Sprightly flakes of ash tumbled through the autumn air, hitching rides on scarves and hats as bloated trains emptied themselves onto the platform. Campfire smells beckoned us toward orange-hued beacons, watch-fires sprouting here and there not for our sake, but rather
to lead spirits through a world unfamiliar.
"I expected there to be music." Firefly embers crackled forth in umbrage only to be swallowed by the impenetrable forest. In the face of a veritable pyrolympics, the trees tensed in stillness, unable to flee, only to watch.
"One family, one fire," flew into my ears on an errant wind. Locals in ceremonial costume hoisted progressively larger pine torches up and down the widening avenue, policemen squeezing onlookers against a wall of traditional homes, shops, restaurants all barring entry. Fires taunted us with painful flashes, the price for keeping the cold at bay.
Distant drums whispered through the haze above 100kg torches several meters long carried aloft by sturdy men, their exposed skin periodically doused with water. The shrine awoke and summoned energy and excitement with an otherworldly gravity. Torches were raised, extolling the bonfire that lightly singed the tails of low-hanging clouds.
The portable shrines were to come near midnight, but we were ready to leave the throngs behind and return to the world proper. As we descended down the mountain, thoughts of udon swimming in red-rimmed eyes, fires continued to dance beyond our reach.
Andrew
