Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       The prison looked even more terrifying at night. Even from the bush. Moomintroll shivered, and not just from the night chill. A hulking slab of concrete, squatting in the open behind high wire fences, watchtowers looming at each corner. “Oops, looks like the ninja stunt will be out of style here,” Pappa muttered in awe beside him. The searchlights were mercilessly bright, bleaching the sky black, though on their way here, he’d already noticed the first pale hints of dawn at the horizon. Uneasy, he glanced at Pappa. His father seemed nervous too, though it was hard to tell beneath the disguise. Before they had left, Mamma had dusted them both with grime from Hodgkins’ old blueprints, then smeared soot from the makeshift stove in black stripes across their face fur. “You’ll pass for bandit possums,” she had declared. “Or raccoons.” Though she had let Pappa keep his top hat for the sake of its useful space. So, it had been Moomintroll who patted Pappa’s paw reassuringly, careful so as not to dislodge the dirt, while Mamma rested her own paws on their shoulders. “Ready?” Moomintroll thought of Snufkin, alone and in pain in a cell somewhere inside, and fresh determination burned through him. “Yes.” “Likewise,” Pappa said firm. “Born ready,” Little My’s voice came from somewhere near their feet. She had fashioned herself a cloak and headscarf from Hodgkins’ oil-stained cleaning cloths, blending into the shadows. On the prison’s concrete, Moomintroll realised, she’d be practically invisible. Mamma looked different too: no apron, wearing the stolen police cap, her expression focused and unnervingly calm. It was strange. And wonderful. Who else had a mother this brilliant? She cuffed Moomintroll and Pappa together with a single pair of handcuffs, rigged to release when needed. Little My, with a screwdriver tucked behind a rope belt like a greatsword, was stored into Pappa’s hat. Then, as one, they stepped out of the shadows and toward the prison gate. Mamma rapped sharply on the side door. “Constable Moominlass, delivering dangerous burglars!” she barked, every inch a stern hemulen-like officer. A schnaps guard peered out, eyed the “prisoners,” and waved them inside, though he tried to stop Mamma at the threshold. (Moomintroll’s heart lurched.) She flourished an official-looking paper, stamped and sealed. “Orders to deliver them to the warden personally.” The schnaps hesitated, muttered something about “disturbing the boss before an execution,” but finally jerked his head toward the interior. Mamma shoved Moomintrough roughly. “Move it!” She was a really fantastic actress. Another guard, this time an actual hemulen, lead the group to the building. Inside, the room was stark. Metal benches, concrete floors, harsh electric lights. As instructed, Moomintroll studied the layout, matching it to Hodgkins’ schematics. There, the vent Little My had used before, above the filing cabinet. The right-hand door must be the one leading to the inner courtyard corridor, fifteen paces to the stairs at the left, then— Heavy footsteps and irritated voices echoed from behind another door. A towering hemulen entered, clearly the warden, judging by the way the first hemulen snapped to attention (Moominmamma merely stood upright). Behind the warden, a weasling slithered. Moomintroll gulped at the sight of its smooth, predatory movements. The weasling headed straight for Moominpappa, sniffing the air, and prodded his top hat. It toppled. A torn paper bag of reddish powder exploded into the weasling’s muzzle. After busting a pepper sachet, Little My dropped to the ground, hidden behind Moominpappa, and a second later, the weasling let out a shrill shriek before collapsing into a sneezing heap on the floor. By then, Moomintroll and his father had already surrounded the junior hemulen, tackling him from both sides and pinning him to the ground, cuffing him to a bolted-down metal table. The hemulen warden inhaled sharp behind their backs, not a sound or movement more. Moomintroll looked up. Mamma held a revolver levelled at the warden’s chest. Where had she even gotten it? The guards' holsters were all fastened shut, but her handbag was slightly ajar. “If you don’t want new holes in your uniform,” she said in an icy, unfamiliar tone, “you’ll do exactly as I say.” Even desperately sneezing, the weasling was twitching too unpredictably, so they duct-taped him to the table (tape smuggled in Moominpappa’s hat). They disarmed all three officers, relieving them of their weapons and handcuffs. Moomintroll itched to apologise, but he remembered his mother’s warning. No unnecessary talking. He picked up one of the pistols, a heavy, black, lacking the revolver cylinder of mamma’s weapon. Yikes… He really hoped they wouldn’t have to use this; his hands and legs were shaking enough as it was. Moominpappa gathered all the weapons into his top hat and donned the