by Jorge Amado
And the rain fell, in torrents, as though it were the beginning of another Deluge. Here everything was reminiscent of the beginning of the world. Impenetrable and mysterious, ancient as time itself and young as spring, the forest appeared to the eyes of men as the most formidable of ghostly habitations, home and refuge of the werewolf and the goblin. For them an unfathomable immensity. How small they were, there at its feet: frightened little animals! From its depths came weird voices. But most terrifying of all was the sight, as the storm broke in all its fury, of the black heavens above, where not a single star shone to greet the newcomers with its light.
They came from other lands beyond the sea, where other forests once had been, felled now and conquered, cleared by fire, with roadways broken through them, forests from which the jaguars had disappeared and where the snakes were becoming rare. And here they stood again before another virgin wood, a trackless growth as yet untrodden by the foot of man, and with no stars in the storm-laden skies overhead. In their own distant land, on moonlit nights, old women had told gloomy tales of ghosts and sprites. In some far corner of the world, none knew where, not even the farthest-faring of travellers, not even those who went up and down the backland trails reciting prophecies—somewhere it was, in that far country, that the ghosts and goblins had their dwelling-place. Thus spoke the old women out of the wisdom of age and experience.
And then, of a sudden, on a stormy night, here on the edge of the forest, men discovered that awesome nook of the universe where the goblins dwelt. Here amid this tangled vegetation, amid the creeping lianas, in company with the venemous cobras, the fierce jaguars, the evil-auguring owls, those who had been transformed by a curse into fantastic animals were paying now for the crimes they had committed. It was from here, on nights without a moon, that they set out for the highways, to lie in wait for homeward-bound travellers and bring terror to men. And so now, amid the tumult of the storm, the men stopped, feeling very small indeed, stopped and listened to the despairing ghostly cries that came from the forest. And when the lightning ceased, they beheld the flame-spitting mouths and caught a glimpse at times of the inconceivable countenance of the caapora as it did its horrible goblin dance. The forest! It is not a mystery, it is not a danger, a menace. It is a god!
No cold wind comes up from the sea, far away with its greenish waves. There is no cold wind on this night of rain and lightning gleams. Yet even so, men stand shivering, trembling with the cold as their hearts all but stop beating, the forest-god before them, and fear within.
They let fall their axes, their hand-saws, and their scythes. With lifeless hands they stand and gaze in terror at the sight of the forest. With eyes wide open, immeasurably wide open, they behold the furious deity there before them. Here are those animals which are man’s enemies and which forebode him ill; here are those ghostly shades. It is not possible to go on; no human hand may be lifted against the god. They can but fall back slowly, fear in their hearts. The lightning flashes above the forest, the rain falls. Jaguars yowl, snakes hiss, as high above the storm come the lamentations of the werewolves, the goblins, and the padre’s she-mules, defending the forest’s virginity and its mystery. The giant wood before them is the world’s past, the beginning of the world. They throw away their knives, their axes, their scythes, their saws. There is but one path for them, the backward-leading one, the one by which they have come.
2
The men are falling back. They have spent long hours, days and nights, in coming here. They have crossed rivers, made their way through all but impenetrable thickets, blazing trails, tramping through swamps; and one of them had been bitten by a snake and had been left buried at the side of the newly opened road. A rude cross, a mound of earth, was all that remained of the man from Ceará who had fallen thus. They did not put his name on the marker, for the reason that they had nothing with which to inscribe it. Along this highway in the land of cacao, this was the first of many crosses that later were to line the trails, serving to commemorate those who had perished in the conquest of the country. Another was seized with fever, bitten with that same fever which slew the monkeys. He has dragged himself along, and now he too falls back.
“It is the werewolf!” he cries, deliriously.
They are falling back. Slowly at first. Step by step, until they reach the broader path where the thorns and swamps are less numerous. The June rain falls upon them, drenching their clothes and causing them to shiver. But beyond lies the forest—the tempest, phantoms. They fall back.
They reach the trail now, a single-file passageway leading down to the banks of the river, where a canoe awaits them. They breathe a sigh of relief. The fever victim is no longer conscious of his fever; fear gives a fresh strength to his enfeebled body.
But there ahead of them, pistol in hand, his face contorted with rage, stands Juca Badaró. He, too, was at the edge of the forest, he, too, saw the lightning flashes and heard the thunder roar, he had listened to the yowling of the jaguars, the hissing of the snakes, and his heart also had contracted at the owl’s ill-omened hoot. He as well as the others knew that this was the dwelling-place of spirits. But what Juca Badaró beheld was not the forest, not the beginning of the world. His eyes were filled with another vision. All he could see was that black earth, the best in the world for the planting of cacao. Before him he saw no longer a forest shot with lightning gleams, full of weird sounds, tangled with liana stocks and locked in the mystery of its age-old trunks, a habitation for the fiercest of animals and unearthly apparitions. What he saw was a cultivated field of cacao trees, trees in regularly planted rows, laden with their golden fruit, the ripe, yellow chocolate-nuts. He could see plantation after plantation stretching over this land where now the forest stood, and a beautiful sight it was. Nothing in the world more beautiful than a cacao plantation. Confronted with the forest and its mystery, Juca Badaró smiled. Here would be fruit-laden cacao trees, casting a gentle shade upon the ground; that was all there was to it. He did not even see his men as they fell back, terror-stricken.
