One week earlier, the first fireflies began to drift into the unremarkable patch of forest. They meandered with haphazard progress over the green grass and fallen leaves and rotting stumps. And yet they moved with uncharacteristic purpose, gathering at the start of a vague slope upward.
Six days passed, and more fireflies poured into the area. By day they slept, recharging, awaiting the arrival of their brethren. By night, they bobbed around the small copse, feasting on the pollen and nectar from the last of the spring’s flowers.
In the afternoon on the seventh day, the muted crunch of boots rang off the trees. A father and his son hiked up a low rise and into the area. Each was burdened with a sizeable pack. The father paused and assessed the area at the bottom of the slope. Eventually, he pointed to a spot just beside an old tree stump.
“Let’s set up there,” he said.
His son nodded and swung the pack from his shoulders. He dug out a folded tent. They worked quickly to set up the mobile shelter. The sky did not threaten rain, but it never paid to assume. Soon the remaining contents of their packs were unloaded. They’d even brought two small canvas collapsible chairs. In hardly any time at all, they had constructed a small camp.
“When does it start? We didn’t miss it, did we?” his son asked. He was 11 or 12, and this was as far as he’d ever hiked from his home. He didn’t want the long trek to have been in vain.
“Sundown, or thereabouts,” the father answered. “They must be resting now, gathering their strength.”
“I wish Thunder could have come with us,” the son said wistfully. He was only partially successful in masking a deep sadness. Their dog had died two weeks earlier, after a long and happy life. The son had never lost anyone before, and he was taking it pretty hard.
“Me too.” The father had tried a few things recently to help bring his son up from the lowest rung of mourning. Small gifts, sweets and a visit from his wife’s parents, both of whom doted heavily on the lad. Nothing had done much to bring him out of it.
Then, from nowhere, the father had remembered a trip he had made with his own father. It took a few days to ask around about the spot. He didn’t know the location, and he had no idea if the fireflies still assembled like they once did. The first people he asked didn’t know anything about it. But his persistence paid off. One of his father’s old friends knew the place and was happy to help.
It had taken them a day and a half to reach the forest and another full day to navigate the landmarks his father’s friend had described. As they rounded the corner, the father recognized the place at once, though he couldn’t be sure why. It looked like any other patch of forest, and surely it must be different now than it was in his youth. Still, this was definitely it.
By the time they settled in, built a fire and cooked the night’s meal, the sun had rolled down the sky. It clung to the last of the day now, streaks of its yellow light filtering through the trees. Birds sang a lullaby as the light eased and the forest fell into a calm twilight.
And as the daylight faded, little flashes of light burst into being on the slope. It began as just a few pioneers of the evening. The sun’s influence slowly ebbed, drawing out more and more dots of light, flashes against the darkening green of the forest.
“It’s not as many as I thought,” the son said with disappointment.
“Just wait,” his father said. The son nodded, but it was clear he didn’t believe his father. He’d made up his mind to be disappointed, to be sad. He was intent on only seeing the negatives since Thunder had passed.
His father silently hoped he’d done the right thing by making the boy march way out here. After nearly three days of hiking, bug bites and no shower, neither was in the ideal situation to appreciate wonder. If his own memory had inflated the beauty of what was about to come, he didn’t know if it would be enough to shake his son out of his melancholy.
There wasn’t a wave of fireflies awakening. The slope did not go from a few rare blips of light to a glowing symphony. Over the next hour, the growth was steady, noticeable only in chunks of time like a pot of slowly boiling water. But as twilight faded, the father realized there were a great deal of fireflies now darting around.
But that was all they were doing. Brief flashes, erratic movement, and nothing of the cohesion he expected. They looked, for all the world, like a group of normal, uninspiring fireflies.
“Come on…” he whispered, nervously tapping fingers against his thigh.
All at once, as if in response to his plea, a line of fireflies lit themselves. Not a flash this time, but a steady, unbroken glow from each. They twirled around a tree, spiraling up its trunk in an unlikely synchronization. Nearby, another group of fireflies flared into life. They chased each other in a loop that formed a circle, then a figure-eight before dissipating.
“Whoa…” the son said, leaning up in his little chair. “I didn’t know they could do that.”
The fireflies were not done. More and more of them came alight. They organized, falling into geometric shapes that wavered just above the forest floor. And still more lit themselves and held their glow. In just a few minutes, the little patch of forest became a cacophony of luminescence.
Motion became the forest’s constant. Teams of fireflies began to perform beautiful aerial acrobatics. They curled in large spirals, spiraling smaller and smaller until they became a small ball. Then they burst open, flying out in all directions. It looked like a miniature, slow-motion firework. Another team formed a complex three-pointed symbol that vaguely resembled a fleur-de-lis.
Across the base of the slope, the fireflies paraded in their complex, unlikely patterns. Shapes formed and danced, then vanished and reformed. It was a magnificent display of natural beauty.
The father stole a glance at his son. There was a look of pure awe on the boy’s face. His head shot left and right, his eyes trying to take in everything. Satisfaction welled up inside the father, but he resisted the urge to hold his son. He didn’t want to break the spell quite yet.
For twenty minutes, the lights danced across the small piece of forest. Night birds came out to sing their praise. He wasn’t sure, but the father thought he saw a fox huddled under a nearby bush watching the performance.
“Why do they do it?” his son asked. A few long trails of firefly teams weaved around the bottom of the slope, but the heart of the show was over. The bird calls changed in tone. Full night had come to the forest.
“If there’s an explainable purpose, no one knows it.”
“Scientists haven’t studied it?” the boy asked.
“Some have.”
“And they couldn’t figure it out?”
The father shook his head. “Not yet.”
For a moment, they watched the end of the light show in silence. The last of the fireflies flickered into darkness. Soon, a calm, sated darkness settled over the area.
“Why do you think they dance like that, dad?”
Now the moment came. The father leaned over to squeeze his son’s shoulders, kissed the top of his head.
“In a few days, most will be dead. A few days after that, eggs will hatch and the next generation will be born. And in a few months, they’ll go through the whole thing again.” The father recited the words his own father had told him all those years ago.
“Until someone can prove otherwise, I think they do it because they can. Because it’s beautiful and inspiring and because they feel it’s a magnificent way to celebrate life.”
His son nodded. “I’m glad I got to see it. Thanks.” A few small tears welled up in the corner of his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away. He liked that idea, and though he missed Thunder he thought he could remember his lost friend better if he followed the lead of the fireflies. If he celebrated life.
The Tall Tale Year 