Ten Thousand Cats Pay Homage

I am a Wamao, a ridge-guarding beast. Generation after generation, I have crouched atop the rooftops of Shuhe.

When artisans mold me, they must hear of the household's joys and sorrows, its blessings and misfortunes, and knead them into the clay. On an auspicious day, they open my eyes, fill my mouth with the five grains, and set my mouth facing outward to swallow evil, my tail pointing inward to keep fortune.

Only when hearth smoke and firelight sustain me do I gain a spirit. So long as people remain in their homes, I keep watch beneath the eaves.

Once a homeowner abandons their ancestral house and moves away, the cooking smoke ceases, and the spirit within me slowly fades. That is what it means to lose one's spirit.

With nowhere to be swallowed, the foul energy gathers throughout the streets.

In recent years, merchants have poured into the old town, tearing down old houses and building new inns.

In their haste, they mold batches of crude clay beasts and set them beneath the new eaves. They do not dot their eyes or offer them the five grains. They have my shape, but not my spirit. Unable to swallow evil spirits, they instead absorb the foul energy from the entire street.

I watch with my own eyes as one old house after another becomes empty.

My kin who guard the homes lose their spirits one after another. Their heads slowly turn to look at the living in the streets.

Human eyes cannot see this movement. Only one outsider, a photographer visiting to capture local scenery, can use the camera in his hands to pierce the divide between yin and yang and photograph us as we turn our heads.

An old Naxi saying goes, "When the hearth smoke fades, the Wamao seeks its people."

I have guarded this courtyard for decades, watching generations of its people leave their homeland.

The foul energy grows heavier with every passing day. Every Wamao on the rooftops waits in silence.

Those who forsake their homes: we will follow their scent to their door.