Chapter Text
The crux of the matter was that willpower and determination could, given enough time and patience, move mountains. For the time being, Moomin and Snufkin were content with merely moving the half-conscious, blood-soaked body they’d stumbled upon to a safer place. Snufkin could feel the occasional twitch of a muscle, virtually imperceptible by nature, accompanied by the instinctive swish of a long, drenched tail swaying swiping against his pants, leaving an expanding maroon stain in its wake. He couldn’t find it in him to care. This was awfully familiar, he thought, yet chose to pay no mind to the building pressure within his cranium lest he lose himself to the sepia memories and half-baked recollections. With Moomin’s house now within a stalk’s distance, the duo tightened their pace, an automatic response to their building panic, rising to the surface with every second that ticked forth. Moomin ran ahead while Snufkin, through no fault of his own, lagged behind, his steps more evenly spaced and collected, boots thumping in muffled strides against the vivid pasture. Moomin, in his stifled despair, threw the door open as he made his way inside, almost tearing the poor, long-suffering barrier off its hinges. Snufkin followed shortly after, lips pressed into a thin line as he couldn’t help but ponder on their conundrum, mind running a mile a minute. His friend, on the other hand, wasted no time. They didn’t have the luxury to dawdle.
“Mamma! Pappa!” Moomin called, his quivering timbre a pitch higher than usual. “We need help!”
An echo, this lingering shadow of theirs.
Nothing.
Snufkin could hear his own heartbeat; a crescendo.
Moomin’s cries, despite their brevity aided by the urgency of their circumstances, reverberated throughout the house in a haunting, tormented refrain, like a taunt. Regardless of its varying levels of stridency, there was no response from the aforementioned party as the silence prevailed, dominating the room under its momentous pressure, like a phantom hand seizing them by the throat, searching to suffocate and suppress. After a heart’s beat or two, blood rushing to their ears in an allegorical, continuously lingering clap of thunder, the two heard a curt gasp followed by a wet, pained cough, a sound akin to choking on one’s own saliva, or the blood pooling deep within their throat like bile. They were running out of opportunities. Snufkin’s sensitive ears twitched, aware of their unusual circumstances and unsure of how to proceed. Something somber loomed on the horizon.
Time was ticking.
Moomin, knowing they had no choice, tried again.
“Mamma!”
And, yet again, nothing.
Snufkin shifted from foot to foot, discomfited by his helplessness, his once loose grasp on the magnitude of their troublesome situation increasing by the minute as the sobriety settled in; this self-imposed awareness was unwelcome. Things were painfully dire. Perhaps Snufkin should’ve known. No situation worked out in their favour, one way or the other.
How fun.
“Is she even home?”
“She has to be,” Moomin said, sounding unsure himself, “she must be, or we’re doomed.”
That was a solid ‘maybe’.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about first-aid.”
“Not at all. You?”
“About as clueless as you are.”
“Darn.”
Silence.
“Help me move the body,” Snufkin suggested instead, a mere distraction yet an idea all the same, feeling the weight on his shoulders steadily wearing him down as it chipped at the remnants of his saved strength, “will you, now?”
“Where will we place it?”
He gradually lowered his figure, like a bow for the revered. “The floor should be good.”
“The floor?”
“You wish to permanently stain the upholstery?”
“Point taken.”
Snufkin angled his body. “Reckon you don’t mind the blood?”
Moomin ruminated on it.
“Not at all.”
He did mind, he minded a lot, but this was a trifling detail when bet against the potential loss of a life they could’ve otherwise saved were it not for his sensibilities. Moomin couldn’t handle the thought. Blood would be on his hands either way; whether it was metaphorical or literal would be up to him. One alternative was better. He wrapped his hands around the spindly body slanted against Snufkin’s back, gently lowering it onto the wooden flooring below. Snufkin felt as though he were observing the unfurling scenario behind the lenses of a stranger. He moved unconsciously, driven by his primal instincts, every manoeuvre premeditated by the depths of his soul, like the call of nature. Moomin didn’t have that luxury, his actions and decisions learned from the scenarios life would inevitably toss his way. So close, yet so far, the both of them, worlds apart despite their proximity. All too preoccupied with paying attention to the dying body before them, the duo found themselves barely paying any mind to their surroundings and, consequently, a familiar, lulling figure stepping into the room from the kitchen, towel in hand and brows furrowed.
