Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       Pain would flash now and then but couldn’t bring Snufkin to consciousness anymore. Shadows of voices, roar of engines and spinning of the world seeped in, but he failed to latch onto them, slipping back into nothing, until another jolt was so intense that it made him resurface. The world seemed steadier now, the howl of engines gone. The air chase was clearly over, and maybe even not in a catastrophe. Nearby, voices murmured. One unfamiliar, gruff and deadpan, the other unmistakably Moominmamma’s, steady and warm. Everything’s alright, he tried to tell himself. But then, Moominmamma had been just as calm with a revolver in her paws mid-gunfight. Trustworthy, yes, but hardly a reliable indicator of safety. He tried to move, to speak, but his hands failed to get hold of a smooth, solid surface under his back. “…might frighten him, seeing your muzzle first thing,” Moominmamma was saying, almost cheerfully. “And you wouldn’t want a scared mumrik’s claws in your face, would you?” “A mumrik, eh?” replied the stranger. “I was just about to ask what sort of critter that is. Never stitched one up before, and old man Badgers didn’t leave any notes on selkie. They should be tough things, though, with their way of life. Don’t fret, lass, I’ll do my best. But I don’t promise a miracle. Two days of neglect is what it is. And speaking of selkie, ain’t you in for the same crap with this mumrik?” “Thank you, Doc, but no, that’s not the case,” Moominmamma replied. Then, softer: “Oh, hush, I think he’s waking up. Snufkin, can you hear me? You’re safe. Among friends.” He managed to pry his eyes open. A fuzzy, brown shadow above him resolved into a fur-coated graying brown muzzle with lush whiskers, backlit by sunlight streaming from somewhere beyond. Stone wall with painted flowers. A vaulted stone ceiling. The light stung, and Moominmamma remained out of sight, though her presence was a comfort even unseen. Moomintroll. Snufkin remembered him yelping during ascent to the flying machine. Had his friend been hurt? He tried to form the words, but his tongue lay heavy and useless. Moominmamma understood anyway. “Everyone’s fine. All here.” Doc—the whiskered creature reminding slightly of a weasling but sturdier—propped him up and pressed a small glass to his lips. The liquid inside was dark. Moominmamma stood by the door, smiling. Snufkin trusted her, so he drank. Fire exploded down his throat: spirits, laced with something bitter and herbal. Unfamiliar. “Wait ‘til it takes proper hold,” Doc announced. “Then he’ll be out cold. Won’t feel a thing when I dig out that extra lead. Capy!” he shouted sideways. “Get the gear ready!” A female voice ayed, rustles and metal clangs ensued, water rushed. Snufkin tried to ask why Joxter hadn’t been on the plane but the drink didn’t give him any new strength. Then, with a delay, the medic’s words about no miracles seeped through, lighting a panicked thought—hey, would he be able to walk at all? What if he lost his leg and with it, the world? No, better not dwell on it, better find another train of thought… Like, something was off about Moominmamma, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. The room swayed, the light blurring into gold. He let go, sinking back into the dark. *** Everything felt muffled, as if wrapped in a thick, drowsy fog that made even thinking an effort. And that terrified him more than the pain ever could. Snufkin fought to move, to surface properly… “No, no, don’t try to sit up!” Moomintroll’s voice, urgent but relieved, cut through the haze. Slowly, other sensations followed: a dull, sickly warmth; the softness of a proper bed beneath him; Moomintroll’s paw on his forehead, pushing him back. Snufkin blinked against the light, dim though it was, taking in the same stone ceiling as before. And Moomintroll’s face above him, smiling though his eyes shone wet. His fur was white again, gilt gold in the slanting light. “Oh, I was so afraid we wouldn’t be in time…” Snufkin wanted to reassure him, but his throat was parched. “Doc said to give you water if you woke early.” Moomintroll slid an arm under his shoulders, propping him up gently before pressing a clay cup to his lips. The water was cool, and Snufkin drank carefully, wary of nausea. He glanced down at his leg. Still there, under the sheet, though he couldn’t feel it yet, much less move it. At least he could hold the cup himself (with just a little help from Moomintroll). Tickling of the friend’s white fur on bare forearm skin made Snufkin realise he was just in the short-sleeved undershirt, the frock coat gone. Oh, sure, a patient might be stripped (and washed) in infirmary, medics are usually very fussy about sterility. He just hoped Moomintroll hadn’t been present by that time. That would be… not good. After some long, invigorating gulps he paid attention to the surroundings. The alcove around them was small, curtained off by a woven straw mat, thin light seeping through its gaps. “We’re in the stronghold of a moomin clan of the Dire Straits,” Moomintroll said, as if answering his unspoken question. “An archipelago northwest of the Island of King Daddy Jones. Turns out, Mamma was born here! And her red-and-white apron is actually in the colours of sails and coats-of-arms here! Pappa is outright dumbfounded. I think he might be envious a tiny bit that her past is grander than his memoirs. She had run away as a girl because, well, they call themselves Vikings, but really—” He dropped his voice.