The roar of the speedboat’s engine cut through the silence of the river, sending ripples across the dark water as Moacir maneuvered the vessel with the skill of someone who knew every bend and sandbar along the river. The humid breeze carried the earthy scent of vegetation and muddy water, mingling with the constant activity of the channel: cargo-laden barges, slow-moving rafts, and small tourist boats navigating the banks at that hour.
João stood at the bow, leaning against the aluminum gunwale, his leather jacket unzipped against the stifling heat. Watching the flow of vessels around him, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and gave a dry smile.
"It’s funny seeing all this coming and going as if nothing were happening," João remarked, lighting his cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke upward. "When the interests of local business owners are at stake, the authorities do an impeccable job of covering up cases like this."
Moacir let out a low, raspy laugh from the stern. With one hand firm on the tiller, he brought the straw cigarette he’d been holding between his teeth to his lips, taking a deep drag before exhaling a plume of bluish smoke into the air.
"You ain't wrong, Hunter. Money speaks a lot louder than the grief of those who lost family by the riverbank. The order is to pretend the river is calm."
The old man adjusted his straw hat and the boat’s course, glancing sideways at João with a hint of amusement on his weathered face.
"But tell me one thing... aren't you afraid the girl's going to get mad at you for leaving her behind? She seems to have a pretty short fuse."
João exhaled sharply through his nose with a bitter chuckle and adjusted his posture at the bow.
"Oh, I have no doubt about that. I’m sure she’s ranting and swearing she’ll kill me any minute now. But time is our enemy in a case like this. If we slip up, this thing will claim another victim before nightfall."
He cut the conversation short, narrowing his eyes to scan the dense vegetation lining the river ahead. A short distance away, a large, battered barge—its paint peeling from years of sun and water—was moored against the bank, right at the mouth of a trail that vanished into the thick woods.
João took the cigarette from his mouth and jerked his chin toward the barge.
"Over there, Mr. Moacir. Head over there."
The old man skillfully maneuvered the boat as close to the bank as possible. Without waiting for a word, João leapt from the moving craft and sank knee-deep into the cold mud along the bank, cursing under his breath at the damp chill and the heavy stench of accumulated silt.
A few tourists disembarking via the barge’s gangplank gestured in astonishment at the sight of the man in the leather jacket and mud-caked boots, but they quickly turned their attention back to the trail.
Moacir kept the speedboat’s engine idling. João turned back and spoke quietly to the old man.
"Mr. Moacir, you can head on. This is going to take a while, and it’s not a safe place to be lingering by the riverbank."
"Good luck, Hunter," Moacir replied, adjusting his straw hat.
He gave a brief nod, revved the engine, and the speedboat maneuvered skillfully back into the main channel, disappearing into the darkness of the river.
João walked with heavy, long strides, hauling his legs out of the mud until he reached the firmer ground of the bank. Near the gangplank, a man wearing a battered leather hat was shouting at tourists, telling the group to step carefully so they wouldn't slip on the mud coating the planks.
As soon as he noticed João approaching with his pant cuffs soaked, the man stopped speaking and looked him up and down, frowning.
"Hey there. What do you want around here? This area is reserved for the tour."
João flashed a relaxed smile.
"Hey, boss! Listen, help me out here. I was dying to see this part of the region, but I missed the tourist boat schedule at the main port. Didn't want to waste the day, so I paid a fisherman a few bucks to bring me out here. Then he saw the barge docked here, got spooked by all the activity, and dropped me off on the bank before speeding away."
The man in the leather hat adjusted the brim of his hat, looking suspicious.
"Yeah... but to get onto the barge and take the trail, you have to pay. Tour tickets are sold over by the waterfront."
João quickly patted his jacket pockets, putting on an expression of pure, feigned astonishment.
"Oh, man... Don't tell me that! I must have left my wallet at Dr. Augusto's office when I was finalizing some paperwork with him earlier!"
