Asakiyume mita

The words have faded away, or else this sign was simply written in lichen. “Can you read lichen?” I asked the open field. There were crows to the left and a hawk to the right; no one answered. I took a photo and was about to move on when a round-faced, wide-eyed boy came running up, glancing behind him as he ran. He slipped between and beneath the briar canes and halted, panting, beside me. He was followed by a long-legged, red-haired girl, who cleared the briars with a leap. The boy shrank against me, and the girl laughed.

“The sign says ‘Danger,’” whispered the boy.

“Oh, it does not,” the girl said scornfully. “The sign once said ‘No trespassing’; people put it here. But the wind and the rain scoured away that old message, and the lichens grew—they graffitied right across it—and they’re saying, ‘The one who speaks of trespass commits the act.’” The girl paused a moment, then remarked, “The things that spring up out of the earth are always stronger than things made by human hands. The lichens aren’t saying that, but it’s true.”

A freight train whistle wailed; I could hear the sound of the engine.

“The lichens say ‘Danger! Here be dragons!” the boy said, shivering, and then he dashed toward the tracks and across them, zigzagging, and as he did, he turned into a rabbit.

“I’m still coming for you,” the girl said, running her tongue along her lips, and then she gave chase, becoming, as she crossed the tracks, a fox. And then the dragon came, scaly black, and roaring.