Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       The clouds hung low over Moominvalley, and Hodgkins had to orient by the looming peaks of the Lonely Mountains before descending into the thick, grey mist. The metal machine rattled violently as it slid through the damp cotton of the sky, where fleeting glimpses of familiar hills and shoreline flickered like half-remembered dreams. The round blue house emerged from the haze, spectral and soft, and even Moomintroll’s excited shout in his ear couldn’t shake Snufkin from the sense that none of this was quite real. The feeling faded slowly, replaced by the gust of damp air through the open door, the drizzle on his face, the scent of wet grass and rain-soaked timber. And most grounding of all, the warmth of Moomintroll’s fur beneath his fingers, the shift of muscle under soft white fluff as the moomin carried him toward the house, refusing to fuss with the wheelchair on the sodden garden paths. Snufkin clung to his neck, mortified. Little My darted ahead, kicked the doorframe instead of knocking, and flung the veranda door open with a flourish. Snufkin’s ears burned—not from fever, but from the unbearable symbolism of it all. He wished mumriks had thick fur like moomins to hide the blush. Well, Moomintroll had ears and tail tip to betray him, but now he beamed as if this were perfectly ordinary, gently depositing Snufkin onto the sofa before hovering anxiously. "Go help unload," Snufkin nudged him. He needed a moment to breathe. To remember that this house, this valley, were real, when he had already said farewell to them forever in that prison cell. The house, abandoned only—what, a fortnight ago?—felt different. The air was still warm, still smelled of breakfast coffee, but the usual scent of baking had been replaced by cleaning fluids. Fillyjonk in Moominmamma’s spare apron burst from the kitchen, flustered just like that long-ago November. Even Muskrat lounged in Moominpappa’s armchair, though instead of Mymble or Hemulen, it was Sniff who came clattering down the stairs, chattering about how he’d stopped Fillyjonk from throwing anything away in her tidying frenzy. Both gasped noticing the splint on Snufkin’s leg. He was shaken out of cringe by exclamation from Moomintroll, who returned already with two backpacks, deposited them near the door, and now was staring at the coat rack. Snufkin stared too, for above Fillyjonk’s coat, there hang a hat. A green hat. Impossible. How could it—or couldn’t, and it’s just a very similar hat of a hemulen and some wishful thinking? Moomintroll was already running up with the mysterious item in paws. Snufkin turned it over in his hands. His own hat, no mistake. The same old tears and patches, even a couple of new holes, and just some stains missing. And beside the bedraggled yellow feather, there was a smaller, speckled brown one, freshly tucked into the felt. "A crow and a small bird brought it back a week ago," Fillyjonk enlightened him, looming above him, her voice trembling with disgust. "Toffle said it was a mocking bird—well, it could talk. It said it found the hat on some far-off island and knew it was yours since you had once helped their family. The bird wanted to return it to where you live, and the crow helped carrying it. We’d been so worried that something bad happened to any of you, but then a gull came with a note from Moominmamma that you’d come back a bit later. And that silly child Toffle didn’t let me mend the holes,” Fillyjonk huffed, “but at least I cleaned it!” Snufkin did remember some mockingbird fledgelings he had once carried over a mountain pass in that very hat. And it was just like Moominmamma to arrange even this, a message for those left behind so they wouldn’t worry. He put the hat on. The familiar brim framed the world just right; a tilt of his head could hide his face, his fluster, the weight of all these creatures bustling about for him, because of him. Somehow, hiding didn’t feel right. So he took the hat off and laid it across his knees with a sad chuckle, fingers worrying the edge and reveling in the familiar texture. "Even birds know where my home is," he muttered, more to himself than to Moomintroll’s puzzled blink. "And I didn’t." Moomintroll’s smile was sunlight through cloud. "Well then—welcome home." *** The words "Welcome home" left Moomintroll’s mouth bright and hopeful, but Snufkin’s gaze remained shadowed. Though, in truth, he was likely just exhausted from the long noisy flight, the clamour of reunion, the endless unloading of baskets and backpacks (Mamma had provided them with enough food to avoid cooking for days). And then an inevitable question rang in the air: "But