Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       Without her apron, she felt naked; in a police cap, utterly out of place. Yet the disguise had slipped her past the first line of guards at the town hall: police uniform, an “urgent & confidential” report stamped with official seals, assurances that the Chancellor had been notified and was expecting her. Casually, she had verified with the sentry: “The Chancellor’s quarters are third floor, south wing, right?” Logic and intuition had served her well. Now, in hushed upstairs corridors hung with oil paintings, she stood before a leather-clad door, its bell-pull silent when tugged—too distant to hear, or disconnected. She knocked once, then louder. Pity there’d been no time to bake a pie.The groceries had all been closed already. Blink.The mental timer for calling reinforcements flickered red and died. She was well and truly on her own now. But then she discerned shuffling footsteps. The peephole gleamed. Moominmamma adjusted her cap precisely centre, squared her stance symmetrically: if no offering, then at least the appearance of order to impress its devotee. “What is it, constable?” grumbled the voice behind the door. “Apologies, sir! Urgent message from Miss Hemuless, sir!” She kept the forged document tucked away. Best not risk the Chancellor recognising counterfeit stationery just yet. Her pulse steadied. This would work. It had to. The entrance hall was as spacious as a sitting room and unexpectedly cosy, with a settee, side table and reading lamp. But the Chancellor clearly had no intention of inviting his guest further in. He plonked himself on the settee while she remained standing stiffly at attention. At last, she got a proper look at him: he still resembled that childhood photo — tousled hair, still slightly crooked teeth, one ear still sticking out, eyes still squinting. Only the thin moustache was new, and the dressing gown tied with pedantic precision. Ah yes, and the faint whiff of alcohol, the smear of red lipstick on his chin. Oh dear. Not the best timing… Chances of success dropped by several notches. “Constable Moominlass, sir. Apologies again for the late intrusion, sir. Miss Hemuless couldn’t reach you by phone,” Moominmamma bluffed, guessing that the Chancellor had disconnected his telephone just as he had disabled the doorbell. And her childhood pet-name felt strange to her tongue after all those years, “so she asked me to deliver her additional considerations regarding today’s case before it is too late.” “Get on with it. The hour is not the best for lectures.” “With respect, sir --” Moominmamma began, radiating sincere warmth and approval. Sometimes when dealing with frightening (or frightened) creatures, she imagined them as children—her own best child—mentally tucking them in with a whispered I love you darling, I’m so proud of you. And somehow, they always sensed this unspoken care, responding, becoming better versions of themselves… “Upon more research, Miss Hemuless concluded that public executions make martyrs, not examples. The children are not scared by death and will draw his likeness in chalk and charcoal on walls and fences. In this case, life imprisonment would be more appropriate…” “I must disagree with the esteemed Miss Hemuless,” the Chancellor said sceptically as he retrieved a small comb out of sleeve and brushed thin hair sleek and level over the sticking ear. “It’s the parents who must be scared. They’ll wipe that adoration off their little runts,” his perfect composure cracked for a second, “with belts and rods once they know what happens to the lawbreakers and those who idolise them.” Oh my. A difficult case indeed. “Then allow me to add, sir — for those who have lost loved ones. Another’s death won’t bring them back. Vengeance won’t fill the emptiness in their souls. Only forgiveness can heal them…” “Constable,” the Chancellor interrupted, reaching under the coffee table for a small case and taking dark glasses out. As he put them on, his posture stiffened, his voice grew harder. Moominmamma felt the connection between them, however feeble, snap as loud as the glasses case did. “You mistake governance for grief counselling. The state cares for the hundreds of citizens who feel no grief, only fear for their own lives and thirst for justice. It’s that thirst I must quench.” His voice dropped to an almost growl, his smile crooked and almost pleasured. Moominmamma had known that beyond indifferent creatures like Joxter, there existed those who actually enjoyed others' suffering, and she realised with dawning horror that she was facing one now. He was clearly adept in hiding the little defects, both outward and mental, but the glee leaked. The meticulous way he arranged the closed case along invisible lines on the table didn’t bode well either. “Constable,” he purred on, “you must have heard of the today’s addition to the case. The said terrorist killed a