The Adventures of Piang the Moro Jungle Boy | Page 2

no success, and she turned them over to America with a sigh of
relief. Perpetual warfare is the pastime of the Moro; it is his sport, his
vocation; and the Mother Jungle hurls a livelihood at his feet. Food,
clothing, shelter are his birthright.
One of the most powerful tribes of Moroland is ruled by Dato (chief)
Kali Pandapatan. Far up in the hills dwells this powerful clan, arrogant
and superior in its power. Piang, the chosen of Allah, dwells among
them; haughtily the boy accepts their homage as his due, for he is
destined to become their ruler some day. His prowess and bravery are
the boast of his people, and the name of Piang is known from one end
of Mindanao to the other.
The tribe was assembled for the ceremony. Within the hollow square
stood Dato (chief) Kali Pandapatan and old Pandita (priest) Asin. There

was a rustle of expectancy among the onlookers; their interest was
divided between the two solitary figures, silently waiting, and a hut,
much bedecked with gaudy trappings and greens. On all sides the silent
jungle closed in around the brilliant throng, seeming to bear witness
against mankind; men might force a tiny clearing in its very heart after
years of struggle and work, but the virgin forest sang on, undisturbed,
watchful.
The grass flaps, forming the door of the hut, moved. Like a soft wind
caressing the palm-trees, a murmur rustled through the crowd:
"It is he!"
Children scrambled away from restraining parents to get a better view;
dogs, filled with uneasiness by this strange silence, whined. The
stillness was unnatural. Distant cries of a mina-bird floated to this
strained audience; the river, muttering its plaints to the listening rushes,
sounded like a cataract in their ears.
Into the midst of this crowd walked a stately, graceful youth. The dusky
goldenness of his skin was enhanced by his rainbow-hued garments.
From waist to ankle he was encased in breeches as tight as any
gymnast's pantaloons; they were striped in greens and scarlets and had
small gold filigree buttons down the sides. A tight jacket, buttoned to
the throat, was fastened with another row of buttons, and around his
waist was gracefully tied a crimson sash, the fringed ends heavy with
glass beads and seed-pearls. A campilan (two-handled knife,
double-edged), and a pearl-handled creese (dagger) were thrust into the
sash. With arrogant tread he advanced, the ranks dividing like a wave
before an aggressive war-prau. His piercing black eyes expressed utter
indifference, and he ignored those gathered to witness his triumph.
Only once he seemed to smile when the little slave girl, Papita, timidly
touched his arm. The rebuke that fell upon her from the others, brought
a frown to the boy's face, but he continued to advance until he stood
beside Dato Kali Pandapatan and Pandita Asin. Here, like a sentinel
giant, bereft of his nearest kin, one monster tree remained standing. It
seemed to whisper to its distant mates, who nodded answer from their
ranks at the edge of the clearing. Under this tree Piang paused, gazing

fixedly at his beloved chief.
"Piang," said Kali, "the time has come for you to prove that you are the
chosen of Allah."
A perceptible rustle followed this.
"On the night of your birth, the panditas announced that the charm boy,
who was to lead the tribe to victory, would be born before the stars
dimmed. Your cry came first, but there was another, also, fated to come
to us that night. The mestizo (half-breed) boy, Sicto, opened his eyes
before that same dawn, and you are destined to prove which is the
chosen Allah." Anxiously the Moro men and women gazed at their idol,
Piang. His manly little head was held high, and the powerful shoulders
squared as he listened.
The sun, but lately risen, bathed the multitude in its early light and
chased the light filigree of moisture from the foliage. Through the
branches of the solitary tree, wavy sunbeams made their way to flicker
and play around Piang, and one bold dart seemed to hesitate and caress
the mass of glossy, black hair.
"Sicto!" called Kali. There was another murmur, but very different
from the one that had preceded Piang's coming. From the same hut
came forth another boy. A little taller than Piang, was Sicto, lean and
lank of limb. His skin was a dirty cream color, more like that of the
Mongolian than the warm tinted Mohammedan. His costume was much
like Piang's, but it was not carried with the royal dignity of the other
boy's. Sicto's head was held a little down; the murky eyes avoided
meeting those of his tribesmen, and his whole attitude gave the
impression of slinking. The high cheek-bones and slightly tilted eyes
bore evidence of