taking the train to the sea

Stranger Danger

The clanking steel wheels crash against the hot, expanding metal of the rail track as puffs of steam engulf the station. The clouds in the sky swirl like blobs of paint mixed in water; the faint sprinkles erupt as if struck by a paintbrush. These scattered showers dance across the sky as they splatter against basalt roof tiles and voluminous oaks. People dressed in heavy jackets depart from the train car, stepping past me, past the concrete squares that litter the ground. Like salmon, they push on unimpeded, past everyone around them on their way to work.

It feels weird to stand here. To watch these salarymen and women disengaged from the world around them. I normally wouldn’t do something like this, but I thought, “Why not?” The world could end tomorrow, and I will have learned nothing of my purpose. Was this really what I looked like? Almost like cockroaches: their slick-back hair like antennae when they flinch.

Once the crowd dispersed, people raced inside, swiping for seats as the car filled up until the gray suits inside resembled canned sardines crammed in oil. A man walks up and down the platform, radio in hand, as his gaze scans the pedestrian surroundings. The lurching train crawls past the ashcrete; its weight buckles on the track.

I took out my phone and read the schedule for the day; the next train would arrive in two hours. My eyes shift to the absent platform.

“Did I miss the train?” A voice erupts beside me.

My eyes dilated for a moment before coming into focus. A young woman stood; her head tilted as if she were a puppy concerned for its owner. Her eyes were filled with silver luster as though they had been dipped in the rings of Saturn.

“—Yeah. It departed a few minutes ago, I think.”

“Ah—then, I guess’ll just skip class today.” She turns her head as if to scope out the scene of a spontaneous, passionate murder. “What’re you waiting for?”

I slip my phone into my pocket; my attention is caught in her web. “Nothing, really.”

Her smile perks into a smirk. “Then…what’re you doing here?”

“I’m not doing anything,” I insist.

“You’re just standing in the middle of the platform, not doing anything,” she says, pointing at me. “Ya see—You’re doing something, but you’re hiding it. Why?” She circles me like a sculptor considering the contours of her newest sculpture’s features. “Just because I’m a stranger?” She ceases before me; her eyes investigate the pores on my flesh.

“You know what they say about stranger-danger.”

“What do they say?”

“Don’t talk to strangers,” I start. “—Unless they offer you tea.”

She leans forward, studying my visage; her eyes shift as her expression offers very little to interpret. “Will the vending machine suffice?”

My face contorts, my mouth slightly agape.

Samsara

The singing train shoots through the countryside as I watch the sun tuck between the clouds. Gray tears sprinkled the sky, crying that the sun would blatantly flee over the horizon. I felt the curls whimper like a child. It pangs my heart, I thought. My silk sleeve slides across my arm as I reach out to mend it. Its tears kiss my flesh.

I walk back behind the gate to a sloped cover. The rain kissed my maroon robes, leaving dark wisteria blossoms, or perhaps wilted violet orchids that had fallen from their stems. As these tears grew, they sprayed the walls of the shrine, leaving streaks that dragged like claw marks to the ground. The soil was rough and muddy, mixed with soft soil that reflected an almost transparent blue.

Beneath the cover, I hear the moans of prayer behind paper curtains while the scent of gypsum burns. They echo from the interior, seeping through the pores of lumber as if allured by the rustling trees that surround our sanctuary. They whip and unfurl their arms, shaking their yellowing leaves and flimsy pines to the earthen floor.

As the rain subsided, I stepped out, past the gate, and into the forest, as they called, chirping like songbirds. Flowering beams of the sun’s light break through with each step of crunching leaves and amber trunk trees.

Pitter-Patter, Pitter-Patter

The raindrops crash against the leaves of canopies

With each drop, they breathe

While I slip seamlessly;

Their essence spills deep

Within my vessels, like water into aquifers down deep

Erupting from their slumber, surreptitiously

Singing their mating songs

While bullfrogs croak in the clouds’ tears of fear.

At the edge of a small pond, the humid mist cast over the surface like the silver wings of an ivory crane fluttering, effortlessly shaking the dizzy dew. I kneel over, watching the surface reverberate like the belly of a drum, deep and low. A frog rests on the edge beside me; its head settles above the water, while its body subsides in the muddy pond floor. It croaks, spilling its musings in my yearning ears.

On the cold, concrete floor

Brooding blood draws near

Where fear is trapped, endlessly in our mortal coil;

Death comes at the ringing hour

—Until your pain ceases

Not longer bittersweet,

Bemoaning a life without serenity,

In the pursuit of purity.

My eyes grow heavy, feeling the weakness in my knees buckle. The frog leaps from its sacred space, breaking the water’s surface. Whistling erupts from between the trees; songs of douleur scrape against the rough bark that shudders with the wind. The wandering songs of a vagabond—the wails of lost souls, carrying their story on their shoulders, the remains of which fall over like flayed flesh.

