In a quiet village on the edges of Shanxi’s forests lived Chen Ma, an elderly widow whose life had already seen more loss than joy. Her husband had died years ago, and her only son was her reason to wake each morning. He was a hunter, just like his father and grandfather, and though his trade was dangerous, it kept food on their table and fire in their hearth.
But one winter, the mountains turned cruel. A snowstorm swept across the land, the kind that makes the trees groan and the animals desperate. That storm swallowed Chen Ma’s son, and when it cleared, she learned the truth: a starving tigress had taken him.
Her grief was beyond words. For days she sat staring at the empty corner of their small hut where his belongings lay untouched. Yet even in sorrow, she had to survive. With trembling steps, she went to the magistrate, pleading for support. The official, moved by her plight, promised her a small share from the profits each time a tiger was hunted. But the other hunters—men with families of their own—resented sharing their earnings.
So, when they killed the tigress that had ended her son’s life, they offered Chen Ma no coins, no food—only her cub.
He was a fragile bundle of fur, trembling, eyes still glossy with the innocence of youth. A rope dug into his neck where they had dragged him. Chen Ma, holding the frail creature, felt an ache so sharp it pierced through her grief. He was supposed to be her food, her warmth, her survival. Yet, looking into his jade-green eyes, she whispered, “How can I kill you when I know the same loneliness beats inside you as in me?”
That night, she untied the rope and fed him softened roots with her fingers. The cub curled at her feet, purring softly, and for the first time since her son’s death, Chen Ma did not feel entirely alone.
Through the bitter winter, they became each other’s lifeline. She shared her dwindling food, and when the fire burned too low, she slept curled against his golden warmth. As seasons passed, the cub grew strong. By spring, he was no longer the size of a piglet but a calf, with sharp teeth and claws that made villagers uneasy.
When whispers spread to the hunters, they came with their spears. But Chen Ma, frail and stooped though she was, stood before them with her son’s old spear in hand. “You have taken my son. This tiger is all I have left. If you wish to harm him, you must first pass through me.”
The hunters laughed, calling her mad. Yet, she walked with her tiger to the magistrate’s hall and bowed low before him. With tears glistening in her eyes, she pleaded, “Let me adopt this creature as my son. For he has given me what no riches can—companionship in my loneliness.”
The magistrate, touched by her devotion, agreed. A copper pendant was forged with two engraved words: Fu Chee—Tiger Son. And so, Fu Chee became part of Chen Ma’s family.
Years passed, and Fu Chee grew to his full majestic size. Too large for her hut, he made his home in a cave nearby but never stopped being her son. He returned often, padding softly to her door, dropping gifts of food at her feet—a deer, a hare, or sometimes just a branch to play with. He pressed his head against her lap, purred like he once did as a cub, and still licked her shoes as though he were saying, “I have not forgotten you.”
Chen Ma lived to see over a hundred winters, cared for not by human hands, but by the tiger she had chosen to love. And when she finally passed, Fu Chee kept his silent vigil by her grave, refusing to leave her side. For years he guarded her resting place until one day, he too was gone.
The hunters, who once mocked her, built a small stone monument at her tomb. On it, they engraved the tale of Chen Ma and Fu Chee—the tiger son who showed the world that family is not only blood, but the bonds we choose, the love we give, and the loyalty we keep.
And so, long after both mother and tiger were gone, their story lived on—not just as legend, but as a reminder that true family can be found in the most unexpected of hearts.
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