Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       The low-hanging sun glared in her eyes as Moominmamma raced down the country lane. Sea salt was itching in the scratches from Joxter’s claws, but she didn’t dare to stop and lick them clean. In her mind’s eye, a dozen red timers blinked insistently as always when she had been preparing an elaborate meal. One counting down to when the ribs should boil, another for soaking beans, a third for peeling and cooking beetroot, all perfectly synchronised to finish together, with extra time allotted for sandwich-making should hungry children come bursting into the kitchen… Tactical time management proved remarkably useful in culinary matters. But now the master clock, the one governing all others, had no numbers. Its hand jerked erratically across the blank face, rendering the subsidiary timers useless. The execution deadline remained unknown. “Wouldn’t see tomorrow”… Did that mean morning? Midnight? This very evening? If the latter, she must act alone immediately… but where? If the former, there might still be time to gather the family. Or summon help, her memory suggested. A schnaps postman rattled past on his bicycle, turning onto a farm track. Moominmamma skidded to a halt and doubled back, keeping low behind the hedgerow. The postman dismounted, extracted a newspaper and letter from his bag, and trudged across the meadow towards the farmhouse. Creeping towards his bicycle, Moominmamma peered into the remaining mailbag. The headline and photograph on the top newspaper confirmed her suspicions at once. She skimmed the article rapidly. Ah. Morning, 6:30. There was time—but precious little. And the place was not mentioned. Mentally apologising, she unhooked the heavy mailbag from the rack and commandeered the bicycle. The master timer began its steady countdown, the subsidiary clocks falling into line behind it. In the corner of her imaginary cookbook page, a new note appeared: Return the bicycle to the owner. Fortunately, she happened to be heading straight to the police station. Thoughts and wheels were whirring in tune. Moominpappa should have been at the trial. He should have told them it was Snufkin, not Joxter, in the dock. Did they not believe him? That might land him into trouble. She’d find out at the station. Moomintroll, no doubt, had argued with the police too—outside the courtroom—so she’d need to ask after him as well. Oh, and Little My could be anywhere… But at least Hodgkins had no reason to refuse help now. Not if she explained that Snufkin was nothing like his father. One weight lifted off her mind: it wasn’t her fault Snufkin had grown up fatherless all those years ago. When she’d first met Moomin (before he was Moominpappa), she had never quite warmed to Joxter. She had suspected he dragged Moomin into adventures not for fun, but to sort out his own problems, never lifting a paw to help in return. But she’d bitten her tongue, afraid her dislike was just jealousy… and Moomin never seemed to mind or even notice that imbalance. Then one day, Joxter had slipped into her kitchen while Moomin was out. Too close. Compliments dripping from his lips, that same vacant, half-interested gleam in his pale eyes. Hinting that Moomin was still young, still blind to a woman’s beauty. Then in a blink his chin on her shoulder, his paw on her hip. She had panicked, quietly drawn a very persuasive argument from her handbag, and ordered him off the island. He had looked mildly surprised—more than usual, anyway—and vanished. But when she later heard the Mymble, instead of a litter, had borne a single child who looked suspiciously like a mumrik, guilt gnawed at her. Had she robbed that baby of the father? Now, seeing the man Joxter truly was, she knew it had been for the best. But… if only she had told Moomin then. Warned him what kind of creature his friend really was. But she had doubted herself and wondered if she had overreacted. Maybe Joxter hadn’t meant harm. Maybe it was just his odd way of joking or a natural mumrik urge to break any rules. Or maybe he’d have stopped if she’d simply asked, politely… And Joxter had really been nice to Snufkin when resurfaced over all these years. The bicycle rattled on. No use dwelling on maybes now. The past was baked; this disaster needed fixing today. The police station was eerily quiet. The reception area stood empty, and when Moominmamma peeked into one of the offices, a frazzled Fillyjonk officer buried under stacks of paperwork barely glanced up before growling, “Close the door and don’t disturb me! See the duty officer down the hall.” Through the door, she could hear his grumbling: “No rest even on Sunday… first the trial, now a murder to file…” Her heart fluttered with anxiety as she made her way down the corridor. The duty room was spacious—a large desk, a portly Hemulen constable nursing an empty coffee cup, and half the room sectioned off by iron bars. And behind those bars… “Mamma! It’s absolutely dreadful! They’ve got Snufkin!” Moomintroll sprang up from the bench, Moominpappa close behind him. They both began talking over each other in their urgency to explain. At least they were safe, though Little My was conspicuously absent, as expected. “Quiet!” the Hemulen constable bellowed. Moominmamma raised a paw to silence her men as well, her mind already racing through this new complication. “Now, boys, are you hungry?” she asked, more to distract them than anything. “Not terribly,” admitted Moominpappa. “The constable here was kind enough to share some leftover pastries from his lunch.” “Not out of kindness!” the Hemulen interjected defensively. “Simply to avoid waste. Every morning I vow to diet for economy’s sake, and then by noon I’ve relapsed and bought enough food to