A Tale of the Tail

       Returning to Moominvalley had left Snufkin with more than enough to occupy his thoughts. Far more than he cared for. There was the constant effort to be useful without being a burden, the dull ache in his ankle, the maddening itch of healing stitches, and the gnawing craving for a smoke. There were flashes of searing guilt over lives lost through his own fault. There was the quiet dread of waiting for his wanderlust to return, the careful masking of his worries from Moomintroll, the need to reassure him if any cracks showed in the façade. And then there was whatever this was between them—something unspoken, shifting, impossible to ignore yet impossible to name. All while enduring Little My’s relentless teasing, maintaining discretion around the other valley folk, and—above all—not thinking about Joxter. Not thinking about Joxter was, of course, impossible. Little My was right (as much as it pained him to admit) that avoiding everything to do with his father wasn’t the answer. But for now, he stuck to harmless things. Or mostly harmless things. Like the tail. Or was it harmless at all? Joxter had mentioned it twice. What had he meant? Was it something dangerous, like the claws, that needed to be controlled? Snufkin had been forcing himself not to unsheathe those at every stress. But a tail? He’d checked. As best he could, feeling behind him. He wasn’t about to ask Little My or, grokes forbid, Moomintroll to look for him. But there was someone he could ask something else. When Moominpappa and the Hemulen returned from fishing, Snufkin waylaid the Hemulen on the veranda with a purely theoretical question. "Do mumriks have tails?" The Hemulen’s sparse eyebrow lifted, his expression a perfect blend of skepticism and academic curiosity. Still, a Hemulen’s pride in his library was not to be underestimated. Three days later, he returned with his findings. "According to scientific literature," he announced, "mumriks do not possess tails." But the Hemulen, once embarked upon a research topic, could not be stopped. Every visit thereafter came with a new, unsolicited fact about tails across the animal kingdom. "The marsupial mouse stores fat in its tail for winter," he informed Snufkin gravely. "Hattifatteners have a caudal protuberance that functions as a proximity sensor." "If you ask a fillyjonk to show you her tail, she will faint." Snufkin listened politely, nodded, and wondered—not for the first time—if Joxter had simply been having him on. But why lie? Snufkin tried to recall if Joxter had ever actually lied to him. Steeling himself, he replayed their entire misadventure in his mind, starting with the letter. Ah—yes. In the old Hemulen woman’s house on the King’s Island, Joxter had claimed she’d "gone to visit family," when in truth, she’d already been dead. Though… he’d also mentioned she "had no one left of importance", meaning, presumably, her family were all in the graveyard. So technically, he hadn’t lied, just phrased it in that infuriating, roundabout way of his. A habit Snufkin knew lurked in himself, too. Blast it all. Who could ever unravel Joxter? Moominpappa had spent years with him and never seen through him (though, to be fair, Moominpappa wouldn’t spot a scheme even if he tripped over it). Still… It took Snufkin days to muster the courage to corner Moominpappa alone and ask the itching question: "Did Joxter have a tail?" They’d shared scrapes, after all. Surely he’d have noticed. Moominpappa pondered until supper, then launched into a vivid account of Joxter "fluffing his tail in danger"—only to slap his own forehead (knocking his hat clean off), apologise, and admit he’d invented the detail. "He moved like a cat, you see, and my writer’s imagination supplied the rest! The tail, the flattened ears, the bristling fur…" In truth, he’d never seen Joxter with pants down and could not confirm or deny anything. All this was delivered, of course, within earshot of Moomintroll, despite Snufkin’s frantic glares and gesturing. Which meant explaining. And pleading for discretion. And insisting Moomintroll forget the whole absurd notion. Moomintroll, beaming, said "Aha!", and then immediately offered to check for the tail himself. "It’d be easier for me, you see." Snufkin refused. Vehemently. Moomintroll wilted like a stepped-on daisy and dropped the subject. Almost. That night, after whispering "Goodnight," he’d