Davids Hallowe'en Tales o' Terror, Vol. 4
Nov. 17th, 2010 11:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyI've been toying with tales of terror for a few weeks. I know that hallowe'en is long past, but what could be more terrifying than an tale of terror which comes at an unexpected moment, eh? What indeed? I'll wager you're quaking in your boots as you're reading this. What disturbed mind tells tales of terror on the wrong day? Ha! Read and fear.
Anyway, I'd been toying with ideas like a terrible spectre stalking the corridors of power, but we've had an election this year so tales like that are rather outdated. Instead, as I pondered, I got re-reading Tove Jannsen's Moomin books. When I was little, I loved these. They seemed to me whimsical tales of funny little creatures. Coming back to them now, I realise just how messed up and disturbing some of them are, expecially Moominpappa at sea, in which Moominpappa has an existential crisis, goes mad and kills a man (if you don't believe me, read it yourself and see if that's not what is very strongly implied all the way through).
Anyway, so inspired, I decided to write a little tale I call...
Murder in Moominland
At breakfast, Little My had eaten only sardines and said it would be an unusual day, and so later that morning Moominmamma was not surprised to find Snufkin lying next to an axe in the snow which covered her roses. As soon as Moominpappa was told he immediately became a man of action and took charge. “Such things are best left to fathers”, he said. “The first thing which we must do is locate Snufkin’s head.”
“It could be in the water barrel?” said Moomintroll. “Or in the stove?”
“Or in the coal-scuttle”, suggested the Snork Maiden.
These places were searched but the was no sign of the head, and it was not until Moominmama made lunch that Snufkins head was found in one of her pickle jars. She was very upset, as whoever had put the head there had taken all the pickles out and left them scattered untidily on the floor, and they were already going soft. Her tail twitched in irritation, and she was not humming her usual tune as she prepared sandwiches. Instead, she mused on what sort of person would deliberately put a head in a pickle jar and lose valuable pickles at the same time. “Still”, she thought to herself. “I expect Moominpappa will do something about it.”
As they all ate their lunch, Moominpappa declared a plan. “I have though the matter over”, he said, “and it seems to me we should tell the police. If Snufkin has been murdered, then it stands to reason that one of the people in this room is the murderer.” He looked very serious as he said this, and Moomintroll felt his toes tingle with the excitement of being a part of an adventure.
“This is just like The Case of the Groaning Bones”, said Little My, waving the latest lurid paperback she was reading. “In that, the head of the murder victim cried out against his killer in terrible, sepulchral tones”. She looked hopefully at the jar holding Snufkins head where it stood on the table.
“I don’t think we can tell the police”, said Too-Ticky. “They were very small, and The Groke trod on them last winter. They were frozen, squashed, and shattered into a million tiny shards all at once in a single terrible moment.”
Moominpappa rubbed his snout. “In that case, I shall become a detective”, he announced, and went off to look for his detective hat. But his detective hat was not in his cupboard, or in the little room under the stairs, and so he grew irritated and a little cross and went to smoke his pipe on the verandah while he tried to remember where he had put it.
***
Moomintroll was carving a boat from a length of wood on the bench at the bottom of the garden and dreaming of being a great investigator who fought off hundreds of murderers when the Snork Maiden came and sat next to him. She slipped her paw into his, and together they looked the length of Moominvalley as it sloped down and away from them to the violet-crested hills far away. The trees, larch and alder, which dotted the valley seemed in the low light of afternoon to be leaning away from the Moomin house, as if afraid of something. Their gnarled, knotted branches whispered sibilant cries in the breeze.
“Do you suppose the Hemulen cut Snufkin’s head off?” asked the Snork Maiden.
Moomintroll put on his best frown of concentration and considered it. “No”, he gave as his eventual, thoughtful answer. “The Hemulen is big and strong, but that means he could not have sneaked into the house earlier without being seen when someone used Snufkin’s tail as a brush to write ‘Too-Ticky is next!!!’ in blood on the kitchen wall.”
The Snork Maiden nodded her dainty pink snout and Moomintroll continued. “Too-Ticky is very upset. Her eyes have been red with crying all afternoon, and when I took her some biscuits she turned away from me and would not speak. She just stared into her fishing hole and threw pebbles into the water.”
“Do you suppose we shall all be murdered?”, asked the Snork Maiden.
Moomintroll thought some more. “It is very possible, unless somebody does something”, he said . “Moominpappa was walking down by the river earlier, looking for clues. Perhaps he has found some?”
They walked back to the house through the encroaching gloom, each lost in their thoughts. As they went, they passed Too-Ticky’s fishing hole and noted that he was floating, face down and silent in the water.
