— Everything known is provided by nature: the water, the plants, the animals. The tribe that, from generation to generation, passes on its knowledge, its culture, and its history. Its bond with nature, its connection to the divine, its ties to its own people. Simple yet well-made homes. The children’s children are born, the water remains clean, and the food remains plentiful. The earth, always fertile, is cared for by the people as an equal.

— Animals respect the space of humans, and humans respect the space of animals. A man’s voice must not silence the bird. A man’s strength must not kill the jaguar. A man’s intelligence must not deceive the monkey.

— Joy is waking up and seeing the sun. Joy is children playing. Joy is waking after a sad day and having the strength to see and be seen by those we love.

This is Ubi’s speech (Ubirajara, meaning "lord of the spear") after losing his children. His voice, heavy with sorrow, echoes off the walls of the temple, where ancestral symbols tell the stories of times past. Everyone in the room, silent, looks at Ubi with eyes of sadness and empathy. The torch flames dance, reflecting the unrest in every heart present.

Then, the old tribe leader, Tuba (meaning “father”), rises from his carved stone seat, which has held many leaders before him. Tuba, with steady steps, walks toward Ubi. He stops in front of him, places his calloused hands on Ubi’s face marked by suffering, and says in a clear, strong voice:

— Ubi, your sadness is the tribe's sadness. The sun sets, but the sun also rises. Not every sunrise hides the moon and its tides, and the moon does not always wait for the sun to set to show its beauty and strength…

— I am happy for the children’s children who can see us and be seen by us, sad that I can no longer see Ubi's children.

Tuba’s words resonate in everyone’s souls, though they are not enough to heal the deep wound. He then asks the children to leave the temple, and, gradually, everyone exits, leaving only the elders and warriors of the tribe. The whistle of the wind slips through the wall openings, bringing the whisper of the trees.

Tuba, still standing, walks through the temple center with a worried expression. The shadows cast by the fire seem to weigh upon his shoulders. He breaks the silence:

— I don't know what to say to you... Our young ones do not appear to have been attacked by another tribe.

Before he could continue, he is interrupted by Ena (Apoena, meaning "the one who sees far"), a renowned hunter with keen physical and spiritual vision.

— It’s not other tribes; it's the cannibal tribe from the north. We heard other tribes asking for help. And even with our children dying, will we stand idle?

Silence fills the place again, dense as the morning mist on the mountain. Glances are exchanged, and the tension is almost palpable. Tuba responds cautiously:

— We are not certain they are cannibals, and I fear that trying to find what’s causing this without caution will kill more of our people.

Ena cannot contain himself; the passion in his voice is evident:

— Cannibals are not cunning. Nature has never let them climb the mountain unseen. The bird flies, the jaguar roars, the bats darken the sky. Nature exacts a toll to walk unseen, a price only those from the mountain know, and you more than anyone, Tuba.

Tuba feels the weight of expectations and doubts upon him. Unsure of how to respond or convince his tribe, he asks, voice trembling:

— Am I a reason for distrust? You know the price I pay, you know how much I wish to pursue our children, how I long to speak with our ancestors, as some of you can. What remains for me besides serving? Besides being Tuba?

The words fall like stones. Ena lowers his head, acknowledging the truth in them, and leaves in silence. One by one, the others begin to exit the temple, passing by Tuba and placing a hand on his shoulder as a gesture of understanding and respect. The collective gesture is a show of support, but also of worry.

Ubi, the last to leave, approaches Tuba. Their eyes meet, and he speaks before leaving the temple:

— You are stronger than all of us. What you do for us will endure for eternity.

Left alone, Tuba feels the solitude of his position. He looks at the paintings on the walls, telling the stories of previous Tubas, of sacrifices made for the tribe's sake. The full moon lights up the temple’s interior, and he wonders if he can protect his people from the approaching shadows.

Outside, the village is a mosaic of dim lights and silhouettes. Families withdraw to their homes, but the murmur of worries and fears fills the air. Ena, distanced, watches the distant forest, determined to act. And Ubi returns to his empty hut, where the silence is deafening.

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The next day, before dawn, Ubi is already awake, preparing his hunting tools for a day of fishing. He gathers his spear, checks his blade carefully, feeling the familiar weight that has often brought him sustenance. He goes to the outside of his hut, where his canoe rests under the dim light of dawn. He gathers his net from a line, rolls it, though with less precision than usual, and places it in his bag. Inside, he sees that his tattoo supply is ready, but he realizes he is out of ink. As he intended to mark new fishing areas on his map tattoo, instead of going straight to the river, Ubi decides to head into the dense forest to find a jenipapo tree to source materials for making his ink. He informs a small group gathering to go to the river that his plans have changed.

Entering the forest, Ubi notices it feels different. The birds don’t sing as usual, and the small animals seem to be hiding. The animals seem alert. The silence feels like the same silence that has filled his home since the loss of his children. A heavy feeling overtakes him; it’s as if fear is invading his mind. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s far from home, off course, or if the absence of his children affects him more than he realized. Every step forward seems laden with new regret. He wants to be strong, but his body won’t allow it.

Just as he is about to surrender to his fear, Ubi spots the tree he has been searching for. But something about it is different. Its leaves are a mix of tiny, light-green leaves and old, dried ones falling to pieces. The fruits follow a similar pattern: fresh green fruits contrasting with overripe ones that seem very old. Not a single ripe fruit is present.

The sight piqued his curiosity. For a moment, he forgets the fear that had just overtaken him. He approaches and touches the tree’s rough bark, feeling the sticky sap on his fingers. As his main goal is ink rather than food, he gathers the green fruits that are best for making his ink. While he stores the fruits in his bag, he can’t shake the strange feeling that something is wrong with the forest.

