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The Adventures of Piang
The Moro Jungle Boy
A Book for Young and Old
By Florence Partello Stuart
Illustrated By Ellsworth Young
New York
The Century Co.
1917
Copyright, 1917, by The Century Co.
Copyright, 1916, by David C. Cook Publishing Company Copyright, 1917,
Boys' Life The Boy Scouts Magazine
Published September, 1917
To "Buddy"
CONTENTS
I The Charm Boy 6
II The Floating Island 32
III The Hermit of Ganassi Peak 51
IV The Fire Tree 78
V Riding the Cataract 108
VI The Jungle Menace 129
VII The Secret of the Source 157
VIII The Juramentado Gunboat 193
IX The Bichara 223
X Piang's Triumph 251
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Slowly he swam downward, conscious of a large body moving near
him _Frontispiece_
Rising to his feet, spear poised, he waited 17
His hands closed over something 36
On its neck it supported a weird creature 70
"The boom! We must cut it!" 87
With hands outstretched above his head, he waited for the great
moment 122
Piang reached up on tiptoe to pluck a ripe mango 139
Gracefully the little slave-girl eluded Piang and Sicto 149
Over and over they rolled, splashing and fighting 167
A shrill whistle echoed through the forest 210
"Juramentado! Gobernado!" faintly whispered Piang 227
The water spout caught the eggshell praus in its toils 261
"Do you know the fragrant stillness of the orchid
scented glade,
Where the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies
flap through?"
THE ADVENTURES OF PIANG
THE MORO JUNGLE BOY
Piang is a real boy. Dato Kali Pandapatan is a real Moro chief. The
Moro is not a Filipino.
When I returned from my life among the natives of the lower
Philippines, I was appalled to find that America was not only ignorant
of, but entirely indifferent to our colonies across the seas. The
general impression seemed to be that Manila was a delightful Spanish
city, and that Manila was the Philippines. That there are several
thousand little islands in the Philippine group, each harboring its
distinct tribe, each with its own dialect and religion, was entirely
unknown. Impressed by the nobility of the Moro in contrast to the
other tribes of the archipelago, by his unfortunate treatment and his
possibilities for development, I found myself taking up his cause,
and was repaid by intense interest wherever I launched forth on my
pet subject. I was so successful that gradually I began to idealize
the Moro, weaving around him, not the "might have beens," but the
"might be's." Hence, "The Adventures of Piang."
Many of our military heros of other days share the honors with Piang;
their exploits and privations are a romance in themselves, and among
these pages the army and navy will recognize stories that have long
since become history. I am indebted to Dean Worcester for statistics
and a great deal of information on the origin and development of the
Moro. Indeed some of Piang's adventures are actual incidents of Dean
Worcester's travels. Robinson and Foreman have given me much material,
and I find their books authentic and true chronicles of the Malay
people. But most of all I am indebted to that great and wise man,
Colonel John P. Finley, United States Army, who during his term as
civil governor of the Moro provinces, did more to help a down-trodden
people than any Christian who has ever attempted to bring them to
the true light.
Anticipating carping criticisms from geographic purists, the author
is ready to admit taking liberties with longitudes and latitudes,
juggling lakes and mountains to the envy of Atlas, in order to serve
the picturesque and romantic purposes of Piang.
Some of the stories in this volume appeared in the juvenile magazines,
"St. Nicholas," "What To Do," and "Boys' World," and are reprinted
through the courtesy of the editors.
FIRST ADVENTURE
THE CHARM BOY
In the warm Celebes Sea, four hundred miles south of Manila, lies the
romantic, semi-mysterious island of Mindanao, home of the Moro. For
three centuries Spain struggled to subjugate this fierce people,
with little or no success, and she turned them over to America with
a sigh of relief. Perpetual warfare is the pastime of the Moro; it
is his sport, his vocation; and the Mother Jungle hurls a livelihood
at his feet. Food, clothing, shelter are his birthright.
One of the most powerful tribes of Moroland is ruled by Dato (chief)
Kali Pandapatan. Far up in the hills dwells this powerful clan,
arrogant and superior in its power. Piang, the chosen of Allah,
dwells among them; haughtily the boy accepts their homage as his due,
for he is destined to become their ruler some day. His prowess and
bravery are the boast of his people, and the name of Piang is known
from one end of Mindanao to the other.
The tribe was assembled for the ceremony. Within the hollow square
stood Dato (chief) Kali Pandapatan and old Pandita (priest) Asin. There
was a rustle of expectancy among the onlookers; their interest was
divided between the two solitary figures, silently waiting, and a
hut, much bedecked with gaudy trappings and greens. On all sides the
silent jungle closed in around the brilliant throng, seeming to bear
witness against mankind; men might force a tiny clearing in its very
heart after years of struggle and work, but the virgin forest sang on,
undisturbed, watchful.
The grass flaps, forming the door of the hut, moved. Like a soft wind
caressing the palm-trees, a murmur rustled through the crowd:
"It is he!"
Children scrambled away from restraining parents to get a better view;
dogs, filled with uneasiness by this strange silence, whined. The
stillness was unnatural. Distant cries of a mina-bird floated to this
strained audience; the river, muttering its plaints to the listening
rushes, sounded like a cataract in their ears.
