All Sweet Things

       He probably shouldn’t have thrown those fruits overboard. He didn’t know what had come over him at that moment: perhaps it had been the allure of a prohibition; or he was annoyed he couldn’t pry open the too-stoutly nailed crate in five minutes; or he was upset that not every girl fell for him head over heels; or maybe it was because of the whole no-child business… All of it together, most likely. Then, he should’ve got away farther, not just in two days travel distance by the sea. Or he should’ve lay low rather than get to a crowded port over just one week… Anyway, now the useless Foreboding was ringing in Joxter’s brain as he backed to a high concrete wall, favouring his guitar and clutching a long cut in his shoulder. Three thugs with knives cut away all escape routes, their grins boding no good. The leader, a funny critter reminding of a hairy spring roll, had just informed their victim of a contract put out for him by a certain fillyjonk, the captain of the Cormorant. That is, Joxter might strain all his powers and bolt past the leader and a bulky whomper, but he’d last a couple of minutes only, and the third one was a weasling, a marten-like tall and lithe beast faster than any mumrik, and that pretty much killed all his chances. And heartless Filly would have his head in a jar. Quite romantic, if only he could grow another head. Farewell, pretty world, full of delicious things… The weasling and the whomper shifted their grip on the knives, gliding a step sideways and forward… “Stop!” a boyish voice rang out from above. Joxter didn’t look, keeping his eyes fixed on the thugs, hoping for a moment of distraction, an opening… “Misters, you’d best use the deposit you got for this gentleman to buy a farm and live honestly ever since. Or, there will be no one left to spend the money.” The leader looked up at the roof of warehouse, snarling. “Bugger off, kid. This doesn’t concern you.” How remarkably polite. What was it—did the kid have a gun? Joxter couldn’t think of anything else that would stop, say, a weasling from dealing away with the bother on the spot. Ah, no. The weasling wasn’t about to give up. It was slowly drawing its knife-hand back, coiling for a throw. But before Joxter could shout a warning to the lad on the roof, a shot cracked through the air. The knife clattered onto the cobblestones, and the beast shrieked, clutching its paw to its chest. The sound of a hammer being cocked again apparently didn’t appeal to the rest of the gang; the leader, and the others with him, backed away, cursing and promising the upstart all sorts of unpleasantness, before disappearing into the alley. A light tap of soles on stone, a flash of ochre and red—the shooter had dropped to the ground beside him. "My profound thanks," Joxter said, utterly sincere, as he looked his saviour over. A teenager just about to hit the age of majority, in a yellow canvas jacket and red kerchief on the neck. Mischievous bright eyes glimmered under a wide-brimmed dark hat. Short trousers didn't reach dirty, scraped knees. He looked almost human, but that was just the youth of him. Because the kid was a mumrik. On pure instinct, Joxter grabbed his hand still holding a revolver and dragged him at a run towards the port. “We need to get on the first ship we find, going anywhere, right now,” he explained breathlessly as they ran. “You should have finished them all off. Weaslings hold a grudge like nobody’s business.” “Nah,” the kid pulled his hand free but kept pace effortlessly. “They only declare a vendetta if you kill one of them. Wound one, and the injured one sulks for a week and forgets all about it. I try not to kill anyone, really. Besides, that was my last bullet.” And he grinned from ear to ear, then got alarmed. "Oh, you're hurt, maybe we should—" Joxter assured him it was just a scratch. As stevedores and other port folks began to appear ahead, he nudged his companion to slow to a walk. No need to be mistaken for thieves. And good thing the blood did not stand out on the dark green of the smock. Up close to the kid, he took a subtle sniff. No, he hadn’t imagined it. An inspiration, akin to a new melody, washed over him, but this one was about a path. Joxter now knew exactly where he wanted to go. “Why did you save me?” he asked, just to be sure, as they strolled along the quay, scanning for the right flags on the ships. “Well,” the kid seemed surprised, as if he’d been asked why two plus two equals four, “three against one unarmed fellow isn’t fair. And whatever grudge your client had probably didn’t deserve a death sentence. I don't like injustice.” Oh the simplicity, Joxter thought. How had the poor wretch lived this long with principles like that? A mystery. He must be a crack shot, no less. “And I thought it’s because you’re my son,” he said aloud, glancing sideways to gauge the effect, and added the final touch: “Snufkin.” The kid stopped dead in his tracks, staring at him with the most comically desperate astonishment. Aha, guessed right. Joxter wasn’t absolutely sure about the 'son' part: true, he couldn’t detect this mumrik’s individual scent, meaning they were close relatives, but the possibility of a brother remained. Joxter had never known his own