Tom, For Lack of a Better Title

Enjoy the start to, maybe, a new story! :D

Tom shivered.

The sand blew across the land in spurts, getting in the boy’s eyes. The sun beat down on his back while his bare toes squelched in the shifting ground. All the animals for miles off were trying to find a better place to be, to get away from the sun’s deadly rays. Wouldn’t take long for a person to die out here in the heat. Water was hard to impossible to find except miles under the heavy sand, and unless you knew where you were going, you would easily be lost. The boy was lucky he wasn’t going far, or he would have needed a horse. You don’t linger in the hot lands without resources.

Tom shivered again.

And sweat.

Heat was not the problem, though it did cause his temper to grow worse. No, Tom had fear. Always did. He had been scared as a small child, alone, in the streets. He wasn’t the only one who could have been stuck there, the fever sent many to the streets, but he was the only one who ended up there. The only one who never had anyone to save him. His life was too littered with the corrupt.

He glanced back, where the tall house was now just a little dark speck. He sighed and sped up a little. He didn’t think he was being followed, but who really knew? His pockets jangled as a dark reminder. Tom swallowed hard and pressed on. He would make it to Qirmizi before nightfall if he continued at this pace. He had been told it was only a couple leagues away. He should see it clearly when he got there. Qirmizi was the City of Red. Tom had heard stories about how it became that way, how the outside, guarding walls had turned crimson one season.

The city’s first Emir had wanted the city to stand out, to make it easy for travelers to see. The plain clay bricks blended in so well with the sand, few would have seen Qirmizi unless they were looking hard for it. His men began painting with the little dye they had, and the people knew that dyes and paints were hard to come across, yet the Emir’s men kept painting. It was said that the Emir had told them to use animal blood, or even human blood. From that day on, it has been bad luck to touch the red walls of Qirmizi.

Tom made a face. What would happen if he, someone with the worst luck ever already, touched the walls? He shook his head to clear the thought. He didn’t want to imagine…He would find what he needed, a trade. He could easily do this. All it took was for him to see reliable and intelligent to get someone to teach him a trade. And someone who was willing to teach a slave, already very late in trying to learn a trade. But not too late, Tom reminded himself. Or was it? He was fourteen, which meant he only had one year to get an apprenticeship, then he would be a man. Once you were a man, you could only continue the apprenticeship you had, and if you were without a trade, the slave work increased. Longer hours, fewer breaks. Less pity.

Tom trudged along. He was in a right awful mood. He would never get in such a bad mood before. But that was his life, always going downhill. He watched birds circle overhead. Maybe they thought he was doing to die soon, not knowing his destination was close enough. His skinny body did make it seem like he had been starved out in the desert, though. He couldn’t blame them. He was smaller than others of his age, constantly shrinking when someone approached. Tom pretended to blame it on his slave nature, but that was not the slavers’ fault. He didn’t see other slaves running around, slinking from shadow to shadow, afraid of any yell or harsh tone.

Why Tom was like he was, he didn’t know. He just wanted it to stop. He groaned. In about a year, if he didn’t have a real trade, he would forever live as Tom the Slave and Tom the thief. He didn’t want to be either. He wanted to have a home. To have food. To have warmth, even on the cold nights in the winter. To stop cowering in the alley ways and shrinking from angry masters. It could happen, he thought. And, if it were to happen, while a city painted with blood wasn’t exactly the best place, it had a sense of mocking irony to Tom.

Tom was lucky to have made it in the city. He did make quite a shifty figure for the guards at the gate, but it didn’t help he was a slave without his master. He almost got taken to the commander’s headquarters, but Tom managed to slip out of the guards grip and get away. Of course, this didn’t make his objective in the city any easier. Now he had to avoid guards and look trustworthy. Why was everything so hard?

