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Quiet footfalls in the dry grass roused the Joxter from a light doze. A smile tugged at his whiskers; he needn’t bother opening his eyes to know the creature they belonged to. “Good morning, kit.”
A small shadow blocked the warm autumn sunlight the Joxter had been basking in as Snufkin came to a stop at the older mumrik’s side. “It’s afternoon now, Papa.”
With a deep stretch and a chuckle, the Joxter tipped back his hat from over his face and finally cracked open one drowsy blue eye. His fluffy tail twitched in the fragrant weeds that made up his impromptu bed. “So it is. Have you come to fetch me home for tea?”
“No.” Snufkin shifted restlessly from foot to foot. The hem of his little green smock, patched and stained in countless places from a carefree summer at play in the welcoming woods and meadows of Moominvalley, twisted absently in his paws. “I have something to tell you, Papa.”
The Joxter smiled encouragingly, wriggling upright until his back was propped against the trunk of his favorite apple tree. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Around them, dry, brown leaves fluttered from the orchard trees. Many of the apples had already been picked, or collected from the ground to be pressed into cider. Crickets sang quietly from the grass, their tune more noticeable each day as more and more birds took their own songs and left the valley to wing their way southward.
Rather than producing a pretty shell, a shiny rock, or a unique mushroom from his pocket for his father to exclaim over, or recounting the tale of a daring morning caper with his little band of friends, Snufkin did the unexpected: he plopped down into the Joxter’s lap. The older mumrik let out an ‘oof!’ of surprise and amusement at the sudden weight on his middle.
“Well, hullo there,” the Joxter chuckled. Snufkin didn’t often want to cuddle like this nowadays. Obligingly, he squeezed his kit in a welcoming hug.
Snufkin burrowed into the affection, his floppy green hat going askew as he tucked the top of his head under his father’s chin. Once he was situated to his liking, Snufkin went still, gently rising and falling with the Joxter’s breaths.
Knowing better than to rush a child of few words, the Joxter simply relaxed. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy once more, forever lulled by the temptation of sweet sleep. Yes, he could certainly wait. They had all the time in the world.
Snufkin’s soft voice broke the stillness. “I think… I think I’m going to travel alone this winter, Papa. By myself.”
The Joxter’s eyes flew open.
A cool breeze bent the treetops. A curtain of leaves spiraled downwards, casting their dancing shadows against the sun-warmed ground. Silence resumed, stretching on for a short eternity.
“My goodness.” The Joxter blinked slowly, allowing the idea to sink in. “That is big news.” He took a deep, steadying breath. In, out. Then he looked down at his son with sharper eyes.
Snufkin needed to curl up small for the top of his head to fit beneath the Joxter’s chin. The Joxter realized then that it really must have been quite a while since Snufkin had nestled up to him like this. He hadn’t noticed when his kit had stopped doing so. He realized that at some point, he had swung Snufkin down from atop his shoulders and never swung him up onto them again. When had that happened?
Snufkin knew how to find his way by the sun and by the stars. He knew how to set up a tent on his own and how to start a fire with flint and tinder in nearly any weather. He knew how to catch fish, how to clean fish, how to cook fish, and how to forage when there were no fish to be caught. He knew how to go to bed hungry with a stiff upper lip when there was no food to be had at all and get up ready to try again in the morning.
The Joxter knew that Snufkin could do all of those things. That was what all of the winters he had already spent traveling with and teaching his kit had been for. And yet, something deep inside seemed to say, so soon? Can it really be time already?
Small paws clutched uncertainly at the front of the Joxter’s coat. “I want to go alone, Papa. I think I need to. But part of me wants to go with you, too. I’m… afraid. I’m sorry.”
A young mumrik always knew when it was time to strike out on their own. It seemed that Snufkin, though outwardly he looked the very picture of a soft mymble-child, was no exception.
The autumn sky was that special blue that only autumn skies could be—so deep and rich a blue that a ship could nearly set sail there. The Joxter contemplated it for a long moment before he spoke. “Snufkin.”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me something, kit. Can you tell the leaves not to change? Or the apples not to ripen? Would you tell the snow not to melt, and fret about winter’s passing so much that you didn’t enjoy the spring coming on?”
Silently, Snufkin looked up at his father and shook his head. His eyes were bright as he hung on the Joxter’s every word. Just as he always had.
