Tiger - Jeff Stone [2]
“Never underestimate anyone,” Grandmaster said. “Especially Ying. He is very cunning. Now, of this matter I will say no more, and neither will any of you. You will remain silent.”
When they reached the far wall of the practice hall, Grandmaster motioned for them to stop while he continued off to one side. As soon as Grandmaster's footfalls grew too faint to hear, Fu whispered, “I wonder if Ying has come to steal the secret dragon scrolls. He swore he'd come back and—”
“Quiet!” whispered Long.
“Shhh!” whispered Seh.
“Fine,” whispered Fu, and he turned away from the group.
Across the room a sliver of moonlight was sneaking through a crack in one of the shutters. It shined against the far wall, illuminating the face of Fu's favorite character in his favorite mural. Of the hundreds of life-size instructional fighting scenes covering every wall inside the dark practice hall, this beam had chosen to shine on the heavyset monk striking an opponent with a devastating tiger-claw swipe.
It must be a sign, Fu thought. It reminded him that he and his brothers were full-fledged warrior monks—Cangzhen Temple's youngest ever. Each of them had mastered a different animal style by age eleven. It took most people twice that long.
Fu didn't know what made them so special, and he didn't really care. The only thing he wondered about occasionally was their peculiar names, which Grandmaster had given them as infants. Though they mainly spoke Mandarin Chinese—the same dialect everyone in the region used—for some reason Grandmaster had selected their names in a Chinese dialect called Cantonese. Whatever the reason, Grandmaster knew what he was doing. Fu meant “tiger” in Cantonese. And, like the monk in the mural, Fu was a tiger, through and through.
Fu had a large, round head, which was cleanshaven and accented by small ears and sharp, challenging eyes. His voice was deep and gravelly and, just like his animal counterpart, he was very aggressive and unusually short-tempered. Though Fu was the second youngest of the five and not exactly tall, he was by far the largest and strongest. His arms were as big as most of his brothers' legs, and his legs were as big as a man's. Fu was solid and thick from lifting stone weights and generous of width from lifting his rice bowl.
It came as no surprise, then, when Grandmaster quietly called them over to the back corner of the practice hall and told them that Fu would be the first to climb into the terra-cotta barrel that held drinking water more often than it held boys.
Grandmaster removed the barrel's heavy lid and, groaning softly, dumped the contents onto the floor. Fu felt the water splash onto his pants and knee-length robe, then spill over his bare feet. He hated to wear wet clothes, so he took several steps back—but Grandmaster shook his head.
Grandmaster quickly stood the barrel back up and nodded in Fu's direction. Fu growled softly and stepped forward. He laid his hands on the rim of the barrel and found it to be quite stable, so he swung himself up and into it feetfirst like he was jumping into a well. And just like jumping into a well, he found water at the bottom.
“What the … ?” Fu complained. “There's still a bunch of water in here! What do you expect me to do?”
Grandmaster slapped Fu's bald head. “I expect you to stop talking and lie down! Hurry! Curl into a tight ball and lie on your side.”
Fu grudgingly did as he was told but found that much of his head would be under water if he followed Grandmaster's directions exactly. Instead, Fu twisted his head to one side and rested his cheek on the inside wall of the barrel.
“I can't believe this,” Fu mumbled. “Whoever gets on top of me better—”
“Hush!” Grandmaster said. He looked anxiously at Fu's four brothers standing around the barrel in the gloom. Three of them avoided Grandmaster's gaze. Malao, however, flashed a devilish grin and leaped high into the air. Grandmaster frowned but did nothing to stop the eleven-year-old “monkey.”
Malao's bare, dark-skinned feet landed directly on Fu's head, and he began