"In many different mythologies, cats play very important roles. It is said that long ago, cats ruled over humans. They were cunning, cruel, and extremely intelligent, treating humans as their slaves. This continued until the arrival of dogs, who drove the cats away and turned them from rulers into pets. Thus, dogs were revered by ancient people as their most important companions, while cats were believed to bring death." 

My mother narrated this story while helping my father prepare tea.

"Do many myths involve cats? Are there any stories about cats in our Eastern culture?"

I asked, glancing around in the glow of the oil lamp and noticing the cute little cat across the eaves that had gone out to prowl.

"Of course! Today, I will tell you the story of an Eastern cat." 

my mother replied with a smile.

"It is said that Buddha once proclaimed that any being with seven orifices could cultivate into an immortal. These seven orifices, in today's terms, refer to living creatures. Naturally, cats are included. According to records, a cat in cultivation grows an additional tail every twenty years. When it reaches its ninth tail, it attains a certain level of enlightenment.

However, growing the ninth tail is no easy feat. When a cat has eight tails, it receives a sign that it must fulfill a person's wish. For each wish granted, the cat must sacrifice one of its tails. This creates an almost endless cycle. But the cat in my story was devoutly committed to this cycle. It always maintained eight tails, despite living for countless years and fulfilling many wishes. The cat once complained to Buddha, asking how it could ever attain enlightenment this way. Buddha only smiled and remained silent."

my mother paused, adding a touch of mystery. 

"Actually, what I've told you is just a story passed down by my ancestors. The Eight-Tailed Cat doesn't help just anyone. It only grants wish for the descendants of its first master. In my hometown, the legend of the Eight-Tailed Cat is well-known. Everyone hopes to encounter it, because if it chooses to help you, it can grant any wish, any wish at all."

I looked at my mother, vaguely recalling that she had once mentioned a trip she and my father took to visit his relatives to discuss an inheritance. In a sudden burst of curiosity, I spun around to face my father. With wide eyes and a hint of disbelief, I asked, 

"Dad, did you ever come across this magical cat? Is that why you suddenly inherited the estate?"

At that time, I didn't fully understand what an inheritance entailed. I just thought that inheriting property would surely make us rich, as many TV dramas portrayed. I didn't realize that the inheritance was actually a piece of family land left by my late grandfather, who had passed away many years ago. The land had been left to my father and his siblings to discuss how to handle.

"Actually, we went to discuss how to manage a piece of abandoned orchard land left by your grandfather. We were figuring out how to deal with it."

my father said quietly, sipping his tea. His tone left me feeling a bit embarrassed.

"You remember these trivial details, yet you're so careless about other matters." 

my mother said, looking at me with a mix of exasperation and affection.

"Today, I want to tell you about the legend of the Eight-Tailed Cat. My hometown is a place rich in resources, but also plagued by mice. To combat this, people have been keeping cats in every household for as long as anyone can remember. Oddly, no one in our town keeps dogs or eats dog meat. Cats have been immensely beneficial to us. They protect our food supplies from being ruined by rodents and prevent the spread of disease. That's why everyone holds cats in such high regard. Naturally, there are many legends about them."

My mother continued, her voice flowing as she spoke.

"The story I know was told to me by my great-uncle, who passed away last year. When he recounted it to me, he was still robust. Although nearly eighty, he had the appearance of someone much younger, with clear and precise speech. His eyes, however, were deeply sunken due to severe cataracts. He refused surgery, so he lived with it as best he could."

my mother said, her voice tinged with sadness. She deeply understood the impact of losing vision, given her own experience with a single eye and the challenges of living with impaired sight.

To set the scene for clarity, let's transport ourselves back to the moment when my uncle was telling my mother the story...

------

"I was just under ten years old that year, often exploring the hills behind our village with your grandfather. On lucky days, we'd manage to hunt small game. In those days, rural kids learned to fend for themselves early on. Of course, we knew about the wolves in the mountains, but we rarely ventured far—just to the mid-slope. Your grandfather was skilled at identifying wolf territories, knowing which areas were safe and which were not.

There were old village legends about an eight-tailed cat. It was said that centuries ago, a young man from the village had raised this extraordinarily large cat, almost the size of a small dog. It was pure white, with a tail both thick and long. The villagers revered this cat, believing it might be a demon cat among its kind.

After the young man passed away, the cat disappeared. Over time, sightings of the cat became legend, and the young man's descendants rose to prominence in the village, becoming a well-known family. Everyone believed it was the cat demon's blessing. However, the young man's descendants never spoke of it, for it was believed that revealing such a story could shorten one's life. But since I've lived long enough, I don't mind sharing it with you."