defenceless old hemulen lady, just like you, in her house, dismembered her body, part hidden in the cold cellar, part gone, probably eaten, and had the temerity to stay at the crime scene for a couple of weeks. How can you still be that lenient to him? You might well be in her place.” Moominmamma shivered remembering the officer mentioning another murder case at the police station. A couple of weeks—it must be Joxter. No wonder her pleas for grace failed. Then she must try the ‘wrong person’ argument. And pardon, an ‘old lady just like you’?! Another cold gust turned out to be draft from the opening door behind her. Two guards flanked the settee—a tall wolpertinger and a weasling whose paw hovered near an unholstered pistol. Slowly, she moved her paw away from the handbag on her left elbow. Oh crap, the Chancellor must’ve pressed an alarm button while taking the glasses. “I only wished to prevent an irreversible mistake,” she said very quietly. “There have been multiple reports today suggesting two mumriks may be on the island… that perhaps they’ve detained the wrong one…” “Are you suggesting,” the Chancellor said, losing patience, “that my officers made an error? That they’re incompetent? That I appoint unfit officials? That I’m mistaken? That our state system is so flawed it allows unqualified persons to power? That perhaps the system itself should be changed?” The floor seemed to turn to thin ice beneath her. “No, not at all, I never meant--” Moominmamma stammered, hear ears flattened in perfect deference. “My apologies, Your Excellency. The… enthusiasm of the first day in service.” She gestured vaguely toward her cap while recollecting the bribed hemulen’s last name to support a cover story. “Constable Larsen had retired today, I had to enter duty on a short prompt. Permission to return to my post, sir?” The gaffsie studied her in prolonged silence, but Moominmamma maintained her composure, her expression the perfect blend of professional regret and dutiful enthusiasm. At last, he gave a curt nod. “Dismissed, Constable.” With measured haste, she turned on her heel and retraced her steps down the carpeted corridor, through the bare administrative wing, descending the stairs… A nagging unease prickled her neck. No sound of a closing door or clicking lock followed her departure. Were they watching? Very well, she’d play the part. A proper constable would return to the station. Let’s just hope no one had noticed the missing hemulen constable yet, or that the other officer was still drowning in paperwork… Outside, on the station steps, she paused, retrieving her powder compact. The tiny mirror showed an empty stretch of fence behind her, but its shadow cast by streetlamps on the cobbles twisted oddly for a fraction of a second. There. A tagalong. Someone lithe. A weasling, most likely. She marched demonstratively into the station, then tiptoed to the holding cell. It was still empty—and there stood the “found” bicycle she had supposedly brought in earlier. Perfect. She could now plausibly claim to be returning it to its owner. Hoisting the bicycle, she emerged onto the street and carried it to a narrow alley before mounting it properly. The cobbles rattled beneath the wheels as she pedalled, mind racing. How to break away from surveillance? Her handbag might have pink pepper in paper sachets, but that was out of the question for being too obvious and alarming. Scanning the surroundings for a prompt, a hint, she cruised along the streets into outskirts with low private houses climbing hills, their gardens dotted with trees. And o glory, in one alleyway, she glimpsed a post office signboard, and turned there, still looking around. Oh. Wasn’t there a lovely hill to the right? Momentum carried her up the slope, where she turned the bicycle right back, then sent it down in a reckless dash. Drawing on her brief circus adventure with Moominpappa in their youth, she launched herself onto an apple tree branch above the street, letting the bicycle fly on its own right to the post office doors… Well, a bit off the aim, into a flowerbed, crushing tender gladioluses. Moominmamma gritted her teeth and mentally apologised to the gardeners; she felt their pain as hers. Here we go, down a bad road. Add trespassing. A quick drop into the garden, a pat to distract the startled mutt, a scramble over the fence to the next street—and she was sprinting back the way she had come. Outside Hodgkins’ house, she loitered in the shadows for ten precious minutes, watching for pursuers. Clear. The courtyard stood empty, but light spilled from the house. Good. Hodgkins had let them in. He was with them, then. On the threshold, she removed the police cap and finally tied her familiar apron back in place. Inside, joyful exclamations greeted her. “Well? How did it go?” Moomintroll asked, eyes shining as he peered behind her hopefully. She shook her head, and his shoulders slumped instantly. She