She was glad when the irritating day was over, when the rosy sunset clouds showed through the trunks of the cryptomerias, when the night fell and the great stars like lamps hung in the branches.  But the night brought no silence.  Paper lanterns were lighted round the temple; and rough acetylene flares lit up the tawdry fairings.  The chattering, the bargaining, the clatter of the geta became more terrifying even than in daytime.  It was like being in the darkness in a cage of wild beasts, heard, felt, but unseen.

The evening breeze was cold.  In spite of the big wooden fireboxes strewn over their stall, the Fujinami were shivering.

“Let us go for a walk,” suggested cousin Sadako.

The two girls strolled along the ridge of the hill as far as the five-storied pagoda.  They passed the tea-house, so famous for its plum-blossoms in early March.  It was brightly lighted.  The paper rectangles of the shoji were aglow like an illuminated honeycomb.  The wooden walls resounded with the jangle of the samisen, the high screaming geisha voices, and the rough laughter of the guests.  From one room the shoji were pushed open; and drunken men could be seen with kimonos thrown back from their shoulders showing a body reddened with sake.  They had taken the geishas’ instruments from them, and were performing an impromptu song and dance, while the girls clapped their hands and writhed with laughter.  Beyond the tea-house, the din of the festival was hushed.  Only from the distance came the echo of the song, the rasp of the forced merriment, the clatter of the geta, and the hum of the crowd.

Starlight revealed the landscape.  The moon was rising through a cloud’s liquescence.  Soon the hundreds of rice-plots would catch her full reflection.  The outline of the coast of Tokyo Bay was visible as far as Yokohama; so were the broad pool of Ikegami and the lumpy masses of the hills inland.

The landscape was alive with lights, lights dim, lights bright, lights stationary, lights in swaying movement round each centre of population.  It looked as if the stars had fallen from heaven, and were being shifted and sorted by careful gleaners.  As each nebula of white illumination assembled itself, it began to move across the vast plain, drawn inwards towards Ikegami from every point of the compass as though by a magnetic force.  These were the lantern processions of pilgrims.  They looked like the souls of the righteous rising from earth to heaven in a canto from Dante.

The clusters of lights started, moved onwards, paused, re-grouped themselves, and struggled forward, until in the narrow street of the village under the hill Asako could distinguish the shapes of the lantern-bearers and their strange antics, and the sacred palanquin, a kind of enormous wooden bee-hive, which was the centre of each procession, borne on the sturdy shoulders of a swarm of young men to the beat of drums and the inevitable chant.