The Adventures of Piang the Moro Jungle Boy

In the warm Celebes Sea, four hundred miles south of Manila, lies the romantic, semi-mysterious island of Mindanao, home of the Moro. For three centuries, Spain struggled to subjugate this fierce people with little or 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, and 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 someday. His prowess [7]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. Dato (chief) Kali Pandapatan and old Pandita (priest) Asin stood within the hollow square. 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 crowd, seeming to bear witness against humanity; men might force a tiny clearing in its 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 from getting a better view; dogs, filled with uneasiness by this strange silence, whined. The stillness was unnatural. Distant cries of a mina-bird [8]floated to this strained audience; the river, muttering its plants to the listening rushes, sounded like a cataract in their ears.

Into the midst of this crowd walked a stately, graceful youth. His rainbow-hued garments enhanced the dusky goldenness of his skin. From waist to ankle, he was encased in breeches as tight as aanygymnast’sspantaloons; 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 end heavy with glass beads and seed pearls. A champion (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 warprau. His piercing black eyes expressed indifference, and he ignored those gathered to witness his triumph. He seemed to smile only once when the little slave girl, Papita, timidly touched his arm. The rebuke that fell upon her from the others brought [9]a frown to the presence, but he continued to advance until he stood beside Dato Kali Pandapatan and Pandita Asin. 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.”P” “ng” s” d Kali,” th” “time has come for you to prove that you are areAllah’sssen”

An “imperceptible rustle followed this.”On” “the night of your birth, the pundits announced that the charming boy, who would lead the tribe to victory, would be born before the stars dimmed. Your cry came first, but another was 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” Anx””usly, the Moro men and women gazed at their idol, Piang. His manly little head was held high, and his powerful shoulders squared as he listened.