(with a thousand apologies to @zandravandra for blatantly ripping off the world concept from Cat Wishes)
Little gods, they say. Thousands of them, scattered over thousands upon thousands of square kilometers of land mass, buried in nooks and valleys, hidden in shrines and up on peaks, occasionally in alleys and corners. They were not, by nature, easy to find. Many times they did not wish to be found, even rarer it seemed would be finding a god like you. It could be done, they said. Climb a mountain, make a pilgrimage, go on a spiritual journey, and surely you will find a way to communicate with that higher power.
Not here, though. Not in this town, or at least not in this end of it. Uptown they had delicate statues and manicured gardens, carefully crafted ornate wooden structures and inlaid golden devotions to the spirits that protected them. Not here. Here we have concrete retaining walls and apartment blocks, tightly packed alleys and industrial filth that drifted over from the manufacturing district. He made the trip, once. That journey, climbed that mountain, spoke to that wise man who told him only that the wisdom which would truly aid him had no shrine. The statement drove him mad, it consumed him, and still he stopped and prayed at every shrine he came across. He paused to acknowledge every little god and spirit of every little corner and cranny, gave them his good will and moved on. After all, his goal had no shrine. Eventually his quest took his relationships from him, his friends, his job, his home. He had only his goal, his question, his answer that his answer had no shrine.
Everything was gone, there was only the quest, the need to discover. He wandered for years, and on one particularly horrific night he asked the counter man at a little liquor and tobacco store for permission to sleep in his alley. The man nodded and smiled. You may make your shelter there, he said, for as long as you require. There is a storm coming, use the stacked pallets for shelter, take this plastic sheeting to hold the rain back. He will park his little Daihatsu delivery truck in the alley to keep people from going down and bothering him there at the back. Stay, traveler, and rest your feet.
So he did. He laid pallets down two layers tall to make a platform and stay off the ground that will soon be cold and wet. Leaning other pallets carefully to craft a sloped roof, spreading the sheeting over the top, putting more pallets on top to hold the plastic down. It was not much, but it was shelter. That evening, the little box delivery truck backed into the alley and parked, shielding him from prying eyes and from the wind blowing in. He had not thought to ask for food, but he had no money. He set his backpack into the shelter, unrolled his sleeping pad, hung up his little oil lamp, his little prayer flags, and spoke his devotions to seeking wisdom and purpose as the first front rolled in with thunder and fury. Not a typhoon, at least, just a storm. The skies darkened and the shadows lengthened, and in the flicker of his lamp he saw a low pair of eyes out in the rain. He peered at the shadow, then gestured toward the soaked and nervous form.
Come, little friend. Come share my shelter. It was a cat. Cold, gray, and drenched. He welcomed it up to himself and bid it remain. He lamented that he had no food to share, but at least he had warmth. Stay, we will be hungry together and in the morning we will look for scraps or perhaps beg aid. The morning came and the cat was still there, and so was he. They were chilly, but they were dry, the both of them skin and bones and sinew and hunger. The counter man came and pulled his little delivery truck out of the alley to let the light in and so his young helper could load it up to make the deliveries. Then he backed in his van and opened the rear doors. Inside of it was packed with scrap lumber, some tools and some fasteners, ragged moving blankets and old clothes. Here, said the counter man. He could see the journey in the ragged man’s eyes. He owns this building, and his friend owns the other that makes up the alley. Take this food, weary traveler, we have plenty and our families like to cook. Take these supplies. Build your shelter, build whatever you need. Rest here, stay. Regain some strength, here is some food for your friend.
His friend? Ah yes, the cat who came in during the storm. He sits and eats first, and shares. The cat leans firmly on him and purrs after eating. He takes his shelter apart and looks at the space between the buildings. The chain-link fence he was up against that looks over the overgrown drainage canal. The way the light splashes down between the structures, and it starts to come together in his mind. He builds a shelter again, a better one with solid floors. He gives it a roof and a bench. He sets his traveling pack inside, hangs his oil lamp and his prayer flags. Another business owner comes with more supplies and some help a few days later. They talk about plans. They bring food and bedding, they bring medicine for his cat, medicine for him, some decorations for inside. A lucky cat, some candles, some incense to burn. He stays for days, then for weeks. He doesn’t notice the changes, he is so focused. Change is slow, he does not see it happening to himself. So subtle, day to day, his shelter improves, his health improves, visitors come to talk. He tells them of his journeys, of his years of wandering seeking his lost god, this wisdom he is told has no shrine. His feline companion stays, soaks up attention from anyone with idle hands. Then one day a woman’s child tries to reach out and pet him as well. He laughs and thinks nothing of it.