feed a regiment and can’t possibly finish—” Moominmamma nodded sympathetically, remarking that her husband suffered similar lapses, before inquiring about the charges. The elder stood accused of perjury, the constable explained, while the younger had attempted to breach a restricted area and shoved an officer. “I only wanted to tell the prison warden,” Moomintroll protested, “that they’ve got the wrong mumrik!” “But why 'perjury'?” Moominmamma countered gently, her eyes tracing the details of the cluttered desk—a scallop shell on the lamp base, the seaside holiday advert pinned to the filing cabinet, the doodled wave patterns bordering official forms. “His testimony was perfectly true. A terrible mistake has been made, and an innocent suffers while the real culprit remains free.” “I could have proved it,” Moominpappa cut in, “had Snufkin not claimed not to know me, making me look a perfect fool! What has gotten into him?” Oh dear, thought Moominmamma. Much as she loved her husband, sometimes his occasional denseness could be… trying. “Not my department, madam,” the constable sighed. “I have no authority to pursue criminals or review cases, and no access to the files either. Those who do have gone home. Submit your appeal tomorrow at nine. As the duty officer, I merely guard detainees and take statements. And speaking of which!” He drew himself up officiously. “Do you have a crime to report? If not, I must ask you to—” “As it happens, I do. I found an abandoned bicycle in the fields and brought it in, in case the owner inquires. You’ll find it by the steps.” Now could she pick the cell lock in minutes? And then what? The windows were barred too, with no locks or hinges in sight, and any backdoor was likely to lead to the fenced yard… “I can’t leave my post, madam. You’ll have to bring it in yourself for proper logging.” Pity. No luck luring him out. She hurried to fetch the bicycle, already devising Plan C. “Fancy some coffee?” Producing a spare thermos from her bag, she shot her men a warning glance to stay quiet. The hemulen brightened, offering his mug, and soon they were deep in companionable chatter about family, childhood dreams, police salaries, retirement plans, and property prices, all while the timers in Moominmamma’s mind ticked relentlessly onward. At last, the moment ripened. She reached again into her bag, extracting a large, faceted transparent stone. “How sad to reach retirement without a home of one’s own… This topaz belonged to my great-grandmother,” she explained, etching a tiny sailboat on the cabinet glass with its edge. “Genuine. Worth enough to buy an island with a cottage five hundred miles south. Take it. You’re a good hemulen, you’ve earned this. Retire tonight. I’ll submit your resignation to the chief myself tomorrow.” The constable’s eyes darted between her, the gem, and the cottage ad… “Oh madam, I am not stupid.” He tried to sound angry, but his voice lacked steel. “You’d let them go after I leave, right? That’s absolutely against the rules! I can’t break law, you know!” Just as expected from a hemulen. But Moominmamma had an idea or two in stock. “But these are laws made by some… gaffsie, I guess. What about the laws of nature? Do you feel like you’ve come to this world to drive the desk—or for something different?” She cast a furtive glance at his model dream picture. “Like living in a small cosy house on a small cosy island overgrown with olives and cypresses, and sailing for a stroll?” His lips pursed, brow furrowed, paws clenched in a lock as if he was praying. And she added some more words. “Even without you, there are many hemulens meant to be policemen, the public duty won’t be left unattended. And even if perfectly innocent detainees flee, it’ll be someone else’s shift by then. You could still reach the marina before closing times and take your thrice removed cousin’s boat–you’ve told me he never uses it anyway. Hurry now, seize your chance!” With a strangled noise, the hemulen lunged for paper (the sheet with wave doodles) to scribble his resignation. Moomintroll flashed his mother a thumbs-up; Moominpappa blew her a silent kiss. Handcuffs, keys, and cap abandoned on the desk, the constable vanished into the evening. Moominmamma allowed herself one satisfied nod before turning to the cell door. “Darling,” she murmured as she worked the lock, “Snufkin lied to protect his father—and you. You have named yourself as Joxter’s friend, haven’t you? They’d have arrested you as an accomplice. Do thank him properly when we get him out. Now where’s Little My?” she asked Moomintroll. “I lost her near the prison,” he whispered, eyes shining with admiration. “Bet she’s inside by now. Might’ve even sprung Snufkin already! Then, probably, they’re waiting for us on the Adventure!” “Let’s hope so,” Moominmamma said, sweeping the constable’s abandoned handcuffs, forms, stamps, and desk seals into her bag. “Because we’ve got a boat problem…” Moominpappa had just reached for the inner door handle when—slowly, silently—it began opening on its own. Everyone froze. Moominmamma’s paw crept deeper into her handbag. She hated to play her strongest card so early, but— The door inched open just wide enough for half a hemulen or one weasling, but what slid through was… an upturned wastepaper basket. It bumped against Moominpappa’s feet and stopped. Then it fell aside. “Little My!” Moomintroll exclaimed too loud, and Moomimamma had to hush him. “Where’s Snufkin?” Moomintroll whispered urgently. Little My responded with a string of decidedly unladylike curses before Moominmamma hushed them all and ordered an immediate retreat from the building, not forgetting to slip the hemulen’s resignation letter under the dark, silent office door marked “Chief of Police.” Then