Chapter VIII

Tom zigzagged through narrow paths until he was far from where other students were headed back home. He slowed to a pensive jog, crossing a stream multiple times because of an old childhood belief that water could help evade pursuers. An hour later, he vanished behind the grand Douglas mansion at Cardiff Hill’s peak while the schoolhouse appeared as a distant speck in the valley below.

He ventured into a thick forest and found his way to its heart where he sat on a moss-covered spot beneath an expansive oak tree. The air was motionless; even the midday heat had stilled nature’s symphony, leaving only the occasional sound of a woodpecker hammering from afar—its rhythm amplifying the enveloping silence and solitude. Tom’s mood matched his surroundings perfectly; melancholy pervaded his thoughts as he sat with elbows on knees and chin in hands.

He pondered life’s hardships, envying Jimmy Hodges, freshly released from school, believing eternal rest must be peaceful. If only he had a spotless record, maybe that peace was within reach for him too. Then there was the girl. He hadn’t done anything wrong; his intentions were pure, yet he felt betrayed and unappreciated. Maybe she’d regret her actions—perhaps when it was too late.

A fleeting wish to die temporarily crossed his mind as an escape from disappointment. But youth’s resilient spirit soon pulled him back into life’s mundane concerns. What if he turned away now, disappeared mysteriously? Or left for distant lands beyond the seas and never returned? How would she feel then?

His thoughts shifted disdainfully from being a clown—such frivolity seemed trivial when his heart soared into romantic reverie. No longer content with that path, he imagined becoming a soldier, returning years later war-worn yet illustrious. Then it hit him: be an Indian hunter in the vast plains of the Far West, only to return as a great chief, adorned and awe-inspiring.

But even that wasn’t enough; his mind conjured a more thrilling fantasy—he would become a pirate! His future now gleamed with unimaginable splendor. He envisioned his name echoing globally, evoking fear and admiration alike. Picture him commandeering the seas in his sleek vessel, “The Spirit of the Storm,” his fearsome flag leading the charge.

He’d reach peak fame then make an unexpected return to his old village, appearing in church one lazy summer morning—weathered and bold in his pirate garb, wielding pistols and cutlass. The ensuing whispers would confirm it: Tom Sawyer, the Pirate! The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!

Resolved on this grand adventure, he planned to run away come morning. Preparations began at once. He dug beneath a rotting log with his knife until striking something hollow. Clearing away dirt, he found a shingle covering a small box that held… just one marble.

Surprised and frustrated, Tom questioned the failed magic trick—a superstition among his peers, promising all lost marbles would gather when unearthed after a fortnight using specific incantations. Now deflated by failure, he suspected witchcraft at play.

Determined to find answers, he searched for doodle-bugs beneath sandy spots and confirmed his suspicion with their reluctant response. He gave up on battling witches but retrieved the missed marble after some effort.

Nearby, the faint sound of a toy tin trumpet echoed through the forest aisles. Tom quickly shed his clothes, donned a makeshift belt, and unearthed hidden toys: a bow and arrow, lath sword, and trumpet. As he blew an answering blast under a large elm tree, Joe Harper appeared equally armed.

“Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?” Tom demanded of Joe’s approaching figure.

Guy of Guisborne didn’t need permission, Joe retorted, setting the stage for their mock duel—each taking on roles from their cherished tales. They brandished lath swords, engaging in playful combat by rote memory: “Two up and two down.”

After a spirited fight and a staged back-handed blow, they switched roles—Joe as Robin Hood, Tom the Sheriff of Nottingham. The play continued until Joe’s gang mourned their leader’s fate beneath an oak.

Dressed once more, both boys lamented the absence of real-life outlaws and debated if modern civilization offered anything comparable to their lost adventures. They agreed that a year in Sherwood Forest as outlaws would surpass any lifetime presidency.