The Boy Who Drew Cats

The Boy Who Drew Cats

         The young boy lay on the doubled tatami that served as his bed, and silently cried himself to sleep. The village elder had just left his father and mother, who were discussing the evening visit.
         It seems that this young boy, no more than nine harvests old, had the whole village in an uproar. You see, he loved to draw. He would draw with his piece of charcoal on rocks, on the ground, on the trees, everywhere there was a surface he could reach.
         By all accounts, he was a wonderful artist. At nine the equal of any adult artist anyone in the village could recall. His pictures had a light, a warmth, a magic to them that should have made him a local celebrity. Someone the village could call their own. But for one aspect: He drew pictures of small beasts. They were all four-legged creatures with tails.
         There were fat ones and lean, hard ones. Some were striped in stark perfection, others had spots, still others had random swirls and streaks. There were no two exactly alike.
         But there was something they all had in common. Their wild eyes sparkled, though they were drawn in charcoal. They seemed to have a soul, though they were in two dimensions.
         Unable to recognize the genius of art in the boy, the villagers naturally assumed either the boy, or the beasts, or both, were evil. Demon-beasts, the villagers called them, probably in league with the dreaded Goblin-Rats. And the little boy was drawing them all over their village.
         These demon-beasts, someone reasoned, have possessed the boy and are making him draw their likenesses, so they will once again have bodies in which to terrorize and enslave the village as they did in the legends of old. The villagers became quite afraid of the boy.

* * * *

         This little boy who was now crying himself to sleep had heard all of the rumors, the whispers and pointing, and mothers shooing their children inside whenever he wanted to play with them. He understood they were afraid of his pictures, for he was generally acknowledged to be a very clever boy (clever as a demon, some said).
         But for all of his cleverness he could not understand why pictures of his imaginary friends should scare them. They were gentle creatures, he was sure of that, though he knew he had never seen them in the waking world. They were magnificent, noble creatures, suitable to be companions to the Emperor himself.
         The villagers, however, were convinced otherwise, and they had sent the village elder to the boy's father to demand something be done. And the boy's father was not entirely sure they were wrong.
         "...And he hasn't the strength to help in the field like his brothers, nor the aptitude to apprentice with the craftsmen...who probably wouldn't want him anyway...", his father was saying.
         "What will become of him then?" His mother's voice was soft, and sad.
         "We will send him to the Mount, I think." The Mount was a temple some five days away with a reputation for rigorous training and pious monks. The boy's mother nodded reluctantly. "When?"
         "In the morning you will collect his things and I will take him there directly. And no more tears woman, you have a house and three other children to think on." And he went to bed.

* * * *

         The morning soon came, and the little boy put on a brave face as he and his father marched stoically out of town, though tears periodically squeezed past clenched eyelids. He would brush these aside quickly, and pretend they never happened.
         But gradually, as they walked on and on, the boy's profound sadness and loneliness ebbed, to be replaced by a growing sense of amazement. He had never ventured out of sight of his village before, and he never realized the vast number of trees, and hills, and birds, and flowers that existed. It was as if the gods had opened the heavens themselves and emptied the contents upon the land. He was so immersed in the wonder of it, that when his father announced that the monastery was on the next ridge, the boy suddenly felt his despair wash up over him like the river during the Season-of-the-Monsoon.
         The boy's father had been having a rather animated discussion with the head monk of the monastery, an impossibly old-looking man with a shock of hair the color of new snow, tied in a neat queue. His father told the boy on their journey that this monk actually knew the fabled sohei-monk called Benkei. The boy wondered about this as they spoke. Finally his father and the old monk came over to him. The monk looked very severe as he spoke to the little boy.
         "Your father tells me you have the disturbing habit of drawing pictures on everything. Is this so?"
         "Yes sir it is," the boy replied.
         "Do you not think it wrong to defile what the gods have made, simply for your enjoyment?"
         "It is done with charcoal, sir. If the gods were displeased, could they not simply make a rainshower to wash it away?"
         The monk suppressed the barest hint of a smile before turning to the boy's father. "You are right. He is a clever boy. Very well, we will take him as an acolyte. This monk will show you where to put your things."

