Blood Runs Thicker than Water

       With her husband and children gone to the town, Moominmamma returned to the campfire to continue cooking. One couldn’t visit empty-handed, and Aunt Jane had adored her pie. Perhaps Aunt Jane’s aunt (Aunt Squared, as Little My insisted on calling her) would appreciate one too. She was, after all, the last of Moominpappa’s (and Joxter’s) old acquaintances on the island who might help. Hodgkins had refused, and Muddler was, well, Muddler. True, according to Moominpappa’s memoirs, Joxter hadn’t made the best impression on the aunt, but Moominpappa often misread people. Knead the dough. While the flour settles, slice the apples (stolen by Little My from nearby orchards). Heat the pan while stirring the filling. Gather late-blooming wildflowers as the pie bakes… Hodgkins hadn’t known the aunt’s home address, and today being Sunday, she certainly wouldn’t be in the office. No matter. Moominmamma would ask. A smile, politeness, and genuine concern could unlock any secret or door. She made it all the way to the town hall. Certainly, the guards did not let her in, but a smile, politeness, genuine concern—and one of the guards, a wolpertinger named Rasmus, softened under her kind gaze and confessed he had been reared in Miss Hemuless’ orphanage, got his job through her and had been visiting her once in a while. Then he confirmed that Miss Hemuless was not present at the trial and scribbled an address on a scrap of paper, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone I told you.” Moominmamma tucked the note into her apron, the pie still warm in her basket. Somewhere on this island, a door was about to open. The house stood amidst a patch of grass cut ruthlessly low and was scrubbed to a clinical shine indoors, every surface gleaming under the harsh sunlight. All walls were lined with photographs, diplomas, letters of recognition, all in wooden frames and under glass. Miss Hemuless herself matched her home—prim, precise, and stern, much like Aunt Jane. Moominmamma hoped, as with Aunt Jane, that this severity was merely for educational effect. The pie had certainly worked its magic; over lunch tea, the aunt thawed, eagerly discussing her pedagogical triumphs and even producing photo albums of her pupils to boast their achievements. “This one’s in administration now… That one heads a school… Several on corporate boards…” With particular pride, she pointed to a gawky, cross-eyed little gaffsie boy in a group photo, with crooked teeth, and one ear sticking out. Another child in front of him was trying hard to shrink away. “Now he is our Chancellor,” she announced. “What a well-behaved kid he was! Always folding bedlinen to a perfect smoothness and telling me who had been naughty among his mates.” Oh dear, thought Moominmamma. That’s exactly the sort of child who grows into a rather disagreeable person if no one ever tells them they’re lovely and nice. Alas, hemulen tradition seemed to frown on praise lest it spoil the young. The aunt paused, suddenly suspicious. “I do not recall you. Were you one of my pupils? Or are you here about a child? I am the Minister of Education now, you know. Parents are always begging me to overlook failing marks or disciplinary actions—but I don’t take bribes!” “Oh no, nothing like that,” Moominmamma smiled gently. “I have only heard about you from my husband, a moomin just like me. Years ago, he had rescued you from a groke before you came across the niblings. You became quite famous for taming them.” “Ah, yes.” The aunt preened. “Now I remember. A promising boy, though he kept dreadful company. Pity he never came under my care. So, what is it you want?” “We’re concerned about an old acquaintance of his,” Moominmamma decided not to say ‘friend’, just in case, “a mumrik named Joxter. So, Joxter has been arrested, you see, and, I suppose, is under trial right now—” “That dreadful terrorist?” The aunt’s lips pursed. “I should have known. A vagrant and a menace. Finally he is getting what he deserves. You are not here to plead for him, dear, are you?” Moominmamma’s paw tightened around her teacup. The pie sat between them, half-eaten. Now she must be careful with every word. “I’ve heard the charges,” Moominmamma said carefully, weighing each word. “They’re very serious. But I believe any creature can repent and better themselves. Take my husband’s old friends—you called them a bad influence, yet Hodgkins, you may know him, is now the Chief State Engineer, a respected citizen. What if Joxter could reform too?” She chose her next words with care. “Just two years ago, he reunited with the son he’d left behind and proved himself a kind, attentive father. There’s goodness in him…” (She tactfully omitted that her first acquaintance with Joxter on this island had ended… poorly. Very poorly.) “And isn’t the greatest joy for an educator,” she added gently, “to succeed where the challenge is hardest?” Miss Hemuless stared, lips pressed into a thin line. The silence stretched. “You’re too soft, my dear,” she said at last. “In pedagogy, that leads nowhere. Impunity spoils children.” (Moominmamma didn’t mention she’d raised a wonderfully kind Moomintroll without a single punishment.) “And this Joxter evaded consequences so long that children began emulating him! Ripping up lawn signs, fashioning broadleaf hats, calling themselves 'free avengers'! Disgraceful!” The aunt’s voice sharpened. “I urged the Chancellor to make an example of him. And our wise leader agreed that only the death penalty would deter the youth. The law prevails today. Some may call it harsh, but one life is a small price to save dozens of souls.” She glanced at the wall clock. “The trial should be concluding now.” Moominmamma’s cup trembled. Moominpappa would do all he could in court, but what if it wasn’t enough? And poor Snufkin… to find his father only to lose him— “Forgive me,” she said abruptly, rising. “I won’t take more of your time.” The aunt grumbled but with a clear relief about having her Sunday leisure back. Moominmamma thanked her anyway and hurried back to the town centre. The square before the town hall had nearly emptied. No sign of Moominpappa or