father, but the old fellow could well have been still interested in women fifteen or seventeen years ago. A brother, however, would most likely also be named Joxter (dad would surely have been too lazy to think up different names for all his children) and would have just laughed and corrected him by now. Snufkin, meanwhile, judging by his expressive face, was experiencing a whole gamut of emotions and finally asked with utter seriousness: “Why did you abandon my mother?” “And why did you abandon her?” Joxter retorted without missing a beat, clearly catching him off guard. The kid looked down and fumbled for words, but Joxter stopped him, tapping a finger on his sunburned, peeling nose. “Because we are mumriks, and our true home is the road. Listen, I’m planning a fascinating and distant journey right now. Care to join me? We can talk. You can tell me about home…” — Otherwise, I’d never remember who this kitten’s mother was. — “and I’ll tell you about our kin. We’ll admire unfamiliar stars…” *** What a strange and unfamiliar experience, to travel in a company. It turned out to be not bad, especially when the companion was just as nimble and alert, just as appreciative of silence and some tobacco, yet happy to chat about anything under the sun, or to learn playing the guitar (the kid did know how to, but wasn't awfully good at it and knew just one rather boring song). True, fences and masts proved slightly more challenging for him, as he didn’t use his claws. When Joxter tried to teach him, the kit declared he knew all about claws but kept them trimmed because they got in the way of handling a revolver or a rifle. He did prefer firearms, but was just as skilled with a lasso and a knife, and from his stories, Joxter pieced together memories of a dry, hot land in the foothills, fields of tall corn, a stubborn, wiry young widowed rat… Lizzie-Beth, yes, the kid called her 'Aunt Lizzie-Beth', as he’d been raised by her whomper neighbour farmers and only learned he was a mumrik, not a whomper, from a passing vagabond after he’d run away from home seeking adventure. What a strange and unfamiliar experience, to look at a nearly grown son. Not a wrinkled, mewling bundle the size of a melon, but a fine young mumrik with a nose still light, with reddish-blond tufts of hair, with such a spirited, open smile… Lying next to him on the containers on the deck of yet another steamer going roughly where they needed, Joxter found himself briefly wondering, more than once, whether to roll over right onto him: to feel the ribs and the pounding heart under his palm, the slender neck, the cheek still soft like a child’s, to kiss the wind-chapped lips. Precisely because one mustn’t, the desire flickered. Each time, Joxter discarded such thoughts halfway. It wasn’t worth the risk. First, the kid was far too proficient with various weapons (even if he hadn’t managed to find more bullets for his revolver). And not overly excited to break rules. He kept frowning whenever Joxter borrowed food at markets or ship galleys. Second, he was needed for something else. To reach that mysterious, intriguing fruit called the guava. Previously, Joxter had thought he’d never manage to break through all the obstacles—jungles, wild beasts, even wilder natives… But with such a capable son in tow, the idea no longer seemed so far-fetched. Joxter recounted the legend he had heard from the fillyjonk, embellishing it, of course, making it more exotic and romantic, hoping the tale of the beautiful chief’s daughter in a paradisiacal garden would intrigue the young mumrik. And the kit was intrigued, but for a completely different reason. Like, had anyone ever asked the girl if she wanted to toil on the family farm just because she was born beautiful? They ought to free her! The odd boy, finding injustice even there. Too much spare energy for his own good. Joxter chuckled to himself, but said nothing aloud. At that age, he had been much lazier. *** They approached the target island on a makeshift raft in the evening darkness, when the chorus of cicadas drowned out everything, including the splash of oars and the rustle of wet bark on sand. The air, thick with moisture and the scent of flowers and decay, could be cut with a knife and eaten. The heat made one want to crawl up a tree and sleep, but Joxter gathered all his curiosity and anticipation into a tight bundle and trudged after his son. Both could see perfectly in the dark, and even better under the full moon; they easily avoided thorny vines, poisonous snakes and crocodiles, pits and other traps set by the natives, and the natives themselves—stocky creatures resembling painted chocolate toads. Or rather, Joxter avoided them after Snufkin had busied himself with disarming the traps, scaring off the snakes, distracting the crocodiles and the watchmen… It also occurred to Joxter that the chief’s daughter might only be the most beautiful by local standards, but he wasn’t in a hurry to disappoint the kid. Climbing the trail up the table mountain, however, slippery with mist and rotting leaves, he had to manage himself; the boy, without claws, was barely keeping his own footing on the slope. At the summit, both collapsed, gasping for breath. They exchanged a glance. Shared