"...that is all ye need to know"

       The day had turned out glorious: warm, clear, and full of promise. The almost-spring scents of flowers still lingered in the air, the sun was only just approaching its zenith, and thoughts of autumn were far, far away… Though it wouldn’t hurt if mushroom and berry season arrived a little sooner. Snufkin had come across a couple of early champignons at dawn, had thinned a patch of sorrel the week before, and morels and wild garlic were long gone. The honeysuckle by the marsh south of the beach should be ripening soon; he might wander over there, feed the mosquitoes while he was at it… Fishing, however, remained a hobby that contributed nothing to his dinner. The fish seemed to see right through him, even through the water, and gave the impostor a wide berth. Still, for a traveller, fasting was nothing unusual. Snufkin did not complain. He sat in his usual spot, right by the bank, on a comfortable log. The water here was calm, dark green near the shore, bluer in the depths, with a slow, almost lazy current. Snufkin loved to watch the sunlight playing on the sandy bottom, the little fish (the larger ones did indeed avoid him) bustling among the reeds. It was better this way, really. He could leave his rod untended, take up his guitar, and idly strum. In moments like these, the world became simple and comprehensible: here was the river, here the sky, here he himself—a tiny point between them. No questions, no answers. Just existence. Fish or no fish, Moominvalley remained a quiet paradise on the earth, where a solitary wanderer could find peace or a measure of selfless companionship, trust, affection, quite unlike the usual run of things… He had been aware of approaching footsteps on the road for some time, but only grew alert when the stroller turned from the road towards the riverbank through the meadow. Soon the rustle of grass was accompanied by laboured breathing, and a shadow fell upon the water: someone had reached the top of the rise by the river. The shadow’s shape was distorted by sun-glints and ripples, and Snufkin turned, though he already guessed whom he would see. The Police Inspector, surname Hemul. No relation to Moominpappa’s old friend, the elderly collector Hemulen, and not actually a hemulen either, when it came down to it. His nose was small, like a mymble’s (or a mumrik’s), beneath it a thick, almost walrus-like moustache, and his bare feet bore long toes, like a stortass'. Upon these paws he now shifted uneasily, either hesitant to descend to the water or afraid of stepping on something important like a daisy, an ant, or his own shadow. “Er, good afternoon, Snufkin,” he managed, having gathered his courage, though without his usual official tone. “I was, er, planning a picnic—no work on, after all—and I invited Miss Mymble, and, well… She couldn’t make it, urgent business, Little My has caused some mess again, you know how she is. And I’d prepared snacks for two, so I thought, can’t let good food go to waste… And I can’t possibly eat all this myself, so I thought, you’re usually sitting here, perhaps you wouldn’t mind joining me… What do you say?” What could Snufkin say? His relations with the police were generally complicated, but here Moominvalley proved yet another exception. He’d had only one run-in with the Inspector, and that had ended with a warning (yes, and also a petition to have the vagrant expelled from the valley, but that had been Snork’s initiative, not the Inspector’s). It was all rather suspicious, and the story about the cancelled date with the Mymble sounded like a made-up excuse… An excuse for what? Well, if the Inspector had an unpleasant surprise up his sleeve, it made little difference when it came. Better to find out now, away from the settlement, with no witnesses. So that, if necessary, he might have time to see Moomin before leaving the valley. And there were snacks, besides. Unpleasantness was best faced on a full stomach. “Certainly, Inspector, I won’t refuse.” Leaving his rod by the log (it wouldn’t catch anything anyway), but taking his guitar, Snufkin climbed the rise to join the Inspector. The view was pleasanter here for a picnic, the ground less damp, and a light breeze kept the midges at bay. The Inspector spread an enormous checked cloth over the daisies and meadow-grass and began unloading his basket: forks and spoons, metal cups, stacks of sandwiches, bowls of vegetable and fruit salads, biscuits, a thermos of tea, lemonade, and even a bottle of white wine. He hadn’t been lying about the date with the Mymble; the assortment was altogether too ladylike. Unless… unless the Inspector was making advances to Snufkin himself? No, that was most unlikely. High above the meadow, a kestrel circled, scanning for prey. A hunter too, only more honest. It didn’t conceal its intentions behind baskets of food. Snufkin raised his glass of lemonade (he was determined to maintain proper alcohol progression) to the fine weather and fell upon the salads and ham-and-cheese sandwiches with relish. The bread