Otis and the Blinking Branch

"Why do the glow-worms glow?" asked Otis. He was a small bear cub with round brown ears and a nose that wiggled whenever he thought hard. Mama Bear sat on the warm stone beside him, and the slow river went sliding past, smooth as honey. "That's a good question," said Mama. "What do you think?"

Otis thought. His nose wiggled. All along the branches the glow-worms hung in long strings, each one a tiny green lantern, and the whole jungle looked like somebody's birthday. "I think somebody lights them," said Otis. "Somebody little, with a very small ladder."

It was the gray time between day and night, the time Mama called twilight, and the light was going soft and blue. Mama did not laugh, because she never laughed at a question. "There's one way to find out," she said. "Look closer," said Otis, because that was what Mama always said. So Otis looked closer.

The nearest glow-worm hung just above Otis's head, close enough to nearly touch. Otis had a hundred questions about it. Why green. Why only at night. Why so many. The questions buzzed inside him like bees in a jar.

Above him in the mango tree hung Rafa the sloth, upside down with his arms folded. Rafa had started saying hello before the sun went down. "Hhhh," said Rafa. "Hhhh, hhhh." That was as far as he had got. Rafa took all night to say hello, and he was patient, which means waiting without any fussing.

"Rafa," said Otis, "do you know who lights the glow-worms?" Rafa thought about it. Thinking, for Rafa, took a while. "Hhhh," he said. Nothing else came out, so Otis decided to find out on his own, with Mama walking two steps behind him.

First Otis tried the moon. The moon was up and round and pale, and it made every wet leaf shine. Otis found a mango stone, smooth and shiny, and held it up in the moonlight. If the moon lights the glow-worms, he thought, it can light my stone too. He waited. The stone stayed a stone. So Otis looked closer.

Next he tried the rain. Warm rain came pat, pat, one fat drop at a time, sliding from leaf to leaf. Otis held out a curled leaf and caught a drop. Maybe rain makes the light, he thought. The drop sat in the leaf, round and clear as a bead. It was only wet. So Otis looked closer.

Then he tried the river. Mama put her paw on his back while he leaned out, because the bank was muddy and the stones were slippery. The glow-worms hung low over the water, and their lights made more little lights down in the river. Otis counted four. "That's only a copy," he said. "That's not it either." So Otis looked closer.

Otis sat back on the moss. His nose wiggled and wiggled. He had guessed three times, and three times the jungle had said, not that. He felt a small wobbly feeling in his tummy, the feeling you get when a question sits too long without an answer.

Up in the tree, something happened. "Hhhhhello," said Rafa. "Hello, Otis." He had finished his hello at last, and he smiled his slow smile. "You are very busy down there," said Rafa. "I have been watching you. Watching is slow, and slow is good."

Otis flopped onto the moss. "I keep looking, and I can't find out," he said. The moss was soft and damp and smelled of green, and Otis put his chin on his paws. "Not the whole string," said Rafa. "One. Watch just one."

So Otis watched one. He picked the smallest glow-worm on the leaf right in front of his nose, and he kept still, still as a stone, still as a sleeping tree. At first nothing happened. Then the little light went out. Blink. Then it came on again, soft and green.

Blink, went the glow-worm. And then, across the water, a far light went blink. The first one answered, two quick blinks, fast as a wink, and the far one blinked twice back. Then a third joined in, three slow blinks, like someone saying a word made of light.

Something warm opened up in Otis's chest. "They're talking," he whispered. "Nobody lights them at all. They light themselves, and they talk!"

He counted the blinks. One blink was hello. Two blinks were here I am. He never did work out what three blinks meant, but seven glow-worms kept answering one another, and the whole long branch blinked like a slow, green, friendly chat.

Otis watched and watched. His paws went sleepy and the moss felt warm as a blanket. The more he watched, the more little lights he saw, until the whole jungle was full of small green words going back and forth. Here, here, here, they said. Yes, here.

Then the best thing happened. One glow-worm let go of its leaf and sailed down, down, and landed right on the tip of Otis's nose. His nose wanted to wiggle. He made it hold still. The little light blinked once, soft and green. "Hello," whispered Otis. And the glow-worm blinked twice.

Otis blinked back, just to try it. Nothing happened, of course, because bear cubs do not glow. But the glow-worm on his nose blinked once more, as if to say, I saw you try.

Rafa laughed, low and slow, the way he did everything. "It likes your nose," he said. "Your nose is warm." Otis giggled, and his giggle made his nose wiggle after all, and the glow-worm walked down onto his paw and blinked three times, which Otis decided meant nice to meet you.

Mama came and sat beside him on the warm stone. "You found out," she said. "Nobody lit them. You looked close, and the night showed you." Otis nodded, and his eyes were round and bright. "Mama," he said, "which end of a glow-worm does the blinking?" "The end with the light," said Mama. "Come and ask me another one tomorrow."

Otis yawned, a big bear yawn that made his ears squeak. "Mama," he said, "do the glow-worms talk all night?" "They get quiet when the sky turns gray," said Mama. "Then the morning birds take over, and the blinking goes to bed."

The rain began again, pat, pat, pat, on the giant leaves, and the jungle smelled of wet moss and ripe mango. The leaves dripped, the river slid, and the world went dim and soft and quiet, the way it does at the end of an evening.

Mama picked Otis up. He was heavy now, heavy and warm, the way a bear cub gets when the day is done. She carried him along the path, and the glow-worms blinked as they passed, once, twice, three times, small green goodnights all along the branch.

"Goodnight," Otis whispered to them. He blinked back, slow. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Above them, in the mango tree, Rafa was starting on goodnight. "Hhhh," he said. "Hhhh, hhhh."

Otis's eyes closed. The river went sliding, slow as honey. The rain went pat on the big leaves. And the last thing he saw, through the leaves, was one small green light blinking back at him, soft as a whisper, saying sleep well, sleep well, sleep well.