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

by Florence Partello Stuart

How many days was he from Lake Lanao? He counted the suns that must rise and set before he should arrive. There were four, if he should be fortunate enough to find the Ganassi trail. Piang had not lost time by returning to the coast to pick up the trail, but had trusted to his instinct to lead him aright. Surely, if he followed the sun by day, and the big bright evening star by night, he would come upon the trail the second day. He must avoid the lake people at all costs; they were not to be trusted, and his life would pay the penalty if they caught him spying. Silently the jungle child sped along. Nothing escaped his watchful eye; no sound eluded his trained ear. Once he darted aside just in time to escape the toils of the dread python as it swooped from above to claim its victim. Another time his bolo saved him, and a wild civet-cat lay at his feet. Chuckling at his prowess, Piang drew his knife across the animal’s belly, and slipped off the skin, almost whole. It would be useful to him, and maybe he could find the herb that is used to cure pelts.

It was very difficult traveling. The sun was not visible during the afternoon, and Piang lost his direction. Blundering here and there, he often came back to the same place. It was no use; he could not find the trail without the assistance of sun or stars. Sometimes it was days before either could penetrate the dense mist that accompanies the tropical rains. Discouraged, he threw himself on the ground.

An unusual sound made him jerk his head up to listen. It came again, and the boy rose quietly to his feet, focusing his senses on the sound. Cautiously he advanced toward it. In the jungle it is always wiser to be the one to attack. The sound was repeated, and Piang breathed easier. It was made by an animal, not by his dread lake enemies. Gradually he crept nearer and when he parted the bushes and peeped through, he almost shouted in his excitement. He had reached the Big Pass. A broad river swept rapidly by, and along the banks wild carabao rolled and splashed, making queer diminutive sounds, not in keeping with their ungainly size. Piang was careful to keep out of sight, as they are apt to be dangerous when their very uncertain nerves are startled.

For more than two days Piang fought his way through the entanglement of cogon grass and vicious vines, cutting and hewing his way, afraid to cross the river and follow the Ganassi trail. Finally, one rosy dawn, he came upon the lake as it sparkled and shimmered in the early light. The boy held his breath, delighted with the beauty of the view. Far in the distance mountains rose in a blue and purple haze. The lake was nestled in the heart of them, fed by many clear brooks and springs. Its bed had once been the crater of an active volcano, but Piang did not know this.

From his retreat, built high among the dense trees, Piang watched the lake people ply their way to and fro across the water. Somewhere on that lake was the secret of the floating rice, and the boy was determined to discover the truth. He hid before dawn at the water’s edge near a spot that he had noticed was much frequented. As usual, a swarm of natives visited it about noon. Piang watched them dip up gourds and cocoanut-shell cups full of water. They strained it through cloths, repeating and repeating the action. He was sure it was the coveted rice that they were gathering and he impatiently waited for them to go; no sooner had they departed, however, than others arrived to take up the task. There was nothing to do, but wait again for dawn, and Piang wriggled himself back to his grove and mounted his platform home.

He was very restless all night and hardly slept at all, so anxious was he for the first streaks of light. As he lay with eyes upturned, he watched the stars grow dim: before they had entirely disappeared, Piang was standing by the water ready for the dive. His bolo was slung at his side, and in his mouth he carried a smaller knife. One never knows what one may meet at the bottom of an unknown lake, and Piang was prepared for any emergency.

At last it was light, at last he could see into the clear lake. Climbing out on the rocks as far as he could, he let himself down into the cool water. How he rejoiced at the feel of it and how easily he slipped along toward the spot where he had watched the natives the day before!

He looked for signs of rice. Seaweed tricked him; bubbles vanished and he reached to grasp them. Round and round he swam, and finally his hands closed over something small and slippery. Breathlessly he fingered it, and opening his hand as he trod water, he beheld the mushy rice grains.

Taking a long survey, he assured himself that there was no one in sight. Yesterday the Moros had not come before noon; and if he worked quickly, he might discover the secret to-day. Taking a long breath, Piang dived straight down and, swimming along the bottom, examined the rocks carefully; but he came back to the surface none the wiser for his plunge. A puzzled look puckered his face. Tilting his head to one side, he considered. That was surely rice; it did not grow here, so it must come from under the water. Again he dived, but this time he swam nearer the surface and he saw that there was more rice floating by than he had imagined. It was not coming from the bottom, it was drifting from the center of the lake!

Excitedly he headed in that direction, swimming under water whenever he lost the trail of the rice. It was not strange that it only came to the top in that one spot. There was a strong current that bore it upward, whirling it in an eddy before it sank to the bottom. Farther, farther he went, always swimming toward the center of the lake; and as he went, the rice grew thicker. Eagerly he plunged forward, keeping his eyes open, watching the rice.