weasling’s cap, tossing another one to Moomintroll. Done with cutting external phone lines, Little My snatched the warden’s keys, and Moominmamma ordered him to phone every post over the intercom and command all personnel to report unarmed to Cell 208 in exactly half an hour. “Not a word more, unless you fancy losing a kidney.” Little My let out an admiring whistle, and Moomintroll couldn’t agree more. His mother was orchestrating everything with terrifying precision, recalling details like post numbers as if she were in her own kitchen, not a building she’d only seen on blueprints. In a strained voice, the warden relayed the orders over the wall telephone. Then Moominmamma commanded her little gang and their hostage to head to the second floor, to Cell 206. “And don’t even think about sounding the alarm or so much as twitching an eye!” The warden was sweating, his eye twitching, his voice trembling. “The Chancellor will be furious if the execution is disrupted. You don’t want to anger him.” “The Chancellor isn’t here,” Moominmamma snapped, nudging him with the revolver’s barrel. “But I am.” They made it to the second floor without trouble. On the stairs, they passed a lone schnaps guard, who saluted and hurried past on some errand. In a cramped alcove, Moominmamma ordered the warden to first open the cell opposite, then Snufkin’s. “Two doors across the corridor will make a bulletproof barrier, and you’ll cover the gap between them.” But Moomintroll was already rushing into the cell. Blinded by the sudden shift from bright light to darkness, he froze in panic. Had they been too late? “Snufkin?” he called out. A faint rustle came from the corner. His eyes adjusted just enough to make out a dark silhouette curled up there. He stumbled forward, reaching out carefully to take his friend’s hand. “You shouldn’t have,” Snufkin rasped, barely audible. “Why are you –go away while you can! —” Moomintroll didn’t listen. He draped Snufkin’s arm over his shoulders, hooked a hand under his side, and lifted him with care, carrying him out of the cell only to set him down again behind the shelter of the opposite cell door blocking the corridor from the gallery and inner courtyard. Snufkin hissed in pain anyway, face twisting. No, Moomintroll couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered fiercely, “but what do you mean, ‘shouldn’t’? If we hadn’t come after you, you’d be—” He faltered. “And then I’d have waited for you all spring, and summer, and every year after, never knowing if you were in trouble or just—just tired of me?” Snufkin looked away. Moomintroll bit his tongue. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. And now, finally, he could see how pale and gaunt Snufkin was, his palms ice-cold, with red strips of bruised skin on the wrists. A glimpse of stained white bandage between Snufkin’s slitted boot top and rugged pants leg, dark brown rather than moss green. Wait, was that blood? “Never mind,” Moomintroll gasped, plopping down beside him and pulling him into a hug, as if he could will warmth back into his friend (and maybe steady himself). “It’s alright. Everything’s alright now. Mamma has got it all under control. Mamma, when will Hodgkins get here?” “We’re a bit ahead of schedule,” came Mamma’s voice from behind the open doors, only her back visible. “Our ‘carriage’ should arrive in ten minutes. We wait here. It’ll be fine, Snufkin. No need to worryfor us. Now, for further planning—what are your injuries?” After a pause and inhale, Snufkin reported, weak but concise. Moomintroll fretted even more. What, those people could shoot living beings in earnest? Would they shoot now, too? Hidden behind the doors, he couldn’t see outside and only heard his mother’s quiet threats, the warden’s sharp orders to someone to get inside a cell, muffled voices around the corner. His gaze darted between mamma’s steadfast back and Snufkin’s hunched form, his heart aching. His friend seemed smaller somehow. Then he realised why. “Your hat,” he whispered, nodding toward the cell. “Is it still in there, or—?” “Or.” Snufkin croaked, then managed a faint smile. “Lost. Still… glad the harmonica’s with you. And… Nice fur colour.” Moomintroll nodded—and then nearly howled in frustration, barely keeping his composure. The harmonica! He had brought it with him, only to leave it aboard the Adventure the previous morning for want of pockets. And now that wretched Joxter was sailing away with it, along with their boat! What an idiot he’d been! He should’ve left it safe at home! “Posing as bandit possums,” he tried to joke anyway. Little My’s voice cut through the tension as she reported to Mamma: “All done, I locked them in. You won’t believe it, there were already a couple of pathetic blokes in there. I swung the door open and said, ‘Scram, you’re free! ’ And they just sat there going, ‘Nah, our charges are minor, they’ll add more escape time on top.’ So they stayed put. With the guards. Honestly, some people! They absolutely deserve this police-state nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense, it’s state-guaranteed order!” the warden grumbled. “And you won’t escape justice ei—OW!” “Classic Little My,” Moomintroll muttered, hoping to coax a smile from Snufkin. But his friend only bit his lip, though at least he didn’t pull his hand away or shrink back. How much longer must would waiting take? Just then, Mamma called for Pappa. He squeezed past the barricade of doors and returned a minute later with a flask. Finally! During the planning, Mamma had mentioned giving Snufkin a short-acting fortifying drink just before the Ocean Orchestra arrived, to help him manage getting onboard. Moomintroll took the flask from his father, unscrewed the cap, his paws trembling. He’d never had to help someone drink like this before—unless you counted playacting lovestruck couples with Snorkmaiden. But Snufkin managed to grip the flask himself, only needing a little steadying as he gulped the contents down in several strained swallows. He sat still for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, then nodded. “Strong stuff. I’ve… made something similar before.” He blinked, his face seeming to regain a little colour, as much as the sickly electric light allowed to see. Then he looked up at Moomintroll and suddenly asked, tense: “What about Joxter? Did you see my father? Is he alright?” Moomintroll’s stomach dropped. This was the question he had dreaded. Mamma had warned him during planning—Don’t mention Joxter’s betrayal yet. That stood to reason: if someone had told Moomintroll mid-mission that his own father had abandoned him and was, in fact, a piece of bastard, he’d have either crumpled or flown into denial and rage. Either way, he’d have lost focus and done something stupid. And the last thing he wanted was to upset or anger Snufkin now. But his prolonged silence seemed to frighten Snufkin more than any words could. “Moomintroll? Is he alive? Tell me.” What do I say? Where’s my quick thinking now? “Y-yes! Yes, of course he’s alive,” Moomintroll stammered, scrambling for an honest expression. “I haven’t seen him, but Mamma did, though you’d best not distract her now, she’ll explain later, on the plane… But he’s safe. Really. We’ll talk properly soon, Hodgkins will be here any—” Snufkin nodded, then went very still. Abruptly, he turned toward the wall. “I think I hear engines.” Moomintroll strained his ears but in vain. Well, Snufkin had always had a keen hearing. And then the sirens flared from the walls around. “M-Madam, don’t shoot!” the warden wailed, his voice cracking. “I swear, it wasn’t me!” What Mamma said in response—to him, to Little My or to Pappa, who both darted outside the barricade—Moomintroll couldn’t make out over the din. Just in case, he hooked Snufkin’s arm over his shoulder again and braced his paws, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He locked eyes with his friend. Snufkin looked tense, his lips moving, but the words were lost in the sirens' shriek. Even Moominpappa’s panting report, when he returned, was swallowed by the noise. Moominmamma retreated behind the barricade, keeping a firm grip on the warden’s belt as he floundered outside. Then— Silence. Deafening, disorienting. No, not true silence, just the echo of the alarms fading, replaced by shouts and stomping boots from the floor below. Snufkin was the first to speak, his voice thin but clear: “The engines—they’ve stopped.” “Mamma?” Moomintroll blurted, but before she could answer— “Attention, intruders.” The voice boomed from the ceiling, tinny and distorted, oozing bureaucratic disdain. “All exits are secured. Release the hostage and surrender immediately.” Moomintroll flattened his ears. Pappa snorted. “Just a loudspeaker, lad.” Then, to Mamma: “Do the guards have spare keys for the stairwell grates?” Ah so that's where he’d gone earlier! And Little My must’ve—yes, there she was, skidding to a halt beside them. “Locked the other stairs!” she announced. Moominmamma nodded. “Spare keys exist, but they’re in the safecase. And the safe key…” She jangled the warden’s belt. The warden whimpered. “That’s—that’s the police down there. They are not my subordinates!” Little My was already tugging Pappa’s tail. “Lift me to the vents. I’ll scout.” Then a new voice boomed. Amplified, raw, dripping with quiet fury: “Well, well. Constable Moominlass, or whatever you really are.” (“What an honour,” Mamma murmured. “The Chancellor himself. Rather early, despite the phone line cut. Good thing we’ve come way before the scheduled time.”) “Reinforcements won’t save you. We don’t negotiate with terrorists. Major Hemulenfors, you’ll be posthumously decorated. Your widow shall receive a state pension.” “What?!” The warden’s voice cracked. “But Your Excellency—!” Mamma shoved him forward, yelling “Run!” He hit the floor with a thud as she leapt back, just as gunfire