Tiger

by Jeff Stone

  Fu began to ache deep down. He realized that he had never really been alone before. He had always worked, practiced, studied, ate, and even slept with at least one of his four brothers around. He used to complain about never being alone, and Grandmaster had always told him that you should be careful about what you wish for. Fu began to think no truer words had ever been spoken. His brothers could be annoying, but at least he had always had someone to argue with.

  Fu did realize that he and his brothers occasionally got along. One thing they had in common was their negative feelings about their daily schedules. They all followed the rigid plans Grandmaster laid out for them hour by hour, and they were never given any free time. Fu had felt the strongest about wanting time alone, which is why he was surprised to discover that now that he seemed to have all the time in the world, he wasn't sure what he should do with it.

  Fu's mind continued to race further and further away from the task at hand—which was to run as fast as possible through the dark forest without getting injured—until a thick tree root reached up and grabbed his foot. He went down hard.

  Fu lay on a bed of dead leaves, catching his breath. He scolded himself for thinking too much and lifted his head as a salty drop of water fell from his right eye, sinking deep into the slice across his cheek. He successfully fought off the urge to cry out and squeezed both eyes shut, cutting off the flow of liquid. Then he stood. None of his bones seemed to be broken, and none of his joints felt twisted. He stuck his right foot into a small pool of moonlight and saw that the top was beginning to bruise. His foot hurt a lot, but not as much as his cheek, which hurt only half as much as the pain growing deep inside his heart.

  The wind picked up for a moment, and Fu noticed that the night seemed chillier. It must be the altitude. He had intentionally run toward the closest low-lying mountain, knowing that if he traveled high enough he should be able to find something that would help keep his bad situation from getting worse: bloodmoss.

  Like self-defense, herbal medicine was a matter of survival, so it was studied by all warrior monks. Fu ran his index finger across the slice in his cheek. Facial cuts always bled profusely, and his was exceptionally long and deep. If he lost too much blood, he would pass out, and who knew what might happen to him then? Bloodmoss would stop the bleeding. It didn't work for everyone—not even any of his brothers— but it worked wonders for him. It would be difficult to find in the dark, but he couldn't wait for the sun to rise. Fu noticed more moonlight striking the ground in the distance, which meant the canopy was beginning to thin. That was a good sign. He started walking.

  Soon Fu found what he was looking for—a clump of bloodmoss poking out from under a fallen log. Once he had a fistful, he located a smooth, palm-size rock to use as a pounding tool, and a large flat rock to serve as a makeshift tabletop. After brushing most of the dirt and bits of rotten log off the moss, Fu began to pound it to a pulp. He worked quickly, making as little noise as possible. Things weren't coming together quite the way he expected until he remembered that he was missing one key ingredient: water. To get the appropriate paste-like consistency necessary to plug a wound, you needed to add a little bit of liquid. Fu had to improvise. He spit on the pulverized mass.

  After a little more pounding and mashing, Fu scooped up the paste with one hand and applied it with the other. Almost immediately, the blood stopped flowing. The sharp stinging sensation he felt from the breeze blowing into the wound also stopped. However, the wind managed to irritate him in other ways. It chilled his robes, which were still wet from lying in the barrel, and blew the fabric up against his body, where it clung tightly. Fu shivered. He needed shelter. Fortunately, one thing the mountainous forest did not lack was rocks. Rocks of all sizes. He located an outcropping with an opening opposite the wind and curled up inside.

  Fu could not recall ever feeling so drained. His training at Cangzhen had been tough, but he had never pushed this hard for this long and never before had so much adrenaline pumped through his system. Fu gave in to his exhaustion. But even as his body relaxed and his breathing slowed, his mind continued to race.

  Where are my brothers? he wondered. Why didn't they stay and try to do something? And now that they are gone and I'm alone with the scrolls, what should I do with them?

  Fu was perplexed. He was driven by instinct, not reason. It was not his nature to think so much.

  Exhausted, cold, and alone, he closed his eyes.

