A Cat's Memory

In Japanese legends, a cat can be a powerful spirit. A cat that lives long enough is said to develop supernatural powers. As all spirits from Japanese mythology, such spirits can be either malevolent or benevolent, depending on the cat – and the circumstances of the story.

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In the shadows, something watched, waiting. Soon, it would begin.

The old cat lay peacefully, eyes closed, basking in the sun's life-giving rays, and seemed to smile in vast contentment. The morning air was alive with a thousand different scents, a thousand different sounds – but he ignored them all. Instead, he simply lay there, enjoying instead the feel of the sunlight on his aging body, bathing his aching muscles in wondrous warmth.

Life was good.

They came then, as they did every morning. They asked him if he wanted to go inside. He told them no, that he preferred to remain outside, and they let him be. They left, as they always did, bustling about on their lives, lives he never really understood, but accepted benignly.

In the quiet morning sunlight, he dozed peacefully.

In the shadows, something crept forth, warily. It slunk by the sleeping cat. Called forth the tool of destruction – softly, silently.

A sudden sense of wrongness. He opened his sunrise-hued eyes widely, bestirred his sun-weary body.

It was too late.

Death came upon him suddenly, unexpectedly, clothed in fangs and fur, snarling in hatred and blood rage. For a moment, confusion and terror outweighed the pain - the terrible, wrenching pain – then it was over. All over. He felt himself drifting, free from the agony.

Life had fled the tattered, battered body long before they returned to find it lying there, alone, in a pool of clotted blood.

In the shadows, something gloated, pleased. It tasted the miasma gathering, and savored the growing darkness.

The crop was almost ready. Soon, it would feed.

They mourned his passing, his senseless murder. They shed tears of pain; cried out in grief and sorrow. Guilt and grief hung about them, an invisible miasma, heavy and inescapable. But in their grieving, in their sorrow and sense of loss, they were blind.

He didn’t understand it. “I’m here!” he tried to tell them, winding his way between their legs, pressing himself against them in reassurance. “Here! Look! See me!” he cried, trying to ease their pain, their grief. He did not understand why they grieved, nor why they did not look down at him. He did not comprehend why they could not feel the touch of his insubstantial form, as he nudged them with affection and concern.

Sighing, in the end he returned to his little spot in the sun, watching as his human family grieved and cried, still not understanding.

In the shadows, something waited, restless. Its anticipation of the feast grew.

He watched over them, as he always had. The doors no longer barred his way – he could pass through them with ease now, and had no need for his family to aid him. He felt no hunger, no thirst, no pain. It did not seem odd to him. His family did not see him. That to him seemed odd indeed.

Yet even so, even though they did not see him, he stayed, and he watched. Their love and affection he felt strongly, tangibly. And he returned that affection fully, for all that they seemed oblivious to it. None noticed his presence, though he often tried to console their deep-seated grief. Their despair troubled him.

He knew his place was with them. He did not know why. Still, somehow, it did not matter.

In the shadows, something stalked, hungry. It was time. The darkness called to it, the guilt and the despair. Now it would feed. It struck.

It was night again, but he was not troubled by that. Unnoticed, he made his way though the house, seeking. Something was not right, he sensed. He did not know what. He checked on his family, one by one. All slept. Still, he knew something was not right.

Patiently, he waited.

The darkness slid its way into the house. Regarded one sleeping within. Lowered itself down upon her, binding her tightly in chains of grief and guilt, stripping her of wit and will. Pulled the chains, the strings, and waited for the feast to deliver itself. Delighted in the helpless terror welling up.

Then, one of his family was up. Walking. As he watched, she stumbled forward. He sensed fear from her, fear and despair. She walked unwillingly, he sensed. Her eyes were closed. Wrongness. He felt wrongness. She did not want to go. But something forced her onward.

He looked out the window, then – and saw it. In the darkness, another darkness, a lesser darkness. Oh yes, that. He remembered now. That. He had never bothered with it before, weak thing that it was. It had feared him, he knew – it had not dared to approach. Not before. But now it did. It dared to approach. It dared to threaten his family.

His ears went back against his head a moment – not in fear. In anger. In rage. It would not. They were not prey, his family. He would not let it be so.

Gathering his anger, his rage, he stood in the girl’s way. “STOP!” he commanded, his eyes glowing. “STOP!”

She stopped, trembling. Terror froze her limbs.

“Back. Go back.” She shuddered. She wanted to go back. She struggled to turn.

In the shadows, something raged. Pulled tighter the strings of guilt and despair and pain. Drawing the child to it.

Dark ribbons entangled her. He had no claws, once. But now, he did. Claws of light. He used his claws and slashed at the dark ribbons, weakening their hold.

“Go back,” he commanded again, firmly. He urged her on, butting against her leg with his shoulder. She turned, stumbling. She made her way back, fighting for every step.

He followed, every step. Encouraging her. Countering the shadowy cords.

“Bed,” he commanded. “Back to bed.”

Slowly, she lay back down. Eyes still closed. Terror radiated from her. It would try again, she knew. She could not fight it again, when it did. He knew it too. But he wouldn’t let it.

He jumped on the bed, with her. He knew she sensed it. Sensed him.

“Sleep,” he said, settling himself beside her pillow, purring reassurance. “Rest. It will not take you. Sleep. I am here. You are safe.”

The fear eased. The terror ebbed. Washed away by the silent, rumbling purr. She slept.

In the shadows, something raged, denied its prey.

The cat settled himself for the night, curling himself into a ball. But not to sleep.

“Why do you protect them?” it howled at the cat spitefully. “They are nothing! They do not belong!”

The cat yawned, ignoring the shadow’s ranting.

“You are dead. You are gone. You have no call to protect the living.”

He was unimpressed. The cat blinked luminescent eyes. “Mine,” he countered. “Mine. Not prey. Not yours. Never.”

Sullenly, it subsided, muttering promises of revenge.

The cat smiled smugly. He knew his place now, and his purpose. From the shadow, his family would be safe.

“I am always here,” he promised them, purring, soothing them all as they slept.
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In memory of Momotaro, ever the properly polite gentleman. We miss you still.