she darted back to the station office. Yesterday she had noticed where another hemulen officer had put the entry records of her family, and today she had noticed where this constable placed the detainment papers. Better not leave any traces, names, signatures. Oh no, Moominpappa’s witness in court would remain in the records stored elsewhere. Outside, street lamps glowed softly, and younger townsfolk still strolled about. Two blocks away, they stopped at a secluded bench. Moominpappa was utterly lost, and Moomintroll only knew what the newspaper had reported, so Moominmamma silenced them and commanded Little My to brief them properly. “Right. It’s bollocks,” Little My reported bluntly. “I found brother dear, and we could’ve scarpered, but he’s in rough shape. Can’t even stand on his own,” (Moomintroll gasped) “but he’s still got some fight left. Hopes his dad’ll show. He gave me the address of Joxter’s hideout, but the old man’s done a runner,” (Moominmamma opened her mouth to reveal Joxter’s whereabouts but decided to let Little My finish) “and the place was crawling with cops!” (Now Moominpappa gasped.) “No matter,” Little My went on. “I played the sweet little girl, asked a uniformed oaf what was up. Turns out a milkman found undelivered bottles this morning, went inside, and —no old lady. Just signs of that mumrik bastard. Then the law had showed up, and the uniformed bastard said the rest was not for children to hear. Bet the Joxter guy had butchered the poor granny.” Moominpappa spluttered. “That’s absolute rubbish! Joxter is no cutthroat!” Moominmamma sighed. “Worse than a cutthroat, I’m afraid. He’s pure selfishness, indifferent to anyone’s suffering.” And she told it all—Joxter’s attack on her, the stolen boat, his cold dismissal of Snufkin’s plight. Moominpappa refused to believe it until she showed the claw marks raking her wrist. Little My vowed to bite Joxter off everything removable if they crossed paths again. “Anything else useful?” Moominmamma pressed. “What’s exactly wrong with Snufkin?” “Oh, right,” Little My snarled. “He mentioned being shot, but it was too groke-damn dark, and I’m not a cat. A leg, I guess, not the spine or guts, ‘cause he manages to pull himself up sitting. Also, execution is in the prison basement, no intercepting him underway. I can describe the layout, but no clue how you tall lot will get in. Oh, and there are some nasty critters called weaslings, but Snufkin said they’ve got pepper allergies, and that’s about the only good news.” Moominpappa brightened. “We could pose as a travelling circus!” Little My facepalmed. “Quiet, all of you,” Moominmamma ordered. “I need to think.” Weaslings would complicate matters. She knew this species, their combat skills, their feral habits. And weak spots—it was pink pepper, not just any pepper sort. Probably Joxter didn’t care to share that detail with Snufkin. Making weaslings serve anyone other than themselves… That told something of the authorities. The streetlamp flickered overhead as she mentally rearranged their options while her family fidgeted. Pepper, papers, Hodgkins and his resources, her handbag and everything it housed. A sharp whistle could summon a late swift or an early nightjar, fast wings to send a message, and by dawn, reinforcements would arrive. Then it would all be over quickly, brutally, resolved with the same blunt force these authorities wielded. Methods she despised. Methods that had driven her to flee to this very island years ago… The mere though was making her skin crawl. No.There had to be a peaceful solution. Not every official was a procedure-obsessed Hemulen! True, she had no proof Snufkin wasn’t Joxter, and the hour was late, but if she appealed openly, earnestly, to another soul’s mercy… Surely not everyone was like Joxter. Time and again, she’d met creatures who proved kinder, softer-hearted than they seemed. …But failure would be fatal. For Snufkin first, and then for Moomintroll’s shattered heart. Wasn’t that worth fighting for? Worth setting aside her own principles, just this once? She could still pass the dirty work to others, but what kind of cursed choice was that? Oh, she was running in circles. Stop that. Moominmamma straightened. “Darling,” she said quietly but firmly to her husband, “I don’t often ask anything of you. But now I must. I know you’re brave. I know you don’t fear responsibility. But this time, please, trust me. Moomintroll, Little My, this goes for you too. I know what must be done. But I need your full cooperation. Without questioning. Snufkin’s life depends on it. Understood?” “Yes, ma’am!” Moomintroll snapped to attention, saluting. Little My mirrored him silently. Moominpappa opened his mouth with an Are you certain? air, but Moominmamma fixed him with the same look she reserved for Stinky at his most incorrigible acts. The older moomin swallowed hard. “Aye-aye!” “Good. All of you, go to Hodgkins. Explain the situation. Persuade him to help—if it comes to it. But do nothing without me. No scattering. Be there, ready, when I return. Also, burn these papers.” She took the records bearing their names and facts out of the handbag. “And I’m trying the simple way first. Now march on!” They left, glancing back, as Moominmamma spread the stolen police forms and stamps across the vacated bench, ready to cover them with her apron, should an unwanted witness pass by. The “simple way”, of course, was anything but. But if she didn’t as much as try peace before force, she’d never forgive herself. And if she failed? Then she’d dirty her own paws. No passing the burden. No excess. Just the precise, terrible necessity—measured, controlled, and hers alone to wield. She picked up a pen and began to forge while the timers kept ticking in her mind.