CHAPTER ONE: A BAD NIGHT
Mumintroll's nice, warm hibernation dream was infiltrated by an awful sound. It conjured images in his half-sleep of sitting by the river in the summer sun, his friends lounging nearby, and laughing at how horrible the noise was—how could such a lovely instrument as the harmonica make a shrill, shrieking, horrid sound like that? Nuuska, how could you play so terribly all of a sudden? Is something wrong—
Mumintroll jolted awake. The screaming harmonica did not fall away with his dream. He struggled to move, the sleep holding on, and finally stumbled out of bed and to the window, throwing it open to the frigid night air. A dim, rusty smell trailed up with the noise, and with a stone in his gut, he knew that, yes, something was very, very wrong.
Looking down, he could just barely make out, mere feet away from the snow-covered porch steps, a shape on the ground.
"Hello?!" he called down. The gasping chords of the harmonica replied. He threw himself over the windowsill and all but fell the three stories down his rope ladder, barely hanging on to the rungs as he went. As he slid down one of the porch pillars and landed in the snow, the horrid music trailed weakly away, and the harmonica slipped out from between Nuuska's teeth.
"Mumintroll."
"Nuuska!" Mumintroll cried and fell down at his side, his paws hovering over him, unsure. That rusty smell was stronger now, and though he couldn't see him in the dark, he knew it was bad.
"Mumintroll," Nuuska said thickly, weakly, gasping. "Mumintroll."
His cold fingers pawed numbly at Mumintroll's arms. Mumintroll took them in his own and realized they were wet.
"What—" he choked "—what happened? What—no, no, inside, come on, we have to go inside."
He tried to lift him, pulling him against his chest.
"We-we have to go inside now. Come on."
He tried to pull him under the arms toward the porch steps.
"Nuuska! Come on! We have to go inside! We have to!"
He couldn't lift him. He just couldn't. He was too weak. Nuuska's head rolled back against Mumintroll's chest with a shuddering breath, and Mumintroll cried out, holding him tightly.
"No," he whimpered. "No, no, no, no—M-MAMA! MAMA, PAPA!"
Mumintroll screamed. He screamed louder than he had in his whole life. He screamed, rocking, eyes squeezed shut, until he heard the porch door open behind him, pushing against the snowdrift. Muminmama and Muminpapa stopped short at the sight of him, illuminated by their cold oil lamp, at the smell, but pushed forward anyway.
"Inside!" ordered Papa, taking up Nuuska on one side. "Inside, quickly!"
With the boy cradled between the three of them, they hurried back up the steps and into the dining room. As soon as Nuuska was laid on the dining table, Papa shut the door firmly and locked it, peering out into the wintry night. Mumintroll and Mama stood over the table, staring.
The boy had been torn apart. Even through the layers of his winter clothes, something, someone had slashed through to the bone. Face, neck, chest, arms, legs, nothing had been spared, split open and oozing an angry red. Mama made a sickly sound in her throat, but swallowed it and put the oil lamp firmly down on the table beside Nuuska's head.
"Get the spare linens," she told Mumintroll. He hesitated, not wanting to let go of Nuuska. She turned to the fireplace and hurried to light it: "Get the spare linens! Go! Hurry!"
He did as she said, spurred on by the urgency in her voice, leaving red paw-prints on the stair banister as he ran to the second floor.
There was blood spreading into the white coversheet of the table.
"Papa!" said Mama. "In the cellar, second room, blue tin, lithomarge."
"Blue tin," replied Papa, and he went.
She herself rushed into the kitchen to retrieve—with a shudder—her cooking scissors. She had to stand on a chair to lean over Nuuska, apologizing as she unwrapped his scarf from around his neck, unbuttoned his woolen overcoat, snip-snip-snipped the sweater she'd made for him a few years ago, snip-snipped his undershirt and pulled it all away like the shearing off a sheep. He immediately began to shiver.
"I know," she said softly, ignoring the stickiness of his bare skin. "I know, I'm sorry."
He mumbled in reply, eyes half-open, staring at the fire before drifting closed again.
His ribs were broken on one side, mottled, only pushed back into place by his ragged breathing, the pressure of his lungs, the tension of his skin. He was meat—skin, flesh, muscle, and bone, nothing more and nothing less—and he was on her dining table. Had something meant to eat him?
Mumintroll sprinted back into the room with the bedsheets, blankets, and pillowcases, and Mama swallowed the bile in her throat, pointing Mumintroll to the kitchen: "Heat some water! Quickly now!"