At the house, Moominpappa was sitting at his desk, contemplating his clues. He had several pine cones, some large, flat pebbles from the river bank and an antique top hat he had stumbled over in the attic. “They are certainly very interesting clues, dear”, Moominmamma had told him. Moominpappa had not responded, but had simply carried them to his study. All the items felt to him significant in a way he could not identify. He looked at them minutely, admiring the surface of the pebbles worn flat by the rushing water, the rough, calloused seed-pods of the cones, and the faint, musty smell of the hat. Each spoke of places and people had had never met or seen, but he still felt a distant kinship with them in an indefinable way. He looked up from his thoughts as Moomintroll and the Snork Maiden entered. “I was detecting”, he said.
“I brought you your letter opener, Papa”, said Moomintroll, holding out the long, sharp sliver of steel. “I thought you might need it. Someone had left it sticking through Little My.”
Moominpappa took his letter opener back and carefully replaced it with the rest of his writing implements before going back to staring at his clues. The light from the window was dying, and he lit the lantern on his desk so he could see better. “Are you any closer to identifying the murderer?”, asked the Snork Maiden.
Moominpappa glanced up again, upset at being shaken from his thoughts again. “I wonder if Moominmamma is making sandwiches? Or perhaps some pickles.” he mused. “From a jar without a head in it, hopefully.” Almost as soon as he had spoken, the three looked around as Moominmamma toppled slowly through the door and crumpled to the ground, a broad-bladed machete having been placed in the centre of her back with almost mathematical exactitude. Moominpappa turned back to the pine cones. “I suppose not”, he said, wearily.
Moomintroll looked out of the windows at the gathering night. “The sun is setting”, he said. “The long night of winter is almost upon us.”
“Yes”, said the Snork Maiden. “Soon it shall be dark.”
Out across Moomin Valley, the night settled across the trees and grass like a great cloak shed from a passing giant. All was silent, saving for the calls of night creatures and the distant howls of the Groke. A single lamp-light, bright against the gloom of the oncoming winter, shone out of a window in the Moomin house.
Eventually it guttered, and went out.
Anyway, I'd been toying with ideas like a terrible spectre stalking the corridors of power, but we've had an election this year so tales like that are rather outdated. Instead, as I pondered, I got re-reading Tove Jannsen's Moomin books. When I was little, I loved these. They seemed to me whimsical tales of funny little creatures. Coming back to them now, I realise just how messed up and disturbing some of them are, expecially Moominpappa at sea, in which Moominpappa has an existential crisis, goes mad and kills a man (if you don't believe me, read it yourself and see if that's not what is very strongly implied all the way through).
Anyway, so inspired, I decided to write a little tale I call...
Murder in Moominland
At breakfast, Little My had eaten only sardines and said it would be an unusual day, and so later that morning Moominmamma was not surprised to find Snufkin lying next to an axe in the snow which covered her roses. As soon as Moominpappa was told he immediately became a man of action and took charge. “Such things are best left to fathers”, he said. “The first thing which we must do is locate Snufkin’s head.”
“It could be in the water barrel?” said Moomintroll. “Or in the stove?”
“Or in the coal-scuttle”, suggested the Snork Maiden.
These places were searched but the was no sign of the head, and it was not until Moominmama made lunch that Snufkins head was found in one of her pickle jars. She was very upset, as whoever had put the head there had taken all the pickles out and left them scattered untidily on the floor, and they were already going soft. Her tail twitched in irritation, and she was not humming her usual tune as she prepared sandwiches. Instead, she mused on what sort of person would deliberately put a head in a pickle jar and lose valuable pickles at the same time. “Still”, she thought to herself. “I expect Moominpappa will do something about it.”
As they all ate their lunch, Moominpappa declared a plan. “I have though the matter over”, he said, “and it seems to me we should tell the police. If Snufkin has been murdered, then it stands to reason that one of the people in this room is the murderer.” He looked very serious as he said this, and Moomintroll felt his toes tingle with the excitement of being a part of an adventure.
“This is just like The Case of the Groaning Bones”, said Little My, waving the latest lurid paperback she was reading. “In that, the head of the murder victim cried out against his killer in terrible, sepulchral tones”. She looked hopefully at the jar holding Snufkins head where it stood on the table.
“I don’t think we can tell the police”, said Too-Ticky. “They were very small, and The Groke trod on them last winter. They were frozen, squashed, and shattered into a million tiny shards all at once in a single terrible moment.”
Moominpappa rubbed his snout. “In that case, I shall become a detective”, he announced, and went off to look for his detective hat. But his detective hat was not in his cupboard, or in the little room under the stairs, and so he grew irritated and a little cross and went to smoke his pipe on the verandah while he tried to remember where he had put it.
