Of Kin And Kindness

       The road was easier going. If he travelled alone, Snufkin would have walked straight across the gentle hills towards the foot of the plateau, threading through groves of olive and holly, breathing in the salt air that still drifted from the sea mingled with the sharp scent of herbs. But now, across open country, walking was difficult. His injured foot would not lift properly; he would stumble all the time. And the ground was stony. Falling would hurt. He did not wish to test how long Moomintroll’s bare soles could withstand the jarred edges of limestone or coquina. Those were not the smooth granite boulders of Moominvalley. But the road was fine. Especially while it lay more or less flat. Moomintroll trotted along, all cheerful, carrying the backpack with the tent and the cooking things (and other useful little items Snufkin always kept in his pack, which was why they had not been lost with the ice yacht and the food basket). And despite the load, the moomin still managed to swivel his head this way and that, constantly stepping off the road to examine a plant or a stone up close, marvelling and exclaiming, asking what bird had made that call or what flower was that, and goodness, so many green leaves! And there, along the ditch—were those actually daffodils? Imagine that! While there’s still head-deep snow in Moominvalley… And what smelled so delicious, like Mamma’s kitchen cupboard? Thyme and rosemary? So that was what they looked like in the wild! And what were those red berries? “Moomin, stop!” Snufkin called after him. “That’s holly. It’s poisonous. Better gather some rosehips, and we’ll make tea at the next rest stop… And that’s olive, but you leave it alone. It’s dried and bitter, nothing like the ones from tins at home.” Moomintroll tried the small, wrinkled fruit anyway, then spent a long time spitting and pretending to be outraged at nature’s treachery. Now it seemed funny (or stupid) how Snufkin had feared that his friend’s boundless, bouncy enthusiasm might begin to grate on him if they travelled together. Well, that still might be the case if they travelled as he had envisioned, with proper equipment, by the chosen, safe scenic routes away from the so-called civilization… Now Snufkin’s only worry was to bring Moomintroll home in one piece both in body and in mind. And while he succeeded in the first matter so far, the latter was a problem. It had pained him to see the uncomprehending disbelief in Moomintroll’s baby-blue eyes at the explanations of how the big world worked, the raw hurt at the ban on touch. At that moment, Snufkin himself had wanted so bad to hug him, hold him close and say, Everything will be alright… And once again, Moomintroll had proved tougher, more resilient than his clumsy, fluffy appearance suggested. For now it was him who invigorated Snufkin. Moomintroll had a way of being delighted and astonished that was utterly endearing, utterly sincere, and utterly contagious. Snufkin felt as though he were seeing everything for the first time again: the twisted stone pines, the papery seed pods of dry herbs, the tender green shoots of new grass pushing through, the little stone bridges over drainage ditches. He even regretted having to keep calling Moomintroll back, having to remind him to be cautious and inconspicuous whenever they encountered locals on the road—on foot, on donkeys, in carts. Once, a black automobile spattered with mud rattled past, and Snufkin was forced to manually reattach Moomintroll’s dropped jaw, because the mumrik’s tail signal had failed to elicit any response. Either that, or Snufkin hadn’t managed to give the signal properly. The imaginary tail, alas, had no sense of touch; the only way Snufkin knew he had succeeded was by Moomintroll’s flinch, or by the sudden sway of grass stems. To swing the tail, he had to think of it only in a flash. The moment he concentrated on it for even half a second, the effect vanished. Then the road began to climb, and Snufkin’s optimism waned. Uphill, his leg worked even worse. A heavy, dragging fatigue accumulated in his shin, threatening to bloom into full-blown ache by nightfall. Yes, the first-aid kit in the backpack contained pain-soothing herbs left by Moominmamma precisely for such occasions, but he did not want to use them so early in the journey. And Moomintroll was exclaiming at the views less and less often, struggling to catch his breath. When they reached a broad resting spot with a spring, some trees, and wooden benches, Snufkin called a halt. At this rate, they would not reach the plateau until the second day. “What a view!” Moomintroll cried, pointing a paw into the distance, at the grey ribbon of the sea, where the sun scattered silver patches and pathways through gaps in the clouds. “And those trees—what did you call them? Cypresses, yes! They look just like the Fillyjonk’s dusters!” Snufkin couldn’t help smiling at the comparison. To him, those trees below had always resembled the columns of a ruined ancient temple. But now this new image settled beside his own, not displacing it. Now Snufkin had twice as many landscapes, one with columns and one with dusters. Perhaps he might share his own vision, too. …Two winters ago, Joxter had invited him to these very parts, only further along the coast. He had never