Chapter Text
Prologue
Tom’s escapades with Huck Finn start out as nothing but a shallow thrill when they’re children.
He is drawn to Huck like a moth to a flame, as are many of the other young boys of the village. Anyone can see it. Most do, especially those troubled by the sight.
Tom happily wreaks havoc on otherwise dreary Sunday services with nothing at hand but a pinchbug. He deceives other boys into doing his chores for him with gloriously enticing lies, in exchange for a swindle of their most prized possessions—blue bottle glass and spool cannon and brass doorknobs—and sits like a prince in the shade all the while. He picks fights with other boys if they dress too fine for a weekday and make him feel as though the lack of shoes on his own two feet is a shameful thing.
He’s a notorious troublemaker, if ever there was one.
And yet, for all of his trickery, Tom finds himself to be little more than nothing when he stands beside Huck Finn.
What does Huck need to do to be trouble, when he is already the motherless son of the town drunkard?
His brand of mischief is what the adults of St. Petersburg call corruptive, though he always strays as far from their prying eyes as he can manage. This only makes him all the more mystifying and irresistible in Tom’s own. Huck swears. Huck smokes. He sleeps in good weather on doorsteps until he is shooed away, and fares in bad within his hogshead barrel. His clothes are too big; he nearly drowns in his father’s tattered hand-me-downs. They make him look larger, taller somehow, from a distance.
Tom doesn’t know if he believes everything the grownups say about Huck. Either way, he decides he must become friends with him. Tom pictures himself running up to Joe Harper and the rest of his friends, proudly announcing that he has spent the day with Huckleberry Finn, and cannot help but feel exhilarated just at the thought.
It all started out as little more than a child’s challenge, a dare.
Chapter I.
Tom is just ten years old when he really approaches Huck for the first time.
He is on his way to school on that particular morning when it happens. Late spring will soon fade to the unfolding bud of summer, and the June heat clings heavy to the village. Tom had been rushed out the door that morning by his harried aunt and sent on his way with a pail of food for afternoon snack, as always. But now, on the familiar path towards the green valleys of Cardiff Hill, he stops, and stares. Who would he be if he did not take advantage of the opportunity to be late or school, or better yet, not come at all?
He squints. Just beyond a stretch of wild grass that sways gently in the mild breeze, he can make out a silhouette strolling lazily between the trees. The form ambles slowly along as if it has no certain route to follow, bare feet traipsing through the thick foliage of the forest floor. It carries a makeshift fishing pole in one hand and a rusted pail in the other. Tom does not realize who it is until he sees it, that telltale crescent missing from the hat’s frayed brim.
He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the harsh beat of the sun and squints again. He knows then, it is just who he presumed.
Huck Finn, heading towards the river to fish. While Tom is heading towards a stuffy classroom to sit, dead-eyed, under the vigilant watch of Mr. Dobbins.
He looks longingly over as the boy’s silhouette wanders so deep into the woods that it disappears from Tom’s vision. Then, he hastily scurries over to the side of the path, takes the shoes from his feet, and stows them behind a clump of bushes. Feeling much less weighed down, he runs through the patch of wild grass and the trees. He runs until he can‘t feel his feet anymore, and he realizes he is nearing the riverbank. He bursts from the dense woods, a whirlwind flurry of leaves following after his sprinting legs.
It would be impossible for anyone to fail to notice his entrance onto the scene.
Huck starts, just briefly enough so that Tom can see the lurch of his shoulders as he leaps up and spins around to find the source of the sudden tumult.
Their eyes meet. Both of the children simply stare at first, at a loss for words. Huck looks wary, alert. His brows knit together, and his fingers tighten around the pole in his hand. Save for his rags fluttering faintly in the breeze, he becomes still as stone.
Huck sizes Tom up, eyes narrowed to slits, before slowly turning on his heel and continuing on his way towards the riverbank. Tom follows.
“Hello,” he begins, all too friendly.
No reply. Huck only tosses a cautious glance behind his back towards Tom, as if he is convinced Tom must be mistaken. He can’t be speaking to Huck right now, can he?
“…What do you want?”
“I wanted to say hello.”
“So, you done it. Now what?”
“I dunno. What’re you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
Tom feels cautious triumph in knowing that he’s captured Huck’s attention, for now, that is. He doesn’t care that it might only be because he’s pestering the life out of him, so he continues following, and pestering.