added, "For the record, I wouldn’t mind either way. Tail or no tail." Then Moominmamma returned, and for once nobody had time for tails. The house had grown loud and warm, filled with the smells of good food and the chatter of visitors eager to feast and gossip before hibernation. But Moomintroll, it seemed, had forgotten nothing. One afternoon, as he peeled potatoes for dinner (eager to show his mother how much he had learned in her absence), he brought it up quite suddenly. "Mamma, do mumriks have tails?" Snufkin, scrubbing carrots beside him, flushed and quickly corrected: "What I’d like to know is whether Joxter was capable of lying." Both questions gave Moominmamma pause. She stirred pie batter in silence for a long moment before answering Snufkin first. "I don’t think he was inclined to outright lies," she said at last. "Omitting things, speaking in riddles—oh yes. But inventing a falsehood was too much effort for him. He lied to me once, so clumsily I spotted it right away. So..." She stared at the batter dripping down from the whisk and nodded in satisfaction. "You know what? I’ll look through Grandma’s notebook. There might be something about Selkie’s tail." Despite Snufkin’s protests that he could perfectly well manage without the information, Moominmamma took to carrying the little book with her everywhere. Whenever she had a spare moment—perched on the sofa, a stool, a chopping block in the shed—she would flip through its pages, frowning in concentration. Moomintroll had insisted his mother’s handbag was enchanted, for it held far more than its size should allow. The notebook, it seemed, was of the same bottomless variety, for the search took a full week. Not that Moominmamma had much leisure, though: between rectifying the family’s housekeeping blunders, gathering the last edible berries and nuts from the woods, and preserving what she could, she was seldom idle. On a dark November evening, as Snufkin and Moomintroll warmed themselves by the electric heater (chargedby Hattifatteners—who'd have thought!), the creak of the elder Moomins' bedroom door sounded upstairs. There came a deliberately loud, unhurried shuffling to give Snufkin enough time to scoot back to a more "friendly" distance from Moomintroll, and Moominmamma descended, her grandmother's notebook in hand. "Forgive the interruption, but I believe I've found something of interest." She settled nearer the kerosene lamp, the sofa being occupied. Snufkin was curious, if only to stop thinking about that blasted tail, and to stop taking up Moominmamma's time. "Just a line or two, buried between tax evasion schemes from century-old international trade logs—that’s why I’ve never found it before." She lowered her voice to a soft, storytelling lilt: "'A great pity I am unable to see or touch Selkie's tail. I asked if it resembled mine, and he said with his usual sad smile that should he need to leap over slippery boulders, it would certainly be just like mine.' That's all, I'm afraid. No other mentions." She closed the book gently. "I'm sorry, Snufkin." "But what does it mean?" Moomintroll still gazed at his mother as though she held all the world's answers. "I doubt I can speculate better," she said, rising, "than Snufkin himself." Moomintroll turned to him with undimmed enthusiasm, but Snufkin first thanked Moominmamma for her trouble. "And apologies for the bother. I won't dig further. I've lived this long without tails or claws; I'll manage. If one grows in with age, I'll cross that bridge then." "As you wish." With an understanding nod, Moominmamma retreated upstairs, ever composed. Moomintroll fell unusually quiet as he laid out his bedroll. Even his usual "Goodnight" came out so glum that when he finally settled, Snufkin reached down from the sofa to ruffle the fur between his ears. "Go on, then. Out with it. I promise not to laugh or bite." A velvety paw caught his hand, pressing it to a soft snout. "Snufkin, I’d love you with a tail or without, but... I’d rest easier, you know? All I gathered from Great-Grandmamma’s note is that tails are useful. And Doc said you’ll struggle with jumping and running, even healed. It’d be nice if you had—I don’t know—an extra advantage. A tail, claws... horns, even!" Snufkin grinned in the dark but stifled a chuckle—he had promised. "Horns would be more hindrance than help, judging by wolpertingers." "Fine!" Moomintroll