went to pull him into a tight hug, noticing the sprawl of blueprints and hand-drawn scribbles covering Hodgkins' large worktable. “Oh, you’re already planning?” “Yep!” Little My piped up, scampering across the papers. “Mind you, the old long-ears here designed that ugly prison himself! I said we should nick a fire engine, ram the gates, and blast the guards with the hose. But Mr. Killjoy” She jerked a thumb at Hodgkins, “says it won’t work.” “Fire engines aren’t built for ramming,” the host muttered. “But first I must ask you one thing, Moominmamma. Because I know Moomintr… Moominpappa’s imagination is too vivid, and young Moomintroll sounds too… biased, but your word I can rely upon. Is Joxter’s son really as innocent as they describe?” Little My growled and cursed for being disregarded, and Moominmamma hurried to testify that Snufkin was indeed a fine young man and a good friend. Hodgkins nodded and patted the table inviting her to join. Moominmamma bent over the town map and blueprints, surprised at how easily she could still read architectural plans. At first, she elaborated an idea of stealing a police van, but who’d drive it? Hodgkins was the only qualified driver, but he would be needed by his airplane, and there were too many ways to intercept the van or block its way. Alright… “Hodgkins, what’s around the prison?” “An empty perimeter strip for visibility.” “Could your plane land there, then take off again?” “No, not enough space, but—” “I still say we go with the travelling circus idea!” Moominpappa cut in. “Worked every time! Remember in Lime Valley—” “Darling,” Moominmamma interrupted him gently, “next time. Hodgkins, you said 'but'…?” “Ah! Yes!” Hodgkins brightened. “Actually, the Ocean Orchestra is rather… disabled right now because I’ve been exploring vertical takeoff options recently. Me and Snork, we’ve discussed the drafts earlier today. If we manage it, we could land right on the prison’s glass roof. It withstands weather and small-arms fire, but not the plane’s weight…” “They discussed, my foot,” Little My grumbled. “Meaning it’s nowhere near ready and won’t be for months. And here I am, about to have fewer siblings for once, rather than more.” “My! That’s horrible!” Moomintroll gasped. “Actually,” Hodgkins said, slightly offended, “with Snork’s help, we could do it in three or four hours. But the plane is under guard at the military park…” As Little My launched into graphic descriptions of what she’d do to the guards, Moominmamma quizzed Hodgkins about security protocols. But her gaze kept drifting to the corner. There, on a stool, Snork sat, clutching a cardboard propeller and staring into space with wide, unblinking eyes. Oh dear. The poor lad’s in shock. She’d need to calm him down, and quickly. And oh, how she missed having a proper kitchen right now. A pot of tea and a stack of pancakes would do wonders for everyone’s nerves. Moominmamma surveyed the room before making her way to Snork. “We truly need your help,” she said softly, giving his paw the lightest of touches. She remembered how he disliked physical contact. “This isn’t like that Fillyjonk reverse theft farce,” he muttered. “This is actual lawbreaking. Resistance against the authorities. I can’t be part of this. I mustn’t.” “Why not?” “And it’s not lawbreaking!” Moominpappa interjected. “It’s liberation from tyranny! A revolution against bureaucratic oppression!” “A revolution?!” Snork gasped, horrified. “That’s even worse! Mrs. Moomin, my sister and I—our parents are very important people. They can’t risk their reputations. That’s why they sent us to the middle of nowhere in the first place—so we wouldn’t accidentally ruin their careers!” Poor dear. They’d never mentioned their parents before, but Moominmamma knew it wasn’t out of indifference. It was hurt. Deep down, the children still longed for their mum and dad. Even Sniff, mercenary as he was, had been overjoyed to reunite with Muddler and Fuzzy. And Snufkin himself, so fiercely independent, so grown-up, had still reached out for his father… Even if it was a mistake. “Listen,” Moominmamma crouched to meet Snork’s eyes. “I understand missing your family, not wanting to disappoint them. But they haven’t visited in ages, and they certainly won’t turn up tomorrow, so they’ll never know what you do here. But your friends need you. That brilliant mind, those clever paws. Look, Hodgkins is risking his career too, and it’s his own to lose. Hodgkins, you’re absolutely certain? You’ll have to leave the island and your position for good.” “Quite sure,” Hodgkins said cheerfully. “Mechanics matter more to me than serving any particular government. I’ll find work anywhere. Snork, what matters most to you? I like how you think. Would be grand to build something together— Oh! Muddler! By the groke, I can’t leave him behind. He and Oshun Oxtra's name are the only things left of my brother, after all! And he’d be lost without