“Every season is as good as the others, in its own way. Our lives are a bit like the seasons. They change over slowly—sometimes so slowly you don’t take any notice, but it happens all the same. You’re walking out of one season and into another—right this very minute, you’re doing it. It’s perfectly alright to feel afraid, or sad, or excited, or happy, or all of them at once. But try not to fight the change. Try your best to enjoy the season that you’re in while you’re in it.” The Joxter smiled his most reassuring smile. “You’ll have a fine winter wander. And when we meet back here in the spring, you can tell me all about it.”
Snufkin nodded, a small smile of understanding settling onto his face. His forehead lost its tiny wrinkle of worry. The not-so-little kit leaned into his father’s arms, a contented weight against the mumrik’s chest.
Knowing now that such times were numbered, the Joxter savored it like the last slice of a sweet orange, or the final golden sunbeams of summer.
- // - // - // - // -
In the chill mist of daybreak, a dozen and one tiny, sleepy mymble children clustered around their parents and older sisters on the path in front of their home.
The Joxter knew that future autumns would likely see Snufkin slipping away without fanfare like a shadow into the dying dark, much as the Joxter had done each year before acquiring his tiny traveling companion. This year, though, the young vagabond’s first solo departure, was special.
The Mymble had knitted him a warm new scarf for the occasion, sunflower yellow like the Joxter’s own. Looped around Snufkin’s neck, the ends still hung down almost to his hips. She insisted that he would grow into it.
Snufkin let out a small “oof!” as he was lifted off the ground and hugged tightly to his mother’s chest.
“We’ll all be waiting here for you in the springtime, Snuffykins,” the Mymble beamed, finally placing him back on his feet. “Have a wonderful adventure!”
The Joxter chuckled fondly as Snufkin carefully straightened his hat and coat. “I’m sure he will.” His tail flicked, keeping itself out of the unpleasantly cold dew that soaked the grass. In a week more, if not sooner, that dew would turn to glittering frost—he could feel it in his whiskers, as imminent as the dawn. “Ready to go, kit? I’ll walk with you as far as the mountain trail.”
Snufkin nodded very seriously. His paws curled determinedly around the straps of his rucksack, which had been carefully packed the evening before under the Joxter’s helpful eye. “Ready, Papa.”
“If anyone gives you trouble, just bite them on the shins!” Little My hollered cheerfully as the two struck out toward the shadow of the forest.
“If anyone gives you trouble, just run away,” Mymble Junior advised, leaning down with big-sisterly decorum to clap a firm paw over Little My’s mouth. “Much love, Snufkin! See you in the spring!”
The family’s farewell calls soon faded into early-morning quiet. The subdued chirps of the few lingering birds greeted the pair as they passed beneath the trees. A chilly wind rustled the dry leaves that remained overhead. Out of sight but always within earshot, a babbling brook proved a faithful companion.
“How does your pack feel?” The Joxter asked after they had been walking for some time. “Not too heavy?” Not only was Snufkin unused to carrying a full load on his own, their gear usually split between them, but the Joxter might possibly have snuck more food than was strictly necessary into the bag. Just in case.
“It’s a little bit heavy, but not too much.”
“Very good. You’ll put on more muscle soon enough, and then it won’t seem heavy at all.”
It seemed so odd, he thought, Snufkin keeping pace at his side. It was so easy to picture the tiny creature that had, not so long ago, frisked and skipped circles around him as they left the sleepy valley behind them to be tucked in under the winter snows. Where had the time gone?
Snufkin glanced suspiciously up at his father from under his hat. “Remember, Papa, I’m going on my own this time. When we get to the mountain trail, you have to go your own way.”
“Oh? And how do you know that my way and your way aren’t the same way?” the Joxter teased.
“Papa!”
He laughed at his kit’s consternation, waving his paws in mock surrender. “I’m only joking, Snufkin. My way hasn’t chosen itself just yet. I’m sure I’ll be heading out soon, though. The snows aren’t far off, now.”
Apparently mollified, Snufkin nodded. “You’re right. A winter tune is coming to me.” He brightened, pulling his mouth organ from his coat pocket. The prized possession gleamed gently in the pale light. “We should each make up a spring song. Then when we see each other again, I’ll teach you mine, and you teach me yours.”
They had always composed their spring song together; Snufkin peeping away on his mouth organ and the Joxter strumming his comfortable old guitar as they returned with the warm sunshine to their friends and family in Moominvalley. The Joxter’s heart squeezed in an altogether unfamiliar way.
The mountain trail appeared almost without warning among the boulders and bushes, intercepting the tame little woodland path all at once.
“There it is!” For a moment Snufkin nearly danced in place, childish excitement momentarily overtaking his newly serious demeanor.
