by Jeff Stone
“He's a vegetarian? He's huge! What did they feed him at the temple, trees?”
Fu growled at the boy through the bars of the bamboo cage. The boy squealed and ran off. His mother shook her head and walked away after him. But another child stepped right up with a parent in tow. And so it continued as the sun sank in the distance, a seemingly endless parade of people walking past the large cage in the village square. The line was so long, it ran past the bun vendor's shop— the only building visible through the thick wall of bushes and trees that lined the perimeter of the square.
The villagers had come to see the vicious killer monk. It was said he'd put up quite a fight after they'd caught him in the heavy net near the village dump. Men were clawed. Bones were broken. Still, the young wildcat was no match for twenty men and a net. Eventually, they'd restrained him and taken four ancient scrolls from the folds of his robe. Once the men had the scrolls, all the fight went out of the young monk. From that point on, he had been a pussycat.
“I'm not afraid of him!” announced the next boy in line. His name was Ma. He was twelve years old, but he looked like he was at least fourteen or fifteen. He was huge. His hair was long, thick, and unruly. His eyes were like stone. Ma stared at Fu and rolled up the sleeves of his tattered gray robe. Fu stared back.
Ma picked up a rock and threw it at Fu, who sat cross-legged with the backs of his hands resting on his knees, his palms open to the heavens. Fu's right hand flew up and caught the rock a fraction of a second before it hit his head. He slowly lowered his hand back to his knee, the rock resting peacefully in his open palm. The entire time, Fu's head had remained straight, his chin perpendicular to the ground. His eyes never strayed from Ma's.
“Oh, you think you're tough?” Ma asked. “Catch this!” He gathered several rocks and unleashed them all simultaneously in Fu's direction. Fu's left arm remained relaxed while his right arm became a blur of motion, stopping as abruptly as it had started. When Fu returned his hand to his knee and opened his fingers, several rocks rolled out. Fu's eyes never wavered from Ma's.
Ma was amazed, but also infuriated.
“That's it!” Ma yelled. “I'll kick your fat—”
“Enough!” shouted a familiar voice. The long line of children and parents broke up as the Gentleman from the forest approached with his son trailing behind.
“Go home, all of you!” the Gentleman shouted. “You should have more important things to do than waste your time eyeing a beast in a cage!”
As the crowd dispersed, the Gentleman's son sat on the ground, far from the cage. The Gentleman approached Ma, his rich green robe shimmering in the evening light. The Gentleman glared at Ma.
“I saw that,” he said.
“I'm sorry, Governor,” Ma replied softly. He looked away.
Governor? Fu thought. Oh, no!
“You should be sorry,” the Governor said. “Nothing good comes to people who act the way you just did.”
Ma put his head down. The Governor put his hand on Ma's shoulder and lowered his voice. “Listen, would you do me a small favor? Could you please keep Ho occupied while I talk to the animal in the cage? Ho isn't feeling too well, understandably.”
“Sure,” Ma whispered. He walked over to Ho's side and sat down. Ma playfully punched one of Ho's skinny arms. Ho ignored him. Ma smiled and leaned over to whisper in one of Ho's ears, then stopped. He scooted over to Ho's other side and whispered into that one instead.
The Governor turned toward Fu.
“So, Beast Child,” he said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Fu lowered his eyes. “I am sorry, sir. I am very truly sorry, and I wish to apologize to your son.”
“Do you, now?” the Governor replied. “And what purpose would that serve?”
“Aaah …,” Fu said, looking up. “Perhaps it will make him feel better?”
“Perhaps it will make him feel better, you say? Do you really think so?”
“I suppose so,” Fu replied. “Sure. I know it would make me feel a lot better.”
“Ah, yes,” the Governor said. “It is all about you, is it not?”
“Please, sir,” Fu said. “I only wish to apologize. That's why I came here. To apologize and to tell you about the scrolls. Also, I think I was meant to come here. The men I spoke to at the waste pile said that they wanted to get rid of Major Ying. I do, too, and I have a plan! If we use the scrolls as bait, we could—”
“Stop!” said the Governor, raising his hand. “There is no point in talking further. I have already sent messengers to Major Ying. I have promised the scrolls to him, and I am a man of my word.”
