THE LANTERN STALL AT WOMAD

It was the end of the festival, although he was trying hard not to think about that. Another clasp of mundane duties was about to set in, the dispensation of timetables and regularities. He pushed it to the back of his mind and concentrated instead on a few coloured ribbons fluttering against the darkness. The heat of the day hung thickly, making him feel as if he were in another country.

The crowd, he knew instinctively, were his people. When was the last time he’d felt that? And how would it be possible to get among them more? For someone who was comfortable with being an “outsider”, it presented interesting, hitherto unimagined, possibilities. Once he caught himself smiling carelessly at some long-haired Guinnevere and this earned him a brightly curious look, triggering a kind of unbearable longing, not just for her but for her whole pagan village she hailed from, with its maypole and autumn fires. For all he would ever know, she was quite ordinary, but that wasn’t the point. His mind was able to effortlessly conjure again, bursting with images sudden, shocking and Medieval. If only he could stay on for one more day and re-learn the art!

The lantern stall was difficult to pick out at first because of all the other glaring lights that competed for his attention. Something unearthly and at the same time immensely cheering about the candlelight drew him on. He came into its orbit and entered a quiet space, unlike anything else he’d seen at the festival. Everything glowed.

The lanterns themselves were roughly made from a grey metal which framed the irregular stained glass panes. They had been carefully hung from the framework of the tent and were cloaked by its heavy material. Clustered in various shapes and sizes, shining together as if celebration. They sent out splintered rainbows into the watching dark. The percussion instruments and other merchandise scattered around the edges of the tent were picked out in patches of soft colour. And there was no doubt about it. Tonight the whispering flames were alive.

He stared, utterly captivated, like a choirboy who first rests his gaze on the immensity of the cathedral, silenced by the spellbinding beauty, probably unnoticed by all but himself. You could go to all the ludicrous art galleries in the world, he thought, wade through the endless talk of critics and stare at the walls for hours, without finding such a spectacle. The poor fools!

“This is the most beautiful stall in the place,” he said in a hushed voice to the slightly bemused owner. How many people had said the same thing in psychedelic reverence? Behind a table, surrounded by luminous patterns and boxes in which nestled semi-precious stones for sale, she told him a little about how the stall had evolved over the years. He half-listened, wanting only to communicate the sheer joy of being here, and his respect for her, the author of all this.

The conversation broke off with no real resolution. Important not to say too much. Especially as he wasn’t buying. No souvenir could recapture it. The earth teems with beauty. Nothing can be preserved.