giggled despite himself. "And your hat wouldn’t fit. But—maybe you'd think about the tail?" The night stretched long with thought. The clock ticked. Moomintroll snored softly on the floor (he'd tried the spare sofa, but his restless sleepinghad beensending him tumbling off it). The wooden house creaked and settled around them, while outside, the wind hurled handfuls of icy snow against the windows. And beneath it all, Joxter's voice echoed in Snufkin's memory: Tails are trickier. I'll explain later. But to master it, you'll need my hints. Trickier than what? Than claws, obviously. A tail wouldn't just appear in a moment of panic. So what would summon it? If you need to leap across slippery boulders... Hah. Not an option right now. For Snufkin, even the stairs were a challenge, and he couldn't afford to fall—well, not too often. He'd been gingerly testing weight on his bad leg, with mixed success. Better to think about tails than dwell on how Moomintroll flinched every time he stumbled, or how quickly his friend rushed to help after Snufkin did fall once or twice. No, experiments would have to wait at least until deeper snowdrifts arrived, offering softer landings. Right now, the snow was barely mouse-ankle deep over stone-frozen earth or mud. Fine. For now, he could observe. And so, from the very next morning (after sleeping through breakfast, of course), he did. He watched Moominmamma carry a heavy pot of porridge, her tail lifted slightly higher than when she returned to the kitchen with the pot unloaded. He noted how Moominpappa's tail swayed opposite his leading foot as he descended the stairs. He studied Moomintroll stretching to place a dried plate on a high shelf, his tail rising stiffly, as if pulled by a string. By the way, the tuft of his tail was almost grown to its usual fluff volume. One more thing back to normal. Snufkin was still debating with himself whether it would be polite to ask the Moomins about tails (and whether they might faint at the question, like fillyjonks), when Moominmamma spoke first. "We can consciously adjust the base of our tails," she said, shaking water off the last plate washed, "but it also moves on its own to keep balance. The tip, though, twitches and fluffs entirely without control, depending on mood." "So if you ever grow one," came Little My's voice from under the table (because nothing escaped her), "it'll wag around Moomintroll like a whisk in cream." "Not that anyone would see it," Moominmamma corrected swiftly, shooing My out with a broom. "Darling, go check Pappa is wearing his scarf before he fixes the roof." Well then, it seemed Moomintroll was fair game for tail-related questioning,or could even be persuaded to demonstrate running and jumping. It would make for a fine diversion during the long winter evenings and even now, when the final preparations for the season were nearly done under Moominmamma's capable guidance. Of course, Moomintroll was more than happy to oblige. He even gathered planks and logs by the veranda to build a makeshift obstacle course, dragging Sniff along for good measure. Soon, the two were tumbling and leaping about in a chaotic game of steeplechase tag, while Snufkin observed from the steps, chin in hand. It was... educational. Not that it was any great revelation that different tails served different purposes, but seeing it in action was another matter. Sniff’s thin, twitchy tail did little to help him; at best, it flailed in the opposite direction of his falls, which were frequent. Moomintroll, on the other hand, moved with surprising grace, his flexible, tuft-weighted tail aiding even the trickiest manoeuvres. Then Little My returned from the woods with a sack of nuts and dried crab apples—and a Squirrel for company. What followed was nothing short of a masterclass in tail usage. Little My began hurling treats into the air, and the Squirrel darted after them in a blur of acrobatics, tail flicking as a rudder, flaring as a brake, even curling mid-leap like a propeller. Not to mention its secondary function as a cosy wrap. Then again, the squirrel’s tail was impressively large relative to its body. Which raised a question: why couldn’t a mumrik’s tail adjust as needed? For rock-hopping, it might mimic a Moomin’s; for other tasks, perhaps a squirrel’s. Or a cat’s. Yet Snufkin noted something else: the tail didn’t work in isolation. It was part of a