In the eyes of beholder

A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron

       Winter cuddled the whole Moominvalley, and the valley shrank under that vast plaid of snow and darkness. It seemed all that was left of the world was a tiny boathouse on the pier, a cracking oven, bathrobes, and three little creatures (if you do not count the invisible shrews). Moomintroll sat by a hoarfrosted window, where he was trying to melt a peephole. It was overgrowing with whitish moss real fast, and he had to breathe on the hole and rub it with a paw. His winter fur was thick already, and the procedure didn’t bother him. But all he could see was a white opalescent space of the beach, dark walls of the shore cliffs, and a dark dome of the sky. “I wonder what that Lady of the Cold looks like,” he muttered barely above the fire crackling and Too-Ticky’s droning song. “The poor little squirrel looked like it had seen something extremely beautiful in its last moments.” Too-Ticky did hear him, but her reply was just as quiet. “Maybe her appearance can be called beautiful. But she’s not. She does not love anyone.” Little My tsked from her place in a tea cosy. “How do you know that? It’s not like you two gossiped by a cup of tea. Maybe she does love, but like the Groke, y’know. Destroys everything she touches. That squirrel looked dumb, like a lovestruck fool.” “Murder is never beautiful,” Too-Ticky repeated, but Little My got steamed up already. “Why, storms and volcanoes are darn beautiful! And that Lady over there might think she’s actually saving the sodders, not killing them. Critters die or embarrass themselves, and the frozen ones are saved from all that rot and stay forever young and fabulous… Okay, the squirrel was not pretty, just his tail was.” “In spring, everything frozen will melt and decay anyway.” Too-Ticky seemed unfazed by the argument. “…How would she know that if she never stays till spring?” Little My would never surrender. And Moomintroll could not but imagine the Lady of the Cold majestic like a storm, yet calm and cold, and sparkling like the snow in the moonlight. Or like northern lights. The Lady must be treading softly, with barely audible rustle like northern lights, and her eyes are like diamonds. Sure. He’d never see those eyes, he didn’t want to become a lifesize monument to himself. Yet a thought of such a sublime creature wandering forever alone was making him shiver with awe and secret delight.