erupted. The doors shuddered under the barrage; some concrete chips clicked on the floor under the blind wall opposite to the entryway. Moomintroll froze, his blood turning to ice. Judging by the scrambling and then footfall, the warden did manage to get out of target range. Across their nook, Pappa let out a forced, cheerful “Wow!” “Boys,” Mamma said, calm as ever, “move tighter to your door and wall. They’re shooting through the stairwell grate—they can’t see you yet, but best be safe. Snufkin, what about the engines?” “They’ve stopped,” he whispered, strained. “Must’ve been police vans. Nothing more.” He opened his mouth as if to add something, then thought better of it. Moomintroll understood anyway. The unspoken question hung between them: Where’s Hodgkins? Instead of voicing it, he carefully shifted Snufkin as Mamma had instructed, away from the sliver of light between the barricade doors. Snufkin didn’t make a sound, though he paled again. From around the corner came the clang of metal, furious shouts, a crash, then gunfire. Through the gap in the barricade doors slithered a small, grey, gleefully giggling bundle of Little My. “They tried tossing up a rope ladder,” she announced, brandishing a slightly bent screwdriver. “So I tossed it right back down! But if they fetch a proper ladder or come at us from both sides…” She turned to Mamma, eyes gleaming. “Got any more of that pepper? I guess even hemulens would hate it, not just those weaselly guards. Chuck me back in the vents, I’ll teach ’em a lesson! And where’s that long-eared inventor oaf of yours with the plane?!” “Probably just tightening the last bolts before takeoff,” Moomintroll declared with forced confidence. Not for Little My—his dad was already hoisting her back toward the vent—but for Snufkin, who had curled in on himself again, lips trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible but cutting through the chaos. “If I’d been faster…” “Don’t be silly!” Moomintroll rushed to reassure him. “This isn’t your fault, it’s—” “Nothing dire has happened yet,” Mamma interrupted, peering through the bulletproof glass of the door’s reinforced window. Moomintroll realised, with a jolt, that he’d nearly blurted out It’s Joxter’s fault! If she didn’t stop him… How did she always manage to overhear their whispers while tracking the fray outside? With effortless precision, she plucked a police pistol from Pappa’s discarded top hat (now serving as a makeshift waste bin), clicked something into place, and handed it to Pappa. “Aim high into the far-right corner, past the stairwell grate. Just to scare them into cover while I…” She steadied her own revolver in both paws. Moominpappa offered her the heavier police firearm, but she refused. “Unfamiliar model, untested.” And she nuzzled his cheek before nudging him into position. Gunfire erupted—Pappa’s frantic shots from behind the door, Mamma’s single, calculated round aimed low and left. She ducked back just as return fire blasted into the ceiling, followed by a wild, prolonged shriek and chaotic trumping. “D-did you just—the Chancellor—?” Moomintroll stammered. Moominmamma stood, dusting herself off. “Goodness, no. I just chipped his wolpertinger bodyguard’s horn. Fine guards, but turn into absolute wrecks if their antlers get scratched. Poor lad is probably shoving over their own men right now.” Moomintroll snorted despite himself, glancing at Snufkin (See? We’re holding on!), then realised he was crushing his friend’s hand. He loosened his grip, exhaled. “It’ll be alright!” Fresh gunfire rang out, closer now, right around the corner on the second floor, then dissolved into sneezes and a thud. Just like in the prison’s reception room what felt like hours ago. A weasling? Overhead, tiny feet scampered; a yelp echoed from the cell. Little My had landed hard. “You hurt?” Moominmamma called. “Only my butt from falling down,” My grumbled, bouncing to the barricade, furious as ever. Her cloth cloak spotted a couple of round holes at the fringes. “He heard me in the vents, shot blind. Hah! I’m faster than sound, but the jerk made lots of perfect pinholes to pepper him.” She bared her teeth. “Any usable gun left? I’ll finish the job, he’s around the corner, sneezing but still armed. Sure you don’t want to hurt anyone, but I do, very much, no qualms.” “No, Little My,” Mamma said in the voice she used to invite children to tea. “Their guns hold ten rounds, and he has emptied his entire clip hunting you.” Little My rolled her eyes in exasperation, then planted her paws on her hips and glared at Snufkin, then oddly, nodded at Moomintroll. “Remember what I told you before parting? Now’s high time. ’Cos this looks properly dire.” Moomintroll’s gaze darted between Little My and Snufkin, but the mumrik was staring upwards, unresponsive. “Oi, don’t ignore me, I’m not fooled, there’s nothing up there!” Little My snapped. Then Moomintroll heard it too. A growing, mechanical chatter.