system—posture, paws, even a twitch of ears all played a role. A matter of weight and momentum distribution. But how would that apply to an invisible and intangible tail? Where was its mass? Should it come into reality first? By now, he had enough to ponder for another sleepless night, but his body had other ideas. After barely dozing the night before, he was out cold the moment his head hit the pillow. His dreams, however, were anything but restful. Crocodiles and monitor lizards flicked their tails, sending antelopes crashing to the ground. The antelopes wept silently; the reptiles’ serene blue eyes shed matching tears, yet their fanged jaws stretched in grins. "But to master the tail,"they drawled in Joxter’s lazy, infuriating tone, "you’ll need my hints." Snufkin woke with a start, halfway through a mental argument with his father. Again. Somewhere in the haze, a useful thought had flickered, but by morning, it was gone, leaving only the familiar, stubborn frustration. The next day, Moomintroll was eager to continue their experiments, though Sniff didn’t share his enthusiasm: declaring himself "as worn out as a laboratory rat," he refused to leave the table where he nursed a steaming cup of tea, whining about hibernation being long overdue. Moominmamma, glancing at Moominpappa dozing in his armchair beneath a newspaper tent, agreed they could all retire for winter by week's end. Moomintroll brightened at this, though for entirely different reasons than Sniff, and when Snufkin caught his delighted gaze, he felt his ears grow warm. Well, yes. It would be nice not to worry about someone barging in from the veranda, clattering down the stairs, or erupting from the teapot whilst they... experimented. With holding hands. And personal space. And, perhaps, adapting Mymble-style kissing to Moomin-troll proportions. Now there was a far nicer field of study. But for now, Moomintroll was happy to scamper through the obstacle course for his friend's sake with renewed vigour. Then came his latest brainstorm: he tied the curtain cord complete with tassel around Snufkin's waist. A "model tail," as it were. Snufkin allowed it, though skepticism prickled. Honestly, how could he possibly will a rope to move? He couldn't feel its weight, only the knot digging into his post-breakfast stomach. And when the "tail" snagged on the veranda railing, sending him crashing onto the steps tailbone-first, even Moomintroll conceded it was a flawed idea. The rope tail, that is—not the concept itself. "An invisible tail isn't so strange!" Moomintroll insisted, rubbing Snufkin's back. "The world's full of invisible things that are perfectly real! Take Too-Ticky's invisible shrews—oh, we must introduce you to her! They weep very visible tears and spin toy carousels. Or did I tell you about Ninny, the invisible girl?" "Yeah, you did: she started off visible," Snufkin muttered. "And stayed tangible. And by the way, I have met Too-Ticky. The midwinter bonfire, remember?" "Really?" Moomintroll blinked. "How odd. I had an impression I had dreamt it—you coming in winter, us saving Sniff from wolves..." As Moomintroll prattled on about Too-Ticky and winter spirits, Snufkin chased a thought flickering at the edge of his mind like a mouse in autumn undergrowth. Dreamt it... Things unseen, unbelieved... "Without my hints." Not "help." What if Joxter meant that "growing" a tail required understanding, not doing? "Sometimes," Moomintroll whispered suddenly, eyeing the house door for eavesdroppers, "I know you're smiling even when I only see your hat brim." What if a mumrik's tail was just... a feeling? Imagination? Not so different from some things like home, or trust, or belonging—unseen until you stopped doubting they were there. Snufkin shut his eyes, picturing it: slender tail, tipped with a tuft of fur. Not white, of course. Russet brown would do. He felt nothing, of course, save for renewed desire to try it on his own. By week's end, as hibernation drew near, the snow had piled up to the ground-floor windowsills, as if the Valley itself had tugged a thick downy quilt right up to its chin, curled tight, and shut its eyes in contentment. Just like Moominmamma and Moominpappa in their bed, or Sniff and Little My in their forest burrows. Snufkin stood at the very edge of the veranda, squinting up at the grey-white sky. Fat, feathery snowflakes drifted down, landing on his face like