Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       A deafening crash shook the building. Glass rained into the courtyard as the roof caved in, revealing the glint of metal before billowing white steam swallowed half the space. “Go!” Mamma commanded, quiet but forceful. “Hold onto paws! Little My, grab any tail you can!” Moomintroll had no free paws, his were full, but Pappa hauled him forward by the elbow, following Mamma’s barely visible silhouette. The distance was short, but police bullets whizzed blindly through the fog. Then Pappa let go, scrambling upwards. Mamma appeared at Moomintroll’s side, pressed a finger to her lips, and thrust a rope ladder into his grip through the rails barring the runway from the inner courtyard. Above, the tip of Pappa’s tail vanished into the mist. “Don’t climb. Just hold on,” she whispered. Moomintroll gripped a rung, fumbled for a foothold, and clutched Snufkin tighter. To his relief, Snufkin wrapped his arms around Moomintroll’s neck. He weighed less than expected for a creature just a tad shorter than the moomin. Moomintroll felt so very soft and vulnerable in the open, after the relative safety of their barricade. He wanted to collapse into a dot and at the same time, to wrap around Snufkin. The ladder lurched upwards, and in a second, something like teeth of steel caught Moomintroll’s tail tip, yanked so hard he almost yelped. He dared not looking down, but the grip released him just as sudden. Something like feral growl from below seemed to bore through the roaring engines, the ladder shuddered, but Moomintroll held tight, screaming inside. He couldn’t even tell if the ladder was moving up or just swaying in place… Ah, it was. The steam thinned, whipped into spirals by propeller gusts. And up there, dawn was breaking. Then the ladder reeled into the plane’s belly. Pappa yanked his son aboard, dumping him onto the rubber-matted floor, then helped Mamma board. The hatch slammed shut, muffling the gunfire below. Moomintroll wanted to collapse and take a breather but commotion didn’t stop. The plane was banking, Hodgkins in the open cockpit roared to get strapped and prepare for a “switch” in a minute. Mamma helped the two of them to a quite comfy armchair right behind the pilots’ seats, buckling them in with a single strap, while Pappa took seat on a wall-mounted bench, with Little My tucked behind his strap (and loudly discontent about it). Mamma positioned herself somewhere behind Moomintroll, Muddler and Fuzzy cowering across the aisle, and an unknown dappled grey creature in a pilot helmet, wild-eyed and grease-streaked, ran from the cockpit to some flywheel in the wall and asked Moominmamma for help. Mamma called him Snork and followed him to a symmetrical opposite flywheel, and Moomitroll did a doubletake. Wow, the disguise was simple (the same dust and charcoal) but impressive. The world had suddenly become terribly interesting, and Moomintroll found himself glancing around, taking in the differences from this plane when he’d flown two years ago. Less space, more tubes and wires, the portholes shuttered. He also checked his tail, still feeling raw. Well, it was in place, just the tuft looked thinned. "And I felt like someone bit me...", he mused. "Nope!" Little My chirped. "Got caught in the railings, just that. The weasly git—" she glared back at Moominmamma, "whom no one let me finish off—might've reached it, but I bit him in the nose!" Moomintroll shuddered at what might have happened. But all such details faded into the background when Snufkin’s head slumped onto his shoulder. Moomintroll’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced sidewise at the tangled, matted strands of hair on Snufkin’s crown and couldn’t help but smile. Such a rare thing, this closeness from someone who usually shied away from touch! He could practically count on one paw the times they’d held hands or sat pressed together, let alone that one unforgettable moment when Snufkin had hugged him first, after Moomintroll’s own adventure. “See? It all worked out,” he whispered to the top of Snufkin’s head, giving his friend’s hand a squeeze. But the palm was cold and clammy, unmoving. “Snufkin?” Moomintroll shifted slightly, and Snufkin slid from his shoulder, limp against the seat straps. “Mamma!” The cry tore from Moomintroll’s throat before he could think—the automatic plea for help in any need, large or small. His shout rang out in near-silence, because at that very moment, the engines cut out. “Switching to horizontal thrust!” Hodgkins barked from the cockpit. “Switching!” Snork’s voice piped up from the dappled creature by a flywheel. “Darling, just a moment!” Mamma called over her shoulder, already turning a heavy wheel. The plane lurched into an air pocket. Wind screamed outside, metal groaned, and Moomintroll’s stomach leapt to his throat while his heart