Published: 5/9/2017


Prelude


Settled. That was a word for it, he supposed. It was that feeling that arose when one lived a routine until it spoke of comfort. It was when the days merged together and flowed from one moment to the next like the ebbing of a watery shoreline. It was that soothing numbness that came from standing in one spot until his feet belonged no where else.

Ginko chewed on the end of a hand-rolled cigarillo, the dry herbs tasting like toasted earth as he toed the corner of the store counter. Glowing jellyfish-shaped mushi floated gently above him, moving back and forth to catch dust in their awaiting mouths. He supposed that he was settled, even when he used to wander from place to place, living through what seemed to be like a never ending daydream where nothing dictated his motions.

He was settled then, even though he only kept track of the date to decide when his next departure was. See, it was a routine, a string of occasions and visits linked together by long, quiet travels through mountains and fields. It was comfortable, and although it was a 'round-the-clock schedule he had immersed himself in, it never quite felt as placid as working out of a townhouse. Now, he felt more "settled" than ever before, and sometimes it just didn't feel like quite enough.

When he used to wander, his empty hours were taken up by reading maps, putting together shelters, and ducking into marketplaces to replenish his stores. There was plenty to occupy him. Although being an herbalist was far more lucrative than being a mushishi, it could be a bit dull at times, simply sitting at a wooden counter and waiting for customers to arrive. There were couple of school children here and there, trying to figure out whether he was a wizard or a man-eating yokai working to lure in foolish humans for food. The children usually just peered in through the windows and ran off whenever their gazes met a single, unwavering green eye. Other times it was the elderly looking for something similar to the dried plants and concentrated teas they'd take when they were younger, and they'd end up feeling remarkably at-home in Ginko's antiquated little pharmacy regardless of the pale man's strange aura.

But every so often, when an affliction was particularly bizarre, or an associate was in town and asking for "Ginko; a man who has white hair even though he's not old," then he would work with the mushi again, and finally his nostalgia would be revitalized, know-how from field guides that he had read swirling in the front of his brain as if he had never stopped wandering. As if he had never stopped to settle into a stationary nest. It made him feel alive.

Slowly, softly, Ginko blew wisps of smoke at the floating jellyfish, it's see-through tentacles pulsating with a blue sheen as it scuttled away in midair.

In fact, it felt like the very essence of life itself.