spoken of how he saw the world around him. And Snufkin had always thought that was as it should be, so as not to interfere with each other’s communion with the landscape. But it turned out things could be done differently. No, stop that. No need to think of Joxter. After the Dire Straits, he had certainly fled all the way to the tropics. He would not come here. Shaking his head, Snufkin wrestled with his awkwardness for a moment, then managed to tell Moomintroll about his own cypresses. Moomintroll listened attentively, glancing back and forth at the originals, then shuffled closer, took his friend’s paw, and said that he could see that picture now too, and it was very beautiful. “You too,” Snufkin couldn’t resist, not quite sure whether he was joking or serious, and ruffled the fur on Moomintroll’s snout. He realised what he was doing only when that same snout pressed against his cheek. He glanced around. No, no one was walking or riding on the visible stretches of road up the slope. But far down, where they had come from, between an outcrop and a grove, a cart had appeared for some lazy seconds. A pair of oxen, a single driver. Still a long way off, but just in case, Snufkin tapped Moomintroll’s muzzle and edged away along the bench. Then an idea came to him, and he took out his harmonica. He played for his own pleasure, softly, with pauses, and when his ear caught the squeak of wooden axles, he told Moomintroll in a low voice to be quiet and polite, and to draw in his tummy. And then the cart came into view, approaching the rest stop. Behind its high wicker sides, only a few sacks could be seen, a couple of rolls, an armful of planks… There was room. The driver, an elderly stortass, was clearly a farmer, and not a wealthy one: sunburned to the colour of black tea, the fur on his ears bleached almost white, his formal suit (complete with bow tie) worn out at the elbows and shoulders to a shine. He looked phlegmatic, not unkind. Probably. Snufkin had perhaps exaggerated yesterday when he told Moomintroll that he could tell truly good creatures from those who were only kind on the outside. He could, as a rule, but he also knew from bitter experience that perfectly decent, well-mannered individuals might decide to be kind to themselves and their kin first rather than to some strangers. Still, it was worth the risk. Leaning on his stick (no pretence required), Snufkin walked from the bench towards the road, calling to mind Moomintroll’s openness and Moominmamma’s serenity, hoping their welcoming spirit might descend upon him. “Excuse me,” he called out to the driver, and smiled. “Could you give my friend and me a lift up to the Upper Shelf? I’ve twisted my ankle, and he’s having to carry all our things on top of that… I could play my harmonica along the way, to make the journey merrier.” He did not mention money. First, many creatures' characters soured at the mention of it. Second, it was better to keep their few coins for something truly important. The stortass looked him over from hat to muddy boots, then examined Moomintroll and twitched his whiskers. Snufkin hoped his friend would have the sense to gather in his stomach right now, to look less heavy. “Hop in, pups!” the driver finally said, waving a broad, brown hand. “You’re lucky I’m nearly empty and in a good mood. What takes you up to the Table, anyway?” To get ahead of Moomintroll, Snufkin launched into a story about two foolhardy travellers who wanted to see the world while they were still young. The driver, who introduced himself as Squash, chuckled sympathetically into his whiskers and did not pry. But before Snufkin could catch his breath, Moomintroll had already buried the local in a landslide of questions about nature and weather, about cars and oxen, about markets and concerts. Squash was indeed a farmer, and could tell them little about automobiles or famous singers, but about nature and the weather he chatted with great pleasure. Snufkin listened carefully to the conversation, only occasionally glancing back at the ever-widening views of the coastal hills and villages. And he managed to give Moomintroll a furtive kick when his friend, carried away by enthusiasm, mentioned uncles and cousins and very nearly blurted out the name of the Dire Straits. To steer away from the subject, Snufkin struck up a lively dance tune on his harmonica. Then the driver asked for something sad about love, or something solemn about a homeland. In the warm weather, without stress, with pauses only to wet his throat, playing was no hardship. Time and the road unspooled without notice. The travellers ate from their own supplies on the move, and Squash, glancing at their rather monotonous rations, shared his cheese and flatbreads with them and helped them finish off the fish (which, by the second day, had begun to grow dull). They reached the plateau as the sun was tilting towards sunset. The driver stopped his oxen, but before the guys could climb down from the cart, he called out to them. There was something in his sly smile, in the crinkles around his eyes. A certain intention. Snufkin grew wary. “I’m on my way to my distant relative’s daughter’s wedding, as it happens,” Squash began. “You know how we do weddings? First day, both sides celebrate separately, at the bride’s house and the