Moomintroll. The new guards at the entrance refused to answer questions. Moominmamma caught up with one of the last stragglers, a harried hedgehog woman, who declared that the criminal had received his just sentence and wouldn’t see tomorrow. “And was there a white, round gentleman in a top hat at the trial?” Moominmamma pressed. “Sorry, must feed my poor children, who were left orphans thanks to that villain,” the hedgehog snapped, scurrying off. Oh—feeding children! They’d agreed to regroup at the Adventure. Moominpappa and Moomintroll were likely already there, wondering where she was, while she was delayed by all those tea parties and photo albums. Her men wouldn’t manage soup without her, but they’d find hardtack to stave off hunger. She hurried toward the cove. Sliding down the dune to the sand beach, she noted the quiet—then paused. Someone stirred on the boat’s stern, clad in a crumpled cloak and wide-brimmed hat. Snufkin? She opened her mouth to call— A gleam of low sunlight struck the hat. Brick-red one. Not green. From beneath the brim, two blue, almost phosphorescent eyes gleamed. “Joxter!” She sank with relief onto a driftwood log by the cold firepit. “You escaped? How? Where’s Moominpappa? He must have been present at the trial! And my son? And have you seen Snufkin?” “Escaped?” Joxter froze, his gaze darting to the dunes behind her. “No, I’m escaping right now. Only realised this morning the niblings’ blockade was lifted, then spent half the day combing the shore for a spare boat. So yes, Moomin… er, Moominpappa, very kind of him to leave this one here. Recognised it straight away. Mind if I borrow it? I’ll ask a dolphin or tuna to tow it back—or straight to Moominvalley if you fancy.” He leapt from the stern onto dry sand and trudged toward a crooked pine where a heap of hay lay piled since last night when Moomins stocked it for sleeping comfort. “Wait!” Moominmamma rose, taking a step after him, her mind racing. If Joxter had been scouring the coast all morning… then who had been on trial in town? Why wasn’t the island buzzing with news of the prisoner’s escape? “Have you seen Snufkin?” she repeated, paws tightened around her apron. Joxter said nothing, gathering armfuls of hay. Only as he passed her did he mutter, “Nope.” He tossed the hay at the mast’s base, but the boat rocked, sending it sliding—and beneath it, between moomins’ supply basket and Joxter’s old painted guitar, Moominmamma spotted a familiar backpack with a bedroll strapped to it. Snufkin’s backpack. “You have seen Snufkin,” she murmured, more to herself, still unwilling to believe it. “They’ve caught him instead of you. They’re going to execute him in your place.” Joxter went still, one paw gripping the boat’s edge. For a long moment, he stared at her, unblinking, his expression unreadable. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Ah. That’s how it is. Too bad,” and jumped back onto the sand in one long leap. “Too bad?” Moominmamma’s voice trembled. “And you won’t lift a paw to save him?” “Too much effort,” he replied, as casually as if discussing the weather, scooping up another armful of hay. “Far beyond my abilities.” “We’ll help you! Me, Pappa, Moomintroll, Little My. Hodgkins too, I’m sure! After all, you may just announce that he’s not you!” “You?” He actually looked amused. “Well, give it a go. Without me. I called him here to get off this island, and now the way’s clear. One way or another. Not gonna miss this chance.” “How can you?” Moominmamma’s breath hitched. “Your son trusted you!” “Foolish of him.” Joxter, unfazed, loaded another armful of hay into the boat. “If he couldn’t slip free, he should’ve pinned it all on me. A mumrik looks after himself and no one else, that’s what we are. If he hasn’t figured that out by now… well. Natural selection, isn’t it?” He turned away, dusting his paws. The waves lapped at the hull. “Never promised I wouldn’t leave him again.” After adjusting his hat, he began hauling up the anchor. Moominmamma waded into the surf. “So you planned this all along? Lured him here to take your place?” Joxter froze mid-motion, the anchor dripping in his grip—then shrugged. “Me? Plan? Never. Too much effort. I improvise.” He coiled the rope lazily. “If he hadn’t tumbled, we’d have stolen that flying boat together and been lounging on southern beaches by now. Or take last time when I called Moominpappa to deal with that sea serpent. Didn’t exactly plan him to actually succeed. Fine by me if the serpent had swallowed him. It’d have been too full to chase me or glowfish, and I’d have got away by myself.” He patted the hay nest he’d made among the supplies and reached for the sail. “Though I’ll admit, your husband’s hospitality was handier. Free meals, warm house—nothing to complain.” Moominmamma shuddered, remembering that bitter-cold March when Moominpappa and Moomintroll had raced to Joxter’s rescue. Could they really have never come back? And now—will they? “We will get Snufkin out,” she said firmly, stepping deeper into the waves towards the boat. The water soaked her apron, swirling around her knees. “The only one losing him is you.” Joxter just snorted. “Hardly a tragedy. One son more or less—I still have a stock of them. Children are too much trouble to keep. Easier to make new ones. With some exceptions,” he winked at her and grinned, infuriatingly calm, “women adore me.” Moominmamma hated losing her temper. But now she was very angry. And at that smirk and reminder, her paw twitched toward her handbag… Joxter seemed distracted, securing the mainsail, but in a flash, he was at the stern. His claws unsheathed, clamping around her wrist. “Don’t,” he purred, voice low and almost caring, but it sounded as a threat. “I don’t fall for the same trick twice.” With a sudden jerk, he shoved her back, snagging the handbag with his claws. She yelped, clutching at it, but a wave knocked her off her feet, plunging her into froth and sand. By the time she surfaced, spluttering, the boat was already skimming away, sail full of wind. Moominmamma allowed herself one unladylike word (since no one was listening) and slogged back to shore. No time to dwell. She had work to do.