrung out strong and clear as he aimed his pistols at the four men standing idly near the counter.
“Drop your weapons! United States Secret Service!”
Huck Finn strode in, then, silent and scowling as he jerked his own guns from the holsters under his arms and covering his partner as they strode toward the would-be robbers.
The answer to that was a hail of gunfire, though most of it was misdirected and only took chunks out of the stone walls. A rain of dust filtered down, making it difficult to see, and a series of shouts told Tom that the men were escaping around his left.
Without thinking, he tore off in that direction, squinting ahead and aiming at the lurking shadows that moved steadily to the doors.
“Tom! Tom!”
He ignored the cries of his comrade.
A growl seized up in his throat, and with a yell he fired off both pistols, bullets singing and striking, sending another firework of stone down oven their heads. He was rewarded with a shout of pain, and bullets whizzed past his head, one skimming his arm with a needle of pain.
In another burst of momentum, he surged forward, tripping to a halt and firing rapidly at the fleeing figures. One fell, then another, and the third turned to face off with him.
The enemy was too far away-Tom hesitated to run into his range, but a bullet clipped his hair and he stumbled forward, hitting the ground even as the robber’s body jerked and toppled to the ground.
Tom turned, panting and covered in sweat and dust, to see Huck standing just behind him, pistol clenched in his left hand, a frown twisting his features.
“Thanks,” Tom blurted, but Huck shoved the gun into the holster and whirled on his heel to walk away.
~~~~~
Through the canopy of fluttering leaves overhead, the sun streamed down to light the dreary autumn days in gold and white, sending sparks of light off the surface of the water and swelling the carpet of dead leaves underfoot with warmth.
By the banks of the Mississippi, Tom and Huck drowsed, content in the knowledge that while they were here enjoying the last dying days of summer, the others were trapped in the schoolroom with the master, so fond of his hickory stick.
Tom shifted and rolled over, propping himself on his arms and gazing at his friend. Huck’s head rested on his arms, eyes closed, a half smile quirking his mouth. He was asleep, chest rising and falling slowly with the deep breaths of slumber. Whenever they escaped school, Tom was glad-Huck’s tongue earned him more lashings than was necessarily warranted, and Tom hated to see the look on his friend’s face whenever the master brought out the hickory. He remembered with the clarity of hindsight the welts that had often marred Huck’s back and shoulders when he’d been living with his pap, knew just what it cost Huck not to shudder or cry out.
Grinning at the sentimentality of his thoughts, he reached out to brush the hair off his friend’s brow. At that soft touch Huck stirred, blinking at Tom with bleary eyes, grinning and shoving his friend off.
“Time’s it?” he asked, swiping his eyes.
“Dunno. Most suppertime, I’d bet,” Tom replied, face flushed and heart skittering anxiously.
Huck licked his lips. “We could stay out,” he offered.
“Yeah,” agreed Tom, settling back and enjoying the crackling of the leaves beneath his body as he settled back down. He closed his eyes as the air grew chill and darkness melted down upon the world, staining everything blue and purple and black, and shrouding the proper world in mystery.
Here the world was wide-open, though, and the boys found themselves entrenched in a childhood they had long left behind, scrambling through the trees and digging their fingers into the soft earth in places where they remembered having buried marbles and buttons and other boy treasures.
Their laughter was clear and carried far, full of memory and a moment of happiness in their gradually dimming world.
Together they plunged into the currents of the Mississippi, naked and sleek under the moon, clinging together and forcing each other under, flipping water in shimmering arcs and slicing down into the murky depths of the river.
They allowed themselves to be carried through the water to Jackson’s Island, where they beached themselves on the north shore, ripe with the remembrance of Indian summers. It seemed that here, on this secluded island, there was a shroud on the boredom of impending adulthood, and the ghosts of the past wandered free, infecting them both with cheer and sending them tumbling through the drifts of wet sand.
“I’ll scalp you,” Tom muttered into Huck’s shoulder, tugging his hair playfully and nipping his skin.
Huck’s chuckle caught in his throat, and he flipped Tom over and pinned him to the earth, muttering, “Naw, the day’s mine.”
“It’s always been yours,” Tom said teasingly, his spirit gentled by the play, a relaxation stealing over him. Their limbs tangled and their fingers wove together.
