Cabin Fever on a Small Island

       "Most Esteemed Aunt Hemulesse! We have heard much of your talent in the art of educational games and the training of young creatures. In light of this, We wish to invite you to take up the position of Royal Governess and assist in establishing a school for the dozens—nay, hundreds—of little Mymbles, Hemulens, and Moomin-trolls that Our tirelessly foolish subjects produce each year. We request your immediate arrival aboard the very packet-boat that delivers this missive. Our Sovereign Majesty, Daddy Jones P.S. You may bring all seven thousand Niblings with you—they shall be most content here." Moomin put the final flourish on the signature, which took up half the page, and wiped his brow. The coffee in the house had run out, but the table was piled high with letters—none of them particularly clean. Now, all that remained was to find envelopes, inscribe each with Island of the Niblings, and muster some patience, for the packet-boat wouldn’t set off for the neighbouring islands for several days yet. Still, Moomin was proud of his cunning. The night before, after tossing and turning in sleepless frustration, he had finally struck upon a solution. If his friends refused to budge and wouldn’t heed his advice, then someone else would have to force them off the island—by driving them out for some misdeed. Hadn’t the crew of the Oshun Oxtra fled in a hurry from the deceived and bruised Edward the Booble? But what sort of misbehaviour could he orchestrate? (Naturally, he winced inwardly, apologising to whichever poor soul would play the victim.) Joxter had surely broken every rule there was without breaking a sweat, yet no one had thrown him out—not even the still-absent Mymble’s Husband. Perhaps he could rattle chains and howl at night alongside the Ghost? But then the islanders would chase the Ghost away, not the travellers—and lately, even the Ghost had succumbed to the epidemic of domesticity. Besides, the islanders, long accustomed to Daddy Jones’ various pranks, weren’t the least bit afraid of the Ghost and might well hurl a pillow—or even a chamber pot—in response to a nocturnal serenade. Such treatment would wound the Ghost’s delicate sensibilities; it would take offence and leave of its own accord. The king! Moomin nearly jumped as another brilliant idea struck him. Daddy Jones had seemed terribly agitated—even frightened—when, on the day of Oshun Oxtra’s trial run, he had sailed over himself to warn of Aunt Hemulen’s impending invasion with her horde of Niblings! True, he hadn’t expelled Muddler, who had invited her in the first place—but only because she never actually arrived. What if she did come this time? All Moomin needed was to write her a more convincing letter than that dull wedding invitation from Muddler, delivered by telegram, no less. But would a letter from Moomin suffice? He knew, of course, that he was an extraordinary individual, born under a special star with a remarkable destiny—but he was also painfully aware that others didn’t share this view. Aunt Hemulen certainly didn’t. To think she had doubted whether he could even write! Well, this time, he wouldn’t even forget the stamps! The most influential figure around was, naturally, Daddy Jones, so Moomin decided to write the letter from him—nay, a royal appointment! Words like "Court [Something-or-Other]" (capitalised!) had a powerful effect—see Hodgkins sprinting to take up the post of a Court Inventor! But just in case, Moomin-troll resolved to add a few more letters. At the bottom of the pile lay this one: "Dear Auntie, As you know, I have always admired your skill as an educator and mentor and, following your example, now I work at a shelter for abandoned Moomin-troll children. This spring, the most extraordinary and gifted little Moomin-troll—born under a most peculiar constellation—ran away from my care. He was terribly difficult; I fear my knowledge of child-rearing was no match for such an exceptional nature. But you, Auntie, would surely know how to instil good manners in him, and his upbringing would be the crowning achievement of your career. At present, I understand he resides on an island ruled by king Daddy Jones, in a two-storey house fashioned from a ship’s cabin. People say it was he who saved you from a Groke. Yours respectfully, Hemulen from Moomin