The Boy Who Drew Cats

Once upon a time, in a small Japanese village house, lived a boy who was smaller and frailer than his siblings. He couldn't carry firewood like they did, and he quickly grew tired when he tried to help in the fields. But when he got a brush in his hand, his eyes lit up, and his fingers began to dance. Wherever he saw white paper, he wanted to draw cats. Small cats, big cats, cats that crept, cats that slept. He couldn't help himself.

"Our boy is not made for hard work," said the mother worriedly. Father nodded. "He is clever and careful. Maybe he fits in a temple, where he can read and write." So they decided he should be sent to a nearby temple to study with an old priest.

The temple was quiet and beautiful. There were long corridors, rice paper doors, and a scent of incense. The old priest received the boy kindly and gave him exercises in reading and writing. The boy tried, but soon his hand began seeking ink and brush on its own. In the margin of the exercise sheets, small cat ears appeared, whiskers and soft paws. Soon there were cats on fans, cats in the margins, and cats that swished across old screens.

The priest saw it and smiled at first, for the cats were beautiful. But one day he put down the brush and shook his head. "My son," he said gently, "your cats are fine, but you forget your studies. Perhaps you are not meant to be a priest. Some are made for books, others for art. You must follow what is right for you."

The boy's heart sank. He didn't want to cause trouble. The priest continued: "Before you go, I will give you advice that you must remember carefully: Avoid large places at night. Stay in small ones."

The boy bowed deeply and thanked him. The words sounded strange, like a riddle. But he tucked them into his heart and set off.

It felt shameful to return home directly, so he wandered along the road to the next village. The sun sank, and shadows lengthened. When he asked for night lodging, people began to whisper. "Don't sleep in the big temple over there," said a woman hastily. "It stands abandoned. Something terrible has scared everyone away. Those who dared to stay heard scratching and howling at night."

The boy looked toward the horizon. There rose a larger temple, dark and quiet. Something in him felt both fear and curiosity. He thought of the priest's advice. The big temple was a large place, of course. But he was tired and hungry, and he knew there was at least a roof there. "I'll just rest a little," he mumbled. "And I'll keep to a small corner."

He slipped in through the creaking gate. Dust danced in the glow from the last evening streak. The hall was as wide as a still lake, with tall pillars and sliding doors of thin paper. On a shelf he found a small oil lamp and lit it. The light made the room less frightening. On the floor he found a bag with some rice balls that someone had left. He ate carefully and felt courage returning.

Then he saw the empty wall screens. They were like snow-white fields waiting for tracks. The boy's fingers began to itch. He took his brush, dipped it in ink, and began drawing cats. First a small one, stretching itself. Then one washing its paw. Soon cats played along the entire wall; they looked so alive you could almost hear them purring. He drew until it became night-dark and the lamp flickered.

Then he suddenly remembered the priest's words: "Avoid large places at night. Stay in small ones." He looked at the vast hall and shivered. He searched until he found a small priest's chamber behind the altar, barely bigger than a closet. In there he lay tightly curled up, with the lamp extinguished, and pulled the door closed. "This is a small place," he whispered to himself.

Night fell. At first only the wind was heard. Then came a faint scratching, like when nails drag across wood. The scratching grew heavier, padding, grew into a rumbling sound that filled the great hall. The boy's heart beat hard. He held his breath. A sharp scream cut through the darkness, and something large thundered across the floor. It was followed by hissing, a wild tumult, as if many bodies moved with lightning speed. Things tore and crashed, then everything became quiet at once.

The boy didn't dare move for a long time. Only when dawn's light crept in through the paper doors did he slowly open the chamber's sliding door. The hall was still. In the middle of the floor lay a gigantic rat, bigger than any he had ever seen, with dull eyes and motionless body. He backed up a step, trembling. Then he caught sight of the walls.

The cats he had drawn the evening before looked down at him from the screens. They were still just pictures, but something looked different. At several of their painted mouths were small dark spots, as if they had been colored by something red. The boy didn't understand how it could be possible, but he felt it in his whole body: his cats had protected him during the night.

The villagers dared to come forward when the sun stood high. They found the boy still in the great hall, with painted cats and the feared giant rat gone forever. They listened to his story and saw the spots on the screens. No one laughed at him. Instead they bowed deeply and thanked him. "You have saved our temple," they said. "Stay here. Let your cats watch over us."

The rumor spread. The boy who drew cats was invited to other temples and houses, where he painted cats on doors and walls. His cats always looked alive, with whiskers that almost trembled and eyes that glimmered. He became a famous artist, not because he tried to be something he wasn't, but because he followed the gift that was already in him.

And all his life he remembered the priest's words: "Avoid large places at night. Stay in small ones." The advice had saved him, and it taught him something more: When a heart burns for something good, like creating beauty, it can become help and courage – both for oneself and for others.

So ended the story of the boy who drew cats, who found his way through a riddle, a night of terror, and a row of painted whiskers.