Pilgrimage of the Sacred and the Profane by Hideyuki Kikuchi Page A
Authors: Hideyuki Kikuchi
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before going mad without any warning whatsoever. There
were actually records of a case a dozen years or so earlier where such children abandoned
their parents again to live someplace in the mountains, but even there the madness
in their blood set them to killing each other, until in the end they were all dead.
You could say both the beginning and the end of
the hidden
’s tragic tale was penned when the children disappeared.
“You know how it is,” D’s left hand continued. “In the end, nothing good can come
of that girl going back to her family. At first, her parents will weep for joy. They’ll
probably want her to live with them, even if it means hiding her from the neighbors
or moving to another region. But after a while, they’ll get to wondering if maybe
her eyes don’t have a strange glint to them. Not that you can blame them. To eyes
that have peered into the darkness of the other side, this world is a hollow reflection.
And could anything shy of the sights of hell ever move those kids again? No, not till
the end of time. And there’s the first act of the tragedy. The very parents who would’ve
died to have their kid back now can’t even look at them. They lock the kid in their
room. And then one day the two of them pack up a wagon and take off out of the blue,
leaving just their kid in the house.”
The voice broke off there; D was squeezing his left hand into a fist. He did so with
such force it wouldn’t have been surprising to hear the bones cracking.
But from his fist, a tortured voice said, “I suppose you could say the kids that get
left behind are the lucky ones, though. Some parents are more . . .
thorough
. The same parents who spent their last dalas searching for their kids one day start
whittling down a piece of wood and putting a point on the end of it . . .”
Something red had slowly begun to seep from between D’s fingers.
“Oof . . . No one can really say . . . who it’s harder for . . . the parents or the
kids . . . But I can tell you this . . . If that girl there never goes home . . .
no one . . . gets . . . hurt . . .”
At that moment, D quietly turned around. Seemingly following Tae’s tracks, he went
down the dune. After mounting his cyborg horse, he wheeled around in the direction
of Clay and the wagon.
“There’s a tornado approaching,” the Hunter declared. “We’re moving out.”
After just enough time to contemplate his words, the blanket rose and the door to
the wagon opened. Both the old woman and the warrior had been awake for some time.
They certainly weren’t average travelers.
“What, again?” Clay complained.
“Seriously?” Granny Viper asked, just to be sure. “I mean, it’s not like that sort
of thing springs up all the time. So, I take it this is a different one from last
night, right?”
“No, it’s the same one,” D said flatly.
“Meaning all of
what
, exactly?” Clay asked, his lascivious expression twisting into a sneer. “Are you
trying to tell us ol’ Mr. Twister’s out looking for us or something?”
Ignoring him, D started riding to the east.
“Son of a bitch,” Clay growled, hatred in his eyes, as he hustled after the Hunter
and toward his own horse.
Granny made haste, too.
No sooner had the wagon taken off than Clay did something rather strange. Looking
all around, he cupped one hand by his mouth and shouted as loudly as he could, “Bro,
I’m going on ahead. You catch up with me later, okay?”
Though Bingo didn’t seem to be anywhere within range of Clay’s cries, it seemed like
his younger brother might have been able to see him. Saying nothing more and not seeming
at all anxious, the warrior lashed his horse into action. As he galloped toward the
wagon that was already twenty or thirty yards ahead of him, he looked over his shoulder.
“God, that’s unbelievable,” Clay said, the words spilling from him like a trickle
of
were actually records of a case a dozen years or so earlier where such children abandoned
their parents again to live someplace in the mountains, but even there the madness
in their blood set them to killing each other, until in the end they were all dead.
You could say both the beginning and the end of
the hidden
’s tragic tale was penned when the children disappeared.
“You know how it is,” D’s left hand continued. “In the end, nothing good can come
of that girl going back to her family. At first, her parents will weep for joy. They’ll
probably want her to live with them, even if it means hiding her from the neighbors
or moving to another region. But after a while, they’ll get to wondering if maybe
her eyes don’t have a strange glint to them. Not that you can blame them. To eyes
that have peered into the darkness of the other side, this world is a hollow reflection.
And could anything shy of the sights of hell ever move those kids again? No, not till
the end of time. And there’s the first act of the tragedy. The very parents who would’ve
died to have their kid back now can’t even look at them. They lock the kid in their
room. And then one day the two of them pack up a wagon and take off out of the blue,
leaving just their kid in the house.”
The voice broke off there; D was squeezing his left hand into a fist. He did so with
such force it wouldn’t have been surprising to hear the bones cracking.
But from his fist, a tortured voice said, “I suppose you could say the kids that get
left behind are the lucky ones, though. Some parents are more . . .
thorough
. The same parents who spent their last dalas searching for their kids one day start
whittling down a piece of wood and putting a point on the end of it . . .”
Something red had slowly begun to seep from between D’s fingers.
“Oof . . . No one can really say . . . who it’s harder for . . . the parents or the
kids . . . But I can tell you this . . . If that girl there never goes home . . .
no one . . . gets . . . hurt . . .”
At that moment, D quietly turned around. Seemingly following Tae’s tracks, he went
down the dune. After mounting his cyborg horse, he wheeled around in the direction
of Clay and the wagon.
“There’s a tornado approaching,” the Hunter declared. “We’re moving out.”
After just enough time to contemplate his words, the blanket rose and the door to
the wagon opened. Both the old woman and the warrior had been awake for some time.
They certainly weren’t average travelers.
“What, again?” Clay complained.
“Seriously?” Granny Viper asked, just to be sure. “I mean, it’s not like that sort
of thing springs up all the time. So, I take it this is a different one from last
night, right?”
“No, it’s the same one,” D said flatly.
“Meaning all of
what
, exactly?” Clay asked, his lascivious expression twisting into a sneer. “Are you
trying to tell us ol’ Mr. Twister’s out looking for us or something?”
Ignoring him, D started riding to the east.
“Son of a bitch,” Clay growled, hatred in his eyes, as he hustled after the Hunter
and toward his own horse.
Granny made haste, too.
No sooner had the wagon taken off than Clay did something rather strange. Looking
all around, he cupped one hand by his mouth and shouted as loudly as he could, “Bro,
I’m going on ahead. You catch up with me later, okay?”
Though Bingo didn’t seem to be anywhere within range of Clay’s cries, it seemed like
his younger brother might have been able to see him. Saying nothing more and not seeming
at all anxious, the warrior lashed his horse into action. As he galloped toward the
wagon that was already twenty or thirty yards ahead of him, he looked over his shoulder.
“God, that’s unbelievable,” Clay said, the words spilling from him like a trickle
of
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