South of Winter, Two Singulars

       “Don’t know how old I was. Just a scrap, no taller than a gooseberry bush. And stupid enough to go deep in the mountains in spring, when nothing proper to eat had grown yet. One high and barren pass after another, y’know how it is.” Snufkin looked behind into the dark northern horizon where the mountain ridge they’ve just crossed was a grey jaw in the dim moonlight. “But finally I scuttled into a valley that was lived in. Could smell people before I saw them. Smoke, ploughed soil, manure. I went straight for the cemetery on the outskirts, in broad daylight. I wasn’t thinking straight anymore—just anything to bite, anything quick. “Didn’t take long for someone to notice. I haven’t been through a dry end crust of bread when a man came shouting, brandishing a stick. I ran. He gave chase and could’ve caught up, but then he stopped. Just stopped. Long before the edge of quite inviting and lush garden. I should’ve known. A predator stops at the border of larger predator’s land, but I missed the sign. “Anyway, I slipped between the garden fence bars and went on slower. Actually, that garden was everything I hate. Too neat. Everything trimmed and mirrored and decorated to death. Statues, paths like rulers laid on the ground. Like a green room with the walls pressed in. Another sign missed. I’d have fled at once, but I heard a smell, fresh bread and cinnamon and what not. My nose led me to a little gingerbread house. Just a fancy gazebo out of painted alabaster. A table set inside, with cakes, buns, jam, porcelain cups. And what I thought was a big doll in a frilly dress, sitting very still. The smell of baking was a torture. I slipped in, quiet as I could, to grab a bun or a dozen of, and be gone. “And the doll looked at me. It was a girl. Human. Dressed up like she belonged on the table with the sweets. Pink hair, mind you. She didn’t scream or run. She clapped. Said she’d never seen such a cute creature before. “Oh good,” she said. “You can join my tea party.” “So we had tea. She showed me how to use napkins and a tiny fork for the cake. I showed her how to eat freestyle, crumbs everywhere, cream on your nose. She laughed. I laughed. For a while it was… it was fun. Then she asked me to stay. Forever. Said I could live in the manor with her. Marble bath, silk sheets, sweets every day. I told her no. Said I was a traveller, didn’t like houses. “She pouted. Like I’d broken a rule in a game only she knew. Said at least I should have one more cup of tea, to wash the sugar down. I agreed, so she rang a bell. “A man came. Human as well, really tall. A butler. Face like a closed door. I got wary of an adult, but the girl said, “He does what I say. Papa pays him.” And just that, she ordered him to bring tea, “one for the road.” “I drank. It tasted of flowers and dust. Then the world went soft at the edges. “I woke in a cage. Same fancy gingerbread style. Gilt bars with flourishes. A little velvet sofa and little mosaic table. Stupid pink cushions. I tried the bars. Tried the lock. Nothing. So I broke everything I could within the reach, instead. If I had to be trapped, I wasn’t going to be decorative. “She came back later to ask if I changed my mind. Said she’d give me food if I promised to be her friend properly—that is, to do as she wills. I told her that’s not how friendship works. You don’t buy it. You don’t force it. She retorted that her father always told her friends are people you can buy, and the ones you can’t are enemies. And since I wouldn’t be a friend, I wouldn’t get food. Or water. “The butler was there, by her shoulder. He spoke quiet and flat as stone. “Without water, he will last two, perhaps three days, Miss.” “She nodded, considering. Said that was fine. Said then I’d be a good friend at last, even if I was boring. With that, she walked over and pulled a heavy curtain on the wall. “There was another cage. With bones or parch dry corpses like…” Snufkin shivered at the memory of those bodies, with patchy fur or hair, grey skin clinging to the bones—and bright colours of the same doll-style clothes on them. Across the fire, the Gunman caught his gaze for a moment and nodded, slow and silent. Right, he might know what a dried-out dead body looked like, no need to go into detail. “Most unidentifiable already, just the closest looked like a sniff or a young fillyjonk. All posed awry, dumped dolls. Her collection. “The humans left me in the dark with the bones. I tried everything on the cage. Nothing worked. Late, deep in the night, a key turned. The butler. He unlocked the cage, made it look broken, as if I had done it myself. I bit him when he reached in—out of panic, mostly. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even look at me, as if in shame. As if he meant well. “So I asked him as he carried me under arm through the manor: Why? Why a good person worked for someone like that? “He said nowhere else paid enough for his sister’s medicine. She was very sick. He was in a cage, too. Just bigger. And he paid for it with this. “So I ran. I ran until the manor and the garden were long lost behind fields and forests. I didn’t have a tent yet, so I didn’t leave anything behind. On the contrary, there was a lot to take out of the experience.” Snufkin stopped, feeling he was veering into pathos by the force of habit. To make the end not so abrupt, he reached to pour some more water into his mug. The older brother was regarding him without a word, but with reserved attention. The reaction Snufkin hoped for. "Was it before or after you've come to know your Moomins?" the Gunman asked after a long companionable silence, giving Snufkin time to flush the throat. “Before.” “Uh.” The Gunman chuckled, almost impressed. “Wise enough not to be twice shy after once bitten.” “O-oh, but I was, at first,” Snufkin confessed with ease. These memories were bright and tingly. “I was all jumpy and paranoid around Moomintroll, like, for several weeks after meeting him, ready to bolt any second. My luck he didn’t notice it. And that I didn’t bolt.” “Your luck.” His tone or pose didn’t change, but Snufkin felt a whiff of… wistfulness? Oh right, his brother did lose his Moominvalley and his Moomin! Or believed so. Quick, switch the topic and mood. “Thank you.” Snufkin said in all earnestness. “For listening. I haven’t told this story to anyone yet, and now it feels better. Easier, just like people say. And…” He paused. Maybe it would sound syrupy and obvious, but he needed to tell— “Did you ever had someone to listen to you?” Silence reigned. His brother kept staring at the pipe in his hand, not looking up at Snufkin, then pulled himself up to stride towards their tent. The only words he let slip before disappearing inside were “It’s too late.”