If she could just keep him from looking for too long…
Papa emerged from the cellar and handed her the blue tin. Mama leaned over Nuuska's chest, scooped out a portion of the gray-white powder of the tin, and sprinkled it over the deepest wounds, the ones that would stain her table the most. How silly of her, she thought and sniffled. What a ridiculous thing to think of right now. She took a kitchen towel and patted the powder down, motioning wordlessly to Papa. He took up one of the folded pillowcases, tight-woven cotton, and pressed down with both hands where she told him to, his whole weight on the one spot.
They had expected a yelp, a shout, something, anything. Nuuska only breathed, fast and shallow.
As they both stood there, all their movement falling suddenly still, Mama's eyes began to water.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered, unblinking, pressing down with an ever-reddening towel. "I don't know what to do, Papa."
"You're doing it now," said Papa as calmly as possible. His paws shook.
"Oh, my boy. My poor boy."
"Steady, Mama. Steady."
It would take a long while for all the bleeding to stop. Even with Mama's lithomarge powder, there was only so much they could use without it becoming toxic.
Mumintroll stood at Nuuska's head and tearfully cleared the blood and dirt off his face with a wet rag. His summer freckles had faded, his copper hair darker with the lack of sunlight, and even without the gashes tearing through his nose and cheek, he would have looked worse for wear, thin and exhausted. At the very least, those dark circles under his eyes might go away now, thought Mumintroll hopefully, and he was immediately disgusted with himself. What did that matter? What good would that do right now? Well, it would mean he had finally gotten sleep, and that was good, wasn't it? No! Or… maybe? He didn't know. His brain felt off-kilter, unwell, whisked like an egg.
Mama's scissors cut through his thoughts, the sharp scrape of metal blades unusually grating to his ear. She rinsed her curved needle, the one she usually used to make dolls, in a warm basin on the hearth and re-threaded it to start again. He could see something strange in her eyes, a blankness he didn't know she could have. She was looking at her work, but she wasn't seeing it, her hands working on instinct—in, out, across, in, out, across.
There were footsteps on the porch, and Papa came through the porch door with his baton in one hand and the dented harmonica in the other. He looked much smaller without his top hat.
"If there was anyone else out there, they're gone now," he sighed exhaustedly and sat in one of the displaced dining chairs. "There are no tracks but his."
And there were plenty of his tracks to follow, dark and dripping and smeared over the near-solid snow, that rusty stench leading on and on over the bridge, through the meadows, and into the deep, slumbering woods. Papa had not wanted to go any further than that. Not now. Not alone.
"Who could have done this, Papa?" Mumintroll asked quietly, staring down at Nuuska.
Papa shook his head: "Certainly no one we know."
Mama snipped at something thick and wet near the tabletop, the sound of her scissors slicing through the quiet, and Mumintroll's head suddenly felt heavy.
It was all too much for him. The thought of someone—someone doing all this—while all the rest of them slept on—Nuuska could have died, and not one of them would have known the difference until spring—
The world swam and darkened at the edges. Papa stood quickly to grab him.
"Steady now," he said, holding his son under the arm. "It's alright. Come on now, let's sit down in some fresher air."
Mumintroll felt him lead him gently toward the front room and sit him on the bench seat, and he stared into the space between them with burning, blurry eyes.
If he hadn't woken up, Nuuska would have died. He could have kept ignoring the sounds outside his window and slept on, and Nuuska would have lied there in the snow, in the dark, alone. And when spring came, and they all awoke… what would have been left?
Mumintroll felt Papa guide him down to lie on his side, smoothing the fur of his shoulder and arm, and with a hazy guilt, he gave in to an uneasy sleep.
…
Again, Mumintroll found himself awake with a start, this time to a knock on the door. For a moment, he was confused—why was he asleep in the bench seat? Why was anyone knocking when they should be hibernating, when he should be hibernating? Then, the smell returned to him, and he gagged, remembering, too afraid to turn around and look into the dining room—surely, surely, this was all a nightmare. Nuuska was still out on his trip, having a good time, fishing, and writing songs as always.
Whoever was outside knocked again, and Mumintroll forced himself up, slowly and unsteadily, to the door. Even the dim winter daylight hurt his eyes as he looked blearily up at the police inspector, whose long, pale face went even paler at the sight of him.
