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Authors: Jorge Amado
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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 propheciesâsomewhere 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 manâs 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 padreâs she-mules, defending the forestâs virginity and its mystery. The giant wood before them is the worldâs 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
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 propheciesâsomewhere 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 manâs 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 padreâs she-mules, defending the forestâs virginity and its mystery. The giant wood before them is the worldâs 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
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