Into the midst of this crowd walked a stately, graceful youth. The
dusky goldenness of his skin was enhanced by his rainbow-hued
garments. From waist to ankle he was encased in breeches as tight as
any gymnast's pantaloons; they were striped in greens and scarlets
and had small gold filigree buttons down the sides. A tight jacket,
buttoned to the throat, was fastened with another row of buttons,
and around his waist was gracefully tied a crimson sash, the fringed
ends heavy with glass beads and seed-pearls. A campilan (two-handled
knife, double-edged), and a pearl-handled creese (dagger) were thrust
into the sash. With arrogant tread he advanced, the ranks dividing
like a wave before an aggressive war-prau. His piercing black eyes
expressed utter indifference, and he ignored those gathered to witness
his triumph. Only once he seemed to smile when the little slave girl,
Papita, timidly touched his arm. The rebuke that fell upon her from the
others, brought a frown to the boy's face, but he continued to advance
until he stood beside Dato Kali Pandapatan and Pandita Asin. Here,
like a sentinel giant, bereft of his nearest kin, one monster tree
remained standing. It seemed to whisper to its distant mates, who
nodded answer from their ranks at the edge of the clearing. Under
this tree Piang paused, gazing fixedly at his beloved chief.
"Piang," said Kali, "the time has come for you to prove that you are
the chosen of Allah."
A perceptible rustle followed this.
"On the night of your birth, the panditas announced that the charm
boy, who was to lead the tribe to victory, would be born before
the stars dimmed. Your cry came first, but there was another, also,
fated to come to us that night. The mestizo (half-breed) boy, Sicto,
opened his eyes before that same dawn, and you are destined to prove
which is the chosen Allah." Anxiously the Moro men and women gazed
at their idol, Piang. His manly little head was held high, and the
powerful shoulders squared as he listened.
The sun, but lately risen, bathed the multitude in its early light
and chased the light filigree of moisture from the foliage. Through
the branches of the solitary tree, wavy sunbeams made their way to
flicker and play around Piang, and one bold dart seemed to hesitate
and caress the mass of glossy, black hair.
"Sicto!" called Kali. There was another murmur, but very different
from the one that had preceded Piang's coming. From the same hut
came forth another boy. A little taller than Piang, was Sicto, lean
and lank of limb. His skin was a dirty cream color, more like that
of the Mongolian than the warm tinted Mohammedan. His costume was
much like Piang's, but it was not carried with the royal dignity of
the other boy's. Sicto's head was held a little down; the murky eyes
avoided meeting those of his tribesmen, and his whole attitude gave
the impression of slinking. The high cheek-bones and slightly tilted
eyes bore evidence of the Chinese blood that flowed in his veins,
and the tribe shuddered at the thought of Sicto as charm boy. He
advanced with a shambling gait.
"Sicto, it is given that you shall have your chance." Kali Pandapatan
spoke loudly, a frown on his brow. "Piang is of our own blood, and
we, one and all, wish him to be our charm boy, but there shall be no
injustice done. Born under the same star, within the same hour, it is
not for me to decide whether you or Piang is the Heaven-sent." Turning
to the pandita, Kali whispered something. The old man nodded and
advanced a few steps, saying:
"My people, I shall leave it to you, whether or not I have made a wise
decision. There is no way for us to prove the claim of either of these
boys, so I am sending them to seek the answer for themselves." Asin
paused, and the crowd moved. "On yonder mountain dwells the wise
hermit, Ganassi. He has lived there for many years, apart from man,
alone in the jungle with beast and reptile.
There are no trails to his haunt; no man has seen Ganassi for a
generation, but that he still lives we know, for he answers our signal
fires each year and replies to our questions." Turning to the two boys,
he addressed them directly: "The mountain where he dwells has been
named after him, Ganassi Peak, and friends through the hills will
direct you toward it. You shall both start at the same time, but by
different routes. One leads through the jungle, over the hills; the
other follows the river to its head-water, the lake. Old Ganassi will
guide the real charm boy to him; he is great; he is ubiquitous. Have
no fear of the jungle or its creatures, for he will be with you."
Amazement and joy were written on Piang's face. He was to penetrate
the jungle at last, alone! His heart thrilled at the thought of the
adventures waiting for him there, and with radiant face he turned
toward the inviting forest.
"Piang! Piang!" resounded through the stillness, as the excited Moros
watched him.
Sicto stood, head down, wriggling his toes in the sand. He did not
like the idea of the lonely jungle, or the thought of the long hard
days between him and Ganassi Peak, but he did not speak.
With solemn ceremony the pandita prepared to anoint the boys according
to the rites of the tribe. A slave boy ran lightly forward and sank
on his knees before the pandita. On his head he bore a basket covered
with cool, green leaves. Praying and chanting, the priest uncovered
the basket, revealing two beautiful dazzlingly white flowers.
"The champakas!" cried Papita in amazement as the rare flowers
were exposed. An admonishing hand was placed over her lips. Slowly
Asin raised the flowers, heavy with dew, above the two boys, and the
clear, crystal drops fell upon their heads. Across the sky trailed a
flock of white rice-birds; as they flitted across the clearing, their
shadows leaped from one picturesque Moro to another; a twig snapped,
startling a baby, who cried out. The spell was broken.