Upon hearing Dr. Augusto’s name, the man’s eyes instantly widened. His rigid posture seemed to collapse on the spot. He cleared his throat, straightened up, and stepped aside, clearing the way.
"Oh... Dr. Augusto? Man, you should’ve said so right away! Go right ahead, boss. Make yourself at home—well, the forest is your home, I mean... You get the idea."
João smiled, pleased with his own smooth talk, and adjusted the revolver in the holster hidden beneath his coat as he stepped onto the ramp. He glanced at the steady stream of people still disembarking and asked:
"So, how does this trail work? Is there a guide going along with all these folks?"
"Not at all," the man replied, waving his hand dismissively. "This trail here is short, well-worn, and perfectly safe. It only goes a short way into the woods to a clearing where people feed some monkeys. I don’t even need to follow the group; the mosquitoes that swarm at sundown drive them right back."
João took a half-step forward, leaning in and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper:
"I see... But what about those legends people are talking about down by the waterfront? You know, the talk about something strange prowling these woods?"
The man in the leather hat let out a short, mocking laugh and waved his hand in the air:
"Oh, don’t be silly! That’s just tall tales fishermen tell to scare off the competition and spook gullible tourists. You can go without a worry; there’s nothing in this forest."
"Got it." João extended his hand to the man. "So, does this trail end in town, Mr...?"
"Valter Oliveira."
The man shook João’s hand vigorously.
"No, it doesn’t end there; it’s an out-and-back trip."
João responded with a quick nod and, wasting no time, slipped into the small group of tourists moving single-file along the packed-dirt trail. The path led into the woods, where the high canopy blocked out much of the sunlight, leaving the air stifling and the surroundings bathed in a greenish half-light.
João adjusted his pace, deliberately keeping a few steps behind the others. While the group chatted animatedly, he strained to listen past the footsteps and buzzing insects, searching for any sound that seemed out of place amidst the dense vegetation.
Taking advantage of the slow walking pace, João briefly fell into step beside a man sporting a designer cap and a professional camera hanging around his neck.
"Beautiful place, isn’t it?" João said casually. "Lots of greenery around here."
"Absolutely stunning! The light filtering through the gaps in the trees is amazing for photography," the man replied enthusiastically, adjusting the focus on his lens without breaking stride.
Beside him, however, his wife clearly didn’t share his enthusiasm. She slapped at her arms and neck every few seconds, trying to swat away the clouds of mosquitoes hovering around the group.
"It’ll be beautiful when we get back to the hotel and I can douse myself in bug spray again," the woman grumbled, slapping her own cheek loudly. "I told you this idea of hiking through dense woods was a bad one, but you never listen to me!"
João gave a friendly, lopsided smile and slowed his pace, letting the couple move a little further ahead. From there, he had a clear view of every person in the group.
The man in the cap was perfect prey for that kind of monster. Every few meters, he would stop walking, crouching or stepping off the main path to snap a photo of whatever caught his eye: a mushroom sprouting from a rotting log, a wild orchid, or the reflection of water pooling on the leaves.
"Haroldo, for God’s sake, hurry up!" his wife shouted, turning around and tugging at his shirt to drag him back toward the others. "You’re going to get lost like this—stop messing around!"
"Relax, honey, just one quick shot! Look at the texture of this tree bark!" the man protested, pulling his hand away from hers and taking two more steps into the dense undergrowth before snapping the picture.
João watched the scene in silence, hands in his pockets and eyes alert. The sound of the camera’s continuous clicking cut through the air, but deep in the woods—amidst the rustling of dry leaves and the singing of birds...
A little ahead of the couple with the camera, a group of three young friends stumbled along, laughing loudly. They playfully shoved each other in the mud, recording short videos on their phones and mocking one another whenever someone slipped.
Right behind them walked a determined-looking man in technical hiking gear; he carried a heavy-duty backpack—absurdly large for such a short hike—and wielded a trekking pole, driving its metal tip into the damp earth with every firm step, as if he were scaling a mountain rather than walking a well-worn trail in the river valley.