Denouement

Like a cowboy in the Western Americas, I am insignificant to the wild that engulfs me. My shoes teeter-totter on the oxidizing track. With enough grace, I shift my weight as if I’m straddling a chestnut horse, its spine digging into my flesh. I step off, wandering with the tune of an old soul, and tread on the rough gravel and loose stones thrown; the wavering forests shudder like butterflies at the peak of a mountain.

My phone buzzes in my pocket; chittering cicadas scream beneath my jeans. Mom’s probably worried, isn’t she?

I chuckle and silence the singing cicada. Mom’s always worried.

The track takes a slight turn. The mountains stretch toward the sky like skyscrapers, reaching toward their god. Their stony white tips pierce the clouds, as if to liberate the heavens. The sun had returned to its peak, now hidden by the apex of the mountain.

My saddlebag chafes against my back; my hands grip the polished leather straps. I kept walking down the stretch. I was sure that this track led west to the sea. I walk steadfastly, as the mountains come closer and closer with each kilometer forward. Nagano was long gone behind me, but it felt as though the sun hadn’t moved a meter. I watch it, still ahead, hugging the mountain’s peak. The range wavers with silk below the ballad above. Hakuba draws near; a junction that would take me to the sea.

The hilly Alps rest alongside Mt. Karamatsu. They wave to me as I step off the gravel-filled track, back onto pedestrian pavement. The reserved calmness that settles in the air fills my lungs with spirit. At the platform, I read the train times, scurrying my eyes across the posted sheets that were beginning to fade.

“I need to take the JR East Oito Line…to transfer at Minami-Otari…then, to… the JR West Oito Line…” I sigh. I pull out my wallet from my saddlebag and count the bills I had wrapped in red, velvety cloth. “I might still have some leftover to get back home.”

The next train was due to arrive in an hour. I made a note of the stations in my phone before putting it back in my pocket. My eyes scour the platform for a ticket counter, bills in hand, and catch a small queue of men lugging suitcases and climbing gear. Upon getting in line, I could tell they were antsy to get home; their contorted faces were filled with wrinkles, or perhaps it was due to the plumes of smoke that radiated around them, souring their skin.

The leader of the group speaks like a yakuza, his voice dripping with arrogance as if he were a chained dog with false metal teeth. The men laugh and bicker, but eventually, they grab their tickets and drag themselves to the platform. I stand before an older woman, her eyes gaze down on me like my mother would when I’d done anything wrong; a feeling of disappointment radiates from her.

“Where’re you going, young lady?”

I pull out my phone and read my notes. “Minami-Otari Station. I’ll have to transfer to the West Line there.” My eyes stare off at her small, bright badge.

“Ah, yes. Heading out to the sea, huh?” Her eyes shift to my hands, holding my phone; the faint LCD screen illuminates my subtle features. My cicada buzzes in my jeans.

“That’s correct, Ma’am.”

The woman's eyes shift to my jeans, as if inspecting for weapons on my side. My hands raced to my pockets. I give a wide grimace and bite down hard.

Her eyes became trained on mine, tightening. She types on a keyboard; the clacking keys tap like dancers en suite. “Do your parents know you’re out here?”

“They’re in Itoigawa. Home.” I pass her a wad of bills from the dyed cloth.

She turns to face away from me. “Ah, I see.” She continues as a printer shrieks. She tears the end of the ticket and passes it to me. “Hope you enjoyed our little town, Miss.”

I nod and thank her. I exit the queue and rest; my saddlebag sits beside me. I’ll have to ditch the train at Minami-Otari, I whisper to myself. Surely, she’ll call the police to pick me up there.

The train ride was a momentary scene of serenity, oddly enough, as the train cars were as devoid of life as the remains of buffalo jumps on the western American plains. Many-a-souls traverse this land around us, invisible to us pedestrians. But for a moment, I felt the wandering vagabonds of my people sing their songs of honor and pride, free from the confines of slavery—free men in an abhorrent world.

I step off the platform, casting my glances across the concrete for men dressed in navy, their illuminated safety vests always giving them away. I meander, watching diligently with my bag on one arm. Do I transfer? Or, do I break for the tracks? The cicada buzzes.

The mountains rest in the south; the clouds shower them with rain, leaving a deep fog in their wake. The cicada buzzes again. My eyes glance at the ticket booth; men in navy suits chat with the attendant as if they were old friends. A wave of fear contorts my abdomen before climbing up my neck like a spider before its next meal.

I walk to the end of the platform and stand, staring at the track’s path ahead. The cicada buzzes again. I purse my lips and bite down on my bottom lip, staining my teeth with rouge. The sun had passed the mountains, eventually to be replaced by the moon. A smirk grows on my face before I leap down onto the tracks.

The cicada buzzes once more, and I pull it from my pocket. Without a moment of thought, I throw the bug into the forest and trek northward to the sea. I whistle, pantomiming a harmonica between my hands and lips.

“Ain’t got nobody in all this world—Don’t need nobody but ma self.”