The chant was taken up by the entire tribe, and slowly at first, they
began to revolve around the central figures. As their excitement
grew, the pace quickened, until they were whirling and gyrating
at a reckless rate. Like a pistol-shot came the command to cease,
and quietly all returned to their original places. Kali Pandapatan
raised his hand for silence.
"I shall throw my creese into the air. Sicto, you may have first
choice. Do you choose the point, or the flat fall?"
Sicto considered:
"If the creese falls without sticking into the ground, I shall choose
my route first."
The crowd instinctively pushed a little closer as Kali tossed the
shining blade into the air. A gasp, forced from between some anxious
lip, broke the stillness. Every eye followed the course described by
the knife, and when it fell, clean as an arrow, the blade piercing
the earth, there was a sigh of relief. Piang was to have first choice.
"Piang, it is given that you shall choose. Will you proceed by the
river or take your chances with the jungle? One route is as safe as
another, and only the real charm boy can reach Ganassi."
"I will go by the river," Piang answered quietly, with great dignity.
It was a beautiful day. To us, the heat would have been stifling,
the humidity distressing, but Piang loved it all and joyfully looked
forward to the trip up the river.
The trying ceremony over, the two candidates had hurried off to prepare
for the long journey. Cumbersome garments were discarded, and Piang
was clothed in the easy costume of the jungle traveler; breech-clout,
head-cloth, a sarong, flung carelessly over one shoulder, and a
_panuelo_ (handkerchief) with a few necessary articles tied securely
in it. His weapons were a bolo, a creese, and a bow and arrow. Piang's
bare limbs, bronze and powerful, glistened in the brilliant sunshine,
and he was very picturesque as he paddled along the stream, dipping
his slim hands into the current, arresting objects that floated by. He
had made his _banco_ (canoe) himself; had even felled the palma brava
alone, and had spent days burning and chopping the center away, until
at last he was the proud possessor of one of the swiftest canoes on
the river. As on ice-boats, long outriggers of slender poles extended
across the banco, and the ends were joined by other bamboo poles, so
that the canoe looked like a giant dragon-fly as it skimmed lightly
over the water.
Piang stopped at a lily-pad to gather some of the inviting blossoms,
but regretted it instantly, as a swarm of mosquitos rose and enveloped
him. He thought to escape their vicious attacks by paddling faster,
but it was no use; they had come to stay. Trailing after him a long
uneven stream, they seemed to take turns in tormenting him, and as the
leaders became satiated, they fell back, allowing the rear rankers to
buzz forward and renew the attack. Piang longed for a certain kind
of moss that grows at the roots of trees, but his keen eyes could
not discover any.
It was almost all he could do, to paddle his banco and fight the pests;
his sarong was wrapped tightly around him, but it was no protection
against the savage mosquitos, and he was about to drop in the water
despite the crocodiles, when he spied some of the moss. With a cry
of relief, he headed toward the bank and managed to pull some into
the boat. Taking from his bundle a queerly shaped, wooden object,
he spun it like a top, rapidly, backward and forward in a pan until
smoke appeared at the point of the rod. Powdering some bark, he threw
it into the pan, and when it began to blaze, he added some of the
damp moss. Gradually a thick, pungent smoke arose. It curled upward,
enveloping him and almost choking him with its overwhelming aroma,
but it dispelled the mosquitos immediately, and Piang continued his
journey unmolested.
He was very happy that morning, for was he not free, honored by his
tribe, and engaged in the dearest of pastimes, adventure? The poor
little girls have no choice in their occupations, for as soon as they
are large enough, their tasks are allotted to them; they must sit all
day and weave, or wear out their little backs pounding rice in the big
wooden bowls. But the man child is free. The jungle is his task. He
must learn to trap game, to find where the fruits abound, and to avoid
the many dangers that wait for him. Piang broke into a native chant:
"Ee-ung pee-ang, unk ah-wang!" As it resounded through the forest in
his high-pitched, nasal tones, he was answered from the trees, and
little, gray monkeys came swinging along to see who their visitor might
be. Piang mischievously tossed a piece of the smoking moss to the bank
and paused to see the fun. Their almost human coughs, as the smoke
was wafted their way, made him laugh. They scampered down, tumbling
over each other in their anxiety to be first, and one little fellow,
who succeeded in out-distancing the others, stuck its hand into the
smoldering embers. Astonished, at first, it nursed the injured member,
but gradually becoming infuriated, it finally shrieked and jumped up
and down. It began to pelt the smudge madly with stones, chattering
excitedly to its companions, as if describing the tragedy. The others
had climbed back into the trees, paying no attention to Piang, but
keeping a watchful eye on the danger that had been hurled among them.
Piang lazily plied his paddle, laughing to himself at the foolishness
of monkeys. He tried to peer through the dense trees that crowded
toward the river, hiding the secrets of the jungle. He wanted to know
those secrets, wanted to match his strength against the numberless
dangers that are always veiled by that twilight, which the sun strives
in vain to penetrate, year after year, turning away discouraged. Piang
listlessly examined the river, little knowing the perilous adventure
that waited for him just beyond the bend.
One lone log, majestic in its solitude, floated down the river,
resisting the efforts of tenacious creepers to bind and hold it
prisoner. Piang poked it with his paddle. Another was floating in
its wake, and he idly tapped this, also. It stirred, turned over,
and disappeared under the boat.
