The Adventures of Piang the Moro Jungle Boy | Page 4

in the easy costume of the jungle traveler;
breech-clout, head-cloth, a sarong, flung carelessly over one shoulder,
and a pañuelo (handkerchief) with a few necessary articles tied
securely in it. His weapons were a bolo, a creese, and a bow and arrow.
Piang's bare limbs, bronze and powerful, glistened in the brilliant
sunshine, and he was very picturesque as he paddled along the stream,
dipping his slim hands into the current, arresting objects that floated by.
He had made his banco (canoe) himself; had even felled the palma
brava alone, and had spent days burning and chopping the center away,
until at last he was the proud possessor of one of the swiftest canoes on
the river. As on ice-boats, long outriggers of slender poles extended
across the banco, and the ends were joined by other bamboo poles, so
that the canoe looked like a giant dragon-fly as it skimmed lightly over
the water.
Piang stopped at a lily-pad to gather some of the inviting blossoms, but
regretted it instantly, as a swarm of mosquitos rose and enveloped him.
He thought to escape their vicious attacks by paddling faster, but it was
no use; they had come to stay. Trailing after him a long uneven stream,
they seemed to take turns in tormenting him, and as the leaders became
satiated, they fell back, allowing the rear rankers to buzz forward and
renew the attack. Piang longed for a certain kind of moss that grows at
the roots of trees, but his keen eyes could not discover any.
It was almost all he could do, to paddle his banco and fight the pests;
his sarong was wrapped tightly around him, but it was no protection
against the savage mosquitos, and he was about to drop in the water
despite the crocodiles, when he spied some of the moss. With a cry of
relief, he headed toward the bank and managed to pull some into the
boat. Taking from his bundle a queerly shaped, wooden object, he spun

it like a top, rapidly, backward and forward in a pan until smoke
appeared at the point of the rod. Powdering some bark, he threw it into
the pan, and when it began to blaze, he added some of the damp moss.
Gradually a thick, pungent smoke arose. It curled upward, enveloping
him and almost choking him with its overwhelming aroma, but it
dispelled the mosquitos immediately, and Piang continued his journey
unmolested.
He was very happy that morning, for was he not free, honored by his
tribe, and engaged in the dearest of pastimes, adventure? The poor little
girls have no choice in their occupations, for as soon as they are large
enough, their tasks are allotted to them; they must sit all day and weave,
or wear out their little backs pounding rice in the big wooden bowls.
But the man child is free. The jungle is his task. He must learn to trap
game, to find where the fruits abound, and to avoid the many dangers
that wait for him. Piang broke into a native chant:
"Ee-ung pee-ang, unk ah-wang!" As it resounded through the forest in
his high-pitched, nasal tones, he was answered from the trees, and little,
gray monkeys came swinging along to see who their visitor might be.
Piang mischievously tossed a piece of the smoking moss to the bank
and paused to see the fun. Their almost human coughs, as the smoke
was wafted their way, made him laugh. They scampered down,
tumbling over each other in their anxiety to be first, and one little
fellow, who succeeded in out-distancing the others, stuck its hand into
the smoldering embers. Astonished, at first, it nursed the injured
member, but gradually becoming infuriated, it finally shrieked and
jumped up and down. It began to pelt the smudge madly with stones,
chattering excitedly to its companions, as if describing the tragedy. The
others had climbed back into the trees, paying no attention to Piang, but
keeping a watchful eye on the danger that had been hurled among them.
Piang lazily plied his paddle, laughing to himself at the foolishness of
monkeys. He tried to peer through the dense trees that crowded toward
the river, hiding the secrets of the jungle. He wanted to know those
secrets, wanted to match his strength against the numberless dangers
that are always veiled by that twilight, which the sun strives in vain to

penetrate, year after year, turning away discouraged. Piang listlessly
examined the river, little knowing the perilous adventure that waited
for him just beyond the bend.
One lone log, majestic in its solitude, floated down the river, resisting
the efforts of tenacious creepers to bind and hold it prisoner. Piang
poked it with his paddle. Another was floating in its wake, and he idly