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Moomin has heard from a few different people on a few different occasions that Snufkin can be difficult to understand. He agrees that Snufkin is very cool and sometimes mysterious, with reasons for doing things that don’t make sense until he explains them, but Moomin has never once thought him ‘difficult.’
Until today, when he takes one look at Snufkin-- in his usual seat on the railing of the bridge Papa made, clutching a fishing rod without a line, face half-buried in his scarf as if that might hide how cherry-red his fever flush is-- and blurts out, “You’re sick!”
“I’m not,” comes the immediate reply. But it comes in such a hoarse, croaky voice that Moomin is taken aback by the blatant untruth.
“Why would you say that? You are,” Moomin insists, coming the last few steps between them. “You ought to be resting, not fishing. How are you going to get better like this?”
Snufkin shakes his head, the brim of his hat hanging low over his eyes. “We’re going to the beach today. We agreed already.”
Something happens in Moomin’s chest that makes it feel painfully, angrily, worriedly tight. It gets tighter with every second he stands there looking at his clearly unwell friend, until he has to do something or he might not be able to breathe. The words building up inside him are loud and maybe not very nice, and he doesn’t want to shout at poor Snufkin, so he settles for the next best thing.
He sticks out a paw.
“Give me your hand.”
Moomin says it in his best impression of the tone Mama uses when Little My tries to create mischief in the kitchen before dinner. Not angry or even close to it, but firm. As unyielding as the tall trees in the woods that shelter them during their endless summer afternoons of play.
Moomin tries to sound like that, as tall and safe and stern as that. He waits, for once the one with more patience between the two of them-- rewarded when Snufkin reaches for his hand.
“I’m gonna take you home now,” Moomin says with certainty, squeezing his fingers. “Mama will know what to do.”
Getting him off the bridge without letting him fall into the eager river is another matter, and the very careful work of almost a full minute. By the time Snufkin is slumped in Moomin’s arm, panting, Moomin is almost as annoyed as he is worried. Such a clever Snufkin so much of the time, how could he do something as silly as this? Climb up here and fish like any other day when he’s so dizzy he can barely keep upright? A strong breeze could have knocked him clean over the side, and then where would they be?
But it’s hard to hold onto irritation when there’s so much more worry to crowd it out. And when Snufkin looks so miserable. Every step seems to take all his strength, as though the oft-made journey up the hill from the bridge to the house is somehow more difficult than any of his winter travels must have been.
So Moomin holds him tighter as they make their way and says, “Don’t worry, Snuf, I’ve got you. The last thing I’d do is let you fall down.”
Snufkin doesn’t answer, but he leans in a little more. His eyes are half-mast, miles away. If it weren’t for Moomin’s arms around him, he’d worry Snufkin was somewhere else entirely.
Mama sees them coming and meets them by the door, knitting left abandoned on the porch. She’s frowning as she feels Snufkin’s forehead with her hand, and Moomin’s worry multiplies.
“Oh, my, you’re burning up! I had worried this might happen,” mama frets. “Moomintroll told me all about your little adventure last night, but I notice he was the only one to come inside afterwards for a warm bath and a cup of hot tea.”
Understanding swoops over Moomin abruptly, like a bird coming to land on his shoulder.
Last night a star fell into the river and made it glow, all the darting fishes shining different colors. Snufkin said it must have been a fairy’s clever trick, since a real star would have taken a much longer time to fall and probably would have swallowed up all the water, but it was still fantastic. And even though it was a little cold for a night at the tail end of spring, they both jumped in to see if they would change colors in that star-shining river, too.
They didn’t glow. But they swam and splashed and laughed, and it was just as good as any old fairy magic anyway, and the fun lasted for longer than it probably should have. Moomin was shivering by the time they crawled out again, fur soaked and dripping into his eyes. Snufkin offered him a spot by his campfire, which was very tempting; but Moomin could see a light on in his house that meant one of his parents was waiting up for him, so he waved goodbye instead.
With a sinking heart, he wishes now that he had taken Snufkin home with him. He should have asked, at least.
