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Ginko raps his hand on the door’s wood framing. From the inside, the door is slid open, and the house’s hoarded warmth whooshes out as the sea’s cool rushes in. He removes the cigarette from between his teeth to talk. “I have your medicines, Adashino.”
“Took you long enough,” is the smug reply. “Come in, Ginko.”
He steps in, shutting the door, the sounds of the heat and the cold’s struggle silenced. He begins to unload his wooden backpack and hears Adashino sit in front of him.
“But really,” Adashino says, “thank you, Ginko. It’s good to see you.”
Ginko has placed the cigarette back in his mouth, and offers a hum as a response.
“You have no mushi wares, though?”
Ginko slightly parts his teeth, tongue shifting the cigarette aside to be able to speak. “None.”
“Then maybe it’s not so good to see you,” Adashino says, smirking.
A small laugh in the back of Ginko’s throat. This is their first meeting in a few months and he studies Adashino as if he could have forgotten his details in his absence. There are bags under Adashino’s eyes; but, ever busy as his village’s sole doctor, he gracefully wears the haggardness such a profession in such a location demands. “Have you been busy?” Ginko asks.
“Incredibly so,” Adashino says, rubbing his face. “You know how sicknesses increase as winter approaches. What I requested from you will help me in treating them.” He picks up a bottle at random. “You were able to get gypsum! How?”
Memories of strangers made friends, of mushi made to be understood, dart through Ginko’s mind. “By this and that.” He adds, “I had no luck getting the eucommia bark. Sorry.”
“There’s no need for you to apologize. One of my patients got it for me as payment for treatment.”
Ginko’s eye widens. “You met another mushi-shi?”
“No. He’s a logger in the village. Unsurprisingly, he has better friends with people in the wood industry than you.” Adashino puts the gypsum bottle down. “If you didn’t get eucommia bark, was there money left?”
“Yes, but I had to use some to pay for food when my own money ran out. Here is what I spent, paid in full,” he says, handing over the money in an envelope. He’s prepared to show his ledgers, corroborating that what he returns is what is owed, but Adashino’s kindness extends to more than how he treats his patients.
Adashino thanks Ginko and pockets the envelope in his sleeve. He’s about to say something, but a poorly stifled yawn delays him. “The weather is supposed to worsen soon. Stay the night, if you like. I’m sure you’re tired, anyway.”
Ginko had already discerned the inclement weather: the walk to Adashino’s house, typically pleasant, had a strong wind ushering him forward, had stray droplets of an ocean a good distance away catching his skin. “I’m worried about the mushi gathering with me around.”
“Surely one night is harmless? It’s not as if you have never slept under anyone else’s roof before.”
“Yes, but—”
Adashino waves away his worry as if it’s a pest. “‘But’ nothing, Ginko. Let me sort these,” he says, motioning to the array of jars and vials and tubes Ginko has brought, “and then we can eat.”
Ginko lets out a huff of air through his nose. While Adashino sorts his inventory, Ginko goes outside, the ocean as refreshing to inhale as to wade in.
His journeys have him traverse the land, treading dirt paths in forests that countless people, over time, have softly beaten down; or else crunching over wild plants to make paths of his own. He doesn’t go to the coast often. It makes returning to it that more special.
The wind whips his coat, though not as badly as it does his cigarette smoke. It wisps into his eyes; he has to squint to keep it and saltwater from stinging him. Even through his limited vision, the looming darkness is unmistakable, as is the approaching rain crisp in his nose.
He wanders away from the coast to where the sand thickens to soil and lush trees take root. Most of the trees are bereft of leaves, but all remain stalwart. Through knots and holes on their bark, the wind makes its song, and it could nearly be mistaken for human speech. Should they truly speak, they would certainly extol the rain to come—with the season nearly into winter, the trees have seen greener days.
A sizzle: Ginko’s cigarette, extinguished. A small, concentrated wetness on his cheek, and one more, and another yet, as the rain arrives. Ginko, grumbling, runs to Adashino’s house. The moment he slides the door shut, the rain has strengthened to a deluge.