where is Moominmamma?" A silence pooled in the room. Moomintroll cleared his throat, determined to answer first, just as he and his mother had agreed. Pappa couldn’t be trusted not to embellish, and Mamma had been very clear: The less details the better. Not everyone in the valley would approve of Snufkin’s brush with the law, or her pirate kin. Worse still, rumours might reach the clan’s enemies. "She’s staying with her relatives," he said, "helping them sort out their household. She’ll visit in spring, though!" "How fascinating!" Fillyjonk trilled, whiskers quivering with the thrill of fresh gossip as she set down the tea tray. "I thought you had gone to find that young man and his family—unless I’m mistaken?" Moomintroll steeled himself. "Well, we did pass Snufkin’s father without meeting," he said, which was mostly true, "but we found Mamma’s family instead. She sends her love, by the way, and misses you all terribly." "And we’ll miss her almond biscuits!" Sniff moaned through a mouthful of cinnamon rolls from the care package. "And her marzipan pigs, and her cinnamon rolls—" "What a disaster!" Fillyjonk clasped her paws in horror. "How will you do without her? A household doesn’t run itself, you know!" "We’ll manage!" Moomintroll said quickly, before Snufkin could take this for an accusation. "And we’ll manage in a simpler way," Moominpappa added, grinning. "Like proper bachelors." Fillyjonk was unmoved. "I’ll be by every Thursday with a mop," she declared and went into further inquiries about who were those relatives, what they were doing for living, and so on and so forth, while Moomintroll was providing her with bits of agreeable information and debating with himself how to tactfully usher out their guests. And then another knock came at the door. What now, by the groke? he thought irritably, then chastised himself as none other than Snorkmaiden stepped inside, shaking out her raincoat. While he scrambled to find her a chair, she surveyed the room. "I heard the plane," she said, "and thought it might be you. And—stop, where’s my brother?" "Right!" Guilt stabbed Moomintroll. He’d completely forgotten. He lunged for the pile of backpacks by the wall, rummaging for a slim file with papers. Ah, there! But as he turned, his stomach dropped. Snorkmaiden had already perched herself beside Snufkin. "Oh, you poor thing!" she cooed. "So Moomin’s panic was justified for once? I’m not surprised, though. Sometimes you’re just as silly as some people." She shot a pointed look at Moomintroll. "What happened? Volcano? Earthquake? Tsunami?" Snufkin shrugged. "Just more signs, taller fences, and crosser Hemulens than usual." He even smiled, but Moomintroll hurried over anyway, thrusting an envelope at her. "Snork asked me to give you this. He’s staying with Hodgkins a bit longer at Mamma’s place—oh, you haven’t heard about Mamma—" She took the letter, then abruptly hooked her arm through Moomintroll’s and dragged him onto the veranda. His ears burned. Had she seen through their cover story already? Outside, she fixed him with a stare. "Well? I gave you a small task before you left. You forgot, of course. But try to remember now. And be honest." Moomintroll wished the floorboards would swallow him whole. By all laws of nature, moisture in the air should have sizzled on his flustered muzzle. He had forgotten, or rather, he’d remembered on the way to the Autocrat’s Island, but then— "Seven," he admitted miserably. Snork Maiden didn’t look angry. "I thought so," she sighed. "My silly Moomin, there’s no need to be embarrassed. Well, and here’s my count..." *** Snufkin woke to yet another oppressing ceiling, though the sturdy wooden beams of the Moominhouse parlour were definitely familiar. It still felt strange to lie on a sofa and stare up at the chandelier, counting its branches in the dark. But he’d have to get used to it. To the deafening tick-tock of the wall clock, to the dull ache in his ankle (worse in the valley’s damp chill), to the hollow pang in his chest. Was it smoking withdrawal or grief? Moominmamma had left herbal painkillers and sedatives, but they needed brewing. He pushed himself up, gauging the distance to the unpacked bags, to the kitchen. Doc had been firm: No weight on that foot for three weeks for good measure. Maybe shuffle to a chair first, then use it as a support? And—ugh—ask for help again in the morning, to knock together something like crutches. Compared to the Dire Straits citadel, the house was a bit cluttered for the wheelchair… A porcelain shuffle sounded from the table. The teapot lid lifted. Little My popped outside like a smug dormouse. "Tell me what you need," she yawned. "I’ll fetch