airy kisses, melting instantly against skin warm from the thought. The snow was still too soft for skis or sledges, so they contented themselves with leaping off the steps into the drifts, pelting each other with powdery snowballs, carving out snow angels, and generally fooling around. Moomintroll bragged about winter sports with such fervour as if he invented snow itself, until Snufkin, laughing, reminded him he was familiar with the concept of winter, thank you very much. But the moment Snufkin sneezed, Moomintroll switched into full mother-hen mode, herding him inside to dry off and warm up. And to explore personal boundaries. Quite. The drifts grew taller, until even the window of Moomintroll’s room framed nothing but a solid, glittering white wall. Without open vistas, Snufkin began to feel like a beetle trapped in a box, and took to escaping outside as often as he could, even at night. Though on clear nights, the moon or northern lights cast enough glow to see by even for a moomin. It was the skis that fascinated Snufkin most. They seemed a better alternative to trudging through snowdrifts with a cane—a different way of moving, with two poles for balance and propulsion. Moomintroll demonstrated the basics with the same pioneer pride, boasting about nearly keeping pace with a champion downhill skier in a race. He was even towing Snufkin up the slopes, and though the mumrik resisted at first (stubbornness being second nature), the climbs were exhausting and left little power left to enjoy the ride. Pride only carried one so far. He hated how quickly he tired, how after just a couple of hours, his ankle throbbed despite the leather-strapped boots. But what could one do? Practice was necessary for next year. The descent, though, was pure joy, so long as he didn't speed recklessly. Finding his balance, favouring his right leg, bracing to fall leftwards if needed. And Snufkin knew how to tuck himself mid-fall. In skiing, at least, he and Moomintroll were near equals at first. "You know," Moomintroll puffed after another race down the gentle, packed slope, "I think you've always had a tail. Remember that summer we slid down the Groke's ice trail to the beach? You kept your footing easily and even taught me how to steer, though I'm the one built by nature for cliff-scrambling and standing firm on a wet deck. How did you swing round that spruce just now, exactly in time with me?" Snufkin glanced back at their twin ski tracks curling through the snow. "Dunno. Let's race again. Last one to the rowans does dishes!" This time, he tried to notice how he carved the turn—but the moment he thought about it, he lost rhythm and tumbled. Typical. The body rebelled when examined too closely. Still, he hadn't lost the bet yet; Moomintroll had skidded to a stop beside him. "Are you alive?" A paw extended by default. But Snufkin was already shifting to rise, seeking footing. His gaze flicked sideways: Moomintroll had halted on a bump, skis angled across the slope, his round flank overhanging the steeper drop below. Not awfully stable position. An image flashed—a monitor lizard's heavy tail lashing at a prey—and without thinking, Snufkin sprang up and shot past Moomintroll down the mountainside. He didn't clip him, not with ski nor pole, but a startled "Ouch!" and soft whump of snow followed as the wind whistled in his ears. Just had to reach the rowans now, their red berries like finish-line banners. The backlash from his burst of speed would hit soon— By the time he careened between the scarlet-fruited branches, he was already tilting sideways, but managed to crash back-first into a drift. He curled tight, waiting out the pain's crest, then mustered a grin and unclipped his skis as Moomintroll loomed overhead, blocking half the sky with his worried snout. "What was that? Why push so hard?" He grumbled, offering a paw again. "Lucky I tripped, or I'd have beaten you anyway." "Nah." Snufkin grabbed the paw only to yank Moomintroll into the snow beside him. "I tripped you." "Liar!" Moomintroll laughed through a mouthful of snow. "You couldn't reach me!" "With my tail, see?" Snufkin wheezed, collapsing atop him, his spent muscles protesting. "You told me to think of it, so I did..." If Snufkin had an invisible tail in that moment, it was like the Muskrat's—a limp, useless flap. But it certainly didn't wag. Mumriks were akin to cats, not dogs, after all.