Some weeks later two big trucks totally block the alley, the spring equinox it turns out. A whole crew piles out. They look over his unsteady structure and remove him from it, carry out his bedding, his backpack and his lamp and his prayer flags, and disassemble his home. They spread plans out across a pallet and two dozen workmen set to motion. With strong lumber and power saws, strong backs and full hearts they build. They build all day and into the night, they use portable flood lights and people deliver food. They work until they cannot do so any longer, and camp there in the alley with the traveler and his cat. In the morning they rise and get back to work. He bids the cat to stay in the pile of bedding and gets up to help build. He looks at the plans and looks at the building, and steps in, his soul swells with warmth when he realizes what is truly being built. The deep red and white paint, the sweeping details, the garden boxes, the prayer wheels…
A plumber pipes water in from the liquor store building and a drain line out to the sewer, a roofer brings stained copper tiles reclaimed from a church that was torn down in the last typhoon, a local gardener donates plants. People bring oil lamps and candles, a local restaurant feeds the entire crew two more solid meals while they work. At the end of the second day, the tidy little building is mostly complete minus some paint and trim. He brings his traveling pack inside and finds there is some furniture and hooks. He hangs his pack, knowing now that he is home. He washes his face in the sink, running his hands through his hair, over his now tall triangular feline ears. He hangs his coat up on a hook and tidies himself up, moves his bedding in while workers clean up. Inside the door of his one closet he finds a small mirror hanging and for the first time in months he regards his own reflection. He is not how he remembered, he can no longer see the bones of his cheeks so visibly, nor do the points of his shoulders protrude so much. However mostly he looks at the change in the color of his eyes, and takes the time to clear the sawdust from his tail. His hair is gray and soft now instead of coarse and black. He opens his mouth and runs his tongue over feline teeth, and nods.
The weather is cool, so he slides into some of the warm cloth robes he was given by one of the families, and steps out from his living space into the shrine proper to once again hang his oil lamp. Then he hangs his old, worn prayer flags high in the entrance, and stoops to stroke the old gray cat that circles his legs. Someone has put some food out for his still unnamed companion, and he places a dish of water. He lights a stick of incense on the flame from his oil lamp and uses it to light a few candles before setting it in place. A few turns of the prayer wheel before he sits on his heels and bows his head in thanks, offering up the rest of his life in service here in this shrine, and receives his answer as a coat of warm fur washes over his body. He rises and turns, now probably three-quarters gray tabby cat, striped and whiskerful, and finally he can raise his head in pride. He steps out into the alley, and offers his hand in thanks to the counterman from the liquor store. He asks why, what pushed him to give this weary old soul a place to rest. Why the community suddenly came together, how this all came about. He asked for nothing, only some place to shelter from a storm. What is it that brought people here to listen to his stories?
The answer is very simple, he has said it himself. If only he had listened to what he was saying. His god had no shrine, his wisdom had no home. There are so very few shrines on this side of town, and it longs for holy places. When a drifting monk alights upon your threshold and begs to sleep among your trash, you do not turn him away. When he shares his tales and his wisdom and asks only scraps off your table, you do not will him starve. When the local business men and shopkeepers realized the God of Strays, the patron of weary souls had come to rest in their alley, they took it upon themselves to build for him a shrine and shelter for his priest.
It makes sense now, and he nods in understanding. He admits it had taken him quite some time to understand what was happening. He had felt his ears change, felt the warmth of his god through the warmth of his feline companion huddling against him those first few nights. It was when people began coming to pray with him, to hear his stories, when passing strays of animal and human kind both would stop to shelter on their journeys that it truly made sense.
The following morning he finds himself in the company of a local artisan, who has come to paint flowers and figures and filigrees upon the woodwork. She prays with him, he makes tea for her, she tells stories of her travels and her art decorating shrines, he shares tales of his own travels and what wisdom he can offer. He asks how he may repay her for her art, for her craftsmanship in decorating this shrine for his god. She simply smiles and lets fall the hood of her jacket, sharp vulpine ears flick up. Her tail drops clear of its hiding place held up against her back, and she smiles. Her goddess is one of art, one of beauty, and it is the joy of her calling that brings her here to share her gift with this new shrine. That is all the payment she could ever require.
Little gods indeed.
