The feast over, we moved on. The servants were left to pack up, and
instructed to join the family at a certain shrine some distance away;
devotions at that place would end the festival.
The closing down of night was like the working of some magic. From every
point of temple, shrine, and tree sprang a light. Fireworks shaped like
huge peonies, lilies, and lesser flowers spluttered in the air. Myriad
lights turned the garden into a place of enchantment. In the hand of
every feaster swung a paper lantern, gay in color, daring in design, its
soft glow reflected on the happy face above. The whole enclosure seemed
to be a bit of fairy land, where workaday people were transformed into
beings made only for the pleasures of life.
I kept close to Zura regardless of where she led, for all she saw seemed
not only to increase her interest, but to intensify her reckless mood.
On our way we paused at a Pagoda. A group of priests were marching
around it chanting some ritual. They were very solemn and their voices
most weird.
"What are they doing with their throats, Miss Jenkins?" asked Zura.
"Singing."
"Singing! Well, they know as much about singing as tit-willows do about
grand opera. But the colors of those gorgeous robes are fascinating.
Aren't the curves of that roof lovely? See how the corners turn up.
Exactly like the mustache of the little band master at home. Oh, look at
those darling kiddies!" she suddenly exclaimed, going swiftly to the
nearby stand of a cake man.
A dozen children or so, wistful-eyed and a bit sad, stood around. These
were the city rats and street waifs, who only came from their holes
after dark. Too poor to buy, they could only gaze and wish. The old man,
for the sake of the hungry birdlings at home, could give no further of
his store.
Zura stopped before the little heaps of sweet dough. The children closed
about her. None were afraid, and all instinctively felt her friendship.
Her bargain was quickly made. Soon each child had a large share not only
of cake, but also of tiny flags and paper cherry blossoms which had
adorned the owner's booth. Zura emptied a small knitted purse of "rins"
and "sens." She had told me earlier that she had sold a picture to a
postcard man. The cake dealer got it all.
We left the children open-mouthed, gazing at the "Ojosan" (honorable
elder sister) who had proved nothing less than a goddess; but the girl
heeded neither their looks nor their thanks, for we had come upon the
ancient rite of firewalking, once a holy ceremony for the driving out of
demons, now used for the purpose of proving the protection of the gods
for the devout.
On a mat of straw, overspread by a thick layer of sand, was a bed of
charcoal kept glowing by attendants armed with fans attached to long
poles. Priests were intoning a prayer to the god of water, who lived in
the moon, to descend with vengeance upon the god of fire. With much
twisting of fingers and cabalistic waving of hands, a worshiper would
draw something from a bag purchased from the priest. This he told the
onlookers was spirit powder. Sprinkling a part of it on the fire and
rubbing his feet with what was left he would cross the live coals,
arriving at the other end unharmed. His swaggering air, indicating "I am
divinely protected," deeply impressed the wondering crowd.
Absorbed in watching the fantastic scene, I failed for some time to
notice Zura's absence from my side. Neither was she with her family, who
were near by. Anxiously turning to search for her, I saw her opposite in
a cleared space and, through the background of an eager, curious crowd,
Page Hanaford hurriedly pushing his way to the front.
At the edge of the fire stood Zura without shoes or stockings.