It was early morning in the Tapirapé camp. The jungle was still dripping with the mist of the night, parrots were screaming at each other like old aunties at the market, and I had decided to start the day with a nice, “reflective” hike.
Just me, my spear, some dried manioc bread—and the quiet hope of not walking into any low-hanging snakes.
I nodded goodbye to Kart, the Tapirapé scout, who called after me:
“Don’t head toward Bloodbath Bay! That’s where every second dreamer with too much confidence gets lost!”
I laughed.
I’m Kyra! The Wolf Girl! I can find my way by scent alone!
Three hours later, I was completely lost.
A damned jungle looks the same from every direction.
While I was trying to figure out my position based on the angry croak of a tree frog, it happened:
I stepped on a mat of overgrown vines—
and fell.
Not gracefully.
Not heroically.
No, I tumbled with a grunt into a pit that swallowed me like a grumpy anaconda. My head slammed into something hard—stone, carved—and for a second I heard the voices of the ancestors.
(And maybe a toucan laughing at me.)
When I came to, I was surrounded by moss, dust—
and history.
There it was—the stone tablet.
Majestic.
Inscribed with ancient words, but clear as day:
The land, the water, the breath of the jungle—belong to the Tapirapé, and have since the beginning of time.
Next to it: an old parchment, miraculously well preserved, telling a tale so clever and cheeky I actually laughed out loud.
And the cherry on top: a rough drawing on bark, clearly showing the Tapirapé fire circle—Bonkinin holding a hammer above the tablet, while Groggy Toucan in the background appears to drop a coconut on his own foot.
I felt awe.
And then… the shaking in the branches above me.
A troop of capuchin monkeys had found me. Curious. Clever. Armed with rotten fruit and bad attitudes.
I grabbed the tablet, the parchment, and the drawing—and ran.
The exit from the pit was slippery. I slipped. I cursed.
I slid into a river.
A monkey jumped on my head.
Thus began a chase through the Amazon that no bard will ever fully capture.
I lost a sandal, dodged an anaconda, got stared down by a capybara like I had interrupted its nap, and literally stumbled into a camp of shady figures—bandits, maybe grave robbers.
They smelled of sweat, oil, and colonial arrogance.
I had wandered into the edge of the Western Mountains, a place Kart always said:
“If you end up there, it’s either with a plan—or with really bad luck.”
I crawled under an overturned canoe, held my breath, and prayed to the spirit of the jungle.
When they started arguing about who packed the last tin of fish, I took my chance—ran, leapt, nearly lost the tablet in a swamp puddle, caught it with my chin, and got bitten on the ear by a macaw.
But I made it.
Bloodstained (well—mostly mosquito juice and smashed fruit), knees shaking, a weird frog in my hair, I finally made it back to the Tapirapé camp.
Kart saw me.
Saw the tablet.
Saw the look in my eyes.
He nodded.
“You fell, Kyra. Into a hole. Like a beginner.
But you came back like a bearer of the legacy.”
yes, now i’m standing here, freshly washed and at the end of the story, but of course i brought these found things with me …… rummages in a box …….. pulls out the stone tablet and the drawing
