Tales From Moominvalley

  Then he fled into his park and started on his leaf hut again.

  He worked and worked, but nothing went quite right. His thoughts were elsewhere, and suddenly the roof came down and the hut laid itself flat on the ground.

  No, said the hemulen. I don’t want to. I’ve only just learned to say no. I’m pensioned. I do what I like. Nothing else.

  He said these things several times over, more and more menacingly. Then he rose to his feet, walked through the park, unlocked the gate and began to pull all the blessed junk and scrap inside.

  *

  The kiddies were sitting perched on the high wall around

  the hemulen’s park. They resembled grey sparrows but were quite silent.

  At times some one whispered: ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Hush,’ said another. ‘He doesn’t like to talk.’

  The hemulen had hung some lanterns and paper roses in the trees and turned all broken and ragged parts out of sight. Now he was assembling something that had once been a merry-go-round. The parts did not fit together very well, and half of them seemed to be missing.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he shouted crossly. ‘Can’t you see? It’s just a lot of scrap and nothing else! No!! I won’t have any help from you.’

  A murmur of encouragement and sympathy was carried down from the wall, but not a word was heard.

  The hemulen started to make the merry-go-round into a kind of house instead. He put the horses in the grass and the swans in the brook, turned the rest up-side-down and worked with his hair on end. Doll’s house! he thought bitterly. What it all comes to in the end is a lot of tinsel and gew-gaws on a dustheap, and a noise and racket like it’s been all my life…

  Then he looked up and shouted:

  ‘What are you staring at? Run along to the hemulens and tell them I don’t want any dinner tomorrow! Instead they might send me nails and a hammer and candles and ropes and some two-inch battens, and they’d better be quick about it.’

  The kiddies laughed and ran off.

  ‘Didn’t we tell him,’ the hemulens cried and slapped

  each other’s backs. ‘He has to have something to do. The poor little thing’s longing for his pleasure-ground.’

  And they sent him twice what he had asked for, and, furthermore, food for a week, and ten yards of red velvet, gold and silver paper in rolls and a barrel organ just in case.

  ‘No,’ said the hemulen. ‘No music box. Nothing that makes a noise.’

  ‘Of course not,’ the kiddies said and kept the barrel organ outside.

  The hemulen worked, built and constructed. And while building he began to like the job, rather against his will. High in the trees thousands of mirror glass splinters glittered, swaying with the branches in the winds. In the treetops the hemulen made little benches and soft nests where people could sit and have a drink of juice without being observed, or just sleep. And from the strong branches hung the swings.

  The roller coaster railway was difficult. It had to be only a third of its former size, because so many parts

  were missing. But the hemulen comforted himself with the thought that no one could be frightened enough to scream in it now. And from the last stretch one was dumped in the brook, which is great fun to most people.

  But still the railway was a bit too much for the hemulen to struggle with single-handed. When he had got one side right the other side fell down, and at last he shouted, very crossly:

  ‘Lend me a hand, someone! I can’t do ten things at once all alone.’

  The kiddies jumped down from the wall and came running.

  After this they built it all jointly, and the hemulens sent them such lots of food that the kiddies were able to stay all day in the park.

  In the evening they went home, but by sunrise they stood waiting at the gate. One morning they had brought along the alligator on a string.

  ‘Are you sure he’ll keep quiet?’ the hemulen asked suspiciously.

  ‘Quite sure,’ the whomper replied. ‘He won’t say a word. He’s so quiet and friendly now that he’s got rid of his other heads.’

  One day the fillyjonk’s son found the boa constrictor in the porcelain stove. As it behaved nicely it was immediately brought along to grandma’s park.

  Everybody collected strange things for the hemulen’s pleasure-ground, or simply sent him cakes, kettles, window curtains, toffee or whatever. It became a fad to send along presents with the kiddies in the mornings, and the hemulen accepted everything that didn’t make a noise.

  But he let no one inside the wall, except the kiddies.

