《Dust and Blood》 Prologue - The Sinister Gang Prologue - The Sinister Gang Now, look beyond the village. Yes, over there, on that rock, where a bonfire burns, casting flickering light into the depths of the night. Do you see it? Around it, the gang gathers. Not that they need the warmth¡ªthose men don¡¯t feel the cold. Not anymore. Can you see them? They scheme, whispering with wicked grins. Some stand, restless, eager to attack the village. They don¡¯t plan on leaving anyone alive. No, that was never part of the plan. Look at them¡ªeyes glowing like embers, some with fangs, their faces pale, almost cadaverous. And their leader, even in the dark (because he doesn¡¯t like firelight), is the least human of them all. A wicked thing dressed as a man. Herculano¡¯s eyes burn like two crimson points, almost yellow. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. You must be wondering why they¡¯re here, aren¡¯t you? They¡¯ve come for a saint. A small golden statue, pure gold. And for that, they wait in the dead of night, biding their time until the unfortunate people of the village below drift off to sleep. Not that the villagers could do anything against Herculano¡¯s gang. Not when they¡¯re thirteen men of the worst kind, armed to the teeth. But even that wouldn¡¯t matter. Because the real horror isn¡¯t what Herculano¡¯s gang is¡ª It¡¯s what they no longer are. ¡°The time has come, boys,¡± Herculano says. You can tell, can¡¯t you? There¡¯s something in his voice, in his eyes. Something not human. He won¡¯t lead the charge himself. He lets his men do it instead. And so, his men start walking toward Santo Milagre, where the villagers are still fast asleep. A shame that this is their fate. But unfortunately, that¡¯s just how things are. So, keep watching. Don¡¯t look away¡ªdon¡¯t even blink. Because this is where it all begins. The boy, the killer, and even the mule with the famous name. And now, it¡¯s only a matter of time before the gang reaches the village¡­ Chapter 1 - The Boy in the Well 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¡ªalmost 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¡ªexcept 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¡ªand the so-called miracles she was said to perform (which were anything but holy)¡ªthat 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¡ªthe 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¡ªits 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªthe 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¡ªmedals, 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¡ªthe violence in its purest form¡ªand 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¡ªif you could even call it that¡ªwas 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¡ªhe 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¡ªten of the worst men to ever walk the earth¡ªrushed 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¡ªthey 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¡ªyou 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¡ªno 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¡ªa 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¡ªexcept 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¡ªso much of it that Ariano thought he was still dreaming. He had been dreaming, actually¡ªof a S?o Jo?o festival and of climbing the tallest caj¨¢ 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¡ªonly 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. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°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¡ªmen 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¡ªnow¡ªbefore 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¡ªso 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¡ªthe 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¡ªan old aluminum oil can¡ªwhich 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¡ªit 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¡ªhe 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¡ªthe 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¡ªit 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¡ªotherwise, 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthe 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¡ªhanging 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¡ªotherwise, 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¡ªbut 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¡ªsome 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¡ªmany 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¡ªno 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¡ªso 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¡ªand never returned. Chapter 2 - The Mule and the Waystation