(At this point, my uncle chuckled warmly at my mother.)

The day had started clear, but June weather can change in an instant. Even someone like me, who prided myself on weather-watching, was caught off guard.

I hadn't invited your grandfather along, as he was busy preparing to leave for school in the provincial city—he couldn't indulge in the same wild adventures as me. So, I set off alone to forage for mushrooms or hunt for game. Before I could reach the mid-slope, a torrential downpour began—one of the heaviest I'd ever experienced. I sought shelter beneath a dense canopy of leaves.

The sky was dark, and the air was heavy. I nearly forgot it was morning. Amid the storm and flashes of lightning, I faintly heard the howls of wolves. Normally, wolves wouldn't venture out in such weather, but a second howl confirmed my fear.

Before I could react, I saw four wolves surrounding me.

I wasn't new to wolves; I'd accompanied my father on hunts before, but this was different. This time, I might become their prey. Trembling, I couldn't tell if it was fear or the cold rain affecting me.

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The wolves were fully grown. Their fur was matted with rain, revealing their gaunt ribs. They looked starving. As I stood facing them, I knew wolves would study their prey patiently, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I felt the dread of knowing that my throat could be ripped open at any second.

Then, I saw them retreat, growling softly with a mix of menace and fear. I looked around and there it was.

It was larger than I had imagined—almost the size of a small lion. Its fur was pure white, seemingly untouched by the rain. Its eyes were like two black onyx stones, glowing ominously. Most striking were its tails—eight of them, spreading out like a regal display.

I recalled the village tales that said the eight-tailed cat appeared during unusual storms and sought out those who had a wish to fulfill.

The wolves quickly fled, and the eight-tailed cat approached me. Standing before it, I felt insignificant, humbled by its beauty. But I was also eager to have it. 

(At this point, my uncle's gaze softened, lost in the memory.)

It flicked its tail, stretched lazily, and regarded me with a penetrating stare.

I realized it was waiting for me to make a wish. Since our family was a descendant of the young man, I was both thrilled and anxious. I hadn't thought of a wish, so I hesitantly asked, 

"Can I touch you?"

It squinted its eyes without expression. By then, the rain had stopped, and the sun shone brightly. Its white fur became almost translucent in the sunlight. I believed it had agreed. With trembling hands, I reached out to touch the fur around its neck.

In a lifetime, one touches many things—silk, satin, fine porcelain, or youthful skin. But the fur of the eight-tailed cat felt unlike anything I had touched before. It wasn't messy like ordinary cat fur, nor as soft as the fox pelts people gave us. It was a unique sensation, soothing and almost enchanting. I felt like I could lie down and sleep on it forever.

But the cat soon pulled away, perhaps disliking close contact. I knew it was still waiting for my wish. Its eight tails flicked restlessly. I wasn't sure what to wish for, so I simply said,

"Why don't you come home with me? I'll think of a wish and tell you later."

The cat stared at me, and suddenly its entire body shimmered, almost blinding me with its radiance. When I could see again, a regular white cat with only one tail stood in its place.

I recognized it as the eight-tailed cat, now transformed. Elated, I scooped it up and hurried home.

From then on, I played with the cat every day. 

The village adults didn't interfere with children and cats. I wasn't keen on schooling like your father, and since we were well-off, I was allowed to indulge in my whims. However, at first, the cat seemed reluctant to play. It ignored my attempts to entertain it with paper balls or yarn, like an elder tolerating a child's antics. 

I realized that such games were disrespectful to it.

The cat often sat by the door, meowing or flicking its tail, indicating it wanted to leave and fulfill my wish to shed another tail and continue its endless cycle of training. I felt pity for it.

One day, I asked, 

"Can any wish be granted?"

It remained silent, gazing at me lazily.

"Well, my wish is for you to grow nine tails." 

I said, my voice slow and deliberate, each word lingering in the quiet night.

The cat froze, its sleek, black onyx eyes shimmering with a flicker of confusion before softening into a profound, unexpected gratitude. In that moment, the air around us seemed to shift—a silent understanding passed between us. This wish wasn't a selfish demand, like the ones it had endured before. It was something deeper. It was recognition—a quiet reverence for the decades of sacrifice, discipline, and mastery embodied in each of its tails. No one had ever honored that journey before—until now.

The cat rose slowly, with the grace of a creature who had lived through ages untold. It leaned toward me and gently licked my hand, its warm tongue leaving behind a sensation that lingered as if it carried the weight of an eternal blessing. Its eyes glistened—moist, almost tearful, as if the finality of this moment had touched it too.

And then, in the soft moonlight that filtered through the thin bamboo trees surrounding my home, it happened. 

