Cabin Fever on a Small Island

       Moomin had thought that after the triumphant trial of the flying submarine ship, the Free Colonists would finally embark on a wondrous journey—through the air, across the water, beneath the waves. But the maiden voyage of the Oshun Oxtra had turned out to be its last. Oh the despair and dismay when one’s fellow adventurers either get married, become court inventors, or take up with strange, soft, round ladies! At first, Moomin tried to rouse them, to burn their hearts with words, so to speak. He started with the Captain. He went to the workshop—just imagine, the Autocrat had granted Hodgkins an enormous (albeit derelict) greenhouse! Inside, hemulens from the Royal Orchestra scurried about (in their spare time from musical duties, they helped the Court Inventor lug, bend, and rivet sheets of metal). Everywhere racks stood and pallets of magnificent instruments made of golden metal with rubberised handles lay—not even gnawed at—each stamped with the king’s monogram. Moomin barely squeezed past the Hemulens, barely waited for the inventor to pause long enough to wolf down a sandwich (along with a few bored flies). “Hodgkins, you were the Captain of the Ocean Orchestra! You even had a proper cap, with a golden cord! How could you trade the navigation bridge for an old greenhouse, your first toolbox for all this… this royal frippery, by the Groke?” (Yes, he said it just like that—"by the Groke.” Hemulen ward back at the orphanage would’ve had a fit if she’d heard him! But Hodgkins didn’t even twitch an ear.) “You invented and built the most extraordinary flying and diving steamship in the world—and now you can just stand by and watch it rot on its struts, gathering dust?!” Hodgkins had just finished his sandwich by the time this passionate speech was over. “Now, now, my young friend,” he replied, already burying his snout back in blueprints. “I’ve told you many times—I’m an inventor, not a captain. If I ever took the helm, it was only to test my creation, not for the sake of the journey itself. You see, amidst storms, niblings, and touchy boobles, it’s frightfully hard to get any proper engineering done. Here, I’m in my element. His Majesty supplies me with everything I need, including interesting technical challenges, along with creative freedom. Nowhere on earth could suit me better than this… Hmm, now what’s this here?” And with that, he plunged into a massive leather-bound, gold-embossed ledger of calculations, then pulled out a lacquered abacus from his pocket and began muttering something in engineer-speak. Heart heavy, Moomin turned on his heel and marched out. “Oh, and you may have my old toolbox!” floated after him. Moomin—who’d long been helping himself to chisels and gouges from that very box without asking—felt a flicker of relief, but gave no sign of it. Head high, he strode home. Or rather, to the navigation hut on the shore. The path led past Mymble’s house, and in the apple tree at the edge of her garden, a tangle of sun-bleached and not-entirely-clean fabric was visible among the leaves: Joxter, curled up asleep on a branch. Though, the moment Moomin stepped toward the garden fence, one eye cracked open. “You’re supposed to be a free vagabond,” Moomin said accusingly, in lieu of a greeting. “No one tells you what to do. How did some odd, round Mymble manage to chain you down? Where’s your curiosity gone?” “Mm,” the Joxter yawned before answering, then stretched each paw in turn—somehow without falling, as if lounging on a cosy sofa rather than a forked branch. “Hodgkins refused to budge, eh? I’m out. If you had a ship that could travel without me having to move, I’d consider it. But on foot? Too much effort. Besides, the meals here are good enough.” He groped around, but all the apples within reach had already been picked. His empty paw went limp. Moomin noticed, however, that a little higher up, a basket dangled from a long rope. Any hope of luring his friend away with an omelette or coffee withered. And upon closer inspection, the branches were strewn with a fuzzy, mottled rug. Joxter had settled in for the long haul. Moomin passed Muddler’s coffee tin without a second thought. Even in his wildest imaginings, Muddler could never be mistaken for a true traveller—he’d only joined the Oshun Oxtra because loneliness terrified him more than storms, ghosts, or seasickness. Now he had this Fuzzy beast and no longer needed his old friends. Laughter and clatter of buttons echoed all the way to the path—the newlyweds were doubtless reorganising their collections for the thousandth time. In the bleakest of moods, Moomin reached the navigation hut he called home. He’d had to repair the storm-battered roof, but in his inexperience, he’d accidentally built a second floor instead. Now, without a shred of remorse, he ransacked Hodgkins’ old toolbox and climbed up to finish the dratted roof! And he mustn’t forget the stovepipe for the potbelly stove. And the gutters. And a lightning rod—absolutely essential. And a weathervane—though it would be the best to find an old, unoiled one, so he could hear the wind shift, grow stronger, call him to adventure—or at least pretend the hut was still aboard the ship, racing across the waves toward unknown shores… At sunset, Moomin snapped out of his daydreams of voyages and self-pity only to realise he’d, without noticing, hung simple but clean curtains in the portholes, cobbled together guest chairs of varying heights, carved a railing for the veranda adorned with sea creatures, and even potted marigolds along the deck. The orange marigolds, bright as the setting sun, were the final straw. Was it contagious, this urge to put down roots in snug little houses?! At this rate, he’d be married by tomorrow, collectingmeerschaumtramcars and other dust-magnets! Horrified, Moomin nearly bolted out the door, ready to sprint blindly to the ends of the earth—until he remembered he was on an island, where the “ends of the earth” were rather close, and the next packet boat wouldn’t depart for a week. Besides, travelling alone didn’t appeal to him, to be honest. Company makes things merrier. Perhaps, then, he should burn the hut down, along with all its bourgeois trinkets? But the hut was still part of the ship that had carried them through so many adventures. Or at least throw his Garden Party prizes into the sea? With sudden resolve, Moomin strode to the windowsill and picked up the little tram. With its case for safety pins. Its coral stand. Its meticulously painted windows, doors, and wheels. It was so… charming that he froze, unable not only to march to the cliffs but even to move at all. Yet, being naturally ingenious, he immediately found a solution. He needn’t discard the tram—it was a lottery prize, a token of luck, a memento of adventure. Moomin blew some dust specks off the tram, returned it to its place, stoked the stove to brew coffee and ponder how exactly to uproot his friends and rekindle their wanderlust.