CHAPTER 20
Going Home
THE valley seemed even more silent after Grandpa-Grumble had gone into hibernation. Now and then the sound of the Hemulen hammering away up in the maple-tree could be heard. Sometimes he was chopping wood outside the woodshed. Otherwise everything was quiet. They said ‘Hallo’ and ‘Good morning’ to each other but they didn’t feel like talking. They were waiting for their story to come to an end.
From time to time one of them went into the pantry to get something to eat. The coffee-pot stood on the stove all day keeping warm.
Actually, the silence in the valley was very beautiful, and restful, too, and they got used to each other much better by not meeting so often. The crystal ball was completely empty, and ready to be filled up by whatever might come. It got colder and colder all the time.
One morning something happened. The floor of the tree-house fell out with a crash and the maple-tree looked exactly as it had done before the Hemulen had started building.
‘That’s funny,’ said the Hemulen. ‘I’ve got that feeling again – that the same sort of thing happens the whole time.’
All three of them stood under the tree and looked at what had happened.
‘Perhaps,’ Toft said shyly, ‘perhaps Moominpappa would prefer to sit in the tree just as it is.’
‘I think you’ve got something there,’ the Hemulen admitted. ‘More his cup of tea, what? Of course, I could knock a nail in for the lamp, but it would seem more natural if it hung on a branch.’
They went inside to have coffee, and this time they drank it together and had saucers as well as cups.
‘Imagine us being brought together by an accident,’ the Hemulen said gravely and stirred his coffee. ‘And what shall we do now?’
‘Wait,’said Toft.
‘Of course,’ said the Hemulen, ‘but what about me? All you need to do is wait until they get back, but it’s a different matter for me.’
‘Why?’Toft asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said the Hemulen.
Snufkin poured out some more coffee and said: ‘The wind will get up after twelve o’clock.’
‘That’s the sort of thing you’re always saying!’ Toft burst out. ‘Someone asks what he’s got to do, and what will happen, and this is awful, and all you can say is that it’s going to snow, or there’ll be a storm or something, or do you want some more sugar…’
‘You’re angry again,’ said the Hemulen in surprise. ‘Why are you only angry at such long intervals?’
‘I don’t know,’ Toft muttered. ‘I’m not angry, it just comes over me…’
‘I was thinking of the dinghy,’ Snufkin explained. ‘If the wind gets up after twelve o’clock, the Hemulen and I could go out for a sail.’
‘The boat leaks,’ the Hemulen said.
‘No it doesn’t,’ said Snufkin. ‘I’ve made it tight. And I found the sail in the woodshed. Do you want to come sailing?’
Toft hastily cast his eyes down at his coffee-cup, he knew that the Hemulen was scared. And the Hemulen said: ‘It would be absolutely wonderful.’
*
The wind got up round half past one, not very much, but there were tiny white horses all over the sea. Snufkin had the dinghy waiting at the bathing-hut jetty, he raised the spritsail and let the Hemulen sit in the bow. It was very cold and they were wearing all the woollen things they could find. The sky was clear, with a bank of dark-blue wintry clouds over the horizon. Snufkin turned out towards the point, the dinghy heeled over and gathered speed.
‘The majesty of the sea,’ the Hemulen cried in a tremulous voice, his nose was pale and he stared in horror at the leeward gunwale, it was much too close to the frothing green sea. So this is how it feels, he thought. This is what sailing is like. The world turns upside down and you hang on for dear life to the edge of the yawning abyss, you freeze and feel ashamed and when it’s too late you wish you’d never come. Let’s hope and pray he doesn’t notice how scared I am.
Just beyond the point the dinghy ran into the heavy swell from some storm out at sea. Snufkin tacked and continued farther out.
The Hemulen began to feel sick. It came slowly, treacherously, he yawned and yawned and swallowed and swallowed, and suddenly he felt weak and wretched all over his body, and a nasty sick feeling rose from his stomach. He just wanted to die.
‘Now you take the rudder,’ said Snufkin.
‘No, no, no,’ the Hemulen whispered, feebly waving his paws in protest, but the movement started more ghastly torture in his stomach and the whole of the merciless sea revolved in the other direction.
‘You must take the rudder,’ Snufkin repeated. He got up and scrambled across to the middle thwart. The rudder swung to and fro on its own, helplessly – someone had to catch hold of it, this was awful – the Hemulen moved astern, he stumbled and staggered over the thwarts and grabbed the rudder with his frozen paws, the sail swung wildly, it was the end of the world! And Snufkin just sat and stared at the horizon.