The once eight-tailed cat unfurled a ninth tail, shimmering with a divine brilliance. The tails rippled like silk caught in a slow, whispering breeze, their glow casting shifting patterns of light across the wooden porch and the surrounding earth. 

The air became warmer, charged with energy, and the faint scent of rain-soaked earth mixed with the lingering fragrance of incense from my mother's evening prayers.

Later, a village friend would claim he saw a radiant white light pouring out of my home, pulsing like a heartbeat and fading into the distance, as if the gods themselves had blessed the night.

The cat turned, its nine tails trailing behind like glowing ribbons in the dark. It padded softly across the garden, each step muffled by the dew-soaked grass. The fireflies that had danced aimlessly in the shadows now gathered around it, as if drawn to its ethereal presence.

I watched, entranced, as it slipped through the tall grass and into the dense forest beyond. The glow of its tails flickered, like fading embers, until all that remained was the quiet hum of cicadas and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

I sat there in the stillness, the night suddenly feeling heavier without its presence. A bittersweet ache pressed against my chest, a feeling I couldn't quite name. I knew I would never see it again. But as the wind carried the faint scent of jasmine and the distant cry of an owl echoed through the trees, I realized something: it had left me with a story—a tale that would stay with me forever, just like the warmth of its final touch.

But in the days that followed, it seemed to watch over me. My life, though unremarkable, was peaceful and happy. My children were dutiful, and I enjoyed good health. Perhaps it was all due to its blessing. Recently, I dream of it again. It told me it was coming to take me...

That's the story my uncle shared. At the time, I could only half-believe it. I knew there was a condition in medicine where the elderly might confuse memories, piecing together unrelated events. I wondered if my uncle was afflicted by such a condition.

However, shortly before I left my hometown, he passed away peacefully, sleeping in his wicker chair. The family referred to it as a "happy death."

At the funeral, as the eldest of my generation, I was the guardian of the vigil. Late into the night, after most had left and only a few remained—many having fallen asleep—I was unusually alert. The sudden shift from lively conversations to this somber occasion was jarring. In the quiet, I heard a cat's meow. Unlike the eerie sounds of movies, it was gentle and filled with warmth.

I saw it—no longer the eight-tailed, but now the nine-tailed cat!

As my uncle described, it was breathtakingly beautiful, with its snowy fur and onyx eyes, and its nine tails trailing elegantly behind it.

It walked directly to my uncle's casket, ignoring my astonishment. I wanted to call out to others, but no words came.

I watched as it padded silently toward the casket, its movements slow and deliberate, like a ritual only it understood. It lowered its head, gently licking my uncle's hand, as if offering a final farewell. Then, without a sound, its form dissolved into the air—fading like a wisp of smoke carried away by an unseen breeze.

Eventually, I found my voice but chose not to share this with anyone. Such stories were likely to invite ridicule, and discussing them during such a solemn occasion was taboo in our culture. After the funeral, I returned home, never to see the nine-tailed cat again. Its legend seemed to end with that night."

------

The story reached a climax, and my excitement was palpable.

"That's an incredible cat."

I declared, my voice tinged with wonder.

My mother paused, her hands hovering over the teapot as she turned to face me. The oil lamp's flickering light cast eerie shadows, deepening the mystery in her gaze. She stared at me with her one remaining eye, its depth and intensity almost otherworldly in the dim light. The night's chill seeped through the room, adding to the aura of enchantment.

"It is."

she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of the supernatural.

"But do you believe it?"

In that moment, her single eye seemed to hold ancient secrets and untold wisdom. The room, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp and shrouded in darkness, felt like a portal to another realm. Yet, despite the mystique, I was entranced by the story and the night's chill.

"Absolutely. If anyone else told me this, I might doubt it. But coming from you, no matter how fantastical, I believe every word." 

My gaze was firm, reflecting my deep trust and belief.

My mother's lips curled into a gentle, knowing smile. 

"That's all I need." 

she said, her voice a soothing whisper against the backdrop of the night. She gestured towards the house with a graceful sweep of her hand, signaling me to head inside and rest. The story had woven its final thread for the evening.

I entered my room, the silence of the night amplifying the solitude of the space. 

Peering through the window, I saw the little cat once again return to the eaves of the house across the way.

I watched it with a sense of wonder—could this be the legendary eight-tailed cat? If anyone were lucky enough to encounter such a being, they should remember to wish for its ninth tail, for those wandering the earthly realm are often lonely and in search of companionship. As I settled into bed, the night air carried the weight of the story and the mysteries it held, leaving me in a state of awe and contemplation. 

The evening's magic lingered, blending seamlessly with the cool, crisp night......