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Something took my mom in the woods of Brazil, I'm still not sure it was the real monster.
The south of Brazil is not a place you think of when you hear mention of my country. The winters are cold and sometimes even brutal, and light snow is not uncommon across the deep mountains and woods of the region. The people are comparatively cold and distant too. Something to do with our German and Italian ancestors who moved here en masse in the late 1800s, my parents say.
Even as a child, I understood this land wasn’t really meant for us. The summers burned my skin and the other seasons were humid and unbearable. The staccato winters were the only time I felt remotely comfortable, often visiting my family’s farm cabin in the mountain ranges to stay warm by the fire as a sort of family bonding ritual. In spite of feeling alien to the land though, I was surprised that my parents had never told me any of the folklore from Brazil. I chalked it up to us being staunchly evangelical, the particular Brazilian breed that outright rejects all folklorism as pagan or demonic.
I still remember the day I first learned about the truth behind why though. We had just come back from visiting the local church, a small concrete box of a place with fluorescent lighting and plastic chairs. The preacher was a sweaty and fidgety man wearing a too large navy suit and highlighter green shirt. I was used to being dragged to a new church every time we left our city, so I tuned in and out as the preacher denounced the names of native spirits like Jasy Jatere and Pombagiria, etc. The crowed wailed and swelled in response as the preacher placed his hands on the heads and backs of the crying churchgoers, occasionally blowing into their faces as they fell backwards. It was all very mundane to 5 year old me at that point, and I dozed off sometime around the 3rd hour of service.
I woke up back in my aunt’s cabin curled up in a wooden chair. A storm had arrived and the sleet threatened to steal my uncle’s straw hat as he ran outside to pull the livestock into their respective shelters. My parents had left earlier to grab some supplies back in town. The roads were muddy and treacherous though, and they had called to let my aunt and uncle know they wouldn’t be getting back before nightfall.
I drowsily looked around and realized my aunt had prepared a roast for the family, a terrifyingly live-looking hog with an apple in its mouth, like I had seen in the cartoons.
“Gaucho style” she had said, with a warm smile.
Out of sheer boredom and without my dad’s playful ribbing to distract me, I sat with the adults around the massive cast iron stove. My uncle, with his drenched plaid button-up and wet hair, placed more firewood into the mouth of the stove, causing embers to shoot out at my feet. The pattering of the rain on the tin metal roof above made the atmosphere cozy and meditative, in spite of the noise it caused.
With the sun gone behind the storm clouds, the conversation veered from local gossip to trite religious musings, the occasional nagging of my elderly grandmother towards my aunt, and then, once my grandmother retired to bed, the stories began.
My uncle gleefully told tale of the Mula Sem Cabeça - a headless horse that supposedly haunts the rural countryside - an unfortunate woman eternally cursed for daring to have relations with the local priests. Even at that time, I had wondered why it was the woman who was cursed, and not the priests for breaking their oaths, but I sat silently eating my pork and feijoada, transfixed by the wild showmanship of my uncles storytelling.
The stories of wild encounters and obvious jokes spun into the night, my uncle eventually tiring and staring into the fire while sipping his m*até tea.* After a couple of minutes, and for the first time, my aunt chimes in with a story of her own.
“Do you know when your mom and I were children, we met the Saçi Perere?” She looked down at me with a knowing grin.
I stared at her, surprised by the abrupt change of tone. I, like every other Brazilian child knew the story of Saçi. He was a trickster spirit spun out of native mythology that had blended in with the oral traditions of slaves long ago. He wasn’t outright evil, as far as children’s media portrayed him, but my very Christian family thought otherwise.
“My mom never told me that.” I mentioned, my tone suggesting I needed to hear more.
“It was a day just like this one. At the time we lived in a smaller shack, a lean-to made of tin just like our roof.”
”It must have been loud!” I exclaim, noting the pitter patter above. She smiles.
“It was so loud, your mother said it drove her crazy. She would often leave in the middle of a storm to go frog-catching. I was her older sister though, so I had to get her for dinner when grandma called.”
She takes a sip of her tea, eyes glazing over as she stares towards the fire.
“Your mother was wildly irresponsible, a dirty child who often returned home covered in mud. I would tell her stories of monsters in the hopes of giving her more fear of the outdoors, if only to make my life easier.”
I exhale, the thought of my very strict mother catching frogs in the mud seeming impossibly distant to me.
“That day the sleet was freezing over, so I worried your mother would get sick if I waited till dinner to find her, and I set out into the woods nearby to look for her usual spots. It was very unlike me to care that much, but if she got sick grandma would have hit us with the *vara.*”
Its phrased as a joke, but her eyes are melancholy, so I sip my juice quietly in response.
