Fenn and the Five Fireflies

Fenn was sleeping in a tent in the garden, which is the bravest kind of sleeping there is.

Dad was in the tent too, but Dad was already snoring, so it did not count. It was just Fenn and Badger, and the dark, and the small round window in the side of the tent.

And the fireflies.

There were five of them. Fenn counted. Five tiny yellow lights, drifting round outside the window like sparks that had forgotten to go out.

"Five," whispered Fenn to Badger.

The fireflies danced. They went up and they went down. They went in a circle and then in a line and then in a shape that was nothing at all. Fenn watched them with his chin on his sleeping bag and Badger tucked under his arm.

Then one of them drifted down into the long grass, and its light went soft, and softer, and out.

"Four," whispered Fenn.

The four fireflies did not seem to miss the fifth. They danced on. One of them came right up to the window and hovered there, so close that Fenn could see it was not just a light but a very small beetle carrying a very small lamp, and it looked at Fenn and Fenn looked at it, and then it floated away to the hedge and settled on a leaf, and went out.

"Three."

Dad snored. It was a comfortable snore, like a boat bumping gently against a jetty.

The three fireflies were slower now. Fenn thought they looked tired. They drifted more than they danced, and every so often one of them would stop in the air and just hang there, blinking, as if it had forgotten what it was doing.

One blinked, and blinked, and did not blink again.

"Two," whispered Fenn, and yawned.

Badger did not say anything, but Badger was very good at not saying anything in a way that meant he was listening.

The two fireflies found each other. They floated side by side, very slow, round the tent once, like two people walking home late who are not in a hurry. Then one of them dipped down under the window, out of sight, and Fenn waited for it to come up again, and it did not.

"One," said Fenn, so quietly that only Badger heard.

The last firefly stayed a long time. It sat on the outside of the tent window, right in the middle, so that its small yellow light filled the whole round shape like a tiny moon. Fenn looked at it. It was the only light left in the whole garden. It was the only light left, it felt, in the whole world.

"Goodnight, firefly," whispered Fenn.

He meant to watch it go out. He meant to count all the way down. But his eyes had other plans, and they closed on the number one, and stayed closed, and the last firefly, when it was quite sure that nobody was watching, dimmed itself gently, and went to sleep too.

Dad snored. The tent was dark. And somewhere in the long grass, five tiny lamps were resting, ready to do it all again tomorrow, for anyone brave enough to sleep in a tent and count.