All Sweet Things

       The little town was merry with the harvest festival. Farmers from all the surrounding homesteads had come with their edible wares, people thronged the streets, selling and buying—or quietly making off with apples, smoked sausages, moist pieces of young cheese… On a bench by the fountain, Joxter was gnawing on a honey sweet (completely free, if one had nimble paws and a keen eye) and looking around. A young mymble girl was moving from stall to stall, sighing but buying nothing. Still slender, for now the most noticeable part of her face was her shining eyes, not yet plump cheeks. At what point did such tinkling, floaty girls turn into round, juicy ladies? Joxter was suddenly seized by a powerful urge to find out. Perhaps after the first child? Or the first man? True, mymbles weren’t known for being picky or strict in their morals; getting into their beds was easy, but he still held a certain soft spot for them after his acquaintance with a remarkable lady from a nearby island. Ah, Mymble and her apple orchard… In any case, the festival immediately became even more entertaining. Joxter got up and headed for the stall with the longest queue. Roasted chestnuts. That would do. Two paper cones of delicacy migrated from the counter into his hands, and his legs carried him towards his target. “Young lady, you are far too charming to go without a treat,” he purred, drawing level with the Mymble, and offered her one of the cones. He kept the other for himself—he would need plenty of energy. Lately, he had become rather heavy on the uptake, and more often than not, after watching a portly Hemulen lady or a fluffy female muskrat, he’d conclude the game wasn’t worth the effort and wouldn’t bother coming down from the branches of various trees. “Thank you,” the mymble replied without a trace of embarrassment and accepted the gift. And while she was crunching on chestnuts and therefore silent, Joxter deployed the full force of his eloquence and poetic gift. Merry sparks danced in the girl’s blue eyes, and a breeze tousled a ginger strand that had escaped the knot on top of her head. Finally, he suggested retiring to a quiet, peaceful spot where he could play his guitar for her. “No, Uncle Joxter, you are amusing, of course,” she answered and laughed like a little silver bell, “but I can’t consider you a boyfriend.” Now that was perplexing. And hurt. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she took his arm and peered into his face. “I was little back then, of course. I’m the Mymble Daughter, you know, of the Mymble you flirted with when our family lived on the King Daddy Jones’ Island! Of all Mum’s suitors, you were the sweetest, but you are Mum’s, she even had a boy born after you, and I can’t picture you as mine.” Joxter was somewhat taken aback. He remembered Mymble perfectly—one doesn’t forget a woman like that! —and the memories were invariably sweet with a slight tinge of sadness. Her house had always been teeming with children of both sexes underfoot, and he would never have remembered one particular girl. What struck him was something else. How much time had passed, that a snot-nosed kid who only came up to his knee had shot up into this refined young lady? And could it be that he himself was now too old? Somehow, meeting the almost-adult sons hadn’t had that effect on him. Oh no, he wouldn’t surrender to time without a fight. “Then will you allow me to take you on the swings?” he grinned, trying imperceptibly to straighten his shoulders. And he could always manage to flash a sharp fang in his smile. Or cast a mysterious glance from under his hat… The girl agreed to the swings and laughed just like her mother had on the first day they had met, at the King’s festival, when they had ridden the carousels and raced through the park until morning. Ah, but the carousels here cost money. But he thought he had seen a few coins in the fountain. Arm in arm, giggling now and then and whispering not-quite-proper jokes in each other’s ears, they moved towards the fountain. And then their path was blocked by a confused and frightened stortass teenager, with a saucepan on his head instead of a hat. The first, very light and short whiskers on his cheeks were trembling. He strongly reminded Joxter of someone… “Don’t you dare do Mymble wrong!” he squeaked and stamped a long-fingered, gloved paw, but immediately ducked his head into his shoulders, as if frightened by his own bravery. “You’re an old beast, you’re not right for her!” “Oh, he’s so tiresome…” Mymble’s Daughter rolled her eyes and steered her escort around the obstacle. “Knee-high to a grasshopper, and already trying to court me. Can you imagine, Joxter, what he gave me the other day as a token of his 'great' love? A toad on a lead made of satin ribbon! And I hate toads.” “Perhaps he’s from Paris?” Joxter didn’t miss the chance to mock what the girl disliked. Shared jokes bring people closer. “I’ve heard they eat frogs there. Yes, definitely from Paris, representing some famous fashion house. Tell me, my good fellow, what will they be wearing instead of hats next season: frying pans or cauldrons? Or perhaps coffee pots?” Mymble’s Daughter giggled. The stortass turned desperately red, blinking back tears, and then, finding no retort, rushed at Joxter with his fists. It was terribly amusing. A belligerent stortass! A half-breed, probably, because stortasses are usually very phlegmatic. Joxter sidestepped, flipped his imaginary tail, and the boy went flying straight into the fountain. Mymble’s Daughter was already doubling with laughter, watching the youngster flounder, tangled in his own limbs and shouting “I’m drowning!”, and she paid no mind to the mumrik’s hand on her waist. A sharp fist poked him in the side; a short figure rushed past him to the fountain and began fishing the unsuccessful suitor out of the water. It appeared to be another stortass, this time a blonde girl in a long light dress and funny cap. Nice ass, Joxter mused and gawked while Mymble’s Daughter was too busy having fun. “Fuddler, hold on, I’ll save you…” she fretted, and having pulled the stortass onto the fountain’s edge, she turned angrily to the merry couple. “You should be ashamed of yourselves! He really could have drowned! And to laugh at sincere, kind feelings is… it’s mean, that’s what! You match each other well, you heartless creatures!” And she rushed to dry Fuddler with her handkerchief. Clearly an impossible task. Well, Joxter remembered who the little suitor resembled. One silly coward creature named Muddler. Were they perhaps relatives? The angry rebuke didn’t bother him in the least, but Mymble’s Daughter seemed a little offended. “I have a heart,” she objected, “but I don’t just give it to anyone. And silly boys somehow think that’s coquettish and become even more persistent. And I, for your information, prefer tall men in uniform! Hey, Fuddler!” (the addressed admirer immediately perked up, much to the chagrin of his defender.) “Look how much Jumble loves you. She even throws herself at a fearsome and dangerous mumrik to protect you. Don’t be an idiot, leave me alone and go out with Jumble, understand?” The stortass, trembling, shifted his gaze between Mymble’s Daughter and Jumble. “And you,” she turned to Joxter, “leave me alone and go back to my mother. She still remembers you with a silly, pleased smile. Only I don’t know where she is now. But you can ask Hodgkins—you remember him, right?" Joxter decided that “fearsome and dangerous” was rather flattering. But the bit about the uniform… Annoying, that. He and uniforms were incompatible concepts, so this mymble might be really out of reach for him. The idea of visiting Mymble, though, wasn’t a bad one. Hodgkins… Ah yes, an inventor and Muddler’s uncle. Fuddler seemed to have chosen the bird in the hand over two in the bush and was now staring at Jumble with a surprised look. And Mymble’s Daughter… She was no longer nearby. Joxter looked around and spotted her further down the crowded street. She was pestering a duty police hemulen with questions, batting her enormous eyes, and the hemulen was turning progressively redder. Yes, there was nothing more to do here. Joxter adjusted the guitar on his shoulder and set off towards the edge of the town, in the direction of the sea.