“What?” Fu cried. He grabbed the bamboo bars. “Are you crazy?”
“Watch your mouth, young man!” the Governor said, leaning forward. “Do you not realize to whom you are speaking?”
“I do … I'm sorry … it's just that you don't seem to understand … you don't realize that—”
“I only need to realize one thing,” the Governor said, turning away from Fu. “You put us in much danger. You attacked my men and my son unprovoked, and you have a habit of stealing things from important people like Major Ying. If you were to stay here, who knows what you might steal from me? Major Ying has asked for the return of his scrolls and your capture. He reports directly to the Emperor, so it is my duty to honor his wishes.”
“No!” cried Fu. “You can't! Those scrolls aren't even his! He tried to steal them from Cangzhen Temple! My temple! If you would just listen to me, you'll see that—”
The Governor spun back toward Fu. “That is enough, young man! I see only as far as the region I govern, and you bring trouble to my region. Therefore, you must go. And now, so must I.”
The Governor turned to his son. “Come,” he said. “It's time to go home, Ho.”
And with that, the Governor turned and walked away, his son at his side.
“Please, wait!” Fu cried out. “I thought you were a good man! I have more to say!”
But no one listened.
At first, Fu thought he was seeing things. Darkness had begun to settle in, and he was under a lot of stress. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. But— there it was again! Across the square a huge basket of rice seemed to move. And then it stood!
In front of the bun vendor's shop, a large, heavyset man lifted the battered remnants of an old rice basket off his head and shoulders. Fu realized he must have sat down and covered himself with it to keep dew from forming on him as night set in. Fu hadn't noticed it there before.
The big man swayed slightly. Long tangles of matted black hair hung partway down his back and forward over his face, intertwined with his long, scraggly beard. His pants and robe were filthy. The man raised his beefy arms and stretched, yawning. Then he began to stumble forward, as though drunk. He stopped several paces from Fu's cage and stood there, weaving back and forth. He stared at Fu between strands of hair. Fu thought he saw something familiar in the man's eyes, but he wasn't sure what.
Fu shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He must be seeing things.
The Drunkard spoke with a deep, gravelly voice.
“What is your name?”
“Fu.”
The Drunkard paused. One eyebrow raised up. “Who would give you the name Tiger?”
“My temple's Grandmaster.”
“Your name is Cantonese,” the Drunkard said, stumbling closer. “But Canton is very far from here. What temple are you from?”
Fu folded his arms. “What do you care?”
“What do you care that I care?”
Fu cocked his head to one side. “Why do you answer my question with a question?”
“Why are you so reluctant to answer?”
Fu leaned back, frustrated. “You talk like a monk, you filthy bum.”
“Perhaps that is because I've spent some time with monks,” the Drunkard said, smiling.
“Sure you have.”
“Surely, I have,” the Drunkard said.
Fu sneered. “Next you're going to tell me that the monks you spent time with were from the great Shaolin Temple, right?” Fu leaned forward.
The Drunkard leaned forward, too. “Perhaps,” he said. The Drunkard lost his balance and stumbled into the cage. It shook violently.
Fu leaned back. “You're pathetic. You only say that because Shaolin is so famous, even a lowly, homeless Drunkard would have heard of it. What would you know about Shaolin?”
The Drunkard brushed his tangled hair to the side. “I know that the monks there never attack innocent villagers.”
Fu banged his fists against the front of the cage. “That's not fair! I said I was sorry!”
The hair fell back over the Drunkard's eyes. He continued to stare but said nothing more.
“What more can I do?” Fu asked. “I made a mistake, but I am not entirely at fault. Those hunters should share some of the blame.”
“Really?” the Drunkard asked.
