South of Winter, Two Singulars

       The thousand-eyed midnight had poured itself over the flat plain. From the hill at the mountain’s foot, both sky and earth seemed endless, though by day, from the pass, Snufkin had seen them meet in the zipper of the next range to the east. Soon the moon would rise, scattering the shadows of yuccas and thorn-scrub across the land, but for now the earth differed from the sky only in its absolute, starless blackness. Snufkin lay on his back, letting his gaze fall into the speckled abyss above, while the cold, hard earth cradled him in its palms beneath a blanket of night sounds. The hiss of dry grass under a fitful wind, the solitary scrape of a cold-proof cricket, the furtive rustles of other small life, the soft crackle of their fire, the quiet, repetitive plucking of a guitar. The Gunman, it seemed, truly knew only one song, but could vary it infinitely. And yet he still noticed every detail around him. Such as which constellation his younger brother had been staring at for several seconds. “The Polar Goose stretches its neck north,” the Gunman said, as if in passing, letting the strings resonate and die on their own. “Time to turn back, is it?” “Yep.” It was precisely this Snufkin had been contemplating for a couple of days. To return to Moominvalley for the first thaws and snowdrops, one must take a lesson from the geese. Though the Gunman had mentioned wanting to enter the plain because the walking was easier, faster there. And the plain stretched to the north as well, then up the Rainbow River valley to the northwest, right into the feet of the Lonely Mountains… No wonder he did not say a word more. But it was a heavy, waiting sort of silence. And the guitar had gone utterly quiet, as if he’d pressed his palm flat against the strings. Snufkin sat up, glanced left. Indeed, brother’s hand lay across the fretboard. A faint unease stirred in him. He even flinched when the Gunman asked, his voice very soft: “What is it like, to return to a place?” Snufkin considered. To such an abstract question he could have offered a beautiful, philosophical, and suitably vague answer right away. But he didn’t want to. Not to this brother who was clearly thinking of his own situation. “One returns either to a place,” he began cautiously, entering the complex, personal territory, “or to someone. I return to a place when either it has changed, or I have, and I’m desperately curious to know what new melody it will call forth in me.” “A melody…” A smile ghosted through the Gunman’s voice. “That explains why it’s not the same for me. I revisit some places—but on business, or in transit. And to someone… I wanted to return once. It didn’t happen. Well, you remember.” Snufkin nodded, though his brother had turned away and wouldn’t have seen anyway. He had also tilted his head down, barricading himself behind his hat brim. That familiar gesture again. A convenient thing for hiding discomfort. And Snufkin understood. Not only had their wily brother taken up residence in the other Moominvalley, but he had seemed to deserve it, proving himself a more devoted and close friend to that other Moomintroll. Don’t dwell on it, Snufkin wanted to say, you’re one good guy too, but he doubted a bounty hunter who had taken lives would believe such words. Yet he couldn’t stay silent either. So Snufkin shifted closer to his brother, settling with his back against the Gunman’s back. Yes, mumriks (and he himself) did not welcome outsiders into their personal space, but what if this wasn’t an outsider? How many times had Moomintroll’s warm, furry paw given Snufkin strength and hope? Well, Moomintroll was a very special case. But Moominmamma’s hugs, Moominpappa’s handshake, Little My’s sharp little fist—so many different touches had granted peace, a sense of community, of family. The Gunman didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He remained sitting, solid as the stone he sat upon. Alright. He could continue. Just what he was thinking about—those you return to. “And to someone… The first time I returned,” he went on, his voice low against the vast silence, “I told myself it was the valley I liked—quiet and safe. I wanted to be sure that in half a year they had forgotten me, moved on, lost interest… But they welcomed me back even warmer.” He let the thought hang, then, simply because it felt right, he allowed his own warmth to radiate outward, a small, deliberate gift to the man he leaned against. The night’s chill pressed in immediately, but it didn’t matter. “Later, I returned to a proven place. Where I wouldn’t be hurt, where they wouldn’t be hurt by me. Where I was welcome. Then I got scared. That I was losing my freedom. That kindness was a trap. That on the road, instead of being here-and-now, I kept thinking of one particular moomin. So I started leaving earlier, arriving later. Told myself I needn’t return at all. But then Moomintroll would occupy every thought. And I’d give in and go back to Moominvalley—only to understand I found myself, not lost myself. Their love for me, and mine for them… it’s part of me, too. Perhaps the best part.” Snufkin tilted his head back to look at the stars. They blurred and swam, and he blinked and let out a long, slow breath. “Well. There it is. And what it will be for you… you’ll see soon enough.” “Yeah,” was all the Gunman said, and he leaned back, ever so slightly, into the shared weight. His guitar stayed silent as the star-strewn sky turned its great, soundless wheel above them. The fire was little more than a bed of pulsating coals when the Gunman finally stirred and stood. Snufkin watched him walk to the tent, but he didn’t go inside. Instead, he dragged his pack closer and rummaged in its depths. He pulled out two paper parcels and glanced back. “Moominmamma left this for you,” he said, indicating the smaller one. He gave the larger a shake. “And this, you give to her from me. Sumac. Good with fish or potatoes. Lokum for dessert.” Snufkin’s heart gave a small, cold lurch. Though he might have expected it. Mumriks were a free-ranging folk. “You won’t be delivering it yourself?” The Gunman looked up from under his hat, his grin wide and roguish. “Won’t have time. The goods need using within a month, a month and a half at most. I’ll return for sure, but later. In May, perhaps, or before Midsummer anyway. I have a… a long detour to make. You, I see, will get home fine on your own.” “And you?” Snufkin caught himself; it had sounded too sceptical. But the truth was, the Gunman’s one ‘business’ trip hadn’t gone smooth. The Gunman just shook his head. “It’s not business. I just wanted… to go back to my native place.” He seemed almost embarrassed. “Haven’t been once since… I don’t know what I want with that. Maybe to mend the connection—I still remember every bump in the road for miles around the farm. Maybe to see how it’s all changed, and lose the connection for good. Maybe…” He waved a hand, dismissing the thought, and turned away from the tent. Snufkin ducked under the flap to stow the gifts in his own pack and fish out a similar parcel. “And these are your herbs,” he announced, placing the packet on top of his brother’s pack. “Taking the tent, or travelling light?” “Light. Your path lies through mountains where it’s still proper winter. You’ll need it more. Don’t fret over me. I won’t go looking for trouble. Straight there and back.” Snufkin snorted, not hiding the irony now. He doubted very much his brother could pass by if he stumbled upon some injustice. It was a trait that inspired both admiration and a deep, gnawing worry. “At least give me the name and the proper coordinates,” Snufkin asked, dousing the fire with the last of their water. Fuel was scarce; they’d need it for breakfast. “Just in case.” The Gunman nodded. “I’ll sketch a map.” Then Snufkin wondered if the elder brother might not simply slip away before dawn, quiet, without more words. But some words, he knew, were far from unnecessary. “And… thank you. For this winter.” He held out his hand. The Gunman took it. His face in the light of the risen moon looked severe, predatory even, but it was only a trick of the shadows, beneath which lay a genuine warmth, clear in the rough timbre of his voice: “Thank you. For everything.”