Somewhere between the two groups walked a young woman in a crop top and workout leggings, holding a phone mount with an attached light.
"Guys, the trail is amazing, the scenery is unreal, but—seriously—zero internet signal!" the girl complained to her phone screen, huffing with her face scrunched up in a dramatic pout. "I’ll have to wait until I get back to the hotel to post my videos! It’s absolutely ridiculous, I swear!"
João let out a barely audible sigh and kept walking.
Then he stopped dead.
Something was wrong.
The constant symphony of the forest—the deafening drone of cicadas, the croaking of frogs, the chirping of birds in the high canopy, even the rustling of leaves in the wind—stopped all at once.
Within seconds, a heavy, suffocating silence descended over the woods.
João remained perfectly still, his eyes narrowing as he listened.
Nothing.
Before he could move toward the group again, a figure appeared beside him.
The blogger, noticing that the serious-looking man in the leather jacket had fallen behind, seized the opportunity to approach him. She tossed her hair to the side, flashing a practiced smile as she leaned toward him.
"Wow... You’re so quiet back here," she said, her voice velvety, her eyes sparkling provocatively. "Are you going for the mysterious type, or just keeping an eye on me from afar? Tell me something: do you think the lighting here flatters my face, or would I look better over in the clearing?"
João didn't even look at her. His attention remained fixed on the gloom between the thick branches of the kapok tree a few meters away.
"Doesn't matter."
The girl blinked, surprised by his rudeness, but quickly laughed it off, assuming he was just playing hard to get.
"Just 'doesn't matter'? Wow, aren't you charming!" She tilted her head, still smiling. "What's your name, anyway? Won't you even lend a hand if I accidentally trip in this mud?"
"I'm not a guide," João replied, his voice flat and emotionless.
He stepped aside, bluntly rebuffing her attempt to get closer.
"Walk faster and catch up with the group. Now."
The girl’s expression soured instantly, indignant at the curt brush-off.
"What a jerk! Stupid!" she grumbled, stomping her foot before quickening her pace to rejoin the group.
João didn't care.
He slipped a hand inside his leather jacket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his revolver, straining to listen.
The woods remained deathly silent.
João started walking again, but as he looked up to scan the group, a knot tightened in his stomach.
A few seconds of distraction had been enough for the group to scatter completely into the woods.
The guy with the heavy hiking pack and trekking pole was way out in front, moving at a fast, heedless pace and opening up a dangerous gap between himself and the rest of the party.
To the left, far from the safety of the beaten path, the three young friends had wandered deep among the low-hanging trees. One was hunched over, swinging his arms like a gorilla, while the other two laughed loudly and filmed the antics.
And standing completely alone in the middle of the path was the photographer’s wife.
"Shit..." João cursed under his breath, anger boiling in his chest.
He swept the area with a sharp gaze, searching for any sign of the man’s shirt or the glint of a camera lens amidst the tree trunks and foliage.
Nothing.
The photographer had simply vanished from the trail.
João quickened his pace, covering the distance with long, heavy strides until he reached the woman. She stood with her arms crossed, huffing and furiously swatting at her neck, looking even more irate than before.
"Where’s your husband?" João asked abruptly, his deep, harsh voice cutting through the heavy silence of the forest.
The woman jumped in surprise, glaring at João with annoyance before clicking her tongue disdainfully and jerking her chin toward a patch of dense undergrowth to the right.
"That moron? He got it into his head to wander into the thicket because he claimed he heard the song of some rare bird!" she snapped, her words dripping with venom and bitterness. "He stayed back there taking pictures of some creature—I couldn't give a shit what it was! I told him to keep moving, but it’s like talking to a tree! If he gets lost in there, I’m going back to the hotel alone!"
João didn't wait for her to finish complaining.
He turned toward the exact spot she had indicated, staring at the patch of deep shadow beneath the canopy of a colossal tree.
No bird had sung in those woods since the silence had fallen.
