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“Lovely weather for this time of year, isn’t it Snufkin?” Moomintroll mused, cross-legged on the lush grass as he picked some spring flowers – crocus, according to a little book Snufkin had bought in the east, although he himself had never really needed a name for them.
Names were an odd thing about travelling alone, especially from such a young age. He never really needed words to explain things to himself, and as such never exactly bothered to learn. He rather liked the little cheery flowers that popped up everywhere all year round, even if for many years he had no words to describe them.
A crocus flower was a little hint of purple just after the frost melted away, a delicate little thing that peeked out to say hello earlier than most other flowers and offered a reminder that, while winter was beautiful, spring was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and scents just around the corner.
A crocus flower was a field in bloom as he ran through with his friends, laughing and free. Though they were only small, vast numbers created a rainbow ocean that stretched as the eye could see, infinite and vast (and making Sniff sneeze).
As the coldest months gripped the land and smothered it in a blanket of snow, a crocus flower defied the world’s slumber to bring just a dash of life back to the Earth. Alone for months on end, it reminded Snufkin of why he would head back to where he belonged when all was said and done.
A name in a textbook was nothing like that.
Snufkin’s hand toyed with the blades, plucking the longer ones to weave a circlet of green. Too comfortable to get up, he chucked it on to a low hanging branch. If the tree moved an inch or so to catch it, well, that was their little secret.
The burnt orange sunlight filtered through the canopy, chestnut brown and honeyed bronze swirling together as they fluttered to the earth. It caught on Moomin’s silvery fur to create a halo srrounding him, warm and bright as autumn danced around them both. Snufkin closed his eyes and hummed contentedly as he dropped down to the ground, perfectly happy to bask in the gentle evening breeze.
He simply lay there, listening to the forest’s steady heartbeat. Small creatures scampered in the shrubbery all around, songbirds chirped merrily in the cool breeze that breathed through the land softly, an earthy sigh of peace. Nothing dangerous, nothing loud, nothing out of place.
It was lovely here, in Moominvalley. Endless rolling hills that ducked down to a gorgeous forest and a winding river that meandered through the valley to the sea, sparkling clear azure.
He had seen countless places over the years. Untouched lakes hidden in the depths of mountain ranges, limitless forests of pine that reached into the clouds, broad flatlands drowned in layers of snow that glittered in the sunlight. Places untouched by people, left to nature’s will. Places that could not be described properly by any textbook, however expensive it may be.
He could wander for eternity and never find a place quite so beautiful as Moominvalley.
It was an idyllic paradise that he didn’t quite fit into, all raggedy and feral. But here he was anyway. He certainly wasn’t complaining about the view.
“Snuf?” Moomintroll asked, threading together another crown of grass, hands never stilling, foot never ceasing in its steady tapping. He added to the subtle noise of the forest, blending in yet standing out in his own way.
“What is it?”
“You’re allowed to go travelling, y’know that right? We’re not forcing you to stay and quite frankly you look about ready to bolt. Follow the nomadic lifestyle or whatever.”
“Theres a mountain Range down south I’ve always wanted to see, and the border control to Mercia is quite lax.” Snufkin admitted. “I’d offer for you to come with, but you’ve never been one for heights. Or trips more than a few days away from home, come to think of it...” He also wanted, no, needed time to himself – it was safer with nobody to slow him down.
Moomin never held his wanderlust/cabin fever against him. Nobody should want a loner for a friend, someone who left for weeks at a time and was aloof at best, never truly there in every sense of the word. Yet he was always welcomed back with open arms.
No words could describe how much that meant to him.
The great oak tossed the circlet back to him, now adorned with late blooming flowers. More crocus.
“Oi! I’ll have you know I’m perfectly fine actually having a house, you vagabond.” Moomin huffed, fur ruffled, and crossed his arms.
“As a vagabond I suppose I’ll have to go at dawn, then. I’ll leave my housewife behind as I face the perils of the woods. You never know, I might even run into a dangerous beast - like a pigeon!”
They laughed and said their goodbyes as the sun dropped further in the sky.
“You’ll be back, though, promise?” Moomintroll asked tentatively, barely a whisper. The birds chirped a merry tune and the wind that whistled and whipped around them nearly swept away his murmur into the night.
“I always come back home.”