“Really!” Fu said. “Listen to what I have to say, Drunkard, since no one else in this stupid village will. I am a Cangzhen monk. My temple was secret, founded by Shaolin monks who fought for Truth and defended Justice. We were recently attacked and our temple was destroyed by a traitor, and I've been sent to find others to help me stop the traitor before he ruins even more lives. That traitor is none other than Major Ying. In my search for help, I happened across some men hunting tigers for sport, one of whom was the Governor. As a Cangzhen monk, I cannot stand around while tigers are destroyed for no reason.”
“No reason?” the Drunkard said. “Did the hunters tell you that they were only hunting for sport?”
“They didn't say that they weren't,” Fu replied.
“Perhaps you should have asked them what they were doing before you attacked.”
“I saw what they were doing!” Fu said.
“Not everything is the way it looks, young man,” the Drunkard said in a fatherly tone. “Sometimes you need to listen, too. You've said it yourself.”
Fu slammed his fist down on the floor of the cage. “They had nothing to say!”
“Really?” the Drunkard asked.
“Really!”
“Tell me then, monk—what do you think of the Governor?”
Fu rolled his eyes. “He is a fool.”
“Really?”
“Really! Really! Really!” Fu said, slamming his fist down again. “A thousand times, really! Only a fool would promise those scrolls to Ying.”
The Drunkard scratched his scraggly beard. “How is the Governor to know what Major Ying might do with the scrolls?”
“I was trying to tell him!” Fu replied. “All the Governor had to do was listen to me for a second.”
“So you're saying that anyone who doesn't listen to you is a fool?”
“Yes! I mean, no!” Fu took a deep breath and paused. “What I mean is, anyone who doesn't listen in general is a fool.”
“Okay, that's fair,” the Drunkard said. He sat down on the ground in front of Fu. “I have something to say, then. Are you listening?”
Fu rolled his eyes again but kept his mouth closed and his ears open.
“The Governor's wife was killed by that tiger you saw in the pit this morning,” the Drunkard said.
“What!” Fu shouted. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“I say it because it is true,” the Drunkard replied. “And remember Ho, the boy you attacked? She was Ho's mother.”
“How … how do you know this to be true?” Fu asked. He felt dizzy.
“I saw some things and heard many more. But you can decide for yourself. Did the tiger in the pit have a broken spear in its shoulder? A decorated spear?”
“Yes, it did,” Fu said. “One of the hunters must have stabbed it while it was in the pit.”
“No. That is not necessarily true. You see, several days ago Ho and his mother and father were out near the forest's edge looking for wild mushrooms, and a tiger attacked Ho's mother without warning. The Governor happened to be carrying one of his fancy spears to scare off thieves, and as the beast dragged his wife away, he bravely ran up and sank the spear deep into the tiger's shoulder. This I saw with my very own eyes, having been drawn to the scene by Ho's cries. I ran up to help the Governor, and the spear broke. The wounded tiger released the woman and fled with its cub, but it was too late. Ho's mother's spirit never made it out of the forest.”
Fu couldn't believe his ears. However, the look in the Drunkard's eyes told him that the man was telling the truth. His dizziness grew worse.
“Once a tiger has hunted a human,” the Drunkard said, “it will very likely do so again. Especially if it is wounded or lame like this one was with the spear in its shoulder. Even more so if it has a cub to feed. So you see, the Governor had no choice but to hunt down the tiger.”
Fu lowered his eyes.
“And here's something else you should know,” the Drunkard said. “The cage in which you now sit was not built to keep the tigers from getting out; it was built to keep the villagers from getting in. The plan was to destroy the mother and its cub and bring their bodies back here to throw in the cage for all to see. These villagers would tear the tigers' bodies to shreds with their teeth, they are so upset about the loss. If not for the cage, they might tear you to shreds.”
Fu lay down. He was so dizzy now that he could not sit up any longer. To think, he once considered the Governor's son lucky.
“I—I understand why they would be upset with the adult tiger,” Fu stammered. “But why kill the cub?”
