All Sweet Things

       Oh, these ancient towns nestled between the mountains and the sea… The orchards and vineyards where one could stave off appetite at any moment, the flat rooftops so perfect for lounging upon by night, the unpredictable, dark-eyed women who might just as soon chase a vagabond from their yard with a filthy broom as offer a weary traveller a crust of bread and a cup of wine. Yesterday, Joxter had tried his luck with a plump, jovial young Hemulen housewife. She had seemed to laugh genuinely at his jokes and gasp sympathetically at his complaints, and had fed him, of course, but when he’d asked for a place to sleep (while her husband was away at the port on business), she’d winked and said she’d leave the back gate unlocked—but only if the stranger visited the bath-house first. There it was, the usual tedious negotiation. Whole two exhausting activities for the price of one. He decided to sleep in a different garden. That would take much less effort. Besides, the enticing halo of prohibition surrounding another man's wife had rather fizzled out after such an easy acquiescence. For now, Joxter sat on a tree stump in the darkest corner of the tavern's inner courtyard, quietly plucking the strings of his guitar so as not to steal business from the local musicians, who compensated for their lack of ear with sheer volume and gusto. The tavern keeper shot him suspicious glances whenever he hurried past, but hadn't thrown him out yet. Let him look. If a mumrik decided to lift something from the table of a tipsy regular dozing off, who could possibly stop him? For the moment, however, he was content; he'd already stripped clean all the berries from the blackberry brambles that crept over the wall into the courtyard. And then a curious company entered from the street. A girl—a moomintroll? Or a snork? An elegant black hat with a matching veil above the white snout concealed the distinctive fringe or lack thereof. Her snow-white fur was set off by a lace black shawl, pinned with a brooch; a coral bracelet adorned her ankle. Preceding and flanking her were serious-looking guys of other species, all in black, with long knives at their belts. The girl proceeded to the cleanest, most presentable table, and the tavern keeper immediately began to fuss and fawn over her. Joxter mentally pricked up his ears. First, in the pause between the local musicians' numbers, he began a tango melody. And when they, gritting their teeth, took it up to drown out the stranger, he set his guitar aside and moved to ask the lady to dance. Naturally, one of the bruisers immediately blocked his path, reaching not for his belt, but inside his jacket. Oh, they have guns? That's even more interesting. "Surely you don't wish to spoil such a lovely evening for the young lady?" Joxter smiled, stepping back a pace so the lady could see him properly. "Wine and music without dancing is like throwing money to the wind." The bodyguard thrust out his lower jaw, as if debating whether to answer or just punch him in the face. But the girl rather sharply told him to sit down, and stood up herself. "Money does not concern me," she declared confidently, taking the mumrik's proffered hand. "But the evening is indeed wonderful." A snork, then. Up close, Joxter could see the salmon-pink fringe beneath the veil, and dark, shining eyes. "You are not from here," she stated, rather than asked, her body a taut line against his as they moved. "Otherwise, I would have thought you brave." "I am curious," he countered, his hand a firm, warm pressure on her back, guiding her through a sharp turn. "But I did notice your… senior relatives are most concerned for your safety." "Perhaps I am the one concerned for it," she retorted, her chin tilting up, a challenge in her dark eyes. "Then you would never have left your ivory tower," he murmured, his voice a low hum meant only for her, his lead becoming impossibly precise. "Your enchanted castle, wreathed in thorns." She shuddered, a tiny, almost imperceptible break in her flawless posture. Aha. So he had guessed right. That grim castle behind the high, bramble-choked wall in the gorge just outside town was the domain of this dangerous little thing. Daughter of a local landowner, or a crime boss—often one and the same. And the girl herself was to his taste, all soft and round. And that wall… a prohibition that set his blood humming, an electric itch in his fingertips. "You are smart, too," she conceded, her voice a fraction softer. What a pity she couldn’t hook his leg with hers; her snork legs were so short. "And charming. And romantic," he listed off without breath hitching as she leant back so that he had to hold her well-formed body for good three seconds. "My, so many virtues. Absolutely no place left for modesty." "It is not always a virtue." And as the music carried them to the corner of the room farthest from her vigilant guards, the Signorina Snork leaned in, her breath a ghost against