The mid-afternoon sun beat down mercilessly as Victória and Iara walked toward the edge of town, where the dense forest began—the exact point where asphalt gave way to mud and civilization met the wilderness. The stifling heat and humidity made Victória’s clothes cling to her body.
"How does anyone live in this oven?" Victória complained, huffing as she tried to wipe the sweat from her forehead. "I’m melting here, and you haven't even broken a sweat—you weirdo."
"If you spent less breath complaining and more walking, we’d be there by now," the younger woman retorted without looking back. "It’s not my fault your mentor left the damsel behind."
"Watch your tongue when you talk about João! He’s probably just trying to speed up the investigation, that’s all."
Iara laughed and quickened her pace. Victória huffed and let the younger woman walk ahead.
After a few more tense, silent steps, the scenery changed. They arrived at a spot that stood in stark contrast to the town’s traditional buildings and the bustle of its markets and hotels.
A rustic structure made of thatch and wood stood on the banks of a secluded stream. Large palm fronds served as an improvised door, while a steady stream of smoke—rising from medicinal herbs and incense—wafted through a hole in the roof. The strong aroma of twist tobacco, *guiné* herb, and damp earth filled the air, the unmistakable scent of the *terreiro* reaching them before they even reached the entrance.
Victória took a deep breath, soaking in the atmosphere, and adjusted the strap of her shotgun on her shoulder. Iara pushed aside the heavy palm fronds and entered first, with Victória close behind.
Upon crossing the threshold, the Huntress felt as though she had stepped into another world.
The interior of the *maloca* was spacious, welcoming, and unmistakably lived-in, filled with the thick scent of twist tobacco, resin, and dried herbs. Wooden walls held hanging traditional instruments, colorful feather headdresses, and an altar adorned with small statues of warriors, each decked out in seed and bead necklaces.
Right in the center of the structure, a fire crackled softly, casting sinuous shadows that danced across the thatched walls. In a darker corner, a man wearing a dingy white tank top and brown trousers was rhythmically pounding something inside a heavy wooden mortar.
Iara took a few steps forward, bent her knees, and knelt respectfully on the packed-earth floor.
"Your blessing and permission to enter, Pai Raoni," the young woman asked, bowing her head.
The man stopped pounding the mortar. He lifted his weathered face and made a calm gesture with one hand.
"May Jurema and the *Caboclos* watch over your steps, my daughter. You may enter," he replied, his deep, gravelly voice filling the small space.
Victória stepped forward, maintaining a stiff, upright posture. She cleared her throat and greeted him mechanically, trying to project an air of authority.
"I am Victória, a professional Huntress with the Association," she introduced herself, adjusting the equipment strap on her shoulder. "I need to ask you a few questions."
Pai Raoni watched her in silence for several long seconds, sizing the young woman up from head to toe. Without saying a word, he plunged his hand into the mortar and scooped up a generous handful of dark red powder.
"You came because of the deaths that have been happening lately by the river, didn't you?" the elder asked, fixing his dark eyes on Victória.
"That’s right," Victória replied, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze without backing down.
Pai Raoni let out a long breath through his nostrils and walked slowly toward the central fire. With a calm movement, he tossed the red powder straight into the flames.
The fire crackled loudly, and a thick, acrid smoke instantly filled the air.
Victória tried to maintain her tough exterior, holding her breath rather than showing weakness. But the stinging fumes seared her nostrils and throat, and moments later she couldn't help but break into an involuntary fit of coughing, covering her nose and mouth with her jacket sleeve.
Beside her, Iara let out a mocking little laugh.
Victória immediately shot her a furious glare, her eyes watering from the herbal vapor.
Unfazed, Pai Raoni turned toward the altar. As he picked up a wooden pipe and a pouch of prepared tobacco, he gestured toward a low stool near the fire.
"Sit, Huntress," he said.
Iara stepped forward, intending to settle in next to Victória to listen to the conversation, but Raoni stopped what he was doing and looked at the young woman.
"Leave us alone, my child," the elder requested, his voice patient.