“That came quicker than I thought,” Adashino says, going into the room. “Good luck finding somewhere else to sleep in this weather. Guess you’re stuck here with me and all your interesting mushi stories you definitely need to share.”
Ginko good-naturedly rolls his eyes.
“I’m finished putting everything away, and lunch is ready.”
“Thanks for having me,” Ginko says, following after him to the kitchen.
“Yes, yes.”
On his travels, strangers had generously fed Ginko, and each of those meals was made more delicious by the personal warmth with which they’d been served. Yet none of those meals can be compared to this one, comfortable in a seaside house beside good company.
“That was great,” Ginko says, pushing away his empty bowls. “You might be weary of it, but I have to thank you again, Adashino. Adashino?”
Adashino had rested his head between his hands, Ginko having believed it sluggishness from such a hearty meal. “Sorry. I feel a mild headache coming on.” He picks his head up, gathers the bowls. “I didn’t cook this—it was another payment I received—but it is great, isn’t it?”
“Should you be taking medicine?” Ginko asks, helping clean up. “Eventually, a doctor has to catch what his patients have.”
“I haven’t seen anyone who complained of a headache. This is just the lack of sleep.”
Ginko eyes him flatly. “You’re not sleeping?”
“I’m a doctor, Ginko. I have to prioritize my patients. I haven’t left the house in a few days; it’s been that busy.”
“That doesn’t mean you can forget about your own health.”
“A good night’s rest is a tried-and-true cure. I’ll wake up as usual tomorrow; you’ll see.”
Outside, the storm rages in language older than memory.
The sun doesn’t quite rise—it simply is no longer night. Grayness, light enough Ginko can see, has draped itself over the coast: it is in the off-color of the sand, the drabness of the sky reflected on the choppy water. It may no longer be storming, but the puddles and the gloss of the leaves stubbornly clinging to their trees are a reminder of what had ruled the night.
Adashino has not gotten up yet, so Ginko goes for a stroll. There is beauty in the world after the rain.
He stops next to a tree, freshly flourished, and rests a hand on its trunk. He pats it, a silent gesture of good will and luck in the promised winter, and as he turns away, he notes that a tree—one of those already laid bare—seems shriveled. The inviolable truth that everything alive must one day die is not made any more merciful in its acknowledgment.
As if his touch will help it, he pats it as well.
When he returns to the house, Adashino remains asleep. He was more tired than he let on, Ginko thinks.
After an hour with still no Adashino, Ginko worries. He quietly opens Adashino’s bedroom door.
Adashino is on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing slow and ragged. “Good morning, Ginko. I... think it’s morning still,” he mumbles. He removes his arm—his pallor is worse from yesterday. “I also think I worried you by being absent so long. I’m sorry. I still feel feverish after all.”
“You’re sick; don’t apologize. I’ll bring you medicine,” Ginko says. “Something with ginger, right?”
Adashino doesn’t need to close his eyes to see his apothecary in his mind’s eye. “There’s a bottle on the fourth shelf, second column. It’s labeled as ginger paste. Please bring me that, a spoon, and a cup of water.”
Ginko obliges. He watches Adashino scoop up a spoonful of the paste, sprinkle it with water, and swallow with a grimace. The rest of the water he gulps.
“Will you have more medicine later?” Ginko asks. “Do I need to bring more water? Any food?”
“No, but thank you. Under doctor’s orders, I’ll sleep some more. Sorry to be a poor host.”
“Not at all. Get your rest. I can find something to do in the village.”
Adashino hums, settling back in his futon, forcefully closing his eyes as if that will immediately herald sleep.
In the village, Ginko buys himself a humble breakfast, as well as a portion to give to Adashino once he has an appetite. At this time of year, the mushi are sluggish in the air, the trees, the ground. To someone lacking knowing sight, it would appear Ginko is only admiring what the villagers and nature have provided. The old woman under a building’s awning, selling her pottery wares, certainly thinks so.
