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They've been walking for so long, Moomin thinks he may have calluses on his calluses.
Their adventure has taken quite the turn- they’d only wanted to see if they could find a very particular set of caves that were said to have treasure woven through the rock. It wasn’t the treasure that tempted them, mind, but rather the appreciation of such a magnificent natural marvel if it were to exist.
(Alright, if Moomin were to be honest, he thinks there may have been a smidge of temptation for whatever the treasure was said to be, but only on the Muddler’s part! Which hardly counts).
So they’d followed directions given until mooring upstream of a wide river that curled into a fine forest. And it was this fine forest that they’d gone and gotten themselves lost in.
Hodgkins had tried everything. He’d consulted his map, checked his compass. But the trees were so close together and their whispers so loud they’d just caused the compass to spin round and round, never pointing one way or another.
Not even the Joxter could help as he had been unable to see the stars and they’d spent days walking through the thick wood, growing more and more hungry and less and less sure they’d ever find a way out.
In the end, it was the Muddler who’d saved them, though not by anything resembling skill. Or even purpose. Either way, all that had mattered was that he’d got them all running and running for so long, and for so far, they finally broke free of the forest near an hour ago.
Now, they walk a road in a line; Hodgkins leads as he is won’t to do as Captain and the Muddler last, as is only fair for having them all wrong in the first place. Moomin walks after the Joxter, eyes down on the damp earth and thinking about his poor feet.
But then, the Joxter stops suddenly and in doing so, Moomin walks right into the back of him.
For such a scrawny, bony creature, the Joxter stands quite steady and Moomin bounces right off him as though he were some great, thick tree. Moomin lands on arse, right into the thick and horrible mud.
‘Oh, for goodness-! Joxter!’ Moomin snaps, groaning with disgust as he lifts his paws from the ground. They’re black with shiny dirt. ‘What in the name of all that’s sensible are you doing?’
The Joxter doesn’t answer, but Muddler comes over to help as he is always so good to. Well, sort of- he offers Moomin one paw while the other holds fast to the small trinket box he happened to bring with him on their journey. It rattles.
Hodgkins offers no help, merely keeps humming and hawing over the map in his paws.
‘I’d say we’d do a better day of it if we took this path rather than the road.’
‘What path?’ Moomin asks, as there appears to be nothing but the road they’re on.
It’s wide and well-travelled with two distinct trenches from years and years of coach and wagon wheels. Grass sprouts down the middle and on one side stands the wretched forest they’ve just come from, and the other a large expanse of flatland that mists, hiding the end from view.
It’s out there that the Joxter appears to be looking. Now Moomin looks a little better himself, he sees that something doesn’t seem quite right with the fellow.
(Not that there is ever very much right with him to begin with).
The Joxter stands in the middle of the road with his tail perfectly still from where it slips out beneath his coat; Moomin has never seen it still, even in his short few weeks of knowing the Joxter as he does but more than that, he’s never seen it like this either. It’s puffed up like a poor critter scared, all the fur standing on end.
‘Joxter?’ Mooomin asks, waving the Muddler off from where he hovers. ‘Joxter, good fellow, are you well?’
The Joxter doesn’t answer. He’s looking out over the crooked and ramshackle fence between the road and the flatland, in profile against the burnt butter colour of the sunset sky. Not even his whiskers, or what Moomin can see of them, are twitching.
‘Joxter, what’s the matter?’ Hodgkins asks, looking up from his map. The Muddler makes a high pitched whimper.
‘Oh, no,’ he says, nervously hopping from one foot to the other. ‘He’s having a Foreboding, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m sure it’s nothing. We can't be as unlucky as all that,’ Hodgkins says, flapping the map and walking up to the Joxter himself. ‘Right, Joxter?’
The Joxter doesn’t answer. Moomin comes closer, unsure what to say though he can’t help but feel he should say something. Moomin may not know the Joxter that well yet, but a crewmate is a mate all the same.
‘Joxter, are you all right?’ he says again, awkwardly raising a paw and stopping just short of touching. Just as well, Moomin thinks, frowning at his paw. The Joxter isn’t the most fastidious of creatures but even he wouldn’t be keen on a big, muddy pawprint to his coat surely?
