Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       Snufkin found the letter one morning when the mist still wandered amidst the trees, damp and silvered like old spiderwebs. A folded piece of paper was tucked between charred, long extinguished boughs of his fire, along with some dappled brown feathers—must be some thrush serving as a postman. The paper smelled faintly of wet feathers and tobacco, and the handwriting was a lazy sprawl, as if the writer had been half-asleep or pleasantly drunk. Hi my lad. Would you lend a helping paw to a fellow vagabond in trouble? I’m stuck at your native island. Just be careful, try getting there unnoticed. You’ll find me… And some whereabouts and instructions followed. No date. No explanation. Just a signature, J., which could only be Joxter. Snufkin sat by the dead fire place in front of his tent, turning the letter over in his hands. The delivery method was very much like Joxter, who had demonstrated his ability to talk to animals (and talk them into anything). But the paper was too fine for a careless mumrik vagabond. White gloss, printed pink flowers on the margins—it was clearly from a letter writing set for creatures caring about things. But the smell of Joxter’s tobacco… That had been the strangest thing. It was so familiar, though Snufkin couldn’t place why until he realised it might be the scent half-remembered from infancy, withoutaface or a figure, yet bringing thoughts of warmth and colour green. Sometimes he wondered if it was his hat. Over the years it had been through so many storms and streams that it would certainly lose any original smell. Had he started smoking himself because of that? To get a bit of that forgotten sense of protection? After actual acquaintance with his father, Snufkin had asked him about the hat, and Joxter had confirmed that, though the green hat had initially belonged to some previous boyfriend of the Mymble, Joxter did use it to store his stash of tobacco away from hordes of naughty mymble kids. He thought of the last time they’d met. Not the first, awkward encounter after the grand arrival of Oshun Oxtra to the Moominvalley when Joxter had lounged in the terrace, grinning at Snufkin’s startled face, as if to say, Well, here we are, but later, on a southern coast in winter. A casual remark from Joxter about his plans for winter, a brief hopeful glance, and Snufkin had decided that that direction was as good as any other. They wandered the shore of a warm, turquoise sea, not talking much, just fishing, or lying in the dry grass while Joxter plucked at his guitar and Snufkin played harmonica. There had been no demands, no weight of expectation, just the easy rhythm of two creatures who understood silence. Maybe he should have felt bitter for abandonment, but he was totally content with what he had been through and what he was, so… It didn’t really matter. Besides, after some experience with little woodies and mymble’s spawn, Snufkin believed that mumriks were not cut for parenting. Right,hehad felt a tinge of disappointment when Joxter had not met him there in the next winter, but this note washed away any doubts. His father must have been held back by something. Snufkin shook his head, scattering the thought. It had been odd, seeing someone so like himself—the same relaxed stance, the same way of tilting his head when listening or idly scratching his nape—and yet not himself. A reflection in a rippled water. Did Moomintroll feel that, looking at his dad? Or had they been together so long that the likeness blurred into comfort? He almost wished he could ask. But Moomintroll was away with Snorkmaiden on a trip to the harvest festival in a neighbouring valley and would be back in a couple of days only, and Snufkin couldn’t wait. What if it was urgent? What if Joxter needed help now? So he scribbled a note for Moomintroll and hurried to the postbox by the side of the bridge over the stream. The morning was brightening, the mist burning off, and the box stood like a sentinel at the bridge, its reddish brown paint peeling. He lifted the lid, then paused. Moomintroll might be upset. Snufkin scratched his head and remembered instantly the same gesture made by a slightly different hand with a slightly different head. Right, he has a family now. With a sigh, he fished his harmonica out of a pocket, wrapped his letter around it, and stuffed into the postbox. Moomintroll would understand that the matter was a trifle and his friend would return by all means and very soon. He dropped it in, shut the lid with a dry knock, and turned south, along the shore to look for a boat, then an island, and then a shadow that was and wasn’t his own. *** Moomintroll trotted home from the harvest festival in another valley, his paws still tingling from the lively dances and his ears ringing with laughter. It had been a merry, crowded, noisy affair, exactly the sort of thing Snufkin would have fled (though he'd surely enjoy the fireworks from afar), so it had only been for the best he hadn’t joined them. Snorkmaiden had insisted it to be a small adventure for two, but then she had also seemed displeased with one thing or another all the time. Well, Moomintroll hadn’t dwelled on it. His mind was too full of stories to share with his best friend. He barely touched his lunch before dashing off towards the riverbank, where Snufkin’s tent usually stood. When he arrived, his paws skidded to a halt. The tent was gone. Only flattened grass and the cold ashes of a campfire remained. Moomintroll’s ears drooped. It was too early for his friend to leave! Still he went to the mailbox by the bridge where Snufkin would leave a message before departing south every normal year after the first snow, not amidst the season of golden leaves! Inside was a small paper wrapping turning out to be the note and—moomin’s heart clenched—Snufkin’s harmonica. "Gone on sudden business. Back in a week or two. Depends. But in Spring at the latest." Moomintroll stared at the words, his tail twitching with unease. Snufkin never left without saying goodbye properly. And why leave his harmonica behind? He never went anywhere without it! Did it mean he went somewhere so dangerous that he had left his only treasured thing to his friends? Still refusing to believe it, Moomintroll ran back to the camping site to find some clue. Or maybe to see the tent still there, as it should be. Nah. No