As the leaves turn red going into late autumn, it is ship-burning season in the old fishing town of Tungkang in Pingtung County.

Since the Qing dynasty, immigrants from Fujian have crossed the seas to settle along the south-western coast of Taiwan. Many of the pioneers sought protection from plague and disease by praying to the Wang Yeh or royal duke.

About 300 years later, Wang Yeh’s star is still burning bright, as I found out on a recent visit to Tungkang for the King Boat Festival.

Every three years, residents invite him for a week-long visit to inspect the streets, bless the people and get rid of evil. The festival culminates in the burning of a life-size Chinese junk, a grand send-off for the god.

As in usual years, this year’s fiery finale drew devotees, tourists, shutterbugs as well as local teens happy for a night out on the beach.

I suspect most people there had no idea who Wang Yeh is and were not giving this any thought as they milled around the stalls near the beach, munching grilled sausages and cuttlefish.

Actually, nobody is sure as there are many stories about Wang Yeh. He may not be one person but can be as many as 360 officials of different surnames. Others believe there are only 36 of them.

As Taiwan religious scholar Liu Huan Yueh notes, Wang Yeh may be Yan Ping Jun Wang, a real-life noble who contributed so much to local development and education in Taiwan that temples were built to honour him after his death.

Another story has it that he may be 360 scholars buried alive by the book-burning Qin emperor. These scholars lodged a protest with the celestial emperor and were made dukes in the afterlife.

Added to the eclectic mix are the legends of the Plague God and the worship of Zheng Chenggong, the Ming dynasty loyalist who took control of Taiwan in 1662 and was a thorn in the flesh of China’s Manchu rulers.

According to Liu, the Wang Yeh belief took root in Taiwan as a kind of grassroots resistance against the Manchu rulers, who sanctioned the worship of Mazu, the goddess of seafarers, but not Wang Yeh, associated as it was with rebels from the previous dynasty.

During the days of the Qing dynasty and later Japanese rule, the festival in Tungkang took place around March. But when the Kuomintang (KMT) took over Taiwan in 1945, it was moved to autumn so that it would not clash with Mazu festivities, which happen mainly in spring.

“The KMT government set up martial law and didn’t want too many people going out onto the streets. Temples were seen as a symbol of democracy and resistance,” said Peter Hsiao, public relations chief of the Tunglung Temple, which organises the festival.

The ability of temples such as Tunglung to mobilise people has not waned. About 3,000 volunteers helped with the processions and rituals, while households put out offerings such as rice, fruit and meats and ignited firecrackers.

Students also chipped in, falling in as suona players as the boat paraded around town before it was burnt.

The same festival is observed in more than half a dozen communities in Taiwan, including Hsiao Liuchiu, an island half an hour away from Tungkang.

“The nearer they are to the sea, the higher the degree of religious fervour, especially if most of the residents depend on fishing for a living,” said Li Ming Long, a guide for Hsiao Liuchiu. On this island of 6,000 people, about eight in 10 are fishermen.

Back at Tungkang, the beach was filling up quickly. At about 1am, the King Boat, about the size of a bus—14m long and 4.2m high—arrived, pulled by volunteers dressed in Qing dynasty costumes.

There was nothing to do but to wait silently in the dark as helpers spent the next few hours piling up pink bags around the ship’s hull. Believers had filled these with joss paper offerings as well as effigies that are supposed to absorb bad luck when burnt.

Made of red cypress wood, the junk was decorated with pictures of auspicious figures such as the gods of fortune, children and prosperity. Thirty-six miniature mariners guarded the deck, with fists clenched and biceps flexed.

At around 5am, a hush of anticipation went around as the mast and sails of the ship were set up. As it was approaching dawn, the NT$10 million (US$300,000) junk was set on fire and the result of six months’ work by 100 people took only a few hours to go up in flames. There are fewer and fewer craftsmen who can make these delicate wooden boats.

As the crowd on the beach thinned, postgraduate student Su Wei Ching, 28, mused: “Actually, the background meaning is complicated. But it is as if everyone feels that the fire is the centre of the festival. It’s not clear if people know the meaning behind it all.”

But Hsiao is not too perturbed. “The locals will have been immersed in the tradition by watching what their elders do. For people from elsewhere, they are just here to enjoy the festivities.”

Such festivals also get the community working together, he said. “Sometimes we think it’s mission impossible, but a lot of people come in to help.”

For deliveryman Wang Chih Neng, 39, who had helped carry the Wang Yeh sedan twice, it was all about faith.

“A lot of things you can’t see, but I got to buy a house, get married and have a daughter. I feel blessed,” he said. (By Ho Ai Li in Tunkang/ The Straits Times/ Asia News Network)