"Good… good morning," said the police inspector, staring.
"Good morning," said Mumintroll flatly. He looked out past him and saw that half the village was there, too, standing in the snowy yard in their shawls and hats and gloves and staring at him. Everyone was staring at him.
Looking down at himself, he saw that his fur was stained a sickly, rusty brown.
Footsteps hurried behind him, and Mama pulled him gently from the doorway back inside. She was stained, too.
"Inspector!" she breathed. "Muminpapa only left to find you a little while ago!"
The inspector looked her over and swallowed hard: "Yes, yes, he did… um… Muminmama, what's happened? Everyone heard screams last night, and now there's a-a trail leading to your doorstep."
Mama looked out at the people and lowered her voice: "Perhaps you had better come inside."
The inspector nodded, turned briefly to the crowd, and motioned for them to stay there. Mumintroll stepped out of the way as he came in, and Mama shut the door behind him.
The three of them stared down at Nuuska, fast asleep on the dining table, tucked into one of their spare blankets. He was pale, so very, very pale. Any hope Mumintroll had had of this all being a nightmare was dashed as the inspector asked, "May I see?"
Mama hesitantly took hold of the blanket and pulled it carefully back. Mumintroll closed his eyes and held his breath and grasped Nuuska's limp hand. The inspector shuddered but looked and pondered and studied, until he was either satisfied or could bear it no longer, and Mama gently tucked Nuuska back in.
"It's strange," said the inspector, leaning back against the wall to steady himself. "There hasn't been a murder in the Valley for a hundred years."
Mumintroll's eyes snapped open.
"And there still hasn't," he growled in a very un-mumin-like way.
"R-right," corrected the inspector. "But even an attempt… something like this… it's so strange."
He rubbed his eyes and his face, frowning deeply as he thought, then asked, "Muminmama, do you remember those books I lent you? The serials?"
"Yes?" replied Mama.
"There was one story with that man with the knife—"
"The Ripper story," said Mama guiltily. "Yes, I remember."
"I always liked the medical details in that one. It's incredible what people can tell happened just by what marks were left on the victim."
He flexed his fingers and made a motion as if he were grabbing something, watching how they traveled to meet at his thumb.
"I don't think this is like that."
"What do you mean?" Mama asked worriedly, her paw resting on Nuuska's forehead.
"The Ripper story, the perpetrator there had a knife. He could only cut once with every swing, and he stabbed, too. There are no stab wounds here, right?"
"No, not that we saw."
"And there are so many slashes in the same direction, four at a time… like claws."
The inspector stood straighter, a look of realization dawning: "We're not looking for a who. We're looking for a what."
He took a deep breath and made his way back to the front door, which he opened to stand on the step. Muminmama and Mumintroll followed nervously, and the inspector clapped for everyone to pay attention.
"Listen up now!" he said loud enough for all to hear. "Last night, someone was attacked by an animal, something big. They made it back here to Muminhouse and are stable for the time being. I want everyone to go home immediately and stay there. Do not go out if you don't have to, especially at night or into the woods. Once we have a plan, we will let everyone know, but until then, stay in your homes!"
The crowd murmured, shock and worry, and they began heading back to their houses. The inspector turned back to Mama and Mumintroll: "That goes for you as well. I'll make sure to send Muminpapa back as soon as we're done, and I'll call a doctor for you."
Mama reached out and took his paw between hers: "Thank you, inspector."
He gave her paw a squeeze: "Stay safe, ma'am."
They watched him go, stepping as far around the blood-speckled path as he could and eyeing where it disappeared into the distant woods. Muminmama finally shut the door, and after a long silent moment, she took Mumintroll in her arms.
An animal, Mumintroll thought. A beast, a monster. He trembled at the idea. What kind of animal didn't just pounce and bite and put its prey out of its misery? It was sickening. And yet, he was glad that whatever it was hadn't done that. But… the dragging, the clawing at him, catching and slipping away and catching again, tearing him to pieces, wanting to crunch into his bones with enormous, disgusting teeth, the noise of it all, the screaming…
Mumintroll realized he was hungry. He was aching. He was drawn inward, wound tight, and—and—furious. He was so very, very furious.
Mama smoothed the fur between his ears and held him firmly. She felt him trembling and prayed that he was only afraid.
