The Forest Spirit

I watched Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke last night, curled up on the sofa with a cup of warm milk. All the others were out for the evening and the house was mine.

It's a film of simple beauty, but one moment in particular reached out to touch me.

The forest spirit in its animal shape comes towards Ashitaka, who is treading water in the lake at the centre of the forest. The spirit is walking, with cloven feet, on the surface of the water. The battle ceases as foes fall away from one another. The forest itself has been silenced. There is nothing but the spirit and Ashitaka.

A shot comes from the far bank, and cuts straight through the spirit's head. Its eyes blank, deaden, its mouth sags. It is over in an instant.

The spirit begins to sink, slowly, into the silent surface of the lake.

Ashitaka cries out, and just then the spirit's head lifts, eyes full of life and light once more. It smiles at him. Slowly. Silently.

It draws one hoof out of the water, and places it on the surface again. Then it begins to walk, past Ashitaka, and onwards to the island in the lake.

I've never seen a creature of such calm, benevolent goodness. The only thing I compare it to is Aslan in the tales of Narnia. And we all know who Aslan is.

I see all of the foul deeds of man, that smile says, and I love them still.