The story of Mio and Pompoo lost track of each other in “The Deepest Cave in the Blackest Mountain”
I (Mio) rose up from the ground and something fell out of my pocket. It was the little wooden flute that Nonno had carved for me. My flute, that I had played around the campfire on Greenfields Island.
“I’ll play my flute,” I thought. “I’ll play the old melody that Nonno taught us.” I remembered what Pompoo and I had promised each other, “If we ever become separated, we’ll play the old melody.”
I put the flute to my mouth, but I hardly risked playing it. I was afraid nothing except an awful ghostly sound would come out, like when I shouted. But I thought I had to try. So I began to play the melody.
Oh! It sounded so clear! It sounded pure and clear and beautiful inside the dark mountain, almost better than it had on Greenfields Island.
I played the whole melody, and then I listened. From far, far away in the mountain clear notes came in reply. They sounded faint, but I knew it was Pompoo who answered me. I’ve never been so glad.
I kept on playing, and although I was so happy, I couldn’t stop crying. I went through the mountain, playing and crying a little. I only cried a little, little bit as I went through there and played, and I ran toward the sound of Pompoo’s flute. Sometimes it sounded closer, and I tried to follow the direction that the notes came from. Closer and closer it sounded. Clearer and clearer, louder and louder I heard the old melody from the other flute like mine. And right then Pompoo stood in front of me in the dark passage. I stretched out my hand and touched him. I laid my arm on his shoulder. I wanted to make sure that it was really him. And it was. It was my very best friend.
“If I ever see Nonno again, I’ll thank him for making these flutes for us,” said Pompoo.
“I will too,” I said.
But then I thought that we’d probably never see Nonno again.
“Pompoo, which way should we go now?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter which way we go, as long as we go together,” said Pompoo.
That’s exactly what I thought too. We walked and walked, and we didn’t feel so small and lost anymore. Because we were together and we played on our flutes. The old melody sounded clear and pretty in the Blackest Mountain, and it was as if it wanted to comfort us and help us to be brave.
The passage sloped downward, further and further down. The faint light we had seen throughout the mountain became a little brighter. It seemed to come from a fire. Yes, the firelight shone over the dark rock walls of the mountain, it flickered and grew.
We came closer and closer to the fire as we walked and played our flutes. We played the old melody when we stepped into the Swordsmith’s Cave.
Mio, my son by Astrid Lindgren.
English Translation by Jill Morgan.