On the crown of the head, a lantern of paper begins to glow. Yamaga, in Kumamoto. The golden lanterns are built without wood, nails, or metal fittings — only washi paper and a little paste. Pillars and window lattices are hollow within, so the whole thing is astonishingly light. They say it takes ten years to become a full lantern maker. A thousand women, in matching yukata, raise these lanterns to their heads and dance. The slow melody of the Yohoho-bushi. A line of yukata sways as if breathing as one. It is not a flashy festival. It is, if anything, a quiet one. And that is exactly why the gold lights trembling in the dark stay with you so long. The origin, they tell, lies in a night of deep fog: villagers raised torches to guide the emperor Keiko safely in. Ever after, the town offered up flame. A memory of when fire was both prayer and hospitality. Fireworks over the Kikuchi River on the first night; the thousand-lantern dance on the second. For two evenings the old Buzen-kaido streets sink beneath a thousand small lights. Yamaga's summer does not shout. It glows.