groom’s. Well, the bride’s family is all rather poor. They can’t afford a hemulen brass band. So they’ll gather whatever relatives and neighbours can play something, anything. And I’m thinking, one more musician wouldn’t go do harm. We won’t pay much, but I’ll take you as far as the village, about three leagues yonder—where are you headed, by the way? —and you’ll eat for free, and you can take leftovers for the road. Won’t promise rest, though. We celebrate properly, till the first cockcrow. But it’s only tonight. Then the families come together, and we get the groom’s band. A fancy brass one, I’m sure. So what do you say, lad?” Ah, that’s it. An understandable, pragmatic wish for a cheap deal. Still, the offer was tempting. Snufkin had played at village festivals before, and it was nothing like standing on a pavement by a station with his harmonica and practically begging for attention. At a festival, a musician was the most natural thing, and therefore almost invisible. And extra supplies wouldn’t hurt. And Moomintroll would enjoy seeing the local customs and having some fun. Just look at him, gazing at his friend with hope, the tip of his tail trembling with impatience. That was also the drawback. He might get carried away in his excitement and spill too much. Snufkin would have to find him a percussion instrument—even a pot lid would do—and keep him occupied. And the direction the stortass had waved his paw in matched their intended course more or less. “All right,” Snufkin nodded. “But then, with your permission, I’ll rest now, before a long, merry night.” “Of course, of course,” said Squash, and winked. Rest? Not likely, with Moomintroll beside him, bombarding the driver with questions about local wedding customs. The hour or so of the journey creaked past like five minutes, and soon Snufkin’s sharp ears caught the sound of voices, ragged but full of mirth, the trills and strums of strings tormented by bow and hand. The cart rolled into a small, well-trodden yard, where colourful paper lanterns had already been strung along fences and fig-tree branches. Beneath the boughs and garlands, stortasses, schnapses, whompers, and a whole host of simple peasant creatures were dancing, drinking beer from ceramic mugs, chatting, laughing. Between skirts and table legs, small mongrels and children played tag. Snufkin allowed himself to relax a fraction. The general tone of the noise was positive—no hostile, false, strained notes, the kind that surfaced in drunken crowds of creatures who successfully concealed their contempt for one another while sober. The only thing that troubled him were the darting red caps and grey, ragged tails of the mazapeguls, creatures rather like the woodies, only more mischievous. Strangely enough, in many parts of this region they were tolerated, like naughty but cute cats. And speaking of sobriety… “Don’t go too hard on the beer, or whatever’s in those mugs,” he whispered to Moomintroll, as the driver responded to the noisy, joyful greetings of acquaintances and explained whom he had brought. “Stick to water and lemonade.” Moomintroll nodded vehemently, but his gaze (and thoughts) was already in the crowd. Snufkin had no chance to give any further instructions. They were already being greeted from all sides, pulled through the cheerful crowd towards the tables and braziers. Having left Moomintroll safely neutralised—that is, with his mouth full of fresh flatbread—Snufkin, himself snatching a hunk of bread and a fig as he went, darted over to the shed where Squash had taken the oxen and cart, and tossed a layer of straw over the backpack. Above him, on a beam beneath the rafters, three pairs of cunning little eyes gleamed. Mazapeguls. He smiled. His dealings with the woodies in Moominvalley had brought him some kid-handling experience, and he was good with animals too—and these were two in one. “Hello, you imps,” he called softly to the small creatures, unbuttoning his backpack. “I’ve got an important job for you. Guard our things until the end of the party, and you’ll get a foreign coin.” He shook his still-damp mitten with the fountain loot. Last night, Snufkin had noticed that some of the coins were different in shape and design from the local currency. Likely tossed into the fountain by tourists from other countries. Then he put the mitten to inside his smock. After a moment’s thought, he tucked the little bag of fishing tackle in there too; the creatures would surely rummage through the guests' belongings, and he didn’t want them cutting themselves on the fishing hooks. That they would rummage, he had no doubt, but the promise of a reward, and being treated as equals in a business transaction, should keep the mazapeguls from outright theft. The eyes on the beam winked and narrowed in content; the furry cat-like heads nodded; white teeth flashed in giggling mouths. The deal was struck. Snufkin left his stick there, too. No need walking, he’d just sit on a barrel near a makeshift stage out of a cart he had glimpsed on the way to the barn, and even if he’d have to make a step or two for another gulp of water, the ground was level. The wedding party had found its rhythm by the time the first stars pricked through the dusk. Snufkin had fallen into a comfortable groove with the two local musicians, a fiddler whomper with a