his ear, her words at the very limit of hearing: "You are… amusing. If you can come to me… uninvited… I would be very, very glad." Her thumb stroked a slow, deliberate line across his shoulder, a promise etched into the fabric of his tunic. Hmm. He would have to try. *** For the next several days and nights, Joxter dozed in the branches of olive and oak trees and on rocky ledges overlooking the estate-fortress, studying the daily rhythms of its inhabitants, the security protocols, the movement of shadows cast by the towers and the mountains. He drank from the stream, ate acorns and berries. Several options of trespassing had a potential. Yet all of them were slightly riskier than he preferred. Plump girls were plentiful in the world, but one only had one's own skin and didn’t fancy shredding it in brambles. He didn't give up, though, just retreated from the hills back into the town, to seek a softer bed and a more substantial table. However, he didn’t go far, because in the main square, under a sprawling fig tree by the public well, he spotted a seated traveller in a wide-brimmed hat. And even from behind, in the shade, Joxter recognised the half-hidden figure as another mumrik. He couldn't have said precisely by what signs, but he knew. And what if… For two mumriks, a plan to breach the castle was entirely feasible. He'd managed to sneak into a guarded fruit orchard with his son once before, after all. True, that had ended… in a mess, although Joxter had got what he wanted. But hey, it hadn’t been his mess. He headed towards the tree and the stranger anyway. Ten paces away, Joxter froze. His heart gave a little jolt; for a moment, he thought it was that very Snufkin. But no, that was just a kid of about fifteen, nothing more in common. His jacket just seemed yellow in the shadows but really was olive-coloured. As for light chestnut strands sticking out from under a dark hat, a hand-rolled cigarette in the mouth corner, or similar face—well, it comes with belonging to the same species. And then the mumrik turned, any remaining resemblance faded. The minutest differences in his features, eyes much darker, almost black, and instead of shorts, he wore proper trousers. The main thing was the expression, a typical mumrik look of lukewarm interest. There was none of that coiled-spring energy Joxter remembered from that other Snufkin. Plus, that son, if he hadn't been such a fool, would now be… what? Twenty or more? Joxter didn't count or distinguish years; he didn't even know his own age. The kid lowered his eyes in greeting and nodded to the ground beside him. Joxter immediately settled onto a fig root. First, silence was needed, to establish a connection. But what if this mumrik was a normal one, not prone to helping strangers? No, he'd bite at the forbidden fruit behind the high wall. Joxter just needed to make the story beautiful, and first, to chat about trivialities, to get acquainted. Or perhaps an introduction wasn't even necessary? Joxter leaned in close to his neighbour, almost touching him, and sniffed the air. He scented nothing. Well, well. That simplified matters. "Hello, Snufkin," he said. "I'm your dad." The kid turned out to be a man of few words and showed little surprise at meeting his father. Joxter couldn't even pry out many details about his homeland or his mother. But the story about the beauty languishing in a tower of patriarchal prejudice, he seemed to listen to with a degree of interest, and he agreed to help: to distract the guard, to get over the impossibly high, smooth wall with his father's assistance and secure a rope on the other side, to set a shed alight… And so, in the darkness—what a sense of déjà vu!—the two mumriks slid past blackberry brambles towards the dark wall between the castle and the mountainside. Suddenly, a Foreboding hit Joxter like a physical blow, nearly buckling his knees and twisting his stomach into a knot. He stopped, breathing heavily. "No, son. Let's do this another time. The conditions aren't right tonight." "The conditions are perfect!" the kid retorted, showing a flicker of agitation for the first time. "The moon's a sliver, there's enough light for us and no one else. And we're already here; we can't go back empty-handed!" Oh, boy, I'm trying to save you, Joxter thought, but naturally said nothing aloud. He turned, jerked his son's elbow to drive the idea home, and headed away. He wasn't going to drag the naughty child away by force, the kid must already be sensible enough to avoid dangers—or learn it now the hard way. In the next instant, a sharp, piercing blow crashed down on the back of Joxter's head, and all sensation switched off. *** A tiny shred of consciousness continued to thrash in a panic, pushing its way to the surface, and the gradual return to awareness sped up when Joxter was hauled upright and struck across the ear. He tried instinctively to shield himself, but nothing happened. Right. Hands tied behind his back. And being