The Hemulen steered this way and that, the sail creaked, and water came into the dinghy, and Snufkin went on staring at the horizon. The Hemulen felt so sick that he couldn’t even think, so he steered by instinct, and suddenly he could steer, the sail filled with wind and the dinghy set course along the coast in the heavy swell.
Now I won’t be sick, the Hemulen thought. I’ll hold on to the rudder as hard as I can and I won’t be sick.
His stomach began to settle. He kept his eyes riveted on the bow, which rose up and down, and the dinghy sailed free with the wind farther and farther out to sea.
*
Toft had done the washing-up and made the Hemulen’s bed. He had gathered together the floor-boards under the maple-tree and hidden them behind the woodshed. Now he was sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the wind and waiting.
At last he heard them talking in the garden, they had got back. He heard steps outside the kitchen and the Hemulen came in and said: ‘Hallo.’
‘Hallo,’ said Toft. ‘Was it blowy?’
‘A strong gale,’ the Hemulen answered. ‘Fresh, rough weather.’ He was still green in the face and so cold that he was shaking all over, he took off his boots and socks and hung them on the stove to dry. Toft poured out some coffee for him. They sat opposite each other at the table and felt embarrassed.
‘I wonder,’ said the Hemulen, ‘I wonder whether it won’t soon be about time to go home.’ He sneezed, and added: ‘I did the steering.’
‘Perhaps you’re homesick for your boat,’ Toft muttered.
The Hemulen was silent for a long time. When he eventually spoke he had a look of tremendous relief on his face. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you something. It was the first time in my whole life that I have ever been out at sea.’
Toft didn’t look up, and the Hemulen asked: ‘Aren’t you surprised?’
Toft shook his head.
The Hemulen got up and started to walk up and down the kitchen, he was very excited. ‘I thought sailing was ghastly,’ he said. ‘I felt so sick that all I wanted to do was die, and I was scared the whole time!’
Toft looked at the Hemulen and said: ‘It must have been awful.’
‘It was,’ the Hemulen agreed gratefully. ‘But I didn’t let Snufkin notice anything! He thought I was good at holding
the sail, I had the right touch. And now I know I don’t have to sail. Funny, isn’t it, eh? I’ve just realized I don’t ever need to sail again.’ The Hemulen raised his head and laughed heartily. He blew his nose violently in the kitchen towel and said: ‘I’m warm again now. As soon as my boots and socks are dry I’m going home. I’m sure everything’s in a mess there! Lots to get organized!’
‘Will you do the cleaning?’ Toft asked.
‘Of course not!’ the Hemulen exclaimed. ‘I shall arrange things for other people. There aren’t many people who know how they should live and can manage on their own!’
*
The bridge had always been
the place for good-byes. The Hemulen’s boots and socks were dry and he was ready to leave. The wind was still blowing and his thin hair was all over the place. He had caught a cold, or perhaps it was just emotion.
‘Here’s my poem,’ said the Hemulen, giving Snufkin a piece of paper. ‘I have written it out as a memento. You know, the one that starts “Where lies true lasting happiness”. Bless you, and say hallo to the family for me.’ He waved his paw and left.
Just as the Hemulen had crossed the bridge, Toft came running after him and asked: ‘What are you going to do with your boat?’
‘My boat?’ the Hemulen repeated. ‘Oh yes, my boat.’
He thought and then said: ‘I shall wait until I meet a suitable person.’
‘You mean somebody who dreams of sailing,’ Toft said.
‘Not at all!’ the Hemulen answered. Someone who needs a boat.’ He waved his paw again and disappeared among the birch-trees.
Toft heaved a sigh of relief. One more left. Soon the valley would be as empty as the crystal ball and would belong to no one except the Moomin family and Toft. He passed Snufkin and asked: ‘When are you off?’
‘It all depends,’ Snufkin answered.
CHAPTER 21
Coming Home
TOFT went into Moominmamma’s room for the first time. It was white. He filled the water-jug and smoothed out the crocheted bedcover. He put Fillyjonk’s vase on the bedside table. Moominmamma had no pictures on the walls and on the desk there was only a small dish with safety-pins, a rubber cork and two round stones. On the window-sill Toft found a clasp-knife. She forgot it, he thought. That’s the one she usually makes little boats out of bark with. But perhaps she had another one with her. He pulled out the blades, the big one and the small one, they were both quite blunt and the awl was broken off. There was a tiny pair of scissors attached to the knife, but she hadn’t used them much. Toft went out to the woodshed and sharpened the knife. Then he put it back on the window-sill.
The weather had suddenly become milder, and the wind changed to south-west. That’s the family’s wind. I know they like the wind from the south-west best, Toft thought.