"_Boia!_" ("Crocodile!") breathed the startled boy. He had disturbed
one of the sleeping monsters! Piang's heart beat very fast, and a
shudder passed through him as he felt something bump the bottom of
the boat. The crocodile was just beneath him and if it rose suddenly,
it would upset him. One, two, three seconds he waited, but they were
the longest seconds Piang had ever known. There was a slight movement
astern; the boat tipped forward, swerved, and before Piang could right
himself, a vicious snort startled him. The crocodile was lashing the
water with its tail, and the light shell was pitching and rolling
dangerously. Piang scrambled to his knees.
There are only two vulnerable spots on a full-grown crocodile;
under the left fore leg, where the heart can be pierced, and the
jugular vein, easily reached through the opened jaws. Piang, in
the bow of the boat, paused, arm raised, waiting for a favorable
opportunity. The canoe was being swept backward, stern first, and
the crocodile swam close, nosing it, making it careen perilously. Any
moment the merciless jaws might close over the brittle wood, crushing
it to splinters. The small, bleary eyes seemed to devour Piang as
they tortured him with suspense, but he patiently waited for his
chance, knowing that he would only have one. The banco gave a jerk
as it bumped into an obstruction, and the impact forced it outward
a few feet. The moment had come. As the crocodile plunged forward,
Piang thrust his spear into its breast. There was a gurgling sound,
a swishing of the water, and the Ugly thing rolled over on its back.
Piang never could remember just how he escaped. From every sheltered
cove, from behind innocent-looking snags, appeared the heads of hungry
crocodiles, awakened by the fight. Luckily they were attracted by the
blood of Piang's victim, and he skilfully avoided the clumsy animals
as they rushed after the fast disappearing meal. One powerful monster
succeeded in dragging the body into the rushes, and the noise of the
dispute, as they fought over their unfortunate mate, nauseated the
boy. His arms were tired and stiff and his head was reeling, but he
bravely worked at the paddle until he reached a bend of the river. It
had been a narrow escape, and Piang had learned a lesson. Never again
would he idly thump logs in a stream!
The boat suddenly came to a standstill. It was turning as if on
a pivot. It had been caught in one of the numerous eddies at the
mouth of a small tributary stream. Vigorously he strove to gain
the channel. He hugged the bank, hoping to free himself from the
whirlpool, but his outrigger became entangled in some weeds, and
the boat slowly began to tip. Frantically he reached toward the
tall nipa-palms, nodding over his head, but their flimsy stalks gave
easily, and he was almost thrown out of the boat. The sparkling water,
as if laughing at his predicament, caressed the helpless craft,
drawing it closer and closer to its bosom. The banco gave a lurch;
it was tipping; it shipped a quantity of water. All Piang's weight
thrown against the upturned outrigger had no effect. Helplessly,
he looked into the green, whirling depths.
There was only one thing to be done. Taking a long breath, he grabbed
his creese and dived. Down, down; the current pulled and tugged at
him; the rush of sand and mud blinded him, and he was almost swept out
into the river. But he managed to catch hold of the roots that were
twined about the boat and finally cut the banco free. With a bound it
started down the river. The empty shell, at the mercy of the waves,
danced and frolicked like a crazy thing, and Piang was almost stunned
by a blow from the outrigger as it passed him.
The boat was rushing right back into the midst of the crocodiles,
but he bravely struck out after it. There was no chance for him if he
failed to reach it. The whispering rushes and feathery palms at the
water's edge hid evil-smelling mud, festering with fever, the home
of reptiles and crocodiles. Desperately the boy strove to overtake
the boat, and just as he was giving up hope, a friendly snag tempted
the runaway to pause, and Piang's strong, young hand closed over the
outrigger. Then began the task of climbing back. A sudden movement
might release the banco, and it would continue its mad flight, which he
would be powerless to stop. Keeping his eye on the frail-looking snag,
he threw himself on his back in the water and worked his way along the
outrigger as he would climb a tree. Finally his hand touched the body
of the boat, and, cautiously turning over, he sat straddling the bamboo
frame. It was all he could do to keep from jumping into the boat,
but he restrained his impatience and started worming over the side.
Half-way in his heart gave a leap! He could hear the swish-swish of
the water on the other side of the banco as something made its way
toward him. The eddy was the only thing that saved him, for he could
see the dread thing twirling round and round as it tried to reach
him. The boy was almost paralyzed with fear. As long as the crocodile
was on the other side of the boat, he was safe, but now--the snag
creaked, stirred.
Piang made one heroic effort, lifted himself clear of the water,
and fell exhausted into the boat. He was not a moment too soon. The
crunching sound, as the support began to give under the strain, was a
fit accompaniment to the snarling and snapping of the crocodile, which,
deprived of its prey, was lashing the water, trying to reach the frail
outriggers. Piang thought he had never been swept through the water
so rapidly, and that he would never gain control of his boat. Louder
and clearer came the sounds of the fighting monsters beyond the bend,
and there between him and safety lurked his latest enemy.