‘There’s not a blessed thing wrong with him we can’t solve for ourselves,’ Hodgkins says but Moomin isn’t very convinced of that. ‘Look out there, past the mist.’
Moomin and the Muddler do, following where the Joxter looks himself. The sky is very dark that way.
‘There’s rain coming,’ Hodgkins says with a frown, before looking back to his map. ‘Which means we’ll be all the better taking the shorter route. This road is a daft thing, really. Goes all the way around that field for no reason it seems.’
Moomin looks at the flatland himself and feels the strangest sense of… well, foreboding. Moomin shakes himself quickly. Goodness, it seems the Joxter’s nonsense is contagious.
‘How long if we stay on the road, uncle?’ the Muddler asks, adjusting the pan on his head where’s slipped. ‘I don’t much fancy being caught in the rain.’
‘No, just a Púca's trap suits you,’ Hodgkins says not unkindly but the Muddler flushes all the same, ducking his head down into his scarf. ‘If this map is scaled right, it’ll take us near two days to make it to the closest town by the river that could ferry us back to the Oshu Oxtra with not a blessed soul between here or there.’
‘Two days?’ Moomin says, completely distracted from the Joxter by this horrible news. ‘We don’t even have enough food left in our packs for the day we’re in! And I am not going back in there!’
In there being the wretched, Púca-infested wood.
‘Precisely,’ Hodgkins says, folding his map up and walking with purpose towards the fence. ‘Which is why we need to take the path through the flatland.’
‘No,’ the Joxter says, the first time he’s spoken in some time and Hodgkins huffs, as surprised as Moomin it seems. ‘No, we can’t go that way.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why on earth not?’
‘It isn’t safe,’ the Joxter says and Hodgkins puts his paws on his hips, a look of consternation on his face.
‘You’ve had a Foreboding then?’
‘No. Maybe. Perhaps,’ the Joxter replies, most unhelpfully Moomin must admit and Hodgkins shares a look with him. Moomin shrugs. ‘Look there.’
Look they do, following where the Joxter points at the knotty brambles at a break in the fence. Only then does Moomin realise this must be the path Hodgkins is speaking of; though path is a very generous term for it. The brambles are wild, tangled things and they spill over the gap altogether; they’ll have to walk through them to get further.
‘Brambles?’ the Muddler says, stepping closer and bending low to look. ‘What’s wrong with brambles?’
‘Not the brambles, you nit. The tree!’
The three of them tilt up, away from the brambles and along the trunk of the tree they grow beneath. It has dark wood and round, blue berries that swell beneath snow white flowers. Moomin walks up to it, curious and gets just close enough to see the branches spindle with many sharp thorns before something grabs him by the shoulder, tugging him back.
The Joxter’s paw is tight and he nearly pricks through Moomin’s pelt with his claws. Moomin rolls his shoulder.
‘Get off, will you! No need to get grabby!’
‘Blackthorn,’ the Joxter says in a tone like the tree were the Groke herself come to visit them. ‘And no sister with it.’
‘Sister?’ the Muddler asks and the Joxter nods, looking around once more. His expression is very wild, Moomin thinks.
‘The May bush,’ he says, stepping between Moomin and the tree. He fidgets with the brim of his hat, as though to tug it down over his eyes but stopping himself. ‘They should grow together. But this one is alone. It’s a bad omen.’
‘You don’t actually believe in things like omens, do you?’ Moomin asks and Joxter turns to look at him, eyes wide.
Silly me, Moomin thinks as he remembers who he’s talking to. Of course the Joxter believes in things like omens.
‘It’s a Bad Path,’ the Joxter says, turning to Hodgkins now. He says it with such seriousness Moomin can hear the title for what it is. ‘We shouldn’t take this way.’
‘The map suggests it’ll be at least half a day faster,’ Hodgkins replies but the Joxter looks far from convinced. His tail swings nervously, still fluffed up like a dandelion.
‘We stick to the road.’
