The Girl from the Well

From somewhere above them, another light beckons. It looks like nothing more than a distant star at first, a white sphere of dust in the heavens. But soon it grows in size and brightness, until the whole breadth of sky opens up into that white light, turning night into day in an instant.

At some unspoken signal, the fireflies flit around Callie one last time and then soar joyfully upward, spiraling above her in slow, lazy circles. They do not stop until they touch the bright white light, disappearing into radiance.

More fireflies beat their wings against her forehead, and Callie thinks she can make out the smiling shapes of Amaya, and even the old miko, within their glows. Amaya looks nearly a teenager, and even the obaasan’s white hair is now a glossy black. The wrinkles on her face disappear, leaving her young and at peace. They circle Callie one last time before lifting their wings to join their brother and sister lights.

Two figures walk across the water toward her, shining as brightly as hundreds of the fireflies at once. One is a face Callie has seen before. Yoko Taneda is happier here, her face unlined by the harshness of time, shoulders unburdened by the memories of grief. Beside her stands a taller, older woman, who bears striking physical similarities to her sister. But where her tainted spirit had once garbed itself in robes of black, fettered by the company of demons, Chiyo Taneda stands dressed in a soft white, and on her face is the same sense of joy that fills her sibling’s expression. They are holding hands and smiling down at Callie, floating in the water, and she feels the softest of touches, like invisible fingers brushing across her mind.

“Thank you,” they whisper and turn away. They glow brighter, and when the light finally diminishes, they join the other children as another pair of tiny fireflies, their illuminations perhaps a shade brighter than those around them, as they begin their journey up into that sacred light.

Callie watches in awe as these flights of souls continue their upward loop into the shining sky, until most of the fireflies have passed through into that inviting warmth. She senses another presence behind her and turns to see me standing on a nearby shore, watching the fireflies’ ascent. I am dressed in the kimono I had once worn in younger, older days, back when chochin once floated along the rivers of my hometown, back when I, in my youthful ignorance, once chased after them, hoping in my foolishness that I could follow them into forever.

“Okiku?” she finds herself asking. I remain silent, and perhaps something in my eyes—the sorrow perhaps, or the wistful regret—makes her repeat herself with more urgency. “Okiku? What about you? Why aren’t you leaving with them?”

I do not move. I do not make my own step into the water, do not dream about turning into

fire

that

flies.

Callie swims toward me, struggling in the still-dark river, believing that she can somehow make me see. “Go into the light, Okiku! Go with them!” The last of the fireflies have gone, and the heavens now begin to weaken and lose their brilliance. She fears that soon they will close up and leave me standing alone by the shore.

“Okiku! Please!”

And when her hands finally touch the edges of soil, and she looks up to plead with me once again, she sees the change in my appearance. Gone are the kimono and the white obi tied around my waist, and gone are the simple ornaments that I weave into my hair, as I did for chochin festivals during my once-life. Gone is the wistful expression, the desire to step out and join these little fireflies in the bright unknown. Instead, my dead spirit looks back down on her: my bloodied robes and knotted locks of hair, the mangled neck and sightless eyes. Callie recoils, stricken.

“Where they go,”

I say, and the words issue out from bloodless, unmoving lips,

“I

cannot

follow.”

“But can’t you try?” Callie cries. “You deserve to go just as much as they do!”

I kneel on the shore so she in the water can better see my ghastly, swollen face, my distended limbs.

“There is something else I must do,” I say, before reaching to touch her face with my cold, dead hand.