Chapter Text
“Snufkin, please give me my hat back.”
The Joxter’s red hat giggled, and promptly responded.
“Who’s Snufkin?”
“Why, he’s my son, of course,” Joxter crouched, “though if he doesn’t show up soon, I doubt he will get any dinner.”
“Papa!” Snufkin’s offended face appeared from beneath the hat, absolutely appalled at the threat. They were having carrot stew tonight, Snufkin’s favorite.
“There he is!” Joxter gasped and scooped up the little Snufkin, tickling his tummy, “You were hiding him all along, weren’t you, Mr. Hat?”
“Yes, Papa. I couldn’t escape.”
“How very rude,” he tutted as his hat returned to its rightful place.
“Very, very rude,” Snufkin agreed.
The forest around them also agreed on the hat’s rudeness, and the two settled down for a pot of carrot stew.
Their travels had been like this for at least two seasons now, and the Joxter was finally getting used to having a companion. The Snufkin was lovely to have around, Joxter had found despite his worries, and the warmth next to him each night made dozing easy.
It was the Mymble who originally suggested he take Snufkin along on his travels. The boy was barely three, but he had already grown tired of staying in the house. The Joxter had wanted to decline: too many possibilities, too many dangers, too many irresponsible Papas who had no idea how to take care of barely three year old Snufkins. But the boy’s eyes, sparkling up with wonderment at his Papa’s rucksack, convinced him, and now he’s found that he’s very glad they did.
“Wake up, Papa!”
“Hm.”
“Wake up!”
Little hands gripped his cheeks and peeled his eyelids open.
“You’ve gotta come see!”
“See what?” he yawned.
“The sunrise!”
The Joxter poked his head out the tent as Snufkin ran out, looking in wonderment as the first rays of sun filtered through the trees.
Snufkin loved the sunrise, Joxter had found, almost as much as he loved the sea. He loved the sounds and the colors, but most of all he loved how “the sun says get up! But nicely, and you don’t have to, but it’s nice to.”
The Joxter doesn’t think it’s nice to. He’d much rather ignore the sun for another hour or two, but Snufkin’s love for the morning trumps his grumpiness every day.
Snufkin turned back around to the Joxter, who was adjusting his hat and tucking his scarf.
“Where today, Papa?”
“Hmm,” he scratched his stubbly chin, “wherever the wind shall take us, but I fancy some trout for lunch.”
“Trout!”
The river was calm that day. A perfect day for fishing, and the Joxter set his line and watched as Snufkin played along the bank.
Soon, the sounds of laughter and water lulled him to doze.
When he woke, his fishing line was empty, and Snufkin was gone from the bank.