‘Oh, do we, now?’ Hodgkins says, standing up a bit straighter and he towers over the Joxter by a solid head, which is no small feat as the Joxter is tall himself. ‘Any other decisions to be made, Captain?’
The first break in the Joxter’s solemn mood appears as he turns his mouth, canine showing.
‘Don’t call me that and don’t be so thick-skulled. It’s unbecoming.’
‘Well!’ Hodgkins whiskers bristle. ‘Do forgive me if I don’t take for manners the word of a ragamuffin Mumrik, but I think the question still stands over who exactly you think you are. Since when do you decide the way?’
‘You brought me to lead the way!’
‘I brought you to lead the way from storms!’
‘There is a storm!’ the Joxter replies, hackles rising and he steps closer. It’s all getting a touched heated now. ‘We stay on the road and take shelter in the wood come night.’
‘Come night?’ Hodgkins repeats, rubbing at his face with agitation. ‘Joxter, the sun is half-set already and who knows what else lives in that wood, we’ve had more than enough already!’
‘We’ll handle whatever crosses us if it is to.’
‘Handle it?’ Hodgkins repeats, more high-pitched. ‘Like we handled that Púca the other night?’
The Muddler makes a pathetic, wheezing noise and Moomin rolls his eyes.
‘We got away, didn’t we?’ the Joxter says but Hodgkins scoffs.
‘My nephew was near stolen to goodness knows where!’
‘But only near! Once it got a slap with his iron pot we were sorted!’
The Muddler looks to Moomin imploringly. Moomin grimaces, not entirely sure what the Muddler wants him to do. Muddler nods his head with great exaggeration towards the Joxter.
‘Go on,’ he mouths and Moomin grits his teeth.
‘Why me?’ he hisses back and the Muddler ruffles his ears, walking over to give Moomin a shove for good measure.
‘You’re the most practical one here. He’ll listen to you.’
'Why in blue blazes would you think that?’ Moomin asks in a rushed whisper, astounded by the very suggestion that the Joxter might listen to anyone. Least of all him.
While in the midst of their hushed argument, the Muddler and Moomin lose track of the Joxter’s with Hodgkins until a low but unfortunate hissing fills the air.
Moomin looks over to see the Joxter is right up to Hodgkins now, teeth bared entirely and Moomin rushes forward.
‘All right, all right! None of that!’ he says, putting both paws to the Joxter’s shoulder to try and tug him back. ‘You’re sensible creatures, aren’t you?’
‘I am no such thing!’ the Joxter says, sounding quite offended indeed but at least that wretched hissing has stopped grumbling from the back of his throat. ‘But I am right and Hodgkins is being a daft fool!’
‘Daft?’ Hodgkins sounds most scandalised. ‘Fool?’
‘Yes!’ the Joxter says, raising a paw under Hodgkin’s large nose. ‘As cotton-brained as a stuffed tortoise and twice as slow for it!’
‘What?’ Moomin says, baffled but Hodgkins seems to take the insult for what it means.
‘Think me slow, do you? At least I’m not the one turning my brain sour with marshmallow root and skullcap smoke!’
Why this of all things, especially when true, should be the one to offend the Joxter most Moomin has no idea but it does all the same. He springs forward, dragging Moomin along with him.
‘Is now really the time to be lopping the head off tall poppies?’ Moomin asks, gritting his teeth as the Joxter goes for Hodgkins again. This time, Moomin gets both paws around the Joxter’s waist and hoists him up, boots off the ground and everything. ‘That’s enough! Honestly, you’re like a kit with his first teeth! Can’t you be reasonable for one blooming minute?’
‘I shall when Hodgkins gets his abnormally large head out of his equally sizeable-’
‘Oi! Quit it!’ the Muddler says, deciding to help at last it seems and he gets himself between his uncle and where Moomin holds the Joxter aloft. ‘This isn’t helping!’
Moomin gets one of the Joxter’s stupidly bony elbows to the snout and he has to agree. They’re all tired and they’re all hungry and that makes the worst of enemies of even very good friends indeed. And Moomin doesn’t think they’re quite that yet either.
