Little My Rainbow

       Little My stomped onto the veranda, only to find the Muskrat sprawled across a chair like a discarded fur coat, sighing theatrically. A glance into the garden sufficed to reveal the true quarry: the Mymble was decidedly not small, and lounged in the hammock like a great cloud of violet candyfloss. Little My marched over, scaled the swinging net, and plonked herself onto her mother’s vast, violet-jacketed bulk. “Oof! Oh, hello, My.” The Mymble blinked up at her. “Be a lamb and mind the littles while I catch my breath?” “Not a chance,” Little My snarled. “The litter’s head boy, Little Wee, got ‘em covered—remember his name! And you’ve got some parent job to do.” “What?” The Mymble batted short lashes. “Darling, you’re a bit old for breastfeeding—” Little My growled and scrambled onto her mother’s shoulder to shake her by the dyed-fur collar. “No. I’m here for romance advice. You’re the expert.” “Oh!” The Mymble’s eyes misted over. “Has my girl fallen in love? It’s marvellous! So unpredictable—one moment some guy by your side is plain as porridge, the next his singing voice melts your knees, or his fringe flops just so, or he blushes in a way that makes you want to watch, listen, hold him forever—” “NO!” Little My screeched with disgust. “How do I STOP this stupidity?!” The Mymble patted her cheek. “Sweetheart, the fastest way out is through! Admit it to yourself first, then grab him by the ears—or tie, or whatever’s prominent—” “Ugh! Any land routes?” “Never worked for me,” the Mymble sighed. “And you’re my daughter.” Little My plopped down facing the garden. “Easy for you! You could haul off even a Hemulen under one arm. I can’t even reach most belts! And—no, wait. Bollocks!" She jabbed a finger into her mother’s side. "Not all Mymbles can be like you. Even the normal ones—not underdeveloped freaks like me. Otherwise, between your litters, your sisters’ litters, your aunties’ litters—the whole world would be knee-deep in us! So I don’t have to turn out like you!" The Mymble yawned, stretching like a contented walrus. "Suit yourself. You asked for advice; I gave it. Now let Mummy nap." Grumbling, Little My flopped backward onto her mother’s pillowy torso. No resemblance whatsoever—this vast, rounded creature versus her own spiky compactness. And yet… easy. Sometimes they even understood each other. Would it be like this with her grown sisters? "Mother," she said, kicking the hammock’s netting, "where do your older kids go? I’m not the eldest. Why don’t they babysit?" "Hmm…" The Mymble’s eyelids fluttered shut, and she pretended to snore off—until My’s heel connected with her arm. "Dunno, honestly. When they’re tiny, I count them, feed them, tuck them in. And once waist-high, they—Poof! Gone. Or maybe I’m wired to forget them grown." She twirled Little My’s topknot absently. "Last spring, I met a young mymble—willowy, blue-eyed, in a red dress, floating about like I did at her age. She said ‘hi, Mum’ in passing. No clue which babe she’d been. You stayed small, though. So I remember you. Adore you." "Uh-huh," Little My muttered. "And adore dumping your work on me." "Ooh! Another time—" (The Mymble breezed past the jab.) "—I visited Moominhouse once. November, was it? You were gone. So were the Moomin lot. Just stray guests moping about. But there was a boy…" Her voice softened. "Reminded me of an old flame—same stance and moves, same spark. Got me wondering—could he be ours? Might’ve had a kit around then…" She shrugged. "Which had vanished, naturally." Little My paused to contemplate it. November? When they’d gone to the lighthouse? Fillyjonk had mentioned visitors: the Mymble, herself, the Muskrat, the Hemulen, Snufkin, and that cloud-cuckoo-lander Toft. Which of those did her mother consider a "boy"? Knowing her, she’d might as well classify the Muskrat as one. "What’d he look like, then?" Little My demanded, clambering onto the Mymble’s chest. "This ‘boy’? Or—hell—the old flame? Any names?" "Names? Don’t be silly!" The Mymble waved a hand. "But he wore… green something." Right. Not the Muskrat (brown) or Hemulen (dull bluish gray). Toft had a dark green overcoat, though— "Was he—" Little My squinted, mentally measuring heights, "—up to your top button or middle one?" "How should I remember? I did have to bend down to kiss his cheek goodbye…" The Mymble perked suddenly. "Oh! He had a hat like my sweetheart’s! And I glimpse him sometimes here about the valley—with the young moomin, I think." Bloody hell. Snufkin. Little My burst into laughter—sharp, jagged, like glass breaking. What else could she do? The universe had clearly been some sort of her twin, with the same dark and twisted humour. Might as well confirm the final nail: "This ‘sweetheart’—was his name Joxter?" She remembered well the name of the catlike guy cooing with her mother at the party of Moominpappa’s Memoirs release—and reminding her of Snufkin, too. The Mymble’s eyes bulged. "Oh! Yes! How’d you know?.. Are you alright, darling?" "Nothing!" My wheezed, hugging herself to keep together. The Mymble’s purple dress and motley amethyst jacket blurred in her vision, a riot of violet like the bruise in her chest. "Ignore me! Just—angry laughing!" She tumbled from the hammock and bolted—not toward the stream, not toward the tent, but anywhere the wind might scour her clean of this rot. The birch grove. The cliffs. The sea. Anywhere but here, where the past and present collided like a bad joke.