it faster than you can hobble." She wasn’t wrong. But asking didn’t come easy. "Light the lamp first, Little My. You’d make noise in darkness. It’s on the side table by—wait, the edge!" Even with directions (and light), her rummaging wasn’t quiet. Snufkin wasn’t surprised—only guilty—when footsteps pattered down the stairs. Moomintroll appeared, paws full of a blanket and pillow. "I—I wasn’t sleeping anyway," he blurted before Snufkin could apologise. "Thought I’d keep you company. What are you—? Can I help?" "Yes!" Little My cheered, overriding Snufkin’s No. Probably for the best. Boiling water was better left to someone well-walking and taller than the kettle. Under Snufkin’s guidance (and My’s heckling), Moomintroll managed the herbs without scalding anyone. Then Moominpappa shuffled in, also trailing bedding, his nightcap askew. "Don’t mind me," he said, waving off Snufkin’s apologies. "Couldn’t sleep. It’s too quiet without Moominmamma’s breathing. Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I slept without her by my side. (“Pappa!”Moomintroll scowled.) I’ll just… borrow the armchair and be as quiet as a mouse." Every word, every fumbling adjustment of his pillow, twisted Snufkin’s guilt sharper. "I’m sorry," he muttered, putting the tea aside, then repeated louder: "This is my fault. She’s away now because of me—" "Nonsense!" Moominpappa yelped, dropping his blanket. He seized Snufkin’s hands, shaking them fervently. "If anyone’s to blame, it’s Joxter! Or—or me, for painting him as some nice guy at large in my memoirs and thus making you trust him! Never in my life will I write another book, no, any text longer than a shopping list, I swear!" A debate ensued. Snufkin argued that he’d misjudged Joxter on his own; Moomintroll chimed in, while making himself a quilt nest right on the floor, that fiction might be safer ("You can say all characters are made-up!"). They’d nearly convinced him when— The lamp went out. "Right," Little My growled in the dark. "This is very touching, but some of us do sleep at night. I’m lighting this again, counting to ten, and if anyone’s not horizontal by then—!" Of course, the moomins missed the deadline, still fussing with quilts when the darkness returned. But they did fall asleep almost instantly. Snufkin lay listening to their snoring, waiting for the herbs to pull him under. For a split second he remembered the fast and thorough effect of laudanum but banned the thought, and then another thought, that Moominmamma could well have absolutely anything in stock in her house. Unlike Moominpappa, he wasn’t used to fall asleep to the sound of others. (The first days in the Dire Straits infirmary didn’t count, he was under heavy sedatives—no, not that again!) And he wondered, as the warmth of the room seeped into his bones: Could he learn to? *** They could have made do with the pastries and bread brought from the islands, but Fillyjonk had declared yesterday that they must use up the eggs in the pantry before they spoiled. And so Moomintroll announced with more confidence than he felt that he would make pancakes for breakfast. Little My cackled. "Then we’ll all starve by night." Snufkin, in his hat to hide dark circles under his eyes and stifling yawns, suggested starting with something simpler, an omelette, perhaps, and warming the leftover pastries with coffee. When Moomintroll asked if he’d slept well, Snufkin said, "Fine." Of course. He’d never complain. Never admit to pain, either, though Moomintroll was learning to read it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his pupils dilated when he shifted his weight. It made his chest ache. He wanted to help. Well, the omelette started a disaster. The first egg shattered against the pan’s rim, spraying shell and yolk across the stove, counter, and floor. As Moomintroll scrambled to mop up the mess, Snufkin wheeled in the doorway and then, with quiet efficiency, took over. "Like this," he said, tapping an egg neatly against the edge of a bowl. "Not too hard." He whisked the eggs and milk in a bowl without spilling a drop, lit the stove (so that’s what crumpled newspapers behind it were for—as ignition material), and advised what could be tossed in for higher substantiality. Pappa, after dropping an egg next to the bowl, launched into a story about manning the galley on the Ocean Orchestra in his youth. Panicked he’d mention Joxter (and send Snufkin retreating into himself again), Moomintroll shooed Pappa off to the pantry for potatoes. And bacon! Yes, bacon! Little My perched on the windowsill, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. Moomintroll watched Snufkin’s movements closely, memorising