When he did see them, he barely had time to run up and place himself facing them, at the entrance to the trail, pistol in hand and a look of stern resolve in his eye.
“I’ll put a bullet in the first one who stirs a step!”
The men halted and stood like that for a moment, not knowing what to do. Behind them the forest, in front of them Juca Badaró, ready to fire.
“It’s the werewolf!” cried the fever victim as he bounded forward.
Juca Badaró fired, a fresh gleam in the night. The forest echoed to the shot. The others stood about the fallen man, with bowed heads. Juca Badaró came slowly up to them, his pistol still in hand. Antonio Victor had stooped to ease the wounded man’s head. The bullet had pierced the shoulder.
“I did not shoot to kill, but only to show you that I mean to be obeyed,” said Juca Badaró, in a voice that was deadly calm. And he added: “Go get some water to bathe the wound.”
He helped them care for the man; he himself adjusted a bit of cloth as a bandage and assisted in carrying him to the camp near the forest. The others were trembling as they went—but they went. The man was delirious as they laid him down. In the forest, goblins were loose.
“Come on!” said Juca Badaró.
The men looked at one another. Juca raised his revolver.
“Come on!”
Axes and pruning-knives then began to fall with a monotonous sound, awakening the forest from its sleep. Juca Badaró gazed straight ahead of him. Once again he could see all this black earth planted with cacao, plantation after plantation laden with the yellow fruit. The June rain fell on the men. The wounded man begged for water in a quavering voice. Juca kept his revolver in his hand.
3
The morning sun gilded the chocolate-nuts still green on the cacao trees as Colonel Horacio strolled slowly along between the evenly planted rows. These trees were five years old, and the plantation was now
bearing its first fruits. Here, too, the forest lay beyond, threatening and mysterious as always. He and his men had cleared it, with fire, with sickle, with axes, and with scythes, felling the huge trees and routing the jaguars and the spirits. Then came the laying out of the groves, which was done most carefully in order that the yield might be the greater. And now, after five years, the trees were in bloom, and on this morning little nuts could be seen hanging from the boughs.
The first fruits. The sun touched them with gold as Colonel Horacio strolled on. He was about fifty years of age, with a heavy-featured, saturnine, pock-marked face. Holding a roll of tobacco and a jack-knife, he was engaged in making himself a cigarro with his big calloused hands, those hands which, long ago, had wielded the whip over the burros when he was still but a pack-driver employed on a Rio do Braço plantation. Later those same hands had learned to manage a repeating-rifle, when the colonel had become a conquistador of the land.
Many legends were current about him; not even the colonel himself was aware of all the tales that were told of him in Ilhéos and Tabocas, in Palestina and Ferradas, in Agua Branca and Agua Preta. The pious old ladies who prayed to St. George in the church at Ilhéos were accustomed to say that Colonel Horacio of Ferradas kept the Devil under his bed, imprisoned in a bottle. How he had come to make the capture was a long story, having to do with the sale of the colonel’s soul one stormy day. And the Devil, having become his obedient servant, now waited on all his desires, increasing Horacio’s fortune and aiding him against his enemies. But one day—and the old ladies crossed themselves as they said this—Horacio would die without confession, and then the Devil would leap out of the bottle and carry off the colonel’s soul to the depths of hell. The colonel knew of this story and was in the habit of laughing over it, one of those short, dry laughs of his which were more frightening even than his shouts of rage on certain mornings.
There were other tales that came nearer to reality. When he was in his cups, Lawyer Ruy liked to recall the manner in which he had defended the colonel in a trial many years ago. Horacio had been accused of three particularly brutal murders. According to the indictment, not content with having slain one of his victims, he had cut off the man’s ears, nose, and tongue and had castrated him. Lawyer Ruy had been retained and was out for an acquittal. He put up a brilliant defence, making a plea in which he spoke of the “crying injustice” of the thing and of “slanders fabricated by nameless enemies without honour or self-respect.” The result was a triumph; it was one of those pleas which gave him his reputation as a great trial-lawyer. In eulogizing the colonel, he spoke of him as one of the most successful planters in that region, a man who not only had been responsible for erecting the chapel at Ferradas, but even now was undertaking to build the church at Tabocas; he was a respecter of the laws, twice councilman at Ilhéos, and a Grand Master of the Masonic Lodge. Could a man like that be guilty of so heinous a crime?
Everyone knew, of course, that he was guilty.