conspiratorial smiles. Right, the night wasn’t endless; where were the coveted trees and fruits? And the princess, of course. In the end, she saw them first. She'd probably been sleeping in that hut over there, the one that looked like a clump of grass, and looked out just as the vagabonds emerged into a moonlit clearing. Her tiny crooked legs barely supported her round body and head, and her wide, froggy mouth unpleasantly reminded Joxter of another short, dark-faced woman far, far from here, in a cold, barren land… Of course, even a short mumrik would seem like a giant monster to her. And of course, she screamed in terror. His son rushed to reassure her, saying he didn’t mean any harm. Fool! She wouldn’t understand their language. Losing no time to explain that, Joxter dashed around the kid and did the proper thing; he pushed the loud nuisance hard enough to cut her air and send her flying over the cliff edge. Silence at last, and then a slight thump below. When he turned back, his son’s eyes were wide with terror, comically matching the girl’s mien before. “Hurry!” Joxter whispered. “Her tribe would be here any second!” And he trotted looking for the purpose of their adventure; the mysterious fruit. “What have you done?!” The kid seemed to miss the point about urgency. “We must’ve helped, not harmed her! I’m going down!” No footsteps followed, but Joxter didn’t turn back. He’d check on the stupid kid on the way back. No point in the whole journey being for nothing, was there? There they were, probably: rows of slender trees with round crowns, pale pear-shaped fruits peeking between the leaves. He scrambled up high, stuffing the largest fruits inside his shirt. From his perch, he glanced down. The plateau edge hid the fallen creature, but through the trees from the village, torchlights flickered. Joxter didn't dare call out to his son and thereby draw unwanted attention to himself. With enough guavas to get a taste and still move with agility, he ran back to assess the depth of shit. Peeking over the edge down, he gaped in disbelief. The dark spot of the kid’s hat was looming over the prone short body on broken ferns (quite a dead body, judging by the impossible crane of her head). Alright, he'd realise there was nothing to be done and scuttle back… Holy mymble, he picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the natives who were already seen between the mighty tree trunks and roots. Where in the world had such a naive fool come from?! Unwilling to watch this idiocy, Joxter crept off the edge and made a slouching run to the other side of the small plateau rather than to the “official” descent. The autochthones might check it too. Treading as light as possible, Joxter heard furious shouts of the natives and, it seemed, the voice of the young mumrik, which was abruptly cut off. Oh-ho. Captured. What now? Run for it, as intended. On their way forth, Joxter had noticed a nice emergency exit, a tree right by a cliff wall. Not too high to enter the plateau, but jumping down and gripping its branch with the claws wouldn’t be a problem. For a mumrik with all claws intact. So Joxter did, and clung to the trunk, going all ears: had anyone noticed his leap? Were there any snakes or other creeps at his landing site? What next? Would it take too much effort to sneak into the settlement and see if the captive could be broken out? A bit too risky to Joxter’s liking. Savages weren't like the blind and deaf dwellers of modern cities, through whose houses one could slip unnoticed. And was it long enough until morning, anyway? Gradually, his heart ceased pounding in his ears, and nothing drowned a desperate cry of pain. Too clear for the guttural, croaking voices of the locals. Oh, kid… Minus one, Joxter thought, though he had no idea from what number he was subtracting. Right, that was it, no point in lingering. He sprinted for the sea as fast as his legs could carry him, grateful he remembered how to bypass the traps, and no more natives appeared. They'd probably all run off to catch and punish the intruder. Well, there you go, his son was saving his life again, at the cost of his own. No, no distractions, or he'd get lost and fail to find the bay where the raft was hidden. Right, turn here, over the fallen log, follow the stream… Phew, there was the raft. Now he had to get it into the water alone, row alone to the next island… When the island was just a speck on the horizon, Joxter dropped the oars onto the raft and fell onto his back. The sky was rapidly lightening under the first rays; two feathery clouds were moulting from pink to orange, then yellow, soon to be white. It's not my fault, he told himself. The kid thought about others far too much, quite unlike a proper mumrik. With that foolish urge to save everyone, he'd have gotten himself killed sooner or later anyway. Sooner, most likely. Natural selection in action, that's all. …Right, how's that guava, then? No point in it going to waste. Joxter pulled one greenish fruit from inside his shirt and took a bite. The skin was thin and soft, the pink flesh juicy, with a bunch of perfectly edible seeds. Tasted like a pear with a tint of strawberry. Sweet, but nothing special. It just wasn’t worth the… the risk.