The Rabbit Mysteries

The Rabbit Mysteries

Leah Cutter

Contents

The Curious Case of Rabbit and the Temple Goddess

Rabbit and the Mysteriously Missing Daughter

The Strange Mystery of Rabbit and the Stolen Song

Rabbit, the Dastardly Thief, and the Disappearing Dragon

Old Friends

About the Author

Also by Leah Cutter

About Knotted Road Press

The Curious Case Of Rabbit and the Temple Goddess

Iwas late. Again .

And though I knew Master Wei was waiting for me, as impatient as ever, and the gate tower had just sounded the mid-morning hour of the Snake, I still ducked out of the bright spring sunshine and into the temple at the corner of the market.

Familiar peace descended on me in the darkened space. The sounds of the market just beyond the walls faded.

Nine mystical candles stood lit on the rustic wooden altar against the far wall. They were carved with ancient symbols, and circled the tiny silver statue of our beautiful local goddess, Bái

Hua

Bàn

.

I was glad to see that someone had lit them: since the priest had died the month before (and Xin Chao still claimed under mysterious circumstances, not just bad luck) the candles weren’t always lit, the rough brick floor not swept, and dogs allowed to foul the temple. The search for the deed to the land the temple sat on hadn’t shown up either, more

bad

luck

.

However, my goddess stood, poised as ever, a mysterious smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. Her wide eyes and broad brow showed great intelligence. She stood in flowing robes, offering a simple blossom with both hands to her devotees, a symbol of her purity and great fecundity.

Bái Hua Bàn brought rains to the surrounding fields, children to brighten our days, and wisdom to the elders who guided us. We would be nothing without her, just a speck on the Emperor’s maps, a footnote by the census takers, about how this town had once been at this place, and now was

no

more

.

I took a moment to breathe in the stillness, to fortify myself with the goddess’ calm before returning to my hectic day. Some called the temple insignificant. It was only large enough for two dozen standing followers at best. I called it cozy, and comfortable, and in many ways, mine. Though I wasn’t a priest, I still attended her, every day, more faithful than a husband.

After my eyes adjusted, I slowly made my way forward over the rough floor—I’d stubbed more than one toe, and broken more than one sandal strap, when I’d used haste. No pews impeded my way: they’d all been shoved to the sides.

I was aware that it was ironic, that someone named Tù, or Rabbit, would be so clumsy, and always move slowly. And it was just Rabbit—not Young Rabbit or Old Rabbit, not Fat, Thin, or Spry Rabbit. Not even Number Three or Number Ten Rabbit. Just plain Rabbit, a fitting enough name for an unlucky fourth son of a now-widowed mother, the only one still unmarried and living

at

home

.

When I was close enough to smell the lilies on the edge of the altar, I realized someone else shared my haven. He was prostrate on the floor, covered in a dark cloak, a mere shadow.

He hadn’t positioned himself in the middle, the Emperor’s place, but to the stronger, right-

hand

side

.

I moved to the left side to give him some privacy, though I was curious. I didn’t recognize him, and I knew all the goddess’ followers. Maybe he was some foreigner and the goddess had spoken to him, calling to him from

far

away

.

I bowed to the corners of the world, starting with the west, where the sacred Emperor and his golden court reigned, then to the north, where the horse barbarians waged endless war, to the east where tales of strange beasts and the ocean lay, finally, to the south where there were yet more barbarians, but at least they were

our

own

.

Then I bowed to the most important point, the center, where the town of Da Shan rose up and spread around me, the heart of my world.

Only then did I kneel and prostrate myself, giving all I had to my goddess.

I’ve had scholars argue with me at Tang’s Tea Shop, claiming that she’s just a local goddess, here, at the southern end of Da Shan. That I shouldn’t pay her so much attention, she couldn’t be that important.

I told them I didn’t care what other gods or goddesses existed elsewhere, even at the north end of the town. She was important

to

me

.

Bái Hua Bàn was who I poured my heart out to, who I entrusted with my secrets. I told her of my upcoming day, the trials of being merely a clerk, not even an apprentice, of my cramped, ink-stained fingers, my caged soul that longed for poetry but was enslaved to writing contracts.

She never replied. I didn’t expect her to. Not really. I was just a lowly clerk.

Still. I visited her every day, and since the priest had died, more often

than

that

.

I kept my thanks and ramblings short that morning, asking her for blessings for myself, my mother, my master, my town, and my emperor.

When I raised my head, I wondered briefly if a storm had suddenly gathered. The temple was no longer as

brightly

lit

.

Had some of the candles

blown

out

?

It took me another long heartbeat to realize that the nine candles burned around an

empty

spot

.

The statue of the goddess

was

gone

.

As was the

shadow

man

.

Trembling, I stood, unsure what

to

do

.

Fat Ang, the local magistrate, wouldn’t believe any tales of a shadow man. He would send his bullies to pick up whoever he thought needed a lesson.

Or he might accuse me of such a crime. I was

always

here

.

No one would search for the real thief.

I moved closer.

A single petal from a white lotus flower marked the spot where my perfect Bái Hua Bàn had stood.

Before I could gather up this precious artifact, the edges of it started to brown. As I watched, lines of age shot through the creamy flesh, withering the petal, as if a hidden winter hand had scraped its poisonous fingernail along it. It finally shriveled up completely and disappeared.

The message was clear.

I must find the statue, and return it, or all the bad luck Bái Hua Bàn constantly held back would descend. It would be worse than any plague or famine: My town would be

no

more

.

Irushed through the crooked back streets, fast enough that no devil could

follow

me

.

I had to think. I had

to

plan

.

Who was that shadow? Why would he take the statue of Bái

Hua

Bàn

?

Though I loved her with all my heart, I had long suspected the statue itself to be only silver-plated. The thief would make more by robbing the ancient tea shops that lay outside the town, next to the kilns and just before the graveyard, that only desperate men and loose women frequented.

So if the shadow man didn’t melt it down, and he couldn’t sell it, not easily, not anywhere local, why had he taken it? What did he plan to do

with

it

?

And why had the goddess placed this burden

on

me

?

I fretted, wringing my hands as I hurried along, finally ducking into the narrow alley between the two weaver’s shops, barely wide enough for a thin man, stumbling into the brightness of the far courtyard. The acrid smell of dye slammed into me, causing my eyes to tear up, making me nearly trip and fall into the huge vat of orange dye set up just at the entrance.

I hurried past the good natured cursing of Master Yen, the head weaver, and scurried up the creaky wooden stairs that led to my office.

Though really, calling it an office was to give it grandeur. In reality, it was a cramped room that froze in the winter and boiled in the summer, stacked floor to ceiling with molding, moth-eaten, scrolls and folding books. Two desks were moored in the center of it, with books piled in shoals around them. Papers and more books covered the desks, and if I wasn’t diligent, would impede the path from the door, as well as the two, hard, cushion-less stools that we

sat

on

.