  “How much longer do you think he'll be down there?” the soldier asked.

  “I have no idea,” Commander Woo replied. “It's only been a few hours, but as far as I'm concerned, Major Ying can stay down there forever.”

  “What do you think he's doing?”

  “I don't even want to know. Just stop your yapping and keep digging. If he sees us before we're finished, he may finish us. I never asked permission to do this.”

  Ying lay asleep on the cool earth inside the Cangzhen escape tunnel, oblivious to what his men were doing above ground. Soon after he'd inspected the dead monks and confirmed that Fu and the other four boys had escaped, he'd gone below ground. Ying was solitary by nature and often needed time alone.

  Alone time was very important to Ying when he lived at Cangzhen, too—and he used to steal some whenever he had the chance. For years, the escape tunnel had been his preferred hideout. It was a place where he could be by himself. A place where he could be himself. Though the world saw him as an eagle, in his heart he knew he was an all-powerful dragon. Over the years, the tunnel had become Ying's own private lair. No one else ever bothered to go down there because of the concealed traps. No one, that is, except Fu.

  Occasionally, Ying would drift off to sleep in the tunnel. When he failed to show up for a meal or training session, someone would have to go down there and wake him. Ying hated to be woken and would lash out immediately at whoever disturbed him. So none of the monks liked to go near him when he slept. None of the monks, that is, except Fu, who seemed to derive a special pleasure from irritating Ying. Fu would eagerly volunteer every time Ying needed to be woken, especially down in the dark tunnel, where no one was watching. Fu would use his eerily efficient low-light vision to stalk Ying slowly— silently—before waking him with a powerful punch or kick.

  And so a special relationship had formed between Ying and Fu. Ying would torment Fu during the day, and Fu would strike back while Ying slept. Ying's feelings toward Fu were a big part of the reason he needed to have some alone time right now. He was upset that the scrolls had been taken, but he was especially upset that Fu had been the one to do it. As he lay there, Ying dreamed he was out on the trail, searching for Fu. Ying loved the thrill of the hunt, and it pained him that he could hunt no more. It was now his responsibility to direct the efforts of others. All he could do was sit back and watch.

  Ying felt something brush against his nose and woke instantly, lashing out. But there was no one there. Small rocks and bits of dirt were raining down on his head, a steady stream that quickly turned into a rushing river. Ying managed to roll off to one side and curl into a ball as the river became a tidal wave of debris, and the sky opened above him.

  Commander Woo leaned his squat, powerful body over and stared down into the huge hole. The soldier who had been helping him dig lay on the floor of the escape tunnel, atop a mound of earth. The soldier pushed aside his broken shovel and stared up at Commander Woo framed in the early-morning light.

  “Are you all right down there?” Commander Woo asked the soldier.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the man replied, groaning. “I told you we shouldn't have dug in this spot! I had a feeling the tunnel was—”

  “Shhh!” Commander Woo urged in a harsh whisper. “Not so loud! Major Ying is probably still down there somewhere. I don't want him to hear us.”

  “Relax,” the soldier said. “If Major Ying was—”

  A section of the mound next to the soldier's head suddenly exploded, giving way to a perfectly formed eagle-claw fist. The fist clamped
down on the man's throat. Four long fingernails sank deep along one side of his larynx. A razor-sharp thumbnail sank in on the opposite side. The fist squeezed until sound no longer came from the soldier's mouth. Then the claw abruptly released. The soldier scrambled off the mound, trying desperately to cry out for help. He was unsuccessful.

  The entire mound shifted, and Major Ying rose from the rubble like a dirty phoenix. He leaped onto the highest point of the mound, then leaped again and soared up through the hole, his arms spread wide. He landed in front of Commander Woo, who took several steps back.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Ying asked, shaking his head violently. Dirt flew in every direction.

  Commander Woo cleared his throat. “Digging a hole, sir.”

  “I can see that, you imbecile. Why are you digging?”

  “We need to bury the dead, sir.”