tent, no Snufkin. It was not a dream. And not a clue, not a trail (a fishbone stuck in the rush near the stream was definitely not a hint). Just before Moomintroll despaired, a rustling came from the branches above. A small, trembling creature reminding of a love child of a mouse and ant peeked down, its eyes wide with anxiety. "Y-you’re looking for Snufkin, aren’t you?" it stammered. Moomintroll blinked. "Yes! Do you know where he went?" The creature nodded and shook its head in turns. "I—I’ve always watched him from the trees. He never knew. Who I am for him to notice me? I don’t even have a name, I just hoped that one day… Ah, right, the day before yesterday, a bird brought him a letter. I—I read a little of it over his shoulder from my branch." It swallowed hard. " ‘Hi my lad. Would you lend a helping paw to a fellow vagabond in trouble? I’m stuck at your native...’That’s all, he crumpled the letter before I could finish. Was that useful? Was it?” Moomintroll asked the creature to repeat the message, then asked if it was absolutely sure it remembered the text right, because… Snufkin’s native place? Wasn’t it that island where Moominpappa stayed in his youth with his friends from Oshun Oxtra, including the Joxter guy who was Snufkin’s father (and a vagabond, too)? But in pappa’s memoirs, that island, ruled by the fun-loving king Daddy Jones, didn’t appear dangerous at all. What might happen to Joxter there that would require help from Snufkin? Well, it didn’t really matter. Without another word, Moomintroll turned and bolted back home. He had to pack. He had to help. What if that unknown trouble is too big for two mumriks alone? Well, the trouble with a sea serpent, with which Joxter had addressed Moominpappa a couple of years ago, was not very critical, but... Okay, Moomintroll just didn't want to waste a week (or two!) of precious time with his best friend before Snufkin went South. *** Moomintroll burst into the living room, his fur ruffled and his heart pounding. "Pappa!" he gasped. "I need to borrow the Adventure! And you must tell me where the island from your Memoirs is!" Moominmamma quietly put down her knitting and went out to the kitchen, no doubt to cook some nutrient and delicious pies. Moominpappa did start and looked up from his newspaper (after release of his Memoirs, he had got a habit of reading all newspapers reaching the Valley, in hopes to find a positive critical review of his masterpiece—which had to happen yet), adjusting his hat in surprise. "The Island of Daddy Jones, mymble family, the Ghost, and where I met your mother? Good gracious, that’s quite the journey! Whatever for?" "Snufkin’s gone there! His dad is in trouble, and he left his harmonica behind!" Moomintroll’s voice wobbled. Moominpappa’s eyes widened. "Joxter is in a scrape? Well, I’m coming too!" He stood up decisively. "Firstly, sailing is easier for two. Secondly, Joxter is my old friend! How dared he not ask me for help first!" Moominmamma peeked in from the kitchen in a haze of vanilla aroma. "Dear, now Joxter knows about Snufkin. And they seem to get along well. He must have thought it natural to ask his son first." "I’m coming too!" shrieked a voice from nowhere. No one started, because everyone had already got used to a certain teapot talking in the voice of Little My at all the wrong moments. And indeed, Little My sprang from her hiding place onto the table like a furious fire imp. "Snufkin’s my little brother, and that means I’ve got every right to drag him out of trouble and give him a good whack for getting into it in the first place!" Sniff, who had been waiting patiently for the evening batch of Moominmamma’s unrivaled almond biscuits, sagged on his chair as if he tried to sink down under the table, and whimpered. "I-I don’t think I should go. It sounds dangerous, and—and what if there are storms? And Ghosts? And Boobles? And Niblings? And Ghosts—didn’t my dad have panic attacks every time that Ghost was around? I’m sure I’ve inherited that from him!" Little My rolled her eyes. "Oh, you chicken-liver! Fine, stay here and tremble!" Moominmamma appeared from her realm as if summoned by the sounds of bickering. "Actually, Sniff, that’s very sensible. Would you mind looking after the house while we’re gone? And perhaps water the flowers? And I may invite Miss Fillyjonk and Toft to keep you company." With that, she walked to the kitchen where the biscuits were already smelling fine and ready. Sniff brightened immediately. "Oh! Well, if it’s important..." "I’m coming as well," Moominmamma added from the kitchen. "Someone has to make sure you all eat properly." Sniff perked up; the idea of delicious pastry must have fought in his heart with terrors of a dangerous journey. Moomin barely had time to decide if he’d like to have Sniff by or not before he remembered—Snorkmaiden! They had agreed to meet tomorrow in the meadow to look for late flowers and early yellow leaves to make wreaths. He must warn her he wouldn’t come. And maybe… Maybe she’d want to join the rescue raid. And again, for a second, Moomin doubted he wanted her to come along, and he dashed outside to outrun such strange thoughts. To his uncanny relief, Snorkmaiden just nodded and didn’t show any wish to go anywhere. She did tell, though, about some request of her own, but before she could explain, Snork stormed in and demanded to enroll him. "Ah, Moomin!" he declared. "I insist on joining this expedition. I’ll never forgive myself that I’ve read your father’s memoirs only some months ago and missed the visit of the book characters, so it’s my only chance to meet that guy Hodgkins! A genius inventor like that—why, the possibilities! An amphibian submarine aircraft! I absolutely must learn how it works." He might have made much more other incoherent exclamations, but Snorkmaiden, who had been standing quietly nearby, suddenly pushed her brother outside and ordered him (rather bitterly) to go pack at once if he didn’t want to miss the departure. Moomin was already going to do the same (that is, go and pack), but Snorkmaiden caught him by the paw and said she had a few words for him. Moomin blinked but stayed. The midday sun was lighting dust sparks against the darker room, and his girlfriend, standing in the shadow of a curtain, seemed grey and very serious. For a moment, everything felt strangely still. “Please do something while you’re at it.”