The Sword of Kuromori. Jason Rohan

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Kenny’s fingers dug into the armrests of the aeroplane seat so tightly that his knuckles ached. The first time he had flown in a plane it had been an exciting adventure. Now, though, it was more of a chore.

      The 747 lurched again and he felt his stomach float upwards before his weight settled back into the seat. It was like being on a slowed-down roller coaster, only a lot less fun.

      Relax, Kenny told himself, it’s safer than driving. Try not to think about being strapped into a pressurised metal tube that weighs a thousand tonnes, is eleven kilometres above the ground and travelling at a thousand kilometres an hour. All perfectly safe.

      The airline steward, whose name badge read Daniel Mayer, rested on one knee in the aisle beside him and patted the boy’s tensed arm. ‘Nervous about flying?’ he asked, with a practised smile.

      Kenny shook his head, which wasn’t easy with a stiffened neck. ‘No,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Only about crashing. Why is it there’s only turbulence when you serve food? Is that deliberate, to spill everyone’s drinks?’

      Dan smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve flown this Seattle–Tokyo route a hundred times and I’m still here. Besides, we’ll be there soon.’ His eyes flicked to the empty seat beside Kenny. ‘You travelling alone?’

      Kenny nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m meeting my dad. He works out there. I’m staying for the summer.’

      ‘You don’t sound too happy about it.’

      Kenny shrugged. ‘Well . . . it’s complicated.’

      Dan patted Kenny’s arm again and rose to his feet. ‘Is this your first time in Japan?’

      The boy nodded.

      ‘You’re going to love it. It’s an amazing place. Super high-tech on the one hand and super traditional on the other.’

      ‘Kenny Blackwood?’ said a female voice.

      Kenny and the steward both looked up to see a Japanese flight attendant standing in the aisle, an envelope in her white-gloved hands. Her badge said Naoko Iwamoto.

      ‘Seat 57C? Kenny Blackwood? Is that you?’ she said again.

      Kenny nodded.

      ‘I was asked to give you this, before we land,’ Naoko said and handed him the envelope.

      Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘Since when do we play mailman?’ he muttered.

      Naoko smiled at him and moved on.

      Kenny turned the envelope over in his hands; it was blank, sealed, but he could feel the edges of a folded sheet of paper inside and a small cylindrical object, about the size and shape of a lipstick.

      Weird, he thought. Who’d be sending me a letter on a plane? More to the point, who would even know where to find me?

      He slit open the envelope using the plastic knife from his meal tray and took out a single typed page, which he began to read:

       To my dearest grandson, Kenneth,

       Yes, I know you hate being called ‘Kenneth’ but it could have been worse – your grandmother wanted to name you ‘Aloysius’.

       If all is well, you will be reading this upon an aero plane high above the Pacific Ocean, making your final approach to Japan, where I have arranged for you to spend the summer with your father.

       I remember what it was like for me, travelling alone to a strange and unfamiliar place, but, once I adjusted to the local customs, I found it a place of magical wonder. I suspect that you too may be embarking on a similar journey of self-discovery.

       If I have any advice for you, it is this: believe in yourself; trust your feelings; do what is right, especially when it is most difficult; and always carry a cucumber near fresh water.

       With all my love,

       Your grandfather, Lawrence

      Kenny scowled at the paper. His grandfather was in his nineties, a former Professor of Oriental Studies, now retired and living in Buckinghamshire. He was also famously eccentric, but this was bizarre, by anyone’s standards.

      After turning the paper over, Kenny looked in the envelope again. Inside was a small square of translucent paper, about the size of a large postage stamp, and a small wooden whistle.

      He took the paper out first and held it up to the overhead light. Some more writing was on it, which read:

       Make a copy of the letter. Use the whistle only in emergencies. Now eat this note.

      Kenny had to smile. His grandfather had always been fond of mysteries, puzzles and codes. In fact, the previous summer, he had insisted Kenny fly out from the States to join him on an elaborate treasure hunt.

      This was obviously another sophisticated game he was playing. Kenny shrugged to himself, picked up his phone and took a photograph of the letter. He then nibbled one end of the pearly paper. It dissolved on his tongue like a wafer. Rice paper, he thought, before popping the rest into his mouth.

      That left the whistle. It was a short length of bamboo, with a slot to blow through, a square opening on the top and a drilled hole at the end. Underneath was a carving: