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GOLDSEA | ASIAN BOOKVIEW | KIDS' BOOKS

EXCERPT:

he daughter of a samurai does not scream when her hair is being combed. Indeed, she makes no sound at all. It was one of the more elementary rules of conduct that her mother had drummed into her for eleven years. Nonetheless, when Choko yanked the comb through a particularly stubborn knot, Takiko's daughter of Lord Moriyuki of the Heike clan, cried out, "Choko! You're trying to kill me."
     "Nonsense!" snapped the maid. "Just hold still, and it won't pull so much." She gave another sound yank. "Where were you yesterday? Your hair looks as if crows had been nesting in it."
     "Aeii! Stop it. I'll tell my aunt on you. You have no respect."
     The maid proved unmoved by her threat. "Will you also tell her where you were hiding when it was time for your koto lesson?" she asked mildly, lifting a hank of long black hair up to the light as if to show up the tangles. Then she sank in the comb and jerked it, like a knife, through the heart of the snarl.
     Takiko was nearly pulled off her knees, but this time she bit her lip. She musn't give Choko the satisfaction of another protest. "Stupid Choko," she thought. "Servants are all stupid." None of them could understand why she hid. They probably thought it was because she hated music.
     Her concentration shifted from the pain in her scalp to the contemplation of her secret.
     She smiled inwardly. If the rest of the household only knew. She could remember vividly the day that the truth had occurred to her. The rain was beating against the wooden shutters. In the dim lamplight, Aunt was pressing Takiko's small fingers down upon the strings and guiding her right hand as the plectrums attached to her fingers plucked the strings of the koto. Suddenly she knew. There was no music inside her aunt, who was breathing on her neck and singing the Chinese song in a harsh, aged voice. No. The music was inside her -- Takiko. She was not simply a samurai's daughter who had to be forced to learn the arts of entertainment befitting her station; she was a maker of music.
     From that day, nearly a year ago, she could hardly bear to take direction from her aunt, for Lady Uchinaka's playing was square and precise, like the earnest brushstrokes of a rather clever beginner, while the music within Takiko danced like the sweeping calligraphy of a master artist. She knew this. But she could not explain it to anyone, because the music within her head had not yet reached her fingertips. If she tried to talk about it, she might be scolded for her arrogance, or worse yet, she might be laughed at.