The moon was a soft and sleepy half-moon tonight, lying back among the stars like a head upon a pillow. Marlow lay back too, against his cushion of river-reeds, and let the boat hum its low hum, and watched the water slip by, slow and silver and warm.
And he remembered, as the boat drifted on, the little light he had seen the night before. That small green glow, far off downstream, blinking on and off, on and off, like something shy saying hello. He had wondered, just before he fell asleep, what could be glowing, just around the bend.
Now the bend was here. And the glow was here too.
The river widened, slow and gentle, into a quiet pool, and beyond the pool lay a great dark meadow of long grass and nodding flowers, all silvered over by the moon. And here and there above the grass — one, and then another, and then another — floated tiny green lights, soft as breath, blinking on... and off... and on again.
"Oh," said Marlow, very softly, so as not to startle them. "How lovely."
He let his boat come to rest where the river met the meadow, among the cool reeds, and he watched. The little lights drifted and dipped over the grass. They were fireflies — a whole shy meadow of them — and each one carried a small green lantern in its tail.
But as Marlow watched, he began to see that something was not quite the way it ought to be. The little lights did not glow for long. One would brighten, only a little, only for a moment — and then, the instant it noticed Marlow watching, it would dim itself down to nothing and tuck itself away in the grass.
"Good evening," said Marlow, in his quiet voice. "Please don't put your lights out on my account. I only came to see how lovely you are."
For a long moment, nothing happened at all. Then, from a tall blade of grass right beside the boat, one small firefly crept out — her lantern barely a glimmer — and she looked at Marlow with two tiny, shy eyes.
"We can't help it," she said, in a voice no louder than a dewdrop falling. "We're the shy ones. The whole meadow is shy. When nobody is looking, we can manage a little glow. But the moment we feel watched, our lights go all small and frightened, and they hide away." She drooped on her blade of grass. "And tonight there is a half-moon, which means it is our turn to light the meadow — to make the lanterns for all the sleepy creatures to find their way home by. But how can we light the whole meadow, when we can hardly light ourselves?"
Marlow thought about this for a moment, the way he thought about most things: slowly, and softly. He did not think it was such a great trouble. He thought it was the kind of trouble that comes when you try too hard to shine, and watch yourself doing it, and frighten the shine away.
"I think," said Marlow, "that a light is a little like a yawn. The harder you try to make one come, the more it hides. But if you stop trying, and just go warm and easy and slow... it comes drifting up all on its own." He settled deeper among the reeds. "Shall we try it that way? Not shining at anyone. Just being warm, you and I, the way the moon is warm, and letting whatever happens happen."
"I don't know how to do that," whispered the little firefly.
"Then we'll go slowly," said Marlow. "Slow and soft. That's the way. First — let's not look at your light at all. Let's look at the moon instead. Isn't she a kind sort of moon tonight, lying back like that?"
The little firefly turned, and looked up at the soft half-moon. "She is," she admitted.
"And feel how warm the grass still is," said Marlow, "from holding the sun all day. And hear how the river breathes. In... and out... and in."
And the little firefly forgot, just for a moment, to think about her light at all. She watched the sleepy half-moon. She felt the warm grass under her small feet. She listened to the slow river breathing, in and out and in. And without noticing it, without trying for it, without watching herself do it — she began, very gently, to glow.
It was not a frightened little glimmer this time. It was a warm, round, steady green, soft as a candle behind a curtain. It spilled out over her blade of grass and lit up the dewdrops, so each one shone like a tiny green star.
"Oh," she breathed — and then she looked, and saw her own light, and for half a second it flickered, ready to hide.
"Don't reach for it," murmured Marlow. "Just let it be. It was never yours to make. It was only yours to stop hiding."
So she let it be. And it stayed.
And here is the gentle thing about a meadow of shy fireflies: the moment one of them glows, warm and easy and unafraid, the one beside her feels it, and remembers how — and glows too. And then the next. And the next. Not all at once, in a startling rush, but slowly, softly, the way the stars had come out over Marlow's boat the night before. One... and then another... and then another...
Until the whole dark meadow was full of warm green light, floating and dipping over the grass, gentle as a held breath, and every dewdrop shone, and every nodding flower had its own small lantern bowing beside it. The sleepy creatures of the meadow — the dozing beetles, the drowsy moths, the little mice curled in the roots — opened their eyes to a meadow softly lit, and found their warm ways home.
"Thank you, little one," whispered the firefly, glowing steady and calm on her blade of grass. "You didn't light us. You only helped us stop trying so hard, so the light could come on its own."
"Slow and soft," murmured Marlow, his own eyes growing heavy now. "That's the way."
The little firefly drifted up from her grass, warm and bright, and gave Marlow's boat the softest nudge with her glow, back out onto the silver river. "Off you go, then," she said, "down the slow Hushabye River. Sleep softly, Marlow."
And the boat began, once more, to drift.
Marlow lay back against his reeds. The warm green light of the meadow followed him for a while, glowing and floating behind him, growing fainter and softer, until it was only a gentle greenness in the dark, and then only a memory of green, and then only the hush of the water and the low hum of the boat. The stars turned, slowly. The half-moon lay back on its pillow. And the little boat made of moonlight carried him on, around the gentle curve of the night.
Marlow's eyes were nearly closed now. But just before they were — just as the boat rounded the very next soft bend in the river — he heard, far off downstream, the smallest, softest sound. A sleepy sort of sound. A little like baa... and a little like a yawn that couldn't quite finish itself. It drifted to him over the water from a low dark shape out in the middle of the river — a small island, he thought, though he was too sleepy now to be sure.
"How curious," Marlow thought, drowsily. "I wonder... I wonder who could be out there on that little island, still awake, and sounding so very ready for sleep."
But that, little one, is a tale for tomorrow night.
So close your eyes, and let the river breathe you down to sleep. Slow and soft. That's the way.
Sleep softly.
Marlow will wait for you, just around the bend.
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