Chapter 1 - The Boy in the Well
Ariano was hiding inside a well when his mother was killed.
It was May, and the cashew trees were already blooming, their colorful fruit spreading a sweet, fruity scent throughout the region. The boy had just turned nine—almost a man! At least, that’s what he kept telling his mother every chance he got that week, whether she was kneading dough on the kitchen table or preparing one of the fat hens from the backyard. But there was no party, no gift. In fact, the only time he ever had a birthday celebration, he had been too young to remember, and his father had carved him a simple wooden figure of a cowboy on horseback. Still, he never cared much for parties or presents.
The village where he lived was called Santo Milagre (which, given everything that would soon happen there, had more than a touch of irony to it). It was a small, forgotten place near the border with Pernambuco. There was nothing particularly special about it—except for the Saint. Not a flesh-and-blood saint, nor one made of clay or wood. This one was truly special, made of pure gold and encrusted with tiny gemstones that shimmered in the sunlight with a dozen different colors. And it was because of her—and the so-called miracles she was said to perform (which were anything but holy)—that the poor village was attacked in the winter of 1926.
The cangaceiros came before dawn, around 4 a.m. Ariano and the people of Santo Milagre were still sound asleep. The sky was a deep, slate gray, like the color of malacacheta stone. A cold wind slithered between the rocks, whistling as it seeped into the village streets. Somewhere in the distance, a rasga-mortalha let out an eerie screech, as if foretelling the tragedy to come.
Herculano’s gang arrived via the old road, the one just past the bend in the hill—the same place where, ten years ago, old man Suzano, the grocer, lost a finger thanks to a stubborn mule and a snake. But that’s another story.
The bandits moved in a ghostly silence, crouched so low they could’ve been mistaken for the dry brush. Some of them, without realizing it, were holding their breath. Their stiff leather hats shifted uncomfortably as sweat trickled down their foreheads. The air was thick with the rancid smell of moonshine and tanned hide.
"Shh! Quiet, you lot," one of them hissed, raising a finger. Instantly, the others froze.
From their vantage point, they could see the whole village—its humble mud-brick houses and ramshackle buildings. A single dirt road ran through the center, leading straight to the tiny church at the far end.
"I’ll go first. Then Deodato and Lindemberg will follow," said the same man who had hushed them earlier. His name was Valvino, and he was second-in-command of the gang—something he never tired of reminding everyone, especially now, since Herculano himself had put him in charge of this raid. The thought made him grin, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth—the result of a lifetime of cigarettes and not a shred of morality.
Valvino was an ugly man, with sallow, stretched skin. A long knife scar ran down his face, and one eye was covered by a grimy cloth patch. His greasy hair was tangled with little trinkets—medals, chicken bones, and other charms. Even among criminals, Valvino was feared for his cruelty.
At that moment, Valvino had an erection. He always did before a raid. He loved this—the violence in its purest form—and he felt no shame in it. It was like mounting a whore, except killing cost nothing.
Oh, how he loved the feeling of taking a life! Three, ten, twenty if he could. To hell with whoever had a problem with it! The captain wasn’t there to stop him. Who was going to say anything? Severo? That prissy bastard Itamar? They could all go to hell. He would do whatever he pleased with these people. He would send a fine bill straight to heaven, that’s what he’d do.
The entrance to the village—if you could even call it that—was just beyond the slope. There were no guards, no watchmen. Valvino doubted a place like this had anything worth stealing, but if the captain said it did, then that was that.
The village lay in a stillness that almost made him pity it. But not for long.
Soon enough, the peace would shatter. He could already imagine the screams, the gunpowder igniting in the muskets. The very thought made his pulse quicken.
Pow! Aaaah!
Oh, it would be a beautiful sight.
They wouldn’t start shooting right away, though. Not yet. First, they would wait for the rooster’s crow. Only then would the bullets fly. That was the plan. Herculano’s orders.
Funny, in a way.
Who knows why?
But in the end, it was Valvino who acted first.
The first shot didn’t hit anyone—he fired it just to wake the townspeople and to scare them. But the second one, that one found its mark. It struck a man who had the misfortune of waking up early and standing right there. Poor Ant?nio Nunes had lit a cigarette after a sleepless night, thinking about taking a walk to shake off his restlessness. What he found instead was a bullet to the chest. He cried out when it hit him, then collapsed, dead on the spot. Ironically, his little leather hat fell over his face, as if foreshadowing his fate.
Rest in peace.
The group led by Valvino—ten of the worst men to ever walk the earth—rushed forward, howling with excitement, reveling in their own twisted madness. Their shouts sounded like a deep, jeering boo, ending in whistles that sent chills down the spine. In the darkness of dawn, it was a terrifying sound, like the wail of some unholy specter.
