ICO: Castle in the Mist (48 page)

We are ending. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Then the main gate and the Tower of Winds leaned and began to topple beneath the scarlet sky of evening, above the indigo blue of the waves. When the Tower of Winds fell, the statue of Ozuma still stood at the end of the old stone bridge, looking up at it. As the outer wall of the tower came crumbling down, the half of the stone bridge closest to it gave way under the weight of the rubble. The anchorage of the other side crumbled, and the rest of the bridge was pulled down by the collapsing castle, bowing down into the waves far below.

Yet the stone Ozuma did not shatter, did not crumble, did not break. The only thing he'd lost in his long years of penitence had been a single horn. When the bridge collapsed behind him, and the stone parapet began to topple, the statue faced up toward the top of the tower, and stone from its walls fell down on his face.

Legs still attached to a piece of the stone, the statue of Ozuma plummeted toward the sea, the Tower of Winds and the Castle in the Mist following behind him. Ozuma, the wandering knight, the horned challenger, protector of the land. Once again, his black cloak fluttered in the wind, as he led the castle’s charge toward oblivion. The charge from which no one would return. A charge toward freedom.

The sky and sea watched all. Between them, the castle gently crumbled away to stone and grass, and the mist rose from the land.

At the same moment, far off in the capital, an unseen surge of energy stirred through the hall where the priests had gathered for their vespers, blowing the hoods from their heads. The nobles lost their crowns to a sudden gale, while the soldiers’ helmets flew from their heads and rolled across the ground.

In the center of the capital, in the great temple to the Sun God, every bell began to ring though there was no one there to sound them. The people of the capital looked fearfully at one another and up toward the sky, listening to the sound of the bells. Though no command was given, nor any decree issued, one by one, the people dropped to their knees and began to pray.

In the forgotten walled city to the north of the Forbidden Mountains the long curse was at an end, and time began to move once again. The stone bodies of the people began to crumble, and the wind whipped up their dust into the sky. After enduring an eternity of silence, their souls were finally free.

As the stones of the city returned to the flow of time, they withered to dust in an instant.

Yet among them, there was a single breath of life. A sheen returned to the hair of Arrow Wind’s coat. His mane rippled, and he snorted. Freed from his stone prison, the horse stomped his hooves and looked around for the little hunter who had ridden him into this place.

Turning his nose into the wind, he searched for the scent of home. The sun was low in the sky. He needed to find his young but brave rider and make sure he was all right.

Arrow Wind kicked with his hooves and broke into a gallop straight across the empty plains where the walled city had once stood.

The elder was tired. His body couldn’t keep up with his eager mind—a common lament of old age. He dreamt at his desk, the Book of Light beside his head.

In his dream, he saw an unknown place far in the distance. There, a great light blazed and within it, a dark form was toppling, though its shape was beyond his ability to comprehend.

“Are you in there?” Oneh called from outside. The elder sat upright in his chair. The window by his desk was lit by the evening sun. His eyes fell on the Book of Light on the desk, with his hand resting next to it.

“Are you there? It’s Toto!”

The elder ran from his home and clasped Oneh in his arms. Her weathered, beautiful face was filled with joy, and tears wet her cheeks. “Toto’s awake!”

Hand in hand, they ran to the house where Toto lay. Villagers were running down the street, asking if the news was true. The elder pushed through them, keeping hold of his wife’s hand.

Beyond the simple wooden door, someone was crying out loud—Toto’s mother. He could hear Toto’s brothers and sisters calling his name.

Legs trembling, the elder stepped inside.

Toto, no longer stone, was lying on the bed his father had crafted out of wood for him. His mother was hugging him. Toto clutched her shawl, eyes wide.

“Toto!” the elder called out.

The boy’s cheeks were sunken and his lips dry and cracked. The air coming out of his nose was thin, and far too weak. But his eyes sparkled with life. “Elder, I…I—” Toto’s eyebrows sank, and his mouth curled into a frown. His cheek twitched. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

The elder and the boy’s mother hugged him tight as he cried.

“Elder?” Toto asked through his tears. “Where’s Ico? Did he go to the castle? Did he leave me? I didn’t want him to be alone.”

Tears filled the elder’s eyes. Hugging the boy, he looked up at Oneh beside them and found the same conviction in her eyes that he felt in his own heart.

“It’s all right,” the elder said, hand on Toto’s head. “Ico’s done it. He’ll be back soon. Back home.”

EPILOGUE

Who could be singing a lullaby so gently with a voice so sweet? Whose fingers stroke my hair? Why does the soft pillow beneath my cheek smell of the familiar hay of Toksa Village?

Where am I?

Ico had been dreaming a very long time. Now it was time to awaken. He could see the light against his closed eyelids. It was morning. Soon he would hear his foster mother’s voice.
Wake up, Ico. The sun’s going to leave you behind if you don’t get out of bed.