was fresh and soft, the ham thinly sliced, with melting rivulets of fat. If he moved on to wine, it would not be on an empty stomach. He had no intention of lowering his guard. Now he had only to wait for the Inspector to get to the main course, that is, the main conversation. But as expected, the Inspector first ran through the usual topics: weather, harvest, valley gossip, shared memories. Snufkin carefully selected vague phrases that might pass for his own recollections. He was a good poker player; he could keep a straight face under any circumstances. Unlike the Inspector, whose nervousness increased by the minute. By the time they reached the wine, the policeman actually had to pause and breathe before he could manage his speech. “The thing is,” he raised his glass to Snufkin in a salute, “we’ve known you for, let me count… right, for three years now, and we’re always glad to see you… Well, at first not everyone was glad, I’ll admit, there were incidents of distrust, wild accusations, and I arrested you twice, both times quite unjustly…” He was clearly uncomfortable, but had the fortitude to meet his companion’s gaze. Snufkin waved a dismissive hand—all in the past, no hard feelings. All the more so as he knew nothing of these incidents. “Exactly, you’ve always been so forgiving and noble towards those who wronged you. I apologise again.” And the Inspector drained his glass in one gulp, only then realising he had proposed no toast, and turned as red as a tomato. Snufkin refilled his glass and himself raised a toast to Moominvalley. After the second glass, the Inspector relaxed somewhat, but not entirely. “Now, where was I?” His voice had grown quite constricted. “Yes… I wanted to talk to you, Snufkin. Privately, nothing official. No accusations—I’ve had enough of making a fool of myself in the past. You’ve never done anyone any harm. Quite the opposite. And I suspect often we haven’t even been aware whom to thank for some happy deliverance.” He was looking directly at Snufkin again, causing increasing unease. “Something tells me it wasn’t the Holy Spirit who shot at the robbers attacking Moominvalley’s first train, and certainly not me or Moominpappa.” More references to events in which Snufkin had played no part. Never mind; he had enough vague suspicions to fashion an equally vague, evasive reply. “Well, if someone wanted their help to remain anonymous, then that’s how they prefer it, and they don’t need medals from grateful residents.” Given the context, averting his gaze would be perfectly appropriate. A tiny bronze-green fly was circling the crumbs on his lap, pursued by an equally bronze dragonfly that kept missing its mark. Snufkin waved a hand, and both vanished as if blown away. “Yes, yes, of course,” the Inspector agreed in haste. “Only there’s something that… well, not exactly disturbs or alarms me. Just… just some observations. Ah, where do I begin…” “Begin at the beginning,” Snufkin advised, in an impeccably pleasant, calm tone. No, this wasn’t courtship. This conversation was taking a far more… dangerous turn. What would the usual Snufkin do, the one who had returned to Moominvalley for four years running and knew all about train robberies, shadow sales, moon landings, and dozens of other strange occurrences? He’d gaze into the distance, admiring the patchwork meadows, the golden sun-ripples on the river, the blue waves of hills in the distance, the blue speck of Moominhouse on one of them. So he must gaze. And listen. “To begin with, hmm…” The Inspector wiped his moustache on his sleeve, twirled a biscuit in his fingers, then set it down again. “To begin with, I noticed nothing strange. Our Snufkin has grown a bit over the winter: used to come up to my nose, now looks me almost in the eye. And he has stopped shaving his head bald, grown himself some hair. Probably fallen in love somewhere down south, I thought, trying to look more presentable. And if he’s become a little more talkative and polite, well, that was because he’s grown used to us, thawed, forgiven us country folk our suspicion of strangers… People’s tastes change, too: once you detest garlic, and now you tuck into Moominpappa’s birthday stew with garlic, or garlic-butter toast,” he pointed at the aforementioned toast and the half-empty dish of savoury and totally delicious butter, “without turning a hair.” The taste of garlic on Snufkin’s tongue stabbed into his consciousness like a fish-hook. By the Hobgoblin’s socks, you never knew what triviality would trip you up! Though apparently it wasn’t the garlic that had been the last straw. “But when last winter,” the Inspector went on, “I mentioned the preparations for the children’s Christmas party, you asked whether the chimneys at Moominhouse or the Snorks' manor might be too narrow for the Santa Claus, or whether he’d come through the door. Though you knew perfectly well that our regular Santa, the burglar Victor Gambalta, is a short, scrawny nibling, just the right size for the church chimney, and he gives out presents in person at the communal party