“My, my,” Moominmamma said, befuddled, “what’s this commotion abou…”
Their eyes met, two on one.
“Oh.”
Her once serene gaze fell upon the blood-stained figure on the floor, soaking their once pristine carpet and slowly rotting away.
“Oh, dear.”
An opportunity.
“Mamma, please help us— no, help them!”
“I…”
Something had to be done.
“I’ll do my best, dearest,” Moominmamma said, forcefully instilling a sense of serenity upon the room despite this dire state of affairs. She cast the towel aside, austere. Her composure was, in a sense, uncanny to behold. “We just have to stay calm, okay? Everything will be just fine.”
Moomin sounded unsure.
“But…”
“Believe me, dear.”
And, against their better judgement, believe her they did.
“Well, then…”
This wasn’t Moominmamma’s first rodeo apropos of finding an injured stranger in the vicinity, cornering her into a position of authority. She’d been blessed by the strong, calloused hands of fate once before, having been forced upon that exact role as a healer and caretaker years ago—long enough that the event in itself could be deemed an unpleasant memory, hidden within the depths of the minds of all who were involved, but too early to be considered history. Snufkin would know, for he’d been the lost one, young and dewy-eyed yet maimed nevertheless; back then, he had nothing to his name except for the clothes on his back, a nostalgic trinket he’d been given as a parting gift, and the harrowing memories that lingered like the gallows of his psyche, all too willing to cut and slice a fresh, lively body for the hell of it. He supposed certain situations were bound to play out like a metaphorical ouroboros, the serpent that was destined to swallow itself for eternity. Moominpappa said so. Snufkin hadn’t believed him then; he wasn’t so sure now. Moominmamma gently inched closer to the body bathing their carpet in vivid red, taking a knee. Two fingers were placed onto the surface of the neck, pressing down as she searched for a pulse, a sign of life.
And there it was—weak and subtle, but enough.
They were alive.
“Moomin, get pappa,” she ordered firmly, not taking her eyes off the limp body, “and, while you’re there, bring two towels and the first-aid kit.”
“Yes, mamma.”
And off he went.
Snufkin’s hazel, benumbed gaze shifted from his hastening friend headed upstairs to the would-be corpse staining the living room, back and forth, back and forth. Their sharp wit and perfect timing had led them this far. It was, for better or for worse, out of their hands now, and the best they could do was assist. Still, something regarding this grim, unfavourable collage of successive circumstances ate at him, a smouldering sensation that delved into the core of his psyche, nestling atop a throne of inquiries. Now doused in a shower of natural incandescence to contrast the stark, yawning abyss that was The Cave of Wonders, Snufkin could see the body he’d dragged onto Moominmamma’s porch for what it was. Its sheer familiarity stirred something primal within him, something bathed in the comforting fragrance of lavender petals and damp moss. It clicked.
“Mumrik…”
One of Moominmamma’s ears twitched. “What was that, Snufkin, dear?”
“They’re…”
Snufkin’s pitch lapsed into a whisper.
“They’re a Mumrik.”
“Ah.”
Words failed.
“I suppose so,” Moominmamma said at last, unsure of how to respond otherwise. Snufkin took note of her hushed reluctance to file away with the remnants of the details he’d happened to acknowledge in his decaying state of mind, a stifled mental breakdown. The clicking persisted, like the continuous crackling of a campfire at its prime.
It was befitting of such a fate.
“You knew that already,” Snufkin pointed out, “didn’t you.”
Moominmamma did not budge.
“You’re quite the observant one, hm? I happen to know a lot of things, young one.”
Silence.
Whatever scraps of willpower Snufkin had cobbled together to force himself to speak, like ripping out a tumour lodged in his throat with his bare hands, died out like the metaphorical campfire he’d conjured in his mind as Moomin and his father hurried downstairs, towels and a first-aid kit at the ready. The aura of their urgency could be sensed a mile away. Snufkin supposed it was only fair. In his own pursuit for answers, he’d nearly filed away their budding emergency as mere background noise. The guilt would surely gnaw at his conscience later, at the late hours of the night, when he often had nothing but silence and warmth for company. For now, there were more pressing matters to attend to.