* * * *

         After the parting the boy found he had little time to feel sorry for himself. There was so much to learn. He learned his new master was called Shomon, and he was a wise and holy man. He learned what chores he needed to accomplish every day, how to sweep the room just so, how to carry all the water his small body could manage. He found, much to his amazement, that he actually enjoyed himself during much of the day.
         The only part he could not seem to adapt to was the thrice daily prayers. The shrine seemed pleasant enough, but he never found the "inner patience" that the other monks tried to teach him. He was always in motion, always curious about what was happening just outside if he was inside, or just inside if he was outside.
         The monks were patient at first, but began to assign punishments when he couldn't sit through classes or prayers. They also began finding the drawings of the beasts on trees, on the ground, even in the shrines of the gods!
         Though the boy knew what he was doing was wrong, and he desperately wanted to be a correct monk, he couldn't stop thinking about his friends, or exploring with them. He didn't even mind the punishments, because he hoped they would help direct his mind to the "correct path" the monks so often spoke of.
         One day, some months after he arrived, the boy was summoned before Shomon. Shomon looked sad as he spoke.
         "It appears, my little friend, that you are not meant to be a monk. This is not a bad thing, or good, but just a thing. You are a hard worker for one so frail, but your mind is that of an artist, not an ascetic. And the beasts you draw are something altogether remarkable. What do you call them?"
         "I am not truly sure, master. At first, I used to call them cats. Now I just call them my friends."
         Shomon smiled slowly at that last. He did not tell the boy that his "cats" were real, that he himself had seen them as a young man in his traveling days. Or that they had not been reported seen in any village in this province in over a hundred years. Or that there were promises made, shrouded in myth, of a time of returning to those who called them friend. Of all of this he said nothing. He did say, "We of course were not overly glad of your drawing them on our shrines at first, but they make a noble addition to them nonetheless. They will stay.
         "You, however, though it pains my heart to say, for your own good, will need to go. You must find your niche as an artist. We will send food with you, enough for a week, and if you wish, we will send a monk with you to see you safely to your village."
         The boy was dumbfounded. He just stared for a moment before answering Shomon. "No sir. If it's all right with you, I would like to make the journey alone."
         Shomon looked troubled. "Very well, if you sincerely wish it. The road is clearly marked. Stay to it and all will be well. I will offer you one last piece of advice. Stay away from large places at night, keep to small. Fare you well."
         The thought of traveling all the way back to the village by himself was indeed daunting, but the shame of being escorted back by one of the monks was worse still. His father would be ashamed and angry that he could not even complete the tasks of a monastic acolyte. He set out, finally, after he could find no more reason to delay.

* * * *

         Once again, the road worked its magic on the boy. He wasn't traveling more than a few hours when he lost all sense of dread, replaced by the awe that nature inspired in him. In fact, it was while wandering on a side path (just a momentary detour, following a beautiful butterfly) that he realized he had no notion of where the main path lay. Panic began to well up in the boy, as he looked around furiously. Presently the tears began once again to leak down his cheek. As soon as realized they were there, he grew angry, fiercely swiping them away with the back of his hand. He sniffed deeply, and with new resolve, picked a direction, and set off again.
         After just a few steps, he saw the butterfly that led him here in the first place. For lack of a better course of action, he followed it again.
         The butterfly set a leisurely pace the boy was able to easily follow. Soon, the trees began to thin, and the boy's hopes grew. Presently the butterfly flew straight up and then disappeared into a tangle of trees behind him. The boy found himself standing on the outskirts of a village, much like his own, but there was something very different. It took the clever boy just a moment to realize what it was: there was no movement. No farmers coming in from the rice fields, no women tending the drying racks, no children playing under foot. He approached slowly.
         The boy was just a few paces into the village when he saw the first body. It was little more than white bones covered by torn clothing. The boy was much more curious than frightened. He walked some more, and found many more bodies in more or less the same circumstance. As he got to the other side of the village, he noticed a large hill no more than half a day away, dominated by a large monastery. The boy called out to see if anyone alive was in the village, and, receiving no answer, decided to set out for the monastery. Someone there would surely be able to help him.
         The boy had miscalculated the distance of the monastery, and it was well after sunset when he finally approached the doors. He was much relieved to see the light from lamps pouring out from the stone building. He rapped on the door.
There was no answer, but he noticed the door was not latched shut. He pushed it open, and announced himself before entering. The large entryway was covered in dust. That is, everything above the floor, which was polished stone. The few pieces of furniture were thick with dust, as were the offering bowl and kneeling bolsters.
         The boy, gathering his belongings close to his breast, slowly walked to the center hall, and let himself in. He bolted the door from the inside. The room was much as the rest of the building, but there were various shoji screens and partitions, and several cabinets, apparently gathered from the rest of the monastery for storage. The incense altar was full of ashes, but not defiled. Being able to think of nothing else to do, and nowhere else to do it, the boy put down his pack and sat down next to a shoji.
         Feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life, the boy reached into his pack and began to draw his friends with his piece of charcoal. He drew and drew until all the screens and most of the walls had pictures of the creatures. He used all of his remaining charcoal, and was quite worn out from the effort.
         As he stretched out on the cold stone floor, and looked up at the vast ceiling of the center hall, flickering with the oil torches, the voice of Shomon came from the middle of his head, floating to his ears. "Stay away from large places at night. Keep to small." Swallowing hard once and looking around him, the boy opened a cabinet and crawled in, pulling his pack in with him.
         He was just sliding into dreams when he heard a fearsome crash. The sound of heavy oak splitting like kindling. The boy pulled himself tighter into the cabinet, curled up like a ball, and waited.
         Suddenly the room outside the cabinet exploded into a frenzy of roars, screams, and crashes. The boy was petrified, unable to move, even if he had wanted to, save for the trembling that made his bones ache. The cacophony lasted for what seemed an eternity, then stopped even as fast as it had started.
         For several moments, the silence was as loud as the noise before. Minutes passed, still nothing. As the ringing in the boy's ears subsided, he began to notice his cramping arms and legs. Finally, with a deep breath, and eyes squeezed shut, the boy eased open the cabinet door. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a sight that made him wobbly on his feet.
         Piled at the center of the room were the bodies of six huge Goblin Rats. He knew that's what they must be from the tales the village elders told. Taller and wider than a man at the shoulder, the rats had the power to talk to man, and had been known to eat anything, from whole oxen to groups of villagers. Their throats had been ripped open, and they all lay dead. Several of the cabinets and shojis had been knocked down, and the boy inexplicably ran over to right them.          As he did, he saw something that made him smile: The cats, his friends, had thick red all around their mouths. Blood-red he never drew with his black charcoal. He could have sworn he heard, all around him, a great purring.