in the church. Every year he begs special leave from prison just for that. The first time, you yourself kept an eye on him to make sure he didn’t escape, and that he came down the chimney with the gifts.” Snufkin went cold. So that was it. In every country he had visited, Santas were usually fathers in disguise, serving their own homes. How was he to know about Moominvalley’s peculiar arrangements? And what was he to do? He took a gulp of wine, tasting nothing, feeling no effect. First he’d hear the Inspector out. Perhaps the fellow would devise a neat, logical explanation for the inconsistencies all by himself. “And then I began to think. All hibernation long I thought and thought in my sleep, and when I put all the facts together, all the inconsistencies… But it was only a suspicion, without proof. And as soon as I woke in spring, I borrowed Hemulen’s album of birthday greetings from the valley residents for his anniversary last year—you’d signed it too—and I took that old letter of yours, thanking us for the season spent in the valley. At first, you never said goodbye in person, you were leaving letters.” Letters! Snufkin’s composure was tested to its limits; only sheer will prevented any sign of alarm. “And the handwriting was different,” the Inspector concluded softly, almost like an apology. “So I sent inquiries to Central Headquarters, just in case. No one matching your description was wanted.” Snufkin allowed himself a fraction of relief. He usually travelled far from these parts and took care to leave no traces; if there was a file on him anywhere, it would be with some other central headquarters, some federal bureau. Well, it would be interesting to hear about the other one… “Nothing on the other description either. And then I remembered how, about a couple of years ago Snork, Moominpappa, and I were foolish enough to try prospecting for gold on Jasmine Hill, and this most villainous-looking stranger appeared…” Snufkin remembered instantly. The night, the campfire, another wanderer with a rifle across his knees. Villainous-looking, indeed. “He threatened that we’d lose the valley if we didn’t stop… Only later did we realise it was a warning, not a threat, for he did us no actual harm. But the real bandits soon destroyed half the valley, took hostages, and would certainly have taken all our land if that same stranger hadn’t disarmed them. And he also returned our land deeds. Not for reward, not even for thanks. I had my suspicions about him…” The Inspector squinted at Snufkin, paused, but receiving neither word nor movement, continued. “And when I sent his description to the HQ, they reported that in the southern district a similar man had often turned in criminals, dead or alive, for bounties, but hadn’t surfaced at all in the last year.” The summer afternoon dimmed around Snufkin; the green hills vanished, the mountain haze, Moominhouse. Memory’s cold hands gripped his heart and throat. Another land, other hills, yellow and dry, another haze, dusty brown, a red neckerchief in the dust, red stains on an ochre coat. “…And naturally, I ask myself: whom do I see before me? … Hey, are you alright?” The Inspector peered anxiously at his face. “You’ve gone pale…” His words reached Snufkin as through layers of cotton wool. Snufkin forced himself to breathe, forced himself to feel the stiff and tender stems and leaves beneath his fingers, to hear the orchestra of the flowering meadow, all its chirring and chirping, and the scent of crushed grass. “I’m fine,” he managed. His voice came out hoarse, like a stranger’s. “Just… the wine, I expect. Dizzy spell.” The Inspector patted his shoulder, poured tea for them both from the thermos, extended a steaming cup. “You must understand, I’m making no accusations, let alone charges. All the valley folk have seen only good from you, both then and now. But I’m responsible for safety and order in Moominvalley. I need to know the truth. If only to satisfy myself that nothing terrible has happened or will happen. Let’s take it step by step: who are you? What is your name?” Snufkin sat up straight, shook his head, declining the tea. The last thing he needed was to spill hot tea in his lap; his attention was elsewhere. His head spun with the effort of thought. No accusations, then? There might still be a way to set things right, to preserve… Memory still flickered with the mud-brick walls of another, distant settlement, thick white dust, the thunder of gunfire… Yes. Yes, there was a way. “My name is Snufkin,” he said, and when the Inspector started in astonishment and frowned, he added: “His too. You should thank our common father for that; he wandered the world, sired children everywhere, and was too lazy to give them all different names. We’re all wanderers, like him. Only we see the purpose of wandering differently. We don’t just seek new landscapes and sensations. We try to make the world a little better. Heal a bat’s broken wing. Make a child laugh. Find a rare medicinal herb. Little good deeds like that, we manage alone, each on his own. But