Hotaru
They’re not even flies. They’re a family of elateroid beetle with more than two thousand named species. Many, but not all, are light-emitting. In Japan, they’re called hotaru but the scientific name is nipponoluciola cruciata.
I learned all of this from Shun.
‘Let’s go for a drive,’ he suggested. He spoke in English. It was all I knew back then. His accent was American from having studied in California.
‘I don’t feel like it.’
I’d been sulky the whole day, sprawling across his tatami floor, dropping microscopic cookie crumbs into the grooves of the tiny weave. Not caring if he’d notice them later and clean up after me.
‘Come on!’ He crouched down and looked at me. He was dazzlingly handsome. ‘I wanna do something.’
I turned away and faced the wall. Beige and flat. I heard the fridge door open behind me, rustling and chopping and packing. Then the click of his bathroom door, the flush and running of water. The door clicked shut again.
‘Let’s go.’
I didn’t move.
‘Come on, Sophie.’ I rolled over towards him, upending the cookie wrapper. There’d be more crumbs, but I didn’t look. I pulled myself up and dragged myself towards the door. I only went with him because he’d send me home otherwise. We hadn’t been together all that long.
We drove out of the city to a soundtrack of 70s rock. We were twenty-three but Shun was an old soul. He’d told me his parents were hippies. I didn’t know what an ageing Japanese hippy would look like but I pictured his mother as Yoko Ono.
Shun looked over at me from time to time, but otherwise we drove without much interaction. Just the raw, searing tones of Robert Plant in my ears. It wasn’t until we were through the mountains, right out on the other side of the long tunnel that cut through the middle of the range, that I spoke.
‘Where are we going?’
‘My hometown.’
‘Are we meeting your parents?’ I was unprepared for this.
He laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh, but it hurt a little.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘In Japan we only introduce our parents if we’re planning to marry. But anyway, I’m taking you to a river.’
I didn’t want to go to a river. Or be deemed unworthy of marriage.
‘I wanna show you something.’ He put his hand on my thigh.
We drove for another half hour or so, through a few small towns that peppered the road north. It was getting dark by the time we parked. From inside the car, with the windows up and the air-con blasting, it didn’t look like there’d be anything to see. We were in the middle of nowhere—inaka in Japanese. All I could expect was hills and rice fields.
The heat hit me as soon as I got out of the car, and I followed the soft crackle of Shun’s footsteps along a gravel path. I scraped my hair into a bun and wiped some perspiration off my face. I kept walking, and then the air changed and it suddenly got darker. The outline of a tree canopy was only just visible overhead.
Shun turned and took my hand, guiding me through the darkness. I could hear the babble of flowing water, and the whoosh of a warm breeze shooting through leaves. It was romantic and terrifying all at once. Classic horror scenes came to mind.
Shun stopped.
‘There!’
I didn’t know where he was directing me to look, and my eyes were having a hard time adjusting. I stood blinking for some time, confused, until a single yellow-green fairy light floated past. I blinked again and noticed another, and another, and then another. I focused on the middle distance, perhaps ten metres from where we were standing, and I realised the air was filled with hundreds of these strange little lights gliding gracefully off the ground.
‘Hotaru!’ Shun said. ‘Fireflies.’
I stood completely still. I’d never seen anything like it before.
‘They’re magical,’ I whispered.
The scene before me became more and more beautiful as I watched. The better my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the more fireflies appeared. I felt like I’d been allowed into a secret, fairy-tale world. It was utterly enchanting.
Shun wrapped his arms around me. ‘We used to come here every summer.’ I leaned into him, his body strong and hard against mine, and I turned my face towards his. He brought his hands up to my hair, and we kissed. A soft, lingering kiss. But I kept my eyes open and watched as the fireflies danced behind him.
*
‘We used to catch them and take them home in a jar.’ He said this matter-of-factly on the drive home.
‘That’s awful! They would have died.’
‘Yeah, they did.’
I handed him an onigiri, one of the filled triangles of rice he’d prepared for the trip.
‘Actually, we don’t do that anymore. We try to save the species now, like a conservation thing.’
Through mouthfuls of food, he told me about the relentless commercial harvesting of fireflies, from countryside to bustling city, during the Meiji era of the late nineteenth century. It carried on until at least the 1920s. A single hunter could trap thousands of fireflies in just one night—the egg-laying females easy prey as they deposited their yellow caviar on the mossy riverbanks. They’d be sold to restaurants and tea houses, in custom-made lanterns to spend their dying days dazzling guests with their bioluminescence. The Emperor was said to love them.
‘My dad told us about it,’ Shun continued. ‘But he’d still let my brother and me catch a few. We loved taking them home.’
I scoffed at him then, unable to hide my disapproval.
‘We were just kids.’
‘Even still.’
Later, as we lay together in his tatami room, he traced a finger along the length of my arm. My skin tingled.
