In the eyes of beholder

With Blue — uncertain — stumbling Buzz -

Between the light — and me –

Emily Dickinson

       “Because you are my son. Snufkin.” Snufkin made a small sound of a complex meaning: surprise; acknowledgement — soft paws, large eyes, and a feline posture betrayed another mumrik; anger and resentment boiling down at once to acceptance–from his babysitting experience Snufkin knew mumriks were not meant to meddle with children–or to be attached — but that was his stupid half-mymble blood making him so susceptible to attachment – well, other mymbles he knew were not clingy either, so this soft side for Moomin and other friends from Moominvalley was his personal issue, and he could not expect this almost-stranger to behave like a father in the moomin sense–and wasn’t the wonderful gift of life enough from a mumrik father, and this fire, its light and heat, didn’t it save his life now? “Thank you,” Snufkin said at last and added, “Joxter.” He remembered Moominpappa’s Memoirs. One more question, then. “Why are you here?” Joxter did a lazy stretch. “I said. Because I didn’t go into that forest back then. Was right. It’s only worth it after you’ve heard all other melodies worth hearing in this world. I am ready now. So… Don’t go there any time soon. Leave it for dessert. By the way, do you have your harmonica with you? Mind playing a tune for me?” After a pause, Snufkin obliged him. He started with a goldcrest imitation, a whimsical tune at the highest pitch, but an echo of his anger would bring dissonance now and then, and he dropped to the lower case to tell about wind rising, dry grass rustling under it, fire cracking and shooting sparks… He put down the harmonica at last, made a suitable pause, not long enough to fall asleep, and asked again, “Why do you think it’s silence?” “You play wonderfully,” Joxter replied after an equally good pause. “You use pauses well. They mean as much as the sounds. Then comes a time when they tell you more than sounds. Then “– “Got it,” Snufkin interrupted him and was instantly irritated with his own irritation at this lecture. It took a longer silence to shift to another topic. “So, it’s a coincidence.” “Not quite.” Joxter sighed. “I wanted to see you.” Snufkin did not say anything else and just fumbled with his harmonica. Why, he meant, and the other traveller read this silence right. “Need a helping hand.” Another silence, this time meaning, Come on, you won’t get it if you don’t pronounce it. “By the morning. I hate flies.” Snufkin didn’t like it. But it was not really impossible or extremely hard. “’kay.” He stared into the flame. “Do I play more?” “Nah.” Joxter’s voice grew quieter. “Thank you. I liked it. Now we listen to my silence. Ah, one more thing. You can have my tent.” He reached with his hind paw to tap on a dark bundle outside the circle of firelight, then patted with a front paw on a place next to him. Snufkin moved closer. The night was alive with wind and grass sighs. The sky lost all greyish tints, and a star or two were blinking through the tears in the clouds. Sparks were flying up like midges and would even bite if you tried to catch them. Joxter had been stretched on his side, his head propped with his hand, and now he dropped his head down. Fire glittered in his half-shut eyes. Snufkin watched the salt-and-pepper paw near his knee, then put his own hand over Joxter’s paw, squeezed it lightly. The paw was cool and soft, it twitched in response. And so they drifted through the breathing night. A late insomniac moth fluttered in zigzags into the fire and was lost in a second. Well, that’s what moths do. That is also a part of the night’s melody, minimalistic and muffled but clear to Snufkin’s ears. The melody changed ever so slightly when the sky faded from black to dusty dark blue. As if a pause stretched in one of the orchestration lines. Snufkin pressed Joxter’s paw down, but it did not twitch back this time. And it was cold. Joxter still stared into the fire, but now his eyes were dark and deep. He had gone to the forest and now must have heard its melody in its full glory. Snufkin closed his father’s eyes and added some twigs into the fire from a heap nearby. When he could see ground and grass beyond the camp circle, he stood up and looked for a shovel or anything of that kind in the Joxter’s small pack of belongings. Nothing better than a tent stake. It would not be an easy digging, literally. The ground was hard and rocky. Yet when the sun rose from the distant mountains, it shed cold white light on a small mound under a larger hill, without any signs, a dead fireplace, and a figure in a green hat, retreating by the road south.