He opened his eyes, though his senses were still asleep. Facedown against his pillow, he stretched his arms and legs. Whatever he was lying on, it felt great. Soft with the warmth of sunshine.

The lullaby continued, rising higher then lower, tickling his ears.

It was the sound of the waves. The song the waves make as they sweep up and down the shore.

Ico opened his eyes.

Still lying on the ground, he tried moving his arms. His fingertips touched something granular. He brought them up to his face and saw flecks of white sand clinging to the skin.

He could smell the sea now.

Ico sat up and saw he was lying on a white beach that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. The sun shone bright down the long curve of sand.

Ico’s mind and memory were as white and unblemished as the sand. A gentle wind blew over him.

Maybe I’m dead. Maybe this is Heaven.

He looked around and saw a rocky outcropping in the distance. Trees grew from the tops of the rocks, their branches gently swaying.

Birds wheeled through the blue sky overhead. He wondered how they could stand flying so close to the brilliant sun. He wondered if they ever got lonely, flying so high above the ground.

Maybe I’m still alive after all.

He looked down at his disheveled clothes. They were only half dry, with salt crusted on the seams.

Ico rubbed his chest with his hand. He felt like he had been wearing something else on top of his shirt, but there was nothing there now.

He saw blood caked beneath his fingernails. When he turned his head, his neck ached too, and his head throbbed, especially the right side. He reached up and touched his right horn and felt it wobble like it was about to fall off. Ico gaped with surprise, realizing that the stickiness he felt on the right side of his face was dried blood.

Suddenly, he was very lonely. He moved his arms and shoulders. He tested an elbow. Nothing seemed broken. He tried standing, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. The sound held him down, telling him to stay sitting, that he shouldn’t move yet.

Sea stretched all the way out to the horizon, and the beaches stretched on for what seemed like forever.

How did I get here?

Next to him, where the waves lapped against the shore, rested a single wooden plank. It was sticking halfway out of the water, gently bobbing up and down with the waves. A small crab had worked its way up on top of the board and began skittering across it while he watched.

Ico’s belly rumbled.

He laughed.
I’m starving! I should get something to eat—I should go home. Mother will be worried.

Where have I been, anyway? What am I doing out here?

Ico had the sense that he had been on a journey to someplace very far away. But the memory remained lodged somewhere in the back of his mind, and he couldn’t pry it out no matter how hard he tried. It was like even though he was awake, his memory slept on.

He tried again and managed to stand. He was covered with scrapes and bruises. Brushing off the sand, he bent his knees and stretched a little. Ico looked down the beach, sure that it must end somewhere.
Maybe there’s a way up onto that outcropping?
He started off in that direction.

His feet slapped across the sand and Ico noticed he was barefoot.
What happened to my sandals?
At least the sand was soft.

Far off to the right, the rocks extended out over the beach into the water. Birds had gathered on top of the rocks. He headed toward them.

After his first step he wobbled, and after three steps he rested. That was how he began. But as he walked, it grew easier. His feet found their pace and he fell into a rhythm.

Closer to the rocks, he could hear the cries of the birds overhead. They flew up, making little circles in the air, flapping their wings busily.

Ico stopped and looked at the rocks beneath where they had been sitting—there was something at the edge of the water in the shadow of the rocks.

Someone else is lying on the beach!

Ico broke into a run. The white sand grabbed at his feet, and he swung his arms into the air, trying to go faster. He could make out the person as he got closer.

Ico ran, holding his arms out for balance, and the seagulls flew up even higher. He ran in among the rocks, and the slender form of the person lying there, her long wet hair, tickled the edges of his memory and made his pulse quicken.

It was a girl in a white dress.

She was sleeping just as Ico had been a moment before. She looked exhausted. But her chest was rising with her breath—she was alive.

The waves washed her legs and the sun reflected off her smooth skin.

Ico knelt and reached out, touching her cheek. Her skin was so white and unblemished at first he thought she might be a doll, but her skin was soft beneath his touch.

I know this girl.

He had a feeling that when he first met her, she had been light itself, a drifting fairy.

Now she was just a girl, her warmth a human warmth.

His memory struggled to awaken in the back of his head—dim images of cold, timeless stone rising like a wall in his mind’s eye. The vision passed, driven off by the warm sun beating down on the beach, the rise and fall of the waves.

The girl’s eyelids fluttered open. Ico saw his face reflected in her dark eyes.

He smiled at her.

The girl sat up, wind teasing the hair that fell down over her forehead.

Ico took the girl’s hand in his own, the gesture feeling intensely familiar, as the sun shone brightly over the end of their long story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Miyuki Miyabe’s first novel was published in 1987, and since that time she has become one of Japan’s most popular and best-selling authors. Miyabe’s 2007 novel
Brave Story
won The Batchelder Award for best children’s book in translation from the American Library Association.
ICO: Castle in the Mist
is Miyabe’s seventh book to be translated into English. Her Haikasoru novels include
Brave Story
and
The Book of Heroes.

HAIKASORU

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