Hello! First of all, let me introduce myself: My name is Pedro. I was born in South America, but currently, I live in North Carolina. I come from a small family, from a tradition called “caipira,” simple folks from the countryside. I was fortunate and dedicated enough to study and attend college in Europe, graduating in anthropology. Currently, I work as a researcher, producing articles and teaching to supplement my income. But what brought me to write here is that I’ve heard this is the place where stories are told that others wouldn’t believe, and I definitely have one of those, or rather, not exactly me. It all started with the death of my father, three months ago. He passed away in his sleep; he was already elderly, and given the circumstances, I traveled back home to arrange the burial.
When I arrived there, I found myself among some relatives, and after the wake and mourning period, my aunt Zélia came to talk to me. She was the second oldest, after my father; wrinkles weighed heavily on her face, and I could hear the weariness in her voice. She told me that I had an inheritance left by my father. I tried to refuse, considering that whatever the amount, it wouldn’t make much difference to me, and it could be useful for them, but she explained that it wasn’t about that. It was something that, according to her, had to do with what I did: an old document, yellowed and worn pages. I took it in my hands when she handed it to me, looking at the title “The Campaign of the Flag of São Miguel, by Baltazar Pereira dos Santos.” Apparently, he was one of our ancestors who went through expeditions, being one of those known as “bandeirantes,” exploring the forests, establishing outposts, and helping to colonize. The idea of having this material in hand, perhaps being the first to publish something about it in academia, crossed my mind. I decided to stay here; I didn’t want to risk the airport “confiscating” it since it’s a historical document and we don’t exactly have any credentials for it (I even accept legal advice).
However, while staying in the mud house that was my shelter in childhood, reading the texts under a weak yellow light, I understood that perhaps it might not be possible to publish them officially. Therefore, I will report here the excerpts from these expedition records as I study them, along with some notes. I hope the translation is readable since the language is old; I made an effort to maintain the original meanings and local names. Now, let me share Baltazar’s words with you:
“Under the Flag of Saint Michael, our patron, we disembarked the caravel at the port of the Bay of All Saints. The climate of this new land is milder, more pleasant than what we’ve recently endured at home. The wind brings a comforting humidity to the lungs, and the dense vegetation visibly seems to soothe the fierce heat of the sun. Upon reaching the port, I disembarked along with my crewmates, namely, Manoel Antunes, son of a family known for their bravery; his father was a soldier, and he sought to prove he had the family’s blood by coming here; Antonio de Assis, a friar who recently completed his studies, a devout man, and quickly volunteered to preach to the pagan souls found here; and lastly, Judas Silvano. This is not his real name, but rather a nickname given to him. It seems our crown had the brilliant idea of sending convicts here as a form of service. This man committed a betrayal within his family, killing one of his brothers, and given the choice between the gallows and the sail, he quickly chose the latter, occupying the last place on our vessel.
We were then welcomed here by the leader of our expedition: Colonel Dantas, a noble and brave man, known in the region for many deeds. He led us to a small local inn, run by Célia, a daughter of one of ours and of the local inhabitants, according to Dantas, skilled with a knife, not only in the kitchen but also in combat. We spent three days resting from the journey, during which time I got to know the small village set up here. There are many locals, a people with reddish skin and straight hair flowing down their heads. They are suited to the climate, walking with few clothes, gentle in their manners, and open to conversation, although they exhibit some difficulty in pronouncing certain sounds.
It was due to one of these, Peri, if memory serves me right, that I began to reconsider my decision to come here. We met on the edge of the port while he was fishing. He told me that since it was a full moon night, hunting would be good in the forest, and he invited me to go with him to familiarize myself with the local beasts. I accepted gladly, seeing no impediment. When the time came and the sun had already set, we set out, walking along a sparsely carved trail in the earth, stepping between dry branches and leaves that covered the ground. I noticed that Peri walked barefoot, and I wondered how he managed it, considering the roughness of the ground.
As we walked among the trees, we spotted an animal, large, robust, with a small trunk on its nose, called “Anta” by the locals. Peri took his bow and shot, felling the animal instantly as the arrow pierced the front of its head. As we gathered the meat, I conversed with him a bit, wanting to learn more about the area.
“Here we have many animals, dangerous on the ground, m’bois, or as you say, snakes. Some kill if they bite you.”
“I’ll remember to keep an eye out,” I said. “Is there anything bigger? Something that eats people?”