Chapter 2 The Mule and the Waystation Ariano wandered the backlands alone for an entire year. Sometimes he begged on the outskirts of villages and towns; other times, when he had no other choice, he stole (not that he was proud of it). But he was quick and light on his feet, and he had to survive. He knew he could make a fortune selling the gold he carried, but he had other plans for the little saint. He wasn¡¯t about to let go of it. He still remembered the moment he unwrapped the bundle and found the golden saint nestled inside. It was a beautiful thing to look at¡ªits tiny face carefully carved, almost smiling at him, eyes shut as if waiting to whisper something. The robe, molded from gold veins, was so detailed it looked almost real. Some said it had been a gift from the Pope himself when he visited the backlands long ago. Others called that a lie, claiming it had been made by a devout colonel from Chorroch¨®, a man who once built a church covered in gold¡ªcrosses, statues, even chairs so richly adorned they could blind a man. That church had been looted at some point, and the golden saint was all that remained of its former glory. And then there were those who believed it was truly sacred, that it could heal any illness with a single touch. Ariano doubted that, but he knew he could be rich if he ever sold it. That¡¯s when an idea first began to take root in his mind. The golden saint fascinated him¡ªnot because of its holiness, but because of what it was making him think. It would take him a while to figure out exactly what he wanted to do. But for now, he knew one thing: he wanted revenge on the men who had killed his parents. He often imagined their deaths at his hands. A terrible thing for a child to dwell on, but Ariano was filled with rage, and rage was powerful enough to keep a boy alive in the backlands. It was during one of his wanderings that his idea finally took shape¡ªthe second time he came face to face with death (or the fear of it). Ariano had headed north. He had no living relatives, at least none that he knew of. Everything he had ever known was gone, wiped out by Herculano¡¯s gang. The heat was unbearable, the sky utterly still¡ªnot even the birds dared to leave their nests. A pair of vultures circled something in the distance, waiting. The land was dry, nearly lifeless, save for a few scattered cacti, mandacarus, and scraggly catingueiras barely clinging to the earth. The ground was cracked, a reddish-orange stretch of scorched dirt littered with thorny underbrush sharp enough to tear at a man¡¯s legs if he wasn¡¯t careful. He followed an old hunting trail up a plateau dotted with dead trees and clusters of xique-xique leaves. To his right lay what must have once been a lake, now nothing but a dry, blackened marsh. The soil was cracked open in deep fissures, like broken pieces of rapadura candy. A cow¡¯s skull grinned at him from the ground, its hollow sockets laughing at eternity. Ariano carried a worn-out shotgun on his back, so big that its stock dragged along the dirt, forcing him to tie it up higher with a tight knot¡ªnot that it helped much. On his head, he wore a wide leather hat, rough and sun-bleached, with a makeshift brim to block out the sun. A chinstrap, braided from carnauba leaves, kept it in place. It wasn¡¯t the prettiest thing, but it gave him shade. He carried a small bundle of belongings: a few clothes, some old food¡ªdried meat, manioc cakes, avoante bird jerky, and black rapadura¡ªalong with a handful of coins he tried to save for emergencies. That was all that remained of what hadn¡¯t been stolen by the cangaceiros that day. He also had a clay canteen slung over his shoulder. Oh, and the golden saint. That, we must never forget. By now, the