It all happened as fast as a snake’s strike. In mere moments, it was over. Most of the townspeople woke up in terror, but some never even had the chance to get out of bed—they died right there. Others ran, tried to fight back, but they were too few and too unprepared to pose any real threat to Herculano’s men, who didn’t suffer a single casualty.
The bastards came screaming and shooting, sometimes just for fun, wasting ammunition. They did it because they believed that after this day, they’d be rich. The captain had told them so the night before, when they gathered near the Galinha Rock, huddled around a campfire. A couple of them had crouched close, listening intently as Captain Herculano laid out the plan. That night, many swore later, the captain had been possessed by the Devil himself—you could see the firelight reflecting in his eyes, filled with a malice so deep that even some of the men made the sign of the cross, just in case.
“We do this fast. No fuck-ups. We’ll be done before they even know what’s happening. We’ll take the back road into town—no police, no trouble,” Herculano said, scratching at his unshaven beard. “After this, we’ll be set for a long time. Who knows, maybe we’ll head to the beaches in Alagoas or Pernambuco, spend our days drinking with a pretty little thing by our side.”
They all laughed.
And that’s exactly what they did. As they ran, kicking up dust behind them, some laughed so loud it could probably be heard all the way in Sergipe. Others stopped now and then just to fire their muskets at the village houses, sending clay and dust flying into the air.
Ariano woke up to his mother shaking him in his hammock.
Madalena, a tall, dark-skinned woman, held a bundle hastily wrapped in cloth. Her thick black curls were a mess, falling loose over her shoulders. She was still in her nightgown. Behind her stood her husband, Vitonho—a short, wiry man with dark skin and a thin mustache, a true northerner. He had the family’s shotgun slung over his shoulder, but something about it seemed off in his hands.
“What’s happening, Mama?” the boy asked, still groggy with sleep.
“There’s no time to explain. We have to go. Now.” Madalena’s voice was high-pitched, trembling, her eyes wide and red-rimmed.
“They’re coming down the main road, woman!” Vitonho shouted. He’d always been a peaceful man—except when he used that same shotgun to hunt pigeons or quail. It was more natural to see him with his accordion than with a gun. The weapon looked oversized in his hands as he peeked through the slats in the window.
“Hurry, Ariano!” Madalena shoved the bundle at her son. It hit him in the chest, hard, but he said nothing. The house was dark, but a faint light filtered in from outside. The worst part was the gunfire—so much of it that Ariano thought he was still dreaming. He had been dreaming, actually—of a S?o Jo?o festival and of climbing the tallest cajá tree he had ever seen.
“Stop dawdling!” his father snapped. “Get your things!”
“Papa!?” the boy whimpered, but before he could say more, he was being pushed out the kitchen door.
His stomach twisted with hunger, and his eyes stung in the brightness outside. His mother looked terrified. She didn’t spare him a single glance as she led him toward the shed where his father kept his tools.
A horrible smell was creeping into the air, one Ariano didn’t recognize at first. It was thick, pungent, and made his eyes water.
Later, he would remember that he hadn’t heard the rooster crow or the church bell ringing for Father Matias’s morning prayers—only the screams, which sounded more like the howls of wild animals. That realization sent a terror through him unlike anything he had ever felt before. His thin legs wobbled, and he nearly pissed himself in fear.
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“Mama, what’s happening?” he asked again, his voice shaky as he clung to her.
“Don’t ask, just come with me. We have to leave now, my love. Bad men are here—men who want to hurt us,” she said, but the rest of her words were drowned out by the gunfire.
“We have to get the boy out of here. They’ve blocked the roads, woman! Most of them went toward the church, killing everyone in their path.”
A bullet whizzed by close enough to make the chickens in the yard scatter in a frenzy. The family’s old goat bleated nervously from its pen. Madalena let out a strangled scream, but immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, afraid of drawing attention.
“Mama!” Ariano whimpered, tugging at her dress. She stroked his hair, heart breaking at the fear in his little face. She wanted nothing more than to hold him tight and tell him everything would be okay. But she couldn’t afford that luxury. There was no time. They had to run—now—before the bandits found them.
“Shh!” she hushed him.
“We’ll go through the backyards,” Vitonho said, peering over the fence.
He lifted his head, scanned the area, then signaled for them to move. The three of them ran through the back alleys, slipping between fences and scrambling over low walls. Vitonho helped his wife and son climb through a barbed wire fence, tearing his arm in the process. He cursed under his breath.
Behind them, the gunfire grew louder.
That’s when they heard it.
A voice.
One of the bandits was right on their trail.
"Look over there! Someone''s running away!" shouted a voice laden with mockery.
"Run, woman, and take the boy," said Vitonho, his face distraught. Madalena looked at her husband and thought about saying something, but she understood what he was about to do and broke into tears. She pressed her forehead against his and ran away. A few shacks later, she heard a gunshot, then another—so close she knew it was her husband. She heard a scream, and the mocking voices fell silent.
