Little My Rainbow

       Little My didn’t go with Moomintroll to see Snorkmaiden—she couldn’t stomach another round of their sloppy, rose-tinted drivel. She had real business to attend to. And a long road ahead—through meadows and woods, across streams, up rocky slopes higher and higher into the mountains, where breath usually turns to white smoke. Usually. But not today. The air was too warm even up here, no frost-bitten flowers, no veins of ice between the stones, not even the dark, damp patches where out-of-season rime would melt away on the basalt, right up to the cave itself. And in the cave? Nothing. No one. Just black emptiness, as far as My could walk and see without a torch. The air inside was cool, but not the bone-deep chill she remembered. No water beading on icy walls. No guttural voice rumbling from the dark, no looming graphite-black shape emerging from the shadows. She wasn’t here. Little My plonked herself on a rock by the entrance and glared at the stupid blue sky, the disgustingly fluffy cloud, the pointless grey-speckled slopes. She growled—just like the Groke herself—and kicked a pebble. It went skittering down the slope, and almost immediately, there came a yelp. Familiar—but not the right one. And then, onto the ledge in front of the cave, came Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden. With a bloody picnic basket. Couldn’t they have picked a better spot? Might as well light a campfire in a graveyard and toast marshmallows! Little My told them as much, loudly. But Moomintroll just nodded, calm as anything, and opened the basket. Inside? A bundle of charcoal wrapped in cloth, a few tubes of paint. He took a lump of coal, stepped up to the dry cave wall, and began to sketch—huge, as far as his arms could reach—a black silhouette. Tattered skirts dragging on the ground. Awkward, drooping paws. That great knob of a nose. Eyes staring mournfully at the sky. Snorkmaiden hovered nearby, suggesting adjustments. Little My wasn’t sure she liked this. She said so outright: "What if she comes back? Doubt she’d fancy a memorial plaque in her own home." "It’s not about death," Moomintroll replied, dead serious. "It’s about thanking her for life. Doesn’t matter where the Groke is now—she still saved us all. And if she does come back?" (Here, his voice brightened.) "That would be great! But I want her to know that we remember. That we’re grateful." "Fine. Then let me paint the damn comet," My snapped, snatching up red, yellow, and orange tubes. Moomintroll hoisted her up, holding her steady as she slashed angry streaks across the wall—not too big, mind! No need to give the thing ideas. Then they sat on the threshold, silent, watching the mountains as the sun—like some lazy little comet of its own—dipped toward the horizon. Dusk came fast, but Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden had brought lanterns. Even an extra one—it was left burning at the cave’s mouth, a tiny beacon. Its light flickered over the drawing, and for a moment, it almost looked like the painted Groke was breathing. Blinking. "Maybe she’ll see the light," Moomintroll murmured, "and find her way home." Little My didn’t answer. But she thought—maybe they ought to put another lantern by the shore.