“Days like today make you happy to be alive, don’t they?” she says, a croak in her voice. “Cold, but not quite so; the smell of rain lingering; colors on the plants that have made it this far; and the people happy.”
“It helps that you have a lovely village.”
“Hmm, I thought you were a visitor! What brings you all the way out here?”
“Adashino-sensei is my friend; I’m visiting him. But he’s sick. I think he caught one of his patients’ illnesses.”
“Oh! Would you tell him I hope he gets better soon? He does so much for us. Why, Shindo-san was terribly, terribly ill before he got to Adashino-sensei, who healed him right up. How lethargy and a bad back can kill, I’d never guess, but it’s thanks to our very own doctor that Shindo-san can still cut down the trees that house and warm us.”
That must be the logger Adashino had mentioned. “Was Shindo-san the last patient Adashino-sensei saw?”
“I think so.”
So they will only need to treat Adashino’s illness with whatever had bettered the logger. It was a foolish lapse in Ginko’s judgment not to have asked Adashino himself.
Ginko thanks the woman for the conversation, but she’s not quite done—she loudly informs her friend across the street that Adashino is sick, and, gasping, that friend runs along to deliver the message to another house. It all starts a commotion, onlookers learning the message without being its intended recipients, and soon Ginko has an armful of get-better-soon gifts for Adashino.
Enough time has passed since he’d left Adashino’s house that a visit is due, and he can’t very well amble through the village carrying so many things. Ginko walks to Adashino’s house, slowly, as to not drop anything.
“I’m back,” he announces, quietly, in case Adashino still sleeps; but not so quiet someone awake would miss it.
Because the majority of the gifts are food, he heads for the kitchen. Ginko hears a sound, sibilant to the thumps of the bowls and bottles he sets down. Adashino, the bags under his eyes darker than earlier, has shuffled into the kitchen.
Ginko is quickly at Adashino’s side, offering him a hand. “Should you be up?”
“I should eat.” He wearily eyes the goods Ginko has brought. “Why did you cook so much?”
“The villagers know you’re sick and sent you all this.”
“And why do they—” Adashino clears his throat. “Why do they know I’m sick?” His eye goes over his monocle to sternly look at Ginko, who glances away. Adashino’s sigh is rough. “No, I know how they can get. You’ll have to thank them for me.”
“I did, but more importantly,” he says, helping Adashino sit, “I also found out your logger patient was your last patient.”
“What about it?”
“Wouldn’t what made him sick be what you have? You can take the medicine you gave him and be better sooner.”
“I can’t have what he had; it’s too soon. He was only here two days ago.” Adashino coughs. “It must be the patient I saw before him a week ago. That’s enough time for an infection to appear. That patient just had a cough and fever, which are my own current symptoms. Ginger paste, plenty of water, and rest is what I prescribed her and what I’m following. This is more a trial of patience than medicine.”
“...I see.”
“Don’t be so glum, Ginko,” Adashino says, smiling fleetingly. “I’m moved you wanted to discover the answers to this mystery on your own, as you do in your own journeys. I would actually advise you to leave now so you don’t get sick. As a preventive measure, eat citrus fruit and drink plenty of ginger tea. Green tea works, too.”
It’s useless to ask if Adashino will be fine on his own; his knowledge and skills have seen him through before. Ginko trusts in them, respects Adashino himself. Lingering on as a caretaker is unnecessary—but so too would it be detrimental, when the mushi so fond of Ginko flitted in once more.
“How long do you think you’ll be sick?” Ginko asks.
“It shouldn’t be more than a week.”
He nods, rising to his feet. “I’ll drop by to see you in a week, then. We need to have a proper drink together.”
“That we do,” Adashino replies, raising a pretend cup. He coughs again.
There is only so much distance a man can travel without forgetting his roots, and so Ginko does not stray far from Adashino’s village. He goes a few miles south, following the ocean’s current.
He’s at the cool, gray beach enjoying his cigarette when a young man, kicking up sand as he runs, breathlessly stops a healthy distance in front of Ginko.
