猫 を 描 い た 少 年
The Boy Boy The Who Drew Drew Cats Cats Who
The Boy Who Drew Cats
A Japanese fairytale about a boy, who now shares the story with his grandchildren.
‘Could you please tell us a story Grandpa?’ ‘Oh please Grandpa!’
‘We want to hear your story, the one with you and all the cats!’
‘Yes, and the great big rat!’
I sighed. Every night my grandchildren asked for the same story, with no interest in hearing another. One might think that this would become rather tiresome and repetitive, but on the contrary, it warmed my heart that they were so enthralled by my tale and I hoped that by hearing it so many times they would learn from the hidden messages and life lessons that shaped me as a child.
Excitement and hope gleamed in their eyes and I laughed as they both climbed up onto my lap, ready to listen before I had even agreed.
To my parents’ secret dismay I was not of much use in the fields, and not just because I was not fit for the work but because whenever I had a moment to spare or had to take a rest, I was overcome with the urge to draw cats.
‘Alright then’, I replied, settling back into my arm chair. ‘When I was a young boy…’, my granddaughter prompted cheekily. ‘Ah yes’, I chuckled, ‘When I was a young boy my family and I lived in a small house since we did not have lots of money. My father was a farmer and he spent all of his time working hard in order to provide as much as he could for our family. As soon as all of my brothers were strong enough, they became farmers too. The same future was planned for me, but I was smaller than the others and not very strong.
Whether it was with a stick in the dirt or with ink on rice paper, I spent most of my time drawing cats and only cats.
So off I went the next morning. The priest didn’t hide his surprised approval as he listened to my answers to his test questions. ‘From this day forth’, said the priest kindly, ‘you will be my acolyte and I will educate you for priesthood.’
One evening, after a hard day of working or in my case drawing, my parents sat me down and told me that they had decided that the next day I was to go to the village temple and ask the priest on their behalf if he would have me as his acolyte and study with him in the temple. Your mind is too clever to be a farmer, my father said, and being a priest is the right path for you my special boy, said my mother.
Although I was sad about leaving my home and family behind, I was quite pleased with myself and hoped that I would be able to make my parents proud; something I had not done and could not do by working as a farmer. I tried my best in my studies and learnt quickly how to read and write. However, my urge to draw cats had only increased, especially with all the ink and rice paper I was surrounded by.
So, whenever I was alone or the priest wasn’t looking, I would use my brush and ink to draw. I drew big cats, small cats, sleeping cats, angry cats and every kind of cat. I could draw for hours and although it made me very happy, the priest was no where near as pleased.
‘These cat drawings have got to stop boy, they are distracting you from your studies!’
‘To become a priest you must focus.’
‘Enough! You must not draw any more cats.’ No matter how many warnings I got, I could not seem to stop! The final straw was when I drew all over the folding screens of the temple. The priest, drained of his patience, reprimanded me severely, ‘you will never make a good priest and therefore you must leave this temple immediately!’
As I was almost at the door, the priest called out for me to stop. He ran over, put a hand on my shoulder and said, now with a frantic look on his face,
‘My boy, there is something I must tell you before you leave. Avoid large places at night. Keep to the small.’ I was confused by his warning but promised him I would not forget it. Before shutting the door behind me he said sympathetically, ’I’m sure you will become a great artist one day.’
I was confused by his warning but promised him I would not forget it. Before shutting the door behind me he said sympathetically, ’I’m sure you will become a great artist one day.’
The only thing I was sure of as I walked through the village was that I was too ashamed to go home. I didn’t know where I was going but I kept walking and walking and by nightfall I had made it to the to the next village.
I decided to go to the temple with the hope that the priests would provide me with shelter for the night and maybe even have me as one of their acolytes.
I knocked politely but no one came. I knocked again, louder this time, but still no answer.
I put my ear to the door to listen for any noise or movement and to my surprise it was unlocked and clicked open as I leaned against it. I stumbled inside and couldn’t hide my shock as I took in the room before me. It was enormous and filled with folding screens. My shock quickly turned to delight and I searched through my few belongings to retrieve the ink I had taken from my village temple. Hours passed before my fatigue tore me from my drawing trance. I must admit, when I took a step back, regret crept into my mind as I worried how the priests would react to what I’d done. I pushed these thoughts aside and remembering my old priest’s warning. I found a cabinet, climbed inside, slid the door closed behind me and fell fast asleep.
The sounds of nearby growling and screeching jolted me awake and I trembled in fright as I listened and wished that I had just returned home to face the despair of my parents. Once the temple fell silent I waited at least another hour before I revealed my hiding spot by sliding the door open.
Light streamed in from the windows and I SCREAMED at what I saw. The floor was a pool of blood and right in the middle of the room lay a GINORMOUS, MONSTROUS DEAD GOBLIN-RAT!! I was confused as to who or what had killed such a beast since the room was eerily empty. But I quickly discovered that the blood was not just on the floor. Surrounding myself and the rat were the cats I’d drawn the night before on the walls and folding screens, and every single one had blood around its mouth. The village people cheered and thanked me as I began my long walk home.
From that day forward I was proud to be an artist; an artist who only draws cats!
I smiled down at my two grandchildren snuggled up on my lap and into the arms of my worn out chair. ‘I want to be an artist too when I grow up,’ said my granddaughter dreamily.
‘Well if that is what you love to do then you can most certainly be one, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,’ I replied. As they climbed down from the chair my grandson said, ‘when I grow up I want to be a giant goblin-rat!’ And chased my granddaughter screaming from the room. ‘Well I think that dream is an exception,’ I laughed.