  “Bury the dead?” Ying said, leaning toward Commander Woo.

  “Yes, sir,” Commander Woo replied. “We should bury our fallen soldiers. We should bury the monks, too. We need to respect the dead.”

  “And when do you think you will have time for this?” Ying asked.

  “We have already begun, sir.”

  “I can see that! It will take you and the men days to dig enough holes.”

  “We know, sir,” Commander Woo said hesitantly. “But the men think it's worth it. They are willing to put in the extra effort required. They are afraid.”

  Ying scowled and the creases in his face deepened. “Afraid of what?”

  “We discovered something earlier. Something very disturbing.”

  “Like what?” Ying asked.

  “One of the bodies is missing,” Commander Woo said nervously. “One of the fallen monks. Actually, not just any monk—the Cangzhen Grandmaster.”

  “WHAT?” Ying shouted.

  “I know, sir,” Commander Woo replied. “It is hard to believe, but it's true. The men believe the body went in search of its head.”

  “That's ridiculous,” Ying scoffed. “Headless corpses don't just get up and walk away.”

  “That's exactly what I told the men! If you ask me, I think some other ghosts came along and took it.”

  “WHAT?” Ying shouted again. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Sir, there is no other possible explanation,” Commander Woo said. “We have had at least two sentries at every gate since before you went down into the tunnel. Tonglong positioned the sentries himself before he left. No living creature could have possibly gotten in and then back out again without us noticing. It had to be spirits. Without a proper burial, the souls of all these men will become hungry ghosts here in our world instead of moving on to the next life. We must be respectful. Who knows what they might do?”

  Ying shoved Commander Woo to the ground and stepped over him, straddling Woo's thick, stumpy body. Commander Woo normally feared no man, but he slammed his eyes closed when he saw Ying curl back his lips and stick out his forked tongue.

  “Listen to me,” Ying hissed. “The men should fear me far more than any ghost. Tell them to stop digging immediately. They will ALL spend their time stripping the armor off the dead soldiers like I ordered. Then you and the men will build carts to transport it. It will take you a very long time to complete this task. You will bury no one.”

  “But—”

  “But what?” Ying said.

  “There is something else, sir,” Commander Woo said, his eyes wide. “The men are convinced they are being watched. That is all they keep talking about. I believe them, too. I feel it myself. The men think that some of the dead have already become hungry ghosts, and that they are watching—waiting for us to go to sleep so that they can devour our souls.”

  “Then tell the men to stay awake!” Ying shouted. “NOW GET TO WORK!”

  Ying turned away, shaking his head. Superstitious fools, he thought. For a moment, Ying considered telling Commander Woo that he was right to believe something was watching because he felt it, too—and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. In the end, however, Ying decided against it. He didn't want his men to be any more distracted than they already were.

  Fu tossed and turned on the chilly, damp ground, stuck somewhere between awake and asleep. Each time his mind sank below the waves of consciousness, the same three questions would arise and his brain would bob back to the surface.

  Why did Ying do this?

  Where are my brothers?

  What should be done with the scrolls?

  The questions were relentless. Nothing in his previous training had prepared him for this. He had always relied on instinct, reacting to outside forces. Never before had he battled forces within himself. And never before had he been in a position to choose his own path. Even though he hated it, a course had always been laid before him by Grandmaster. But Grandmaster was gone. Fu would have to forge a path of his own.

  “Always remember, you represent Cangzhen.” That's what Grandmaster had said back at the temple during the attack. Fu knew that Cangzhen meant “hidden truth” and that Cangzhen's founders had once been wanderers like he was now. Wherever the founders traveled, they had been the defenders of Truth and the deliverers of Justice. Fu realized that he was obligated to do the same.

  But where should I go? Fu wondered. What should I do next?

  Fu pleaded to his ancestors for some kind of sign, and as his mind sank into the depths of unconsciousness one more time, he thought he heard an answer.