…
The trail was much shorter than anyone in the police officer's small party had thought it would be, the tracks still fresh under the protection of the thick pines. It was Old Keijo, the elder of the two wet-nosed hunters, who could make out the sharpest details: here, the boy had stopped running and began walking—his footprints were closer together and less even; here, he had leaned against a tree—a dark patch had been left on the bark; and here, something with large hands and feet had run across his path on all-fours, sending him tumbling down a steep hill—broken saplings, shoe scuffs on tree roots, and a torn scrap of yellow yarn caught on a bramble. It wasn't far past that that the party came across the campsite.
Or what was left of it.
The four of them stopped at the edge of the site, careful to watch their footing. The police officer, a broad, brown-furred woman with long whiskers, took a very deep breath before turning to the others.
"Alright," she said nervously, "let's keep this as organized as possible, okay? Mr. Keijo, try to find tracks leading in. Karlo, see if you can find any other tracks leading out. Muminpapa, you and I will look around the camp for anything that might help—footprints, fur, claw-marks, anything that might give us an idea what this guy looks like. Now, let's get this done. We have about three hours until full dark."
Muminpapa tried to drum up the anger he thought he should feel, but all there was in him was horror. Nevertheless, he kept his face, desperate to remain professional.
"What day is it, Ms. Officer?"
"You don't know?" she asked curiously, then corrected herself. "Oh, of course you don't know. You're the hibernating type, that's right. It's January, sir, January 7th."
"Hmm, still midwinter then. That's odd…"
"What is?"
Papa motioned to the campsite: "He was coming home early."
The yellow tent had been shredded through on one side, the frosted dirt in front of it bearing the marks of hands and the toes of shoes as its occupant had made his escape.
The officer scribbled in her notebook: Four parallel rips north side tent fabric. Victim escape front, west.
The prints of large feet turned from the north side of the tent, pressure on the toes as the creature (for Papa was sure it was a creature) would have leapt after its prey, and a deep imprint interrupted Nuuska's tracks where he'd been pinned down, the large feet on either side. Papa grimaced—he could just hear the ribs crack. He shut his eyes a moment and shook his head.
The officer watched him, decided it was kinder to say nothing, and scribbled: Physical altercation.
There were drag marks, fingers grasping at dirt and snow to stop from being pulled away. Reddish, oxidized smears trailed past the campfire. Recognizable, bloody bits of green wool had frozen to the ground overnight. A hand had grabbed at the ashes and coals, and the large prints, which had been even as the creature pulled, became frenzied and confused, as if it had gotten that ash to the face. The cast iron pot, which should have sat by the fire, was heavily embedded in the dirt, its handle bent out of shape—had it been thrown? Used as a weapon? Nuuska's tracks led quickly away, out of the small clearing and into the woods, toward the Valley and ultimately, they knew, ending at Muminhouse.
The officer hummed curiously and scribbled: Victim escape south, woods.
"Any thoughts?" she asked.
Papa sighed and rubbed his eyes: "Many, none good."
He circled back to the firepit, retracing his own footsteps to avoid messing up the details.
"It walks on two legs," he said morosely. "I know the inspector mentioned it might be an animal, but what kind of animal walks on two legs and pulls something with its hands?"
"I personally think it has to be a person," mumbled the officer with a twist of the lips. "I don't buy into the inspector's inspecting skills, if I'm honest."
"I suppose it could have been something in-between," Papa defended, again retracing his steps back to the tent. "Look—unless someone with hands has claws instead of nails, I don't see how these tears are possible."
The officer tapped her chin with her pen: "Bears have paws like hands… but they don't usually attack unless provoked."
"And the footprints don't belong to a bear."
"Of course, of course."
They trailed off, and the silence stuck in their ears like cotton. Papa glanced through the ripped tent and saw Nuuska's things laid-out neatly within. The rucksack was unbothered to one side, a small lantern sat upright with its knob open, the oil in its base completely gone. A book laid open with a pencil in the crease. Even the sleeping bag, where surely Nuuska had been lying just before the creature attacked, was calmly folded open.
"Curious," muttered Papa.
"What?" asked the officer.
He could see it before his eyes, his writer's mind kicking into high gear: Nuuska had settled in for the night. He'd kept his journal and was, perhaps, about to put it away when he heard something outside. Not one to panic, he'd decided to sit very still to listen. As the sound, maybe those of footsteps, came closer, he put his shoes back on, perhaps to step outside and look, perhaps to be prepared to run. What broke the moment, Papa couldn't say, but he doubted it was any sudden movement on Nuuska's part.