The Drunkard stood up. “It is said that once a tiger has had a taste of man, it will always be a man-eater. Perhaps the cub did not bite the Governor's wife, but it saw what its mother did. The Governor did not want to take any chances.”
Fu felt nauseous. The cage was spinning fast now, and the food he had devoured earlier rose to the back of his throat. He coughed, struggling to focus on the point where the Drunkard stood. But the Drunkard was no longer there. Fu opened his mouth to say something, but the pressure on the back of his throat was too great. He coughed again. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes.
Ying crouched behind the fire he had built at the front corner of the Cangzhen compound, near the Forgotten Pagoda. He watched his shadow dance on the perimeter wall and listened closely to the sounds of the night. Ever since the young monks had fled Cangzhen, Ying had felt like he was being watched. He couldn't tell where the watcher was positioned, which could only mean one thing. There was only one person alive who could fly this close beneath his nose and not be seen.
Tonglong approached Ying from the opposite side of the large campfire.
“Greetings, sir,” Tonglong said. “I hope all is well with you this fine evening.”
Ying grunted and stood. He stared over the flames at his number one soldier. “Tell me, Tonglong—since the men seem to think you're so clever—what is the best way to catch a crane?”
Tonglong paused and leaned back on his boot heels. “A crane? You mean the large water bird? I've never hunted one—are they tasty?”
“I don't know,” Ying said, turning away. “Perhaps we will find out.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Ying took a deep breath. “I sense someone has been watching us for quite some time, and I think it is Hok—one of my former brothers.”
“One of the young monks?” Tonglong said. “Commander Woo and the men seem certain we're being watched by restless spirits.”
“Commander Woo is a superstitious fool.”
Tonglong rubbed his strong jaw. “He is what he is, Major Ying. If you want to change his mind—and the minds of the men—you'll need to catch this Hok.”
“I don't care about changing anyone's mind,” Ying scowled, pivoting around to face Tonglong. “I only want to catch Hok.”
“I see,” Tonglong said. “May I ask you a question, sir?”
Ying grunted.
“Perhaps it is because I'm Cantonese, but I'm curious about s
omething. Hok is the Cantonese word for ‘crane'; likewise Ying is the Cantonese word for ‘eagle.' Why do you Cangzhen monks have Cantonese names? Your temple was not in Canton. Everyone in this region speaks Mandarin Chinese—including you.”
Ying frowned. “Grandmaster was from Canton. He wanted to keep the temple secret, so he gave us all Cantonese names and taught us to speak Cantonese as a second language. If we were ever away from the temple, we were supposed to speak Cantonese and pretend that we were just passing through the area.”
Tonglong's eyebrows raised. “You were supposed to lie?”
“Yes,” Ying replied.
“But Cangzhen means ‘hidden truth,' does it not?”
“Yes.”
Tonglong looked off to one side. “It seems odd that your temple is called truth, but you were asked to lie.”
“I know,” Ying said, watching Tonglong closely.
“What was the big secret?”
“Grandmaster never told us,” replied Ying, his eyes still glued to Tonglong. “But I have my suspicions. Why are you so curious?”
“I'm just making conversation,” Tonglong said, glancing over at Ying. “Also, I find it interesting. I am sorry if I have offended you.”
“I appreciate your curiosity,” Ying said. “But I have trouble trusting people.”
“If you do not trust people, you make them untrustworthy,” Tonglong said.
“I know that!” Ying snapped. “It's an old Buddhist proverb. But proverbs mean nothing to me. They are just words. Actions have far more meaning than words.”
Tonglong folded his hands. “But words can change a person's heart.”
“So can actions!” Ying raised a fist. “But I doubt you would understand my position.”
“I might,” Tonglong said calmly. “I have been through quite a bit myself.”
“Really?” Ying said, leaning forward. “My entire family is dead.”
“Mine, too,” Tonglong replied.
“Oh? What about friends? Did you ever have a best friend?”
“Yes, once,” Tonglong said.
“Did he die?” Ying spat. “Right in front of you?”
“Actually, yes,” Tonglong said.
