by Whispering Wind
“That night, the moon rose swollen and red … not the gentle moon that watches over hunters and children, but the moon that sees everything the jungle tries to hide. The air was thick with the scent of orchids, smoke, and rain yet to fall. Even the frogs were silent.
“I sat by the fire. Zazulu twitched on a branch above me, tail coiled like a vine. “Wind…” he whispered, “the jungle’s holding its breath again.”
“And there was Catten, clever as ever, crouched beside his latest invention … a little box of copper and stone that blinked like a beetle’s eye. He called it his ghost listener. We laughed when it hummed. But then the ground beneath us began to hum back.”
/me lowers voice ” It started as a murmur, like wind through roots … but soon we heard voices. Hundreds of them. Whispering from beneath the soil, weaving together in sorrow.”
“Catten looked at me, pale as river clay. “Your jungle’s talking again.” he said. I threw marigolds and crushed sage into the fire … offerings for the ancestors, for their time to walk among us was near. The flames turned blue. And in the smoke, faces began to form ….faces made of ash and moonlight, eyes glowing like old river stones.”
“But they were not peaceful. They were angry. Someone had broken the bond between the living and the dead. Someone had dug where they should not dig.”
“We followed the whispers through the vines, deeper and deeper, until the air itself seemed to tremble. Finally, we came to the old ceiba, the tree that connects the underworld to the stars. Its roots were torn open … the soil ripped, bones scattered.”
“Catten knelt, running his hands over the broken earth. “Someone’s been here recently,” he said. And there, half-buried in the mud, we found a red cloth, the kind worn by men from the logging camp beyond the river.”
“Those men had come to steal the ceiba’s heartwood, believing the stories that it could make charms of power and wealth. They had hacked at its roots, laughing as the jungle cried… never knowing they were cutting through the resting place of the ancestors.”
“Now the dead were awake. Their whispers filled the night with sorrow so deep it made the stars flicker. The ceiba wept sap like blood. I felt the fury of Tupi, the spirit of the jungle, rise in the wind …. slow, ancient, and merciless.”
“I called on the sacred words … “Tupi, hear me. Forgive the living. Remember your children.”
And Catten set his machine into the soil, letting it pulse with the heartbeat of the earth.”
“Together we sang the Song of Returning, the chant that calls lost souls home. Light rippled through the roots, golden as sunrise.”
/ me sings softly …Tupi anaka, Tupi maru,
Echa nou, echa uru.
Roots that sleep, roots that weep,
Hear the drum of earth so deep.
Soulu, soulu, takarima,
Return to soil, return to dreama.
Let no spirit walk in pain,
Let the forest breathe again.
Tupi, Tupi, omo yara,
Guard the hearts where shadows are.
Let the fire die, let green arise,
And peace be sung beneath the skies.
/me looks around silently pointing finger to the night…..the jungle wind answers softly, carrying the scent of wet leaves and smoke. In the distance, owls cry once, then fall silent. then continues telling”The spirits began to calm. Their voices changed from grief to song … low, soft, full of peace. But balance required more than song.”
“The jungle demanded that the wrong be righted. And so, as dawn approached, we heard screams in the distance …faint at first, then swallowed by the mist. The loggers’ camp was gone. Their axes were found days later, rusted solid, vines curling through the handles as if the jungle had taken them back.”
“Some say the men ran, cursed by guilt and fever. Others whisper that the ceiba took them, binding them into its roots, turning their greed into silence.”
“When the sun finally rose, the tree glowed green again … alive, peaceful, whole. The whispers faded, the earth closed, and Zazulu landed on my shoulder.“Spirits happy now,” he murmured. “They go dance in the light.” I smiled. “The dead do not leave us,” I said. “They walk beside us … in the water, in the wind, in the roots beneath our feet. We must only listen… and never forget to respect what sleeps.”
/me lets voice fade with the last line. Looks at the fire. Pauses. Then says softly “And so, every year when the veil grows thin and the moon turns red, we sit by the fire, we whisper their names,and we tell this story again … so that no one forgets what happens when greed cuts through sacred roots… and the jungle remembers.”