Cabin Fever on a Small Island

       Until now, Joxter quite liked this island. It had almost no rules, and he didn’t need to waste efforts on breaking them. Right, it’s not a big place. The narrow streets near the harbour grew sparser towards the outskirts, and on the distant shores of the island, solitary little houses stood among fields and low stone walls. A town like this could be circled in half a day, thoroughly explored in two, and then all that remained was to find a dry, warm nook and pass the time. It suited him just fine. And if now he was about to leave, why not blame the cries of migrating birds or the itch for wandering on that. Joxter disliked digging into his own feelings. It was too exhausting. If he wanted something, he did it; if he didn’t, he didn’t. Which was why he didn’t care to explain himself now why he was striding away from the house—a repurposed navigation cabin—towards the heart of town, the harbour, with no intention of returning. Let autumn take the blame. The apple tree where he’d spent most of the summer was bare, its leaves nearly gone. Nothing shielded him now from the autumn winds, the sleeting rain, the frost, and nature’s other little cruelties. True, Moomintroll’s house was dry and warm, but it was currently full. The most marvellous Mymble in the world, along with her full brood of children. The newlyweds with their button collections. The theatrically suffering Moomintroll and the Ghost. Well, scratch the Moomintroll—during the first autumn storm, the restless young traveller had fished a similar young damsel from the sea and, as if by magic (or a flutter of lashes), settled down. Now he was hastily building a second house, just for himself and his beloved, and had stopped muttering about distant shores. Still, too many bodies for such a tiny house. Too exhausting. Even the most marvellous Mymble required respite. Oh, Joxter hadn’t been able to resist flirting when he learned she was married. Snatching moments when none of her—what, eighteen? Twenty now? —children were about had been manageable. But then she had started seeking him out, and where there was a will, there was a way. Loving so large a lady was exhausting, however pleasant. He’d sighed in relief when, a fortnight ago, she stopped summoning him to the roof or the shed under pretence of checking the shingles or fetching a dustpan. But then, two mornings ago, as she passed him a bowl of porridge, she’d whispered: “Eat up, dear Papa.” Joxter had been terrified. He had no intention of being “Papa” to strange Mymble offspring. Their mother was remarkable; they were not. And today, as he passed by, she—without looking up from peeling potatoes—had called out, asked him to fetch an apple from the pantry, then added, too softly for the youngest digging through peelings to hear: “Your little boy and I need vitamins.” Joxter had nodded, slipped out as quietly as possible, and now marched towards the harbour, his cloak pulled tight against the biting wind and spiteful slanting rain. The gardens of the outskirts gave way to wooden houses and cobbled streets when someone called his name. Not the Mymble. Hodgkins. Probably on his way from the workshop to see old friends. “Where are you off to in this weather? What about dinner?” “Farewell.” A wonderfully convenient word it was. It meant both “I’ve made up my mind” and “I won’t explain.” But Hodgkins seemed to understand. Of course he did—he’d integrated nicely into provincial life and must have heard every rumour. Yes, the locals—as in all small towns (or oversized villages)—found their chief amusement in watching the streets and roads from behind curtains and fences, paying visits, trading gossip. The result? Everyone knew everything about everyone. Not just everything, but thrice as much as had ever actually happened. “Did you say goodbye to her?” Joxter tried to sidestep him in silence, but Hodgkins grabbed his shoulder, near-shouting: “Have you even thought what it’ll be like for her?” Joxter bared his teeth. That was precisely what he didn’t want to think about, because nothing good would come of it—any fool could see that. The Mymble, like him, paid no heed to gossip. But he’d been to enough dull, bored little towns to know that words and stares could escalate. Soot-scrawled slurs about a woman’s morals. Stones through windows. Children teased and poked—especially if they took after neither mother nor husband, but some passing rogue. And if there was a husband… There. He’d let his guard down. Images of how-things-go flickered behind his eyes. No matter. He’d toss them out. Not for the first time. “What’s there to think about?” he said, twisting free. No luck. Hodgkins was building his own inventions and had a grip like vice. “That’s just how Mumriks reproduce,” Joxter went on. “They turn up near some Mymble or Fillyjonk, then scarper, their spawn can’t fight instinct and runs away too, and grows up wild, no parents needed. I never knew my father, and never regretted it. So I’d be useless anyway.” Hodgkins shook the rain from his ears, and Joxter ducked behind his hat brim, avoiding the droplets—and eye contact. “You hate rules,” Hodgkins pressed, accusatory. “Why not break this rotten Mumrik tradition? Stay with your love and your child.” “No.” The conversation had already drained him. To escape, he added knowing it might earn him a punch: “And it’s not just her. Besides, this is your fault—you’re the one who told me she was married. Now there’s even more forbidden fruit at hand, not just another’s wife, but a friend’s. If I stay, who knows—” “You—!” Hodgkins shoved him away, finally releasing him. And Joxter left. Left without another word. Didn’t look back. Didn’t wonder if Hodgkins still stared at his back. Instead, he decided he hadn’t entirely lied. Until this moment, he’d never considered his friends’ sweethearts. That beast Fuzzy was still not to his liking, but the little thing Moomintroll had fished from the sea? Plump, soft… Yes, he could’ve easily flirted with her, and then he’d really have had to flee the island. So really, he’d saved himself the effort and trouble. The packet-boat wouldn’t leave for two hours. He’d spend them behind the ticket booth, wind and drizzle numbing him, hiding from the yellow glow of the town café where bored locals dissected who-was-with-whom. He’d freeze, catch cold, drift feverish between ferries and haylofts until the past season blurred into delirium. Then hibernation, and by spring, all dreams would melt with the snow. New lands, new trees, parks, hamlets, towns, cities… But what was the use in thinking of the future? What will be, will be; what’s gone is gone. A fine motto for a Mumrik. There was only now. The icy damp on his skin. The gnawing hunger. The grey sky bleeding into the grey sea. No other islands in sight—meaning this one, drilling holes into his back with its stares, would vanish just as surely. Out of sight, out of mind.