An impertinent, ridiculous twitter came from a tiny scarlet-crowned
songster, as if it were trying to advise and direct the hard-pressed
boy. Its solemn, round eyes stared at him, reproving and admonishing
him for his foolhardiness. Piang, on his knees, struggling with the
current, was unaware of his audience. Gradually he worked the boat
around and headed up-stream, straight for the crocodile. Surprised by
this sudden change in tactics, it snorted and opened its repulsive
jaws. Piang had hoped to catch it in this position, so, pressing
forward as rapidly as possible, he took careful aim and hurled his
knife into its mouth. Rising to his feet, spear poised, he waited
to see if the knife would be effective. The creature floundered and
slashed the water, gave a blood-curdling bellow, and rolled over on
its back, dead. A crocodile fights with its last breath to remain on
its belly, for if not dead, it drowns as soon as it turns over.
Piang wanted his weapon. The body of the animal was caught by the
current and shot rapidly past him down-stream, but the boy, warned
by the commotion further down, hesitated to follow it. He realized,
however, that his knife was very valuable to him, and that he was
sure to have urgent need of it again, so he started after the ugly
body. The sparkling wavelets sported and capered with their grewsome
burden, sometimes dashing it against some stray log, again bearing it
far across the river as if purposely assisting it to elude its pursuer.
Piang skilfully guided his banco in its wake, and finally succeeded in
thrusting his spear into its side, and pulled it toward the bank. The
knife was embedded far down in the terrible jaws, and Piang wondered
if he dared reach into them. He looked at the tusk-like teeth, the
first he had ever seen at close quarters, but he remembered with a
shudder the wounds that he had helped care for--wounds made by such
poisonous tusks.
Mustering his courage, he slowly extended his hand into its mouth. The
big, wet tongue flopped against his hand; the powerful jaws quivered
spasmodically, and the hot, fetid steam from the throat sickened
him. His knife! He must get it! Desperately he tugged at the handle;
it would not loosen its hold. Cold sweat broke out all over Piang. A
new sound arrested him. The crocodiles below had already smelled the
blood of the second victim and were plunging up-stream to find it. The
boy thought the knife would never come out. He worked and twisted,
and finally it gave so suddenly, that he lost his balance, and by a
quick turn of his body just saved himself from another ducking. It
was lucky for Piang that he finished when he did, for around the
curve in the river, headed directly toward him, came the crowding,
vicious scavengers.
Gathering his wits quickly, he pushed forward. The snorting and
fighting grew more and more distant; the peaceful river stretched
out before him like a silver road beckoning him to safety, and he
offered a prayer of thanksgiving to Allah, the Merciful, that he had
been spared that awful death.
It was nearly evening when Piang beached his banco and took up the
trail to the village where he was to spend his first night. Confidently
he trotted through the jungle, picking his way easily among the
gathering shadows. Soon voices became distinguishable, and he heard
tom-toms beating the evening serenade. Dogs howled in response,
women chattered, boys quarreled. To Piang this represented the usual
day's peaceful ending.
As he trotted into the clearing and paused before the hut of the dato,
the curious crowded around him: mothers to see if the stranger's
muscles could compare with their lads'; girls to flaunt their charms;
boys to measure him with their eyes. Piang had no interest in anything
but the boys, and as soon as the dato condescended to greet him with
the customary salutation for guests, he was left in peace to join
them at their interrupted game of pelota.
Twilight comes quickly in the tropics. When darkness had fallen,
each family was squatting beside its rice pot, and as the night
silence deepened, the village slept. Piang had asked for no shelter,
and no invitation had been extended, but he silently accepted the
hospitality, according to the strange Moro codes.
Slumber claimed the inhabitants of the barrio, but all around the
jungle woke to the night. Noxious blooms raised their heads to drink
in the deadly moisture; hungry pythons took up their silent vigil
at water holes; night prowlers slunk in the gloom to spring on the
more defenseless creatures, and over it all the inscrutable jungle
kept watch, passing silent judgment on man and beast, in this great
scheme of life.
SECOND ADVENTURE
THE FLOATING ISLAND
Like a mirror framed in soft velvet green, the lake broke upon
Piang. In the still noon heat the motionless water scintillated
and sparkled and the powerful rays of the sun seemed to penetrate
to the very bottom. Dragon-flies and spiders skated merrily about,
eluding the ever-watchful fishes lying in wait amid forests of lacy
seaweeds and coral. Tall, stately palms, towering above their mates,
scorned to seek their reflections in the clear depths, but frivolous
bamboo and nipa-palms swayed gently out over the water, rustling and
chattering with delight at their mirrored images.
Piang slipped through the mouth of the creek and gazed in amazement at
the vast sheet of water. Stories of the lake and its wonderful floating
islands had lured him from the more direct route to Ganassi Peak, and
he eagerly searched for one of the curiosities. His eyes focused on a
dot of green far in the distance. It was moving, turning, and suddenly
a whole fleet of dancing, playful islands became distinct. Joyfully
Piang started in pursuit. He wanted to see one, to touch it. Swiftly
he flew through the water. As if detecting his purpose, the nomad
islands eluded him. As soon as he chose one to pursue, it flaunted
its charms the more and capered and dodged behind its fellows. Like a
giant may-pole, the largest island held several smaller ones in leash,
permitting them to revolve around it, interlacing vines and creepers
that were rooted on the mother isle. Monkeys and jungle creatures
crept fearlessly along these natural ropes, sporting from one island
to another. Hablar-birds and aigrets squabbled over bits of rice
and wild fruits. Piang caught sight of a civet-cat crouching in a
tree on one island. It had probably gone to sleep in that tree while
the island was nosing the mainland and had awakened to find itself
adrift. Sometimes these floating islands would be held to the shore
for years, intertwining liana (climbing plants of tropical forests)
and _bajuca_ (jungle rope), but sooner or later some wild storm is
sure to set them wandering again.
