The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains, their peaks casting long shadows across the roofs of the houses in the city. Above, the sky was turning from the iron grey of an autumn afternoon to the burnished copper of evening. Streaks of colour lit the clouds from within. All this was reflected in the still waters of the river that spilt the city in two. So perfect was the reflection that not even the kami could have told it from reality. But then, what is reality but a reflection of the perfection of the Jade Heavens?

The bridge across the river creaked, its planks bending under the weight of many thousand people. They were all bundled up in quilted cotton jackets and woollen overcoats to keep the seasonal chill at bay. Some clutched skewers of meat, purchased at exorbitant prices from the hawkers whose charcoal grills were placed along the length of the bridge. Those who could afford it drank green tea, thick with tea dust and tannin, or passed flasks of hot rough sake between them, sipping at the blood-warm spirit.

A thousand paper lanterns had been hung from the bridge's stays. An old man made his way along the bridge, threading his way between the knots of people. He stopped at each lantern and lifted a long taper, thrusting it in to light the candles hidden behind the colourful paper. Despite his age, he moved quickly. He had to have all the lanterns lit before night fell, otherwise the ceremony would be spoiled.

Tonight was the Lantern Festival – an important celebration for those who lived in the city. Their prosperity was based on the river and what it had brought them: trade, fishing, boatbuilding. So, the people of the city thought it was only right that they should honour the local gods, thanking them for the good fortune the river brought them. In return, or so they hoped, the kami would acknowledge their gratitude and continue to bless them.

The last lantern on the bridge flickered into life, and the old man waved his glowing taper high above the crowd. It was not a moment too soon. From the piers and quays downstream there came the booming of a large drum, a sound echoing up the river and setting the bridge lanterns quivering. The crowd fell silent and, as one, turned to look towards the sea. A fleet of small ships was barely visible, clusters of lamps hanging from their masts. Slowly, gracefully, they made their way up the river, propelled by oarsmen pulling in time to the beat of the great drum mounted on the first ship. Between each bass syllable a priest intoned prayers, beseeching the kami to remember the people of the city and the bond that linked them to each other.

As the ships passed beneath the bridge, the crowd bowed in an act of solemn worship, each one trying to frame suitably pious thoughts. Then, they turned and watched as the flotilla continued on its way upstream, where the wave-lapped steps of the great shrine awaited the ships and their cargo.