“Where’s the emergency?” Moominpappa asked.
“Right here.”
He slunk closer.
“Is that…?!”
“Dear,” Mamma started, acknowledging her husband’s sudden panic in the face of their unfurling conundrum and unsure of whether they would have the time to address it lest their main concern be placed in the back burner, “we have bigger things to worry about as of now.”
“Right, right.”
Moomin handed his mother the towels; she’d make better use of them than he ever could.
“Kids,” Pappa said, “go outside.”
Moomin baulked.
“What? But we can help!”
“I know that, Moomin, but this is an adult situation.”
“Pappa—”
“Outside. Now.”
“Let it go, Moomin,” Snufkin said, patting his friend’s back, “let it go.”
Hesitantly, Moomin allowed himself to be tugged forth by the hand as they left, heading for the porch rather than becoming an unwilling audience and crowding the room. Upon arrival, Snufkin plopped himself down on one of the patio benches available whilst Moomin paced about in a lightning’s stride, hasty in its tempo and equally as strident. For all of his lectures regarding optimism and faith, he couldn’t help but worry. It was, in a sense, utterly ironic, their roles having converged, now forged and branded into one. Snufkin didn’t have it in him to point it out. He, too, happened to fret, his panic much more contained and internal than his friend’s, borderline suppressed, like the lively chains that would coil themselves around his feet and pull. The itch to play his harmonica loomed in the background, a persistent shadow that tailed him into perpetuity. Now wasn’t the time, he reminded himself.
“Think everything’ll be fine?”
Snufkin’s gaze fell upon a fretful Moomin.
“Your parents know what they’re doing. Like you said, we just need to have a little faith.”
“I could’ve helped.”
“We’d be dead weight. Not much we can do.”
“Still—”
Their uneasy back-and-forth was cut short by a shrill, animalistic yowl piercing the foreboding, cool daylight aura like a venom-coated spear hurled from afar with ill intent. Snufkin promptly leapt to his feet, as if on instinct, a preyed-upon target ready to run at the slightest hint of danger, while Moomin halted in his steps, both their eyes shifting to the shut door to their right. The caterwaul ceased, growing fainter with the ticking seconds until it, at last, trickled to a harrowing close. Snufkin winced, imagining horrors beyond his comprehension. Moomin looked utterly haunted.
“What’s happening in there?!”
“I have a sinking feeling I’d rather stay in the dark on this one.”
“I must see.”
He snuck a peek through the open window for a second, two seconds, before averting his gaze. Looking rather ill, Moomin slowly staggered his way to Snufkin and sat down, a frown adorning his facial features. “I shouldn’t have looked.”
“Dead weight.”
“Yes, yes, taunt my weak stomach, will you.”
“You expect too much from me.”
“I suppose I do.”
Quiet.
“Everything alright?”
“I managed to take a look at them before we…”
Snufkin swallowed.
“They’re a Mumrik, Moomin.”
“What.”
Moomin inched closer, voice hushed, as though being briefed on a blistering secret.
“Are you sure?”
“Huh?”
“Mumriks are rare, aren’t they? You’re the only one I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Pappa told me so. He said he’d only met one Mumrik, too, a long time ago, before we found you. Stumbling into another one by chance… it’d either be the luckiest or unluckiest thing we’ve ever accomplished.”
“Perhaps both.”
“What do you think happened to them? Things look grim over there.”
“… I think I have an inkling.”
Silence.
“In that case,” Moomin said, “would you care to enlighten me?”
Another interlude, contemplatory.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” Snufkin responded at last, upon giving it enough thought.
“And what if I did?”
“Then I’d say you’re a fool.”
“A curious fool.”
“Yet a fool nevertheless.”
“You’re really not going to tell me, are you?”
“It’s not a pretty tale.”
“Most of them aren’t, but I suppose that’s the beauty that lies in the reality we live in.”