“—they’re pirates. And you know Mamma, she’s against all that violence… Though it does explain her revolver. And, well. Everything else.” Snufkin drained the cup and nodded faintly. It did explain rather a lot in the shocking images of armed—and clearly skilled—Moominmamma back in the prison. “…Her three brothers are in charge here. And I have loads of cousins, aunts, uncles, and even a grandmother. And Snork is so afraid for his reputation that he still refuses to wash away his snow-panther masking paint. And Muddler and Fuzzy hide in their barrel with baggage—” “And you? Are you okay?” Snufkin interrupted him, trying to have a better look of his friend. Nothing seemed amiss. “You screamed, or?…” “Ah, that!” Moomintroll snickered, and his smile finally reached his eyes. “Just my luck. Bullets whistling all over, Little My bites a weasling in the nose, and I lose some tail fur stuck between stupid iron bars!” And he swooshed his tail to show off slightly thinned tuft. Tails… Another urgent thought caught Snufkin’s breath: “Joxter. Where is he? He wasn’t on the plane… Right?” Moomintroll fell silent. His gaze fixed stubbornly on the wall just like back in the prison, behind the barricade. “D’you… d’you want more water?” he asked stiffly, and the forced casualness of it sent a wave of dread through Snufkin. No. His best friend wouldn’t lie to him. …Would he? Moomintroll had always been soft-hearted. Perhaps lying was easier for him than delivering a blow. “No, that’s enough.” Snufkin’s voice was steadier than he felt. “Moomintroll. You said… he was alright. But the truth?” Moomintroll’s ears flattened. He carefully lowered Snufkin back onto the pillow, avoiding his eyes. “Snufkin, I didn’t lie, I swear! Well—I didn’t tell you all either, but… It’s just… it’s hard to say.” A pause. Then, all at once: “Joxter is fine and far away by now. He had sailed off before we even got all together and started planning your breakout. He… he attacked Mamma and stole the Adventure. And…” A shaky breath. “He told her he never planned to save you in the first place.” Finally, Moomintroll met his gaze. His blue eyes were brimming. The room seemed to darken. That cotton-wool numbness pressed in again, dulling the edges of Moomintroll’s words, but sharp phrases cut through: Far away by now. Never planned to save you. “And—” Moomintroll dropped to a whisper, as if that might steady his voice, “Forgive me, I… I took your harmonica with me. And left it on the boat. So it’s… it’s with him now. I’m sorry, Snufkin. I’m so sorry…” The news of the harmonica barely registered. There was too much. Too much. Snufkin closed his eyes and turned his face away. It just couldn’t be true. But memories unspooled—Joxter’s letter, their reunion, the sabotage mission, the explosion, the trial—all of it, from beginning to end. Then again. And again. Joxter smearing soot on his brow and nose, supposedly to disguise him. But admitting, even for a second, that he had not meant well… Was it designed to make Snufkin be mistaken for him? Joxter volunteering for the seemingly most dangerous task, to lure the weasling away from the gate. A trap to make Snufkin the murderer? Had Joxter done anything at all for him, other than making him go along, making him help, making him attune? Just showing some tricks. Which hadn’t helped much. “Snufkin?” Moomintroll’s voice, warm and familiar, cut through the spiral. “I know it’s… a lot. But I’m here. Whatever you need.” Snufkin tried, desperately, to recall his father ever saying his name. Nothing. Not once. Not in any memory. As if Joxter hadn’t even remembered it. Snufkin had always prided himself on being free, unbound, unattached (well, except perhaps for Moomintroll). He’d believed his relationship with his father was one of mutual independence, two kindred spirits who understood each other without need for ties. So why did his throat ache so wretched now? Why this tightness in his chest? Don’t you dare, he ordered himself. Don’t waste water on this. He tried to curl into himself, but the moment he shifted onto his side, white-hot pain lanced up from his ankle, forcing a strangled cry. Moomintroll was at his side in an instant, gently pressing him back onto the pillows. “Shh, easy now. Don’t move. I—I’ll be right back.” And then his quick footsteps were gone. Snufkin lay still, willing the pain to subside. Soon, voices filtered through the alcove—Moomintroll’s hushed tones, and Doc’s booming reply: “…f’course he hurts, the lad’s coming off anaesthetic!” The curtain rustled as the entered. “Ah, you’re still with us! I’ll give you more pain draught in a tick, but first let’s see if you can grab a bite.” “I’ll handle that, Doc,” came Moominmamma’s voice from behind him. She stepped into view, a ceramic pot in her paws. “You just tell me, how did it go?” “Better than expected,” Doc said, checking Snufkin’s pulse and eyes with rough efficiency. “Tough little fellow, this one. Bullet’s out, no bones broken, a tendon frayed at the very top, patched up. He’ll need a splint for a month or so. Lucky the nerve’s just bruised, not severed. That’s why he’s getting such a colourful array of sensations.” Snufkin couldn’t see what Doc was doing (the splint immobilising his leg, no doubt), but