  The park grew more and more fantastic. In the middle of it the hemulen lived in the merry-go-rqund house. It was gaudy and lopsided, resembling most of all a large toffee paper bag that somebody had crumpled up and thrown away.

  Inside it grew the rose-bush with all the red hips.

  *

  And one beautiful, mild evening all was finished. It was definitely finished, and for one moment the sadness of completion overtook the hemulen.

  They had lighted the lanterns and stood looking at their work.

  Mirror glass, silver and gold gleamed in the great dark trees, everything was ready and waiting – the ponds, the boats, the tunnels, the switchback, the juice stand, the swings, the dart boards, the trees for climbing, the apple boxes…

  ‘Here you are,’ the hemulen said. ‘Just remember that this is not a pleasure-ground, it’s the Park of Silence.’

  The kiddies silently threw themselves into the enchantment they had helped to build. But the whomper turned and asked:

  ‘And you won’t mind that you’ve no tickets to punch?’

  ‘No,’ said the hemulen. ‘I’d punch the air in any case.’ He went into the merry-go-round and lighted the moon from the Miracle House. Then he stretched himself out in the fillyjonk’s hammock and lay looking at the stars through a hole in the ceiling.

  Outside all was silent. He could hear nothing except the nearest brook and the night wind.

  Suddenly the hemulen felt anxious. He sat up, listening hard. Not a sound.

  Perhaps they don’t have any fun at all, he thought worriedly. Perhaps they’re not able to have any fun without shouting their heads off… Perhaps they’ve gone home?

  He took a leap up on Gaffsie’s old chest of drawers and thrust his head out of a hole in the wall. No, they hadn’t gone home. All the park was rustling and seething with a secret and happy life. He could hear a splash, a giggle, faint thuds and thumps, padding feet everywhere. They were enjoying themselves.

  Tomorrow, thought the hemulen, tomorrow I’ll tell them they may laugh and possibly even hum a little if they feel like it. But not more than that. Absolutely not.

  He climbed down and went back to his hammock. Very soon he was asleep and not worrying over anything.

  *

  Outside the wall, by the locked gate, the hemulen’s uncle was standing. He looked through the bars but saw very little.

  Doesn’t sound as if they had much fun, he thought. But then, everyone has to make what he can out of life. And my poor relative always was a bit queer.

  He took the barrel organ home with him because he had always loved music.

  The Invisible Child

  ONE dark and rainy evening the Moomin family sat around the verandah table picking over the day’s mushroom harvest. The big table was covered with newspapers, and in the centre of it stood the lighted kerosene lamp. But the corners of the verandah were dark.

  ‘My has been picking pepper spunk again,’ Moomin-pappa said. ‘Last year she collected flybane.’

  ‘Let’s hope she takes to chanterelles next autumn,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Or at least to something not directly poisonous.’

  ‘Hope for the best and prepare for the worst,’ little My observed with a chuckle.

  They continued their work in peaceful silence.

  Suddenly there were a few light taps on the glass pane in the door, and without waiting for an answer Too-ticky c
ame in and shook the rain off her oilskin jacket. Then

  she held the door open and called out in the dark: ‘Well, come along!’

  ‘Whom are you bringing?’ Moomintroll asked.

  ‘It’s Ninny,’ Too-ticky said. ‘Yes, her name’s Ninny.’

  She still held the door open, waiting. No one came.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Too-ticky said and shrugged her shoulders. ‘If she’s too shy she’d better stay there for a while.’

  ‘She’ll be drenched through,’ said Moominmamma.

  ‘Perhaps that won’t matter much when one’s invisible,’ Too-ticky said and sat down by the table. The family stopped working and waited for an explanation.

  ‘You all know, don’t you, that if people are frightened very often, they sometimes become invisible,’ Too-ticky said and swallowed a small egg mushroom that looked like a little snowball. ‘Well. This Ninny was frightened the wrong way by a lady who had taken care of her without really liking her. I’ve met this lady, and she was horrid. Not the angry sort, you know, which would have been understandable. No, she was the icily ironical kind.’

  ‘What’s ironical,’ Moomintroll asked.

