“He was here, here,” screamed the old woman. The pursuers flocked to the spot, and Piang listened as they beat the bush, clamoring for their victim. They were so infuriated at the new arrival’s unsociability that they would probably kill him if they found him.
Piang crouched back in his cramped quarters. The tiny white ants announced their disapproval of the intrusion by vicious stings, but Piang did not move. A sudden jolt made his heart beat wildly. Some one had jumped on the other end of the log, and the rotting wood had caved in. He expected each moment to be his last. Over his head the pattering of bare feet, running along the trunk, sounded like thunder.
When the lepers moved off into the jungle, Piang was not deceived. They would lie in wait, and their revenge would be the more terrible for the delay. Sweat poured down Piang’s face; his body ached where the ants had stung him. He tried to plan some means of escape, but none came to his tired brain.
“There is no God but Allah,” whispered the charm boy, and a peace seemed to fall upon him.
Many weary hours went by before a squawk penetrated the death-like stillness. Fruit-bats! It must be night. Very slowly he made his way toward the opening. Unfortunately for Piang the full moon was rising, making the soft, tropical night a wonder of beauty and loveliness. Cautiously he thrust his head through the branches that shielded his retreat. He was very near the ocean; the other end of the fallen tree, in which he had found refuge, was lying in the water, and the rising tide was gradually creeping up over it. The gentle swish of the sea comforted Piang. It was his friend, the only friend that could help him escape from this island of decay. His practised eyes discerned the shadowy forms of watchers squatting along the beach; beyond, the patrol-boat moved about restlessly, and in the distance twinkled the lights of Zamboanga.
“If I could only get past the lepers and the boat, I could swim back,” thought Piang, and he looked with longing at the oily smoothness of the water. Nothing could slip past the boat on that sea of glass in the bright moonlight. He remembered the schools of sharks he had seen in the Sabah’s wake and shuddered; but even that was better than being doomed to die here. He pillowed his head on his arms and leaned against the trunk; his hand closed over a piece of dry bamboo. Lifting it to his eye, he idly squinted through it; it was smooth and clean.
Piang fell to soliloquizing. How many times, surrounded by his friends, he had swum in the moonlight. He remembered one night in particular. How they had sported with bamboo sticks, blowing the spray high in the air, laughing as it fell upon each other! Piang could swim miles with arms folded, pushing through the water like a fish, rolling over on his back or sides, when tired. He had fooled the tribe by staying under water for three minutes, breathing easily through his hollow, bamboo tube. Kali had given him a prize.
Piang’s eyes widened, brightened. With the bamboo stick—could he? He blew through it softly and laughed. But how to get into the water without being detected? The approaching tide, lapping the other end of the fallen log, seemed to be caressing it in pity. Piang examined it closely. Dared he crawl along the trunk? His eyes fell upon the hole just above the water where one of his pursuers had broken through.
“Allah, I thank Thee,” breathed the excited boy. He had found his chance, had discovered a possible means of escape.
Crawling back into the log, he tested the heart of the tree and to his joy, it crumbled under his touch. With a smothered cry, he began to cut his way through the pithy, dust-like wood, and as he gradually worked quantities of the soft fiber loose, he tossed it behind him. If he could work his way through the rotted trunk before the tide turned, it would be an easy matter to slip through the hole into the water.