Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       Dawn erupted like a slow-motion volcano over the horizon, spilling pale gold across the sea. At last, the Island rose into view—a jagged silhouette of rocky shores, crowned behind by round, sleepy hills. The journey had been long, and Snufkin’s arms ached from the labour of it. The old hemulen’s boat he’d borrowed was hardly seaworthy; he’d fashioned a mast from a slender birch trunk and a sail from the covering tarpaulin, but the thing leaked like a sieve. Twice he’d had to drag it onto lonely skerries just to sleep for a few hours, for even Snufkin could only go so long without rest before the waves began whispering nonsense in his ears. Now, half a mile from shore, the water grew strange. Little white crests flecked the surface, as if some hidden reef lurked beneath. Frowning, Snufkin lowered the sail and took up the oars. The boat creaked forward, and soon it turned out that there were not rocks, but creatures. Niblings. They surfaced one by one, round as barrels, with shaggy pelts slicked dark by the sea, watchful black eyes, and teeth like chisels. The nearest clicked its jaws with a sound like a lock snapping shut and a wave of similar clacks ran over the chain of those unexpected guards. Did Joxter mean it saying about being stuck at the island? “No landing except at the port,” said the same nearest nibling with indifferent calm. “Customs. Papers.” Then, as if to emphasise the point, it took a neatroundbite out of Snufkin’s oar. He examined the line of them, bobbing like buoys across the bay. No slipping past. With a quiet sigh, he turned the boat, following the shoreline westward in search of the said port. East might be just as good a direction, but Snufkin preferred to keep the low sun rays out of his sight to notice any gap in the barrage. No gaps up to the port. Itwas a small but neat thing with two freshly painted jetties in a walled marina, just asking for some barnacles and seaweeds, and a pair of solid booths manned by hemulen customs officers in gray uniforms. Their snouts twitched with bureaucratic displeasure as Snufkin approached. He shared their feelings and just didn’t have whiskers or tail to show it. Internally, he was bristling as always at the sight of any uniforms. But the only way ashore lay through one of those booths with an officer wielding a stack of papers and a quill. Okay, let it be short. "Name?" Even if Joxter hadn’t warned him in the letter to be as discreet as possible, Snufkin still loathed to give away his name to that indifferent creature of rules and papers. It would have felt wrong and disgusting like a touch of a stranger; so different from hearing it from, say, Moomintroll. "Nuuskamuikkunen," he said finally. That was a rough translation of his name in one of countries he had visited. Just so. Estranged, and yet not entirely a lie. By the way, the customs booth was made not of stone but of another material, dull and rough. Concrete. Lately it was becoming more usual in the wide world, but Snufkin disliked it. "Species?" "Crossbreed." That was still not a lie. The hemulen’s metal quill scratched the paper. "Purpose of visit?" "Touristic," said Snufkin, recalling the odd fellow he’d once met who called himself a tourist—a creature with a home to return to, who travelled not from a deep urge to, but out of idle interest. Now that was a lie; it felt strange on his tongue. A snort. "Baggage inspection," the hemilen nodded at the next, low table where his colleague stood just as bored and deadpan serious. Snufkin cringed at the idea of strangers rummaging through his backpack (though there was really nothing criminal inside), but bit his tongue. He didn't need any problems with authorities right from the start. Finally, it all ended; a visa was stamped, a map thrust into his hand, and just like that, Snufkin stepped onto the island where he had entered this world. The air here was thick with the scent of salt and overripe apples (which was fine and matched the image Snufkin got from Moominpappa's Memoirs), but also of smoke and concrete dust and other unnatural matters. He absolutely didn't expect to see so many walls, fences, paved roads or even a tank truck rattling down a street at such wee hour and stinking of kerosene. The few trees were cowering behind walls and roofs, in the patios, and roads were lined with alleys of lampposts, power lines, advertising columns and shop stands... Moomintroll might’ve liked it, though. After glimpsing a Wanted poster with what looked like Joxter's portrait drawn by description given by a half-blind and scared hedgehog, Snufkin decided to walk backstreets, away from busy and gloomy early passers-by. And to take his hat off. Following Joxter’s directions, Snufkin slipped into the overgrown garden of a house on the outskirts. The garden gave off a strange half-abandoned impression. Weeds didn’t choke the flowerbeds yet, but the plants looked wilted, the earth parch dry; the