~~~~~
Tom Sawyer’s mind was wandering. He had his chin propped in his hand, and his eyes where anywhere but on the schoolmaster-just as his mind was anywhere but on his lesson. His foot twitched under the desk which had recently shrunk in accordance with his growth spurt. Now towering compared to the other boys of his grade, he rested at what Aunt Polly had estimated was five-foot-ten. This-along with his tousled blond hair and deep-set hazel eyes-rendered him quite handsome, and had the girls chasing after him when he’d rather be off having mischief with Huck or Joe. Even now, Mary Higgins had seen his distraction and was attempting from across the school room to catch his eye. She was pretty enough, Tom supposed, but a bit slow-witted.
In lieu of thinking of girls-who were boring and ruined any attempts he had at fun anyway-he got to thinking of things he’d do once school was let out for the day. The boys had long since outgrown playing at pirates and robbers-once their voices had started to crack and deepen, those things had gone under the bed along with marbles and old coat buttons and other little-boy collections. Instead now they fished and hunted, and went on long hikes up through the hills west of town, trying to find new ways into McDougal’s Cave.
Soon, though, he was tired of thinking of adventures. They could rarely be classified as “adventures” anyway, which annoyed Tom to no end. He wanted something exciting to happen, something strange. Nothing ever did in St. Petersburg. Only Huck Finn ever had anything interesting happen to him, like that time he went down south with Jim.
Huck was sitting three rows in front of him, because they weren’t allowed to sit with each other anymore, and looking quite as dejected as Tom felt. He was hunched over his book, but it was obvious he wasn’t reading. Tom leaned forward a bit in his seat, meaning to somehow signal his friend, but he frowned. Huck’s face was drawn and pale-his shoulders were stiff, his fingers still. Tom resolved to ask if he were all well when they were let out for dinner.
~~~~~
Graveyards were dismal places, Tom sawyer decided, as he wandered slowly through the pale gray tombstones. He could see the blue shadows of names etched in the stone, and was thankful that though his fingertips traced those fine carvings, they could not read the names and faces engraved along with the words. The deeper he found himself in amid the graves, the more twisting trees he recognized, the tighter his throat became. His mind fogged with a grief that had yet to pass, and would remain seated in his mind as long as he lived.
Along with the grief came a bundle of emotions that hadn’t entered his mind on his wild flight for vengeance-guilt, despair, confusion, and love. He shook his head, but did not wipe away the tears that were his first since the most fateful night of his life.
Now, as Tom knelt on the pile of earth sprouting grass and small dandelions in the first days of spring, he knew that the mindless agony which had gripped him upon Huck’s death was better than this reminiscing, for in it he had been numb and unable to hear the What if’s that assailed him these new days.
A heavy sigh escaped him, and he ducked his head in sudden shame. “I’m not living, Huck,” he murmured, then laughed weakly. “Ah, listen to me, talkin’ to nothing but a corpse and a cold grave. I must sound a right fool, huh? No one here to listen, though, so might ‘s well.”
He swallowed, fingers twisting in his lap, face twisted with weeping. For a moment he said nothing more, then only, “I’m sorry.” He pressed his hands against the unyielding earth, letting the dirt run through his fingers as he reached to trace Huckleberry Finn 1880-1899.
The things that followed were important-meaningless epithets chosen by those who had known Huck by reputation or rumor, who knew little more than how to spell his name. Tom knew that all that had been his friend had been imbued in his name, in the twang with which he’d spoken Finn, the wrinkle of his nose whenever anyone called him Huckleberry, the way he’d laughed when Tom had called him “Hucky.”
“There ain’t nothing else to say,” Tom whispered hoarsely. “There just ain’t. I could say I loved ya, and I miss ya, and I wished it’d never ‘a happened, but it did and there ain’t no use crying over spilled milk, as they say.”
He sniffed and coughed and struggled to keep a fresh pain-the shadow of the anguish that had almost lost him his mind-welled in him. He’d come half expecting some ghost of Huck to rise up and greet him, some memory, something to appease the need inside him.
Instead there was only this empty graveyard and the wind whistling through the treetops, the drops of dew still clinging wetly to the pale grass that covered everything.
“I’ll carry you with me into the new century,” he promised dully, drawing one empty cartridge from his pocket and fingering it. “You and Allan both, since I lived and both you died, and we got to work with what we got, don’t we?”
He pressed the cartridge into the earth, covering it with pebbles and rocks and dirt until it was no longer visible.
Then, though his heart urged him to linger, he heaved himself to his feet. He stood staring down at the grave, unable to either stay or to move on, and finally he threw his head back and gazed at the sun, where it was emerging from the distant horizon, casting it’s light all across the graves and the lake only a mile from them, and beyond the wild plains and the Rocky Mountains and after that the ocean.
The End