Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       The night had turned cruel. The wound in his leg burned now, pulsing with a heat that didn't foil the ambient cold. Snufkin gritted his teeth and reached down in the dark, unwinding the stiff bandages with clumsy fingers. Every touch sent jagged lightning up his side, but he forced himself to probe the smooth edges of the wound. Just the entry hole, no exit. The bullet was still inside. And he had a creeping suspicion a bone or two were shattered. Travel teaches you this much: when there’s no clean water, no herbs, you make do. Thirst dried his mouth, but still he tried to lick fingers clean and clean the wound with saliva. It took very long. He knew he should rest, he was exhausted, but sleep just wouldn’t slip past pain, nicotine craving, and hunger united. No, he would omit it all from the tale for Moomintroll. Morning announced itself with the thud of boots and the clatter of keys. Shadows flickered beyond the bars before the door swung open by hemulen guards, their grip like iron as they hauled him upright. The cuffs bit into his wrists, chafing the bruises from yesterday raw again. When Snufkin dared asking about meals or water, no one deigned to answer him. The corridor. The glass-roofed courtyard with its teasing glimpse of clear sky. He drank in the sight, after a full day in small closed rooms. Then the van, everpresent hemulen guards with their gun bolsters unlatched, the weasling expert sniffing the air, the barred window offering flashes of green and yellow leaves and the occasional patch of blue sky. No stops. Straight to town. The yard between city hall and police station looked unfamiliar in daylight, but the charred skeleton of the regulating sign workshop was a telltale landmark. And unreachable tall pine-tree behind the fence. Snufkin didn’t glimpse anyone on the roofs or in the pine branches. They dragged him through the back of the town hall, past polished wood panels that did nothing to soften the weight of the place. Voices hummed behind doors, growing louder until— The courtroom. A cage of wrought iron separated him from the crowd. Hemulens, gaffsies, fillyjonks, hedgehogs—their stares pressed against his skin like brands. Some horrified. Some gloating. Most just indignant. Snufkin wanted to shrink away. Instead, he made himself scan the room, searching for the flicker of blue eyes, the tilt of a familiar hat. No, what hat, that’s too risky, Joxter must’ve disguised himself as… what? A mymble? A gaffsie? His eyes snagged on a figure in the back rows: a black-suited gaffsie with slicked dark hair and sunglasses. Indoors. Too theatrical. Could it be—? Ah, no. A weasling and a wolpertinger in plain clothes flanked him, their military bearing unmistakable. And when a police officer approached, he bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the chair arm. The Chancellor himself, then? Hadn’t Joxter mentioned him being a gaffsie? Where are you, Joxter? The guards held him upright, not so much guarding as keeping him from collapsing. His leg screamed. His head swam. The judge—a hemulen, naturally—took his seat. The prosecutor, yesterday’s sharp-faced gaffsie, but with her hair loose and lips painted scarlet-red, slid into place opposite, her gaze flicking over Snufkin before she smiled toward the important gaffsie at the rear. At the defence table, a grizzled little creature scurried about. An actual defence lawyer? Wow. The judge rapped his gavel. Typewriter keys clattered like grasshoppers in a meadow; the lamps blazed yellow as midsummer sun. Only then did Snufkin realise how cold he’d been in that cell, since the fever hadn’t stopped the chill seeping into his bones. “This court is now in session,” droned the judge. “The felony case of the State versus mumrik Joxter, present before—” Remember. You’re Joxter now. Stop. What? Felony? “Your Honour, wait, that’s not Joxter!” A voice. A familiar voice. Snufkin’s head snapped up. There, a black top hat bobbing above the crowd, then Moominpappa himself, elbowing forward with vigour and excuses. “That’s Snufkin! His son! Half-mymble, I might add, not completely mumrik! A fine young man, he’s been staying with us in Moominvalley all summer and couldn’t possibly have committed anything grave: he didn’t have neither time nor malice to!” A murmur rippled through the room. The judge’s spectacles flashed, his gavel broke the rumbling. “Order in the Court! Control yourself, sir, or you’ll be removed!” Why was Moominpappa here? The thought spun uselessly in Snufkin’s feverish mind. Had Joxter somehow summoned his old friend? Impossible; the journey took days. Schnaps guards in green uniforms were already herding the moomin toward the witness stand. Not dragging him out yet, thank goodness, but close enough. “I am Moominpappa of Moominvalley,” he declared, once permitted. “Here promoting my memoirs—which describe your splendid island—and gathering material