Foundling Home" Flattery and lies (were they not one and the same?) were, of course, wrong—but to drown in the tedium of daily life oneself and watch one’s friends drown was worse. Still, Moomin’s conscience pricked him as he eyed two more letters. One was scrawled on drafting paper: "Dear Aunt Hemulesse, I am Hodgkins, the Court Inventor and captain of theOcean Orchestra—the vessel on which you found refuge from the Groke. I apologise for failing to appreciate, at first, the benefits of a healthy lifestyle and order that you sought to teach us during your brief stay aboard my ship. Upon reflection, I concede that you were right—but I (and indeed all of us, for that matter) lack the willpower to adopt proper habits. Quitting smoking, for instance. Or morning exercises. Or cold baths. Perhaps you might teach grammar to my nephew Muddler? The lad is married now, yet still cannot writeOcean Orchestrawithout mistakes. Yours sincerely, Hodgkins" Moomin-troll was proud of every line. His exceptional literary talent had found purpose! Only the king’s letter had required real effort—polishing phrases, scratching out mistakes. Joxter’s, on the other hand, was simplicity itself: no need to labour over style or penmanship, just scribble and done. "Madam, I like strong women. Please come. You’ll be the only Hemulen in the world who made a mumrik quit smoking and lazing about. — J." With a sense of duty fulfilled and only mild pangs of guilt (seven thousand Niblings would be a catastrophe, and soon they’d be here!), Moomin stashed the letters in the pantry cupboard, took the second-last biscuit, and went to water the marigolds—they were sad and drooping. Soon he would leave them behind, so he drenched them thoroughly, hoping they’d last till the autumn rains. *** The packet-boat returned from its island rounds on Thursday, and Moomin waited by the pier all morning, gazing seaward. What if Aunt Hemulen hadn’t packed in time? What if the Niblings had gnawed through the hull en route, and they all had drowned? No one—no one but him—knew how pivotal this day and this little ship were. The handful of Hemulens and Gaffsies awaiting news from relatives loitered and chatted, and even when they glanced at the sea, they felt no awe, no irresistible urge to sail beyond the horizon, to explore new islands, to grip the helm in a force-ten gale… The sluggish, pot-bellied packet-boat, with its red stripe and hull number in place of a name, inspired no romance either. From its deck, Moomin saw no sign of Aunt Hemulen or Niblings. Just one small, raincoat-clad beast hunched over the railing, likely seasick. The postman disembarked with a rather thin bag, followed by that exhausted stranger, and lastly—a familiar little Nibling clutching a small parcel. "Letter for Daddy Jones—personal!" it squeaked, glancing around nervously. But the locals had crowded around the postman. Moomin still hoped Aunt Hemulen might send word of her arrival with the messenger, so he led the Nibling to the royal garden, where the king ought to be holding court, teasing his subjects. Daddy Jones was in the garden, but not on his throne. He sat cross-legged on a flowerbed, laying out a solitaire of yellow and orange fallen leaves. The Nibling handed him a barely-chewed envelope. "Well, well," the old man said, fishing out a pair of comically round spectacles. "‘Dear Your Majesty. Thank for offer of Governess post. I am flattered. To my greatest regret, I cannot accept due to valid reasons. My Niblings all have colds and runny noses, every single one. They cannot travel, also would infect your subjects. As teacher, I cannot abandon them in this state. Instead, I give address of one of my nieces. Write to her, say I referred you, and she will gladly teach your well-behaved little beasts. Sincerely, Aunt Hemulen.’" He blinked at his audience—Moomin and the Nibling. "Well! We don’t recall offering that dreadful woman any posts. She must have lost her mind, surrounded by thousands of Niblings. Still, We like her better now—mad governesses are amusing. But if she doesn’t come, We shan’t grieve." To his surprise, Moomin realised he, too, was relieved Aunt Hemulen wouldn’t be arriving anytime soon. Of course, it also meant that his plan had failed. But he was an exceptional Moomin-troll—he would devise a new plan, better than the last.