boy was nine, no longer eight, because time always moves forward. The year following his escape from Santo Milagre had been brutal. He had nearly died more times than he could count. The backlands were unforgiving, and they spared no one. Still, he kept moving forward. Twice, he had nearly starved to death. There were nights when he had nothing to eat, forcing him to chew on maca¨²ba leaves or whatever insects he could find when the hunger became unbearable. But he endured, because even as small and young as he was, he had a purpose. People say vengeance is what keeps the desperate going. In the dry lands, that tends to be true. Vengeance lingers and burns through the veins like a slow, distilled poison. A green-tailed lizard hissed from atop a sunbaked rock. Its head bobbed under the scorching light, trying to ward off the heat. It never saw the shotgun¡¯s stock coming down in a precise strike, crushing its skull. Death was instant¡ªAriano made sure of that. He picked up the small body and gave it one last tap against the rock, just to be certain. Not that it was necessary. Reaching into his bundle, he pulled out a knife¡ªthin, its blade curved inward from wear, sharpened countless times on smooth stone. It had belonged to Madalena, his mother. Ariano had taken it before leaving the village, along with other things he thought might be useful on the journey. He crouched down and severed the lizard¡¯s head¡ªor what was left of it¡ªthen slit its belly open, just as he had seen his mother do to chickens countless times. He gutted the creature and bit into its flesh, tearing off a piece that wasn¡¯t much to chew on. He took another bite, then another, until the fibrous meat stretched, forcing him to yank it free. It tasted awful, but he ate most of it anyway, blood dripping down his chin. Ariano was about to get up when he heard a strange sound¡ªan animal braying. The noise echoed through the vast sert?o, carried by the wind, reaching his ears like a distant call. Alarmed, he scanned his surroundings, trying to pinpoint its source. He climbed a rocky slope, stepping carefully among jagged stones that gave way to clusters of cacti and spiny plants sharp as knitting needles. A place like this demanded caution¡ªone wrong step and he could twist an ankle or, worse, step on a snake. That¡¯d be a ¡°so long, friend.¡± The braying continued for a while until he finally spotted the source¡ªtrapped in a patch of dry brush stood a mule. Whether it was male or female, Ariano couldn¡¯t tell. It was a pitiful-looking creature, its brownish-gray coat stretched tight over a bony frame, ribs poking out beneath its hide. Its head resembled a horse¡¯s¡ªlong and slender¡ªexcept for the ears, which pointed skyward like a donkey¡¯s. The mule was chewing on a dry shrub beside a tree, its muzzle scratched from trying to push past the thorns, while its tongue pulled in brittle branches, snapping them in its jaws. Despite its sorry state, Ariano was captivated. After days wandering alone, it felt good to see something alive. He moved toward the animal slowly, his bare feet skirting around a massive anthill that looked like a mound of couscous. ¡°Hey there, friend,¡± he called in his child¡¯s voice. ¡°Where¡¯s your owner?¡± He took another step, setting his bundle down. ¡°Did you get lost?¡± Ariano glanced around, checking for signs of people, but there was no one. ¡°You ran away, didn¡¯t you?¡± That¡¯s when he noticed the mule¡¯s hind legs were bound with wire. ¡°What the hell¡­ Who would do this to you?¡± he muttered, edging closer. He lowered his shotgun so the animal wouldn¡¯t spook. By now, the mule had fixed its full attention on him. ¡°No need to be scared. Let me get that off you.¡± He crept forward, but the mule shied away, ears flicking nervously. ¡°Easy now, I¡¯m not bad, and I won¡¯t hurt you.¡± Ariano extended his hand, clicking his tongue like he had seen his father do with the village animals. ¡°Come on, calm down¡­ Ohhh, easy now.¡± The mule hesitated but eventually stopped retreating. Its tail flicked, its restless braying faded. Ariano crouched and carefully began to untangle the twisted wire. At first, he thought the animal wouldn¡¯t let him, but soon it seemed to understand he meant no harm. After a long struggle, he finally freed its legs and tossed the wire far away. ¡°There, now you can walk better, huh?