“There’s no beauty to be found here.” Snufkin tugged at his tattered hat until the shadow it cast masked his expression in its entirety, his wavering voice eclipsed by a charged cloud of mourning and carefully-contained sadness that only Moomin could possibly identify on sight. “Only a trail of blood.”
The silence was deafening.
Eventually, given enough time and care, the door—its hinges old and rusty from continuous use, from countless nights of rainy nights and windy afternoons—creaked open, with Moominmamma peeking her head through the gap. Her expression bore no grief or guilt, merely relief. Snufkin could tell things had gone smoothly. He would’ve sensed a shift in the already tense atmosphere otherwise. Moomin wasn’t as perceptive, the sheer apprehension in the face of a potential disaster clouding his senses.
“You may come in now, kids.”
Moomin leapt to his feet. “Mamma, how are they? Is everything alright? Are they alive? I need to know!”
“Calm down, dear, everything is fine.”
She booped her son’s nose.
“Just as promised.”
And, just like that, all of Moomin’s consternations had been swiftly assuaged.
“I’m glad.”
“Can we see them?” Snufkin asked.
Moominmamma seemed contemplative. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. He is resting.”
“‘He’?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Huh.”
“What if we promise to be really, reeeeally quiet?”
Pappa snuck a peek out the window, the door having been monopolized in its current state. “It’s best we let him rest for the time being, Moomin. He’s been through a lot, given his current state. I can tell. Once he’s better, you can introduce yourselves. I’m sure he’d like to meet the little ones who saved his life.”
Moomin tilted his head inquisitively.
“What do you mean?”
“Moominpappa, dear,” Mamma said, “I think it’s best not to discuss this in front of the kids.”
Snufkin, too, seemed lost in thought.
“Life…”
The smell of rot, and the sensation of a cold, lifeless corpse in his arms; dried, flaking blood bathing his secondhand garb. Snufkin recoiled at the memories, irises reduced to pinpricks, a hand going to his mouth. Moominmamma, for better or for worse, happened to take notice of his sudden mental deterioration, an impromptu detour down memory lane hitting him with the unprecedented speed of a pelted pebble. Nothing, for better or for worse, got by her.
“Snufkin, dear, are you alright?”
“I…”
His speech degenerated into nothing. Moominmamma pondered.
“Hmm.”
Gentle in her movements, as if handling a long-suffering puppy bearing the open, sore marks of abuse and neglect, she guided Snufkin through the blood-soaked living room—gingerly prompting him to ignore the unsightly view—and into the kitchen. Moomin shifted from one foot to the other, back and forth, before following, making sure to avoid the iron-scented puddle square dab in the middle of their carpet, the smell lingering. He wasn’t sure this particular piece of furniture would be salvageable.
“Here,” Moominmamma said, “sit down while I fetch you a nice, cold glass of water.”
Snufkin staggered his way to a chair.
“Is everything okay over there, Snufkin?” Moomin asked, a frown adorning his features. “You’re shivering something fierce.”
“I’ve seen…”
A raised brow.
“… Seen what?”
Nothing.
“Snufkin, what did you see?”
A deep breath, followed by another. The memories retreated and recoiled to their special little corner at the depths of his mind, like the shadows at the first sign of dawn. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Snufkin told himself, “I’m… I’m here, right? I’m not there anymore.”
“‘There’?”
“I’m… here.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
Snufkin averted his gaze.
“Yeah.”
Moominmamma returned with a cold, enticing glass of water, something that Snufkin would not take for granted and would, instead, down with gusto, as though this were the first sample of a drinkable liquid he’d come upon in half a decade. Like the first time he’d wobbled across the forest and into the Moomin residence, Snufkin remembered bitterly, the refreshment of the drink suddenly tasting sour in his tongue. Despite that, he drank more, his long-ignored thirst apparent. His mind, at that point, had been consumed by thoughts of morbidity and half-written recollections he couldn’t quite decipher. How utterly nonplussing. Slowly, he placed the glass down, his actions lacking the verve they once held.
“Thank you, Moominmamma, I feel better now.”
“I’m glad.”
Putting away the empty glass, she headed for the door.
“If you need anything else, I’m one call away. For now, I’ll be upstairs tending to our guest.”
And she left.
Silence.
“I think I’ve realised something.”