remarkably red nose and a cow-horned beast with a tiny guitar. Their ears were only so-so, and they tended to rush the tempo when excited, but Snufkin had long ago learned to adapt. Many melodies were familiar to him, and the others were simple and easy to guess by the harmony. There was also a young mymble guy playing maracas with more enthusiasm than skill, but he had surrendered his instruments to Moomintroll with visible relief and disappeared into the whirling mass of dancers. Moomintroll, for his part, shook and rattled with tremendous gusto, with a grin of pure delight, his tail keeping a rhythm of its own like another, if silent, rattle. Snufkin watched him from the corner of his eye, ready to intervene, but there was no need. Moomintroll stayed close, and his joy was so utterly uncomplicated that Snufkin felt something loosen in his chest. Not for long, though. Amidst one merry dance, Moomintroll mingling in the crowd got carried to Snufkin and used the moment to shout, “Hey, that’s fun like at home!” Oh no. Snufkin wanted to retort, don’t forget this is Not Moominvalley! But he was in the middle of a long musical phrase, and by the time he could set the harmonica down Moomintroll was already washed away by a reel stream. By midnight, the dancing had slowed. The frantic reels gave way to swaying ballads, and the volume dropped to something almost intimate. Snufkin was letting a sound die out when a heavy paw landed on his shoulder. He turned to find an old sniff, swaying dangerously, his nose red, eyes unfocused. “The saddest one,” the creature slurred, his breath thick with beer. “Play the saddest song you know. For my daughter. Her last night.” He waved a trembling paw towards the corner of the yard, where a canopy had been draped with white cloth and paper flowers. Moomintroll, who had edged closer, tugged at Snufkin’s sleeve. “Her last night? Her last what? Is she ill? Can we do something?” Snufkin stopped playing to explain the old metaphor about the bride’s last night as a daughter of her father’s house, the threshold between childhood and a new life, but the sniff pushed him into the back towards the canopy, and Moomintroll was left behind, weighed down by the drunk sniff and furrowing his brow in worry. Snufkin settled right onto the carpeted ground under the canopy edge, harmonica warm against his palm, and began to play. He chose the saddest songs he knew; old laments from the northern coasts, tunes that had been carried across mountains by refugees, wordless melodies that seemed to speak of leaving and never coming back. The bride’s maids, a cluster of young sniffs and whompers and a solitary hemulen, swayed gently, their eyes half-closed. Yet they didn’t forget to nip the dried fruit from a large copper plate or add barley coffee to the tiny painted cups. And also didn’t forget to give the musician a minute of rest now and then and offer him a cup. The coffee substitute was spiked with some liquor, but not enough to refuse it. But the bride herself, a delicate, pretty sniff girl with large dark eyes and petal-like ears, stayed stiff and still and upright. She didn’t as much as sob, just never lifted her stare up from her paws clutching at a white lace handkerchief on her lap. Only her fawn fingers would twitch now and then. The bridesmaids were trying to console her nevertheless, their voices a soft chorus of reassurance. “Don’t cry, dear, it’s a fine match,” the hemulen girl murmured, stroking the bride’s velvety palm. “The groom has money, lot of. And a name, good one,” added another, a wiry schnaps whose voice carried a note of envy. “And even if he is older,” chimed a third, with a practicality that made Snufkin’s fingers falter on the harmonica, “that only means he’ll kick the bucket sooner. You’ll be a wealthy widow before you’re middle-aged.” The bride made a ghostly nod but not a sound. Snufkin continued playing, his eyes fixed on the pattern of shadows cast by the lanterns. He understood now. This was a marriage of convenience, a transaction dressed in white lace and paper flowers. The girl’s daze was not the sentimental grief of a daughter leaving home. It was the raw, helpless sorrow of someone being sold. He played on, the music becoming something else now, not just sad, but defiant, a quiet protest in notes. And in the back of his mind, a small worry was growing and gnawing. He hadn’t heard the maracas for a while. He couldn’t look around without drawing attention. Where had Moomintroll gone? The bridesmaids finally succumbed to exhaustion as the night wore on. One escaped into the night shades where someone waved to her. Another wedding might be not far away. Or not. The others, one by one, drooped, their soft songs fading into silence. The hemulen girl reached up and drew the canopy curtains closed, sealing the bride and her attendants in a dim, private cocoon. Snufkin lowered his harmonica, licked his lips, and slipped away. He scanned the yard for Moomintroll, for that familiar white fur, that broad, earnest shape, but the crowd was dense and the lantern light treacherous. Then he tried a less comfortable method. He asked people. But they were mostly at the stage of a party when everything beside a dance partner and a tankard was irrelevant. Just the good old Squash hiccupped and said that Moomintroll