¡± he said, half-expecting the mule to answer. The animal eyed him warily but seemed to change its mind when Ariano stroked its mane and offered it some food. He poured water into a tin cup he carried, and the mule drank eagerly. ¡°I don¡¯t think you have an owner, huh, boy? How about coming with me? I¡¯d sure like the company.¡± The mule balked a couple of times as Ariano led it by an old, filthy rope tied around its neck. But eventually, it seemed to accept its new companion. Ariano walked ahead, leading the way. The animal had no saddle, and its bony back bore a few wounds, so he decided not to ride it, not wanting to worsen the injuries. Instead, he placed his meager belongings on its back. The mule didn¡¯t seem to mind. ¡°My name¡¯s Ariano,¡± the boy said cheerfully as they crossed a low hill covered in dry grass. ¡°Ariano da Silva Silvino, at your service,¡± he added, mimicking the fancy way he had once heard a man speak at the village store. He looked ahead, where a red dirt road stretched into the endless sert?o. To every side, only blue sky, leafless trees, and the vast, empty land. ¡ª I bet you don¡¯t have a name. I think I should give you one. Do you want one? In response, the mule brayed. ¡ª Well, let me think for a bit. ¡ª And for the first time in a year, the boy became a boy again. Ariano was beyond happy with the mule¡¯s company. It didn¡¯t matter if she was skinny, with thin legs and sun-scorched fur¡ªshe was wonderful. Because that¡¯s how it is in the backlands: every gift is a reason for joy. And make no mistake, the mule was a great gift, even if she was small and scraggly. The boy thought for a long time, and as he did, he remembered a story his mother had told him. He didn¡¯t quite recall the details, but it was about a man who lived far beyond the sea, in other lands. A gentleman¡ªor maybe a knight. Well, he was never really sure of the difference, couldn¡¯t tell where one¡¯s snout began or the other¡¯s tail ended. He only knew it was one of those men in shining armor who saved princesses and all that. His name was Don Quixote, and he had a squire (though Ariano had no idea what that even meant). This Don Quixote fought giants¡ªor at least, that¡¯s what he thought. Because, in truth, they were just windmills. And Don Quixote might have been a bit off his rocker, but Ariano suspected he only pretended to be crazier than he really was. He once told his mother that, and she laughed. ¡ª You might be right. I¡¯d never thought about it that way, but it makes sense. ¡ª His mother smiled, running a hand over the boy¡¯s head. ¡ª Now go to sleep, my clever little one. ¡ª Will you tell me the rest tomorrow, Mama? ¡ª Ariano asked. ¡ª I promise. Now go to sleep. ¡ª Madalena blew out the oil lamp. It was that memory that came to Ariano¡¯s mind when he named the mule. His heart ached at the thought of his mother¡ªa deep pain right in his gut. ¡ª You¡¯ll be called Don Quixote, just like that man from the other side of the sea. ¡ª And that was that. Ariano expected the mule to bray in approval, as if to accept the name. But the stubborn animal just kept trudging along the road, flicking its tail to swat away the flies buzzing around its rear. The boy waited for a response, and when he realized none was coming, he just shrugged and let it go. ¡ª Whatever ¡ª he muttered.
Ariano reached the roadside stop at the hottest hour of the day. He had passed an old wooden sign along the road, pointing to the place a kilometer ahead. He had no idea what a roadside stop was, nor did he know how far a kilometer was. The relentless sun loomed overhead, spinning mockingly in the sky. The pale, washed-out blue stretched above him like a tattered old blanket. The boy shielded himself with his hat. Behind him, Don Quixote, the mule, trudged along with slow steps, its thin legs kicking up small swirls of red dust. When he got closer, he saw that the place was nothing more than a large, unremarkable wooden structure, its roof covered in dirty red clay tiles. A weathered fence of wooden posts and barbed wire surrounded the area, cluttered with all sorts of things. Near the entrance, a stretched-out tegu lizard hide was drying in the sun, nailed to a makeshift wooden frame. Lining the palisade, there were dozens of birdcages, all crammed with birds¡ªcuri¨®s, red-capped cardinals, goldfinches, and others he didn¡¯t recognize. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. As he reached the entrance, the door swung open, and a squat countryman stepped out. He was a thin man with a sun-worn face, pockmarked from old measles scars, probably in his mid-thirties. A hand-rolled cigarette, as crooked as an arthritic finger, hung from his lips. ¡ª Afternoon ¡ª the man greeted with a nod. Ariano just lifted his chin in response, leading the mule closer to the fence under the man¡¯s watchful gaze. ¡ª You looking for someone, boy? ¡ª the man asked, taking a drag from his rough cigarette. He exhaled a plume of smoke and glanced up at the sky before adding, ¡ª Damn, this sun¡¯s a real bastard today. Hot enough to fry your ass. ¡ª He chuckled. ¡ª Had an uncle who died in heat like this once, you believe that? Got dizzy while he was¡ª ¡ª That so? ¡ª Ariano cut in, then quickly asked, ¡ª You got any water, mister? The man pursed his lips and scratched his beard. The boy took that as a yes. ¡ª What is a roadside stop, anyway? ¡ª Ariano asked suddenly, the question itching in his mind since he saw the sign. The man looked taken aback, then spat to the side and hitched up his pants. ¡ª Well, it¡¯s this, ain''t it? ¡ª He gestured behind him, as if that explained everything. The boy followed his hand with his eyes but didn¡¯t see anything particularly impressive. He felt disappointed. The two stood in silence for a moment, until Don Quixote brayed loudly, startling some birds from the rooftop. ¡ª You got anything to eat? ¡ª Ariano asked, adjusting the leather strap of his shotgun, which was starting to chafe his shoulder. ¡ª Sure do. ¡ª The man squinted, studying the boy, his lips pressing into a thoughtful pout. ¡ª If you got money, that is. Now come on, let¡¯s get outta this sun. Ariano tied the mule to the fence near a patch of dry grass, a good spot under the shade of the roof where Don wouldn¡¯t complain. There was also a bucket of murky water, filled with leaves and a few mosquitoes. But it was better than nothing. The man gave the boy a curious look, then gazed off in the direction he had come from. Something about the kid made him uneasy. If someone had asked him why, he wouldn¡¯t have been able to say. ¡ª Did your father send you to buy something? ¡ª No, he didn¡¯t ¡ª the boy simply replied before handing the man one of his precious coins, large and misshapen. The owner of the roadside stop examined the coin and placed it in his shirt pocket. ¡ª Well then... There''s some beans on the stove and a bit of pumpkin if you want some. ¡ª That¡¯s when he noticed the shotgun on the boy¡¯s back. ¡ª Stay here, Don Quixote ¡ª Ariano said as he stepped inside. The store was cramped on all sides, packed with knickknacks and bartering goods¡ªfishing rods, empty cages, sacks of potatoes, flour, and onions. In one corner, he saw leather and straw hats, two saddles, several bags of dried cassava, and in the center, three tables with chairs. At the back, there was a counter with an iron scale, and beyond it, more merchandise, ranging from food to soap and sewing supplies. He also couldn¡¯t ignore the strong smell of onions stinging his eyes. Ariano hesitated, scanning the dimly lit place before sitting in one of the chairs, resting his shotgun with the stock on the floor. In the middle of the table, he noticed a bottle filled with snakes and a crab submerged in a yellowish liquid with a faint spicy aroma. ¡ª Wait here ¡ª the owner said before disappearing through a door at the back. About five minutes later, he returned with a steaming plate in one hand and an aluminum mug in the other, setting both on the table. Ariano saw that the slightly dented mug contained water, and the plate held a portion of cowpea beans, some manioc flour, two pieces of pumpkin, and a soft-yolked egg. The boy didn¡¯t hesitate; he grabbed the spoon and started shoveling the food into his stomach. The meal wasn¡¯t great¡ªthe pumpkin was tough, and the beans were somewhat undercooked¡ªbut it was hot, and Ariano didn¡¯t