for my next book. That’s why I’m in court today. And I repeat: the person you’ve detained is—” “Objection!” The prosecutor’s voice could shatter glass. “Where’s his proof? Entry visas? Exit stamps? Any documents at all, beside his own one-day old visa? Or maybe an expert testimony? I have all that for my case.” Moominpappa faltered. He turned to the dock, desperation creasing his snout. “Snufkin, for pity’s sake, tell them!” The judge adjusted his spectacles. “Well, defendant? What do you say to this?” What now? The worst charges—the power station, the workshop, the sentry—were his doing. Admitting his name wouldn’t free him. And Moominpappa stood there, absurdly dignified in his top hat, with a story that would direct the police to Joxter’s trail and get Moominpappa arrested as an accomplice if he boasted friendship with either mumrik. He didn’t know the way things were here, the ways to extort any confessions… Why did you have to charge in like this? Moomintroll would never forgive me if anything happens to you— Wait. Could Moomintroll be here on the island too? No, no peculiar white shapes among the public, but he might be outdoors. And also in danger. So, Snufkin must deny any connection to the moomins, must set this one as a weird misguided stranger, must… The silence stretched. Snufkin peeled his dry lips apart and fixed his gaze on the bridge of Moominpappa’s nose. “My name is Joxter, and I don’t know this gentleman. He’s mistaken. And not an expert, because he doesn’t know that half-mumriks do not exist.” Please, he willed silently, understand I’m shielding you all— But Moominpappa, never one for reading between lines, kept arguing until the gavel cut him off. The judge dismissed his testimony and ordered him detained for perjury. Well, not for alliance with the criminals. As the schnaps guards led him away, the courtroom buzzed with scandal. Snufkin, swaying, addressed the court-appointed lawyer. “Sir, please, can I have some water?” The creature blinked but shuffled to the bench. The judge sighed, nodded. A paper cup appeared in his paws. He drank, tasting blood where his lips had cracked. But water lulled the smoking craving and hunger and cleared his mind a bit, and in time: the gaffsie prosecutor started reading charges from a stack of paper sheets of text. This didn’t look good. And… hadn’t she mentioned felony? Why? Usually, his wars with park keepers were classified as misdemeanors at worst. Had the sentry weasling fared so bad? Or was that Chancellor really hellbent over the rules and order, as Joxter had mentioned? “First, repeated acts of criminal mischief, total count of two hundred and six episodes: on diverse dates between March and September this year, the defendant did unlawfully and maliciously remove, deface, or destroy municipal signage and private property markers, to wit: 'No Trespassing, ' 'Danger, ' and other regulatory notices, contrary to Section…” The sheer number impressed Snufkin, but given the large time span… No, Joxter had been his lazy self, probably making one night raid to bring down a dozen of signs, then regenerating for a week or so. “…By the aforesaid removal of safety warnings, the defendant did recklessly create conditions leading to further minor and major property damage, total count of one hundred forty-nine, bodily harm, total count of forty-seven: specifically…” Snufkin gasped listening to a list of names and circumstances. What should the verdict be, if mere vagrancy had landed Joxter for some months? Oh, and wouldn’t it make him a repeat offender and earn him harsher punishment? Like… ten years? Well, then Joxter would get him out for sure. Or he’d escape by himself. “…manslaughter, total count of nine…” Air curdled, leaving Snufkin cold and gaping. “No,” he croaked, then repeated louder. “No! I was only taking down the signs but I’d never—” “Silence!” the judge barked and struck with his gavel. One of the guarding hemulens shook Snufkin hard, triggering another jolt of pain. “Murderer!” rang a shrill female cry in the audience, and the judge repeated calls for order. “To wit,” prosecutor continued, irritated with the interruption, “the defendant’s removal of a 'No Smoking' notice at the Fritjofsen’s hardware store on May 5 did foreseeably result in conflagration, causing the deaths of a shop assistant, a porter, and two customers by fire…” A driver perished in a head-on crash in a one-way alley. A fisherman catching a high-voltage wire with a fishing rod. A couple walking into a building prepared for demolition. A child, too weak to survive bowel distress after drinking dirty water from a fountain. All of them dead because the signs warning of the dangers were not in place. Oh, was it just father? Snufkin realised suddenly with a sickening clarity. Hadn’t he also been whisking away right after destroying various signs, and thus never learning of the aftermaths? No, please no, those had been stupid innocent signs like ‘No walk on lawns’! But what if he also had a kill count? Then it would be so ironically fair to bear Joxter’s blame instead of his own. Like father, like son, they say. The prosecutor, a tad hoarse already, got to three intentional arsons (wait, what was the third? Ah, a port warehouse in April). “The defendant did unlawfully cause explosive combustion at the Island Power Station, thereby endangering life and infrastructure, with one worker dead and two injured.” Snufkin would just shudder at each new name. That was his fault. And when it came to outright murder, he was too stunned to react. The prosecutor had ignored his claims that he hadn’t wanted it, and now she was presenting poisoning of the sentry as a deliberate act. The concluding charges, something about the state authority, floated past his short-circuited mind. How could things get so wrong? Father, what have you done? What have I done? The judge hummed something; the prosecutor droned on. Electric light didn’t remind of the sun anymore. It irritated, it left no shadow to hide, it was… dead. Snufkin focused. The gaffsie was proving his identity. His own confession, the similarity of signatures, olfactory expertise results (oh the expert had found marginal smell match between Snufkin’s confiscated jack-knife and some item from Joxter), census and immigration data indicating that there was just one mumrik on the island… “The identification is sufficient,” the judge declared and turned to Snufkin. “Defendant, do you admit to the charges brought against you?” Snufkin’s throat tightened. He had meant to shoulder only the torn-down signs. But once he’d confessed to those, the rest had followed like stones in an avalanche. If he backtracked now, the prosecutor would surely produce evidence and slap him with perjury too. Only one accusation truly twisted his insides: “I told you! I never meant for the sentry to die!” His voice frayed at the edges. “It was an accident. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I’m sorry it happened…” The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Miss Tinker, do you maintain this poisoning was deliberate?” “Indeed, Your Honour.” The gaffsie trotted forward with another sheaf of papers. “The coroner confirms death resulted from combined sedative overdose and anaphylactic shock. The defendant’s paws tested positive for residue of the… allergen. He carried the vial of the sedative with him, and the... allergen container was found on the spot.” She bared her teeth. “A lethal cocktail for the sentry’s species. Too precise to be chance.” Snufkin tripped over this darker thought: Had Joxter knew this? His reeling was stopped by the lawyer’s “Objection!”. The creature rustled with papers, reading police protocols of several instances, where pursuit of the criminal had been cut short due to him using the said allergen, as they continued to call pepper, to make police officers lose trail. Therefore, the lawyer continued, the murder might actually be unintended. The gaffsie snorted and glared at her opponent. Right, of course, Joxter had claimed the pepper was just to mask smells, and there were no grounds not to trust him. The judge nodded. Questions droned on. Even with the little hope for defence, Snufkin mostly kept silent, afraid to blunder in the facts of Joxter’s feats, and would only answer questions about motives. Those he did understand, being a mumrik himself. The further trial blurred into a nightmare of witnesses and evidence. Glimpses of a shadow near the crime scene, scraps of green fabric on wire, claw marks on wood. Snufkin was not asked anything, his thoughts spiraling into the memories of the night: Joxter scaling the wall like a shadow, gunshots ringing out, the stench of burning paint. And another thought occurred—or, rather, fell like a hammer blow. There’d been more than two shots. What if the police had hit Joxter at random in the dark? What if he was out there now, bleeding in some hollow or treetop, just as lost and frightened as Snufkin felt? The courtroom air thickened. No miraculous intervention came. No flicker of blue eyes in the crowd. Just the slow turning of the law’s wheel. The slight hope that the lawyer might actually help was wilting: the defence lawyer did not set objections anymore, and just kept saying “I have no questions to the witness” all the time. Snufkin kept losing the thread of the proceedings, blinking back to awareness only when the scrabbly voice of his court-appointed lawyer cut through the haze once again. The bald little creature, still resolutely facing away from his client, droned on about reclassifying murder to manslaughter and excluding contempt of authority. “This is a mumrik, Your Honour,” he argued, as if discussing a poorly trained dog. “Their species tear down signs by instinct, not malice. It’s in their nature, like clawing sofas for a cat. No more political than that.” The words stung. He was proud of his free will