plummeted into pure terror. Across the aisle, Muddler wailed that he was going to be sick; Little My cursed colourfully. Moomintroll just clung to Snufkin, pleading silently with whatever might be listening—I didn’t mean it like this, I don’t need hugs, he can keep his distance forever, just let him be alive— With a shuddering clank the engines roared back to life. The sickening plungedown converted into a tolerable plunge forward. The porthole covers slid open with a whisper, flooding the cabin with golden light of a clear dawn. Mamma appeared at his side in an instant, checking Snufkin over with practised ease. “Just the stimulant wearing off,” she murmured after a tense moment. “No hits, thank goodness.” Moomintroll sagged in relief, and nearly jumped when a voice full of interference cracked from the cockpit. “Air Force One, this is Centre, what are you doing? That’s high treason! Return to the base immediately! Over!” “Centre,” Hodgkins growled into his headset mic, “this is not Air Force One, this is Ocean Orchestra! Spelled O-s-h-u-n O-x-t-r-a. Out”. And with a click on the dashboard, the radiostatic and any outer voices went out. “They renamed the Ocean Orchestra,” Hodgkins grumbled on to himself. “Why did I put up with it for so long? It is really fortunate that you uprooted me, dear friends.” Mamma rummaged in her handbag (pulling out and promptly retying her apron—a familiar, comforting sight), then clicked her tongue. “Silly me, I threw out the smelling salts ages ago. He needs water, and that’s safer done awake—” “No problem!” Little My darted from under Moominpappa’s strap, smacked Snufkin square on his injured leg, and— Snufkin’s arm flew to screen his head, eyes snapped open—wild, disoriented—before locking onto Moomintroll’s face. “You’re safe,” Moomintroll whispered, patting his other hand. A tiny disquiet itched: what kind of gesture that was? Did Snufkin got beaten? “We’re going home.” Then, to vent the worry, he rounded on Little My, unleashing a torrent of what exactly he thought of her methods. “It worked, didn’t it?” Little My shrugged, entirely unrepentant. And indeed, Snufkin was blinking, gulping down water from the thermos offered by Moominmamma. She produced a first-aid kit from under the seat, still talking that they’re heading straight home and would be back in Moominvalley in five hours at most, and meanwhile she should change bandages, but that would hurt— BANG. BANG. Two sharp impacts against the hull and wing. The plane bucked violently. Snufkin shuddered and gasped under Moomintroll’s arm. He sat rigid, pale, clearly fighting to stay conscious. “Seagulls?” Pappa ventured cautiously, but Hodgkins had already thrust the controls at Snork and grabbed a peculiar pair of binoculars, rushing to a porthole near Moomintroll. Moomintroll squinted through the glass too, only to be blinded as the rising sun glared back. Hodgkins cursed under his breath. “How’s your eyesight?” he called to Mamma and Pappa. “Still sharp? The captain needs to fly, and Snork here can’t track pursuit planes with those glasses of his.” “Pursuit planes?” Mamma’s voice wavered slightly as she snatched the binoculars and scanned the blinding horizon. “Yes, I see one. How many should there be?” “Two,” Hodgkins admitted, reclaiming the controls just as the plane banked sharply, the sea careening in a wild tilt. “The Chancellor was… impressed with the Ocean Orchestra. And requested more.” “I see something at seven o’clock that isn’t flapping its wings!” Little My’s voice rang out from the tail section. “Oh dear. One does like advance warning for these things,” Mamma said mildly and somehow, despite another violent lurch, she reached the pilot’s seat in three strides and gripped its back. “I did tell, didn’t I?” Hodgkins sounded surprised. “Oh. I told to Snork. Not to you. Well…” Moomintroll strained to listen, swallowing down dread from the concerned tinge in mamma’s voice. “Hodgkins, we must alter course. We can’t lead them to Moominvalley. Can you outrun them?” “I’ll try,” Hodgkins muttered, eyes fixed on the instruments. “I’m the better pilot, I flew this bird when army recruits were still toddlers! But… Hold on! Loop!” The plane shuddered, then pitched, gravity pressing Moomintroll into the seat. Mamma glided back past him, and strap buckle clicked behind, much to his relief. “After modifying for vertical takeoff,” Hodgkins didn’t seem to mind the wails and yelps from Muddler, “the Ocean Orchestra is slower than them. We didn’t have time to set aerodynamics right. Hence our tardiness before. And we removed the machine guns for space and weight. Which is rather regrettable now. If there were clouds or mountains, I could’ve got those amateurs crash but—” “What if we go underwater?” Moomintroll’s voice cracked as ‘up’ and ‘down’ rolled in a wild kaleidoscope. Muddler did get sick as he promised, and Moomintroll