Master Kitsune waited near the main gate of the temple with his arms folded and hands buried deep within the loose sleeves of his black robe.  He stood bareheaded in the rain, just three paces removed from the cover of the gate bell tower, a sign of his impatience and anger.  "Novice Tentô, please hurry," he called out, "Once again we will be late for evening meditation." 

Tentô tied on his straw hat, ran out from the shelter of the novice quarters and across the quagmire of the courtyard, skirting the deepest puddles and once slipping onto a knee when a sandaled foot turned over in the mud.  He barely remembered his given name or the family who had gifted him to the Rinnôji Temple monks and left in the night.  The next morning at first sight Master Kitsune named him after tentô-mushi, the tiny red and black-spotted beetle that arrives every spring with the cherry blossoms.  Master claimed the name fit not only because Tentô came to Nikkô during cherry bloom season, but more for the small dark birthmarks that dotted his face and his annoying tendency to blush.

Tentô indeed felt his face warm and redden when he finally caught up with Master.  He bowed deeply while making his apologies.

"One might think you were trying to avoid the question, Tentô," scolded Master Kitsune.  "These days, you are frequently tardy for evening meditation." 

Tentô bent low in acquiescence then hurried to catch up, as the old man, ignoring him, passed through the gate and into the less muddy gravel inner courtyard.  "Is it possible for a novice to pass by The Sleeping Cat without facing the question, Master?"  Tentô asked, still a good five paces behind.

"Such a day will be the day you leave us, Tentô, but not before.  You know that."

They ascended the steep stone staircase in silence and arrived under the shelter of the temple portico, dripping wet.  While Master squeezed the rain from the hem of his robe, Tentô took up a sharp stick and scraped the mud from their sandals before placing them alongside dozens of identical pairs.  Master pulled on the thick hemp bell rope and whispered a prayer before entering the temple.  Tentô waiting until the echo of Master's ring faded away before he took his turn on the rope.  Through the open doorway, he watched the dimly-lit Sleeping Cat, waiting for him.

How many times had he wished it a live cat, instead of a painted wooden carving.  The cat's face never changed, its silent smile of contentment never wavered.  No bigger than a rice bowl, the iconic cat slept above the entrance to a narrow corridor leading to the hall used by the monks for communal prayer.  Every day on the way to evening meditation, Master would stand at the doorway threshold beneath the cat and demand of Tentô, "What is the meaning of the Sleeping Cat?"  Almost three-years had passed, the same question posed to Tentô each and every day since he'd achieved novice rank, after eight years of grueling study at the monastery school.

Once, when Master Kitsune fell ill with river fever, Brother Kuma took his place.  The jolly old monk took on the harsh tones of the mythical gatekeepers of hell while he screamed out the question.  That was the only break in the day-by-day ritual of Master Kitsune asking the question and Tentô answering wrongly. He was the last of his peers to remain at the monastery, a disappointment to Master, the rest of the brothers and the novitiate, many of whom now gossiped about Tentô whenever they believed him out of earshot.

More than a thousand times asked, never once offering a response given with true confidence, today would be no different.  Sure to fail and more than ashamed of it, Tentô had to petition Master a second time.  "Master…  I need more time to think of my answer today.  Perhaps tomorrow Master could ask the question twice?"

Master stopped and turned, reeled in an angry deep breath.  "Then, today will be your last chance to correctly answer the question, Tentô.  It is a long-standing custom at Rinnôji Temple; the day a novice requests not to be asked the question is the day he must answer.  Tomorrow you will either leave here as a brother missionary or be returned to your family—rice farming after all a fine and noble calling." 

Master stared into his eyes, tore down to his soul.  Tentô dared not avoid his gaze though melting from the heat of the old one's stare. 

After a nod of private recognition and a faint smile, Master took a bounding leap up onto the cat-doorway step, whirled in the air and landed with an arm cocked upward, his finger pointed toward the cat, his chin just a coin's width away from Tentô's nose.  "What is the meaning of the Sleeping Cat?" he bellowed, this time louder than even Brother Kuma's thunderous scowl. 

Tentô fell to his knees, clasped his hands and bowed deeply, his forehead touching the floor.  "Please don't make me answer, Master.  I beg of you, with all humility."

"You must answer, Novice!"

Tentô splayed himself at Master's feet facedown, stretching his arms out to his side with his palms forced flat to the floor.  "I have failed you and the brothers, Master Kitsune," he wailed, sobbing like a sorry child.  "I am ashamed and must return to my family in disgrace."

Master's reply rattled the paper screens nearby and echoed down the long corridor behind him, "That is not an answer to the Question, Novice! For the final time, what is the meaning of the Sleeping Cat?"

Tentô fought back his tears, his chest heaving, his breath lost to guilt and panic.  He rolled onto his back and looked up at Master Kitsune.  The wizened old fox—fit to his name—stood frozen, wearing an expression not unlike the bronze busts of the revered Masters of long ago, the blessed saints of their sect.  "I can not continue to live a lie, Master," Tentô whimpered.

Master kept his statuesque pose, not even breathing, pointing up to the cat and waiting for Tentô to answer.  Tentô realized Master Kitsune was quite capable of holding his breath until dead, and understood the danger.  It was Master's way of accepting responsibility as a teacher failed. "I don't know the meaning of the Sleeping Cat," Tentô cried out, “The truth is, I don't care.”  He looked up at Master, a plaintive expression that failed to break the old monk from his vacant stare.  Tentô bowed his head.  "It no longer matters to me."

When once again he raised his head to find his mentor's face, the old man was bent at the waist, his head down, his hands pressed together and held close to his nose and lips.  "Rise, Honorable Tentô," Master whispered.  "Henceforth, you shall be known as Brother Tentô.  You have correctly answered the Question of the Sleeping Cat and therefore have earned our deepest respect and admiration."

Tentô bowed lower still, more of a puzzled reflex in reaction to Master Kitsune's humbled pose.  "But, Master...  I do not understand," he said.

"The world you enter tomorrow is full of Sleeping Cats, little brother," explained the old one.  "Thousand of questions without answers, though people are foolish enough to answer every question regardless, usually for their own selfish purposes.  Questions of power and politics, angels and demons, of sin and redemption.  Questions of love, death and loyalty.  Our place in Creation is not to answer such questions, but to deny them.  This is the lesson you have learned today, young one.  Tomorrow morning, go to Brother Kuma and ask to exchange your orange yukata for a monk's black kimono and begging bowl.  He will ask where you are going.  Tell him the answer to the Sleeping Cat Question.”

"I don't know and I don't care," Tentô confirmed, still short of breath, talking more to himself than Master.

"Precisely.  The old bear will know by your answer that you at long last understand the meaning of the Sleeping Cat and will send you on your way."

One day he discovered that if he closed his eyes, cocked his head at a certain angle and smiled a familiar contented smile, his bowl would fill that much sooner, leaving more to distribute among the needy.

Tentô understood his true mission.  He had been chosen to walk the earth as a Sleeping Cat: a question without an answer, a man without a care.  Since Creation has no purpose except existence, no regrets about the past or concern the future, he would remain a reflection of Creation itself.

He smiled, the Sleeping Cat's image held within his mind's eye.  A piece of silver rattled into his bowl.  And then another.