held on his feet by… He blinked, squinting. Familiar faces. The Signorina Snork's guards. The lady herself was notably absent, but standing opposite him with lanterns in their paws were two unfamiliar Snorks in sumptuous brocade robes, looking decidedly unamused, and… his son. Not tied up. Arms folded across his chest, his gaze cold. "I was the one who warned the Signors Snorcchi of your visit while you were napping after lunch," he said, his voice almost calm. "I was the one who struck you when you tried to slip from the trap. And I want you to know why. You asked me about my mother. Well…" His composure began to crack; he took a step forward, fists clenching. "You killed her." Joxter stared at him, frantically running through a mental catalogue of past dalliances, but he was fairly certain he'd left them all alive, if not always happy. Well, there was a rather mysterious and unpleasant incident with a witch in a far northern land, but there shouldn’t have been any kids left… "You drove her to her death, and now you don't even remember!" the young mumrik spat out bitterly. "No matter, I'll remind you. Her name was Alice. She lived at the monastery school, and she was only fourteen—my age—when you," he faltered, swallowing hard, "seduced her and left her pregnant. And she was sixteen when she threw herself from the window of the lunatic asylum. I grew up in the orphanage at that same monastery; it wasn't hard to find out all about my mother. And about my father… you left me your autograph, remember?" Ah, that. Joxter vaguely recalled a girl in a black dress with a white pinafore (a human, right), he almost clearly remembered the monastery garden with its bounty of earthly fruits, but an autograph? He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I looked for you. Not for revenge, but to stop you. So that you wouldn't break any more hearts or ruin any more lives. The Signors Snorcchi," he glanced at the snorks, "have kindly agreed to be the… enforcers." For some reason, instead of the human girl, Joxter remembered a young mumrik kit, a distant tropical island, the glint of torches in the forest… No, not the time. Right now, he needed to find a way out of this trap! "I am truly sorry," Joxter replied quietly, but with feeling, "but the fault is not mine. Your mother was driven to her death by her own kind, who take too much pleasure in commanding and forbidding everything under the sun, even the most natural attraction between a man and a woman. And her age is irrelevant, she had already reached…" A blow to the back of his head cut off his speech, though it was too weak to knock him out again. Then the Signorina Snork stepped forward, throwing back the hood of her wide black cloak. "Enough," she snapped. "Now I see the monster you are. Truly, your heart is blacker than... No, you don't have a heart at all! To think I almost fell for you!" "Precisely, daughter," one of the elder snorks intoned. "No more running about in disreputable places; you won't find a good match there. Thank you, Snufkin, for saving my foolish girl from this… You may go. You won't be meeting him again, nor will anyone." The kid nodded silently and, without a farewell, walked off into the depths of the forest, only his olive jacket flickering in the lantern light. What is wrong with these children? Joxter wondered. Do I have a single offspring who, like a proper mumrik, cares for himself first and doesn't chase after non-existent justice? "You are no different from me!" Joxter shouted after him, hoping for he knew not what. "Blood is thicker than water, and you yourself…" He was interrupted by a punch to the gut. Whether the two guards were tired of standing idle or the masters had given a silent command to begin the punishment, he couldn't tell. Ah, no, they were just dusting him off for now, then they dragged him into the castle to get down to the business for serious, then threw him into a cellar cell until morning, promising a "refreshing bath in the sea with concrete boots on". They were fools to think a rope could hold a mumrik. By morning, he had shredded the hemp with his claws, miraculously without opening the veins on his wrists, and used those same claws to scale the wall to an arrow-slit high up near the ceiling. The castle's owners must have thought it too narrow, but mumriks are like cats: if the head fits, the rest will follow, even if with difficulty, scraping skin to blood and losing consciousness from the pain of broken ribs. After that, it was easier; the outer wall was tangled with blackberry brambles, and he could climb up and down the green covering, leaving bloody trails on the thorns, and then limp on into the thicket, walking in the bed of a stream so the hounds couldn't pick up his scent, until sunrise and beyond, searching for a den where he could lie low through the day, and then walk on again… From now on, he promised himself to be careful around any mumrik kids, especially if they were his.