"That's all very well and good," said the officer, scribbling something, "but it doesn't really answer our question of who they were."
"No, I suppose not," admitted Papa, and he looked again into the tent. "Would it be alright, do you think, if I collected his things? It would be a shame to leave them out here."
The officer waggled her head, unsure, and shrugged: "I see no reason why not. Better you than anyone else."
Papa went in through the tent flap, refusing to enter through the tears, though that might have been easier. He rolled up the sleeping bag, secured the lantern to the rucksack. The boy's favorite green hat was nowhere to be found. As he picked up the journal, he took the pencil from the crease for safekeeping, and a sketch caught his eye—that of a shadowy figure in rough-drawn woods, its eyes staring out of the darkness. Papa frowned and looked more closely. The page was covered in Nuuska's neat handwriting (a feat for which Papa was very proud, having taught the boy to write in the first place), a few words for each day that passed:
December 30, potato soup, ice fishing at the Kala pond with no luck. Found a nice goose feather, keep for Snorkmaiden. Squirrel with carrots.
December 31, squirrel, stopped in Kala borough for New Year fair. Tell Mumintroll about the kites. Fireworks very good this year. No climbing Kruunun Vuori, very cold, bad air. Bear roast, sweet potato latkes, apple lortsy—keep recipe for Mama.
January 01, latkes and trout. Saw Hanne while fishing, new pet dog Joop very playful. Wrote song. Snow coming tonight. Visitor at dinner (trout), did not say hello or bye. Happy New Year.
It was under this that the drawing of the "visitor" stared out at Papa. He read on, dread in his belly.
January 02, more trout. Snow shallow, powdery, very cold. Made a snowman before leaving, headed east. Baked potato with salt. Visitor again, same one?
January 03, no breakfast, bad dream. Mahla town asleep, Groke window-shopping. Wrote poem, made coffee. Baked potato. Visitor again, same one. Still says nothing, even when I say hello.
January 04, no breakfast, headed south. Strange noises at night. Baked potato with salt. Visitor again, same one, closer.
"Ma'am," said Papa, coming out of the tent.
"Yes?"
"Look."
…
Mama read the journal by the fireplace with her back turned to the dining table.
January 05, going back to Mumin Valley, south. Strange noises at night again, not an animal. No breakfast, bad dreams. Snowed again, very cold. Coffee. Visitor.
January 06, baked potato, bad dreams, noises. Headed south, did not stop. Considered travel at night, decided not, land too steep. Visitor, closer, very thin, tall. Told them to leave, but they didn't. I miss Mumintroll, hope the door is unlock e d
The last entry jolted off the page, as if something had startled the writer.
Mama gently touched the handwriting and shook her head: "I don't know anyone who looks like that."
"Not even from the island?" Papa asked tiredly, sitting on the hearth. "Or before that?"
"No. No, everyone I grew up with was, well… plump. I've never met anyone like this, certainly no one who would have…"
She stared into space for a moment, then shut the book and put it carefully down beside her sewing kit as she sat. Mumintroll snored lightly from under the table.
"What are we going to do?" Mama asked, staring at her stained fur.
Papa took her paws in his, and they leaned against each other: "The tracks leading in were from the north, so they said they would call the towns in that direction and warn them to be on the look-out."
"And here? What about the tracks leading here?"
"Did it follow me?" asked a hoarse whisper.
Mama turned immediately, Papa jumping up from the hearth. Nuuska blinked slowly, blearily at them.
"You're alright!" gasped Mama and felt his cheek. "Don't talk too much now, it's okay."
"Did it follow me?" he asked again.
"Did what follow you?" asked Papa steadily. "Who was it?"
Mama retrieved a glass bottle from beside the fire and carefully lifted Nuuska's head in the crook of her arm to give it to him. He drank deeply – which now knowing he'd had not much more than coffee for several days, Mama was glad he did.
"I—," he said as he took a breath, but his eyes drifted closed again "—I'm sorry."
"Don't be," said Mama, putting him back down and brushing his hair away from his face. "You just sleep and feel better. We'll figure this all out."
He did as she said, though there was little choice. As his features relaxed and his breathing settled again, Papa gave a small, fond sigh.
"Sturdy things, mumriks."
"But did it, Papa?" Mama asked quietly, turning to him with a worried crease between her brows. "Did it follow him here?"
Papa swallowed hard and looked out at the darkness through the windows. Very hesitantly, he nodded.