The End of the Rainbow (and the Map)

The final X, scrawled in what Nana John fervently hoped was indelible ink and not, say, beet juice, pulsed with the promise of ultimate glory. Bartholomew, perched regally on her shoulder, blinked slowly, his tail giving a thoughtful twitch. He’d seen Nana John’s ‘ultimate glories’ before, usually involving a slightly singed souffle or a spectacularly tangled skein of yarn. This, however, felt different. This felt like the culmination of a quest that had begun with a cryptic map and a healthy dose of Nana John’s boundless, and often misguided, optimism.

The map, a parchment that smelled faintly of old libraries and desperation, had led them on a merry, and frankly, rather damp, chase. They’d outwitted a herd of particularly belligerent llamas who seemed to have a personal vendetta against anything that dared to breathe in their direction. Nana John, in a moment of inspired (or perhaps panicked) improvisation, had employed a technique she’d once seen on a nature documentary involving slowly backing away while making a low humming sound. It had, inexplicably, worked. The llamas, after a few moments of confused chewing, had merely flicked their ears and returned to their grass-gobbling duties, leaving Nana John breathless and Bartholomew looking utterly unimpressed.

Then there had been the squirrel. Not just any squirrel, mind you, but a squirrel of remarkable intellect and a penchant for riddles. This particular rodent, perched on a moss-covered stone, had demanded a philosophical query be answered before it would reveal the next clue. Nana John, whose philosophical musings rarely extended beyond the best way to fold a fitted sheet, had floundered spectacularly. It was Bartholomew, with a series of pointed meows and a disdainful flick of his tail in the direction of a particularly shiny acorn, who had indirectly guided Nana John towards the correct answer: “The meaning of life is to find joy in the present moment, even when one is being chased by a particularly grumpy llama.” The squirrel, to Nana John’s immense relief, had nodded sagely and scampered off, dropping a tiny, rolled-up piece of birch bark at her feet.