he certainly felt it—another sharp spike of agony that nearly made him cry out. “Pain’s good!” Doc announced cheerfully. “Means you’ll walk again.” “I know,” Snufkin gritted out, then added grudgingly: “…Thank you. For helping.” “Anything for our beloved lassie’s kid!” He grinned, puzzling Snufkin. “Give it two, three months, you’ll be hobbling to the canteen and back, provided you don’t go leaping about, starving yourself, catching chills, or generally being a nuisance. Oh, and you’ll have your very own free barometer! Rain will ache in your tendon a day in advance.” “Thanks,” Snufkin muttered, “I’ve already got one.” Doc barked a laugh, whiskers bristling. “Cheeky bugger. Right, I’m off, got some downed pilots to check on.” At the curtain, he paused. “You, lass,” he jabbed a clawed finger at Moominmamma, “should grab any empty cot here and sleep. How long you’ve been on your feet, eh?” Moominmamma waved him off. “No more than two days, though it feels like an age.” “Exactly. You’re not a spring chicken anymore.” And with that, he was gone. Snufkin glanced at Moominmamma as she settled quietly beside him on the bed and helped him up. To his shame, he couldn’t detect any signs of exhaustion in her posture or in the gentle expression of her velvety white muzzle. At least he figured out what was wrong about her. Over her usual apron, there was a leather belt with a scabbard and her handbag hitched on. Moomintroll didn’t spot a belt and simply looked wretched with worry, though he managed a wobbly smile when their eyes met. “You must eat. Even if you don’t feel like it,” Moominmamma said, lifting the lid from the pot. The scent of chicken broth rose between them. Snufkin had stopped feeling hunger some time ago, but she was right as always. He reached for the spoon, only to drop it immediately when another bolt of pain shot up his leg. His ears burned with humiliation as Moominmamma took the spoon. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “While introducing my family to my… other family, I may have called you, Little My, and Snork my adopted children. To extend my brothers’ favour to you all. They’re good sorts deep down, gruff but protective and generous, but only to those they claim as their own. I hope that wasn’t too forward of me?” Snufkin shook his head after swallowing the first spoonful of rich, steaming broth. “No, not at all. After everything you’ve done for me… Not every real parent would go that far.” He missed his hat desperately. Its wide brim had always been so useful for hiding inconvenient emotions. Instead, he switched to another subject, not less inconvenient, though. “And… you saw Joxter, didn’t you? Tell me everything. Please.” “Well, if it’ll help…” And so she did. Strangely, listening to her account did help, distracting him, however slightly, from the pain and the gnawing guilt of being such a burden. The broth went down easier, as did the softened breadcrumbs floating in it. So, Joxter hadn’t framed him on purpose—if he didn’t lie, of course. Somehow, the knowledge didn’t make Snufkin feel any better. That indifference hurt no less than outright malice would. “Hm, I might have brothers somewhere,” he latched onto the most harmless part of the tale when Moominmamma paused. “Wow, that’s great!” Moomintroll piped up from behind her. “Not necessarily great,” Moominmamma corrected. “They may have taken after their father in more than looks.” She handed Snufkin a small cup. “What’s this?” he asked, though the bitter-alcohol bite was already familiar. A pleasant warmth spread through his veins. “Poppy tincture.” Laudanum? He stiffened. He had smoked his share of dubious herbs over the years, yes, but rarely, valuing the free will and clarity of mind higher. Opium, though—he had always avoided that. The last thing he wanted was to lose himself like those hollow-eyed souls in back-alley dens, who lived for nothing but the next hit… But if Moominmamma saw no harm in it, surely once or twice wouldn’t matter. And perhaps, just for a few hours, he could stop thinking about Joxter. Time blurred together. Snufkin lost count of how many times the creeping pain had wrenched him from fitful sleep. But there was always a lamp burning, always someone there: drowsy Moomintroll, ever-composed Moominmamma, sardonic Doc, the Capy assistant, which turned out to be a bulky fawn-furred creature with brick-shaped muzzle, tiny eyes and enormous strength. Unknown moomins and other creatures would peek in with curious stares, and Snufkin couldn’t even shoo them or hide under the pillow. The voices of Little My and Moominpappa drifted in and out. Water and porridge or soup, a cup of bitter tincture, then darkness again. Finally, when he woke to find only Doc and a bread-munching Moomintroll by his bedside, Snufkin dug in his heels and refused another cup. The walls pressed in on him, almost physically, and the pale daylight filtering through only sharpened his restlessness. “I need to go outside. Under the open sky. I’ve never been indoors this long, I can’t bear it another minute…” Moomintroll gasped and turned pleading eyes to Doc. “Please? The garden’s just outside. It’s important to him—he’s a wanderer, he needs it really much! I’ll carry him myself!” Doc, who might’ve been an otter, judging by his stature and fangs, shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t come whining to me when