and free spirit. Even if it would earn leniency, he could not agree to that. Snufkin bristled and felt his claws dig into his palms. It alarmed him. When had it become an instinctive act? And when given word for his final statement, he gathered all strength and voice to spit, “It’s not instinct. I chose every act, even if I didn’t know what it would come to. Even if I regret it now.” The judge retired to deliberate. Snufkin was marched to a holding cell barely larger than a cupboard, flanked by guards grumbling about missed lunches and whetting his hunger diluted by the glass of water. He slumped against the wall, trying not to think and failing spectacularly. When the judge returned, he smelled faintly of fried potatoes. From the prosecutor, a whiff of mint and tobacco smoke came. Snufkin forced himself to focus through the legal jargon. “The defendant, mumrik Joxter, is convicted on five counts. Premeditated murder stands for the lack of contrary evidence. Subversion of the state stands, intent being irrelevant. Given that prior imprisonment failed to reform him due to the instinct-guided nature of the convict, and thus finding a life sentence a pointless burden for our respected taxpayers, the court imposes death penalty. Execution at 6:30 tomorrow morning. The ruling is final.” A murmur of approval rippled through the court. A smattering of applause. A photocamera flash cracking. All officials stood and bowed slightly towards the rear row where the important gaffsie nodded to them with a thin vicious smile. The words didn’t quite land until the guards were dragging Snufkin back through the courtyard, past the blackened shell of the signage workshop, toward the waiting van. The sky was indifferently peaceful and blue. At a contrast, the air still smelled of burnt wood and paint. The ride passed in silence. The prison gates screeched open, the sound familiar already. Another set of heavy doors. A fillyjonk officer met the procession, together with the weasling expert from yesterday interrogation, asking if all had gone as expected. His lips curled in a greasy smirk showing teeth. "Death sentence," one hemulen guard grunted. "Figured," the weasling nodded, almost to himself. "The judge wouldn’t dare to leave His Excellency without a chance to execute someone. Local lot are too meek to give him the pleasure." "We’re civilised, unlike some," muttered fillyjonk officer, glancing between Snufkin and the weasling with equal distaste. So the trial had been a farce. The lawyer’s only helpful statement was a decorum, and the instinct argument was a trap, not a help. And no one had cared to waste food on a dead man walking. The realisation changed nothing, though. The officers might despise the weasling, but they despised Snufkin more. And Joxter—even if he was unharmed, even if he’d tried—had clearly failed. Otherwise, he’d have swooped in by now. He called me here because he couldn’t do it alone. And Moominpappa… better he stayed out of it. At least he would be safe. No one looked at Snufkin—just a thing to be moved from one place to another. “Where will it happen?” he managed to ask, voice rough. “In town?” A public square might offer a chance, a distraction, a moment to bolt— The fillyjonk officer looked faintly offended. “We’re not barbarians to make a show of it. It’s done here. In the basement. Quietly. A newspaper article would be enough of a notice.” The weasling leaned in. “How, though? I’d love to help—” “It’s not the Middle Ages,” the fillyjonk snapped. “Progress, you know. He’ll be killed by the very thing he fought against. Electricity.” He glanced at Snufkin, almost apologetic. “It’s quick.” The convoy passed under a shaft of light from the prison courtyard’s glass roof. Snufkin looked up for one last glimpse of clear sky before the stairwell swallowed it. And then it hit him, crushing as a collapsed ceiling: He would never leave this place. That tiny scrap of blue was all that remained of the world that had once been his—every sea and mountain, every star-strewn night, every meadow humming with crickets. The moon’s path on the waves, the scent of salt and pine, the view of Moominvalley from the high pass. The springtime rush of the stream, the cry of “Snufkin!” ringing across the hills. Gone. He didn’t fear death; it was inevitable, and he had faced it before. A loose stone on a cliff, a groke’s howl too close behind, a storm-tossed boat. The comet blazing overhead. But there’d been beauty in those moments. Freedom, too. The choice to fight or at least meet the end on his feet, friends at his side, Moomintroll’s paw mere inches from his. Now there was nothing. No beauty. No choice. No one. Even the choking, powerless resentment ebbed at the next realisation. Maybe he deserved that. Those creatures, they hadn’t wanted to die. The cell door clanged shut behind him. He curled into himself, ignoring pain, palms pressed to his face as if to hold himself from falling apart.