“I’m very sorry to bother you!” he says, bowing. “I’ve come from Adashino-sensei’s village with a message: his condition has worsened, and it looks like it’s what made Shindo-san sick. We—ah, Adashino-sensei—think you could be infected as well. We’re asking you to keep yourself away from people, and to follow Adashino-sensei’s recommended treatment—”
Ginko holds up a hand to politely silence the young man. All this information imparted at once; he needs to gather his thoughts, form coherent questions. “Adashino-sensei told me he couldn’t have the logger’s illness because it was too soon for it to infect him. Are you sure that’s what it is? It’s only been two days since I left. Could his health have deteriorated so soon?”
“He told us himself. It’s a fever, lethargy, and terrible back pain. He’s been doing what helped Shindo-san get better, but so far it’s not working.”
“So you’re telling me,” Ginko says, “this will happen to me too and I might not get better.”
“It’s what Adashino-sensei thinks...”
“Let me see him.”
The young man’s mouth is agape. “Adashino-sensei won’t even let us in!”
“No one needs to know.” Ginko walks forward. Stops, looks over his shoulder. “In fact, you never heard anything. Something’s not right here.”
“Are you a doctor, too?”
“No. I’m a mushi-shi.” He faces forward. “It’s not always people who hurt us.”
The trip, even at their hastened pace, takes the better part of the day. The wane sun dips below the water as Adashino’s house peeks into view; but for the season settling on the coast, there is little difference in the muted colors day and night offer. Their gradations—darker, more ominous—are kept away minutely by the light of Ginko’s lantern. Briefly, the light falls on the trees by Adashino’s property. Ginko stops walking and the young man bumps into him.
“Oh, that tree,” the young man says. “It’s a shame it died, but not everything handles the cold well.”
“That tree,” Ginko says, stomach sinking as loose multiple truths slowly weave to one, “should not be dead already.”
“What do you mean?”
Ginko rushes to the tree and touches it. It is crumbling like old bones. He thinks of the logger, wise venturer of ancient forest, suddenly near death, suffering great pain in his back; of how Adashino is the same, though he should not be.
“Stand back,” Ginko says, stern. He places his wooden backpack on the uneven ground, opens a drawer, takes a bonsai encased in a glass jar; then he unwinds his scarf, wraps it around his hands, and hastily digs up the dirt at the tree’s base.
He sees the mushi first, blending with the root hairs, feeding on the shriveled roots. At their unearthing, they wriggle, loosening themselves off the roots—and there, swiftly, Ginko scoops them all into the bonsai jar, firmly closing it, though not so firm the jar is unopenable. He will need to take the negusa from Adashino’s back, too.
The young man is about to say something—very likely to voice his confusion on what, exactly, Ginko has done—but Ginko does not answer it because he does not hear him in full. He’s dashing to the house, skidding around the corners of the hall, reaching Adashino’s room.
Adashino is prone on his back, pale as the tree the mushi had latched themselves on to. He struggles to open his eyes. “Ginko?” he rasps. “You need to go. I’m sicker than I thought.”
“Hush, Adashino, and don’t worry, I won’t get sick. You’re hosting mushi.”
There is a brightness in Adashino’s eyes that is not from his fever. “Mushi? On me? You’re sure?”
“I caught some in one of your trees.” He holds up the glass jar. The mushi are not in view—they have already burrowed themselves to feed on the bonsai’s roots, and they are already sapping life from it, if the dullness on the leaves is any indication.
But Adashino could not see them regardless. “They’re really in there?” he asks, eagerness barely diminished by his illness.
“Under the dirt. They’re negusa.”
Negusa, the root-rot mushi. They attach themselves to a plant’s roots, leeching off the nutrients the plant takes up for itself. Eventually, there is nothing else the plant can give; and so, roots first, it rots to its dry death. The negusa live in forests, an abundance of food, latching onto animals to spread when competition between them grows.
It is rare, though not unheard of, that the creature offering the mushi passage instead becomes their food. The base of the spine, dendritic in analog to a tree’s roots, is their favored spot—and it explains the logger and Adashino’s back pain. The logger must have felled a tree host to negusa, inadvertently become their new host, and transferred some to Adashino’s tree and some to Adashino himself. Rather than swiftly beating an illness, the logger had simply lost the mushi sickening him when he had sought out treatment.