care. ¡ª Easy there, kid, the food ain¡¯t gonna run away! You¡¯re gonna choke eating like that ¡ª the man said, hands on his hips. He seemed like the type his father used to call "ill-tempered," like his uncle Zacarias, his mother¡¯s brother¡ªa thick-mustached man who complained every single time he spoke and, unfortunately, had died two years before the attack on Santo Milagre. He had died of what people called "a heart thing." ¡ª If you don¡¯t mind me asking, boy, where are you from? Ariano lifted his eyes from the plate, ignored the question, and simply kept eating. ¡ª Never seen you around here. You from S?o Tom¨¦? ¡ª the man guessed. ¡ª No, sir ¡ª Ariano replied. ¡ª Ah! Then from Brejo? ¡ª he insisted. The boy didn¡¯t answer right away, took two more spoonfuls, and only then responded. ¡ª I¡¯m from Santo Milagre. ¡ª Ox¨º! Santo Milagre! ¡ª The man paled, dropped his hands from his waist, and made the sign of the cross. ¡ª Damn, you really came from that place? Ariano nodded, making the man scratch his head. ¡ª I heard what happened there¡­ A terrible thing. Folks say what Herculano¡¯s gang did, how they killed everybody. ¡ª He made the sign of the cross again, just to be sure. ¡ª Damn, that was the devil¡¯s work. Lord have mercy. "Herculano." It wasn¡¯t the first time the boy had heard that name since wandering the backlands. He¡¯d heard all sorts of stories about the gang¡ªsome said it was made up of the worst kind of men, murderers, rapists, and sons of the devil. Not even the soldiers dared to mess with them. Ariano had been tracking the gang for almost a year but with no success. ¡ª You¡¯re really from there, kid? ¡ª the man asked, skeptical. ¡ª They say no one was left alive, that the cangaceiros slaughtered everyone. Ariano didn¡¯t answer, just kept eating. Outside, Don Quixote whined softly. ¡ª So, where are you headed now? ¡ª The store owner eyed the shotgun leaning against the table. ¡ª North ¡ª Ariano said with his mouth full. The man fell silent. The boy was a pitiful sight¡ªjust skin and bones, scrawny and small for his age. His chest was sunken, his legs slightly bowed, and his hair was dirty and somewhat long. He couldn¡¯t have been older than ten, yet something about him was unsettling¡ªmaybe his gaze, determined and sorrowful, an odd combination for a child. ¡ª The drought¡¯s coming quicker this year ¡ª the store owner suddenly said, and Ariano looked at him, confused. ¡ª The rains will be late, if they come at all, ''cause it hasn¡¯t rained in these parts for two years ¡ª he added before walking behind the counter. ¡ª Hm, Santo Milagre¡­ Silence followed. ¡ª How far is it from here to Rio Fundo? ¡ª Ariano finally asked, looking at the man. ¡ª Deep River? ¡ª The man scratched his head. ¡ª I¡¯d say about 75 kilometers, quite a long walk if you ask me. Ariano lowered his head, and the man saw the boy considering the distance before resuming his meal. ¡ª If you don¡¯t mind me asking, kid ¡ª the man said ¡ª are you really traveling these roads alone all the way from Santo Milagre? And heading to Deep River? ¡ª Yes, sir ¡ª the boy affirmed with conviction, and the man felt uneasy. It was strange to see a child barely out of diapers wandering alone, but, truth be told, it wasn¡¯t his business. ¡ª You don¡¯t have any family in Deep River? ¡ª The man picked at his ear and flicked the dirt away with a snap of his fingers. ¡ª No, I don¡¯t. I¡¯m looking for someone, that¡¯s all. ¡ª Ariano took a sip from the tin cup. ¡ª I heard about a man. ¡ª A man, huh? ¡ª The man sighed, weary. ¡ª And does this man have anything to do with what happened in Santo Milagre? The boy only nodded, neither confirming nor denying. ¡ª Is it something that requires a shotgun? ¡ª The man glanced at the weapon resting on the table. The boy let out a burp, and the man shrugged, giving up on the matter. At some point in their talk, the mule brayed outside, and the birds in their cages stirred. The man turned abruptly and rushed to the window. Three riders were approaching, galloping down the same road the boy had come from. ¡ª Damn! ¡ª he muttered. The storekeeper watched as the three men slowed to a trot and stopped at the roadside. One of them spat on the ground, and another chuckled. They didn¡¯t