All Sweet Things

       One might have called the Island of the King Daddy Jones a dreadfully boring place. Nothing was forbidden. Climb a fence? Go right ahead. Adults riding the carousel? Be my guest. Approaching a luxurious, voluptuous Mymble surrounded by a crowd of children? Absolutely no trouble at all. And then wander the park with her until dawn, laughing loudly while others slept, telling ribald jokes in front of the minors, before finally stumbling back to her small, plywood house, shooing the bothersome kids into the garden (or rather, permitting them to sleep outside), and himself sinking into her bust and other delights, burying himself in every fold, surrendering to the sweet fuss—until he grew tired, of course. Joxter hated getting tired. It was all permitted. Everything. That’s just how Mymbles are. They allow anyone they fancy near their person. Why she fancied him, Joxter didn’t trouble himself to ponder. A guitar, a few songs, some jokes, a pretty face—what did it matter? The main thing was that it was all smooth and convenient for both of them. He needn’t even make it to her bed. He could just scramble up the apple tree in her garden and sleep there for a couple of days without coming down. If he got hungry, there were apples all around; green and red, sweet and sour, and utterly not forbidden. But delicious all the same. Just like in the garden of Eden from one naïve little girl’s stories about God. No one would forbid him from leaving, either. The Mymble didn’t ask him to stay or help with the chores. She’d even mentioned the future little one in passing, without a hint of expectation. And when he asked her to name the child Snufkin, she just nodded and asked him to write it down somewhere, lest she forget. She probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if he’d got the urge to taste apples in someone else’s garden. Where they were forbidden. Next to her, he was always free. That, perhaps, was the real temptation—to stay forever. And why not? Wasn’t it an enticing prospect to pull the nose of the very laws of nature? To break his own principles and just remain right there, in that tree, in that Mymble’s Eden. And if he fancied a dose of adventure or a chance to sharpen his claws, there was always that young romantic Moomintroll nearby, who would be utterly delighted to provide company on a trip in a leaky boat to a neighbouring island if Joxter invented a suitably mysterious legend. Something like being able to see the future in a glass fishing float from a smugglers' schooner. Then Moomintroll would not only man the oars without complaint, but he’d also keep a look-out and meet any dangers with sheer delight, not horror. Why shouldn't Joxter deliver that delight to him? Everything for a friend! And also, Moomintroll would keep throwing himself into adventures long after he had fished a girl of his own kind out of the sea. As if one married Muddler wasn’t enough. A friend’s wife… well, that’s off-limits, isn’t it? And therefore, Joxter wanted it all the more. Especially if it didn’t require too much effort. Now, Muddler’s Fuzzy was tricky—Muddler hadn’t left her side for months. Lying in wait for a chance hardly seemed worth it. Besides, that scrawny little thing from the sniff species wasn’t really to Joxter’s taste. But Moomintroll’s wife was a different matter. Pleasingly rounded, soft. Always at home, unlike her adventure-seeking husband. How could one resist popping into her kitchen, into that cloud of scent from baked apples and cinnamon, while Moomintroll was off studying the ‘depraved’ lifestyle of the Hattifatteners? Joxter, unlike him, knew the true meaning of that word. He knew how to compliment a woman, how to look at her from under the brim of his hat, how to trace the line of her sloping flank with his fingertips… A metallic click. A hard, narrow object was pressed firmly under Joxter’s chin. A familiar situation, alas. He’d learned to tell by feel whether it was a knife or a gun. Today, it was a gun. He went limp, retreated, and listened carefully to the instructions on where he was to go. A desperate, contrary part of him wanted to stay, to defy. But the instinct for self-preservation was not so easily dismissed. A storm doesn’t forbid you from standing on a cliff by the sea—it simply throws you onto the rocks below. Ugh, just like in the stories of that naïve little girl, what was her name, about God: break the rule, get banished from the garden. Ah, yes. Alice. And so, Joxter left. Without saying goodbye to the Mymble. She wouldn’t be offended. She wouldn’t be upset. She wouldn’t be angry. So, he shouldn’t be disheartened either. Where could one find another like her? And with an apple orchard, too? Anywhere. The world is vast, full of islands and valleys. And there are many Mymbles, and many apple trees. A little worm of something like melancholy stirred inside him. But Joxter did not care for sadness. It was nothing. He’d digest it. Mumriks are predators, after all. They can eat an apple together with worms all right.