Snufkin, for the first time, found himself led by his piqued curiosity in the face of Moomin’s sudden revelation rather than the other way around, their roles switched. Perhaps this was how his friend felt most of the time, he reckoned.
“Did you, now?”
“Yeah, but it’s a bit… it’s just too… I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I know how you feel.”
The mood was somber.
. . .
“I don’t believe you.”
The haphazardly-crafted campfire they’d encircled had long reached its zenith in terms of physical warmth, yet the temperature seemed to have plummeted to the negatives despite its best efforts. Little My, Sniff, and Snorkmaiden, dear friends of the inseparable duo that was Snufkin and Moomin, had been privy to the details of their adventures more than once, yet nothing had ever come close to this particular tale in terms of severity. Moomin recounted their story with a hardened, austere countenance that spelled unpleasant memories rather than a jovial smile that denoted his habitual buoyancy, and instead of peppering jokes throughout the narrative he would keep it straight and simple, no unnecessary details needed. It reminded the trio of a doctor listing a log of unfortunate symptoms rather than the retold tales of a natural-born storyteller, a hereditary trait that he would and should take pride in. Snufkin hadn’t opened his mouth once, neither to add his own commentary nor to correct the inconsistencies, for he’d decided to keep himself busy with his harmonica and a piece of cloth, having long tuned out his friend for the sake of his own sanity.
“It’s true.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to see it with my own two eyes.”
“Now’s not the time, Little My.”
Snorkmaiden looked distraught. “Oh my, how terrible, how awful! What a poor thing. I wonder how he’s doing now.”
“Mamma said he’s alright.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You said you found him inside a cave?”
Moomin nodded.
“Remember that creepy cave we told you guys about,” he supplied, hoping to jog their memories, “the one Snufkin and I got lost in? He was there, unconscious and surrounded by his own blood. Pappa said something bad might’ve happened if we hadn’t arrived. Apparently we saved his life.”
“Goodness!”
Little My leaned forth, a question at the tip of her tongue. “And you’re positive he’s a Mumrik?”
“Snufkin said so.”
All eyes fell upon him.
“Snufkin.”
“Hm.”
“Is it true?”
He, at last, looked up. “Is what true?”
“Weren’t you paying attention to the conversation?” Moomin asked, genuine.
“I was… distracted.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time, I say.” Snorkmaiden shook her head, not out of true displeasure but well-placed concern. She wasn’t wrong. “You’ve been daydreaming an awful lot lately. Is something on your mind?”
“I don’t think so.”
Little My chuckled, a retort always at the ready.
“As usual.”
“Birds of a feather flock together, Little My.”
“Oi.”
It was Sniff’s turn to laugh.
“Heh.”
“Enough of this, back to the topic!” Little My said, arms crossed, her affront at the mere thought of having been outwitted written all over her face through a pair of narrowed eyes. “C’mon, Snufkin, is the man you two found really a Mumrik?”
Snufkin’s movements steadily came to a halt.
“He is.”
“Whoa!”
“Unbelievable.”
Moomin nodded. “I know, right?”
“That's strange. I haven’t seen another Mumrik in a long, long time. Well, there was that one time, but…”
“‘That one time’?”
“What do you mean by that, Little My?”
Little My seemed uncomfortable with the topic all of a sudden, with all of the questions being hurled her way, despite having brought it upon herself by saying those three blasted little words. The group devoured the misplaced bait like a pack of starved wolves, much to her displeasure. “It’s a long story.”
“We have time.”
“Well, you asked for it.”
“Yay, story time!”
“Don’t get too excited just yet, Sniff. This isn’t a fairytale.”
“Oh.”
Little My’s gaze went up, up, until it had reached the stars above, ominous and unreachable like he’d once been. She was not a storyteller, not like Moomin. Would she do this tale justice? It didn’t cost anything to try, yet something tugged at her innards at the mere thought of him, of them. Memories were unpleasant little gifts life would present and expect no returns or do-overs. Little My knew better than to reject what she’d been given, and had long learned how to turn the unwanted into a treasure in its own right. This, however, she could not claim to have salvaged. Perhaps she would never be able to.
And thus it began.
“His name was Joxaren.”