dismount from their horses¡ªthin animals with sharp muzzles. ¡ª We know there¡¯s someone inside, so let¡¯s not waste time ¡ª called the man in the middle. ¡ª Best come on out right now. ¡ª Son of a bitch ¡ª the storekeeper cursed under his breath. Ariano, on the other hand, looked slightly alarmed. He stood up, grabbing the shotgun, but his small hands trembled faintly. ¡ª What¡¯s going on out there? ¡ª he asked, trying to mask the fear in his boyish voice. ¡ª Shh! ¡ª The man gestured for silence. ¡ª Stay inside, kid, and don¡¯t come out for anything. Saying that, the storekeeper reached behind the shelf for a shotgun and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked loudly, like a widow mourning her husband¡¯s funeral. ¡ª What do you want? ¡ª he asked, not yet raising the weapon. ¡ª Oh, no need to fret ¡ª said the man in the middle. ¡ª We mean no harm. We¡¯re the Guaraci brothers, at your service. And you are? ¡ª My name¡¯s Virg¨ªlio. Now, what do you want? ¡ª the storekeeper questioned, noticing that all three carried rifles and revolvers. ¡ª Food? Or something else? ¡ª Well, a hot meal in the belly ain¡¯t something we¡¯d turn down, and I do appreciate the invitation. My name¡¯s Otto ¡ª he said. Otto was a pale man, almost yellowish, with a mocking smile¡ªwhether fake or real was hard to tell. A syphilis sore, deep red, marred the corner of his mouth. His reddish-brown hair peeked from under a wide-brimmed hat. ¡ª But we come from Bahia, me and my brothers here. He gestured to the other two men, who looked nothing like his kin. One was dark-skinned like Ariano, wore a large hat, and had cold, bloodshot eyes. He chewed tobacco, its juice dribbling down his square chin. The other was a Northeastern caboclo with straight, wedge-cut hair, narrow eyes hinting at indigenous ancestry. He wore a leather hat and carried a shotgun resting against his shoulder. His eyes darted around, ensuring there was no one else nearby. ¡ª We inherited the business from the late Man¨¦ d¡¯Boi, God rest his soul ¡ª Otto announced as if it were common knowledge. ¡ª Man¨¦ d¡¯Boi? He¡¯s dead? ¡ª Virg¨ªlio asked. ¡ª I believe so. ¡ª Otto turned to the man chewing tobacco. ¡ª He¡¯s dead, right, Ezequiel? ¡ª Dead as can be, Otto ¡ª the man replied. ¡ª At least he was when we threw his sorry carcass onto the rocks. ¡ª Oh, that¡¯s right ¡ª Otto said nonchalantly. The other two chuckled. ¡ª So, with Man¨¦ d¡¯Boi¡¯s sudden demise ¡ª Otto continued, adjusting himself in the saddle. He took off his hat and pressed it against his chest in a mock gesture of mourning. ¡ª The three of us now handle his business, which includes collecting security fees around these parts. You know how it is¡ªlots of outlaws out there, bandits crawling all over the roads, not to mention the cangaceiros. Saying that, Otto spat on the ground. ¡ª So, for the good of merchants like yourself, we¡¯re here to collect our dues. ¡ª What the hell is this here? ¡ª Ezequiel shouted, trying to draw his gun from the holster, but he seemed to fumble. The indigenous man pointed the rifle at Virg¨ªlio, who, in reflex, pointed his shotgun right back. Virg¨ªlio thought they were pointing at him, but that wasn¡¯t the case. He turned his face slightly and came face to face with the barrel of a shotgun, and on the other side of the gun, the boy barely managed to keep the weapon raised. The barrel swayed, yet the boy pulled the bolt back until it clicked. ¡ª Get out of here. ¡ª The boy tried to sound brave, but his voice faltered. The man seemed alarmed, but quickly regained his composure and lowered the weapon. ¡ª Damn, who is this kid? Your son, is he? ¡ª No! ¡ª Virg¨ªlio answered. ¡ª Calm down, folks ¡ª Otto said to his men. ¡ª I told you to leave ¡ª Ariano said. ¡ª Lower the gun, kid ¡ª Otto ordered. ¡ª No. ¡ª Damn, what a stubborn boy ¡ª Otto laughed, entertained. ¡ª What¡¯s your name, kid? ¡ª None of your business ¡ª Ariano said, nervously, not lowering the gun. ¡ª Shoot the kid, Otto ¡ª the indigenous man said. ¡ª Shh, calm down, I¡¯m not gonna shoot him, are you crazy? Do you think I just go around shooting kids, damn it! ¡ª Otto turned to Ariano ¡ª Right, kid? ¡ª Are you bandits? ¡ª Ariano asked. ¡ª Why do you wanna know? ¡ª Otto narrowed his eyes. ¡ª