the pain sets in. And mind the morning chill.” Beaming, Moomintroll snatched a blanket from the floor (had he been sleeping on a mattress there?) and dashed off. Left alone with Doc, Snufkin seized the moment. “Er, do you have cigarettes, by chance? My own pipe and pouch were confiscated. And usually smoking helps with…” “So, this sort of addiction doesn’t put you off? No, I don’t smoke,” Doc said. “But let’s see if I scrounge a pack off the lads.” Then Moomintroll returned, and before Snufkin could protest, he was scooped up, one arm under his knees, the other supporting his back. The jolt to his ankle was instant, white-hot. He bit down on a scream, clutching Moomintroll’s neck and burying his face in his own shoulder. The white fur and firm hide under his fingers gave some grounding. “Sorry, sorry—” Moomintroll babbled. When Snufkin blinked his vision clear, the sunlight hit like a slap. He squeezed his eyes shut again as Moomintroll navigated the way with jarring care, then deposited him onto a bench, bundling him tightly in the blanket before settling beside him. And then— The sky. High and vast, streaked with grey-white clouds racing toward the horizon, over the sea, over jagged cliffs and sparse silver-green trees below the site. The wind tore at the olives, whistling through the crags, but the “garden"—a scrap of trampled earth with vines and roses—was sheltered on the lee side of the rock. Only an occasional gust would find its way down, ruffling Snufkin’s hair. In the distance, gulls wheeled, their cries mingling with the shrill scolds of terns. A lonely motor boat fell out of tune, cutting its foamy path to the next island, just as rocky. The sea glittered, roared, breathed seaweeds and salt, still far below, but there, waiting. For now, it was enough just to see it. To know he’d walk to meet it again. Moomintroll had gone suspiciously quiet. Snufkin turned his head to find him just inches away, staring back with wide, dreamy eyes—only for his friend to immediately flatten his ears and shuffle back. “Sorry, sorry,” Moomintroll stammered. “I know you don’t like anyone near you. But you looked so… alive, I got carried away.” “Well,” Snufkin mused, listening to his own sensations. The sun glimpsed between the clouds, sent a stroke of blue hue across the water, and even its light going in the eyes didn’t bother him, “it’s not that I dislike it. Just… not used to.” He bit back the rest—that there’d been no one to pat or hug him in his wandering childhood. The creatures he had come across had either viewed him as a snack or intruder, or hadn’t seen him at all. But no need to make Moomintroll feel guilty for having a loving family. “And not anyone. Maybe… since meeting you all… I’m learning. Maybe it’s not so bad.” He freed a hand from the blanket. Moomintroll understood—and then some. He clambered onto the bench properly, pressing close, one arm around Snufkin’s shoulders, the other still clasping his hand. And that familiar presence (with unfamiliar closeness) just the new scenery brighter. “Warmer this way, yeah?” he grinned, utterly himself again. Snufkin nodded. The white fur was warm, soft against his side. Never mind that his leg now throbbed in earnest, or that a feverish heat roamed under his skin. He wasn’t going back inside yet. “Tell me something,” he said, desperate to focus on Moomintroll’s voice instead of the pain. “About this place. Have you seen much? Met anyone?” As ever, Moomintroll needed no further prompts. He launched into tales of the stronghold with the same gusto as his father might, a familial resemblance aching sharper than any nerve pain. Snufkin shoved the thought aside. Joxter was beyond the horizon now. Here, there were only clouds like plush moomins, a velvety paw in his, and that familiar, dramatic voice competing with the shrieks of gulls. If only his leg would stop burning— He only realised he’d been gripping Moomintroll’s paw too tight when his friend fell silent, brow furrowed. Snufkin couldn’t even unclench his teeth to explain. “Well?” Doc barked from behind them, making Snufkin jerk and hiss as pain lanced up his leg. “Still playing the tough guy, are we?” Snufkin wanted to retort with something witty, but he was too busy steadying his breath. Then Moomintroll sniffled, pretending he hadn’t been on the verge of tears, though his eyes still shone with worry. Guilt twisted in Snufkin’s chest. Of course he’d take this pain as his own. And now I’m making it worse. “Alright,” he conceded. “I surrender.” “Good lad,” Doc smirked. “Don’t fret, I’ve lowered the dose. Less pain, more natural sleep. And that’s enough fresh air for you. What did I say about not being a nuisance?” “Oh! Can I still sit with him?” Moomintroll asked, already gathering Snufkin up with heartbreaking care. “I haven’t finished telling about the flight! Two planes chased us—well, they don’t, anymore, since the cannons got them! One’s in dry dock, the other’s at the bottom of the sea—Hodgkins says he’ll salvage it someday—but the pilots are fine, they ejected, they’re in the cells down the hall—” True to the doctor’s word, Snufkin had fallen asleep properly in the end, but only for dreams to come. Memories twisted into what-hadn’t-been and looped relentlessly, now beyond his control: Joxter watching with mild interest from a rooftop as he was dragged to the police station; Joxter smiling behind dark glasses in the back row of the courtroom; Joxter slashing at Moomintroll with unsheathed claws, shoving him overboard into the sea— He woke with a jolt as someone yanked his hair. “Stop whimpering,” came Little My’s voice, right by his ear. “You’re ruining my post-lunch nap.” Blinking, he turned his head to find her standing by his pillow like a fluffed-up battle sparrow. The daylight behind the screen outlined a small, round hole in the hem of her red dress, a stark reminder of her mad dash through the ventilation shafts under gunfire. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” he admitted after a moment. “But please don’t run around armed weaslings again.” “Oh, I’m thrilled too! Except—surprise! —I do what I like and don’t take orders from you. Speaking of,” she added, “I asked your vet if you could already handle a proper thrashing. I owe you a sisterly smack!” And just as promised, she whacked him square on the forehead with her open palm, between the strands of his hair sticky with sweat. Compared to his leg, it barely stung, but he groaned theatrically anyway. “What was that for?” “For making me furious! I’m so angry at you I could pop! And this is for giving Moomintroll a heart attack!” She gave his forelock another tug for emphasis before flopping down beside him on the pillow. “Because of your idiocy, I nearly lost the best—after me, obviously—of all dozens of my siblings.” Snufkin had no reply to that. Not that she seemed to expect one, as she curled against the crown of his head, humming one of his old summer tunes under her breath. He’d always known that deep down, she wasn’t quite the gremlin she pretended to be. Still, she’d managed to surprise him yet again. At the very least, the lingering aftertaste of the nightmare had faded. He drifted back to sleep, this time unafraid to close his eyes. Even as the nightmares returned, and with them, the fever that had briefly eased after his time outside. Little My kept yanking him awake at the worst moments, until Doc’s voice boomed: “Good lass, fetchin’ me. Bandage needs changing.” Snufkin gritted his teeth. He knew from experience that this was the worst (aside from stitching himself up, perhaps) but necessary part. One small mercy: since the bullet had struck from behind, cleaning the wound meant lying on his stomach, which at least let him bury his face in the pillow to cry. Afterwards, the fever ebbed enough that he could sit up on his own when Moomintroll arrived, bearing a local dish for supper—a flatbread topped with melted cheese, tomatoes, and sausage. A familiar dish usually served a bit farther to the south. And surprisingly good. Later, some well-tanned hemulen visiting Doc with a sprained shoulder brought a pack of cigarettes and matches. And at last—how many days had it been?—the first proper drag of a cigarette. Outside, for Doc was adamant about no smoking in the infirmary. The taste was nothing like his usual pipe tobacco, but it still brought Joxter to mind: those last rolled cigarettes in the dark city, the false camaraderie. He coughed, but stubbornly finished it, forcing his attention outward instead. The clouds shimmered with sunset hues, the horizon deepening to indigo. The sky had always helped clear his head. That, and Moomintroll’s voice, as he recounted everything he’d seen and learned through another day. Buoyed by the outing and tobacco, Snufkin had tried refusing laudanum again, only to relent hours later when sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. Doc had grumbled about “patients who think they know better than their physician”. And by morning, Moominmamma and Moominpappa arrived with a wheelchair: an ancient, rattling thing salvaged from her late grandfather’s arthritis years, now repaired and modified by Hodgkins. Moomintroll, delighted, dashed off to scout wheelchair-friendly routes, returning just as Snufkin finished breakfast. The wheelchair, built for a stouter frame, forced Snufkin to hold tight not to rattle around as they navigated the citadel’s labyrinthine corridors. The walls there were painted like in the infirmary, but mostly with ships, sea creatures, battles. The varying styles and states of wear betrayed work of many artists and maybe even generations. And indeed, long and narrow ships wore red-and-white sails so like Moominmamma’s apron. And tiny sailors on their decks were mostly white and roundish. Moomintroll gawked at the murals too, slowing down, and the way seemed endless (though smoother). Up, then down, then out onto a windswept plateau on the mountain’s far side. The view was worth it. Salt-spiced wind combed through the long grass; tattered clouds glowed gold at the edges. Beyond the citadel’s exit, a clearing studded with olives and cypresses offered a wonderful view of the sea. Snufkin could’ve stayed there till noon, breathing deep… Then the voices came. “Whoa, look, the landlubber rats have crawled out.” Four figures emerged from the trees. Two identical small ratlike creatures, but with round muzzles and tails ending with tufts; two moomin youngsters, belt-strapped and knife-scabbarded, their fur a bit on the yellowish side. One of them, the speaker, was maybe a bit younger and shorter than Moomintroll, with a smirk that could curdle milk. Moomintroll’s ears flattened, tail tucking. “Listen, potato,” the boy spat, “you were told not to stray far from your Mummy and