FOURTH ADVENTURE
THE FIRE TREE
The velvety dusk of the jungle was pierced here and there by thebrilliant, crimson buds of the fire-tree. For weeks all Moroland hadwaited for their coming, the heralds of the combat season. Duringthe harvest time there is a truce in these turbulent islands, butwhen the crops have been gathered, the natives become restless andlong to sally forth to conquer. The myth that victory comes onlyto the tribe whose fire-tree has bloomed is implicitly believed,and impatiently the Moros await this announcement of the combatseason. Paying no heed to their capital city, Manila, these merrylittle isles revel in intrigue, and there is no sport in Moroland thatcan compare with the combat. Tribes go forth to conquer and enslaveothers; the men look forward to it as an opportunity to prove theirprowess; the women thrill at the possibility of capture. True, theymay become the slaves of some unscrupulous dato, but there is alwaysthe romantic chance that they may fall into the hands of the hero oftheir dreams and become the favorite of his seraglio.
"Where is Piang?" Dato Kali Pandapatan addressed a copper-coloredslave who salaamed and replied:
"In the jungle, O most high one, searching for the blooming firebranch."
"It is well." Kali Pandapatan, with folded arms, paused in thedoorway of his hut, watching expectantly the only opening into thefrowning jungle.
"He comes! He comes!" rippled through the barrio.
The eager inhabitants gathered to learn if the time was yet ripe. Intotheir midst ran a slim, bronze lad, waving above his head a branch,almost bare of green, but aflame with crimson blossoms. There wasa hush. Women gathered their children to them; men grasped theirweapons more firmly, and the young boys looked with longing eyes atthe fortunate Piang.
"_Ooola!_" exclaimed Piang. Every lip repeated the word; every knee wasbent, and the tribe lay prostrate at his feet; only old Kali Pandapatanremained standing, eyeing Piang with satisfaction. For a full twominutes the crowd remained motionless. The palm-trees whispered andcrackled above them, and the river sent a soft accompaniment to thejungle music. To and fro above their heads Piang majestically wavedthe branch, until finally one bold voice demanded:
"_Anting-anting!_" ("The charm, the charm!") Piang defiantly baredhis breast, exposing the sacred charm suspended from his necklace ofcrocodile teeth. There was moaning in the crowd, sobs of excitement,and protests of impatience, but every head remained lowered untilthe august relic was again covered. Piang began to chant in a high,nasal voice, and the others rose and joined in creating a weird,monotonous drawl. Like a statue stood the boy, holding the branchhigh above his head while they circled round and round him. Faster,faster they whirled; in a frenzy they shrieked; some fell and otherstramped them in their excitement. Suddenly the boy stamped his feet,uttering a sharp cry. Every eye turned toward him.
"To the river!" he cried and lead the way. Two boys hurried forwardand were on their knees in a twinkling, hollowing out a place in thesand, dog fashion. With many incantations and prayers, the branch wasplanted in the hole, the damp sand laid carefully around the base,and the two proud boys left to watch. If the flowers of the firetree faded before the scorching sun set, it was destined that thetribe would be unsuccessful in its ventures for the season; shouldthe blooms defy the rays of the sun until the dews of evening restedon its petals, old Kali Pandapatan could sally forth unafraid to meethis fierce brothers of the jungle.
Patiently they waited through the long, hot day; many eyes wereanxiously turned toward the sacred emblem, but none dared approach. Thelittle Moro boys, in whose care the branch had been left, squatted insilent patience. No butterfly was suffered to light on the delicatepetals, no droning bee allowed to gather the honey of its cups. Ondragged the sweltering afternoon. Piang and the dato were the onlyones allowed to know that the branch was still fresh, but only Piangknew that its flowers had been dipped into a cool stream before itcame to the tribe to foretell its victories or defeats.
"Allah, il Allah!" the call rang through the village. Sunset, thehour of prayer! Now, now they would know. Solemnly old Pandita Asinled the chant while the Moros prostrated themselves in supplication,and the dying sun slipped over the mountains, touching every treeand flower with its gold.
There was great feasting and celebration in the barrio thatnight. Women donned their most brilliant sarongs, tinted theirsilver-tipped finger nails with henna, and streaked their browswith splotches of white rice paste. The men twisted their hair up ingorgeous head-cloths, and the knot bristled with creeses. Suspendedfrom their many-colored sashes were barongs, campilans or bolos, andtiny bells were fastened into the lobes of their ears. The brilliantlystriped breeches seemed likely to burst, so tightly were they drawnover shapely limbs.
The branch had not withered. It had withstood the scorching rays ofthe sun. Kali Pandapatan was invincible.
Adventures of Piang the Moro Jungle Boy Page 9
