Bomba the jungle boy

by Roy Rockwood

All creatures of the jungle fly to shelter before the fury of the storm. Bomba knew this full well, as did all living creatures of these wilds, large and small.

At the first blast of that fierce gale the parrakeets flew screaming to shelter. The animals of the forests rushed for their dens and the earth dwellers scurried into their holes.

Even the savage vultures retreated before the onset of the gale and the rain of castanha nuts shaken from the bending trees. Broken wings and broken heads would have resulted from the downfall of those dreaded missiles, heavy enough with their cups to kill a man.

Scarcely had the vultures winged upward in retreat before a second and stronger rush of wind warned Bomba and the group of bleeding and mourning monkeys, in whose behalf he had fought so stoutly, that the storm was preparing to burst.

Some of the monkeys had lost their young, others their mates. What affected Bomba most was the sight of old Tatuc lying dead on the ground in a pool of blood, his teeth imbedded in the neck of the vulture that he had taken to death with him.

But there was no time for mourning now. Tragedies like these were common in the cruel jungle where the life of one thrived on the death of others. So while a bitter ache shot through Bomba at the loss of Tatuc, his best and oldest friend of the monkey tribe, he dared not linger in the spot.

He gave a sharp word of command to the monkeys, dazed by the loss of their chief, and bade them seek shelter in the upper branches of the trees.

They obeyed slowly, bewilderedly, scarcely seeming to care much what happened to them, leaving their dead behind them on the ground. They would furnish a fine feast for the hungry vultures when they returned to the battlefield, as Bomba knew they would when the storm had passed.

But Bomba could not bear to leave Tatuc there at the mercy of his foes. It revolted him to think that the vultures should have him. He had been unable to save his life, but something prompted him to one last act of affection for his old friend. So he picked up the body, threw it over his shoulder and as rapidly as he could made his way to a safer place.

It was high time. The trees were bending before the lashing of the wind. The heavy castanha nuts were already beginning to fall with heavy thuds upon the ground. The sky above the waving crests of the trees showed a weird, leaden gray. The storm was ready to burst.