Daddy. This is our patch. Piss off, and take your crippled pet with you.” Ah. So these were the cousins. Now Snufkin understood Moomintroll’s terse descriptions (“good sorts, just… intense”), which clearly meant “small-time thugs with a family discount.” Glimpsing such folks in some southern village, Snufkin would’ve vanished before running into their path. But before he could suggest retreat, Moomintroll stepped forward shielding, his tail lashing in the dust. “T-there’s room for everyone,” he stammered. “And that’s not a good way to treat guests.” Oh no. That trembling, placating tone was catnip to bullies. “Well, well, the potato can talk,” the tallest of the four cousins drawled leaning against a tree with his paws crossed. At least he wasn’t joining in—yet. But the rat twins, nimble and wiry, were practically vibrating with excitement, their tail tufts bristling and twitching. The instigator of the group sauntered forward. “Proper guests don’t turn up at dawn uninvited, with the law on their tails. Not after years of deserting their own!” “Mamma didn’t desert anyone!” Moomintroll shoved him square in the chest. “She’s the bravest, cleverest, just not cruel like you lot!” The cousin staggered back a step, more surprised than hurt, then grinned like a shark and lunged. The two went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling through the grass. From his chair, Snufkin watched with growing dread. Moomintroll flailed blindly, fists swinging wild, while his cousin struck with precision—elbows to ribs, knuckles to soft spots—clearly relishing the scrap. The twins whooped and circled them like a pair of feral cheerleaders. This wouldn’t end well. Mumriks could move almost as fast as weaslings, when needed, but the burst was brief, draining, and now, with fresh stitches, it’d likely tear him open. But if he didn’t need to stand… Snufkin rolled the wheelchair an inch closer to the fray and watched out for a chance. Here. Moomintroll shoved his cousin off with a desperate heave, sending him sprawling near the wheelchair. As the bully scrambled up, sweeping a fist back for a strike— Snufkin moved. He seized the cousin’s wrist and yanked back to himself, flipping him onto the back. Fire ripped up his leg; his vision blackened at the edges. He clung to the armrest and the cousin’s forearm, fingers clutching numb as he fought to stay conscious. “Enough,” he hissed, hoping the pain twisting his face looked like a snarl. The prone cousin froze, eyes wide with seeming terror. Then— “Whoa.” A slow, awed grin spread across the boy’s face. “You’ve got claws? And your eyes, they glow! That’s terrific!” Snufkin blinked, suddenly aware of the pinpricks of blood welling where his claws had broken skin under ivory fur. He released the cousin at once. Stupid. What if they draw blades in return? The tallest cousin was already striding over, not to attack, but to haul Moomintroll up with a thump on the shoulder. “Huh. Maybe the potato’s got some spine after all.” Moomintroll was looking between his cousins and Snufkin, all tousled, mouth slightly open. Oh right, there was no chance to tell him of the claws yet. The twins crowded around their fallen comrade, poking at his scratches with impressed whistles, while the leader stepped to Snufkin and extended a paw. “I’m Günther, the one you hooked is Guu, and the pipsqueaks are Guido and Guillaume. They are moomins, too, by the way. And your name’s all over the islands.” Snufkin exhaled carefully to steady his voice. “Nice to meet you. And, for the record, Moomintroll is very brave. He pulled me from a prison under gunfire. His mother orchestrated the raid with nothing but ‘landlubber rats’ and kitchen tools and fought in the front lines. They just prefer settling things with words over fists.” Both alleged moomins gaped at him, while the middle one, now bursting with curiosity, didn’t even bother to stand—he just settled more comfortably on the grass. “So it’s true? Dad mentioned a prison break. Did your misfit crew really take on an entire police force?” “Well… yes,” Moomintroll admitted, flustered, and hurried to stand closer to Snufkin. “And what were you in for?” The middle cousin winked at Snufkin. “Felony or misdemeanour? How many years did they give you?” Now he was doing his best to play the part of a seasoned pirate, which might have been amusing under different circumstances. But Snufkin wasn’t in the mood for laughter. The sudden attention was already grating on him. Who knew if these charming guys didn’t switch back to aggression just as quickly? And the last thing he wanted was to talk about the events. “It doesn’t matter,” Moomintroll jumped in, predictably defensive. “The important thing is, he didn’t do any of the things they accused him of! He only took the blame for his father, thinking dad would get him out later! But that—” He faltered, finishing in a near whisper, “—that one ran off alone.” Of course, he was twisting the story to paint his friend in a better light. Or perhaps he genuinely didn’t know his friend wasn’t entirely innocent? Either way, Snufkin believed that lie was not a good whitewasher, so he forced himself to speak up. “No. I’m guilty too, just not of everything.” At the older cousin’s impatient “Well?”, he continued, “A dozen destroyed prohibition signs. Two arsons on critical facilities, with injuries and deaths. Manslaughter. And