On his way back to the tribe, Ubi’s thoughts are filled with images of the dry leaves and unripe fruits. He wonders if nature is trying to tell him something. Perhaps it’s a sign from the spirits, a warning he can’t yet decipher. But he decides that once he reaches the tribe, he will speak with the elders about what he saw. For now, he focuses on the journey back.

Upon reaching his tribe, Ubi sees Bambu (Bambuí, meaning "very fast and winding river"), a lively and curious child from the village, grinding green jenipapo fruits with dedication. He could only be preparing ink. Intrigued, Ubi approaches and asks:

— Bambu, have you already made the ink that I was also going to prepare?

Bambu looks up, his eyes shining with excitement.

— I have enough ink! I just want to make sure there’s plenty for the Great Tree Festival so we can paint the mountain on everyone in the tribe.

Ubi smiles at the boy's enthusiasm. The festival was an important event, a celebration that brought the tribe together around their traditions and beliefs. The body paintings made with jenipapo ink were symbols of protection and connection with the ancestors.

— I see you’re well-prepared — says Ubi. — Would you trade some of your ink for these jenipapos I just gathered?

Bambu thinks for a moment, a mischievous idea forming in his mind.

— I’ll make the trade if you take me with you fishing! — he proposes, his eyes full of anticipation.

Ubi hesitates. Bambu was still very young and couldn’t leave the tribe without an adult nearby. Besides, Ubi wasn’t sure if he was ready for company, especially after the recent events weighing on his heart. But the boy’s excitement was contagious, and maybe his joy could bring some relief to his own pain and keep his mind focused on something beyond his own thoughts.

— Very well, Bambu. But you must promise to follow all my instructions and not stray from me.

Bambu’s face lights up in a radiant smile.

— I promise, Ubi! I’ll be like your shadow!

With a nod, Ubi accepts the trade. He hands over the jenipapos to the boy and receives a generous amount of ink in return. As they prepare for the journey to the river, Ubi feels that Bambu's presence makes the weight in his chest a little lighter.

As they walk, Bambu cannot contain his

 excitement.

— Ubi, do you think we’ll catch a lot of fish? I want to learn to cast the net like you do!

Ubi looks at the boy, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a glimmer of hope.

— With patience and focus, Bambu. Fishing teaches a lot about life. Today, you begin learning.

The forest around them feels less oppressive with Bambu’s laughter echoing among the trees. And Ubi feels the same sense of care he had for his own children, watching each path and ensuring Bambu is safe.

Near the river, Ubi notices something strange about the animals—not their behavior, but their absence. He realizes that the feeling of extreme safety may be a trap hiding a greater danger. And Ubi tells Bambu to stay alert.

— Bambu, be careful; I sense something very strange here. — says Ubi.

Bambu looks around and replies:

— There’s nothing here, Ubi!

And without thinking, Ubi responds:

— Exactly! How many times have you come here or heard stories about the river? And in how many of them were the songs of birds and the cries of monkeys present...?

— Let’s proceed carefully, without making any noise. — says Ubi, lowering his voice even more.

Bambu doesn’t know what to say and only wears a thoughtful look, trying to mimic Ubi's quiet steps.

A little further ahead, Ubi notices dark stains on some leaves. He approaches cautiously and realizes they are blood marks. His eyes follow the trail to what seems to be part of a body; he can only identify it as human skin, peeking through the vegetation. Ubi’s heart races, but his mind becomes highly alert. Quickly, Ubi signals for Bambu to stay still and silent. The boy obeys, his eyes fixed on Ubi, filled with a mix of fear and trust.

Ubi walks toward the body, each step as heavy as lead. The air grows thicker, and a metallic smell invades his nostrils. As he gets closer, he recognizes the faces. It was the group of hunters he had bid farewell to earlier that morning. All lying on the ground, arranged in a circle, with each one's head pointing toward the others, like rays of a macabre sun.

The scene is too much for Ubi to absorb all at once, and it paralyzes him. His thoughts blend together, none of them leading to any concrete action. They leap from the last farewell to those friends; the fact of not being nearby to try to protect them or fight whatever did this; the death mirroring that of his children; the fear that the darkness shadowing his tribe was spreading faster than they could contain.

It is all too much for Ubi until he hears a faint whisper from Bambu:

— Ubi... Ubi! — Bambu whispered, his voice trembling.

The boy’s call snaps him out of it. He realizes that the most important thing at that moment is to keep that child safe. He cannot let Bambu witness such a horrific scene or put him in danger.

He gestures to Bambu, asking him to wait and stay silent. Moving quickly, he looks at his map and looks for the largest tree nearby; on its trunk is an inscription, a symbol he recognizes. Ubi tattooed the exact location of that mark on his map, realizing it could be an important clue.

Without delay, Ubi returns to Bambu, who now looks visibly frightened. He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder and whispers:

— We need to go back. Now. Stay close to me and make as little noise as possible.

Bambu just nods, his eyes welling with tears. Ubi takes the boy by the arm and begins to move quickly but cautiously, distancing them from that cursed place. Every sound in the forest seems amplified, and the silence of the animals weighs on them like a shadow.

As they head back toward the tribe, Ubi can’t stop thinking about what he could have done to prevent this, but he knows there’s no time for regret. His priority is Bambu’s safety and warning the others about what he found. Amid all the turmoil, the wind begins to stir between the trees, like an unsettling whisper, and Ubi senses a storm is coming. The tension makes the walk back feel much longer than the journey there. And everything around them now seems dangerous; everything around them stirs more distrust.