There were weird tales of early Dyak settlers. These Borneo pirates had
fled to Mindanao to escape justice, bringing many cruel and terrible
customs that were to take root and bear fruit among the tribes of the
sultan. A favorite pastime of the Dyaks had been to bind captives to
a stray island and lead it slowly and tantalizingly to the mammoth
waterfalls, shouting and dancing with glee as it plunged into the
abyss.
The lake was like a fairy-land. Purple lotus flowers surrounded the
boat. Piang dipped his hands into the cool water, and pulled them
up by long slender roots; lily-pads offered their beauties and soon
the banco was a bower of fragrant and brilliant flowers. Playfully
Piang caught at a vine, floating in the wake of an island. The
natural boat led him gently about, twisting and circling back and
forth. He laughed merrily. The islands were too funny! They seemed
almost human in their antics. Some had regular routes, and, like mail
boats touched the same spot again and again, only to be hurried on
as the current caught them. Others with malicious intent strayed in
the path of their more systematic brothers, bumping and jarring them
with obstinate regularity.
The joy of freedom thrilled Piang; the intimacy with nature and its
mysteries stirred within him a desire to know more, feel more, and
he gazed at the distant peak where his fortune awaited him, wondering
if the old hermit, Ganassi, was in reality watching for his coming.
Toward afternoon Piang became conscious of a heavy steam-like
vapor rising from the undergrowth at the edge of the jungle; the
atmosphere grew suddenly sticky and sultry. Almost within a moment
the brilliant sunshine was blotted out, and a gray twilight settled
over the lake. Frightened birds, squawking and screaming, hurried by;
a fawn, drinking at the water's edge, darted off through the jungle. A
slight frown rippled across the water; the breeze chilled Piang. Trees
in the distance seemed to bend nearly double with no apparent cause,
but the rush of wind finally swept the whole valley, and the jungle
shuddered and swayed before it. The storm seemed an animate thing,
seemed to come upon the peacefulness of the lake like an evil genius,
hurling its fury upon nature and her creatures.
Piang had never been alone in a typhoon. In bewilderment he looked
about, wondering where he could find shelter. He watched the birds,
the animals; his boat brought up against something with a thud. An
island had bumped into him, and he realized in dismay what a menace the
pretty toys might become in a typhoon. Struggling with the tempest,
Piang fought past the islands, reached the shore, turned his banco
bottom side up, and crept underneath.
The violent wind began to dash loose objects about, tearing limbs
off trees and hurling them aloft as if they were mere splinters. A
cocoanut crashed down, striking the ground near Piang; another fell,
and yet another. Then the rain came in torrents. It fell unevenly
as if poured by mighty giants from huge buckets. The ground beneath
Piang was swaying, undulating. A tree crashed to the ground, tearing
away vines and ferns. As he began to experience the motion of a boat,
Piang became thoroughly alarmed and, dashing aside the banco, sprang
to his feet.
Terror flashed into his heart. What was happening? He had landed on
the mainland and put his banco under a big tree, and now this tree
was pitching and swaying, its branches sweeping the ground. The tree
was being uprooted, and the earth at Piang's feet was plowed up as
roots tore through the surface. The next tree was being felled in the
same manner, and as his eyes darted about, he beheld everywhere the
same terrifying picture. These mighty monuments of time, trees older
than man, were being torn from their beds and thrown to the ground
or left standing against each other for support. It seemed to be
only the trees in Piang's vicinity that were doomed to destruction,
and, although it was a dangerous thing to attempt, Piang decided to
seek another shelter. He took a few difficult steps forward and was
almost stunned by the immense fall of water. It dashed into his face,
beat upon his head in a stinging, hissing mass; it ran in streams
down his arms and legs, making him heavy and clumsy. As he caught at
a tree for support, it groaned under his weight and crashed to earth;
the ground was giving way, and he felt himself sinking. With a scream,
he freed himself, and, jumping to a fallen tree, clung desperately,
hoping to escape flying missiles. Just as he gathered himself for
another advance his heart gave a jump. Through the mad rage of the
typhoon, he could hear quick breathing! The ground tipped and swayed
alarmingly, tossing trees about like masts on a ship in distress.
"_Linug!_" ("Earthquake!") moaned Piang. Bravely the boy crept forward,
knife in hand. Whatever it was, hiding under that log, Piang must
take his chances; if he remained where he was he would certainly be
killed by falling trees. His feet made a sucking sound; a vivid flash
of lightning blinded him, and it was all he could do to force his
way through the wall of water that was pounding down upon him. With
a desperate effort, he pulled himself along by vines, hoping to pass
the unknown animal before it could leap; but the branches stirred,
and he sprang back with a cry.
