Akamatsu

Fire festival

October, 2015, Shikoku- Japan

Crushing cities. Sometimes you need to breathe the mountain air.

Jim spent two years on Shikoku. He’d once seen a festival in a place called Akamatsu, where people made giant fireworks.

I’d walked the thousand or so kilometres around the island last year. This time we were in a black and yellow convertible.

Sharp, pine-covered cliffs protect Hiwasa. Turtles plant eggs by moonlight. Houses spread out behind the sand. I’d called Jim on a turtle-shaped phonebox when I walked through here.

Roads split a section of forest. The tall trees had heard battle cries and witnessed castles burning down. A thousand turtles once flicked sand into warm stars while herds of deer thundered through the undergrowth.

When Jim was gone, babies learnt to walk while time had forced his older friends crawl.

One friend let us stay in the silence and sunlight. She drove us to the festival.

Stars rob the hills of heat.

Rainbow lights lead us to a temple. Grey-haired women sprawl up the front.

The first firework is hoisted high on a squeaking pulley. Fire races down the wick and a shower of sparks bounces onto the gravel.

A team chants in circles. The eruption grows bright then fizzes out.

I balance against the cold trunk of a red pine, an akamatsu. I need to be up the front.

Figures clap a rhythm on wooden blocks. A fuse extinguishes then an explosion sends a firestorm of sparks at the crowd. My finger hits the shutter as I run.

The old women bury their heads and laugh.

I sneak into a gap up the front. Freezing pebbles stab into my shin. My leg goes numb.

Earth disappears.

A million sparks rain down on a running shadow.

I watch from my vantage point in space.

Someone runs through the frame. I feel the stillness in the movement.

Not to walk, not to run; to stand and brave the exploding sun.

Now.