had taken up a very important mission, to listen to the drunk snivel of the bride’s father, so now both should be closer to the pantry with the stock of beer. Finally Snufkin found Moomintroll behind the bride’s canopy, crouched low, his paw reaching for the curtain. His frowning muzzle was set in desperate determination. Snufkin caught his wrist and pulled him back into the shadows. “We have to help her,” Moomintroll whispered, his voice cracking and smelling of something stronger than lemonade. Of course, he wouldn’t have been able to refuse an offering of hospitality. “She doesn’t want this. Marriage without love—it’s wrong, Snufkin. It’s just wrong.” Snufkin tightened his grip on his friend’s paw. “We can’t,” he said, his voice low and hard. “We’re strangers here. We have no standing, no influence. We’d only end up in trouble ourselves.” He paused, searching for words that would reach through Moomintroll’s anguish, but his friend was always faster with talking. “What has happened to you? You were always helping birds and small beasts… even the Fire Spirits! Why not her?” “I can’t! And no one can, because—look around: no guards, no fences, no dogs. She’s kept by herself only, her debt to her family. Inner chains can’t be broken from outside.” Moomintroll’s face crumpled. “Love can happen without marriage,” Snufkin whispered running a thumb over the white paw. “So marriage without love also happens. It’s not fair. It’s not right. But it’s the world we’re in.” The curtain parted. The bride’s muzzle appeared, dark against the white lace of veil, her eyes fixed on Moomintroll. “Hush,” she said softly. “You’d wake the other girls. And,” her paw rested on Moomintroll’s snout, “your friend is right all around. I wouldn’t flee my debt even if there were my sweetheart waiting for me on a horse beyond the fence. And there isn’t. Now stop talking about salvation; it only hurts more.” The curtain fell again. Snufkin watched Moomintroll wilt and hated it—hated the unfairness, the collision of his friend’s pure heart with a world that didn’t deserve it. But just as the girl had said, sometimes nothing could be done. “It’s not her fault, it’s her pappa’s!” Moomintroll whimpered as Snufkin was pulling him away. “He said it himself, he was losing money for drinks and card games, so why should she—” “Because they are one family, one blood,” Snufkin replied grimly. “So what? You mean,” Moomintroll gasped, “even if you knew Joxter betrayed you you’d still cover up for him?” Snufkin tripped. The question caught him at unawares; memories flashed and singed—signs picked in the dark, power station erupting in flames, sentry’s paws twitching in the booth, the shots and pain and fall, the trial, the true meaning of the signs falling onto him like a brick wall, the dark cell and despair… He didn’t like to think about what-if’s, but his friend’s silence was waiting. “I don’t know”. That was the sincerest answer he had. *** The sky was day-bright by the time the brass sounds approached from the village centre—the wail of trumpets and the throaty groan of trombones, heralding the promised Hemulen band. At last. Black tunics, peaked caps with cockades, rows of brass buttons… Snufkin felt a familiar shudder run through him at the sight of any uniform, whether police, park keepers, or even musicians. A baritone voice, almost professionally trained, began to sing praises to the bride and groom from beyond the gate. An answering chorus rose from the yard, less polished, but no less heartfelt, with no shortage of lung-power. Snufkin had to call out aloud for Moomintroll to follow him. They needed to find Squash, collect the promised provisions, and, if they were lucky, a handful of small change. And it would be best to keep his friend away from temptation, lest Moomintroll, catching sight of the groom, throw himself forward to beg him not to go through with it, and earn a cuff from both sides for his trouble. Squash was found in the shed, snoring hard beneath his cart. The backpack was on the cart, still under the straw where Snufkin had left it. Its straps were askew, but nothing of importance like the hatchet, the first aid kit, or kitchenware, was missing. Snufkin retrieved an eight-edged silvery coin with a square hole in the middle and tossed it up. A scrawny paw darted from the beam and snatched the pay. Moomintroll watched the settlement in lukewarm wonder, glancing back wistfully at the yard where two crowds, dressed differently, but equally unsteady on their feet, were lining up opposite each other. Snufkin hoped the road and the mountain views would help his friend recover his spirits. Or recover from hangover, if that was the case. Just then, Squash blinked himself awake. Snufkin had half-feared the thrifty farmer might play the old game of “We had an agreement? When? I don’t recall” But the stortass was as good as his word. He handed them over to the women busy at the outdoor oven, then hurried off to join the procession. The old women greeted Moomintroll like a long-lost relative—it turned out he had helped them haul water and chop wood during the night—and at once packed a whole sack of provisions for the travellers: dried apricots and figs, dates and raisins, stone-hard and stone-bland flatbreads, parcels of cheese and ham, a stack of cold pies with all