Xavier's Arc

Chapter 2 of 21

The tiger stepped away from the trees. Xavier crouched on flat ground with nothing to hide behind. He had beaten the mud, but now the open earth left him bare. The tiger circled, slow and wide. Xavier turned with it, knees bent, knife out. He knew the danger. If the tiger got behind him, it would pounce before he could face it. He needed a wall at his back. The fox cub pressed against his leg, fur trembling. Xavier searched with his eyes only, afraid to move his feet. Behind him, three steps away, sat the mossy hump he had crawled from. The blue flower still stood on it, roots deep in the ground. Not a wall. But higher than flat earth, and it broke the open circle. The tiger tested him. It feinted left, then darted right, trying to reach his flank. Xavier stumbled to keep it in front. His boots slipped on the wet grass. The alligator hide held the ground where his bare feet would have slid. He backed toward the hump, one step, then another, and never turned his shoulders. His heel struck the moss. He climbed onto it, low, and put the flower stem behind his spine. Now the tiger could only come from the front. The circle was gone. The beast growled and shifted, hunting an angle it could not find. Xavier's hand shook, so he changed his grip. He held the bone knife point-down, the way his grandmother gutted fish. The jagged blade caught the last light. He did not want to kill the tiger. He had come to ride it. But a dead boy tamed nothing. The tiger charged. Xavier did not slash. He dropped flat against the moss and drove the knife up as the huge body passed over him. The serrated edge raked the tiger's front leg. The tiger screamed and twisted away. It landed hard, favoring the cut leg, and backed off three steps. Blood matted its red fur. Xavier scrambled up. The tiger stared at him, ears flat, a low sound in its chest. It looked at the fox cub, at the knife, at the boy who would not run. Then it turned and limped into the trees. The reeds swallowed its striped shape. Xavier sat down on the moss and breathed. His hand still gripped the knife. The fox cub climbed into his lap and licked the blade clean of blood. He had survived. He had even hurt the beast he came to tame. But that was the trouble. He looked at the red drops on the grass and understood. The tiger would not forget the boy who cut it. He had not earned its trust today. He had taught it to fear him, and a frightened tiger would not be ridden. It would hunt him harder, or vanish where he could never follow.