apple trees sagged with fruit, but quite a pile of leftover apple cores were littered under the trees and windows. At the back door—closed but unlocked, as promised—the shadows yawned wide. Inside, the house was a museum of middle-class fussiness. Shelves, cabinets, an armchair. Doilies, pictures and faded photos on the walls with flowery wallpaper. Porcelain shepherdesses. A corvette model in a bottle. A clock that had given up ticking. The curtains were drawn tight, but Snufkin could see quite well in darkness, and discerned a layer of dust everywhere and dust specks floating in the light beam from the door. Here and there, long parallel scratches adorned floorboards and doorframes, as if a cat had been sharpening its claws. But the cat must have been the size of Hobgoblin’s panther. The air was stuffy with the smells of dust, familiar tobacco, and medicines. In the gloom, two pale blue sparks glinted. "Hello, son," said Joxter, from his nest on a sofa. "Knew you’d make it." "Hello," Snufkin nodded, glancing around for a space to drop his backpack. Under the round table would have to do. "Didn’t think you’d like…" He gestured at the flowery carpet on a wall, on a bookshelf with its dried violets and fancy book covers, on a beaded lampshade. "...this sort of thing." Everything spoke of a deliberate care for material possessions and of neglect at the same time. "Oh, I don’t," Joxter admitted, slightly abashed, stretching out to cover an embroidered cushion with his body. "I sleep in the garden while it’s still warm enough. But during the day, someone might notice…" "I saw the Wanted posters," said Snufkin. "Did you really steal the royal crown?" "Nothing so grand. Just ordinary signs, as usual, y’know. But there’s so many of them these days that I can’t keep up with tearing them all down." Joxter yawned. "Hungry? There’s stew on the stove, coffee somewhere on the shelves, matches in—ah, no, here they are." Reaching lazily, he produced a matchbox from beneath him, then fished out a pipe and tobacco pouch from inside his coat. Snufkin desperately wanted a smoke too but decided to eat first. He took the matches and headed to the kitchen. The stove reminded him of Moominmamma’s, though only a few logs remained. The kitchen itself was cramped, cluttered with far more crockery than necessary, half of it dirty and piled in the sink. Morning light seeped through the lace curtains, revealing the contents of a large frying pan—something best left untouched. It looked like someone had pulled carrots and potatoes out of earth, hacked them with a spade, and mixed with unidentifiable meat shreds a week ago. A typical mumrik cuisine. The coffee, however, took only five attempts to find among the unlabelled jars, and it was good. "Whose house is this?" Snufkin called back. "Won’t the owners mind the mess?" Instead of an answer, a sharp hiss came from the parlour. Snufkin darted back. Joxter was already at the front door, motioning for silence. Outside, footsteps and the clink of glass were heard. Had the owner returned? Should they flee? Snufkin pegged the fastest route to grab his backpack and bolt for the garden gate, but then a knock came, too polite for a homeowner. "Delivery for Fru Hemulsen!" The footsteps retreated. Joxter waited a full five minutes before cracking the door open and hauling in two milk bottles and a box of eggs. "Omelette!" He grinned, carrying the trophy to the kitchen, though he left the cooking to Snufkin, perching on a stool instead. "Fru Hemulsen’s a dear old soul and a friend of mine. Late in life, she discovered a romantic spirit and no one left to hide it from. So I gave her tales of adventure to live through. She’s visiting distant relatives now. And no, she wouldn’t mind the mess. She knew I’m not made for housekeeping." Snufkin huffed. What else to expect from a proper mumrik? He, at least, was half-blooded and perfectly capable of finding the last clean pan and whisking eggs with milk. As the omelette sizzled, he pressed on. "But there was nothing to rebel against here before, if Moominpappa’s memoirs aren’t all lies. No real rules. Though the town doesn’t match his descriptions. Has something changed?" "Yup." Joxter stretched. "Moomintroll left under the king Daddy Jones, back when things were good. But the old king was ancient, over a hundred even before you were born. Died a few years back. After the elections fuss, some Chancellor took over—a right nasty gaffsie, mad for rules and fines. They call it ‘order.’ Hemulens, gaffsies, and fillyjonks adore it. Mymbles or toffles don’t care. But a poor mumrik can’t keep up with breaking all the new rules". "So last winter," Snufkin realised, "you didn’t come because—" Joxter averted his gaze and gave a guttural growl. After a pause and a huff, he added, "Now they’re sending decent creatures to jail for vagrancy. Imagine, sleeping in a garden tree’s forbidden. Just as climbing trees. Or smoking in public places. Or rolling downhill. Or…" He waved a hand, abandoning the list to dig out a fork. Snufkin got a slotted spoon. Would do for an omelette. He might have gone to the backpack to fetch his own spoon but felt too lazy for that. And he didn’t ask if Joxter managed to break out of a jail; wouldn’t any mumrik boast a successful escape without extra inquiries? After tucking in the breakfast, Snufkin registered an urge to wash the pan as he’d do at his own campsite, or sometimes at Moominhouse, but Joxter was already taking his milky coffee to the parlour. Alright, it’s not a campsite, it’s not their own pan, and why would house chores be more important that a talk with kin in need? And Snufkin left the kitchen too. In the dim, cushioned comfort of the parlour sofa, he began to nod off, so he cut to the chase. "So, what do you need me for?" "Two can escape this island. I couldn’t cope with distracting guards alone. And Hodgkins keeps tinkering with the flying ship of his, would be faster to figure out how to pilot it by two. And also it’s easier to smash a few ‘No Trespassing’ signs on the way out with company." "What about Hodgkins himself? You’re friends, right?" Joxter grimaced. "He prefers his cosy post as Chief State Engineer. Said he won’t help. Don’t ask about Muddler either." Snufkin nodded. Moominpappa’s memoirs—and Sniff as Muddler’s simile—had taught him as much: those pals could not be entrusted with anything serious. "Could we sneak onto my boat? It’s at the marine—” Then he remembered how fast it used to take up water. By now, it must be drowned completely. “No, never mind, it’s gone submarine already.” But Joxter stiffened. "At the marine? You went through customs?" "Well, yes. But I used my name in another tongue, and put ‘crossbreed’ for species. I didn’t specify that it was a crossbreed of mumrik and mymble." Joxter chuckled. "Oh, lad. You don’t know? And I didn’t tell you yet? Well, there’s no such thing as a half-mumrik." At Snufkin’s blank look, he added, "Ever seen a female mumrik in your travels?" Snufkin hadn’t. Other mumriks crossed his path sometimes, in different hats and clothes, with or without packs, but they always knew each other. By what? The look in their eyes, fixed on the horizon? The way freedom clung to them? They’d nod, maybe swap news of roads and dangers, then part ways. But they always were males. "That’s how we are. We turn up beside some mymble or fillyjonk—look, me and you have even the same taste for round, soft critters; then we wander off, and she has a boy, a pure mumrik, tail and claws and all, zero blood from the mother. And soon he vanishes from home just like his father. Feline cuckoos, so to say." "But I’m not much like you. No tail, no claws, and… the features," Snufkin put a finger to his nose bridge, fair and clean unlike the dark pattern on his father’s forehead and nose. “And no, that’s not my type, I don’t quite get what you saw in that Mymble.” “Come on, son, don’t be slow on the draw. I mean you and Moomin’s kid. He’s very much our type.” Snufkin choked on the last drops of his coffee after realising whom his father meant, and in what context. His ears felt hot. “No! He’s just a friend, not the… the my type.” But Joxter waved his embarrassment off. "As for the looks, there’s some minor variation, but I’m no hemulen to dig for the reasons. Skin-deep, just that. And temporary. By thirty, your nose and brow and hair will darken. And you’ve got claws, you just don’t know it. Here, gimme your paw." Joxter seized his hand, squeezed the pads of his fingers almost to the point of pain, then let go. "Now, put your paw palm down, flex fingers like this, tense the palm—No, don’t move your elbow, and then imagine…. Guards!" he barked. Snufkin startled at a momentary thought of a generic park keeper—and hooked the sofa fabric with very real claws. They retracted under the nails at once. "Heigh-ho!" He whistled, trying to summon them again. It took practice. Handy for climbing, he thought, then double-guessed what produced the long scratches on the doorframes and floors he had seen before. Joxter had marked his territory thoroughly. "What about the tail?" Snufkin didn’t resist an urge to feel for one, but nope, his spine was ending at nothing. And he didn’t remember ever seeing his father’s tail. But their robes were quite loose, the pants long enough… Noticing his gesture, Joxter grinned, feline and smug. Snufkin probed his own teeth with his tongue. Were his own fangs as sharp as his dad’s? Must check a mirror later. And the glow in the father’s eyes—was it also some mumrik perk unavailable to him yet? "Tail’s trickier," Joxter mumbled. "But that’s for later. Too many talking. After we’re out. Now sleep. You’re tired, I’m tired, and we have work to do after dawn." That stood to reason. They fussed half-heartedly over sofa space, then curled up. Joxter snored instantly. Snufkin, weary but buzzing, replayed the morning’s revelations and savoured the thrill of days ahead, where life promised to be wilder still.