A bank of clouds slowly accumulated over the sea, and the whole sky became heavy with them and it was easy to see that they were full of snow. Within a few days all the valleys would be covered with winter, they had been waiting for it for a long time, but now it was on its way.
Snufkin stood outside his tent and knew that it was time to break camp, he was ready to be off. The valley would soon be cut off.
Slowly and calmly he pulled up the pegs and rolled up the tent. He doused the fire. He was in no hurry today.
Everything was empty and clean, all that was left was a rectangle of bleached grass showing where he had lived. The snow would cover that up, too, the next day.
He wrote a letter to Moomintroll and put it into the letter-box. His rucksack was already packed and waiting on the bridge.
At first light Snufkin went to the beach to fetch his five bars of music. He climbed over the banks of seaweed and driftwood and stood on the sand waiting. They came immediately and they were more beautiful and even simpler than he had hoped they would be.
Snufkin went back to the bridge as the song about the rain got nearer and nearer, he slung his rucksack over his shoulders and walked straight into the forest.
*
That evening a tiny but steady light was shining in the crystal ball. The family had hung the storm-lantern at the top of the mast and they were on their way home to hibernate for the winter.
The south-west wind was still blowing and the bank of clouds had risen high in the sky. There was a smell of snow in the air, a heavy, clean smell.
*
Toft wasn’t surprised when he saw that the tent had gone. Perhaps Snufkin had understood that Toft was the only one who should meet the family when they got home. For an instant, Toft wondered whether Snufkin perhaps understood a great deal more than one would think – but only for an instant. Then Toft began thinking about himself again. His dream about meeting the family again had become so enormous that it made him feel tired. Every time he thought about Moominmamma he got a headache. She had grown so perfect and gentle and consoling that it was unbearable, she was a big, round smooth balloon without a face. The whole of Moominvalley had somehow become unreal, the house, the garden and the river were nothing but a play of shadows on the screen and Toft no longer knew what was real and what was only his imagination. He had been made to wait too long and now he was angry. He sat on the kitchen steps hugging his knees and kept his eyes tight shut, huge strange pictures crowded into his head and suddenly he was scared! He jumped up and started running, he ran past the kitchen-garden, the rubbish-heap, straight into the forest and all of a sudden it was dark, he was in the waste ground, the ugly abandoned forest that Mymble had talked about. Inside there was perpetual dusk. The trees stood uneasily close to one another, there wasn’t enough room for their branches, and they were all quite thin. The ground looked like wet leather. The only things that glistened were the flame-coloured finger-tip mushrooms growing like small hands out of the dark, and on the tree trunks there were great mouldy lumps looking like cream and white velvet. It was a different world. Toft had no pictures and no words for it, nothing had to correspond. No one had tried to make a path here and no one had ever rested under the trees. They had just walked
around with sinister thoughts, this was the forest of anger. He grew quite calm and very attentive. With enormous relief the worried Toft felt all his pictures disappear. His descriptions of the valley and the Happy Family faded and slipped away, Moominmamma glided away and became remote, an impersonal picture, he didn’t even know what she looked like.
Toft walked on through the forest, stooping under the branches, creeping and crawling, and thinking of nothing at all and became as empty as the crystal ball. This is where Moominmamma had walked when she was tired and cross and disappointed and wanted to be on her own, wandering aimlessly in the endless forest lost in her dejection… Toft saw an entirely new Moominmamma and she seemed natural to him. He suddenly wondered why she had been unhappy and whether there was anything one could do about it.
The forest began to thin out and huge grey mountains lay in front of him. They were covered with depressions full of boggy ground almost to their peaks, where they rose big and completely bare. Up there was nothing, just the wind. The sky was vast, and full of great scurrying snow-clouds. Everything was enormous. Toft looked behind him and the valley was just an insignificant shadow below him. Then he looked at the sea.
The whole sea lay spread out in front of him, grey and streaked with even white waves right out to the horizon. Toft turned his face into the wind and sat down to wait.
Now, at last, he could wait.
The family had the wind with them and they were making straight for the shore. They were coming from some island where Toft had never been and which he couldn’t see. Perhaps they felt like staying there, he thought. Perhaps they will make up a story about that island and tell it to themselves before they go to sleep.
Toft sat high up on the mountain for several hours looking at the sea.
Just before the sun went down it threw a shaft of light through the clouds, cold and wintry-yellow, making the whole world look very desolate.
And then Toft saw the storm-lantern Moominpappa had hung up at the top of the mast. It threw a gentle, warm light and burnt steadily. The boat was a very long way away. Toft had plenty of time to go down through the forest and along the beach to the jetty, and be Justin time to catch the line and tie up the boat.
Tove Jansson, Moominvalley in November
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