Chapter Text
[“The main thing in life is to know your own mind.” - Moominsummer Madness, 1954]
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It had been three days since the jungle disappeared from Moomin house. Although it hadn’t been there long, it was hard not to notice how quiet things were now. Vines no longer scraped against the windows; the roaring of tigers was replaced with the ordinary sounds of birds. The tropical fruit that grew in abundance had long been harvested, and Moomintroll found he already missed the taste of mangos (something all Moomins adored, though few actually knew that).
That morning, Moominmama prepared a wonderful breakfast of pancakes and coffee. Little My had already devoured half of hers, and Moominpapa was just starting in on his first pancake. But Sniff hadn’t touched a bite. He stared down at his plate, his large brown ears drooping down his back.
“What’s wrong, Sniff?” Moominmama asked kindly. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Nope!” Little My piped up, her mouth still full. “He just found out he has the plague, and tomorrow he’ll keel over dead. I call dibs on his button collection.”
“Little My!” Moomintroll gasped.
“Oh, it’s not that,” Sniff sighed. “At least I hope not. If I did have the plague, I guess I wouldn’t know. I just wish we had some of Moominmama’s jam to go with these pancakes; that’s all.”
“Boring,” said Little My, rolling her eyes.
“Why didn’t you say so, Sniff?” Moominmama said- ignoring Little My. “The jam’s right down in the cellar; I must have forgotten it.”
“Wait!” Moomintroll stood up from the table. “The man-eating plants! What if they’re still in there?”
“Oh, you may be right,” Moominmama said. “I thought they’d gone with the rest of the jungle; I haven’t heard anything from beneath the floorboards since it died out. But maybe it’s best we’d not check; I wouldn’t want to disturb those awful plants-”
“I would!” Little My exclaimed. Sniff whimpered, covering his eyes with his ears.
“You can’t!” Moomintroll said. “Music is the only thing that calms them down, remember? We’d need Snufkin for that, and he’s not here right now.”
“Who said anything about calming them down?” Little My retorted. She leapt from her seat. “Sniff, what do you think about man-eating plant flavored jam?”
“I don’t know if I’d like it.” Sniff curled in his tail.
“Got it; thanks! Bye!”
Before anyone could stop her, Little My dashed under the table and out the door, a streak of fiery red. For a moment, it was quiet again. Sniff and Moomintroll looked at each other.
“Please tell me you’re getting Snufkin,” Sniff whimpered, staring at the open door.
“I’m getting Snufkin,” Moomintroll said.
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Fallen leaves floated peacefully down the creek, bobbing in the clear water. These were some of the last summer leaves- or the first autumn leaves, if you wanted to look at it that way. Occasionally, one would get caught on the muddy riverbank. Another would make its way under the bridge. And another would momentarily bump into a bright red fishing lure, before continuing downstream. There was very little wind to push the leaves today; all it could do was rustle the grass a little, or occasionally cause a dandelion to shiver- but not enough to give up its white downy seeds. There was no telling if the fish would bite today, when the creek was this still and the sun was shining. They liked the mud and silt better, and the clouds of rain that sometimes passed over the valley.
That didn’t mean it was a bad day for fishing, so long as one was patient and had plenty of time. A slow fishing day meant a good day for thinking, or for watching the sky. It might be a good day for letting your mind wander, or to plan a future trip south. There were plenty of things to do to occupy one’s time, alone by the creek- and plenty of time that could remain unoccupied, free to spend itself doing whatever it wanted to.
More than anything, it was a good day for music. Anyone could tell, because it looked like this: nobody around, no bothersome chatter in the air or obligations to attend to. A hint of melancholy rustling in the grass, accompanied by just the right amount of joy. A beautiful blue sky that could gather stormclouds at any minute. A comfortable spot where you could sit down- a sloping mossy bank, or a tree stump to lean your back against. Put all of those things together, and there’s no telling what you might create.
Snufkin positioned his fishing pole in the dirt to keep it steady. He stretched out lazily on the grass (there is something unquestionably noble about laziness, when the time calls for it), and took his harmonica from his knapsack. There would be a tune coming, not long from now. Maybe it would even come before the fish began to bite, but there was no point in rushing it along. Tunes came and went as they pleased, and nobody could tell them when to arrive, or when to leave, or how long they should stay. You couldn’t tell a tune what to do. He respected that about them.
He could almost hear it, on its way. It was in the sound of the creek, the breeze through the willow branches, the buzzing of bees, the hurried footsteps getting closer and closer-
Footsteps!
He turned around, his reverie shattered. A shape was coming over the hill, running towards him- and chasing away the tune. As the shape came into focus, he recognized the white snout and tiny ears- it was only Moomintroll. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hello, Moomintroll,” he said.
“Snufkin!” Moomintroll shouted. “Come quick, to the house! And bring your harmonica!”
Snufkin stood up, confused. “My harmonica? Are you having a party? To tell the truth, I don’t think I’d be up for a party today-”
“No time to explain; Little My’s in trouble!” Moomintroll grabbed his hand, attempting to pull him along.
“Little My?” Snufkin smiled. “She’s probably fine. Are you sure it’s not a prank?”
“She went to the cellar,” Moomintroll said breathlessly. “Come on!”
Realization darkened Snufkin’s face. “I see,” he said. “I’ll be on my way; you go find Mr. Hemulen. The botanist. I’ll meet you there.”