me!” Moominmamma frowned. Muddler was even more accident-prone than Moominpappa, but abandoning him would be cruel. “If you’re worried about your parents, Snork,” she said, returning to the matter at hand, “we’ll disguise you. The others could use disguises too.” He gave a half-hearted nod. She stood, retrieving an old kerosene lamp from the shelf and setting it before him. “Do you think you could turn this and a sheet of metal—Pappa, fetch that steel barrel bottom from the yard—into a stove? I’ll make pancakes. Moomintroll, wash that bolt tin at the pump, we’ll use it for batter. And that one for coffee.” “I have a coffee pot and spirit stove,” Hodgkins offered. “And coffee.” “Splendid! Pepper? Sugar? Perhaps… spirits? A container for clean water? Though I doubt we’ll find eggs or flour, unless the neighbours can spare some…” She rummaged through her bag. “Ah! Baking powder and vanilla essence might still be in here.” Snork, gradually distracted, turned his attention to the task. Hodgkins assisted, their conversation drifting into technicalities—propellers, perhaps—that Moominmamma no longer followed. “I’ll ask the neighbours for flour and eggs,” Little My announced, with such menace that Moominmamma felt compelled to add: “Be careful please. Don’t get caught, you have a vital role later.” “Obviously,” My smirked, vanishing into the night. Good. Everyone was occupied, focused, their nerves steadied by familiar work. “What’s the plan?” Moomintroll asked, returning with the cleaned tins. “First, supper,” Moominmamma declared. “Then Hodgkins, Snork, and I will go to the plane, get through the security, and they’ll modify it urgently. Later, Little My and I…” This was the part of planning she hated most: assigning roles. Deciding whom to put in harm’s way, whom to offend by leaving behind… She had so hoped she’d never have to do this again. “I’m coming with you!” Moomintroll sprang up from the half-assembled stove, his fur bristling like a hedgehog’s spines. He leaned forward, eyes blazing with uncharacteristic fierceness. “I’ll follow your plan exactly. I trust you, Mamma. Please let me! You know… I have to see him!” Moominmamma studied her son, long and intense. No longer the round-cheeked toddler who hid behind her apron during thunderstorms. Not as reckless as his father, but just as stubborn. And willing to move mountains for his friend. If only he’d realise it’s more than friendship already… But the prison infiltration would be the most dangerous part. Her heart clenched like a fist as she nodded. “And me?” Moominpappa piped up, puffing out his chest. “Shall I provide a diversion? Scale the walls under cover of darkness, disguised as a ninja?” “No, darling, you—” She faltered. Should she take him along? But his joints creaked these days, and rheumatism flared in damp weather. An image of her dear husband bent and clutching at his back flashed before her eyes. Send him with Hodgkins and Snork? The aerial operation was too critical to risk his… creative interpretations of engineering. Yet he’d built their home, hadn’t he? And once he had sailed the Oshun Oxtra… Yet he had failed to repair the lighthouse lamp... For a brief moment of cowardice, she considered doping him and stacking at the plane until everything was over. No. That would deal a much deeper wound to his pride and trust than any injuries could. “Dearest?” he prompted. The mental timers ticked mercilessly. A decision was to be delivered now. She looked into his warm brown eyes, still bright with the boyish mischief she’d fallen for, and sighed. We’re a family. If I trust our son, how can I deny my husband? There was liniment in her bag for his back. And if the thought of her loved ones in danger made her tremble… well, she’d borrow courage from their bravery. “We’ll all handle the distraction,” she declared. “Details later. Ah, Little My, back so soon? Excellent. Now listen, my dears, your mission tonight is to rest properly after supper. You have four hours to sleep.” Time flowed onward. Pancakes now. She stirred sleepy herbs from her bag’s depths into the tea out of courtyard mint. The guards at the aircraft hangar wouldn’t question Sunday night treats brought by a nice moomin police lady after the high-profile trial presented as almost a nation-wide holiday. Later, a cup for Muddler too (with whispered warnings to Fuzzy). Less hindrance that way. And Fuzzy was nimble and careful enough to help the inventors. Check the inventors' timeline, sync the ground assault. New timers bloomed in her mind, interlocking like clockwork. Wake up Muddler and Fuzzy now, inform them of the small trip, help them with packing, and see they don’t fuss too much or too loud. Breakfast before departure, light but fortifying. Liniment for Pappa’s back. Disguises for all. Scrounge medical supplies, or at least cook a stimulant to keep Snufkin conscious till the plane. And for herself? Oh, a whole twenty minutes of sleep.