Chapter 1
From the viewing platform of Kiyomizu-dera Temple, a lone figure was staring out over the city of Kyoto.
Anyone seeing them would have presumed they were simply admiring the view like anyone else. But this person was not admiring anything. They were searching. Not for the many temples or historical landmarks, but for the buildings that made up the British School of Kyoto, somewhere between the Palace and the Botanical Gardens in the north of the city.
This is where it would all be happening, and today it would begin.
Only minutes earlier, the figure had drunk from the wish-granting waters of the Otowa Waterfall beneath the temple’s main hall and asked for success in what lay ahead. Now they cast their eye over the deep reds and yellows of the autumn foliage, which was already setting in across the landscape. Catching sight of the school’s distant collection of blocks, a smile formed across their lips.
They took in a deep breath, checked their watch, and before a clutch of early-bird tourists standing nearby had even noticed them, they were gone.
Chapter 2
One hour later, in the auditorium of the British School of Kyoto, one particular girl was making a point of being utterly uninterested in what was happening in front of her.
At the centre of the stage, behind a lectern, stood the headmaster, Mr Murphy, a tall and chubby man with permanently red cheeks, a haircut designed to hide a growing bald patch, and a shirt and belt struggling to contain his overhanging belly. Behind him, a giant screen displayed the school’s crest – a golden lion standing in front of a large red circle, depicting the combination of British and Japanese cultures. Beneath that, in bold type, were emblazoned the words: BSK in partnership with the Kyoto National Museum.
To the headmaster’s right stood what looked like a large Chinese harp, the kind which lay horizontally on top of a stand, not upright like the Western version. To the headmaster’s left, two women waited by the curtain, one of them at least twenty years older than the other. They appeared slightly nervous and awkward as they listened to his speech but hid it behind polite smiles.
‘‘It’s an honour to be partnering with the museum in this unique and unprecedented scheme,’’ came the headmaster’s loud voice, which the girl found highly irritating like so many other things in the school. She scowled as he droned on about how the museum was loaning BSK one of its exhibits as part of a new scheme that was to do with the museum becoming more interactive, or something like that. It was also to mark the Jidai Matsuri, a historical festival that would be taking place at the Imperial Palace in a little over two weeks’ time.
In this case, the exhibit was the harp, but the girl couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about. She’d only been in Japan for a little over two months, but this was not her first international school, nor her first experience of living in Asia. She and her parents had been based in India and then China for two years respectively. She was used to seeing Asian cultural artefacts, and this harp looked like any number of similar Chinese versions she’d seen being played back when Beijing had been her home.
After the headmaster had waffled on for a few more minutes with a speech that seemed to place himself as the hero and architect of this whole scenario, he introduced the older woman and stood aside as she took his place at the lectern. Her name was Miss Nakamura, and she was a senior curator from the museum. She was around forty-five years of age, perhaps older, with a serious yet not unfriendly demeanour that was made more formal by her glasses and the black suit and white shirt she wore. Speaking in slightly broken English, she explained she would be speaking in Japanese while her assistant translated.
With a flick of her hand, she referenced her assistant, Miss Yoshida, who bowed her head as she came forward and stood beside the lectern with a microphone in hand.
Miss Nakamura told them about the history of the instrument, which had been built at the request of a nobleman, especially for a talented musician sometime during the late Edo period of the 1800s. The koto would be on display, she said, in the school’s main foyer from today until the festival, when the school would be holding its own special performance evening to celebrate Kyoto’s history.
The girl, whose name was Jessica Hunter, was preparing to switch off when a figure emerged onto the stage, bowing to the auditorium before taking a seat in front of the koto so that she was still facing the audience.
The person was a maiko, a novice geisha. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty, though with the heavy white face-paint masking her features, she looked more like a human doll. She wore a stunning kimono of red and pinks and greens – a floral pattern stretching over her small form like an artwork itself. And her hair, arranged into the most immaculate bun, and adorned with flowers, looked almost too perfect to be real as it shone in the beams from the stage lights.