contempt of authority, the only charge I don’t regret.” Silence fell. Even Moomintroll said nothing. This time, Snufkin didn’t dare look at him, afraid of what he might see. But the pirate kids recovered first. The twins were practically vibrating with excitement, but it was the eldest cousin Günther who spoke next, rubbing his chin like a judge passing sentence. “So. You’re saying you torched government property and got away with it? Not bad for a civvie.” Snufkin flexed his fingers against the wheelchair armrest, careful not to draw claws. “I didn’t get away with it. I’d be executed if not for—” He nodded at the Moomintroll’s white form by his side and bit back the rest. “Well, what you get for trusting another mumrik. That was stupid. Just as the rumours say about your lot being the coolest criminals but the most unreliable partners in crime.” “Snufkin isn’t like that,” Moomintroll insisted stubbornly, his paw settling on Snufkin’s shoulder. “He’s a good and loyal friend.” Snufkin still didn’t like the direction of the conversation. He didn’t consider himself such a marvellous friend. He didn’t want to talk about his father, about “his lot.” Though… a recent memory flickered in his mind. “I’m used to hear that from people,” he noted to keep Moomintroll from further protests. “Even Doc here mentioned something about a selkie. Something to do with mumriks, though as far as I know, selkies are seal-shifters.” “Oh, we know, we know!” the twins chirped in unison. “It’s an old legend of our islands! But it really happened! Our great-granny, when she was young, once sailed for a walk, and stumbled on a half-dead mumrik at an uninhabited rock. (“Probably marooned there by some folks he had wronged,” the brash cousin Guu snarled.) She named him Selkie because at first she mistook him for one. So she hauls him back to the citadel, nurses him to health, and then he what? Yeah, he ran off, stealing a boat and a chest of jewels. Just like that—poof!” Moomintroll’s ears drooped. “That was… not very grateful of him.” “So, dear cousin,” Günther shrugged, shooting Moomintroll a sidelong glance, “if your friend ditches you one day, don’t act surprised.” “That’s not going to happen, he comes back every spring for many years already!” Moomintroll protested, but before he could say more— “What’s all the noise, and no fight?” A familiar, snarky voice cut through the air as Little My sprang out from a nearby cypress. The cousins instantly recoiled, the younger ones ducked behind the eldest, and even the middle troublemaker took a step back. Clearly, Little My had built a reputation here. “You missed the fight, you little urchin,” the eldest cousin smirked. “But your baby brothers aren’t half bad. Even Moomin-Potato here.” “Let’s get this straight,” Little My jabbed a finger at the cousins. “First, his name is Moomintroll. Second, you guys promised me a boat ride, so fall in! You can chatter with your new brothers later! Or I’ll tell Uncle Gustav who has spilled molasses on his map.” The twins shivered. Snufkin exhaled as the cousins scrambled after Little My, their bickering fading toward the cliffs. The Selkie tale had done its job, distracted them from Joxter, from prisons and crimes. But Moomintroll’s silence beside him was heavier than before. Or so he believed until getting into a white velvety embrace. “I don’t believe you can possibly kill anyone,” Moomintroll whispered into his ear. “You didn’t want that to happen, right? And I want you to know I trust you no matter what, despite any stupid legends.” Snufkin put a tentative hand on his shoulder, and Moomintroll yelped. Oh, stupid, he’s been in a fray! “Are you hurt?” Snufkin asked. “Nothing broken, I hope?” “Nah. Fur and fat are my shield,” Moomintroll beamed. He moved away finally, but only to go down on one knee and take Snufkin’s hands in his. Without hesitation. His wonderful blue eyes told just as much. “And certainly you must have reasons not to tell me ever about the claws thing—” “Oh, that,” Snufkin felt his cheeks blush. “No, no, I would’ve told you, I just learned of it, like, some days ago… From Joxter.” And to dispel the grim aura of that name, he added, “Your cousin now, he mentioned my eyes glowing—do they? I was wondering about that since… recently.” “Er, I’m afraid I missed it.” Moomintroll let go of him, then flashed a sly smile. “And I didn’t have a good look at the claws either. Do you mind… showing both to me now?” So, no peaceful stay full of staring at the horizon. Snufkin was already bone-tired but curious too, and he obliged. The experiment showed he needed to evoke a certain desperate, defensive mood to activate the glow, and that his normally hazel eyes gleamed yellow. In the absence of a mirror, he trusted Moomintroll’s word on it. *** The midday nap and a proper meal had lent Snufkin just enough strength to endure the cousins’ evening visit. They entertained him and Moomintroll with tales of their exploits, some details of which were frankly alarming, and pestered their new cousin for details of the prison raid. Moomintroll obliged them, sparing Snufkin the tension to refuse. And Snufkin was also curious to learn the other side of the story, snickering at the irony of family meeting in a police station cell, or masking paints, or Moomintroll’s tragic confession that his first ever real automobile ride was in a police van. The boisterous company