Mother and son wept as they fled. Throughout the village, the sounds of gunfire, terrified screams, galloping horses, and doors being broken down echoed.
"There she is!" someone shouted from close behind, the sound muffled by pots shattering in a nearby house.
Madalena picked up her son and ducked behind a low mud wall. Two cangaceiros, carbines in hand, ran up the street, the brass coins on their leather hats jingling. She waited a moment. Seeing that the coast was clear, she moved with her son behind a porch, reached the back of a house, and approached an old well that belonged to Mane Bento—the same Mane Bento who now lay dead in front of Dona Georgina’s house, where he had spent the night in comfort. Amid the commotion, he had gone out to see what was happening and ended up dead outside his friend’s house.
Madalena quickly set Ariano down. The boy cried in confusion, asking where his father was, but Madalena said nothing. She just yanked on the well rope with force, constantly looking over her shoulder, afraid that a cangaceiro might appear from behind the wall to seize them.
She pulled up the bucket—an old aluminum oil can—which banged against the well’s rim, splashing water onto her dress. Madalena picked up Ariano again and carefully placed him in the bucket, his little legs dangling above the murky water. He was barefoot (both of them were; in the rush, no one had thought to put on shoes), and his feet felt the cold water dripping from the can, soaking the seat of his pants up to his waist.
"Look at me, Ariano…" she said, holding her son''s face. Ariano saw that his mother was trying to smile, her eyes as red as xique-xique flowers. "Promise me: don’t make a sound, and don’t leave the well. Not today. Do you hear me? No matter what happens, don’t let them know you’re here."
Ariano nodded without truly understanding, then began to cry. How could he possibly grasp what was happening? Just a short while ago, he had still been asleep, with no worries in the world. Now, his father had vanished, leaving him behind in Dona Bibiana’s yard. And his mother was crying in that anguished way.
"Wait until tomorrow. Don’t come out today. And if you see anyone, hide. Don’t talk to anyone, understand?"
Ariano just cried, not knowing what his mother truly expected of him. He didn’t want to stay in there—it was cold and dark. He wanted his father to come and say everything would be fine. For them to go fishing in the reservoir and then play in the yard before dinner. Tonight, he wouldn’t insist on staying up late—he swore he wouldn’t. He would behave, he really would. He just wanted his daddy back and his mother to take him out of the well. He would be a good boy, he promised.
"Are you listening to me?!" his mother shouted when he took too long to respond.
"Yes, Mama."
"Good boy."
Before lowering the rope, Madalena kissed Ariano’s head, right on his short black hair. She let the bucket down quickly, making the worn iron pulley creak. The can, with Ariano inside, spun slightly, bumping against the well’s mud walls until it reached the bottom, wetting his legs up to his knees. Ariano would always remember his mother’s face, framed by the circular mouth of the well, with a bright blue sky and white clouds behind her.
Then, she smiled at him, hoping that, somehow, her son could feel how much she loved him. But all Ariano saw was sadness. Then Madalena turned away, startled. Ariano still clutched the bundle his father had given him (or was it his mother? That part he never truly remembered).
He placed the package inside the bucket to keep from dropping it. And when he looked up again, his mother was gone. She had left, vanishing from his life forever.
The mouth of the well now revealed only emptiness—the stark solitude that had been cast upon the boy in such a simple act; something had been there, and now it was not.
The well walls were damp and covered in moss, the only sound was the dripping of water. At some point, the gunfire ceased, and Ariano remained there. The moss painted the walls in dark green, and the air was heavy with the scent of earth and something rancid.
Ariano cried softly. He even whispered the word "mother" with a voice full of fear. His hand felt along the walls and found the slimy texture of the moss—it was damp and sticky. He realized his arm was now tinted green and smelled strange.
Time seemed to wear down down there, like a strip of leather used to sharpen a razor.
The boy did as his mother told him: he waited for a long time, waited until it got dark and the voices of the men above had gone silent. He heard them ask about the little saint and thought he heard someone say she wasn’t there.
Time dragged on unbearably. Exhaustion began to overtake Ariano, who clung tightly to the sisal rope. He feared letting go and drowning in the murky water. His legs were already numb from being submerged for so long, his arm muscles burned, and his head ached because he hadn’t eaten anything since morning. The truth was, he only stayed afloat because the metal bucket was large and floated well, keeping him at the surface.
When night fell, he had to pee in the well water, and he felt guilty about it. He feared someone might finally find him, but that never happened. It was cold.
Ariano didn’t know it, but one of Herculano’s men (the name of the man he would only later learn was the leader of the gang) had approached the well earlier that afternoon to wash up. That didn’t happen, though—otherwise, this story might have turned out differently. But sometimes life has its whims, and fate weighs its hand.