manner of fillings, a box of powdered barley coffee, a flask of lemonade… And a handful of salt wrapped in cloth, at Snufkin’s request. He even wondered whether Moomintroll could carry it all, and set aside a portion in a canvas bag of his own. Goodness, he had never been treated so generously on his own travels. Moomintroll had a gift for winning over the most unlikely creatures. Snufkin would have to tell him later that he was a useful companion, not a burden. His heart ached to watch Moomintroll standing there in silence, letting out heavy sighs. Even one of the women, a dryad, brown and wrinkled as an old oak, took it upon herself to console him, telling him not to fret so over her granddaughter. “It’ll be all right,” she said, patting his paw. “She’ll get used to him in time. My own daughter married for love, and what good did that do her? A pack of troubles and a sack of woe!” No. They had to leave. Now. Before, Snufkin had considered staying to rest in the shed, but he changed his mind entirely. He was on the verge of tugging Moomintroll’s sleeve when a smug, self-satisfied bass voice rumbled behind them. “Well, then, ladies, how about that fresh bread from the oven?” “Right away, signor brigadier,” the nearest old misa shrivelled up and scurried towards the oven. Snufkin tensed but forced himself not to turn around. He suppressed the urge to bolt. Perhaps it’s just the bandmaster. Move slowly. Casually. “Hey, you! Tramp! Turn around!” It was clearly aimed at him. A broad shadow from this “signor” blocked the passage between the table, the veranda and the oven. But if necessary, he could roll under the table and escape over the low wicker fence into the olive grove, fast enough even limping. Only… Moomintroll wouldn’t think of that. He’d hesitate, or worse, wouldn’t run at all. Snufkin arranged his face into the blandest expression he could manage, and turned. A blue tunic. Silver metal. And coats of arms everywhere—on the buttons, the buckles, the cockade, the shoulder boards. Not a trombone of a hemulen band (and not a hemulen at all, but a fillyjonk). Not a fireman’s ladder or hook. Scales and sword. Police. The local name for them, he recalled, was gendarmerie. As the gendarme officer loomed over him, bristling his walrus whiskers, Snufkin had a fleeting thought he should invent another signal for Moomintroll, drop everything and run. “Wouldn’t happen to be a human, would you?” the policeman demanded, his voice a low growl. What? That was a new one. Snufkin knew he could pass for a human kid, but to have it thrown at him as an accusation… “Nothing of the sort!” Moomintroll snapped out of his melancholy and rushed to defend him. Snufkin tried to whip his tail to stop him, to signal him to shut up, but he failed. He couldn’t focus enough to make it work. “He’s a mumrik, and he hasn’t done anything wrong!” By the groke’s teeth. That was not help. The officer’s broad paw was already closing around Snufkin’s wrist. Snufkin’s hand twitched. A hot, sharp urge to swipe, to let his claws out and send the officer staggering back. He felt the prick of them at his fingertips, the already familiar tension in his knuckles. In panic, he went limp. He would not be that creature. He would not be the feral beast that answered every threat with a slash. Not here. Not in front of Moomintroll. The officer blew his whistle. A shrill, cutting blast that sliced through the morning air. Moomintroll lunged forward, his paws prying at the officer’s grip, his voice rising in frantic protest. “Please, this is some mistake! He’s done nothing wrong, I swear it!” But the grip only tightened, and soon two lower-ranked gendarmes appeared, their buttons smaller, their schnaps muzzles younger. Guests began to gather, curious and wary. Squash pushed through the crowd, his brow furrowed. “What’s the matter, signor brigadier?” he asked with a flicker of protest, but his mien was timid, his shoulders hunched. Snufkin’s stomach sank. He could see it in the farmer’s posture, in the way the other villagers hung back, their eyes flickering between the officer and the ground. They would not turn against the police for the sake of two vagabonds. They had their own skins to think of, their own debts, their own place in this world. No help was coming. The officer jabbed a thick finger at his chest. “Checking,” he announced, his voice carrying across the yard. “what sort of suspicious scum you’re harbouring here.” He gestured to one of the younger gendarmes. “Run to the station. Bring all bulletins on mumriks. I want to see if this one matches any of them.” He turned to the crowd, his tone brightening to something almost jovial. “You good people continue our celebrations. The brave gendarmerie is vigilant on your behalf.” Most of the bystanders, with murmurs and nervous glances, drifted back towards the yard. Through the gate, Snufkin could see the groom, a short, balding creature, leading the stiff bride out of the house. His furless pink tail trailed on the dust between the flaps of his black tailcoat. The bride stepped slow and careful, her own fawn tail lifted at the well-mannered mitre angle. Moomintroll saw her too, and his voice cracked as he turned to the officer. “But I thought police is supposed to use, how was that… presumption of innocence! We’re just travellers, we’ve