"_Babui!_" ("Wild boar!") he gasped. The creature's head shook
with fury; its teeth were bared, and the tiny red eyes flamed
with anger. The babui had the largest tusks Piang had ever seen,
and he grasped his bolo firmly to meet the rush. One second, two
seconds--the suspense was fearful, and Piang wondered why the boar
did not attack. Strained almost beyond his endurance, he stood, rigid
and cold, waiting. The wind sucked at his breath; the torrents of
water, dashing in his face, kept him blinking and gasping, and still
that wild thing pawed and snorted. Fascinated, Piang gazed into the
vicious, bleary eyes, and finally he realized that they were losing
some of their fury; the tusks sank into the spongy earth; the head
fell lower. The babui was a prisoner, pinioned to the ground by a
fallen tree! Relief was Piang's first sensation, but pity for the
animal and fear for himself, roused him to the realization of new
dangers yet to be faced. He must plunge into the dense jungle; it was
only a short distance now. He glanced back to be sure that the babui
could not free itself; it was swaying and moaning, unable to move.
As Piang paused to get his directions, the earth gave a tremendous
jerk, which threw him on his face. He lay stunned for a few minutes and
when he rose to his knees, he had the sensation of floating gently,
softly. The jerking and trembling had ceased, and the ground swayed
soothingly. Piang turned toward the jungle, to the spot where he
had been about to step. Could he believe his eyes? Almost numb with
terror, he gazed stupidly into the receding jungle. He was on land,
but he was floating. He was sailing away from the jungle! Piang had
taken refuge on a floating island.
In despair he gazed about him, trying to penetrate the thickly driving
rain. He was on the very edge of the island and he wondered why he had
not been swept into the lake. The mass of vegetation, wrenched from
its bed, trailed along in the water as the nomad island whirled and
danced on the angry waves. A tree, the branches of which were hanging
in the water, was pulled from its bed, dragging part of the island
with it. One long vine struggled to right itself against the current,
to gain the shelter of the island again. It seemed most lifelike, and
suddenly Piang realized with a shudder that it was alive. A python had
been knocked from the falling tree and was being dragged along. Only
the end of its tail was twined about a log; desperately it strove
to work its way back, and Piang watched with dread. Its struggles
grew weaker and weaker, and finally its head sank below the waves,
and it joined the unresisting creepers that were being dragged along
to destruction.
Piang leaned wearily against the only tree that remained standing;
the fall of water, tearing down the trunk, cascaded over the jungle
boy, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes. What had saved the
solitary tree, Piang could not imagine, until he discovered a small
diamond-shaped cut in the bark. He drew back with a shudder. Two
crossed arrows were carved within the diamond. This was another Dyak
custom so hateful to the Mohammedan; the tree was the sarcophagus of
some Borneo chief. A century must have passed since the burial, for
the incision was almost obliterated, but Piang knew that the mummy
of his enemy reposed in savage dignity within the heart of the tree,
and that the Dyak belief was that the tree could not fall or decay. He
fought his way to the other side of the island. On it sped. Cries of
frightened animals came faintly from the mainland; screams of birds,
beaten to earth, pierced the din.
A tremor ran through the island. There was a tearing sound as if
strong timbers were being forced apart; the whole mass stood still,
then came a tremendous crash. It had collided with the fleet that
Piang had been sporting with only an hour before. Surely the stray
bits of jungle would crush each other to bits. A gray streak flew
past Piang, and a frightened monkey, thinking to save itself from
the other derelict, nearly landed on the babui. Paying no attention
to either the boy or the babui, the monkey shrank against a log and
hid its head, whining piteously.
A pale light broke through the gloom, and the rain ceased as suddenly
as it had come. Piang's heart gave a bound as he watched the tempest
abate. Suddenly he straightened himself and strained his ears to catch
a new sound. What was that deep, distant rumbling? A cry so piteous
broke from him, that even the dying babui started. The falls! He could
hear them distinctly and realized that he was rushing toward them
at a mad pace. Louder and clearer grew the thunder of those falls,
and Piang's staunch little heart rebelled. He would not stand there
like a Dyak prisoner! He would do something. He would save himself! A
blazing flash rent the heavens and Piang caught sight of Ganassi Peak
frowning and lowering in the clouds. Ganassi! If he only knew! No,
it was too late. The falls roared hungrily, and nothing could keep
the island from plunging to destruction.
Slowly Piang rose to his full height, and, folding his arms, determined
to die bravely. He could see the upper falls now, high above his
head, and he pictured the greater falls below him--the falls that
were waiting to swallow his island. He tried to remember the prayer
for such an occasion, but none came to him.
"There is no God but Allah!" muttered the terrified boy.
The island was pitching again as obstacles caught at it, spinning it
around and around. Each thing that it struck on its reckless journey
tore portions from it; gradually it became smaller. The light grew
steadily clearer, and Piang could see what awaited him. Massive rocks
loomed up at the head of the falls, and he calmly wondered if he would
be killed before the plunge. The side of the island where he stood
began to give way, and, although he was to die in a few minutes,
instinct made him move to the other side. He tried to walk, but
the ground gave at each step. He crawled along the trunk of a tree
and unexpectedly came upon the monkey. The little creature was still
huddled against the log and showed no fear of Piang; it whined louder,
seeming to sense the rapidly approaching danger.
Suddenly the monkey jumped into the tree, and Piang followed it with
his eyes. It seemed to be gathering itself for a greater leap. As
Bruce watched the spider, so Piang, fascinated, kept his eyes on
the little wild thing. Gradually it dawned on him that the monkey
had discovered an avenue of escape! The island had veered off and
was fast approaching a monster boulder that would surely break it in
two. Growing on it were vines and trees hanging far out over the water.
