For three days and nights the villagers of Gujo danced. For three days they stepped out of the Nissan world of factory lines, trade imbalances, and stock deals for the Nobunaga world of shared heritage and beliefs. For three nights the village square was cleared and the dancers danced. For three thousand — What? Years? Millennia? Lifetimes? — it had been that way. As always, in the centre, the heart feeding the body of the nation, stood the large raised platform, the yagura, where the drummers beat out the national identity. From long before Mayumi Ohta could remember, they had tatooed the hauntingly, hypnotic medley of traditional o-bon songs on their huge barrel-like drums, marking their message indelibly into the Japanese soul, and this year was no different. Placed under the spreading arms of a welcoming yew tree, she looked up through the murky branches into the sky and smiled contentedly. She had all night. There was no hurry. She knew he would come. Then, once again, all would be right in her world.