“What?” I ask, swathed in clammy sweat.
He nods, lackadaisical even to the probable whoosh of fresh Brazilian real notes. I wish he’d shown a little eagerness a while ago when I sniped at a red deer. Else, the reveries of supple jackets, moccasins made of buckskin and art of antlers hadn’t vanished along with its carcass.
The only thought—amid cold shadows, dwindling sunbeams, birds homeward-bound—that dwells is pressing forward.
Moving ahead, a tiny brown frog sallies, perfectly camouflaged with the duff. A golden sparkle lights up in its smoldering, popping black eyes agaze at me, prominent nostrils twitch, while its tongue flashes in and out, between bone-tingling croaks.
“Curupira toad, sir.” Afonso says before it disappears.
Parched, I stop by an illimitable river. As I cup my palms to drink, a light-brown, ray-finned fish, probably 5 feet in length, surfaces.
Gaping at me from a distance, it abruptly lunges towards me, brandishing its sharp, protruding teeth. I withdraw swiftly and ‘ploup’—flop on the buttery, muddy quagmire—while its colour changes to red and finally, solid black. It growls, thrashes on the shore’s edge before returning to the deep waters.
“Black wolf-fish or Curupira fish.” Afonso salvages me.
A few paces further on, serried rows of tall trees with serrated, blackish-green leaves—restless rustling, dipped in umbrage—confuse us like a maze, as in a tiered military formation to surround enemies.
“Curupira trees, sir.”
A moving orangish-red flame catches my eye between the thicket breaks.
“Could be fire. Must be a tent there. Come.”
Afonso follows me quietly. No matter how far we trudge through the fiercely aggressive foliage, no sign of campfires.
“Nobody here. But see these.” I point towards human footprints on the soggy earth.
Afonso’s face transforms from crimson to pale white, lips quivering, “A deceptive trail created with his feet turned backwards. It’s Curupira, the demon! We’re doomed. He’ll turn us into critters.”
Wordless, he beetles off.
“Hey, stop.” I try to keep pace with him, but he evanesces soon like the mist.
Suddenly, I hear a high-pitched whistle. Turning around, I find a hirsute boy wearing a loincloth, tossing his head, whirling ginger hair.
“Do you know the way out?”
He smiles, revealing dirty, blue-green teeth; beckons me.
Following his speedy stride exhaustively, I repeatedly encircle the same path harbouring the Curupira trees. Unexpectedly, he vamooses.
Emerging from the interminable jungle-road labyrinth at last, I reach a green, tranquil glade. A blood-freezing scream fills the air, accompanying a bodily discomfort. A shriek escapes my mouth when my dilated eyes witness, between twitching, serpentry of dense, brown body hair with sharp, pointed nails jutting out. My view defocuses, but I espy the same boy sitting on a pig, nursing a wounded red deer, with his feet facing backwards.