‘If my uncle says the path is the best plan, then it’s the best plan,’ the Muddler says stoutly and the Joxter stills in Moomin’s arms, which is a small comfort at least. ‘Even if it means getting rained on.’
‘But the tree-’
‘Oh, forget the sodding tree, Joxter!’ the Muddler says, uncharacteristically snappy and even Hodgkins looks surprised. ‘What’s one more thing to go wrong, eh? We’ll collapse with the hunger before we get much further and what good will any of it be then?’
It’s a remarkably sensible point, so perhaps that’s what cools everyone down. Once confident the Joxter isn’t about to set his claws into poor Hodgkins, Moomin puts him back down. The Joxter stalks away as though burned, adjusting his hat and tail whipping. He doesn’t look at Moomin.
‘Well then,’ Hodgkins says, brushing down his scarf. ‘That’s settled then. We take the path.’
‘It’s not settled,’ the Joxter says moodily, crossing his arms and tilting his head in Moomin’s direction. ‘Moomintroll hasn’t had a say and since we’re all sticking our oar in anyway he may as well get one.’
Everyone looks to Moomin, who manages a rather dignified Uhhhhh.
‘What do you think, Moomintroll?’ the Muddler asks and Hodgkins scoffs.
‘He thinks I’m right, of course! Moomintroll has a sharp wit about him and knows a good map when he sees one, don’t you, lad?’
‘I think he can speak for himself,’ the Joxter says icily and when Moomin glances over, he’s still not looking at him. The Joxter’s bright eyes are on the blackthorn tree.
‘I…’ Moomin starts, tugging nervously on the strap of his pack. ‘I think the less we have to travel the better.’
The Joxter closes his eyes, mouth going into a thin line as though steeling himself. Moomin flushes, all his fur sticking on end as his pelt ripples with it but he doesn’t get much of a chance to say anything else as Hodgkins comes over to pat him on the shoulder.
‘Very good! Let’s go then and be done with this whole sorry affair!’
Hodgkins leads the way through the brambles, holding some back for the Muddler to follow after him. He stands where the mist just starts, fishing out his lantern as the Muddler pulls out his matches. Moomin and the Joxter are still on the road.
‘I know a storm isn’t great,’ Moomin says, unsure exactly what to say as he so often is with the Joxter. ‘But it’s better than whatever is waiting for us in that wood.’
‘We can outrun what’s in the wood.’
‘What do you think is in the flatland?’ Moomin asks, curious and he looks to the blackthorn tree again. It’s really quite a pretty tree and if the Joxter hadn’t said anything, Moomin might’ve thought it a May bush itself.
When Moomin looks to the Joxter again, he sees that he’s walking to the other side of the road towards the wood.
‘Joxter!’ Moomin calls, running after him. ‘You can’t go off on your own! Joxter!’
The Joxter stops at the edge of the wood and bends down. Just as Moomin comes close, he stands up again and turns around.
‘Here,’ he says, paws up to the strap of Moomin’s pack. Moomin watches as the Joxter pins a cluster of small, yellow flowers to the buckle. ‘Primroses. For protection.’
‘Um. Thanks,’ Moomin says, raising an eyebrow. He’d rather his rifle if protection were the order of business, but he’d foolishly left it on the Oshun Oxtra. ‘I doubt I need a flower to stick up for me though. I’m quite tough, you know.’
‘You’re soft,’ the Joxter says plainly and Moomin splutters, offended but the Joxter just walks past him towards the others and the path with more flowers in his paws. ‘Too soft, really.’
‘Soft?!’ Moomin says, but the Joxter is already gone.
Moomin stays a bit longer, frowning and grumbling to himself about how he is many things and soft is certainly not one of them. He looks down at the primroses, the pale petals and butter-coloured centre.
‘I’m not soft,’ he says, half-tempted to toss the blasted things away but he stops himself. He thinks of the Joxter and how very strange he’d been; all puffed up and nervous. If it makes the Joxter feel better…
Not that Moomin cares one way or another how the Joxter might feel, of course, but still, better to ease his mind, surely?
It’s what any good crewmate would do.