Cabin Fever on a Small Island

       The outrageously quiet morning melted into an equally peaceful day. Even the sea refrained from hurling itself furiously at the cliffs, lazily lapping at them instead. Grasshoppers chirped lazily in the grass, and the occasional blare of trombones and clash of timpani drifted lazily through the air—the Hemulen Royal Orchestra was quietly rehearsing at home, for even the royal garden lay dormant without any parties, pranks, and the like today. Even Daddy Jones had taken the day off from devising new surprises for his subjects. Moomin gazed into the alluring distance, then at his regretfully content friends. Hodgkins was roasting sausages over the fire, while Joxter sprawled in the grass, munching alternately on sausages and apples from the basket. Their seaside picnic was missing Muddler—he was in the throes of his honeymoon. The critter Fuzzy had moved into her husband’s coffee tin along with her collection of buttons and assorted junk, and now the tin rattled all day like a proper rattlesnake—or even a waterfall, or a rockslide. Particularly sensitive Hemulens and Fillyjonks had even stopped by to complain, but Muddler just grinned ear to ear (his ear hair as unkempt as ever), apologised, and declared that he was terribly happy and terribly in love, as if that excused it all. "What an absurd nuisance love is," Moomin muttered under his breath. "It turns an adventurer into a homebody and—" He paused, searching for a word that would convey the full depth of his disdain. "—a burgois." The word was difficult and hideous, but he hoped he put it right. "It’ll pass with time," Hodgkins remarked condescendingly, flicking an ear before adding—much to Moomin’s bewilderment—"I mean your teenage idealism." "And how am I wrong?!" "Well… if you’re referring to my nephew, he was never much of an adventurer to begin with." Moomin huffed but refused to concede, turning to Joxter for support. "Hodgkins is right," Joxter said, blindsiding him. "Muddler hasn’t really changed. He was always a bit of a sniveller, and now he’s just three times as frantic. But you’re partly right too. All this romance is daft nonsense. It makes you stop lazing about and do all sorts of unnecessary movement." "Says the creature who practically lives under one particular Mymble’s skirt," Hodgkins teased good-naturedly. "I’ve been busy reconstructing the Ocean Orchestra, and even I’ve noticed a certain someone constantly scampering about and giggling in a lady’s company." "Friendship," Joxter yawned. "That’s called friendship. There’s nothing for me under her skirt, but lying on it is perfectly cosy. Good for a nap." "How can you be friends with a girl?" Moomin asked, deeply perplexed. "Especially one who’s already a mother to two dozen children? I mean, she’s nothing like Hemulen’s Aunt, but still… ugh." "Don’t worry, it’ll pass with time," Hodgkins smirked into his whiskers—clearly referring to Moomin again. Joxter, too, grinned in the most infuriating way, so amused that he abandoned his half-burnt sausage mid-argument to add: "Doesn’t matter if she’s a woman or not. What matters is we’re on the same wavelength. She’s a splendid Mymble. No fuss, just like me. Says what she thinks, does what she wants, doesn’t take anything too seriously. A well-rounded lady with an easygoing nature—that’s how I’d put it. And convenient, too: soft, big, and round. Plus, there’s an equally convenient apple tree with sweet apples near her house —perfect for hiding when the Mymble’s brood gets too rowdy." "That’s what surprises me," Hodgkins cut in. "How do you, of all beasts, tolerate all those children?" "Easy. I ignore them. They run about, squeal, get bored, and leave me alone. A perfect way to deal with children, I’d say." "Ah yes, round and soft." Hodgkins waggled his sausage skewer in the air, tracing suggestive circles. "Surely you must feel the urge to—" Then he glanced at Moomin, hesitated, and gave Joxter a subtle wink while shaking his skewer. Moomin noticed but didn’t understand—though he held his tongue to avoid another "it’ll pass with time." How tiresome, being treated like a child! "—to hanky-panky?" Hodgkins finally supplied, thoroughly baffling Moomin. "Pfah." Joxter closed his eyes. "That’s too much effort." "Well then," Hodgkins said, finishing the sausages and pulling out a box of marshmallows. "Lucky for Mymble’s husband—no horns in his future. A Hemulen has no use for antlers, you know." "Husband?!" Joxter jolted upright, eyes suddenly blazing electric blue, his whiskers bristling like they did only at the sight of a park warden or a police Hemulen. Moomin perked up—perhaps his friend would finally rouse himself for an adventure, fleeing the deceitful Mymble. Or at least stir up enough trouble to force them off the Daddy Jones’ island again… "Didn’t she tell you?" Now Hodgkins sounded surprised, too. Marshmallows on a battery of skewers in his hands got charred. "One of my Hemulen assistants mentioned his thrice-removed uncle—married to Mymble, apparently. He’s a clerk at the Royal Library and has sworn to come home only after he rewrites all encyclopaedias there, which, by his nephew’s estimates? will take another fifteen years. " "Oh my," Joxter grumbled, sitting up sharply. The tip of his tail, poking from under his cloak, twitched like a spasming worm. "Guess she never thought that important, that’s all. And now I just must—" He shot Moomin an annoyed look, bared his teeth, and muttered, "— hanky-panky. Because you mustn’t… hanky-panky with married ladies." Moomin didn’t quite follow but nodded—if something was forbidden, Joxter would do it by all means. “Please don’t!” Hodgkins exclaimed in anxiety and knocked the marshmallow box into the grass. “Oh, why did I mention it… Joxter, the island is very much inhabited, there are many other witnesses beside that mythical husband, and I don’t want to lose my post and projects if you’re exiled from the island for...” He looked frantically around as if to find a cue, a good reason. “And wouldn’t it be a pity to destroy such rare and pure cross-sex friendship?" Joxter shook his head so violently his hat nearly flew into the fire. "Not at all!" he protested, shoving the crumpled, dusty thing back onto his head. "Se—ugh, hanky-panky doesn’t ruin friendship! It’s called friendship with benefits. Oh yes, and no one forces you to flee with me, if I have to." Friendship with benefits, Moomin repeated silently. The phrase was cryptic but intriguing. Something even better than plain friendship. "We’re friends, aren’t we?" he asked the air, then met Hodgkins’ eyes. "With benefits?" The inventor choked on his marshmallow. Joxter snorted with laughter. "No!" he wheezed, clutching his sides. "You’re still too young!" "No, but not for that reason!" Hodgkins cut in, flushing crimson. "You'd better fall asleep, right now, you old leech. You'd overexert yourself in pursuit of that Mymble." Needless to say, Joxter pulled himself upright and walked away from the shore, whistling a merry tune.