Disclaimer: I do not own the anime/manga/film "Mushishi"
赤いホタルの輝き Glow of the Red Fireflies
He couldn't possibly exist: a tall, white-haired man with one green eye in the strange clothing. No one, not even foreigners had such strange features and mannerisms. I had heard that the man was a wanderer, a hopeful figure to people when they encountered... strange phenomenons in life. I had heard that they even had a name for him, but I was not interested enough to care for what it was. I was an old women who lived in the lonely woods; tales of far-off miracle workers do not faze me, nor gave me the desire to seek out this man. For all anyone knew, he was a fairy tale; a popular subject around the fire or something of that nature. If this man was such a grand hero, how come more people haven't met him?
Naturally, my pessimism and skepticism always seemed to want to prove me wrong.
I had seen the man; on my own land.
My "land" is vague term I use, for my land is actually a stretch of woods from my house to the next village over that I had "claimed" but don't really own in the true sense. Quite a stretch of land it is, though it is broken up by a small lake in the midst. However, the important thing was that he was there, that white-haired wanderer.
I had spotted him from a good distance away, even in the dim twilight darkness of post-sunset. He had had his back turned to me, so I believe that he never saw me in return, but, like a white-headed phantom from another world, he was there. I watched him for some time; he never moved very much. Either he was an extremely patient man, or he was mediating. I had fancied the idea that if I had walked up and pushed him over, he'd fall and lay there, stupid and unaware of how he had come to meet the ground. But, I soon as I had thought that, my mind erased the idea and my intuition took over: that this man was not stupid, and that he was very aware of his surroundings. But not aware enough to notice me, I had thought at the time.
As the last of the sun's light had struggled to push itself through the branches of the trees, the man had slowly lowered himself to his knees, removing the wooden box from his back in the process. I had watched as he pulled out what seemed to be a blank scroll of parchment and a brush and ink. However, he did not write anything down. He had just sat there like that, staring at the paper and the dark forest. Essentially, he had stared at whatever his eyes happened to land on.
I knew the dangers of the forest at night. How at night, the wild animals prowled their unseen trails and how the shrubs whispered at every brush of their leaves. How at night, the moon couldn't quite get her light to touch the soft ground, but could reflect beautiful off of the lake's shimmering surface. How at night, the fireflies danced in a graceful rhythm just above the lake, eating up the grandeur and glory of the moonlight with their own blinking essences.
The fireflies is what had made this place special and infamous in a way. Everyone who had ever made the trek up to my house always asked about the fireflies. They never asked about me or the woods, but the fireflies! And everyone who had ever asked about them made me shake my head in shame and near disgust at their ridiculous questions.
"Do the fireflies here really bring good luck?"
"Is it true that fireflies keep pests from eating crops?"
"Will the fireflies really cure any sickness?"
So on and so forth. I have lived here in this woods nearly my entire life, and though the fireflies might be a little strange-since some like to glow red instead of a green or yellow color-nothing had ever stood out to me as them being different from normal fireflies.
Yet, on that particular summer night, a few fireflies had started to pop up around the white-haired man, and he had instantly become transfixed on them, like when a dog sees its favorite toy being waved in front of it. The man had first followed the glowing insects with his eyes, then he had eventually ventured out with his hand. He never tried to catch them though, it seemed as though the man had just been curious of how the insects reacted to his approach.
Eventually, the moon had crept up from beyond the horizon. The man had paused only once that night to look at it. This was the only time that I had seen the man's lone and infamous eye: a shimming green that reflected the green of the summer grass that grew around my home. It was such a calming color, I admit that I was a bit jealous that my eyes would never reflect such a hue, and that a shady man could be born with such a blessing.
I had blinked when the man had lowered his head back down to watch the fireflies once again. By this time, the sun had been missing for several hours and the number of fireflies had increased. I had moved from a standing position to a sitting one; likewise, the man had also moved to a more comfortable position, though sleep never seemed to shadow him or hinder his goal.
Using the light from the insects alone, he had started to write some words down. Probably about the fireflies. He kept stealing glances at them as he wrote, and it was at this time that I had thought him to be a biologist. But then... That would not fit what I had heard about him. How could a simple biologist make miracles happen? Surely, the tales must have been exaggerated at one point or another, and I still had my doubts about him. Perhaps he had had a different profession, something that was a branch off of biology.
The white-haired man had continued to write for some time, when a red firefly decided to show itself to him. He had taken notice immediately.
The man had set his paper down very carefully, as though he was afraid that he might scare the tiny thing away. He had then, in one swinging motion, suddenly caught the red firefly with his hand. It was at this point that I was ready to chase him off for possibly hurting the poor firefly. Not like the fireflies were my family or anything, but the they were my generous neighbors, and I felt like it was my duty to protect them. Perhaps this man had wanted to sell off the prized rare and red firefly for a profit.
But to my surprise, he had just sat there for a moment staring at his closed hand. He soon released the firefly, which flew up into the air as though nothing had happened. The man had then made a note on his paper, and caught a normal, yellow-glowing firefly next, which he released seconds after he had had his fingers around it.
I was getting tired at this point in time, as the night had been long. Even the man had seemed to be getting slower with sleep-deprivation, but he had managed to catch five more red fireflies that night and wrote down many passages on his paper. The only difference was, unlike with the first firefly, he had started to collect the insects into a glass jar.
Unfortunately, I had been too tired at the time to stop his firefly-catching antics, and I had fallen asleep leaning against a tree. When I had woken up the next morning, the white-haired man was gone; not a trace was left of his existence. Not even footprints on the dewy grass. The phantom had moved on.
Do I still believe that a white-haired, green-eyed man had actually visited my land and that I had watched him for a whole night? No, I like to say that I don't.
But I did hear a story once, about a similar white-haired man who had saved a young girl's life by releasing red fireflies into her room. For after they were released, the fireflies were said to warm the room, until they became like flames themselves, and guarded the girl and her family from a certain sickness. I doubt that the insects saved her life; I believe that they were just fancy distractions as the man gave her medicine. But no one likes to boring old story like that.
Still, now I'm more aware of the red fireflies when they pass my window at night and as they glide over the lake, like little flares flowing on the wind. The fireflies continued life as they always had, undisturbed and unaware of any possible danger to themselves. Even when fish jumped out of the water to feed, or when travelers whooped and hollered as they chased the fireflies on summer nights, the fireflies remained the ever present embers that guarded the forest and lake every night.
Perhaps he had visited me after all and had blessed this area with one of his 'miracles.' The fireflies have never been brighter or more lively as they are now... But then, maybe it's just my imagination.