Chapter Text
A cold wind blew through the camp, making the flames of the fire leap and dance and sending wild shadows dancing on the trees and the canvas tent. Snufkin shivered and threw another log on the fire. He pulled something from his pocket, turning it over in his hands as it shone in the firelight.
Mid-Winter had passed. Snufkin had gone to the town, as he said he would. He half expected Joxter not to come. It was a long way from Moominvalley and, as far as he could gather, also a long way from the Mymbles house. But Snufkin had turned the corner into the square and there he was, perusing the market stalls that had opened for the festival.
Snufkin held back, watching his father closely. The man moved with almost calculated ease, wandering here and there, peering into stalls with curiosity, maybe picking up the odd trinket before putting it back and moving on. The stall holders were busy but Snufkin could see they were watching Joxter with a look he knew all too well.
Snufkin had lifted the odd thing of course. A box of matches, a pouch of tobacco, maybe a piece of fruit, but on the whole he really tried not to steal things. When he was a kid it had been hunger that had driven him to it, but these days he was quite adept at finding his own food and he owned all the possessions he could ever imagine wanting or needing.
It wasn’t anything so flashy as a flick of the wrist that caught his eye. If he hadn’t been watching the Joxters hands like a hawk even he would have missed it. The small item was there, and then suddenly it wasn’t. With the same casual ease Joxter said something to the stallholder, who laughed and waved as Joxter walked away and Snufkin let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
Joxters’ smile when he spotted Snufkin was nearly blinding, but Snufkin hardly saw it. Instead his eyes were glued to the four thin lines running parallel along his fathers’ cheek.
They were whiteish, glinting in the candlelight as Joxter moved. Snufkin had been too agitated at the time to take it in properly, and Moominmama had bandaged Joxters face by the next day, but up close he could see that the scratches had been both long and deep. Joxter stepped up beside him, taking his son's silence as a cue to shut up and watch the parade. Obscured by the brim of his hat, Snufkin was at liberty to fret unseen.
Risking a glance up he could see that Joxter was still smiling, seemingly content with the whole situation, but the guilt twisted hot and heavy in Snufkins’ stomach. He had wandered for half the Winter wondering if his father would even come to meet him. He truly hadn’t expected that he would. But here he was, seemingly unfazed by the scars on his face or the fact that his own son had put them there.
Snufkin looked back at the parade, the candlelight blurring together into a haze before his eyes. In his head he could hear every insult hurled at him that he was a vicious, wild little thing. The Hemulen lady at the orphanage had had to separate him from other children more than once when he was little. Feral, she had called him. Unsuited to be around civilized people. He thought he had managed to quell that side of himself, but the scars on Joxters’ face were proof that she had been right. Nobody wanted a child that scratched and bit when they got too close.
Gripped by the sudden fear that Joxter would leave Snufkin panicked. He had to do something to ease the guilt. To prove that he wasn’t just a feral Mumrik. Sneaking a peek to make sure Joxter was still watching the parade, Snufkin came to a decision. With the same casual ease he had seen earlier he made his move.
Joxter started. His hand had been empty until, suddenly, it wasn’t. Snufkins’ paw was warm and firm in his own, gripping carefully as though he was afraid he might hurt Joxter. Staring dead ahead so as not to startle him, Joxter gripped back. Beside him Snufkin blew out a quiet breath, relaxing his shoulders and leaning into his fathers’ warmth a little. Joxter watched the rest of the parade with a smile that split his face, ear to ear.
When the parade had ended, the moon already high in the night sky, Snufkin had loosened his grip on his fathers’ hand, ready to head back to his tent and some much needed solitude. Joxter had let him go without protest, slipping a little round object into Snufkins’ hand with a wink before heading in the direction of the local inn and the sounds of festival merriment.
Sitting by his fire Snufkin turned the little blue fishing float over in his hands. It was a fine piece, hand painted and nicely rounded. The paint was shiny and smooth, glittering in the firelight in a way that would entice even the most recalcitrant of fish.
He frowned at it.
It was such an unnecessary thing. He owned two fishing floats already, he hardly needed a third and skilled though Joxter admittedly was, he had taken a risk to steal it. Police inspectors needed very little excuse to throw a Mumrik in jail in Snufkins’ experience. One shout of ‘thief’ from the stall holder and Joxter would have been cooling his heels in a cell before nightfall. It was a reckless move and that made Snufkin nervous, but he couldn’t deny the little ball of warm pleasure in his chest when he looked at it.
His first birthday present.
Sighing, Snufkin put the float back in his pocket before putting out his fire and climbing into his tent. The days were lengthening slowly, every morning bringing another whisper of the Spring to come. For Snufkin it couldn’t come fast enough.