  ‘Well, imagine that you slip on a rotten mushroom and sit down on the basket of newly picked ones,’ Too-ticky said. ‘The natural thing for your mother would be to be angry. But no, she isn’t. Instead she says, very coldly: “I understand that’s your idea of a graceful dance, but I’d thank you not to do it in people’s food.” Something like that.’

  ‘How unpleasant,’ Moomintroll said.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ replied Too-ticky. ‘This was the way this lady used to talk. She was ironic all day long every day, and finally the kid started to turn pale and fade around the edges, and less and less was seen of her. Last Friday one couldn’t catch sight of her at all. The lady gave her away to me and said she really couldn’t take care of relatives she couldn’t even see.’

  ‘And what did you do to the lady?’ My asked with bulging eyes. ‘Did you bash her head?’

  ‘That’s of no use with the ironic sort,’ Too-ticky said. ‘I took Ninny home with me, of course. And now I’ve brought her here for you to make her visible again.’

  There was a slight pause. Only the rain was heard, rustling along over the verandah roof. Everybody stared at Too-ticky and thought for a while.

  ‘Does she talk,’ Moominpappa asked.

  ‘No. But the lady has hung a small silver bell around her neck so that one can hear where she is.’

  Too-ticky arose and opened the door again. ‘Ninny!’ she called out in the dark.

  The cool smell of autumn crept in from the garden, and a square of light threw itself on the wet grass. After a while there was a slight tinkle outside, rather hesitantly. The sound came up the steps and stopped. A bit above the floor a small silver bell was seen hanging in the air on a black ribbon. Ninny seemed to have a very thin neck.

  ‘All right,’ Too-ticky said. ‘Now, here’s your new family. They’re a bit silly at times, but rather decent, largely speaking.’

  ‘Give the kid a chair,’ Moominpappa said. ‘Does she know how to pick mushrooms?’

  ‘I really know nothing at all about Ninny,’ Too-ticky said. ‘I’ve only brought her here and told you what I know. Now I have a few other things to attend to. Please look in some day, won’t you, and let me know how you get along. Cheerio.’

  When Too-ticky had gone the family sat quite silent, looking at the empty chair and the silver bell. After a while one of the chanterelles slowly rose from the heap on the table. Invisible paws picked it clean from needles and earth. Then it was cut to pieces, and the pieces drifted away and laid themselves in the basin. Another mushroom sailed up from the table.

  ‘Thrilling!’ My said with awe. ‘Try to give her something to eat. I’d like to know if you can see the food when she swallows it.’

  ‘How on earth does one make her visible again,’ Moominpappa said worriedly. ‘Should we take her to a doctor?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Moominmamma. ‘I believe she wants to be invisible for a while. Too-ticky said she’s shy. Better leave the kid alone until something turns up.’

  And so it was decided.

  The eastern attic room happened to be unoccupied, so Moominmamma made Ninny a bed there. The silver bell tinkled along after her upstairs and reminded Moominmamma of the cat that once had lived with them. At the bedside she laid out the apple, the glass of juice and the three striped pieces of candy everybody in the house was given at bedtime.

  Then she lighted a candle and said:

  ‘Now have a good sleep, Ninny. Sleep as late as you can. There’ll be tea for you in the morning any time you want. And if you happen to get a funny feeling or if you want anything, just come downstairs and tinkle.’

  Moominmamma saw the quilt raise itself to form a very small mound. A dent appeared in the pillow. She went downstairs again to her own room and started looking through her granny’s old notes about Infallible Household Remedies. Evil Eye. Melancholy. Colds. No. There didn’t seem to be anything suitable. Yes, there was. Towards the end of the notebook she found a few lines written down at the time when Granny’s hand was already rather shaky. ‘If people start getting misty and difficult to see.’ Good. Moominmamma read the recipe, which was rather complicated, and started at once to mix the medicine for little Ninny.