“I put on my jacket and headed towards the woods where I often found her. To my surprise, a disgruntled looking man walked out of the woods, his face filled with a concern I couldn’t place. It wasn’t uncommon for folks to walk into the woods for firewood or to dispose of a sick or dying animal. I recognized this man from our church, but he looked surprised to see me. I waved a hello with one hand while pulling my hood over to protect from the rain, and he did the same, though he wore no raincoat and all but ran back towards the homes.” Another sip of tea, and I catch my uncle giving my aunt a concerned sideways look.
“It took about fifteen minutes to get to the pond where I usually find her kneeling in the mud, catching a frog to speak to it, and then letting it go. Today though, she wasn’t there.” A pause. I notice my aunt’s nails are digging around her hand, white and red marks dotting her fingers.
“I did hear her laughter though, I knew she had gone deeper into the woods with her stupid frog, so I went after her. Imagine my surprise when I find her in a clearing, talking to a boy a bit taller than she was, in the middle of the rain. Of course, I thought it was a young boy at first, and was immediately angry that she was sneaking out to do God knows what.”
“It was the saçi!” I say, childlike fear and curiosity breaking any tension in her storytelling.
She smiles wanly. “The moment I stepped foot into the clearing that “boy” grabbed her hand, and I swear to all that is holy, that they didn’t run, but *hopped* in one massive leap into the woods.”
“I ran after her, terrified of losing her, not registering that I had completely lost my sense of direction. After thirty minutes I was in the middle of the forest alone, shivering from the rain and with my boots full of mud. I had no idea where she had gone or how I’d even get back if I found her. I was still a kid too then, only a few years older than you.”
“What happened then?” I asked, terrified for my aunt and mother. Until then, I had lived a comfortable sheltered life, and couldn’t imagine going traipsing in the woods like this.
“Night began to fall and I began to cry. I stopped worrying about your mom then, and began to cry out for your grandma in the hopes she or someone would hear me. When the sun finally fell behind the hills, I curled up by a tree and started praying like we had been taught. It was then that I was hit by the stench of what seemed like a cigar. I thought at first that my dad had come back looking for me, since it smelled similar to his cigars, but my hopes were quickly dashed when a figure appeared in front of me, silhouetted by the moon.” Her nails are tapping her cup now, audibly clinking.
“It wasn’t grandpa, no, and it wasn’t the boy I had seen vaguely earlier, though it was the same size. You know a lot of people say saçi smokes a cigar, but I know the truth. The footsteps were invisible at first, just indents on the ground. When he walked over the leaves near me, they curled up into puffs of smoke, blending together to form his legs and waist and chest and head. This creature had a grin too, a massive smile recognizable only by the moonlight shining through the hole indicating his face and mouth. Even stranger were his eyes, which looked like a nocturnal animal’s large black pupils. He walked towards me with an unmistakable rhythm, a sort of side to side hop that made me have to turn my head to keep up with him.”
“Run auntie!” I yelled, nerves finally getting the best of me. My uncle laughs, a spiteful laugh though.
“I tried honey, but when I stood up my legs failed me. A gust of hot air blew into my face and my eyes burned, you know like when the stove opens up and hurts your face? So I fell back onto the ground and this smoke came over me. The last thing I remember is the smell of burnt weeds and leaves. I woke up a couple of hours later in my bed. Your mom shared a room with me, and she was there too. I would have thought it was a dream but we were both still completely covered in mud.”
I looked down, glad that the scary part was over. I was hoping my parents would come back soon too.
“If you’re wondering what happened, your mom said she was out there in the mud when a man walked up to her. She said he looked familiar, like someone from church, so when he asked if she wanted help looking for frogs deeper in the woods, she accepted. She told him she’d introduce him to her frog friend, and brought him to that clearing. When he saw her “friend” though, she says he turned white as a sheet, and ran out of the woods, leaving her alone. She told me she got lost, and her last memory before waking up was her frog hopping back towards the house, guiding her home.”
I whistle in response, like my dad usually does when he doesn't know what to say. A chill went up my spine. I was too naive to understand the implications of a man speaking to my mother in the woods, alone, but even then I knew there was something sinister about it.
“Did grandma ever find out?” I asked quietly.
“We got a big whooping for all the mud we brought into the house, and for coming home late, but we never told her. I was just happy to be back with your mother safely.” She looks up as headlights flash past the rain stricken windows.
“Looks like your Mom and Dad are here!” She tussles my hair gently as I begin to doze off and they unload bags of groceries in the rain. Later, my parents drive me home through the storm. Half-asleep, I occasionally glance through the moonroof at the peaks and stars high above, my eyes heavy with drowsiness. Something within me urges me to keep the story a secret, shared only between myself, my aunt, and my mother.
As my eyes finally close, a deep understanding settles within me: despite my family’s rejection of the land and its culture, something unknowable still watches over it. Dreams of smoke, embers, and warmth envelop me as I drift into sleep.
#entertainment
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The south of Brazil is not a place you think of when you hear mention of my country. The winters are cold and sometimes even brutal, and light snow is not uncommon across the deep mountains and woods of the region. The people are comparatively cold and distant too. Something to do with our German and Italian ancestors who moved here en masse in the late 1800s, my parents say.
Even as a child, I understood this land wasn’t really meant for us. The summers burned my skin and the other seasons were humid and unbearable. The staccato winters were the only time I felt remotely comfortable, often visiting my family’s farm cabin in the mountain ranges to stay warm by the fire as a sort of family bonding ritual. In spite of feeling alien to the land though, I was surprised that my parents had never told me any of the folklore from Brazil. I chalked it up to us being staunchly evangelical, the particular Brazilian breed that outright rejects all folklorism as pagan or demonic.
I still remember the day I first learned about the truth behind why though. We had just come back from visiting the local church, a small concrete box of a place with fluorescent lighting and plastic chairs. The preacher was a sweaty and fidgety man wearing a too large navy suit and highlighter green shirt. I was used to being dragged to a new church every time we left our city, so I tuned in and out as the preacher denounced the names of native spirits like Jasy Jatere and Pombagiria, etc. The crowed wailed and swelled in response as the preacher placed his hands on the heads and backs of the crying churchgoers, occasionally blowing into their faces as they fell backwards. It was all very mundane to 5 year old me at that point, and I dozed off sometime around the 3rd hour of service.
I woke up back in my aunt’s cabin curled up in a wooden chair. A storm had arrived and the sleet threatened to steal my uncle’s straw hat as he ran outside to pull the livestock into their respective shelters. My parents had left earlier to grab some supplies back in town. The roads were muddy and treacherous though, and they had called to let my aunt and uncle know they wouldn’t be getting back before nightfall.
I drowsily looked around and realized my aunt had prepared a roast for the family, a terrifyingly live-looking hog with an apple in its mouth, like I had seen in the cartoons.
“Gaucho style” she had said, with a warm smile.
Out of sheer boredom and without my dad’s playful ribbing to distract me, I sat with the adults around the massive cast iron stove. My uncle, with his drenched plaid button-up and wet hair, placed more firewood into the mouth of the stove, causing embers to shoot out at my feet. The pattering of the rain on the tin metal roof above made the atmosphere cozy and meditative, in spite of the noise it caused.
With the sun gone behind the storm clouds, the conversation veered from local gossip to trite religious musings, the occasional nagging of my elderly grandmother towards my aunt, and then, once my grandmother retired to bed, the stories began.
My uncle gleefully told tale of the Mula Sem Cabeça - a headless horse that supposedly haunts the rural countryside - an unfortunate woman eternally cursed for daring to have relations with the local priests. Even at that time, I had wondered why it was the woman who was cursed, and not the priests for breaking their oaths, but I sat silently eating my pork and feijoada, transfixed by the wild showmanship of my uncles storytelling.
The stories of wild encounters and obvious jokes spun into the night, my uncle eventually tiring and staring into the fire while sipping his m*até tea.* After a couple of minutes, and for the first time, my aunt chimes in with a story of her own.
“Do you know when your mom and I were children, we met the Saçi Perere?” She looked down at me with a knowing grin.
I stared at her, surprised by the abrupt change of tone. I, like every other Brazilian child knew the story of Saçi. He was a trickster spirit spun out of native mythology that had blended in with the oral traditions of slaves long ago. He wasn’t outright evil, as far as children’s media portrayed him, but my very Christian family thought otherwise.
“My mom never told me that.” I mentioned, my tone suggesting I needed to hear more.
“It was a day just like this one. At the time we lived in a smaller shack, a lean-to made of tin just like our roof.”
”It must have been loud!” I exclaim, noting the pitter patter above. She smiles.
“It was so loud, your mother said it drove her crazy. She would often leave in the middle of a storm to go frog-catching. I was her older sister though, so I had to get her for dinner when grandma called.”
She takes a sip of her tea, eyes glazing over as she stares towards the fire.
“Your mother was wildly irresponsible, a dirty child who often returned home covered in mud. I would tell her stories of monsters in the hopes of giving her more fear of the outdoors, if only to make my life easier.”
I exhale, the thought of my very strict mother catching frogs in the mud seeming impossibly distant to me.
“That day the sleet was freezing over, so I worried your mother would get sick if I waited till dinner to find her, and I set out into the woods nearby to look for her usual spots. It was very unlike me to care that much, but if she got sick grandma would have hit us with the *vara.*”
Its phrased as a joke, but her eyes are melancholy, so I sip my juice quietly in response.