‘Hotaru have special meaning in Japan.’ He kissed my shoulder. ‘We only see them for a few weeks a year.’ He kissed my neck. ‘They remind us that beauty and pleasure are often temporary. They make us think of romance and passion.’
I kissed him back then, forcefully, thinking he’d meant those words as a compliment.
It turned out they were the start of a long and painful farewell.
*
I thought about Shun a few days ago. He’d have settled down by now, with a wife and children. Maybe just one child, maybe none. The birth rate’s declining.
I was standing in my kitchen, making sandwiches. Kenji was outside with the garden hose. ‘The tomatoes need more water,’ I called. He turned and squirted the hose directly at me for a second, the water splashing noisily against the window. I caught a glimpse of his raised eyebrow and wry smile before he turned away again.
Hana appeared in the doorway. ‘Mama, will you play with me?’
‘Not just now, darling. I’m making a picnic.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re going to the river. Remember?’
She looked deep in thought as her gaze fell on the counter in front of me. Thick slices of fluffy white bread, strips of cucumber, a bowl filled with roughly mashed egg. She shook her head and wandered over to the fridge. Uninterested in a trip to the river, she moved the magnets around at random.
I made the sandwiches, filled the hamper and called out to Kenji.
He bounded in, filling the room with unspoken yet almost tangible exuberance. His best quality. The one I admired the most.
He swooped Hana up and swung her around. ‘Ready for an adventure?’ He spoke in Japanese.
Hana giggled. ‘Adventure?’
‘Yes!’ in his big voice. ‘You’re gonna be like Dora today.’
More giggles. ‘Dora the Explorer!’
He lowered Hana to the floor and kissed the top of her head. ‘Actually, we’re all gonna be Dora! Aren’t we, Sophie?’ He said my name the Japanese way, the ph sounding foreign and soft, like a breath.
We got in the car and drove out of the city. We ignored the signs to Osaka, and turned off the highway in the other direction. Tall packs of tight concrete buildings gave way to quieter neighbourhoods, fewer billboards, and then we were on empty roads flanked by mountains and trees. Electronic jangles from Hana’s toy computer competed with the velvety sounds of a Miles Davis CD.
We were one of the last to arrive. As we parked and got our things together, Morimoto-san walked over to greet us. We all bowed, but Morimoto-san’s bow was deeper. His phrasing was impeccably polite. ‘It’s an honour to see you again. Thank you for graciously bestowing your assistance.’ He looked at this clipboard. ‘I humbly ask that you work on the southern end. Kindly make your way to Tanaka-san.’
We followed the path to the river and soon saw Tanaka-san, an elderly lady who’d resisted convention and kept her white hair long, tied back in a low ponytail. She bowed to us and handed Hana a small plastic bucket and a hand-held fishing net, the kind pet shops use for goldfish. Hana looked bewildered but politely took them.
‘Mind you stay in the shallow water,’ Tanaka-san said. ‘You may not find many today, but please just do your best.’
As we left her, we passed a dozen other volunteers dotted along the river. Some called out to greet us, others were too focused to notice.
‘What are they doing?’ whispered Hana.
‘Collecting snails,’ answered Kenji.
‘Eww! Gross!’
We got to a section of river that was empty of people and put our things down on the grass. I had the hamper and Kenji had the camping chairs and towels.
‘Who wants to go first?’ he asked.
‘I’ll take Hana,’ I offered.
I kicked my shoes off and got Hana to slip out of her sandals. I held the bucket and net in one hand, and Hana’s hand in the other, and we stepped gingerly over the rocks towards the water. The river looked like it would be deep in the middle, but at the sides the water was shallow, lapping gently at the rocks. We put our feet in the water, checking the firmness of the pebbled riverbed. Once I was sure we were stable, I let go of Hana’s hand and bent over to get a good look.
‘Hana-chan, we need to find the snails.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the fireflies need them.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the baby fireflies, they’re called larvae, they need to eat lots of these snails so that they can grow up and become adults.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there aren’t many fireflies left anymore. If we can protect the babies and help them grow, there’ll be more adults to make more babies.’
I expected another question but she just shrugged and crouched down. She brought her hands up to shield her face from the sun, and peered at the pebbles. ‘I don’t want to touch them.’
‘Okay. You can just tell me when you see one.’
The water was clear. We trained our eyes on the sides of the rocks that lined the river, just under the waterline.
‘What colour are the snails?’
‘Brown. Just like some of the pebbles.’
We stood in silence for a minute or two. A sharp line caught my eye and I realised I was looking at the pointed end of a shell. The shape of it reminded me of the cream horns my grandmother used to make. ‘I see one!’
I lowered the bucket into the water and scooped up the snail with the net. It was easy to manoeuvre it from its post. I lifted the bucket, let out some of the water, and passed it to Hana. ‘Cool!’ she said as she looked inside.
