Cabin Fever on a Small Island

       Another splendid day dawned—though any day is splendid when you say and do what you want rather than what you must. The Mymble’s eldest daughter had stuffed halves of gingerbread biscuits into the mouths of each younger sibling, decided this was breakfast enough (anyone still hungry could scavenge crumbs from the floor), and then skipped off into the garden. At the fence, she glanced back and spotted her mother perched on the rooftop, with the vagabond Joxter lounging beside her, his head in her lap. If only he were her father. He was always home, even if he never lifted a finger to help. Ah, but Mother would do as she pleased. She was a Mymble, after all. The girl vaulted the fence—and landed squarely on a round, white Moomin-troll. “Oh! You’re just the one I was looking for!” he exclaimed, rubbing his squashed side. “A matter of state importance.” Looping his arm through hers, he glanced about like a proper conspirator and steered her toward the abandoned fields with their stone walls. This promised to be interesting. “Would you like to become a real queen?” “I already am one,” the Mymble demurred, dropping a flawless curtsy to settle any doubts. “From the Kingdom of Enchanted Flowers. I was left here in a cradle woven from tea-rose petals.” Moomin gaped at her for a moment, then scowled. “You’re making things up again! I’m being serious! You’ll be queen if we overthrow the king. I’ve read all about it—it’s called a revolution, or sometimes deposal. I’ll explain what to do.” He launched a lecture on demonstrations, cries of “Down with the king!”, lampposts, seizing the telegraph and post office, weapons, decrees… Lovely words, all—but the Mymble lingered on the first one. Re-vo-lu-tion. It sounded like something glittering and crystalline. Silvery, probably. And terribly exciting. Decision made: today, she would stage a revolution. Or was it a… a pro-po-sal? “Here’s your plan, in case you forget the steps.” Moomin pressed a scroll into her paws, nudged her toward the Royal Garden, then vanished into the bushes—leaving only his tail-tuft visible on the path. What a laugh! Daddy Jones, as usual, held court beneath the great acacia and was busy fashioning the tree pods into whistles for children around him. The Mymble vaguely recalled the Moomin’s instructions: for a deposal (it’s the same as proposal, right?), one must approach the throne with a mob, shouting “Down with the king!” But why a mob? In a crowd, one small Mymble would go unnoticed. So she sprinted circles around the throne, shrieking: “Town with the king!” “Ho there, child!” Daddy Jones called after a minute. Success! “Come here—We can’t fathom what you’re on about. We are in the town already. But We’re touched by your concern.” “Well, we’re practically family!” declared the Mymble, scrambling onto his lap. “D’you remember me? I kissed you at the garden party for your hundred year birthday. And when the Hemulen on the kettledrums kissed Fillyjonk on her long nose, Aunt Gaffsie said he’d have to marry her now. So I should marry you and be queen!” Daddy Jones laughed so hard he dropped her—but she landed neatly on her feet. What next? Something about post offices and lampposts? She could’ve checked the scroll, but that was dull. She’d improvise! “Your Majesty, have you any letters?” Daddy Jones summoned the Hemulen orchestra conductor. The musicians rummaged through their pockets but scrounged up only two letters. So, by royal decree, they fashioned envelopes and more letters from sheet music. Soon, the Mymble was staggering under a towering stack. Post office: captured. Next? Toss the letters skyward and twirl beneath the paper blizzard, then pelt the Hemulens with “snowballs” (dry, non-melting, perfect!) to defend the throne. With the leftovers, she folded paper lanterns and strung them from the branches. “Light them, Your Majesty!” she urged, though the sun blazed overhead. “They’re like stars—Uncle Hodgkins says stars shine even by day, but the sun drowns them out. See the lanterns’ glow? Faint, isn’t it? The stars are fainter still. But they’re there!” “What a fantasist!” Daddy Jones chuckled yet tilted his head back—and his crown tumbled off. The Mymble gave chase, and for twenty paces (more, really—the crown swallowed her head, its rim at her waist), she was royalty. Blind but gleeful, she followed the king’s shouted directions—“Left! No, the other left! Mind the step!”—until he retrieved the crown: “You’ve made a wonderful a remote-controlled motorcar, little thing! Now, what’s next?” Breathless, she consulted the scroll. One phrase baffled her: “Decree: Land to the Peasants.” So she trimmed and embellished it: “A secreet!” “Tut! We only like secrets We know and others don’t,” he chided, plucking the scroll from her. His brows climbed as he read. “Child, do you even know what this is?” “Of course!” said the Mymble. “It’s how to make a proposal!” “And who gave you this… this seditious pamphlet?” A round white Moomin-troll from the cliffside house,was true but lacked grandeur, so she whispered: “A tall, black-cloaked figure in a mask.” Daddy Jones sighed. “Oh dear. It looks like some of Our subjects can’t read. A mixed blessing—they’ll ignore foolish leaflets, but also miss Our witty garden signs and festival notices. We must open a school at once!” He brightened. “But you know numbers, yes? You read the lottery egg’s winning number at Our garden party.” “Naturally! Nine hundred and ninety-nine,” said the Mymble, producing an egg stamped “137”. Then, with a skip: “Thank you for the lovely proposal, Your Majesty!”       *** “Well?!” Moomin sprang from the bushes, ravenous and mosquito-bitten. “Where’s the royal guard? Surely the king wouldn’t just—?” “There!” The Mymble gave him a thumb up. “A capital proposal!” “Deposal!” he howled, clutching his head. “Not a proposal! Blithering girls! Why did I ever—?” In frustration, he butted the stone wall—then regretted it twice over: once for the pain, and again for entrusting his grand scheme to a girl. She’d seemed ideal, though: bold (unlike Muddler), full of energy (unlike Joxter), and free of Hodgkins’ tedious prudence. And Moomin couldn’t lead the revolution himself—what if, with all his natural gifts, he succeeded? Ruling would leave no time for adventures! No, there had to be another way to weigh anchor…