All Sweet Things

       It seemed he was simply cursed when it came to children. Another one gone. Most likely. Joxter shivered, adjusting the tiller a touch to keep the sail taut and the boat heading more or less south. A good wind, a good speed. A day or two, and he'd reach the Orange Pillars, where the climate was pleasant and oranges literally lay at one's feet, alongside figs and dates. Even now, the islands he passed were dotted with gardens, bright with yellow lemons amidst dark, glossy green leaves. A pity they were so sour. Yes, there was a saying: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or was it limoncello? Joxter couldn't recall precisely, but he intended to follow the folk wisdom. Yes, a pity about the kid, but whose fault was it that he hadn't even known mumriks had claws, and failed to scale a wall quickly, even after his father had shown him how? And you couldn't claw a person out of the police's clutches single-handedly. On the bright side, the barrier out of niblings around the island was gone, and Joxter had even found a boat. So here was he, alive and free. And his son… Moominmaiden (alright, Moominmamma now) had said they had pinned all the father's crimes on the boy, but the kid could have just told the coppers he was innocent, that he had only just arrived. Had he really kept silent, covering for Joxter? Well, then it was his own fault; let him learn firsthand how costly selflessness could be. Perhaps he'd take the lesson to heart… Ah, but he had probably been executed by now. Of, course, Moominmama had been planning to wrest the unrelated child from the authorities, risking her own family, but Joxter had seen enough of the island’s state machinery to know a handful of adventurers with one pistol between them stood no chance. He himself had chosen the correct path. And enough of this brooding. Look, the low sun was glinting, sending its shimmer across the waves like boys skimming flat stones; dead ahead was a larger island, big enough for a whole village. He ought to put in, fetch fresh water, pinch some oranges, and with luck, a whole pizza from someone's outdoor oven, then continue his journey tonight under the bright, nearly full moon. The Foreboding was as sudden as ever. The boat had already bumped against the jetty boards, but Joxter didn't step onto the platform. Instead, he pressed his back against the mast, listening and sniffing the air. Right. On the other side of the jetty, a seemingly deserted yacht was rocking, but amidst the splash of waves against its hull and the creak of timber, he fancied he could hear another sound—a furtive rustling. Crouching low, he darted onto the jetty and pushed off from a post. And in that moment, a rope whistled through the air. He lurched forward, but the loop snared the tiller, yanking the boat backwards to where two figures had already leapt from the yacht onto the jetty… Just two? Like hell. A lantern flared to life on the yacht's mast, momentarily blinding Joxter. He anticipated the next move anyway, rolling under the boom as a thrown net whistled past him, skidded uselessly across the deck and snagged on the oarlocks. Now it was his turn to attack. Spring onto the jetty like a released coil, spin around to knock the nearest opponent off balance with an imaginary tail, leap away from the second as if intending to flee towards the shore. Then pivot sharply back towards him, swiping out with claws unsheathed, aiming for the throat… The second one, a white snork or perhaps a moomin, managed to block with his shoulder. The claws tore through the skin; the short fur was no help. Joxter promptly shoved him into the water. He dashed for the shore—but a second net was already falling from above. In a panic, he dropped and slid into the water; the shore was right there, it must be shallow… But there was no bottom under his feet. And mumriks are poor swimmers. "Don't fret, we need you alive!" someone called down from above, almost good-humoured. So, they fished him out with the same net. Four of them now. A motley crew, no uniforms, not the police. They tied him up under the muzzles of two revolvers and deposited him in the yacht's hold, which immediately set off from the jetty. Even in the dark, empty cabin, Joxter could feel the yacht was heading back northwest. Freeing himself proved impossible; he couldn't reach the ropes with his claws, and they checked on him fairly often. He couldn't make sense of the snippets of conversation to figure out who might want him, either. When the yacht finally docked again, they put a sack over his head and led him through echoing stone rooms, sometimes up, sometimes down. A cave. At the very last moment, they untied him, removed the sack, and shoved him forward so hard he fell. So his first impression was a blurry one. A stone hall, yes. Four armed moomins by a table, and among them, Moominmamma—what a surprise—and beside her, in a strange chair with his leg in a splint and bandages, sat a mumrik. That son, the one Joxter had thought dead days ago. "Well, fancy seeing you here," Joxter greeted him with sincere relief. He didn't need to ask how the kid had escaped. The little details all around—the crest on the wall, the weapons on their belts, Moominmamma's resemblance to the other moomins at the table, the respectful 'Captain' address to them from the pirates who'd caught him—all suggested Moominmamma came from a very influential family with considerable resources. But that didn’t really matter. Had the kid finally understood that a mumrik must look after himself first? No, he hadn't understood a blessed thing. He was bitter, spouting harsh words, swearing he'd never be like his father. And what did that mean—not to live to see grey hair? Where would his blood go? His instincts? That desperate desire for freedom, the constant seesaw of laziness and curiosity—the very essence of a mumrik? Joxter tried to talk some sense into the boy, but it was hopeless… Well, let him do as he pleased. He wouldn't last long with such notions anyway. Why had they even hauled Joxter here? Just to tell him what they thought of him to his face? He yawned, and immediately Moominmamma got down to serious business. He was to write a confession to clear his son's name, and in return, he'd get his freedom. Was she serious? One of the largest pirate clans would just let a stranger who'd seen their headquarters go? But his choices were slim indeed: risk relying on their mercy (and end up on the wanted list in several more parts of the world) or die for certain. Joxter signed the confession. The nuances immediately emerged; they'd release him on a bare rock in the middle of the ocean. But that wasn't so bad. He could talk a dolphin into giving him a lift to shore. A mumrik could make limoncello out of lemons far more sour than these. The island fully lived up to the pirates' threats. A heap of rocks the size of a prison yard, with nowhere even to shelter from the sun. Joxter jumped ashore, surveying his lodgings for the next day or so. Behind him, the oarlocks creaked and water splashed as the boat returned to the ship. A gun hammer clicked back. Since when did pirates keep their word? No surprise, just an instant sour bitterness on the tongue. Without turning, he dropped to the ground, and the first shot only knocked off his hat. Now lunge sideways, zigzagging, with a weasling's speed, buy another second, whatever it was worth of, just… But bullets are faster than even a weasling. The second shot threw Joxter back against a boulder, pain searing through him. The third—he had time to see the yellow flash around the barrel of the revolver in the paw of the one-eyed moomintroll, and then he saw nothing more.