done nothing—” The officer cut him off with a wave of his paw. “Search their belongings. For stolen goods.” The second gendarme fell to his knees beside the backpack and canvas bag. He rummaged through the provisions, the tent, the pot, the matches. Nothing criminal emerged. The officer’s moustache twitched with displeasure. Then a shadow moved above them. A mazapegul hung down on its tail from the veranda grill right by the officer’s ear, its tiny paws cupping its mouth to cover a whisper. Moomintroll gasped. “Hey, how could you—” He turned to Snufkin, his eyes wide with betrayal. Snufkin only clenched his teeth. Of course. It wasn’t even a betrayal; his deal with the critter had ended, and the mazapegul did not owe them anything and definitely not keeping their secrets. Yet nothing would happen if the gendarme officer didn’t appear, didn’t take interest in him, didn’t create an opportunity for the mazapegul to earn one more coin. The temptation had been too great for that small mind. Just bad luck, Snufkin thought as the officer’s paw reached inside his smock and closed around the mitten, then drew it out slowly, letting it dangle, letting the coins tinkle against each other. The officer smirked and tipped it over on the table. Dull copper scattered across the wood without as much as a wink in the first rays of sun. The women snickered furtively at the miserable scatter of riches. “What, did the kid rob a cat?” the dryad muttered under her breath, just loud enough to carry. Squash stepped closer, peering at the coins. He picked one up, turned it over. “These aren’t ours,” he said slowly. “And they’re all covered in ooze.” He squinted. “Bet they come from the Port fountain!” A ripple of laughter spread through the remaining onlookers. The officer’s face darkened. He shook Snufkin’s wrist, demanding an answer. Naturally, Moomintroll hurried forward. “It was me! I fished them out of the fountain!” Snufkin shot him a fierce, warning look, wanted to shout, It’s better if only one of us is caught, you fool! but Moomintroll didn’t seem to understand. Telepathy was a myth. Squash, however, burst out laughing. A broad, warm, wheezing laugh that seemed to take the wind out of the officer’s bluster. “Then all the village should be arrested, signor inlaw-in-five-minutes! Including you, I daresay. Every youngster in these parts has fished a coin or two from the Port fountain as a rite of passage. You bragged your own catch, like, for a week when we were but green twigs!” The officer’s whiskers bristled. He looked confused and, therefore, glared around and at the suspects twice as angry. Just then, the gendarme who had been sent for the bulletins returned, a sheaf of papers stuck under his sash. He laid them on the table. Snufkin’s blood went cold. “What do we have here.” The officer muttered. “Mumrik Snufkin, young adult, height… hair ginger blonde… Mumrik Joxter, elderly… wow, terrorism, sabotage, manslaughter…” He still held Snufkin’s wrist, so the mumrik could see the papers as well. And there, in grainy ink, was a photo reprint. It was him, from the trial most probably—hatless, with a different scarf, his face stunned and worn, hollow-eyed from shock and injury. It looked less like him than like a ghost of him. “You see?” Moomintroll chimed in, his voice trembling but determined. “My friend’s name is Nuuska. Not… whatever that says.” The officer squinted at the photograph, then at Snufkin, then back at the photograph. Of course he couldn’t dismiss some resemblance. Squash stepped forward again, his voice easy. “All creatures of the same species look alike. You know that. Why don’t you let the lads go? They’ve done no harm. And if you hurry, you might still catch the wedding procession before the wine runs dry.” He winked. The officer’s paw darted to the last bulletin—a final hope, a last resort. He released Snufkin’s wrist with a shove, his eyes scanning the paper. “What’s this?” he muttered. His subordinate piped up from behind. “It arrived last week, signor. No one had time to brief you yet.” The page had a generic mumrik drawing, not a photograph. The word robbery. And there, unmistakable, the name—Snufkin. What? How? His heart lurched, but he forced his face to stay blank. “Marble Valley,” the officer read aloud, his brow furrowing. “That’s days' travel from here.” He narrowed his eyes, looking from the paper to Snufkin. “You’d manage to get here from there straight, but around the Dallydale… No. All right. This can’t be you, rascal. Now vanish before I change my mind.” He shoved Snufkin away with a dismissive grunt. “All you mumriks are thieves and spoilers. No better than stray cats.” He turned to leave. Squash stepped forward. “Signor almost-inlaw! A word. What about compensation for these decent people wrongly accused?” He spread his paws, his voice carrying to the lingering guests. “Injustice and meanness on a wedding day, thatsa bad omen, isn’t it? But generosity, magnanimity are good omens. Don’t you wish a good marriage for your friend?” Snufkin opened his mouth to refuse, but the women had already taken up the cry. They were washing their hands, pulling off their aprons, their voices rising in a chorus of agreement. “Yes! A gift to the musicians! A good omen for the couple!” The officer glared at Snufkin—a long, hard glare