“There it is,” the Joxter agreed. He scruffed the small traveler by the back of his new scarf before Snufkin could scamper off into the blue. “Now then, I know you’re properly eager, but it simply won’t do if I let you dash off without a hug from your dear old dad, will it?”
A bit sheepishly, Snufkin turned back and threw his arms around the Joxter’s middle. “Sorry, Papa. I love you. I’ll miss you!”
“And I you, Snufkin.” The Joxter squeezed him close, memorizing the warmth and weight and scent of his only kit. A quiet purr thrummed beneath his sternum, just under where Snufkin’s ear was pressed. When he was a baby, tiny and fussy, it had been the only way to put him to sleep.
The moment stretched on.
“Papa? You can let go now,” Snufkin finally said, a bit smushed in the front of his father’s coat.
“What?” The Joxter blinked. “Oh. Yes, of course.” The Joxter stepped back half a pace and fondly straightened his son’s hat, having knocked it askew with his embrace. “Just charging you up. That hug has to last you all winter.”
Snufkin giggled. “Like a hattifattener?”
“Precisely.” The Joxter took a deep, bracing breath, and stepped back completely. “Well then. Off with you!”
Eyes bright, cheeks rosy, Snufkin skipped away. “Goodbye, Papa! Safe travels! See you in the spring!” He looked back once, gave a little wave, and then struck out with no hesitation up the trail.
For a moment the Joxter watched him go, paws sunk deep into the pockets of his coat. He turned back to the forest, facing the gentle descent down into the valley. His feet, he found, would not obey.
There was a large dead tree near the intersection of the trail. The Joxter scaled it easily, mumrik claws digging into the rough bark. From the highest branch that could hold his weight, he could still see the green point of Snufkin’s hat bobbing away between the other green points of the stunted mountainside spruce trees.
The Joxter, being the sort of creature who looked after himself, had never really had words with the Protector of All Small Beasts. Watching that green hat grow smaller and smaller up the trail, he wondered if perhaps, just this once, he could make an exception. I know you must have a lot of small beasts to look after. But please look after that small beast especially. He’s mine, you know.
He stood for a long while even after Snufkin was out of sight, ears straining for any sound that may mean his kit had changed his mind and turned around. None came. Finally the Joxter descended from his perch. Snufkin knew where home was, if his mind did change. Somehow, though, the Joxter knew that it would not.
Padding silently back through the lonely forest, he came to a fork in the trail and looked down the path that led toward the Mymble’s home. The Mymble, his dear Mymble, who hugged and laughed and loved without ending, but never so much as frowned when one of her children fledged their overflowing nest. Always more chicks underfoot to give attention to.
The Joxter changed course for Moominhouse.
- // - // - // - // -
The red roof of Moominhouse was wreathed in woodsmoke as the Joxter left the cover of the forest and crossed the little wooden bridge over the stream. A flock of wild geese sliced across the cloudy grey sky, raising a ruckus with their traveling tune.
Following the verandah around the curve of house, the Joxter came upon two small, white lumps cuddled upon the steps. Moomintroll slumped morosely with his tail curled about his knees. In his tiny paws, he held a mug of gently steaming cocoa. The little Snork maiden leaned against his side, sipping from her own mug between sad glances at her friend. One of Moominmamma’s warm, knitted throws draped around both of their shoulders.
“Hullo, little ones,” he greeted. “Whatever is the matter?”
Snorkmaiden looked up at the sound of his voice, ears perking attentively. “Hello, Uncle Jox!” Her ears drooped once more as she looked to her companion, her fur tinging a faint, sympathetic blue. “Moomintroll is sad because Snufkin left.”
The Joxter knew that Snufkin had bidden his friends goodbye the afternoon before. Moomintroll, attached to Snufkin as he was, always seemed to take their annual separation the hardest. It was clear, by his watery blue eyes and sniffly snout, that he had recently been crying.
“Ah, yes.” The Joxter patted him gently between his downturned ears. “Saying goodbye can certainly make us feel sad. But don’t you fret, Moominkit. You and your mama and papa will be going to sleep soon. Spring will come in the blink of an eye, and before you know it, Snufkin will be playing a happy tune outside your window.”
Moomintroll sniffed bravely and offered a small nod. “Yes. And then we’ll go on so many adventures.”
“And Moominmamma will make pancakes for breakfast!” Her fur a cheerful cream color once more, Snorkmaiden nestled happily against his side.