Knowing what to look for, it wasn’t long before Hana found one herself. And then another, and another. A keen hunter. At one point I suggested we get something to eat and let Kenji take over, but Hana didn’t want to leave her station. Soon all three of us were positioned on active duty at the riverbed, eyes peeled, net at the ready. Hana wouldn’t let go of the bucket and, by the end of the afternoon, was happily examining each snail by hand.
Tanaka-san was delighted with our haul.
‘Thank you for your hard work today.’ She took the net back from us, while a young man in a traditional happi coat took the bucket and headed towards a van with the museum’s name printed along the side.
Morimoto-san found us while we were packing up the car.
‘We’ll be releasing the larvae in about two weeks,’ he told us. ‘We would be honoured if you could grace us with your presence.’
Kenji answered, his Japanese phrasing incongruously casual. ‘I’m afraid we won’t make it. We’ll be in New Zealand. Where my wife’s from.’
‘Just a holiday,’ I added.
Morimoto-san looked over at me as if noticing my foreignness for the first time. ‘Thank you for kindly making time to accompany your husband today.’
‘It was her idea,’ said Kenji, smiling at the old man. ‘She’s the one obsessed with fireflies.’
Morimoto-san adjusted his stance and bowed deeply to all three of us. ‘We are humbly honoured.’
*
We were sitting in the den that night. Kenji liked to call it that, but really it was just a cosy corner of the kitchen. A floor-to-ceiling window overlooked our garden, small as that was, and Kenji’s eclectic mix of mismatched armchairs and retro lamps made me think of the family bach on the Kāpiti coast.
‘Let’s go to the Waitomo glowworm caves.’ He was researching our trip, laptop on his knees, reading glasses slightly askew.
‘Sure. It’s a bit far, but we can do a little road trip. Stay somewhere up there.’
Pipi, our little white cat, jumped down from my lap and disappeared. He’d be heading to the end of Hana’s bed, safe in the knowledge that Hana would already be asleep, immobile, incapable of annoying him.
‘They’re the larvae.’ Kenji carried on reading. ‘Not the adult. But also a different species.’
‘It’s a shame we’ll miss the larvae release.’
Kenji didn’t look up. ‘Shoganai ne.’ The routine Japanese phrase to indicate something can’t be helped.
‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘It’s still a shame though.’
I stroked his arm and leaned my head against his shoulder. He tilted his head so that it rested against mine. His fingers tapped quietly against the keyboard. He was looking at accommodation in Te Kuiti.
‘Let’s just stay in Hamilton. Then we can go to Hobbiton as well.’
He changed the search settings and we both watched for a moment as the screen filled with new options. Hotels, motels, self-contained apartments. Kenji leaned closer to the screen.
I moved back to the centre of my chair. I glanced at my husband as I picked up my phone and flicked on to Google. Shun, I typed. Shunichi Nakagawa. And then the name of the Tokyo journal he worked for. It was an international publication, and Shun’s articles were often translated into English. Perhaps he did the translations himself.
I started to read his latest article. It was innocent enough, reading about the failings of the education system, but all the same I tilted my phone away from Kenji.
My eyes were trained on the words but my mind wandered. So long ago. Shun’s skin, pale and smooth; the way he’d held me by the river; the touch of his finger running along my arm as we lay in his tiny apartment, a glimpse of the moon through the window. I closed my eyes and thought of him lying next to me.
‘What do you think of this one?’
Kenji passed me the laptop. I pretended to look. ‘Sure.’ He took it back and continued scrolling.
I jumped to the end of the article and lingered on the photograph of Shun. His expression was stern, thoughtful, a serious journalist. But he still looked strikingly handsome as the monochrome lens caressed his face.
What a brat I’d been. When I was with him. A petulant child. It shamed me to think about it.
He’d like me more if we met now.
My gaze fell on the link below his image. An email address. Inviting. I clicked on it and a new window opened up on the screen. An email. From me. To Shun. I stared at it for a few minutes, imagining what I might write. But at last I clicked on the cross in the corner and the message disappeared as it was quickly whisked away to my drafts. With all the others.
I yawned and stretched, and went to get up from my chair but a loud clatter stopped me. Kenji looked up. I spun around towards the door.
Pipi had something in his paws, something hard. He was pushing it around on the tiled floor.
Kenji and I both moved towards him, peering at his catch.
‘Hana brought one home!’ gasped Kenji.
Pipi circled around, a ball of white fur, and swiped a tiny straight-edged snail with his paw. A mini cream horn, brown like a pebble.
‘She must have put it in her pocket.’
Kenji reached down and picked up the snail. He took it towards the back door and shuffled into his jandals. I picked up Pipi, held him to my chest, and kissed the top of his head. Without a word, I took him back to Hana’s room, holding on to him gently, flicking the lights off as I went.
Samantha Oakley is a Japanese-British writer. She has a Master of Creative Writing from Massey University, and is a 2024 recipient of the New Zealand Society of Authors CompleteMS (manuscript assessment) Programme. She lives in Wellington with her husband and two children.