“Well, it shall be Papita’s after all!” Piang said and he smiled. He crept toward the little craft to see if there were paddles in it. There were two, and Piang suddenly remembered that part of the Dyak betrothal ceremony takes place upon the water.
The waterspout caught the eggshell praus in its toils
Long Piang pondered as he watched the preparations for Papita’s betrothal. He examined the cotta, counted the praus, and his keen eyes followed the creek to its sharp turn. He crawled past the bend to make sure that the stream was navigable. Satisfied that he could escape through its waters, Piang began to cut rushes, and, squatting in the protecting undergrowth, busily worked while he indignantly listened to the loquacious Sicto telling his followers that Papita was no slave, but a maiden of royal Bogobo birth. He and his father had kept it secret because they intended her for his wife, and at last he had captured the girl from Kali Pandapatan. Faster and faster flew Piang’s fingers, and finally a basket began to shape itself out of the rushes. Soon Piang had two perfect baskets, and he slung them over his shoulder. While Sicto and his villains were celebrating the coming wedding, Piang quietly slipped back through the jungle, back to the brook where the medicinal clay had cured the bee stings. When he returned later, he handled the baskets with great care and chuckled softly to himself.
A second beating of tom-toms thundered through the barrio. The bride was coming. Down an avenue made for her by hostile looking women, crept a tiny, terrified figure. It was draped in the softest Eastern stuffs; jeweled anklets and bangles tinkled merrily. A gauzy veil of wondrous workmanship swathed the figure, but through it all Piang recognized his beloved Papita. Slowly she approached the altar; fearfully she raised her eyes to the man who awaited her there. Her little feet faltered, and the priestess supported her. Papita leaned heavily against the woman. Three soft notes of a mina-bird floated over the barrio, and Papita became suddenly alive. Again the notes stole through the jungle. The bride threw back her veil.
“The unwilling maid seems to have forgot her woe,” said one scornful woman to another. “Now that she is about to become our chief’s first wife, she does not weep and cry to be taken home.”
The priestess commenced the ceremony that was to last all night. Chants, prayers, admonitions, all, Papita responded to with renewed vigor, and her eyes furtively glanced toward a spot near the curve of the creek where a slender reed swayed unceasingly. After many hours the priestess led the way to the water and Ynoch placed Papita in her gala vinta and pushed her out into the stream. He got into another, and the two boats nosed each other while the crowd showered them with oils and perfumes. When the command came to part, each boat shot off in an opposite direction. A maiden and a bridegroom are each supposed to meditate for the last time on the advisability of the union before the final ceremony; so reads the Dyak marriage laws.
As indifferently as a queen, Papita plied her paddle, paying no heed to the unfriendly eyes and mutterings of the Dyaks; she seemed in no haste and managed her vinta with amazing skill for one so small. Only once she seemed to lose control; her vinta cut deep into the tall rushes near the bend of the creek. Had the Dyaks been less intent on exhibiting their scorn, they might have noticed that when the boat drew back from the rushes it rode deeper in the water, and the little figure labored harder at the paddle as the vinta turned the bend and passed from sight.
“Piang! is it you?”
As Papita spoke, the form lying in the bottom of the vinta slowly unfolded like a huge jack-knife. The merry eyes twinkled, the youthful, firm mouth curved at the corners, and Piang, the adventurer, smiled up at the astonished girl.