that held nothing but hatred. Then a slow smirk spread across his face, boding no good. He reached into his wallet and drew out a crisp, mint-fresh banknote. A large one. Snufkin’s stomach dropped. Market sellers would never have change. Small shops would refuse it, fearing a fake. Big stores would suspect it was stolen. It was a trap, a poisoned gift. But to refuse a good-omen gift in front of the wedding guests would not be looked upon kindly, too. He took the note and tucked it under his smock, next to the small coins he had already gathered back. His face remained calm, neutral, grateful. “Thank you, signor brigadier,” he said, his voice steady, then looked around at the hosts. “And thank you all for your hospitality.” He turned to Moomintroll, who was beaming, oblivious, thanking the officer with genuine earnestness. Snufkin picked up his walking stick, gave a small, sharp nod towards the gates and headed in the opposite direction from the procession. He spotted a hill in the distance, thick with dark juniper bushes, and angled slightly away from it to confuse any tracks, just in case. He’d prefer to put longer distance between him and any settlement, but Moomintroll was too tired and not used to staying on his feet for a couple of days; he was already yawning and stooping. Moomintroll followed obediently, step for step. And said nothing. The silence that Snufkin usually cherished now pressed down on him like a weight. “Next time, don’t mention that I’m a mumrik, all right? You saw for yourself what sort of reputation we have,” he said, breaking the unbearable quiet. “I’m not blaming you. It’s my fault for not warning you in time.” Moomintroll gave a small, noncommittal hum and fell silent again. Only when the last distant bursts of voices and the wail of brass had faded completely did he speak, his voice quiet but edged with desperation. “Do you think… is there even the faintest chance that things will turn out well for her?” Oh. Poor, kind, tender-hearted Moomintroll. Snufkin would have given anything to spare his friend this lesson, the need to walk past another’s misfortune, to clench his fists and swallow injustice because sometimes there was no good way out. Even if it looked like betrayal from the outside. “Of course there is. Anything can happen in life.” It didn’t sound very convincing, even to his own ears. But he had no other answer. Again. “You asked before whether I would defend the Joxter, knowing he would abandon me…” Snufkin began again, a little later, as he turned towards the hill he had chosen. “I wish I could say yes. Could be the one who always does the right thing, regardless of the circumstances. But… I don’t know. Most likely, no. It hurts too much to be left behind. To pay the price for someone who doesn’t care about me.” He swallowed, gathering his courage. It was easy to be wise and kind in Moominvalley. He was afraid to show Moomintroll the side of himself that belonged to the outside world—the evasiveness, the readiness to compromise. The very things he shared with Joxter. He was… right, he was afraid that Moomintroll would be disappointed. But he didn’t want to lie. “I’m not as pure and brave as you. I can’t treat everyone equally well.” “That’s not true,” Moomintroll replied, barely above his breath. “I’m not brave, I’m stupid. I don’t know anything about the real world. You, on the other hand, have been facing all of this"—he waved a paw vaguely towards the village—"your whole life, and still you give people a chance. You trust. You trusted me. You trusted your father. Even when you might be wrong.” “With you, I wasn’t wrong.” Snufkin felt a smile tug at his lips despite the lump in his throat. “And you’re not stupid. Just far too naive. Though sometimes that’s not a bad thing.” He added, daring to meet his friend’s eyes, “And I will always protect you.” “I know.” Moomintroll smiled too, a clear, open smile that always sent a shiver down Snufkin’s spine. He reached out, and a soft white paw closed around his hand. Walking with their hands clasped along the narrow goat track through the juniper bushes was awkward, but they did not let go until they emerged into a clearing large enough for the tent, and even then, Snufkin didn’t take away his hand for a good minute. And as he pitched the tent, Snufkin suddenly thought that today Moomintroll had certainly earned—indeed, they both had earned—the right to hide in each other’s arms for at least half an hour, to share trust and hope between them. And pleasure too, why deny it. Today he had managed to keep his claws in check, and he was not afraid (almost) to be himself. But when he had given the grove one final scan for dangers and crawled into the tent, he found Moomintroll already asleep, curled into a tight ball and snoring softly. The poor dear was worn out. Snufkin covered him with the blanket, pecked him on the nose, and settled beside him, resting his head on the warm, gently rising flank. His head was still humming in tune with the soft rain staring outside. Police, narrow escape, cursed gift, Moomintroll’s sorrow… Oh, right, and some stranger misusing Snufkin’s name somewhere in the east. Or was it a stranger? What if… Good thing their path lies in other direction… Must wake in about three hours, cover another five or seven miles before darkness today.