"But, Dad..." Iara protested, using that wheedling, defensive tone typical of a daughter.
Pai Raoni, however, maintained a steady, authoritative gaze, his expression unchanging.
Iara let out a frustrated sigh and yielded to the command. She bowed respectfully before stepping outside, then pushed aside the palm fronds and left Victória alone with Raoni.
Raoni slowly settled onto the bench facing the fire, which now stood between him and Victória. The stinging smoke had dissipated enough for Victória to finally move her hand away from her nose, though her eyes remained slightly red and watery.
As the elder prepared his wooden pipe with deliberate patience, Victória shifted restlessly on the bench. She drummed her fingers against her legs, let her eyes wander around the *maloca*, taking in the instruments and the images on the altar, and cleared her throat impatiently, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.
Raoni seemed in no hurry to fill the silence.
With calm, deliberate movements, he brought the pipe to his lips, leaned forward, picked up a thin, glowing twig from the fire, and used it to light the tobacco.
He took a long, relaxing puff, watching the smoke spiral upward toward the opening in the roof.
"The town’s former priest used to help this *terreiro* quite a bit."
Victória shifted on the bench, adjusting her posture.
"With all due respect, Pai Raoni... that isn't exactly what I need to know right now."
Raoni ignored the comment and continued, his gaze fixed on the fire.
"Father José was a great friend of mine. A true man of faith."
He raised his pipe to his lips and took another puff.
When Victória opened her mouth to press the issue of the deaths in the river, the elder cut her off before she could say a single word.
"He is surely in Heaven, the place he so often spoke of and dreamed of."
Victória froze.
The firm posture she had been trying to maintain faltered. She lowered her eyes to the packed-earth floor and murmured in a softer tone:
"My condolences..."
Raoni took another calm puff and replied without a trace of bitterness in his voice:
"There is no cause for sorrow, my child. The end of the journey is the same for us all. Father José fought the good fight and now rests in the company of his God."
Silence reigned in the *maloca* for a few heavy moments, broken only by the soft crackling of firewood and the slow, rhythmic puffs from Raoni’s pipe.
Victória took a deep breath, adjusted her posture on the bench, and tried to regain her professional composure as a Huntress.
"Did Father José have any direct involvement with this case or the deaths?"
Pai Raoni exhaled another spiral of smoke before answering in his deep, patient voice:
"I am certain he did not."
Victória furrowed her brow, impatience showing in her eyes.
"Then tell me plainly: what do you know about the deaths occurring in the forest?"
"The support Father José gave us went toward maintaining our settlements and spiritual protections around the city—especially along the trails that lead tourists into the forest. We also used those resources to buy medicinal herbs, seeds, and the offerings needed to keep those protections in place."
"With all due respect, Pai Raoni, I don't understand where you're going with all this."
Pai Raoni paused with his pipe halfway to his lips and stared intently at Victória, his dark eyes reflecting the flames of the central fire.
"What I mean, Huntress, is that shortly after Father José’s death and the arrival of the new parish priest, those very same protective sites were vandalized and destroyed by parishioners. I have witnesses who saw them tear those protections down."
The elder paused, taking another deep, contemplative drag from his pipe before continuing.
"To make matters worse, the new priest, Father Antônio, openly blames our *terreiro* and our rituals for bringing these misfortunes upon the town."
Victória remained silent. She opened her mouth to speak—to question the Church’s involvement or explain the logic behind the investigation—but the elder’s commanding voice cut her off.
"My son, Jurandir, couldn't bear to see the protection of our land crumble. Without my permission, he ventured alone into the forest to restore one of the destroyed sites."
Raoni lowered his pipe slightly, his gaze fixed on the fire.
"Jurandir had the training and knowledge to perform the rituals, but he made the mistake of acting rashly. And that mistake took him from us."
Victória furrowed her brow.
"What creature?"
For the first time since the conversation began, Raoni’s serenity cracked. His fingers tightened around the pipe, and his eyes remained fixed on the flames of the central fire.
"Those damned Abuhukkus."