As the maiko began to play the koto, the light murmur which had erupted amongst the pupils at the sight of this strange apparition began to fade. As both of her hands glided and plucked artfully at the strings, the whole room, with its six hundred or so pupils and teachers, remained in silent awe.
Miss Nakamura and her assistant watched on proudly from the sides. Close by, the headmaster beamed, no doubt already planning his next speech.
When the maiko was finished, she stood and bowed her head demurely. The auditorium erupted into applause, and the young woman scuttled off the stage in her peculiar little sandals as Miss Nakamura returned to the lectern. ‘‘Did everyone enjoy that?’’ she said into the microphone.
‘‘Yes!’’ came a unified reply, mostly from the younger pupils at the front.
‘‘You’re very lucky,’’ continued Miss Nakamura. ‘‘Not many people have the opportunity to see a novice geisha play an instrument. Now, if anyone has any questions, please feel free to ask.’’
Several hands went up around the hall. Miss Nakamura smiled with delight and picked out the first pupil.
‘‘How much does it cost?’’ said a Year 7 boy.
Miss Yoshida moved closer and translated quietly into Miss Nakamura’s ear.
‘‘Ah,’’ said Miss Nakamura, giggling. ‘‘It is definitely quite valuable, but that is why we chose your school for this great project, because of its excellent facilities and security. We will also have our own museum staff monitoring the koto while it is here. The museum is delighted to be loaning artefacts to schools, but we must also treat them with respect, just as we would in the museum.’’
Though delivered with convincing calm, Jessica saw the veiled warning in Miss Nakamura’s words: Keep your hands off my koto!
Miss Nakamura pointed to the next raised hand, which belonged to a girl in Jessica’s year.
‘‘Is this the koto that has a curse on it?’’ said the girl. ‘‘I remember reading about it.’’
At the mention of a curse, Jessica’s and half the auditorium’s ears perked up. Jessica watched closely for Miss Yoshida’s translation, after which Miss Nakamura’s professional smile slipped momentarily, only for her to regain it before answering.
‘‘Of course, there are such tales around many historical artefacts, but they are just stories for our entertainment, nothing more.’’
Miss Nakamura was already shifting her attention to another hand, but the girl called out again. ‘‘I read that the previous owners of this koto all had bad things happen to them.’’
All eyes went from the girl to Miss Nakamura. The shy assistant seemed to hesitate before translating, but Jessica could see from the stiffening of Miss Nakamura’s expression and posture that she’d probably understood.
‘‘Well, I think we should all give Miss Nakamura a huge round of applause,’’ said Mr Murphy, stepping forward before Miss Nakamura herself could speak.
Perhaps irked at not having the question answered, pupils reluctantly applauded again as Miss Nakamura and the assistant bowed and waved.
‘‘As Miss Nakamura said, the koto will be on display in the school foyer as of today. Now, before we all go to our lessons, could you also wish our Scholar’s Cup team some luck. They will be competing in the regional finals tomorrow in Osaka, and we’re really hoping they’ll be Kansai’s winners for the second year in a row. Let’s have a big round of applause for the team and the captain, Yudai Matsumoto of 12H.’’
Mr Murphy broke into a final round of clapping, and the rest of the room followed suit.
Jessica recognised Yudai in the row in front, the Scholar’s Cup team’s key member. He was in her tutor group and was clearly one of the school’s genius kids. Every school she’d been to in Asia had at least a couple of them. She watched as he lowered his gaze and stared into his lap as numerous eyes turned towards him. A pang of pity, or was it relief, came to Jessica. She didn’t imagine it was always much fun having that pressure and expectation put on you. She was the type who preferred to remain under the radar, and that was the way she intended to keep it.
Once the headmaster was finished and some final announcement had been made, the pupils began to file out of the auditorium a class at a time.
As Jessica made her way out, she strained for one last sighting of the young maiko on the left side of the stage. Just before she passed through the doors she was rewarded, as a parting in the giant velvet curtains allowed her a brief glimpse into the backstage area – where she saw a flash of patterned fabric and a ghost-white face watching as the pupils went out.