was draining Snufkin, but he bore it without complaint. Moomintroll was a sociable creature by nature; he needed this chatter, the camaraderie, the thrill of bonding with newfound kin. Still, relief washed over him when Moominmamma appeared, tactfully ushering the guests out with promises of “another time.” She pressed a steaming cup into Snufkin’s hands. “Just herbs this time, no poppy,” she assured him. He drank it slowly, the warmth seeping into his bones, then finally voiced the question that had been gnawing at him: “That Selkie story… was it true? I can’t imagine a mumrik stealing jewels. Not even one like Joxter.” Moominmamma sighed, settling onto the chair beside the bed. “You’ve heard the tale, then. I keep the notebook of my grandmother—the very one from the legend. Between recipes for blackberry pie and tips for removing bloodstains from rugs, there are… other entries. Diaries, musings. About Selkie, too.” She smoothed her apron absently. “The beginning was just as they say. She found him on the rocks, near death, took care of him until he healed. But he wasn’t tame, you see. He grew restless, miserable in the citadel. So in the end, she let him go. It was she who gave him a boat and supplies. No stolen jewels. Just a man who couldn’t stay.” Snufkin’s eyelids grew heavy, but he fought the pull of sleep, stealing a glance at Moomintroll. His friend’s expression was unreadable. Not relieved, just thoughtful. “He did repay her, though,” Moominmamma added softly. “By teaching to speak to birds. That’s why our clan uses birds for messages and reconnaissance even now.” A wry smile. “As for the valuables, that was her thrice-removed nephew’s doing. He pinched them and blamed the ‘feral stranger.’ And somewhere between a remedy for aphids and a cure for sour milk, she wrote how furious she was because everyone believed him, because they assumed she’d lie to save face, to look rather a liberator than a heartbroken and dumped girl. As if pride mattered more than the truth.” The room blurred at the edges. Snufkin’s last coherent thought was of Moomintroll’s quiet sadness. With what little strength remained, he murmured, “Well. I’ll come back.” He didn’t see the words land, but he felt them in the way Moomintroll’s paw tightened around his, just before sleep took him. *** The next days brought little relief. The absence of laudanum made itself known. Snufkin slept fitfully, if at all, and spent the following day clinging to composure like a sailor to driftwood. Every sound grated, every flicker of light needled. At least Doc had warned him that those tantrums were due to withdrawal, not wrath, but the knowledge did little to dull the edge of his temper. When the cousins arrived, bouncing with plans for a sea jaunt, he barely managed to bite back a snarl. Instead, he nudged Moomintroll toward the door. “Go. Tell me about the waves later.” His voice came out flatter than he had intended. Moomintroll hesitated, but thankfully, Moominmamma intervened with her usual grace, shooing the younger moomins and even Little My off on some “urgent errand” involving smuggled sweets and (allegedly) volatile fireworks. But she stayed behind. Her gaze, soft yet weighted, settled on Snufkin. He stiffened. That look didn’t bode well. “We’ll take a short stroll,” she announced, nudging the wheelchair closer. “A surprise?” he asked warily. “More of a remedy,” she said, evasive. “I hope it’s not too early.” They turned down a corridor Snufkin hadn’t seen before, one that sloped into the cliff’s belly. Torches replaced windows here, their light licking at rough-hewn walls, making painted monsters come alive. A hulking pirate, some cross between a coypu and a hemulen, lounged by a heavy door, puffing on a pipe. At Moominmamma’s nod, he stood aside. The chamber beyond was all hard edges and hardened faces. Three moomins sat at a round table, pistols and knives gleaming at their belts. One wall had a tapestry with a giant blazon of red-and-white stripes and three white zigzags which might mean waves, or rocks, or fangs, or moomin ears. Moominpappa was absent. Snufkin knew that Moominmamma wouldn’t bring him into danger but his instincts still screamed in a closed room with armed people. “Ever punctual, sister,” remarked the one in a bandana. Oh. The bosses. Snufkin swallowed down the adversity any authority figure brought up in him. “Ah! So this is the cause of all the fuss!” boomed another, a silver ring glinting in his ear. “Not the cause, Gustav. The purpose,” Moominmamma corrected smoothly. “This is Snufkin, family of mine. And these are my brothers. Gustav, Gunnar,” (the bandana-wearer grinned and saluted) “and Gugo. Spelt with a G.” The third brother, sporting an eyepatch askew over two perfectly functional eyes, gave a curt nod. Snufkin’s throat tightened. “My pleasure,” he rasped, though the word tasted like ash. He shot Moominmamma a questioning glance. A side door creaked open. Two figures hauled in a third, a hooded shape, quiet between them. A knife flashed, ropes fell away, and the sack was yanked free with a flourish. The prisoner stumbled forward, crashing to his knees. A brick-red hat tumbled after him. Snufkin’s fingers clenched on the armrests. Joxter lifted his head, rubbing his nape, and fixed him with those piercing blue eyes. “Well,” he drawled, as if they’d met by chance on a forest path. “Fancy seeing you here.”