The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

He rode and rode, without stopping, until the stars faded and the sky bleached into a pre-dawn blue. Riding proved to be true torture — he felt as if he had chafed everything he could against that cursed saddle. Thus, he was genuinely relieved when dogs began to bark from the mist ahead. A camp! It meant he had chosen the right direction. Tremendously pleased with himself, Tom spurred his tired horse… and could not suppress a cry of rage and disappointment. Was the gelding charmed, or had he simply lost his way? Perhaps a creature like a forest sprite had played a trick… but the wretched nag had brought him right back to Tseren-Shulam’s detested yurt. Altantsetseg came out at the sound of the barking, saw who had arrived, and called for the shaman. Tom, teeth clenched, slid from the saddle, sat on the ground that had grown cold overnight, and nearly weeping with frustration, began to wait for his fate. Naturally, he was punished, both for the theft of the horse and the failed escape. No, contrary to his expectations, they did not cause him physical pain. In fact, no one even spoke a word to him — Altantsetseg simply took the tired horse, tied it by the yurt, and taking a rope on a long pole — a uurga — went to catch another for herself. Tom was simply ceased to be noticed. He could sit by the fire, take water, and move around the camp, but no one addressed him or even looked in his direction anymore. Tom had become a non-entity. They also stopped feeding him. At first, this even pleased him — no one hindered him from venting his rage and resentment at the indifferent universe. He was finally left in peace! He devised dozens of new escape plans, simultaneously dreaming of how he would burn every feather on Aola’s wings — one by one, slowly, and then tear them off entirely. And when she had nothing left to fight back with — he would ravish the wretch in the most brutal and cruel manner. Perhaps after that, he would forgive her… who knows? But an empty stomach soon forced him to return from vengeful fantasies to harsh reality. From the scents wafting from the fire, his stomach cramped, and his mouth filled with saliva more than the maw of a rabid dog. Of course, Tom had no knife, but he could have killed a lamb with a stone and roasted it whole somewhere far from the camp, scorching the hide over a fire… However, the wolfhounds, having been scolded for their previous carelessness, began to guard him a hundred times more strictly. He couldn’t take a step toward the livestock in the absence of the mistresses. It was useless even to dream of milking a goat or stealing a lamb. Hunger was becoming agonizing. On the third day, Tom surrendered. Sugar was just then catching goats and tying them to be milked. “Let me help…” he offered, not looking her in the eyes. The girl did not answer, and he began to catch the pungent-smelling animals and tie them by the horns, head to head. The kids had already grown, but there was still milk. When Tom heard the tight streams hitting the bottom of the leather bucket, he felt nauseous with longing. He wanted to eat terribly. His stomach seemed to have stuck to his spine… Now something always ached — a scraped finger, blistered palms, or thighs strained in the saddle. But the gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach was the most unpleasant reminder of human frailty. Sugar left him to release the goats and went to the yurt to strain the milk. Tom finished the work quickly, then took a rope and headed into the steppe for firewood for the evening fire. The shaman saw what her laborer was doing — there were no patients, and she was resting, sipping tea with sweets in the sun before the open doors of her dwelling. Tom returned with a decent armful of fuel that would burn like gunpowder but give the dung fires the strength to ignite. He saw Sugar pour milk into a bowl and take a flatbread. But the shaman did not allow her to bring him the food. She barked a command, forcing her to set the bowl on a low table, and when the girl protested something, bowing her head respectfully, the old woman suddenly slapped her. Tom jumped up as if stung — it was unexpected and wildly unfair. “Don’t touch her!” he hissed, darting toward the old woman. “She did nothing wrong! I earned that food!” The shaman’s black slit-eyes flashed angrily, and she reached for her knife. Tom stood before her, fists clenched, knowing what awaited him. A pair of wolfhounds watched his every move with a growl. But Tseren-Shulam suddenly changed her mind. “Khol yavakh!*” she barked, waving the polished blade. He spat, turned, and went to the spring. He drank water that was cold enough to make his teeth ache from palms that smelled of goat hide. He sat on a hillock, pulling his knees to his chest. The sucking feeling in his solar plexus dulled slightly, but his head still spun. What now? Would the old woman starve him to death? Ha… He wondered if he could catch a marmot by pouring water into its burrow and stretching a sack over the entrance on some sort of prop. The dogs sometimes caught and brought large, fat creatures to the yurt. Their fur glistened with the fat they had put on over the summer… Tasty, probably… He convulsively swallowed rising saliva and turned, hearing light, hurried footsteps. It was Sugar. The girl hastily descended to the spring, holding her hem and constantly looking back. One of the dogs ran after her, noisily lapping up water. The Mongolian girl approached Tom, took a golden-brown flatbread and a piece of boiled mutton from her hem. Then she dug something out of the pockets of her patterned vest and gestured — hold out your hands. She poured a handful of dried fruits and candied nuts into them. “You’ll get in trouble again, Sugar**,” Tom huffed. The girl had clearly done this secretly from the old woman. She waved her hand, which could mean anything — I don’t care, it’s not that scary, I’ll survive. And Tom suddenly, for the first time in his life, felt what solidarity of the weak feels like in the face of one who is much stronger than you. A Muggle had pitied him, not fearing punishment, even though there was no one in this wilderness to stand up for her against the witch. A lonely ache throbbed in the pit of his stomach, and this time it wasn’t from hunger at all. “Bayarlalaa, Sugar***…” he said quietly, and she suddenly smiled shyly, covered her moon-round face with her sleeve, and ran away. Tom looked after her