“I ain’t a fool,” Tom quips back, after a small beat of thoughtful silence. “You’re fishing.”
Huck sets his fishing pole and pail down on the soil of the riverbank. “Then why’d you ask?”
“I reckon it’s just something people do, to seem interested!” Tom bristles. He may very well worship the ground Huck walks on, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a perpetual victim of his own pride. “And what about you, smarty? You’re asking a mess of questions, too.”
“Because I don’t know what you’re doing here and I don’t know why you ain’t left yet,” Huck replies simply, without any true malice, and walks on.
“You really ain’t a pleasant feller to be around, are you?” Tom parries. He waits for a rebuttal, and when he gets none in return, tries another method of winning over the boy’s recognition, this much more effective than the last. “I ain’t got my pole…You wanna swim ‘stead?”
“…You wanna go swimming?”
“Well, I don’t got my pole, and I ain’t just gonna sit around and watch you fish. Might as well be back at school that way, I reckon.”
“You’re supposed to be in school now?” He exhales the words like he realizes he’s not going to be rid of Tom so easily.
“Everyone is. Except you, I suppose. I bet you a body like my aunt would say you belong in school, you should be in school—only, there ain’t anyone willing to make you go, is there?”
“No.”
“I should be in school now. I just don’t want to be,” Tom states, matter-of-factly.
“I wouldn’t wanna be, neither,” Huck reluctantly concedes. He glances briefly over at Tom, appearing only slightly embarrassed when his gaze meets his, far more intent than Huck’s own. His eyes dart away and instead fall over the broad sweep of land and water that stretches out in front of them, terribly inviting.
“Well?” Tom badgers. “Would you like to?”
After a brief moment that feels like forever, Huck relents. “Okay,” he mutters, feeling strangely tolerant towards Tom’s presence for a reason he can’t place, brash and obnoxious and overbearing as he has already proven himself to be. He is feeling more lonely today than usual, though he would never admit it aloud.
“Alright,” Tom crows, sounding pleased. “Bet I can beat you in!” Then he’s off like a flash, leaving behind a slightly vexed Huck, who quickly rises to the challenge and dashes after him.
***
Tom is a troublesome boy to begin with, but his Aunt Polly can’t help but worry when, after services one Sunday morning, Mr. Dobbins asks if they can share a word or two.
Tom’s even gaze shifts between the adults. He hopes he isn’t letting on how nervous he feels. As much as he doesn’t care about being scolded by his aunt, he does care about being cooped up inside of his room for the rest of his Sunday. In the very least, he supposes he doesn’t have to worry about being worn thin by tedious chores; Aunt Polly wouldn’t dare force him on the Sabbath.
When she asks him to wait outside with Sid, he does not immediately leave, but instead remains to stare at Mr. Dobbins. He musters as much of a glower as he can without being so obvious that his aunt will notice. As if a 10-year-old child’s dirty looks could dissuade a miserable old stick in the mud such as Mr. Dobbins from ratting him out. Then he nods and retreats, exiting the chapel, bounding down the steps and waiting faithfully besides his brother.
The sole member of the peanut gallery to Tom’s hellion act, Sid taunts him in a sing-song voice, You’re just asking for a licking from Aunt Polly. Tom barely restrains himself from giving him a licking and digging himself even deeper into the hole he is stuck in.
Aunt Polly divulges to the boy that Mr. Dobbins had stressed how Tom’s attendance in the classroom as of late has been spotty, very spotty. Needless to say, she isn’t pleased. Just as Tom had worried, he is stuck inside of his room for the rest of the weekend. He might as well be stuck inside a prison cell.
When the poor woman carries on to Sereny Harper about her justifiable distress regarding his behavior, she promises to keep a watchful eye out for Tom lurking amongst the streets while school is in session. What she witnesses is ten folds more horrifying than a boy playing hooky.
He is caught shamelessly cavorting with Huckleberry Finn. Could it be any more in line of Huck’s luck to have a strange woman looming over him the moment a swear falls from his lips? If he didn’t know Joe’s mother to be such a loyal accomplice to his aunt, Tom would have been tempted to laugh. Instead, his face drains of all its color.
Though she is no mother of his, she feels it is her responsibility to do no less than immediately drag him by the ear to his house and inform Aunt Polly.
What is it about Huckleberry Finn that sends everyone into a fit of hysterics?
Though his ear is a bit sore, Tom accepts any punishment he receives for being in Huck’s company like a willing martyr.
And this is only the beginning.