“So,” Ginko says, finishing his explanation, “I just need to tempt them from you with this healthy bonsai.”
“But they will die in there eventually, won’t they?” Genuine upset furrows Adashino’s brow.
“Yes, so I’ll take them deep into a forest. One that people don’t go into. They’ll have plenty of food once they exhaust the bonsai.” He loosens the jar’s lid. “I need you to sit up and lower your kimono so I can see your back.”
Adashino is feeble; with Ginko’s help, he’s sitting up. Adashino lowers his kimono, needing further help in removing his arms from his sleeves. The fabric pools on the floor, and the mushi are revealed at the cusp where fabric and skin meet. Ginko pops the jar’s lid off, pressing the jar’s lip to Adashino’s back. The mushi wriggle in the bonsai’s direction, sensing its verdant health; they judge it superior, worthier of devouring, and like a plant being uprooted, they pull themselves from Adashino, slithering inside the jar. Ginko immediately closes the lid, so tightly the lid is imprinted on his hand.
Adashino exhales heavily as he lies down. “You’ve helped me yet again. It’s good you were around. As much as I like mushi, I wouldn’t have wanted to die like carrion for them.” He blinks. “Huh. My back doesn’t hurt anymore, but I’m still very tired.”
“The negusa ate what they could that wouldn’t kill you. You’ll only get back the nutrients you need if you eat. Since you’re not weak from a typical disease, I’d do it sooner rather than later.” Ginko stands. “I’m sure you have plenty of meals to choose from in your kitchen.”
Adashino starts to laugh, but a cough threads its way in between breaths. It rattles him, making him curl up. He takes a moment to regain his composure and says, hoarsely, “I think I’ll take the food now.”
“I’ll bring you that and water. Then, let me share the good news to the villagers. They were worried.”
“Thank you, Ginko. And you can let them know I’m fine. But if I might ask for one more favor?”
“What is it?”
“Let me see the jar.”
Ginko kneels, handing it over.
Adashino squints at it, as if by sheer concentration he will make the mushi peek from above the earth where they’ve buried themselves, and by that effort he will be rewarded with the eyes to see the mushi he’s long admired.
Of course, nothing happens.
His expression smooths. The wonders mushi inspire in him—in benefit as in nothing and as in harm—gleam in his eyes. He gives the jar back to Ginko. “Make sure they get the best tree possible. An evergreen, so they won’t go hungry in the winter.”
“Of course.”
After giving Adashino a wooden bowl of dumplings, still steaming, Ginko goes outside. The young man from earlier is there, pacing ceased just as he sees Ginko, and he throws his questions at him in succession.
“How is Adashino-sensei? Were you able to treat him? Will he live? What was wrong with him? Is everyone else going to get sick?”
“He’s stable now, because I removed mushi that were feeding on him. He’ll be fine soon, when he’s eaten enough to replenish what the mushi took.”
The young man exhales, visibly relieved.
“Shindo-san brought in the mushi from the forest. I’ve recovered some of them, but I don’t know how many in total got into the village,” Ginko continues. “To be safe, I’d like to check everyone who came into contact with Shindo-san.”
“Since Shindo-san is healthy now, you can ask him directly. I’ll take you to his house.”
Fortune has it that Shindo had seen no one but his wife and Adashino since his return from the forest. It remains only to check his wife, who says she has no pain; after examining her back, Ginko finds no negusa.
“You’re clear,” he tells her, politely turning away so she can fix her kimono. To Shindo, he says, “Where in the forest were you logging?”
“Why? Are you going to do something to the mushi?” Shindo asks, crossing his arms.
“Nothing harmful. If there’s a large colony, I want to move them away to an untouched forest so this doesn’t happen again.”
Shindo uncrosses his arms, nodding to himself, satisfied with Ginko’s answer. “We’ll have to go tomorrow, though. I don’t go into the forest at night.”
