South of Winter, Two Singulars

       They camped down on the plain halfway to the next ridge. They did not pitch the tent for a single night—the fire was enough. And the earth had warmed through the long, clear day. No hoarfrost here, no pines, only sparse yucca and the twisted shapes of juniper brush. Their fire would have been visible for many miles across that tableland. And without the tent, it was easier to watch the stars. So low and close in these latitudes, like hundreds of curious beasts peering down at the plate of the plain and the spark of their fire, wondering if that spark was their distant cousin. Snufkin took the first watch and played a game of staring with the familiar constellations. It was then he felt a regard not only from above. He glanced sidelong at his brother. No, he slept, curled under his blanket, his hat beneath his head, eyes closed. Some nightbird or creature of the brush? Snufkin listened. The lazy scrape of crickets, the hiss of high, dry grass stirred by a rare gust, the soft pop and crackle of their own fire. He scanned the darkness, but the fire thickened the shadows beyond its scant circle of juniper, and the stars could not contend with the almost southern blackness. Okay, there might also be smell. He flared his nostrils. Woodsmoke, sage, the scent of his brother’s tobacco… and what was that? Another breath of wind from the northern pass carried a smell—familiar, surely, yet utterly out of place in the heart of that desolate prairie. Cinnamon. Or more precisely, a cinnamon roll. With the stick he used to tend the fire, Snufkin reached over and tapped the toe of his brother’s boot. Seeing the man’s eyes slit open, he pointed a finger to his own nose, then out into the dark to the north, then gave the faintest shrug. The Gunman lowered his lashes in a slow, almost imperceptible blink. Understood. Then he shifted his head a fraction, pressing an ear to the warmed earth. Snufkin held his breath, only drawing air again when his brother moved his elbow slowly beneath the blanket. Right then. Be ready. At the first sign, dive for the brush, away from the line of any aim. He felt rather than heard the movement behind him, and in the same instant the Gunman sat up, his revolver held muzzle-down to the earth, and spat a low, displeased “You.” The night visitor stepped from behind the juniper into the firelight. Snufkin knew him at once, though in the leaping flame the guy seemed even taller. An ochre-yellow smock, a long red scarf, dark thick curls beneath a broadbrimmed hat. The third brother. “You take a great risk, creeping up like that,” the Gunman said, his voice cold as stone, making no move to take the weapon away. A new tension seemed to chill the very air. “What do you want?” “Can’t a man simply visit his brothers at Yuletide?” the third mumrik replied, unperturbed. He set his pack and guitar (oh, he did get a guitar of his own, after all) on the ground and settled by the fire without invitation. “Play the Santa. Especially as I have gifts.” “I kept an eye over a Santa in Moominvalley once,” the Gunman said, not bothering to mask his hostility, though he did ease the hammer down. “To keep him from stealing anything before he went back to the jail he had broken from.” “Did you?” The third brother raised a brow without surprise. “Moomin spoke of meeting the real Santa. Very nice of you not to spoil the story for him.” Snufkin had dubbed him privately as the Beanpole, and had yet to find a name to call him by aloud. But not by name. For they were all three Snufkins. And for that, Joxter was to blame—too lazy, it seemed, to devise individual names for all his offspring. While it was just Snufkin and the Gunman (who didn’t seem to mind that moniker), names had not been needed. Anything said by one was addressed to the other by default. With three, that trick would no longer work. And something was required. The tension between the brothers was a weight in the air. Snufkin supposed Moomintroll had felt this same awkwardness last year when he and the Gunman had eyed each other with the same suspicion. But dear sweet Moomin had a nature for sanding rough edges, for radiating a goodwill that smoothed things over. Snufkin did not. Yet there was no one else to ease the mood. “I smelled the cinnamon, by the way,” he interjected, as casually as he could. “About five minutes back.” The Beanpole offered a soft smile and reached into his pack. Sure enough, a large paper bag of buns. Not precisely fresh, but the smell alone was enough to make a mouth water, even after a decent supper. “Can’t offer tea,” the Gunman grunted. “Water’s tight. Won’t have dripped enough till dawn.” It was true, there were no running streams nearby, only a damp depression where the travellers had dug a seep-hole and strained the brown earth-tainted water. The Beanpole shrugged and produced a massive leather flask from his pack. Snufkin rose without a word to fetch his pot. “All’s well in the Moominvalley,” the Beanpole continued his tale behind him. “I keep an eye out. Make sure no outside villains stir up trouble. Watch the little ones, so you needn’t fret.” The Gunman just snorted, but the third brother was undeterred. “And for you, I have a separate gift.” He fell silent. The elder mumrik, out of pure stubbornness, asked nothing. Snufkin did not intervene but hung the pot over the fire for mint and thyme tea, then snagged the smallest bun from those laid on the greased paper. A little dry, but good. The Beanpole smirked and deigned to continue. “I wrote to the Marble Valley constabulary and the robbed count this past summer. Told them where the jewels were and that you had no hand in it. Checked back in those parts just now—you’re off from the wanted lists. You can pass through freely.” The Gunman grunted, then jerked his chin toward Snufkin. “What about the Kit here? Still wanted for helping me break out of jail?” Oh. Snufkin had quite forgotten that incident amidst last year’s other calamities. The Beanpole considered thoughtfully, not forgetting to hold out his mug for tea. “No. No one resembling him on the board outside the stationhouse,” he replied at last, taking a bun himself. The Gunman was last to the offering, reaching slowly, as if granting a favour. “Thank you,” Snufkin said, utterly sincere, and took another bite. “Some gift,” the Gunman continued to grumble, though with his mouth full it lacked its usual severity. “Considering you’re the one who framed me in the first place…” For a time they sat in silence, a shared cloud of cinnamon and herbs hanging over them, on their island of amber light in a sea of darkness. On distant stars, perhaps, other beings sat by their own fires and gazed out at the black, star-speckled sky. “Well. Happy Yuletide,” Snufkin said to no one in particular, licking the icing sugar from his fingers. No acceptable name for the Beanpole had come to him, so he simply caught his eye to ask: “Where will you overwinter?” The sad smile flickered again, but the brother’s tone was utterly serious. “Don’t worry. Not with you. There’s unfinished business.” And he drew a pipe and matches from his pocket. Snufkin went cold. He remembered the stunned look on this very brother’s face last year upon learning that Joxter was quite alive and still using his sons to settle his scores. Was his unfinished business to find and… and get rid of their father? “Joxter isn’t worth anyone’s time,” Snufkin said—to the fire, to himself, to both brothers, to the whole wide world. Beside him, the Gunman coughed as if he’d swallowed tea leaves from the dregs. He stood and motioned the Beanpole away. “Come on then. Let’s have that smoke over yonder.” The other raised a surprised brow but followed the elder mumrik away from the firelight. Perhaps the Gunman could find the words to dissuade him from vengeance. Snufkin watched the two figures dissolve into the gloom. The last things visible were their near-identical yellow coats, but soon even they were swallowed by the black. The second supper brought a heaviness, a pull toward sleep. Snufkin fetched his blanket. The night felt snug, almost homely. Perhaps because two brothers were near, and nothing ill would happen this night. Perhaps it was the scent from the paper bag, evoking memories of the Moominhouse. He lay back, the crackle of the fire the only conversation now, and glimpsed a flicker of a match casting shared light on two faces in the dark, so different and similar at the same time.