Leaving the children to their cocoa, the Joxter continued on. He reached the back of the house just in time to see the elder Moomin bustle out of the woodshed, arms laden with logs that were no doubt destined for the kitchen stove. With his cloud-white fur, treasured top hat, and a red scarf wrapped round his neck to ward off the chill of the morning, all he needed was a pipe in his teeth to look the perfect picture of a snowman.
The Joxter chuckled at the thought and raised a paw in greeting. “Ahoy, Moominpappa!”
Moominpappa looked up in surprise. A log rolled from the top of the stack he held, narrowly missing his toes. “Ahoy, Joxter! Fancy seeing you this morning, my friend. I thought for certain you’d be on your way south by now.”
The Joxter shrugged philosophically. “Soon. But not just yet.”
“Well, it’s wonderful to see you.” Hooking his snout comically over the top of his load of firewood, the Moomin carefully stooped, groping about the grass with one paw until he finally grasped the fallen piece. “What brings you to our humble abode on this fine autumn day?”
The Joxter’s tail, which had been wagging slowly in amusement, stilled. “Oh, you know. I was just out and about.”
“Stay and visit a while! Can I tempt you with some coffee?”
As it turned out, he certainly could.
While Moominpappa bustled about the kitchen, the Joxter took a seat on the verandah railing with his back propped against a corner post. From there he had a lovely view of the small drama unfolding on the lawn. Sniff, the Muddler’s eldest son, had arrived. It seemed that he and Snorkmaiden had joined forces to coax Moomintroll out of the doldrums and into a game of make-believe. Empty cocoa mugs abandoned on the step, the children frolicked on the grass.
“Here we are!” A creak of the door heralded Moominpappa with a tea tray in his paws. Two steaming cups on saucers, a sugar jar, a tiny pot of cream, and a plate of what could only be homemade biscuits were placed on the verandah table. “Come drink up while it’s hot, as Moominmamma says! She’s upstairs now airing out the winter duvets, but she should be down to join us in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, my friend. It smells divine.” The Joxter rolled lazily from his perch and took a seat next to his old shipmate. The smell of the strong coffee among the crisp scents in the autumn air, the heat of the cup on his chilly paws, were soothing. He added a judicious amount of cream.
The commotion on the lawn was increasing as the children ironed out the finer points of their game. In the absence of any flowers this far into autumn, Snorkmaiden had woven herself a coronet of cattails. Imperiously wielding another by its long stalk, she seemed to be knighting Moomintroll and Sniff with it.
The Joxter realized then that he had never watched the little crew at play without Snufkin before. Life in the valley did go on, it seemed, with or without its resident vagabonds. The thought made him puff out a deep sigh, whiskers twitching in the steam from his cup.
“Hmm?” Moominpappa looked up from over-sugaring his coffee. “Why, what’s the matter, Joxter? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so melancholy.”
The Joxter was silent for a long moment. The laughter and shouts of the children taming their imaginary dragon drifted in the nippy air. “I saw Snufkin off this morning,” he answered at last.
“Ah, yes.” Moominpappa nodded. “He told us yesterday that he was heading out by himself this year. It hardly seems possible that he’s already big enough to be venturing out on his own. Then again, he’s always been such an independent little thing… Quite like his father, eh?”
The Joxter returned his friend’s smile somewhat wanly. “Yes, it seems so.”
Moominpappa sat up straighter with sudden apprehension. “You’re not getting one of your forebodings, are you?”
“Oh, no. No forebodings,” the Joxter assured hastily. “Certainly not. It’s quite normal for a young mumrik to take their own path when they reach a certain age. I always suspected that Snufkin would, too, someday.” What he hadn’t suspected was that the day would come quite so soon. “It’s all perfectly natural, really.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He placed a biscuit discreetly on the edge of the Joxter’s saucer. “Still, that doesn’t make it any easier on a father’s heart, I’m sure.”
At times, the Joxter was sure that Moominpappa was among the silliest of creatures alive. At other times, he had the almost uncanny ability to see right to the heart of the matter, as it were. “No. No, I suppose not.”
“That being the case—what would a lay-about vagabond most like to do on an autumn day before a long wander?”
The mumrik nibbled thoughtfully at the biscuit, which was very good, and swiped a crumb from his whiskers. “I feel as though I should like to spend the day drinking some very strong, good wine,” he decided. “And then use your fluff for a pillow.”
Moominpappa smiled a gentle, understanding smile. He clapped a warm, companionable paw on the Joxter’s shoulder. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Paw bracing his hat, the Joxter looked up at the fading orange branches of the hammock tree. “Say, Moomin? Do you ever wish you could stop the leaves from changing?”