Tiger Head: The Legend of Dragon and Tiger on the Mountaintop of Tuoquan Village

Tiger Head: The Legend of the Dragon and Tiger on the Peak of Tuoquan Village

In a valley southwest of Tuoquan Village in Qi County, Hebi, a mountain ridge suddenly bends, forming a natural curve. At the end of the curve, a solitary peak rises from the ground, its bare rocky summit resembling a crouching tiger—drooping ears, a bulging forehead, and a black stone embedded in the hollow of its nose, resembling a tiger's eye. Locals call it "Tiger Head." The mountain's name holds a legend of dragons and tigers passed down for countless generations, like the mist rising from the pipes of the elders.

Older people say that long, long ago, the forests in this area were much denser than they are today. The hillock where Tiger Head stands was once the domain of a real tiger. That tiger was no ordinary creature, with yellow fur striped with black. Standing taller than the old locust tree at the village entrance, its roar could shake the mountain springs ten miles away. It seldom left the mountain, guarding its territory: east to the clear springs of Tuoquan Village, west to the old temple in Sigou, south to the pastures of the horse ranch, and north to the rocky cliffs of Nangou. Every morning, it crouched on the hilltop to bask in the sun, watching the smoke from cooking fires drift slowly from the mountainside. In the evening, it patrolled the ridges, startling wild rabbits and sending pheasants scurrying, but never harming the villagers' cattle and sheep.

On another hill, four miles from Laohutou, lived a dragon. It wasn't a ferocious creature, hiding in a deep pool in the valley. It usually didn't show up, only puffing out mist during droughts to provide dew for the crops on the other side. The villagers said the dragon and the tiger were "neighbors." Although both possessed celestial powers, they never interacted or harassed the villagers. Sometimes, when the tiger patrolled the saddle between two guard posts, it would pause and gaze for a moment in the direction of the dragon. Sometimes, when mist rose from the pond, the tiger would look up, letting out a low, purring sound as if in greeting.

Year after year, these peaceful days passed. Until one summer, the weather was erratic—for three months, no rain fell. The clear spring in Tuoquan Village shrank to a small puddle, the waterfall in the Temple Valley ceased flowing, and even the deep pool where the dragon hid was exposed, its bottom exposed. The moss around the edge dried and brittle. The villagers, anxious, burned incense at the mountain temple. The tiger, restless, paced the hillside all day, his roars tinged with anxiety. The dragon also tossed and turned in the pond, stirring the rocks at the bottom with a clattering sound.

On the seventh day of the seventh month, something unexpected happened. At noon, the sun was as scorching as a blaze, and suddenly a strong wind blew, carrying a fishy smell. The villagers hid in their houses, peeking out through cracks in their doors—they saw a tiger standing up on Tiger Head Hill, its front paws sending rocks flying. Four miles away, dark clouds billowed over the hills, and a streak of silver light shot up from the pond into the sky. Then, with a boom of thunder, a dragon appeared.

The dragon was even more majestic than the tiger: its body as thick as a bucket, its scales gleaming green, its head adorned with antlers, its claws like iron rakes. It didn't fly very high before hovering mid-air between the two hills. A flick of its tail sent a gust of wind sending leaves flying through the air. The tiger, roaring, charged onto the saddle, its front paws clawing at the rocks, baring its fangs at the dragon. No one knew why they were fighting—some said the dragon was using the tiger's territory to find water; some said the tiger was annoyed by the dragon's clouds blocking the sun; others said the drought was so severe that both mythical beasts, anxious to prove their worth, wanted to call for rain.

In any case, the fight began. The dragon sprayed mist from the sky, and when it fell to the ground, it became hail, sending the tiger's fur trembling. The tiger, not to be outdone, leaped up, leaping as high as the dragon. It opened its jaws to bite the dragon's claws, but when it missed, it smacked the rocks with its front paws, shattering them to pieces. To this day, a rubble slope still lingers on Tiger Head Hill, said to be left from that time. The dragon, intensified by the dragon's anger, lashed out with its tail, striking the tiger's back. With a roar, the tiger fell back onto the hillside, its back hair falling off in large clumps, its exposed flesh stained red from the lashes.

The villagers hid in their houses, too frightened to breathe. They could only hear a thumping noise from the mountain, like the beating of countless drums, and the mingled roars of dragons and tigers, shaking dirt from the beams. The fight lasted all afternoon, from noon until the sun was setting. Later, the tiger's strength gradually waned. It lay sprawled on the hilltop, its front paws bracing against the ground, unable to lift its head. Its roars grew fainter, like sighs. The dragon, too, was tired, its scales falling, and a few bloodstains dotting its shimmering green body. It hung in mid-air, watching the tiger for a moment, then suddenly uttered a long, drawn-out roar and flew eastward—supposedly to the Qi River, plunging deep into its depths.

After the dragon departed, the tiger never rose again. Lying on the hilltop, its body gradually hardened. Its fur turned to grass, its bones to rock, and finally, it became the tiger head we see today. When the villagers went up the hill the next day, they saw a long dent on the tiger's "back," where the dragon's tail had lashed it. A few strands of golden hair remained in the rubble at the foot of the hill, gleaming in the sun. Someone trying to pick them up turned to dust as soon as they reached out.

The hilltop where the dragon had once hidden had also changed. The deep pool dried up completely, leaving behind a long mark on the rocks beside it—a dark blue mark, resembling the trace of a dragon's coiled body, with the lines of its scales clearly visible. Later, the villagers called that spot "Dragon Coiling Rock." When I was a child, I often played there while herding cattle with my parents. The mark was on a slanted rock, about the width of a wrist, winding along the rock's lines. When it rained, the water flowed along the mark, forming a small stream, resembling a dragon "swimming." Back then, there was a small path on the mountain, carved by the cattle herders, that led to Dragon Coiling Rock. We would squat there and touch the mark, which was icy cold and even wetter than the other rocks.

Looking back now, the path is long gone. These days, the mountains are sparsely populated, and weeds have grown taller than a person. Brambles have tangled the path so tightly that reaching Dragon Coiling Rock requires a long, scythe-slashing slash. The black stone "tiger eye" of Tiger Head is still there, though the rock on its forehead has been eroded by wind and rain, making it look thinner than when I was a child. But the village elders still remember the legend. Grandpa Wang, now over eighty, said through his pipe the last time I asked him about it. "That's right," he said, "the tiger admitted defeat, but he didn't lose his nerve. He's still lying there, guarding the village. The dragon left, but he left a mark, a reminder for our old neighbors."

When the wind blows, the grass on the hilltop of Tiger Head rustles, like a tiger snoring. From the woods beyond the Dragon Rock, the occasional bird call echoes like a dragon echoing from afar. Everyone in Tuoquan Village says that the dragon and tiger haven't gone far, and they still guard the mountain—the tiger guarding the mountain, the dragon protecting the water, just as they did back then, only in a different form. They've hidden the story in the stones and trees, waiting for the cattle-herding children and the woodcutters to tell it to the next generation.