The Adventures of Piang the Moro Jungle Boy / A Book for Young and Old

by Florence Partello Stuart

But what was the matter with Sicto? Why had he stopped paddling? In a flash it came over Piang that the cataract was near, and he started to back water with all his might. To his horror he found that he could not control the boat; fight as he would, it paid no heed to his struggle, but dashed on toward the waterfall. At first Piang thought he would swim, but realized that he would be swept over just the same. There was only one thing to be done—he must ride the cataract. Sicto was left far behind, clinging to the bank, watching with a sneer the boy going as he thought, to his death. He wondered why Piang was standing up in the banco; surely it would be best to lie flat in the boat and cling to the bottom.

Gracefully Piang poised his body for the dive. The feathers were safely thrust into his long hair, and his bolo secured in his belt. With hands outstretched above his head, he waited for the great moment. He knew that if he was skilful he could clear the dangerous waters below the falls and either swim to the shore or reach his banco. Faster, faster went the boat, and his little heart thumped so that he feared it would burst. He tried to remember that this was not such a dangerous feat; others had accomplished it, and he could, if he was careful. The drop was only a few yards, but the danger lay in the shoals at the foot of the falls. What a beautiful sight Piang was, poised on the brink of that foaming cataract, the black jungle for a background! As he felt the banco quiver and twist he prepared for the dive. Finally the boat reached the crest and, with a lurch, shot from under the boy as he sprang far out into space. It seemed an eternity to Piang before he plunged into the waters below; then he sank down, down. The roaring and thundering deafened him, and he wondered if he should ever stop tumbling over in the water. It tossed him, tore from his hands any support he was able to grasp, and finally, after almost depriving him of breath, left him floating on the surface of a calm pool. How delicious the rest seemed! How tired he was! As he lay there on his back, he watched the water pour over the rocks above his head, and marveled that he had accomplished it all so easily.

With hands outstretched above his head, he waited for the great moment.

Gradually Piang regained his composure, and his first thought was for the quills. Yes, they were still safe, and he must hurry. Not fearing Sicto’s interference any more, he began to wonder how he should find the trail. Searching the river for his banco, he discovered it caught by some reeds near the shore. It was easy to swim on that side of the river; so he slowly made his way to the overturned canoe, deftly righting it, and in a moment was over the side, searching for the extra paddle he always kept tied in the bottom. Fortunately it had not been torn away, and avoiding the rapids, he hugged the shore and finally resumed his journey down the river.

What a wonderful experience Piang had had! How he would boast of his bravery, Moro fashion, and maybe the wise men would praise him. As he paddled down the river he kept his eyes open for trails; and when he heard the next cataract thundering its menace in the distance, he decided to land and search the jungle for a path. Beaching his banco, he hid it in the undergrowth, and, carefully avoiding the stinging vines, crept into the shadow of the jungle.

The great silence was everywhere, and Piang wondered if he could trust his instinct to lead him aright. The heavy vines obstructed his passage, and he was forced to cut and hew his way through the edge of the forest. Nature does her best to protect the jungle, for always, on the edges, bamboo, and bajuca (pronounced bah-hoo-kah) vie with each other in forming an impenetrable wall; but after the first few yards the obstinacy of the vines seems to relax, their sentinel duty over.

Luckily for Piang, the jungle was well supplied with paths here, and he soon found the one leading down to the barrio. His heart was light, now, and he threw back his head and shouted with glee as he remembered Sicto, pale with terror, lest he too be swept over the cataract. Very quickly his exultation subsided, however, when he realized that Sicto could easily be on this same trail, and he redoubled his efforts as he imagined he heard twigs snapping behind him. What if the boat had already gone. What if its coveted treasures were lost forever?

From his customary trot Piang broke into a run, and, panting and sweating, pushed forward. Soon the trail joined the one he had taken that morning, and in a moment he would come to the clearing where he had first seen the strange boat. Yes, there it was; ugly, cross-looking, without one of those bright-patched sails that decorated all the boats Piang had ever seen. But—was it moving? With a cry, Piang started forward as the white smoke appeared, and the shriek echoed and reëchoed through the jungle. Fury, resentment, and determination flashed across his face; with a howl he darted down the trail. There was only a little way to go now, and he would run like the wind. Friends and strangers tried to speak to him as he approached them on the trail, but he brushed them aside impatiently and rushed onward.

With his last bit of breath he stumbled through the barrio, but the boat was steadily moving out to sea. He threw himself on his face and beat the wharf with his clenched fists. All was lost—the beautiful “ban-da-na” for his mother, the “mir-ro,” too! An exclamation from one of the men arrested his attention, and he sprang to his feet in an instant. The boat had stopped; and—could he believe his eyes?—the man with the treasures was getting into a small skiff and was beckoning to Piang!