“I put on my jacket and headed towards the woods where I often found her. To my surprise, a disgruntled looking man walked out of the woods, his face filled with a concern I couldn’t place. It wasn’t uncommon for folks to walk into the woods for firewood or to dispose of a sick or dying animal. I recognized this man from our church, but he looked surprised to see me. I waved a hello with one hand while pulling my hood over to protect from the rain, and he did the same, though he wore no raincoat and all but ran back towards the homes.” Another sip of tea, and I catch my uncle giving my aunt a concerned sideways look.
“It took about fifteen minutes to get to the pond where I usually find her kneeling in the mud, catching a frog to speak to it, and then letting it go. Today though, she wasn’t there.” A pause. I notice my aunt’s nails are digging around her hand, white and red marks dotting her fingers.
“I did hear her laughter though, I knew she had gone deeper into the woods with her stupid frog, so I went after her. Imagine my surprise when I find her in a clearing, talking to a boy a bit taller than she was, in the middle of the rain. Of course, I thought it was a young boy at first, and was immediately angry that she was sneaking out to do God knows what.”
“It was the saçi!” I say, childlike fear and curiosity breaking any tension in her storytelling.
She smiles wanly. “The moment I stepped foot into the clearing that “boy” grabbed her hand, and I swear to all that is holy, that they didn’t run, but *hopped* in one massive leap into the woods.”
“I ran after her, terrified of losing her, not registering that I had completely lost my sense of direction. After thirty minutes I was in the middle of the forest alone, shivering from the rain and with my boots full of mud. I had no idea where she had gone or how I’d even get back if I found her. I was still a kid too then, only a few years older than you.”
“What happened then?” I asked, terrified for my aunt and mother. Until then, I had lived a comfortable sheltered life, and couldn’t imagine going traipsing in the woods like this.
“Night began to fall and I began to cry. I stopped worrying about your mom then, and began to cry out for your grandma in the hopes she or someone would hear me. When the sun finally fell behind the hills, I curled up by a tree and started praying like we had been taught. It was then that I was hit by the stench of what seemed like a cigar. I thought at first that my dad had come back looking for me, since it smelled similar to his cigars, but my hopes were quickly dashed when a figure appeared in front of me, silhouetted by the moon.” Her nails are tapping her cup now, audibly clinking.
“It wasn’t grandpa, no, and it wasn’t the boy I had seen vaguely earlier, though it was the same size. You know a lot of people say saçi smokes a cigar, but I know the truth. The footsteps were invisible at first, just indents on the ground. When he walked over the leaves near me, they curled up into puffs of smoke, blending together to form his legs and waist and chest and head. This creature had a grin too, a massive smile recognizable only by the moonlight shining through the hole indicating his face and mouth. Even stranger were his eyes, which looked like a nocturnal animal’s large black pupils. He walked towards me with an unmistakable rhythm, a sort of side to side hop that made me have to turn my head to keep up with him.”
“Run auntie!” I yelled, nerves finally getting the best of me. My uncle laughs, a spiteful laugh though.
“I tried honey, but when I stood up my legs failed me. A gust of hot air blew into my face and my eyes burned, you know like when the stove opens up and hurts your face? So I fell back onto the ground and this smoke came over me. The last thing I remember is the smell of burnt weeds and leaves. I woke up a couple of hours later in my bed. Your mom shared a room with me, and she was there too. I would have thought it was a dream but we were both still completely covered in mud.”
I looked down, glad that the scary part was over. I was hoping my parents would come back soon too.
“If you’re wondering what happened, your mom said she was out there in the mud when a man walked up to her. She said he looked familiar, like someone from church, so when he asked if she wanted help looking for frogs deeper in the woods, she accepted. She told him she’d introduce him to her frog friend, and brought him to that clearing. When he saw her “friend” though, she says he turned white as a sheet, and ran out of the woods, leaving her alone. She told me she got lost, and her last memory before waking up was her frog hopping back towards the house, guiding her home.”
I whistle in response, like my dad usually does when he doesn't know what to say. A chill went up my spine. I was too naive to understand the implications of a man speaking to my mother in the woods, alone, but even then I knew there was something sinister about it.
“Did grandma ever find out?” I asked quietly.
“We got a big whooping for all the mud we brought into the house, and for coming home late, but we never told her. I was just happy to be back with your mother safely.” She looks up as headlights flash past the rain stricken windows.
“Looks like your Mom and Dad are here!” She tussles my hair gently as I begin to doze off and they unload bags of groceries in the rain. Later, my parents drive me home through the storm. Half-asleep, I occasionally glance through the moonroof at the peaks and stars high above, my eyes heavy with drowsiness. Something within me urges me to keep the story a secret, shared only between myself, my aunt, and my mother.
As my eyes finally close, a deep understanding settles within me: despite my family’s rejection of the land and its culture, something unknowable still watches over it. Dreams of smoke, embers, and warmth envelop me as I drift into sleep.
#entertainment
source
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