  Somewhere in the distance, a tiger screamed and men cheered. Fu awoke instantly, springing to his feet, his large, bald head narrowly missing the low rock outcropping that had sheltered him while he struggled with sleep. Someone was torturing a tiger. He could hear it. He could feel it. And he wasn't about to stand for it. After all, he was a Cangzhen warrior monk. It was his duty to defend Truth and deliver Justice. With the sun just beginning to show itself above the treetops to the east, Fu checked to make sure the scrolls were secure in the folds of his robe and raced down the rocky mountain slope back into the heavy forest.

  Fu was well aware that knowing your enemy is often the key to victory. As he ran, he struggled to remember what little he knew about tiger hunters. Hunters—if they could be called that—would dig a large pit in the middle of a tiger trail, line it with sharp bamboo stakes secured deep in the ground, and cover the pit loosely with brush. Then they would set up a “drive.” Armed with long spears, the hunters would walk in a group along a tiger trail, making a tremendous commotion. Tigers preferred to steer clear of people, so the tiger being hunted would run ahead of the group in an effort to stay out of the way, usually sticking to the path it routinely followed. If it wasn't careful, it would fall into the pit, landing on the spikes, impaled and stuck at the bottom with little or no mobility. The hunters would come running—but not to end the animal's suffering. Instead, they would slash the tiger repeatedly with the razor-sharp metal tips of their long spears, tormenting the tiger for hours until it slowly bled to death.

  Men did this simply to make themselves feel powerful. They called themselves “sport” hunters. Fu was not about to let any man make himself feel powerful at the expense of an animal. Especially a tiger.

  Before long, Fu was close enough that he could hear men talking. He slowed down. There seemed to be three men and a boy—one of the voices was quite small. Two of the voices were so loud and brash, Fu thought half of China could hear their boasting. Those two were certainly hunters.

  “How strong you are, good sir, standing before the beast's offspring so calmly,” the first hunter said.

  “And how brave your son is at your side, wielding his spear,” said the second hunter.

  Fu grew enraged. Bravery? Strength? These men had dug a hole and tricked a tiger. What did they know about bravery and strength? Fu's eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. He would teach these braggarts something about bravery and strength.

  Just then, something whimpered. Softly once, then louder a second time.

  �
��Stick him again, brave boy!” the second hunter shouted.

  “No, no!” the first hunter said excitedly. “Don't stick him, finish him! Finish the little monster while I finish his mother in the pit!”

  There was a short grunt from the person with the small voice, and then another whimper—followed by a huge roar. So there were two tigers! A mother in a pit and her cub off to one side. Fu rushed toward the voices, scanning the ground as he ran. Without breaking stride, he reached down and grabbed a fallen tree limb about as long as he was tall. He snapped several small twigs off the old, dried-out branch, throwing them to the ground. What was left in his hands was a makeshift staff that was so old and dry it would most likely shatter upon its first impact. But all he needed was one shot. Fu lowered his head and bounded through a line of tall, dew-drenched ferns. When he burst out the other side, he was running at top speed.

  Taken completely by surprise, the hunters saw a large, robust, orange-robed boy racing toward them carrying a long, crooked stick. His head was bald, and large beads of dew clung to it, glistening in the early-morning light. The collar of his robe was streaked with crusted, dried blood on one side, and his cheek on that side seemed to have a patch of moss growing out of it. Fire burned in his eyes as he headed first one way, then changed direction slightly and went straight for the hunter standing closest to the pit.

  Sometimes a slight change of direction can make all the difference—for better or for worse. When Fu first burst into the clearing, he saw a large tiger cub off to the right, cornered against a wall of rock by a Gentleman clad head to toe in shimmering green silk. A small, similarly dressed boy about Fu's age stood next to the man, holding a decorated spear. The boy timidly poked at the cub while the man stood stern and silent, his arms folded across the front of his elegant robe. Fu was on his way to stop the boy when he saw two hunters standing over a large pit. One of them was poised to launch a spear with both hands. Fu recognized that position. That was a final thrust stance. That hunter was about to finish the mother tiger. Fu changed directions in mid-stride.