It was a bright day. My mother called me over to look, and from her arms poked out a small yellow tiger-striped head. A light that contained neither sun nor moon—a brightness like the clarity after waking from sleep—came through the window, and my mother stood right inside that light, the little yellow cat clinging to her clothes and climbing upward. The cat had been fetched from my great-aunt's house early that morning, and he still carried the scent of dew gathered from crossing over a hilltop.
After the cat arrived, he threw himself into the fervent work of catching mice. Every night he made the floorboards thunder, and it sounded like there were thousands of rats. I remember the first mouse he caught—one of those enormous rats from the Book of Songs, nearly as big as the cat himself. He dragged the bloody rat to my mother's feet, tugged at her pant leg, and mewed, indicating that praise was absolutely required. That was the first time I felt the communication between human and animal. My mother spoke to him the way she spoke to me, stroking his battle-scarred face and saying, "What a capable kitty, what real talent—your merit is duly recorded." The cat then dragged the mouse aside and began his meal.
The cat learned warfare through warfare, and his hunting skills quickly became refined. He even developed the luxury of catching mice alive. One day he brought a live mouse to show off, still squealing in despair. My mother told him, "Eat up." He dragged the mouse away and ate it. I tried the same thing—when I said "eat up," it didn't work.
Once, I encountered the cat on the steps of the back courtyard. He looked at me with the eyes of an older brother, which made me feel deeply honored, since opportunities for close contact with Brother Cat were rare, even though he was already a member of our family. I brought out a cucumber and tried to share it with him, but without success. I suppose that to him, my sister and I—members who couldn't do anything, who just held cucumbers and crunched away—were quite strange. Of course, my sister had a special advantage: she was already a student, hunched over the Eight Immortals table doing homework, which was a novelty to Brother Cat. He would tirelessly try to grab the pen barrel as my sister wrote—though this was something he still couldn't manage. I was different: there was nothing I could do that Brother Cat couldn't.
I remember that year the grasshoppers were especially abundant, covering the hills and fields. This attracted Brother Cat. Grasshoppers were probably quite tasty, and besides, the enormous rats had been mostly wiped out. My mother would bring Brother Cat a few grasshoppers when she came home from work, but he also loved going out to the fields to catch them himself. In autumn, after the soybeans were harvested, the rabbits had nowhere left to hide. One time Brother Cat came home with a wild rabbit for me! I don't know what he was thinking—he didn't even go to claim credit, just brought it right to me. One of those brown wild rabbits—it was utterly magical; I had never seen a live rabbit before. I went upstairs and found a birdcage that already looked like an antique, put the rabbit inside, and fed it radishes and greens. But the rabbit wouldn't eat a single bite, and soon it died.
Brother Cat had his failures too. He didn't succeed in stealing fish from the cutting board. With the wild game gone, I saw him at noon still grudgingly eating noodles from his food bowl. Another time we heard mewing but couldn't find him anywhere. Finally my sister opened the wardrobe and freed him; the spot where he'd been lying was toasty warm. That wardrobe contained brass bullets, and I took the chance to snag one. Later, playing with Wu Gang and the others, I claimed the gunpowder inside bullets could heal wounds, so we cracked it open. Sure enough, there was black powder inside. One match, and with a sizzle it burned up completely, leaving nothing but a sulfurous mark on the ground.
The last failure. That day we couldn't find him no matter how hard we looked. I had my sister open the wardrobe, open everything that could be opened. Eventually we found him under the bed, paws tucked, sitting upright like a meditating monk-cat. My sister and I moved him out and saw he was panting heavily, white foam at his mouth. He had lost all his vitality, and now we could hold and pet him as much as we pleased. We carried him outside—by then we already knew he'd eaten a poisoned mouse. He took a long time to die, his four limbs fully extended. That day was as bright as the day he'd arrived—just as free of sun and moon, just as clear. That kind of brightness never came again.
We buried him in the bamboo grove.
Later, my family fell apart. I miss Brother Cat, the first one in this family to leave me. I hope he likes it there in the bamboo grove. I can do a few more things now—I can write, and I can open the wardrobe on my own. If he were still alive, I'd want to show him some of the world's wonders.
Revised