sometimes we encounter real evil, evil that can only be overcome together. Corrupt officials, merchants who’d do anything for profit, dim-witted, vain rulers. Gangsters, finally. That winter, seven of us gathered to fight off the bandits ravaging a village far away in the southern mountains.” The words flowed more freely now, gathering detail, weaving into a coherent picture, and as the Inspector sank into the story, Snufkin, conversely, rose to the surface, distanced himself. Returned to his element. “To show how to fight a dozen armed cut-throats with whatever came to hand, to raise the villagers' spirits so they could manage without them thereafter. Only one of us knew how to handle firearms—yes, that Snufkin, the one you knew first. And he excelled at it, I must say. The rest of us relied on stealth, traps, minor sabotage. Pits, nets, tripwires, doctored food with sleeping draughts or laxatives. Even a frying pan can be a dangerous weapon in the right circumstances. This was enough to thin the gang considerably, and in their fury they attacked the village in earnest. Your Snufkin managed to stop them almost single-handedly, but…” He glanced briefly at the Inspector to gauge his reaction (the man was listening breathlessly, tugging at the hem of his uniform jacket) and lowered his head, vanishing behind his hat-brim. “But he was mortally wounded. His only regret was that he wouldn’t keep his promise to a certain little Moomintroll to return in the first days of spring. And he made me swear to take his place in Moominvalley, and that his young friend should never know. Of all the brothers, I resembled him most closely, and I was the best at getting along with all sorts of creatures. Yes, at first I came to Moominvalley out of respect for my brother’s last wish, but then… Then, like him, I grew attached to Moomin, and to all of you, and this year I returned because my heart, not merely duty, called me back. Please,” Snufkin’s voice dropped to a whisper, “I beg you, tell no one. Especially Moomin. My brother wouldn’t want to cause him such pain. I wouldn’t want to. " “Yes, yes, of course!” the Inspector assured him, even sniffling. Tears rolled down his cheeks straight into his moustache. “Not a word to anyone! I’ll be silent as the grave!” At this comparison, he dissolved further and hurried down to the river to wash his face. It remained red nonetheless, and his hands trembled. Unable to utter anything coherent, he knelt beside Snufkin, embraced him tight, and held on for a long time. Then, with another sniffle, he sat back, raised his glass of unfinished wine, and managed just two words: “To him.” They drank. The wine was light, almost tasteless, yet it somehow burned Snufkin’s throat. He set his glass on the grass and gazed into the distance. So the two of them sat in silence, while all around summer bloomed and sang, swallows twittered over the river, bumblebees hummed over the clover meadow on the far bank. All this beauty and peace, all this sympathy felt undeserved. He had made a mistake, but now he would do everything to compensate for it. The Inspector produced a handkerchief (checked, matching the tablecloth) and wiped his face. Then he looked at Snufkin, and for the first time in their conversation, his gaze held neither suspicion nor pain, only something warm, almost paternal. “You’re very like him,” the policeman said quietly. “But different, all the same. The way you look. The way you keep silent. He was heavier in his silence… And you—you’re light as thistledown.” “Thank you,” Snufkin replied, bewildered. “Thank you!” the Inspector roused himself. “Forgive me for reminding you of such… such grief with my prying. I promise, I’ll never doubt you again. And if you ever need any help, call on me, I’ll do anything in my power.” He added in a frightened whisper: “Even if it’s not strictly legal.” “Thank you, I don’t need…” Snufkin faltered. Why, help would be very useful to prevent any more such slip-ups. “Actually, there is something you could help me with. Nothing illegal, I assure you! Just tell me everything you remember about my brother, or about what happened in Moominvalley before I came. About Christmas, the arrests, and other such misunderstandings—everything, good and bad, so no one else suspects anything. My brother and I met rarely, and only on business, and he was terse, as you know. I had never even heard of Moominvalley until he…” “Of course, absolutely!” The Inspector nodded so vigorously that his cap almost fell off. “I don’t know everything either, of course, he spent more time with the Moomins—but I’ll tell you all the major events, both those he was involved in and those from that time generally. So, it all began…” The picnic threatened to stretch until nightfall. Or until Moomin came running. Snufkin listened to the policeman, chewing another sandwich (without garlic butter this time), and diligently committed everything to memory, the better to weave it into the fabric of a new reality where two not-very-fortunate lives would merge into a better one.