“It’s very rare to have one, but the Jaeça-caré, large lizards in the river. And the Îaguara, it usually fears people when we’re together, but if they catch one alone, you might not even see it.”
I looked around, searching for movement in the forest, but encountering only silence and darkness. Fear crept up my spine as I felt something watching me. I made the sign of the cross, blessing myself until this omen passed. Peri, still crouched over the animal’s body, turned his gaze to me.
“Did you feel it too?”
“What?” I asked.
“The heavy air.” He stood up quickly. “We’re not alone in this forest.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment as he began to whisper things in his language, the only word I recognized being “Anhangá,” repeated several times. I followed him as we took a few turns.
“Peri, the camp is the other way.”
“I know, and he knows too. We have to go around.”
“He who?” I asked, without getting answers.
We then stopped under a tree with a sturdy, wide trunk, which allowed us to crouch in front of it while the curve of its roots covered us.
“What happened, Peri?”
“The Anhangá. I didn’t know it had come here.”
“Anhangá? What is that?”
“It’s a forest spirit. It comes after those who hunt animals with offspring or those who do evil…”
“And the animal we caught had offspring?”
“It seems so. We have to stay here and wait for it to pass.”
As he said this, a sharp, musical cry swept through the air, causing the hairs on my neck to stand on end.
“Is that cry from it?”
“Yes. It will try to make us reveal where we are.”
I peeked over the root.
“And what does it look like?”
Peri, upon turning and seeing me in that position, quickly pulled me back.
“You can’t! You can’t see it. If you see it, you’ll get sick, or even worse! It appears as an animal, but entirely white. Usually as a field deer, but sometimes as a bird.”
He stopped after that. We began to hear footsteps approaching, something crushing the grass, getting closer and closer. I could feel my heart rising to my throat as I tried to listen. My muscles and joints were frozen as I heard breathing, and then, my fear became reality: As I turned my gaze to the side, I saw the white silhouette, its thin and long legs practically glowing in the darkness. It had large, fur-covered horns and seemed to sniff us out. I held my breath, praying to Our Lady that it would pass without seeing us. Sweat started to drip down my forehead, cold. The creature stood there for a few moments, motionless, and then neighed, making that dreadful noise echo again, which almost made me jump out of my skin, and then it ran back the way it came.
My flesh trembled as I tried to stand up; my legs made it difficult to keep myself supported. Peri seemed the same, beaten down. He didn’t speak until we returned to the village. We both fell ill, high fever, trembling, and sweating, which mysteriously passed in three days. The doctor said it was forest fever and that we had to apply some plants to our skin. But both Peri and I knew, and I called him to the inn after we recovered.
“What the devil was that?”
“The Anhangá, protector of the forest and animals. It was after us because we hunted a mother. It haunted my people and others in the region whenever we did something like that. Hunting animals with offspring, hunting the offspring, fishing during fish spawning season, and birds in the nest. It disguises itself as whatever creature man hunts.”
“It would have been useful to have been warned earlier.”
“I didn’t know it was here; it had never come this way since you all arrived. We thought it was a good sign.”
The moonlight streamed in through the window.
“The expedition men went out hunting today,” I said, looking at the dense, dark vegetation.
Peri looked at me with fear, and I shared his apprehension when together, we heard the cursed cry followed by a gunshot. We are now here, sitting, unable to do anything while our companions fight with something that I judge to be otherworldly. May Our Lord have mercy on the men’s flesh, and may the day bring better results.”
Very apprehensively,
Baltazar P.
I finished reading this first entry. I don’t know, but it seems to me like the perspective of a people, still somewhat mythical, facing something they didn’t know. I’m skeptical, I confess, but ever since I read this, I’ve been somewhat disturbed. As the sun hides and a pale, dwindling moon casts a faint, almost imperceptible glow, I realize that the forest has never been as frightening to me as it is now. As a child, I certainly had a “fear” of the dark, or of who knows what, but now, I feel something more primitive as I stare into the emptiness that my vision cannot penetrate. But indeed, what changes my perspective is the terrible scream I heard about 10 minutes ago. My hands tremble as I look again at the worn-out leaves, torn at their tips. I reread several times to make sure, but my eyes definitely do not deceive me, while my heart falters with dread. No bird, and I dare say no person, could make that sound.
And I just hope that Baltazar’s fate isn’t hereditary…