each step. And the deadly efficiency with which the mumrik peeled potatoes was beyond imitation. Praised for that skill, Snufkin, all flustered, confessed he might’ve done better with his own jackknife, but alas, it had been confiscated. Moomintroll vowed to himself to look through the antic for a spare knife. The omelette turned out good, but he contributed very little to that. It was absurd—Snufkin knew the kitchen better than he did. Even Little My knew where everything was stored. He felt like a child in his own home. Right like when he had ventured to live by two with Snorkmaiden and realised that meals were coming from Mamma and not just emerging on a table by the dinnertime. But Mamma was not there this time, unlike at the time of Moomintroll’s coupledom with Snorkmaiden. You’re not ready, Snorkmaiden had told him back then, when he had failed to choose between Mamma and girlfriend. See where your heart is, she had told him yesterday at the veranda. After he had chosen Snufkin without hesitation. Oh, how right she was! At the thought of the mumrik, giggly warmth and ache in equal parts bloomed in his chest. Now he knew what it was. After breakfast, Snufkin moved to wash up, but this time Moomintroll dug in his heels. This, at least, he could do. "Don’t forget the soap!" Little My gloated. In the parlour, Snufkin was murmuring something to Pappa, who replied "Yes, of course, I’ll look to it." Moomintroll’s paws clenched around the sponge. He wanted to be the one Snufkin turned to. The one who helped. Outside, the clouds parted—just for a moment—and sunlight glinted through the raindrops on the windowpane. The day stretched ahead, long and promising. Maybe even rain-free. Snufkin would surely want to go for a walk. And this time, Moomintroll would be ready. *** Snufkin glanced once more at Moominmamma’s meticulous instructions—pages upon pages of curly handwriting, detailing every task the garden and house demanded before winter. "First, we need to dig up the carrots and potatoes while it’s dry," he recited, "let them air out, then store them in the pantry. The greens go to the compost. After that, the roses must be prepared. And—" He hesitated. How had he—the wanderer, the guest—become the authority on Moominmamma’s garden? Perhaps from years of watching her work from his camp by the stream. Or perhaps because he was the only one currently unfit for any hard labour. The weight of it pressed down harder than the time he’d been left in charge of an entire amusement park. Giving directions to the hosts felt awfully awkward. "And fetch the pruning shears from the shed," he added at last, avoiding Moomintroll’s gaze. "I’ll trim the roses." Moomintroll frowned. "Shouldn’t you rest?" "From what?" Well, at least he had managed to bite back the I’m not made of glass part. The second day home had barely begun, and already Snufkin was weary—not of the work, but of the suffocating concern of his friend. Worse still, he was angry at himself for resenting it. Moomintroll meant well. "I’ll take it slowly," he said, softening his tone. "And... help me get to the roses, will you?" The paths were too narrow to manoeuver the wheelchair on his own, and the soil was still damp from yesterday’s rain. But the rose bed was important. With a sigh, Moomintroll guided the chair down the makeshift ramp of stones. Snufkin gripped the armrests, careful not to slide out or flinch as every jolt sent a dull throb through his leg. The lilac leaves, wilted but still green, flapped as an autumn-tinged gust swept around the corner of the house. The air was a dainty brew of water, salt and dying grass. Snufkin turned his face into the wind partly to survey the familiar horizons, partly to test the new scarf. His old yellow one had been left behind in that prison cell, and Moomintroll had pressed this replacement into his hands, together with a handy, fancy jackknife with ivory handle. A childhood scarf, blue with white snowflakes. It fit well enough around a mumrik's slimmer neck, and the colour... well, who cared if it clashed with green? It smelled faintly of Moomintroll. And, more importantly, it didn't itch and was worn-out enough. As for the horizons, he peered into their familiarity gingerly, like toeing a cold stream with a bare foot, afraid to stumble across anything that would trigger his autumn longing to go. Yet the wet jasper and agate landscapes, the hills and groves, and distant mountains, looked sad, but in a calm, melancholic way: a trinket box lying in his hands rather than closing around him. And even a late wedge of wild geese was just a strike in the picture, not an alarm. Yet. At the flowerbed, Snufkin reached into his