When Deodato was about to reach the well to wash, (and with that, find Ariano), the bandit saw a grave cross behind the well. He looked at it, and for some reason, his heart filled with fear. He remembered when he was a child, and his grandmother told him stories about a dead woman who pulled people into the well where he used to fetch water. The man had always been superstitious, so he made the sign of the cross and walked away. And in the end, that saved young Ariano.
The gang stayed in the village until nightfall. They looted everything they could find: sacks of flour, goats, fancy clothes, and one or two pieces of jewelry that weren’t worth much. But the thing they had come for—not even a trace of it was found. Herculano’s men never found the little golden saint. It had vanished, as they say, disappeared into the wind like a wandering soul. Of course, it wasn’t in the church, which was now burning, nor in the house of the village potter. Instead, it was inside the bucket—the same one Ariano was sitting in.
?
The boy fulfilled the last order his mother had given him in life: he only climbed out when he heard nothing more, the next morning. Ariano was beyond exhausted. By then, he could barely feel his legs, his head had eased a little, but his backside ached from the bucket’s hard edges. Getting out of the well when the time finally came was difficult. First, he tried pulling himself up the wet rope and almost fell due to his body’s sluggishness after being in the same position for so long. In the effort, he tore his hands on the coarse sisal fibers.
The boy decided to leave the bundle in the bucket so it wouldn’t hinder him as he climbed. The ascent was painful—hanging onto the rope, he thought more than once that he wouldn’t make it. Only after much effort did he finally manage to haul his frail little body up through the well’s throat.
He felt the morning breeze on his face. Then, he pulled the rope and carefully retrieved the bundle. He didn’t know if it was important, but he imagined it must be—otherwise, why would his father have given it to him? He unwrapped it and found a yellow statue of Our Lady, the mother of Jesus, the Savior.
Ariano was still very young, but not too simple-minded to recognize gold. The saint was as long as his arm and hand together and heavier than half a sack of flour. He had seen it at home many times while his father cleaned or worked on the little altar. He had also seen it at the village church during Sunday masses and All Souls’ Day.
Ariano carefully left the yard, afraid he would find the cangaceiros waiting for him. That was when he first came face to face with death.
The first thing he saw was a man’s body. At first, he didn’t recognize who it was because he was far away, and flies already swarmed around the poor soul sprawled over a wheelbarrow. It was a dark-skinned, fat man, nearly bald, his guts spilling out. Beside him, a dog licked at the blood lazily. It was Xox?, compadre Nelson and Dona Bibi’s mutt.
Ariano threw a stone just to scare the dog away, and it ran off, wary.
He approached the body and began to cry. The flies buzzed around the poor wretch, and the boy nearly vomited from the stench—but he had nothing in his stomach to throw up anyway. He watched as a large fly landed on the dead man’s eye and fluttered its wings.
It was Fernando, the grocery store owner. Seeing the man like that made the boy sniff hard. Every new feeling washing over him now—some didn’t even have names for him to call them.
Ariano wandered for hours through the village where he had spent his entire life, but now it felt strange, as if he had never really been there until that moment.
All he saw were burned houses and bodies—many of them people he remembered: there was Dona Irene and her daughters, compadre Nonato and Gilmar. He even found children and dogs, all killed by the cangaceiros. He went to the little church, but it was nothing more than charred bricks and wood. He looked for the priest, but found nothing nearby.
Then he found his parents.
They lay far from the well. Ariano didn’t know at the time (and would only realize years later) that they had run only to draw the cangaceiros away.
His mother lay in her yellow flowered dress, her feet in simple leather sandals, her beautiful black hair now dirty with blood and mixed with the dust of the main street. Her chest still shone red like a giant flower. His father lay nearby, just five steps away, as if some invisible force had tried to pull them together in their final moment, so they could leave this world together.
Ariano knelt and closed their eyes. He didn’t know why he did it—no one had ever told him to. He called for his mother again and again until he had no more strength. He even shook them, hoping they would wake up and take him home. But that wasn’t possible. They remained dead.
For a long time, Ariano didn’t know what to do. He sat on the dusty ground, wearing only an old cotton pair of shorts, and prayed for his parents. He didn’t know many prayers, but he said all the ones he knew.
He stayed beside them until the afternoon, when the sun had started its descent, casting beautiful colors across the sky.
When he finally moved, the boy picked up the shotgun from the ground. He had no idea how to use it, but he took it anyway, and for some reason, he felt better holding it.
That day, Ariano faced the simplest and harshest truth of our brief existence in this world: death is always with us. And there is no escaping it.
Before leaving, Ariano stopped and looked over the entire village. Standing there, one thought came to him—so simple that, even at his young age, he knew it had to be done.
The gang would have to pay.
He didn’t yet know how he would do it.
But one thing was certain: he wanted every single one of them dead.
And with that thought, the boy left the village with the golden saint—and never returned.