Cabin Fever on a Small Island

       The very next day, as Daddy Jones had promised, the Hemulen Royal Orchestra’s rehearsal hall was transformed into a school for all the little creatures of the island, and the place was soon teeming with youngsters. Mymble Jr. had herded in her swarm of younger siblings and was about to slip away—after all, she could already read and write well (though she found it dreadfully dull to stick to the words on the page; making up her own was far more amusing) and, in her opinion, knew everything a Mymble needed in life. But the Hemulen classroom monitor declared her far too young to be loitering around unsupervised and promptly seated her at the very back of the room. Of course, Mymble could have easily vaulted over the desk, scaled the music cabinet, and escaped through the window—but then she got a better thought. She had never been to school before! True, everyone said it was frightfully tedious, even painful if a teacher was a birch rod adept—but surely there had to be something exciting about it. Things like playtime, tuck shop, or school romances. She hadn’t the faintest idea what any of those meant, but she never skipped a chance to try something new. If lessons were dull, then playtime simply had to be thrilling. The word tuck shop conjured images of a candy store stuffed to the brim with sweets, where one could clamber about and devour anything within paw’s reach. And a school romance? Obviously, a thick book full of adventures and perils—only set in a school instead of the high seas or Martian jungles. Perhaps even in a Martian school. Disappointments piled up one after another. Playtime turned out to be a measly gap between lessons, just long enough to shove away one textbook, fish out another, and—if you were quick—dash to the tuck shop or the loo. When you already had nearly thirty younger siblings to wrangle (all of whom tangled themselves in their gowns and dresses and despised porridge), there was no time left for anything exciting. And speaking of meals—no sweets in sight. No candy store either. Instead, a grumpy Hemulen woman manned a table in the corridor, dispensing lumpy porridge, mashed potatoes, and rubbery meatballs from vast cauldrons, while pouring glasses of a ghastly stewed-apple compote (the apples had clearly died of boredom at least two years ago). Unsurprisingly, globs of porridge and mash soon adorned the floors, walls, collars, and even the pupils’ little snouts. By the end of the second lesson, Mymble had yet to encounter a single adventure. She sidled up to a Hemulen who was to teach literature later and asked, “What’s a romance?” Perhaps it was some unfathomable misery? The teacher launched into an explanation about “a substantial literary form, characterised by…"—but Mymble’s attention drifted to a finch outside the window. Just as it flitted away, the Hemulen (not yet old, and now rather pink about the ears) added in a whisper that romance could also mean… well, romantic relations between creatures. Mymble pondered this. The back row was excellent for pondering; the teacher’s voice barely intruded. Once, a distant aunt had left a crumpled “love romance” book at their house, but it was short on peril and long on some princess wailing over a cold-&-handsome knight. Mymble Mom had flicked through it, declared the rest even duller, and used it to prop a cupboard door. So perhaps a school romance was about relations between schoolkids? Well, she could try that—and hers certainly wouldn’t be as dreary as that book. She surveyed the classroom with fresh eyes. In matters of love, she considered herself quite the expert—when your mother was a Mymble, you picked up a thing or two. How many creatures could boast they’d had a date with the king himself? Finding a sweetheart here, though, would be tricky. No kings, nor even dashing travellers like the Moomin-troll. Still… Across the aisle at the other back desk sat a young Hemulen with a shockingly unruly forelock (most Hemulen mothers slicked their offspring’s fur into geometric precision, as if drawn with a ruler and compasses). This one even had a button undone on his gown. A rebel, clearly. Mymble stretched across her desk, twitching her tail so the hem of her red dress flirted just above her ankle boots, and shot him a sidelong glance. He looked back—then hastily smoothed his fringe with the paw clutching his ink-dipped pen. The result: a splendid navy-blue streak down his oblong face and a blot plopping onto his exercise book. Adorable! Perhaps school romances weren’t so dull after all! Fluttering her lashes, Mymble gazed wistfully out the window. Five minutes later, she checked on her would-be boyfriend. He was scribbling at propeller-speed—his sentences spilling off the page and onto the desk. Future archaeologists would marvel at those word-fragments! To seal his fate, she slowly licked her lips and wiggled her toes for the rest of the lesson. The Hemulen grew increasingly flustered. “You’re funny,” she murmured during playtime. He dropped his books, splattering ink everywhere, and nearly crawled under the desk. “P-pardon, Miss Teacher!” he stammered. “I forgot my spectacles, but I wrote everything down blind, I swear! I’ll recite it perfectly tomorrow!” Ugh! He hadn’t even noticed her! Stamping her foot, she scanned the room for a new prospect. A Gaffsie kid in the third row seemed spirited—the arithmetic teacher kept scolding him—but from there, he’d never see or hear her. She needed someone closer. The creature in front of her was an unknown, nondescript little beast. Perhaps Mymble should embellish him? Her own pen and paper had gone missing, but she still had a textbook. She tore out a page, rolled it into a quill, dipped it in her bristly Gaffsie desk-mate’s inkwell, and adorned the beast’s back with a heart, three flowers, a star, and half a ship (the rest wouldn’t fit). No improvement. He didn’t even turn around. Next, she attempted to groom the Gaffsie by her side (and Mymble had a comb with her at all times). The comb in her paw was well-practised thanks to morning battles with a dozen squirming sisters. The Gaffsie flailed, but resistance was futile. The scuffle drew the current teacher’s attention, and both girls were ejected into the corridor. There, the Gaffsie launched into insults—"You’re mad, just like your mother!” “Why, thank you!” The Mymble curtsied. That was definitely a compliment. But then the Gaffsie spat another word—one those stuffy grown-ups muttered about Mymble’s mother when they thought she wasn’t listening. Big mistake. Mymble seized her by the hair. She could pull just as deftly as she could comb. The Gaffsie might soon go bald but the literature teacher Hemulen from before intervened. The Gaffsie fled to tattle, while Mymble sized up her rescuer. Him. A teacher—superior to any silly schoolboy. He knew all about romances. His belly was broad and firm (perfect for burying one’s face in, though not as soft as Mother’s). And he was tall enough to pat her head just so. She was sniffling until he grew desperate to console her, then brightened so that he could feel proud of finally consoling her, and then, unable to contain her own brilliance, announced: “Let’s steal a flying ship and escape to a tropical island! Mother’s cousin says bananas grow year-round there, and the sand’s full of skeletons and treasure chests. He’s lived in Madagascar three years and never once caught cold!” Instead of “What a grand idea!”, the Hemulen babbled about “professional ethics” and “minors” before fleeing—not toward adventure, but the boys’ lavatory. Mymble sighed. School romances were the dullest romances of all.