  *

  The bell came tinkling downstairs, one step at a time, with a small pause between each step. Moomintroll had waited for it all morning. But the silver bell wasn’t the exciting thing. That was the paws. Ninny’s paws were coming down the steps. They were very small, with anxiously bunched toes. Nothing else of Ninny was visible. It was very odd.

  Moomintroll drew back behind the porcelain stove and stared bewitchedly at the paws that passed him on their way to the verandah. Now she served herself some tea. The cup was raised in the air and sank back again. She ate some bread and butter and marmalade. Then the cup and saucer drifted away to the kitchen, were washed and put away in the closet. You see, Ninny was a very orderly little child.

  Moomintroll rushed out in the garden and shouted: ‘Mamma! She’s got paws! You can see her paws!’

  I thought as much, Moominmamma was thinking where she sat high in the apple tree. Granny knew a thing or two. Now when the medicine starts to work we’ll be on the right way.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Moominpappa. ‘And better still when she shows her snout one day. It makes me feel sad to talk with people who are invisible. And who never answer me.’

  ‘Hush, dear,’ Moominmamma said warningly. Ninny’s paws were standing in the grass among the fallen apples.

  ‘Hello Ninny,’ shouted My. ‘You’ve slept like a hog. When are you going to show your snout? You must look a fright if you’ve wanted to be invisible.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Moomintroll whispered, ‘she’ll be hurt.’ He went running up to Ninny and said:

  ‘Never mind My. She’s hardboiled. You’re really safe here among us. Don’t even think about that horrid lady. She can’t come here and take you away…’

  In a moment Ninny’s paws had faded away and become nearly indistinguishable from the grass.

  ‘Darling, you’re an ass,’ said Moominmamma. ‘You can’t go about reminding the kid about those things. Now pick apples and don’t talk rubbish.’

  They all picked apples.

  After a while Ninny’s paws became clearer again and climbed one of the trees.

  It was a beautiful autumn morning. The shadows made one’s snout a little chilly but the sunshine felt nearly like summer. Everything was wet from the night’s rain, and all colours were strong and clear. When all the apples were picked or shaken down Moominpappa carried the biggest apple mincer out in the garden, and they started making apple-cheese.

  Moomintroll turned the handle, Moominmamma fed the mincer with apples and Moominpappa carried the filled jars to the verandah. Little My sat in a tree singing the Big Apple Song.


  Suddenly there was a crash.

  On the garden path appeared a large heap of apple-cheese, all prickly with glass splinters. Beside the heap one could see Ninny’s paws, rapidly fading away.

  ‘Oh,’ said Moominmamma. ‘That was the jar we use to give to the bumble-bees. Now we needn’t carry it down to the field. And Granny always said that if you want the earth to grow something for you, then you have to give it a present in the autumn.’

  Ninny’s paws appeared back again, and above them a pair of spindly legs came to view. Above the legs one could see the faint outline of a brown dress hem.

  ‘I can see her legs!’ cried Moomintroll.

  ‘Congrats,’ said little My, looking down out of her tree. ‘Not bad. But the Groke knows why you must wear snuff-brown.’

  Moominmamma nodded to herself and sent a thought to her Granny and the medicine.

  Ninny padded along after them all day. They became used to the tinkle and no longer thought Ninny very remarkable.

  By evening they had nearly forgotten about her. But when everybody was in bed Moominmamma took out a rose-pink shawl of hers and made it into a little dress. When it was ready she carried it upstairs to the eastern attic room and cautiously laid it out on a chair. Then she made a broad hair ribbon out of the material left over.

  Moominmamma was enjoying herself tremendously. It was exactly like sewing doll’s clothes again. And the funny thing was that one didn’t know if the doll had yellow or black hair.

  *

  The following day Ninny had her dress on. She was visible up to her neck, and when she came down to morning tea she bobbed and piped:

  ‘Thank you all ever so much.’

  The family felt very embarrassed, and no one found anything to say. Also it was hard to know where to look when one talked to Ninny. Of course one tried to look a bit above the bell where Ninny was supposed to have her eyes. But then very easily one found oneself staring at some of the visible things further down instead, and it gave one an impolite feeling.