was glad he had never seasickness. “We can’t,” Snork grunted, shifting back into the navigator’s seat. “We didn’t have time to seal the propeller linkages properly.” Moomintroll fell silent. Machine guns. Army pilots. Prisons. Executions. Snufkin’s numb form in his arms, unconscious again after the loop, barely breathing. What was wrong with these people? The world he’d thought was vast, kind, and only slightly dangerous—was it truly this cruel? Then, unbidden, Moominmamma’s words from earlier echoed in his mind: “Unfamiliar model, untested.” And it struck him— Then the revolver in her handbag… was it familiar? Tested? Mamma, where did you learn all this? The plane banked sharply again, the world tilting beneath them, the horizon spinning wildly in the porthole. The staccato rattle of gunfire now pierced through the roar of the engines. “Right fuel tank, levels dropping!” Snork called out sharply. “What, are we hit? Hodgkins, you said the tanks are self-sealing!” “That doesn’t mean imperishable!” Hodgkins barked in response. “We’re not going to burst in flame in a minute, that’s all. But now we have only half an hour left before running out!” Mamma was already back behind Hodgkins’ seat, murmuring something to him, too quiet to hear, but he kept shaking his head in response. Finally, she fell silent, staring blankly at the cockpit wall, her grip tightening on the pilot’s seat. “Darling?” Pappa called. And then Moomintroll found his voice. “Mamma… are we not going home?” She turned to look at them, and her expression was desperately tender, somehow. It made Moomintroll’s chest tighten with fear. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, and when she opened them again, she was their familiar steady, unshakable Mamma. “We are going home,” she said softly. “My home.” “But Moominvalley—” Pappa began, confused. “Not Moominvalley.” She cut him off gently. “Darling, you didn’t truly think I was born from the sea foam, on the stormy night you rescued me all those years ago, did you?” “Well…” Pappa hesitated. “I rather did, actually…” Mamma didn’t react to his naivety, already turning back to Hodgkins. “Do you have charts? Good. These islands—can we make it through this strait?” “Hardly—” Snork started, only to be cut short by Hodgkins: “Zoom climb and glide, that’ll save us some kerosene.” Then he flicked a glance and Moominmamma, his voice strained. “Are you sure? That’s the Dire Straits. Ships vanish there even without pursuit!” “Yes. As they say, the best place to hide from a hawk is under an eagle’s nest.” She pointed firmly at the map. “Especially when the nest has some cannons hidden. Do you have a signal lamp? We need to pass a friend or foe test.” After that, they spoke little. Moomintroll focused on not looking out the porthole at the churning sea, not slipping from his seat despite the straps, and making sure Snufkin didn’t either. One cowardly relief did gnaw at Moomintroll: Snufkin wouldn’t ask again about Joxter, because Moomintroll still didn’t know how to phrase it out. That, and harmonica. “Oh, let’s hope there is someone older on duty, because the code I remember is very much outdated”, Mamma muttered long minutes later, eyes fixed ahead, fingers flicking a switch on the dashboard. Outside, jagged islands loomed. For a second, Moomintroll thought there was something blinking back from a patch of land, but then the plane dropped, skimming the waves. “Contact established, thank gods” Mamma even slumped with relief. “Set the plane down, hard left after the black pillar rock, then right under a vault, it should be ebb now, wide enough for your wingspan.” “We’re ramming the cliff?!” My yelped— BOOM. A bolt, louder than the pursuing gunfire. Moomintroll glimpsed a flash of flame from one of the cliffs. The cannon mentioned by Mamma? On the other hand, the rock wall rushing toward them was very real. The plane hit the water, bounced once, twice, slowing but not enough. Just as Moomintroll made out the frothing surf ahead, the plane wrenched left into a narrow gap between cliff and shore, then right, into a dark cavern, one wing scraping sparks from the glistening stone. Except it was not so dark. Torches flickered along the walls, the ceiling, illuminating a vast grotto. The Sea Orchestra bumped gently against a wooden dock. “Welcome,” said Moominmamma, tail and ears drooping, “to the stronghold of the Dire Straits clan. The artillery up there will take care of our retinue.” “You never told me, honey,” Pappa sounded just as surprised as Moomintroll felt as he glanced over stairs, torches and tunnels through the porthole, and armed creatures peeking out of those tunnels. The plane still rocked slightly on the water but he unfastened the strap anyway, unsure what to do next. “You never asked, darling,” Mamma replied so resigned that Moomintroll suspected the hard day might be not over yet.