Partial translation of the Ico novel

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Marc
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Partial translation of the Ico novel

Post by Marc »

The following is a translation of the Ico novel that was published in Japan on June 15th, 2004 by Kodansha Co., Ltd. (It's been sitting on my old laptop for nearly a year, it having been left in another country since then.) The story originally appeared as weekly installments in Shukan Gendai, a Japanese current affairs magazine, from May 2002 to May 2003.

As the story is considerably long (around 530 pages), I have to say you shouldn't expect weekly installments here, unfortunately. The only way I could translate something this big (and still eat) would be if it were a job I was doing. Hope you enjoy it.



Ico
–Castle in the Mist–

by Miyuki Miyabe

English translation by Marc Laidlaw



From a time and place unknown



Chapter I
Everything Must Be as the Priest Decrees


1


The weaving had stopped.

So the old man realized a moment ago. He kept waiting for the loom to start up again, though all he heard was silence. He sat at his familiar wooden desk, whose color had slowly faded over the years, several ancient scrolls open before him. The breeze blowing in through the latticed window rustled the edges of their musty pages as well as the end of his long, white beard as it swept past. The old man tilted his head slightly, straining his ears. Half of him expected to hear sobbing instead of weaving.

Preparations for the Weaving Room had been completed several days ago. The purification had also been finished, and it was ready for use at any time; or rather, work in it had to begin at once. But Oneh's screams and cries were testament that she didn't want to go anywhere near it.

"Please, please don't let them take him! He's only a boy!" she pleaded, clinging to the hem of the old man's robe.

The old man could do nothing but wait until she had no tears left to shed. He then patiently explained to her, "You knew this time would eventually come. You've known that ever since he was born..."

He had spent all night trying to convince Oneh to accept the inevitable, and by dawn was somehow able to coax her to the Weaving Room. However, no sooner had that unmistakable sound of weaving begun than it stopped.

The old man gazed outside the window. The leaves on the trees were swaying in the wind. Birds were singing. The bright rays of the sun warmed his skin. But the playful voices of children were absent from the village, and even when its adult residents plowed its fields they remained silent. Its ridges were filled not with the cacophony of farm tools, but sighs of exasperation. And when its hunters happened to stop and look over the village as they tracked their prey through the wilderness of the surrounding mountains, perhaps they, too, were filled with similar emotions.

This was the Time of the Nieh.

The old man – chief of the village of Toksa – had turned seventy this year. It had been thirteen years since he inherited the role of chief from his father. He was still in the prime of his life when he took over, wanting to accomplish all the various changes his father either couldn't or chose not to carry out. However, it was right at this time that he was born. That unfortunate child who was now soon to become the Nieh.

The chief's father was already gravely ill at the time, weak in both body and spirit, but the night he heard the news about Muraji and Suzu's child being born with the horns – about the birth of the horned one – he rose from his sickbed with determination, his face filled with both vigor and sorrow. He headed straight for the village nursery, took the newborn baby into his arms, and confirmed for himself their existence on the child's small, delicate head. He then returned home and called for his son. He closed the door and shutters, and cut the wick in his bedside lamp, lowering the light. He proceeded to speak in his voice so low it struggled to compete with the howling wind outside.

"I was reluctant to hand over the role of chief to you. I kept you from claiming what was yours, even though you'd earned everyone's trust as an upstanding member of the village. I know you weren't happy with that. I don't blame you, though. It was only natural you should feel unhappy."

The chief remained silent, only hanging his head. His father's face terrified him. For some reason, this weary old man suddenly began to frighten him like some grotesque demon.

"But I didn't hold onto it because you weren't ready. I...I simply never wanted to burden you with the Nieh. I was filled with fear. I knew it was inevitable I one day pass on my duties to you, but I still wanted to put it off as long as I could. However, that was my mistake. The Lord of the Castle in the Mist can see through all such foolish intentions of ours. Just look at what's happened – the moment my illness forces me to finally relinquish the role of chief to you, the horned one is born." His father's voice trembled as though he were weeping.

Once every several decades in Toksa, a child is born with horns on its head. They remain inconspicuous when it is a baby, nothing more than smooth, round protuberances hidden under the child's thin hair.

But the child grows up faster and stronger than other children, its body robust and perpetually free of illness. It can run like the deer, leap like the rabbit, climb like the squirrel, and swim like the fish. Its horns remain ever dormant as it ages, disguised by its hair. At a glance, it appears no different from any ordinary child. Only its extraordinary vitality, its hunter's voice that reverberates like thunder over the forests, and a profound wisdom radiating in its eyes belie its real nature.

However, the horns on its head are without a doubt a mark. That it is the Nieh. That it must one day go to the Castle in the Mist. Of the tradition that has been imposed on the village. And of the cursed wedge the Castle in the Mist has driven into the world.

When the child turns thirteen, its horns reveal their true form. They abruptly grow through its hair over the course of one night, coming to resemble the horns of a buffalo. That signifies the Time of the Nieh. The Castle in the Mist is calling. The child must then be sacrificed as the Nieh.