Are you really gonna shoot us, kid? With that thing? There are three of us, and even if you shoot one of us, which I think you¡¯d miss, there¡¯d still be two left. You think you can get all of us? ¡ª I can try ¡ª Ariano answered, lacking confidence. Otto stared at the boy for a moment. ¡ª Look kid, from where I¡¯m standing, I don¡¯t think you can. ¡ª Otto laughed, not seeming worried about having a gun pointed at him. ¡ª So I¡¯ll give you a chance. You lower that gun, and then we¡¯ll give you a beating, a real good one with a quixaba stick, just so you learn. It won¡¯t cripple you, but it¡¯s gonna hurt a lot. But you¡¯ll live, what do you think? Ariano didn¡¯t answer. Otto sighed, seemingly losing patience, and with a swift motion, he dismounted from his horse and approached the boy, his face now inches from the barrel of the gun. ¡ª So kid, you gonna shoot, or do you not have the guts for it? Ariano hesitated, and Otto quickly grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, taking the gun from him. The boy knew he should have shot, but he chickened out, and now they were going to kill him. Otto then delivered a blow with the gun''s stock so fast that it was almost inhuman, hitting the boy squarely on the head, knocking him to the ground. In that instant, he tasted blood in his mouth, and everything spun before his eyes. When he came to, he was crying softly, lying on the dirt, though he didn¡¯t want to show weakness. Otto thought about kicking the boy. From where he stood, it would be easy, and he had to admit it would be a good lesson. However, he didn¡¯t. Not because he felt sorry for the kid (God knew he wasn¡¯t one of those types), but because he thought it was already good enough as it was. ¡ª I¡¯m just asking for one thing, the share of our protection, so I don¡¯t want anyone playing tough, unless they want a bullet in the middle of their eyes. We just want the same amount that Man¨¦ D¡¯Boi used to collect, and it¡¯s not even a high amount. Is it a high amount, Ezequiel? ¡ª No ¡ª answered the black man. ¡ª See? So, just pay it. Ariano now cried loudly on the ground, his nose covered in mucus, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, a pitiful sight. His things had scattered on the ground. Otto crouched down and took the revolver from his belt, then pressed the gun against the boy¡¯s face. Ariano felt the cold steel touch his skin and continued crying, but he stared at the man. ¡ª Look here, kid, you need to understand how life works. ¡ª Otto almost whispered. ¡ª If you want to live in this world, you need to understand that life¡¯s a bitch, and it won¡¯t show mercy just because you¡¯re a kid. If you point a gun at a man, you¡¯d better have the guts to pull the trigger, because if not, you¡¯d better not do it at all. ¡ª Otto pressed the barrel against Ariano¡¯s cheek. ¡ª Got it? ¡ª Damn, Otto ¡ª said the indigenous man. ¡ª The kid pissed himself. Otto looked down and saw that it was true, but didn¡¯t laugh, just moved the revolver away and tucked it back into his pants. ¡ª Listen, kid, you got lucky today. Go back to your parents ¡ª saying this, he stood up and looked at his comrades. ¡ª Get our share inside. If there¡¯s anyone else, shoot them. The men dismounted from their horses and entered the store, shouting. ¡ª Got a problem with that, friend? ¡ª Otto looked at Virg¨ªlio, who shook his head. ¡ª Great, but next time, we don¡¯t want any surprises, got it? ¡ª Yes ¡ª Virg¨ªlio answered. The boy stayed on the ground until the bandits were gone, but he didn¡¯t cry anymore; he just stared at the road. Behind him, the mule snorted lazily as if nothing had happened. Ariano got up, dusting off his clothes. His chin hurt terribly, and the blood in his mouth made him feel dizzy. He gathered his things. ¡ª Are you okay, kid? ¡ª Virg¨ªlio said, feeling sorry for him. ¡ª Do you have somewhere to go? Anyone you know? ¡ª Virg¨ªlio already knew the answer, but asking was something he could only do at that moment. But Ariano didn¡¯t answer, he just stood there, looking at the road, thinking about the bandits who had now disappeared from sight, realizing he had been lucky, not only because he didn¡¯t die, but because the men hadn¡¯t found the gold of the little saint.