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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.
Uncertain of whether he should act or react against his oncoming attacker, the hunter with the raised spear hesitated as Fu approached. Fu recognized the man's hesitation and threw himself to the ground. Fu rolled forward hard and fast over his right shoulder, then popped up onto his feet and lunged forward, powerfully thrusting one end of his stick straight out with both hands. Fu anticipated significant resistance when the end of the stick met the hunter's midsection, sending the man flying backward into the pit. One cannot even begin to imagine Fu's surprise when the stick met no resistance whatsoever.
The second hunter had managed to knock Fu's target out of the way the very moment Fu started his roll. With nothing there to receive the energy from his mighty thrust, Fu's unchecked momentum carried him directly into the pit.
The mother tiger lay on her side at the bottom of the pit, a long bamboo stake sticking straight up from the ground through one of her hindquarters. A second stake protruded from her abdomen, standing firm as the skin of her belly rode up and down its shaft every time she shifted positions or took a deep breath. Embedded in her shoulder was the broken shaft of a decorated spear.
Without warning, a large man-child suddenly sailed into the pit headfirst with his arms out before him. The tiger roared in anger and twisted her head up and back, eager to latch onto something with her ferocious jaws. When she felt the man-child's sleeve brush against her muzzle, she clamped down with all her might. There was a tremendous crunch, and the man-child twisted in midair. His arm came loose from his body, shattering into a thousand pieces. Two heavy, bare feet stomped down hard on her rib cage, and the man-child sprang back up into the air, pushing off the side of her chest. The man-child never uttered a sound. That was strange. He was nearly halfway to the upper edge of the pit before she realized why. She had not ripped a limb from his body. She had shattered some kind of tree limb. She roared as she lifted her entire body up as best she could and slashed out at the retreating man-child with one of her monstrous claws. This time, the man-child yelped in pain.
Fu landed on the far edge of the pit, toad-style. He hopped forward twice in an effort to get some space between him and the pit, his backside stinging with each thrust of his legs. He stood and turned to inspect the damage. The very tip of one of the tiger's daggerlike nails had ripped a gaping hole in the back of both his robe and his pants, and skimmed along the surface of his skin. He didn't seem to be bleeding, but it was hard to tell—he couldn't see around himself. As he stretched and turned in every direction trying to complete his inspection, he realized that the hunters on the other side of the pit were roaring with laughter. Fu glared at them.