                He sighed and pushed his long hair out of his eyes. Tom hadn’t thought the guards got too good of a look at him, especially since he kept his eyes to the ground most of the time. An old habit that wouldn’t let Tom go. He sighed and now forced himself to look at his surroundings. The big red walls around the city had been quite intimidating, more than five times his height. The paint had looked awfully like blood, but Tom had avoided touching it. Inside the gates was a bit more cheerful, despite the fading sunlight. He could see where the markets would be, where the rich lived. Where the bars were. Tom avoided those more than anything. Drunken men were a horrible sight to him. A painful sight, really.

                As he walked through the town, he had habitually found the bakery, though no food was there for him to take freely. He pursed his lips and slipped through the door as a woman headed out, keeping to the shadows. A large, burly man was in an in depth conversation with another, so Tom found courage to cross the room to the breads. He smiled when he reached the other side. He tiptoed over to the stone slab shelves and took just one, small piece, making a quick getaway out the back door. He paused as he went out, wondering if he had made it. Nothing. He smiled and took a smile bite of the bread.

                “Hey!” A man stopped in the road, staring at Tom. Tom’s eyes widened and he bolted. He ran down the back alley as fast as he could, but glancing back, he saw the man following. Then other yells joined the original spotter. The baker, most likely. Tom felt an unusual guilt come into his stomach and throat. He was fine with stealing, mostly. But not like he did. No, this was all wrong. He sighed and kept running; there was no turning back now. Tom heard the people getting closer, yelling for him to stop. What idiot would stop now? He knew what would happen if he did. He looked back again, almost running into a wall. He put both hands out to stop himself. Tom looked at the wall.

The red wall. The wall stained with blood. He paled, backing away. No, no, not him! He whimpered. Looking back, he saw a crowd coming close behind him. He swore and ran to the left at random, speeding up again. He stared at his hands. He had put them solidly on the stone, and there was no getting around it. He had also dropped the bread. Obviously, the curse was already at work. Tom turned corners as quick as he good, but the mob kept following. He grimaced, suddenly disappearing into the shadows. He dug his fingers into the house stone he was against, slowly getting a good grip, and Tom began climbing. He was fully hidden in the well picked shadows. He laid on the roof, peeking off the edge to see the people go by. He recognized the spotter, the baker, and the man the baker had been talking to, and one other.

He sighed and rolled back onto the hard, clay roof. They were looking for him, and he was cursed. Cursed. Completely and utterly doomed. He would never find a trade now. If he even lived through the curse, it would be as a slave forever more. He held back a sob as tears streamed quietly down his face. He hated crying. Crying was for women and children. He had gone through more than them; he should be stronger. He sighed and wiped his nose. What was he going to do?

Because he really needed another issue. Tom was now a convicted criminal and a cursed slave. He moaned and curled up in a ball on the roof. He examined his palms, as if searching for blood that had rubbed off on to his tan skin. There was none, but Tom kept imagining bright red spots and streaks across his hand in the growing dark. He sniffed again and turned to look at the stars as they came out. He hadn’t purposefully chosen this spot to sleep over night on, but it just ended up that way. He hoped the morning would be better, and the morning would bring him nowhere near red walls. He was going to try. Tom knew he had to. Maybe the stone’s paint really just was dye, stashes that the Emir had for many years. It could be. He could be perfectly fine.

“No! Never! Stop this at once! How dare you!” A young woman yelled at Tom. Tom cowered in front of her feet. She was the master. He was the slave. This was how the world worked. He winced as she kicked him in the stomach multiple times, continuing her rant. He cried out in pain, but she paid no heed. The ground was hard and sharp beneath him, which didn’t make sense. There was a layer of straw between him and the ground. Wait, no, that was disappearing. It was just hard clay. Tom glanced up, confused. Now the woman was gone, while he could still hear her voice.