"The previous Nieh was born when I was a small boy. We find in the scrolls instances when a hundred years have passed between one Nieh being sent to the Castle in the Mist and the birth of the next," the chief's father continued. He closed his eyes, as if in pain, shaking his head. "I had hoped we would be so fortunate. But it was not to be. I prayed from the bottom of my heart you would never have to confront the Nieh. If anything, however, it has come early this time. The last Nieh was surely weak. The Castle in the Mist has grown hungry again. You have thirteen years until the sacrifice – plenty of time. I will tell you everything you need to know about the tradition of the Nieh. You must be sure and read all the scrolls in this house as well. There is nothing difficult about it, though. When the boy turns thirteen, the Time of the Nieh will have arrived, and the priest will come from the capital and take care of everything. All you need do is as the priest decrees."

The chief's father clutched his son's wrist with startling intensity.

"Above all, you mustn't let the Nieh leave. You must ensure it remains in the village. You must also tell it of its destiny – firmly, repeatedly, and thoroughly. You mustn't make any allowances for it. You mustn't allow yourself to falter. That child is the Nieh the Castle of Mist has chosen."

The thought of this troubled the chief. The thought of that newborn baby. That beautiful, fragile, precious baby. Even is he does possess the mark of the Nieh, he's still only a child. How are you supposed to be firm with something like that? How are you supposed to explain to it that it's one day going to be sacrificed to a "castle in the mist"?

But the chief didn't have the courage to say such things to his father. Instead, he softly asked, "Even if we do succeed in keeping him here, what if he gets sick? What if he gets injured? What if he dies before he reaches –"

His father responded without hesitation.

"The Nieh never gets sick. Nor does it get injured. It is exceptionally strong. All you need do as chief is raise him to be both proud like the wolf and meek like the dove, so he does not go against his fate."

"Raise...?"

"Yes. The chief is the one who raises the Nieh."

"But what about his parents?"

"After the mother has recovered from the birth, they are cast from the village."

"What?!"

"That, too, is part of the tradition. The mother and father of the horned one must leave Toksa."

It was then that his father's face began to relax, the corners of his eyes visibly damp.

"It must sound a harsh treatment to you. But it is done out of compassion. Imagine how hard it would be for a parent were they to raise their child knowing it would one day be taken away from them. It they must part ways, the sooner the better. Muraji and Suzu will have a good life in the capital. They can have more children – one, two, three – as many as they desire. Even the covetous Castle in the Mist does not take a second child from a family after it has already claimed a first."

The chief was at a loss for words, overwhelmed by the intense tone of his father's voice. All he could do was mutter his wife's name.

"Oneh..."

What would she think? Like him, she only knew of the village's tradition through stories. How would she react when she learned she had now become a part of it?

"What should I tell Oneh?"

The chief and his wife had had six children together, though four of them had been taken from them by various misfortunes and illnesses shortly after birth. The two that survived, however, a boy and a girl, had made it to adulthood without incident, with his son even married.

"Do you think Oneh and I will...still be able to raise a child?"

"Of course. Just think of him as a grandchild."

A twisted smile came across his father's face, a smile riddled with gaps in his old age.

"Think about it. Thanks to that child born tonight, your grandchild – probably not far in coming – might well have been spared the fate of the horns. It isn't so bad when you look at it like that, is it?"

A chill ran down the chief's spine. His father was right. The birth of that child meant the village could rest easy for several decades. His grandchild had indeed been spared, though he wasn't sure if the chill he felt was from comfort for his descendant, or fear toward his father from the ease with which he said such a thing.

The chief's father then tightened his grip on his son, shaking his arm while emphasizing each word he spoke, as if trying to drive home his point with absolute certainty.

"The chief mustn't be afraid. He mustn't doubt. You hear me? You are not paying for a sin of the village, much less a sin of a chief. We are only following our tradition. We are only doing as the priest decrees. If we can accomplish this without incident, the Castle in the Mist will be satisfied."

Only doing as the priest decrees... Only doing as the priest... Not a sin of the village... The village... The chief of the village... The chief...

"Chief," a voice called.

The old man was instantly brought forward thirteen years to the present, to the thin, withered frame and long beard of his now seventy-year-old self, as he blinked his eyes.

"Forgive us. Are we interrupting you?"

Several village farmers stood side by side in the doorway.

"No, I was just checking something."

The men looked at one another, each waiting for one of the others to speak.

"Madam Oneh is crying in the Weaving Room," one eventually said.

"She broke down and tried to destroy the loom. We were able to restrain her, but she still hasn't regained her composure..." added another.

Indeed, the weaving had yet to begin again.

"I'll go talk to her," the chief replied, placing his hands on the desk as he slowly got up from his chair.

"Oneh... My dear Oneh. Please don't cry," the chief silently asked. "How many times must I tell you? No amount of tears or anger will work. No matter how high you shake your fist at the heavens, no matter how hard you beat and yell at the earth, it won't make any difference. The Castle in the Mist, towering since antiquity over the cliffs of the far west where the sun sets, doesn't hear our voices. The only one who can soothe its Lord's anger, the only one who can delay its curse, as fleeting as its effects may be, is the Nieh it itself has chosen."


Original work © 2004 Miyuki Miyabe

Translation © 2007 Marc Laidlaw
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Post by Henry Spencer »

:smile:

You sure do enjoy keeping yourself busy, don't you Marc?

I'll read this later, but Ico was a classic, so I'll definitely come back and comment on how good the novel is.
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Post by Artemio »

I finally found some time to read it, it was great. Thanks Marc.

By the date it is obvious it was written after the game, but do you happen to know anything about the team's involvement?
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Post by Marc »

It was written solely by Miyabe, so it's her take on the game's world written with the development team's permission (the cover features the same artwork from the Japanese and European versions).
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