It happened over a cacao contract. On Horacio’s land the black man, Altino, together with his brother-in-law, Orlando, and a friend by the name of Zacarias, had entered into an agreement with the colonel to plant a grove for him. They had cleared the forest, had burned over the land, and then had planted cacao, sowing manihot and millet in between the rows in order that they might have something on which to subsist during the three years that it would take for the cacao trees to grow. When the three years were up, they came to the colonel to turn over the grove to him and to receive payment for it. Five hundred reis per foot of planted and matured cacao. With the money they planned to purchase a plot of ground for themselves, a bit of forest somewhere which they would clear and plant. They were very happy about it and went singing down the highway.
A week before, Zacarias had come to the plantation storehouse, bringing millet and manihot flour to exchange for dried beef, rum, and kidney beans. There he had met the colonel and had had a talk with him. Zacarias gave an account of how the cacao trees were doing, and his employer remarked that the three-year period was nearly ended. Afterwards Horacio had offered his visitor a drink on the veranda of the Big House and had questioned him as to what he and his companions were thinking of doing. Zacarias then told him of their plan to buy a piece of forest land and clear it for a cacao grove. The colonel not only approved of this, amiably enough, but even offered to assist them. Couldn’t they see that he had the best forest land there was for cacao-planting? From all the region round about Ferradas, that enormous region which belonged to him, they might select any plot they liked. It would be better for him that way, since he would not have to lay out any money. Zacarias came back radiant to the bunkhouse.
When the time was up, they came to see the colonel, giving him an account of the number of feet of matured cacao and informing him of the plot of forest that they wished to buy. An agreement was reached and the bargain was sealed with several drinks of rum. Then Horacio spoke.
“You may as well go ahead with clearing the woods,” he said. “One of these days, when I’m going into Ilhéos, I’ll let you know, you can come along, and we’ll put it down in black and white at the registry office.”
Something was said about a deed, but the colonel told them not to worry about that; they would be going into Ilhéos, in a month or so. With bows and polite expressions of regard the three thereupon took their departure; and the next day they set out for the forest and began cutting timber and erecting a bunkhouse. The days went by, the colonel had been to Ilhéos two or three times, they had already begun laying out the grove, and still they had nothing to show for it in writing. One day Altino plucked up courage and spoke to the colonel about it.
“You will pardon me, colonel, but we would like to know when we may have the deed to the land.”
Horacio at first was indignant at this lack of confidence; but as Altino apologized, he went on to explain that he had already instructed Lawyer Ruy, his attorney, to take care of the matter. It would not be long now; one of these days he would send for them and they would hop into Ilhéos and settle the thing. Time went by, however, and the first shoots of cacao, destined to become trees, had already begun sprouting on the newly planted land. Altino, Orlando, and Zacarias gazed at these sprigs lovingly. These were their trees, planted by their own hands, on a plot which they themselves had cleared. The sprigs would grow, bear golden-yellow fruit, fruit that meant money. They had forgotten all about the deed. Altino alone at times appeared to be thinking of it. He had known Colonel Horacio for a long while and did not trust him. Even so, they were all of them dumbfounded to learn one day that the Humming-Bird Plantation, which included their own plot, had been sold to Colonel Ramiro.
They decided to go and speak to Colonel Horacio about it. Altino and Zacarias went up to the Big House, Orlando remaining behind. They did not find the colonel; he was in Tabocas. They came back the next day; the colonel was in Ferradas. Then Orlando resolved to go himself. To him this plot of earth was everything, and he did not propose to lose it. He was told that the colonel was in Ilhéos. He nodded his head, but went on into the Big House, and there in the dining-room he found Horacio eating. The latter glanced up at his former workman.
“Want to eat, Orlando? Sit down, if you like.”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“What brings you here? Anything new?”
“Yes, sir, there is; some very ugly news. Colonel Ramiro was down at our place and he says our grove belongs to him; he says he bought it of you, colonel.”
“If Colonel Ramiro says so, it must be true. He’s not the man to lie.”
Orlando stood staring at him, but Colonel Horacio had resumed his meal. The visitor gazed at the colonel’s big calloused hands, the face with its heavy features.
“So you sold it?” he said at last.
“That’s my business.”
“But don’t you remember that you sold us that piece of forest? In place of mon
ey on the cacao contract?”
“Do you have it in writing?” and Horacio went on eating.
Orlando was twirling the enormous straw hat which he held in his hand. He realized the full extent of the misfortune that had befallen him and his companions. He realized that they no longer had any land, any cacao grove; they no longer had anything. A blood-red haze was dancing in front of his eyes, and he did not measure his words.
“It is no laughing matter, colonel. I am warning you that the day Colonel Ramiro sets foot in our grove, that day you’re going to pay for everything. Think it over.”
Saying this, he left the room, pushing aside with his arm the Negro woman, Felicia, who was serving the colonel. Horacio went on eating as if nothing had happened.
That night he and his hoodlums came down to the grove that the three friends had planted. Making for the bunkhouse, the colonel announced that he himself would take care of these fellows. And afterwards, with a paring-knife, he had cut off Orlando’s tongue, his ears, his nose, and then, taking down his victim’s trousers, had castrated him. He then went back to the plantation with his men; and when later one of them was arrested by the police for drunkenness and accused him of the crime, Horacio gave his usual laugh. He was acquitted.