Piang stumbled along and somehow made his way to the burial tree. A
moment he paused, awed by a superstitious fear of the dead, but a
violent clap of thunder terrified him into forgetting all but his
immediate danger. There were only a few moments left; if he could
reach the top of the tree before the island dashed past the vines, he
might save himself. His hands tremblingly sought the notches sacred
to the dead; he scrambled upward. Thorns pierced his tired limbs;
vines and creepers took vicious delight in fastening themselves upon
him. The tree shook as the monkey jumped farther out on a limb, and
the movement seemed to put new strength in Piang. As he struggled up,
a calmness came to him. He carefully watched the monkey, and when
it crouched for the spring, Piang searched the approaching vines for
one strong enough to hold him.
In a moment it would all be over. What if he jumped too soon or too
late? What if the vine proved too frail? The monkey was crouching
for the leap. The branch that Piang was clinging to bent under
his weight. The monkey flashed through the air, made a desperate
grab, and swung out of sight. In a daze, Piang prepared to follow;
breathlessly he watched for his chance. With a prayer on his lips and
with a mighty effort, he sprang straight out into space. His hands
closed over something small and round. A dizziness came over him.
In dismay he felt the vine give, as if uncoiling itself from a
windlass. Down, down he fell until his feet touched the soggy earth
of the island. Still the vine uncoiled; the island crashed into the
boulder. Desperately Piang tried to climb the vine, but its slackness
offered no resistance. Slowly the island began to tip, to slide
over the falls, and Piang made one more effort to save himself. As
he grasped the vine more firmly, it brought up with a quick jerk,
almost breaking his hold.
He felt the vine tighten, heard it creak and groan under his weight,
and finally it lifted him clear of the island, swinging him far out
over the abyss like a weight at the end of a pendulum.
His island slid from under him, leaving him suspended in mid air;
in the second that he hung there, he could see the cruel rocks below,
the seething, steaming water. The stately funeral tree gently inclined
to the fall, and, with stern dignity, took the plunge. The dying
babui, flung far out into space, added its diminutive death-wail to
the din. The vine trembled over the chasm. Piang felt a quick rush
of air, a sickening feeling, as if he were rapidly falling; with a
tremendous impetus the vine swung back, crashed into a tree, and,
with the agility of the monkey, Piang climbed to safety.
"There is no God but Allah!" came from the strained lips, and the
boy turned his eyes toward the setting sun as it struggled to pierce
the gloom.
"_Bulutu!_" ("Rainbow!") he cried, and a faint smile flitted across
his bruised and bleeding face.
Startled by a movement at his side, Piang found the frightened monkey
trying to thrust its head under his arm. Taking the trembling little
creature up, Piang pillowed it against his breast. And so these
strange companions, the timid, wild monkey and the gentle, savage boy
crouched in the tree together, watching the typhoon beat out its fury
on the helpless things of nature, and ever clearer grew the _bulutu_
as it wreathed and crowned Piang's goal, Ganassi Peak.
THIRD ADVENTURE
THE HERMIT OF GANASSI PEAK
The silence was oppressive. Piang stumbled along through the tangle of
vines and weeds, tired and foot-sore. Would he never find the path to
the peak? And was there really a mysterious old man who had lived up
there for over a hundred years? Sicto was somewhere on that mountain,
striving to reach the summit too, and the pandita had said that the
boy who arrived first, was the real charm boy. They had both started
from the _barrio_ (village) the same day; Sicto had plunged into the
jungle, while Piang had chosen the river and lake. He shuddered at
the recollection of his many narrow escapes during the journey. Where
was his enemy, Sicto, now? Had he found an easier route, and was he
already with old Ganassi, receiving the rites of charm boy?
Unfamiliar with the vegetation on the mountain, Piang was afraid
to touch the many strange fruits, so he contented himself with
bananas and cocoanuts, and for water he drank dew from the enormous
pitcher-plants. The jungle was thick, and it was difficult to decide
in what direction to go, so Piang had to climb trees to get his
bearings. One day just as he was starting up a tall tree, he was
startled by a sound. Something was crashing through the bushes below
him. Visions of terrible mountain animals flashed through his head,
and he hastily scrambled up the tree. On came the creature, now pausing
a moment, now plunging into the mesh of vines, tearing them asunder,
always following the path Piang had made. Preparing himself for some
strange beast, the boy drew bow and waited. Suddenly he started. A cold
chill gripped him. That sound! It was a voice--Sicto's! Crouching
against the tree, Piang hoped to escape detection, but just as
Sicto passed beneath the tree, Piang's bow slipped and fell to the
ground. Sicto jumped aside and looked up:
"Oh, ho, my pretty Piang! So I've got you, have I?" The bully started
up the tree.
Like a flash Piang was away. As easily as any monkey he swung himself
into the next tree, and before Sicto realized it, Piang was taunting
him from the very top of a far-off tree. More agile and much smaller
than Sicto, Piang could easily travel in this way, and after a few
unsuccessful attempts to follow, Sicto jumped to the ground. Slyly
making his way along on foot, Sicto watched his rival. When Piang
thought he had outdistanced his pursuer, he slipped to the ground
and started off.