                Tom jumped. He was on the roof of a building. Yes, the building the woman must be in. But she hadn’t been yelling at him yet; it was a dream. Tom pulled his shirt up to reveal his stomach. No, no new bruises. He looked warily over the edge of the building, sighing. He went into a crouch, then extended his legs and jumped off. He winced as his bare feet slammed against the ground, and Tom stood, trying to blend back in with the early morning flow. He slunk through the shadows until he could see in the doorway of the house he had slept on top of. He wanted to see the master and the slave and find out what happened.

                Whatever Tom thought he was going to see, he didn’t come close to seeing that. It was the slave yelling. At her master. There stood a speechless , infuriated, and confused middle-aged woman and a young, self-righteous slave. Tom wouldn’t have known the young woman was a slave except by the clothes she wore. She had on ragged, loose, and dirty clothes that looked a lot like Tom’s own clothes. The slave seemed to not fit in them in more than one way, for she was the most beautiful slave Tom had ever seen. Although her place in the world had diminished her grace, Tom could still tell what she could be. She had gorgeous long, black hair now frizzy and tangled. Her violet eyes, something that would make her worth more as a slave, shone with fury against her master. Tom was in awe. This was not the wealthy part of Qirmizi, how could that house afford her?

                “Know your place!” The master yelled back, trying to get a word in. She looked quite about to hit the young girl. Tom winced for her, but the slave seemed unaffected. “When Father gets home, you will listen to him and he will decide your punishment!”

                The slave sighed. “Finally! I get to speak to the person who can fix this!”

                “Fix what? I hope it’s your attitude you speak of, slave, or you will say nothing to him!” The master spat angrily. Tom shivered, wondering what was going on. Things seemed off. The master stormed away, slamming the door in another part of the house. Tom stared, watching the slave. She pushed the hair out of her face and looked around the front room. She glanced up and tilted her head. Tom swallowed; she was looking right at him. That shouldn’t be possible. Tom was always blending in with the shadows when he could.

                “What?”

                Tom froze. He was caught. How? He swore, realizing in his distraction he had stepped away from safety.

                “Who are you?” the slave pressed. Her voice was light and soft, yet now had a harsh and distrustful edge to it. Tom was glad that she was a slave, and he could act however he wanted. He wasn’t obligated to answer. Yet, the tone she was using…it demanded attention.

                “Tom.” He swallowed, darting his eyes around. Most people didn’t pay attention to either of them, but kept walking in between the two.

                “Tom who? Tom what?” the girl asked with a small smile.

                “Tom. Tom the slave.”

                The girl stood and walked over to him, not paying attention to the traffic of everyone walking around. She smiled. “I’m Alisha. My Father wanted to name me that; it means ‘protected by god’.” She smiled wider, seemingly far off in her thoughts.

                Tom stuttered. Who was this girl? She should be off in a palace somewhere, working for a princess. Why hadn’t the slavers sold her to them? He was very confused. “N-nice to meet you…”

                “Yes…” Alisha smiled. She still seemed distant.

                “Do you think you should go back? Your master will want to there, most likely.” Tom said quietly, staring at his feet.

                Alisha laughed lightly. “Master? I don’t have a master.” She stared up at him, eyes twinkling.

                Tom’s eyebrows scrunched. “Really? Who was that woman you were yelling at then?”

                She shrugged. “She claims I am her slave, but that is impossible.” The girl seemed completely unaware of what all this meant. She grinned suddenly. “I have slaves. Yes, lots of them. And they all live in my Father’s palace. My room is absolutely huge, Tom! It’s bigger than that fat woman’s house three times over.” She bragged, face lit up.

                Tom raised his seemingly single eyebrow. “What? Who are you then?” As he spoke, his voice got quieter, and his gaze settled on the dusty path. If this girl was important, he wasn’t allowed to speak to her.

                Alisha laughed lightly again. “You don’t know? I thought most knew.” She began wandering through the crowds aimlessly, looking at whatever took her fancy. Examining a piece of clay work from a stand, she tilted her head at Tom. “I’m a princess.”