***
Moomintroll was carving a boat from a length of wood on the bench at the bottom of the garden and dreaming of being a great investigator who fought off hundreds of murderers when the Snork Maiden came and sat next to him. She slipped her paw into his, and together they looked the length of Moominvalley as it sloped down and away from them to the violet-crested hills far away. The trees, larch and alder, which dotted the valley seemed in the low light of afternoon to be leaning away from the Moomin house, as if afraid of something. Their gnarled, knotted branches whispered sibilant cries in the breeze.
“Do you suppose the Hemulen cut Snufkin’s head off?” asked the Snork Maiden.
Moomintroll put on his best frown of concentration and considered it. “No”, he gave as his eventual, thoughtful answer. “The Hemulen is big and strong, but that means he could not have sneaked into the house earlier without being seen when someone used Snufkin’s tail as a brush to write ‘Too-Ticky is next!!!’ in blood on the kitchen wall.”
The Snork Maiden nodded her dainty pink snout and Moomintroll continued. “Too-Ticky is very upset. Her eyes have been red with crying all afternoon, and when I took her some biscuits she turned away from me and would not speak. She just stared into her fishing hole and threw pebbles into the water.”
“Do you suppose we shall all be murdered?”, asked the Snork Maiden.
Moomintroll thought some more. “It is very possible, unless somebody does something”, he said . “Moominpappa was walking down by the river earlier, looking for clues. Perhaps he has found some?”
They walked back to the house through the encroaching gloom, each lost in their thoughts. As they went, they passed Too-Ticky’s fishing hole and noted that he was floating, face down and silent in the water.
At the house, Moominpappa was sitting at his desk, contemplating his clues. He had several pine cones, some large, flat pebbles from the river bank and an antique top hat he had stumbled over in the attic. “They are certainly very interesting clues, dear”, Moominmamma had told him. Moominpappa had not responded, but had simply carried them to his study. All the items felt to him significant in a way he could not identify. He looked at them minutely, admiring the surface of the pebbles worn flat by the rushing water, the rough, calloused seed-pods of the cones, and the faint, musty smell of the hat. Each spoke of places and people had had never met or seen, but he still felt a distant kinship with them in an indefinable way. He looked up from his thoughts as Moomintroll and the Snork Maiden entered. “I was detecting”, he said.
“I brought you your letter opener, Papa”, said Moomintroll, holding out the long, sharp sliver of steel. “I thought you might need it. Someone had left it sticking through Little My.”
Moominpappa took his letter opener back and carefully replaced it with the rest of his writing implements before going back to staring at his clues. The light from the window was dying, and he lit the lantern on his desk so he could see better. “Are you any closer to identifying the murderer?”, asked the Snork Maiden.
Moominpappa glanced up again, upset at being shaken from his thoughts again. “I wonder if Moominmamma is making sandwiches? Or perhaps some pickles.” he mused. “From a jar without a head in it, hopefully.” Almost as soon as he had spoken, the three looked around as Moominmamma toppled slowly through the door and crumpled to the ground, a broad-bladed machete having been placed in the centre of her back with almost mathematical exactitude. Moominpappa turned back to the pine cones. “I suppose not”, he said, wearily.
Moomintroll looked out of the windows at the gathering night. “The sun is setting”, he said. “The long night of winter is almost upon us.”
“Yes”, said the Snork Maiden. “Soon it shall be dark.”
Out across Moomin Valley, the night settled across the trees and grass like a great cloak shed from a passing giant. All was silent, saving for the calls of night creatures and the distant howls of the Groke. A single lamp-light, bright against the gloom of the oncoming winter, shone out of a window in the Moomin house.
Eventually it guttered, and went out.
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no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 01:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 01:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 05:23 pm (UTC):)
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 06:24 pm (UTC)In the comics, Moominpappa drags them all to French Riviera, where they, naturally, do drugs. In that same relentlessly placid, well-intentioned way that they do absolutely everything else. I think it has something to do with Moominpappa looking for story ideas, or some such thing. It's about as glorious as kicking off the comic version by (apparently) having Moomintroll casually attempt suicide.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-17 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 07:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 10:40 am (UTC)I'm rather gratified you think I caught it right, actually. If you feel like pimping me about a bit, I'd be interested in getting reactions from others as well.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-18 07:45 pm (UTC)By the way, finally saw Let the Right One In yesterday, that had a touch of the Moomins about it.
D
no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 09:46 am (UTC)I noticed Too-Ticky changed sex at the moment of death, was that a clue?
no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 11:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-01 08:29 am (UTC)He'll get Moomintroll all to himself before long, you'll see. And then Moominvalley will be happy again, with just the two of them.
Oh - and Sniff's not a child, for f*ck's sake. He's forty-seven. He's just SMALL.
Fer Chrissakes. Where's the vodka? These endless Finnish nites, they're killing me, I tell ya...