“Let’s get you inside, dear, and into something warm,” Mama is saying, drawing Snufkin through the door. It looks like the only thing keeping him upright is that stubborn part of him that has to do everything by himself, but he doesn’t tug away from Mama’s hands. “Moomin, will you go find him a change of clothes, please? Try the Room for Everything.”
Moomin is quick to do as he’s bid, but he can hear them talking quietly as he goes and he wishes he could stay and listen. He can guess what his friend is saying-- sorry and you don’t have to and I’ll be alright on my own-- and shakes his head even though no one else is on the staircase to see.
Snufkin must know better by now. How many years has he been a part of their family at this point? Does he really think Mama would let anyone wander off alone when they were sick, least of all someone she cared a lot about?
By the time Moomin has braved the everything room and found a few articles leftover from some long-ago guest, Snufkin has been plied with herbal tea and gooey cough syrup, and needs help getting changed before finally climbing into bed. The afternoon sun is stark and golden where it pours through all the windows, noon high and bright outside, but Moomin is sleepy just looking at Snufkin, who droops against the pillow like his bones have all gone wobbly.
“Now let him rest, Moomintroll,” Mama says, giving the blanket one last tug, smoothing it out until she’s satisfied that the Snufkin in bed is cozy enough there. “He’s very tired, so we mustn’t wear him out.”
“Will he feel better soon?” Moomin asks of her before she leaves. He hates how poorly his best friend must be feeling. He wants medicine or a cure or another fairy to come along with their magic, anything that will fix it fast.
Mama pauses to smile at him, touching the side of his face with her large hand. “Of course, dear. All he needs is a little care. And we’ve plenty of that to go around in our house, don’t we?”
Moomin warms right up at that, relieved. If that’s all Snufkin needs, then he’ll be healthy again in no time! There’s no one else in the world as cared about as Snufkin is, as far as Moomin is concerned. And he’ll care twice as hard now, if that’ll help.
“What’s this?” Little My demands abruptly, leaning in through the door before Mama can close it behind her. “Snufkin, you oaf, what are you doing laying around?”
“He’s sick, My, and you’re not to mess with him,” Moomin says sternly, parroting what he was told with his own brand of authority. “Or I won’t let you come on any more of our adventures.”
“Ha! I don’t need your adventures, I’ll just have my own!” But she quiets down after that, hopping up onto the side of the bed; small enough that she doesn’t disturb the mattress under its thick padding of blanket and quilt even with the energetic bounce. “Today is going to be boring, isn’t it?”
“You don’t have to stay,” Moomin mutters, dragging over a chair.
“Neither do you,” Snufkin replies. He’s not quite asleep yet, blinking slowly like a cat. “You should go to the beach.”
“What?” Moomin bristles indignantly, even as he scoots up as close to the bed as he can and takes one of Snufkin’s paws in both of his own. “Didn’t you hear what Mama said? You need cared about to get better, and I’m the best one at caring about you, the best in the whole valley. So I have to stay here. Then when you’re okay, we’ll both go to the beach.”
The Snufkin peering up at him now is a little different than the one Moomin usually sees. Not so much warmer, because Snufkin has never been cold, but softer. Like a treat left out in the sun for so long that it loses its form and gives beneath his hands when he tries to pick it up again. Left without any of its edges, and left a little harder to hold, but all the same underneath.
“Best in the whole world,” Snufkin corrects him, and he’s smiling as he finally drifts off.
Moomin gasps, delighted, and only just barely remembers not to shout. “The best in the world, he said!” he whispers to Little My, swinging his feet. “The whole world!”
“I guess if anyone would know, he would,” My concedes reluctantly. “When he wakes up again, I want him to tell us stories.”
Torn between informing her that she’s not anybody's boss and agreeing that he'd like to hear some stories, too, Moomin settles for a nod. And then he leans in to get comfortable, because Snufkin fell asleep holding his hand, and Moomin wouldn’t let go for all the magic and falling stars in the world.