inner pocket and produced an unusual seashell, pinkish-yellow, shaped like a heart. "Moominmamma asked me to place this in her favourite flowerbed before we left," he explained, bending carefully toward the soil. Moomintroll made a peculiar squeaking noise, blurted "Back in a tick!" and dashed towards the house. He returned very soon indeed, dropping to his knees beside the flowerbed with identical urgency. Another shell, perfectly matching the first, decorated the soil. His blue eyes shone as he looked up. "She asked me too, but my head leaks like a sieve," he admitted with a rueful grin. "I thought she meant that half her heart would stay here in Moominvalley. But really—" He paused. Snufkin froze, too. The scarf, too hot now, seemed to strangle him, and he clutched at its knot, barely keeping from tearing it off. He had been dismissing all innuendos of Little My, Gugo, Joxter about him and Moomintroll, thinking it was a mere tease. That Moomintroll was just a friend. Okay, the best and only friend. That it was mere natural boundless friendliness from Moomintroll’s side (while he obviously dated Snorkmaiden). But wise, perceptive Moominmamma wasn’t prone to jokes. If she saw love… Why would that word, even unsaid, be so heavy, so desperate, so… terrifying? Was it the responsibility? Not just for a garden—for another living heart. Terrifying. Like a stone around his neck. Like when Moominmamma’s brother had cornered him into ‘cooperation’ by mentioning Moominvalley. Now there was no threat, no crime, so why it felt the same? Snufkin could no longer understand that turmoil inside. It was drowning him. You break up all bonds—or they’ll break you down, Joxter’s voice taunted him. And there was no hiding under his hat, not with Moomintroll still on his knees, gazing up at him. Then, as a sudden break in the clouds sent sunlight spilling over them, Moomintroll seemed to ignite—a white blaze of joy that lingered in his eyes even when the light faded. "—but really, her whole heart belongs to home. To us." Snufkin exhaled slowly. He nodded, managed a smile. Words were beyond him with his heart hammering in his throat. He could only hope the expression didn't twist too awkwardly on his face. "Oh! The shears!" Moomintroll jolted upright, suddenly flustered. "I'll fetch them now, but you must promise to be careful!" Coward. The word echoed in Snufkin's skull like a taunt. Pathetic coward. What had he spat at Joxter in the citadel about chosen bonds not clipping his freedom? Was Joxter right? Had it all been just big words he was unable to live up to? Incapable of trusting anyone, even steadfast, golden-hearted Moomintroll, of not hurting him? The claws, unsheathed without permission, had sunk into the wheelchair's armrests and startled him. Breathe. Focus on the task. He reached for a rose branch, gauging where to prune. Little My's face popped beneath the leaves. "Well?" She crossed her arms. "What was that? Or did ya change your mind about marrying me?" "Don't be ridiculous." He released the branch to swipe her, but she dodged and wriggled free. His temper frayed, harsh words were ready at the tip of the tongue—and Moomintroll was still tinkering in the shed. "Since when do you give relationship advice? You’re definitely not an expert in opening up." Little My gaped, then huffed like an angry sparrow. "Well... First, I only feel glee or anger, and I have no problems admitting them. And second, I’ve told you that you’re the best of my siblings. Doesn’t it count as a confession?" Still smirking, she actually flushed. "And I survived, as you see. Next, why are you roleplaying Moominmamma? Chill. Look at me or the Muskrat—we do absolutely nothing, and they still love and feed us." "Like Joxter?" The words slipped out. Little My rolled her eyes. "Oh, so now you'll model your life after dear old dad, just in reverse? If he liked eating, would you starve?" Before he could retort, Moomintroll returned, clutching shears and gardening gloves. "Little My, what are you doing? Nothing, evidently. Go pick and sort the fallen apples!" "Like heck I will!" She stuck her nose in the air. "Gardening is your job. I'm in charge of guard duty. And reconnaissance. And family advice. And emotional support. See, I’m busy enough.” “Since when bullying and violence count as emotional support?” Moomintroll tried to catch her, but didn’t succeed, of course. “Oh silly!” She mimicked Snorkmaiden’s cooing tone. “Love can take any form!” She winked at Snufkin and bounced away before he could ask them both not to thrash around fragile rose canes. Or ask Little My what she meant by the “guard duty” or “reconnaissance”. Yet another fear reared its head.