for a long time, stunned by a feeling new to him. Then he brought the flatbread to his face and inhaled the warm, satisfying scent. He tore off a piece and began to chew slowly, remembering that after a fast one shouldn’t gorge immediately, or one could get a twisted stomach. Perhaps it was the tastiest thing he had ever eaten in his entire life… even tastier than the dates and Turkish delight from Aola’s hands. In the evening by the fire, Sugar handed him, like everyone else, a portion of rich stew, and the shaman said not a word against it. Tom was forgiven, and the incident was closed. Life went on. Tom mastered men’s work — learning to catch livestock with the uurga, driving animals to the pasture. It wasn’t without injuries — once a skittish mare kicked him, and a cow with a particularly foul temper gored him with a horn. His palms became covered with a crust of coarse callouses. The shaman giggled while patching up the bungler, but she was not stingy with praise when he did something properly. It grew colder, and one morning the girls brought out a pile of multicolored laths and large pieces of white felt, and in an hour they assembled another yurt. Tom had his own corner and a bed on the men’s side. Sugar, who secretly sympathized with the boy, sewed him a warm vest and a rather ridiculous felt hat, and the old woman grew generous and issued warm footwear. Accepting the gifts, he thought with longing that he would be stuck in this hole until spring if he didn’t organize another escape very soon. In winter, it was unthinkable; the frosts would likely be so biting that you would only make it as far as the toilet. His power had still not returned. Aola had not visited him once. It seemed she had simply abandoned him… His sharp anger had passed, leaving only longing and regret for how he had treated her… Falling asleep immediately wasn’t always possible even after a hard day, and staring at the felt ceiling, he dreamed of feeling her scent, the warmth of her gentle body nearby… She would likely wrinkle her pretty nose… he had quite an aura about him now. The hygienic habits of the Mongolians oppressed Tom no less than his captivity. When he tried to wash where the livestock were watered and launder his clothes, he was shouted at. Apparently, one must not wash under the open sky — it must be done in the yurt, otherwise a thunderstorm would break out and lightning would strike the cattle. He had to spread the dirt in an even layer, heating water in a basin. Preparing for a second escape, Tom intentionally cultivated Sugar’s sympathy. If he made the Muggle his ally, she would show him the way, and then he would surely get out of here. He did not think about what to do afterward with the girl who was in love with him. Anywhere was better than here, under the power of the damned witch. The shaman herself encouraged this, making jokes about whether they should marry off Malerde. He had not turned out to be such a lost cause. His hands did not grow entirely from his backside. And she winked at the girls, who blushed and giggled into their sleeves. Knowing nothing of Mongolian wedding customs, Tom began to sleep with one eye open. Who knows… that chubby-cheeked girl might lie down beside him at night, and he would wake up married in the morning. Try proving then that you had not touched her with a finger and had not even dreamed of such luck. A lovestruck Mongolian girl would be useful to him; a wife he did not need at all. Toward October, the camels began their rut. Stately as British lords, phlegmatics who looked upon the world with contempt, they turned into entirely mad, roaring monsters that charged at every living thing. Even the wolfhounds were wary of them. Tom avoided them anyway after the leader, the scoundrel, spat right in his face, and now he avoided them by a mile. There were only two males; they were tied on opposite sides of the enclosure so they would not tear each other apart. But on one far from wonderful day, the younger one broke loose and attacked the leader, biting him badly. The fighters were driven apart with poles and tied up again. Sugar brought ointment and began to grease the wounds while Altantsetseg calmed him. The camel stood still, likely understanding he was being helped. And then… perhaps the girl hurt him, or the madness of the beast struck again? In any case, when Tom heard the screams, the creature had already clamped onto Sugar’s head with its huge teeth, then thrown her to the ground and begun to trample her. Altantsetseg screamed and beat him with a pole, the dogs tore at his legs, but he was completely possessed. Everything happened in a matter of seconds. Tom was too far from the enclosure; there was nothing at hand he could take without permission. The camel would have trampled her to death… A reflex, instilled by years of training, kicked in. He simply threw both palms forward and cried: “Stupefy!” Energy passed through his body in a warm, tight wave, burst from his fingers in a red, twisted bolt, and struck the maddened animal, throwing it several meters from its victim. When the shaman came out of the yurt at the noise, Tom was already leaning over the victim. Altantsetseg was weeping loudly. The camel had practically scalped the girl, and who knows what it had done to her internal organs? Carefully picking her up in his arms, Tom carried the wounded girl into the yurt to the old woman and laid her on the bed. She began to fuss around — saying she would handle it from here — but he stopped her with a commanding movement of his hand, lowered his palms to Sugar’s head and chest, and commanded: “Vulnera Sanentur!” Another warm surge from somewhere within, from the solar plexus, and the terrible wounds inflicted by the camel’s teeth began to close before their eyes. The shaman gasped and threw up her hands. Tom, not believing himself, brought his palms to his face and looked at them, smiling happily and a bit eerily. So this is what Aola feels when she works magic… “Take care of her,” he told Tseren-Shulam and walked out of the yurt. He surveyed the enclosure with the immobilized camel its legs in the air, the steppe stretching to the horizon. He raised eyes that flared crimson to the pale autumn sky. He smiled again and Apparated. In the dusty yard, there remained only the tearful Altantsetseg, who instantly stopped crying, and the bewildered dogs. *Go away (Mongolian). **The name Sugar is consonant with the English word “sugar”. ***Thank you, Sugar (Mongolian).