“I can wait.” Ginko slides on his backpack. “I’ll meet you tomorrow, here, at first light.”
“Ah, aren’t you staying?”
“I can’t. Mushi like me and flock where I am, and I think they’ve given you enough trouble for now.”
Shindo escorts Ginko to the house’s entrance. There, he pauses. “You know,” he starts, “despite how sick I was, I can’t bring myself to hate the mushi. They just wanted to live.” He scratches his cheek. “And I did cut their house down. Please give them a good one.”
Few people who know of mushi are like Adashino, childishly academic in their interest. But neither are there many who understand they are not creatures of ill intent, or even good. Perhaps because he lives so close to nature, a witness to its cruelty and compassion exchanging names in the one who beholds them, Shindo understands.
“I will,” Ginko says, solemn.
All of the trees on Adashino’s property have lost their leaves. They stand unashamed of their bareness, scraping at the eggshell of the sky, blessed now with the first days of winter. Because of the ocean’s proximity, it is not as cold as the heart of the land—and the mushi—Ginko has left behind him. He loosens his scarf, the smoke from his cigarette curling by his motions. He feels the crunch under his feet be sand and not last night’s ice, and he thinks, not for the first time, that if he were to plant his feet anywhere and call that place home, it would be by the sea.
Adashino’s house appears over the horizon. The corner of Ginko’s mouth lifts. So it’s not his house nor his home, but it is someone’s; a someone dear to him who welcomes him in rain or shine, invite or surprise. Not his home, and still one to come to.
“Pardon me,” Ginko says as he slides the door open.
Adashino is in the immediate room brewing tea. “There you are,” he says. No greetings exchanged, no chatter to catch up on—they have known one another long enough to forgo the pleasantries, and to know any bluntness spoken is not with ill intent. It simply is. “So! Do the negusa have a nice tree to feed on?”
“They do. I had to go far into the mainland; the forests are unscathed there. Hence my long absence.” He sits across from Adashino. “The nearest village to that forest is a two-days’ walk. No passerby is going to come into contact with the negusa.” He stretches a leg out. “No health troubles for you since then? You do look healthy.”
“None at all. I was on my feet two days after you left. Shindo-san, too, has been well. Neither him, any of the village’s other loggers, or curious children have picked up any other negusa. And if they do, now we know what to do. I only wish I could see them.” If Adashino sighs, it is lost to the pot’s whistling. He removes it from the fire, put out by Ginko, as Adashino pours the tea, silent, into two cups. “Any mushi here now?”
Ginko thanks him as he is handed his cup. It isn’t the sort of drink he had envisioned sharing with Adashino, but its smoothness and warmth fares better down his throat than sake would have. He glances around the room.
In the winter morning light, the glow of the mushi—floating, anchored, scuttling—are like the smallest fallen stars, multicolored, beautiful in the house’s muted tones.
“Yes,” Ginko finally says.
Adashino sips his own cup, calm as he pleases. And as he sets it down, his grin is wide. “Am I going to be a meal for any of these as well?”
Ginko chuckles. “No. These are all harmless to people. A few can even be good.”
“Really? Would you describe them to me? All of the ones you see, not just the ones good for us.” Adashino, too, looks about the room. “I’d like to know my neighbors.”
Know them he shall.
Good and evil are constructs of man. A bear knows only hunger, not the morality of his actions; a deer knows only that if he lacks strength and speed in his limbs, he will be eaten. The mushi—creatures of primordial life, first to have come and last to go, simple as water and more complex than thought—only exist.
From a water glider to a god, a mushi to a human, nothing wants to die. Self-preservation is the motivation, conscious or not, for life. It is not a transgression; it is the testament to continued existence, all that we know. But in the intricate web all creatures are tangled in, conflict in who lives and who dies is inherent.
Neither good or evil influence those outcomes—only strength, wiles, and often luck. It is man who looks at another organism and finds fault in it, always in favor of man. But it is also man who can recognize he is but one thread in the web, no higher or lower than the others. It is man who understands what life entails. It is man who can forgive.