The Unthinkable: Song of the Sertão: Wounds of South America, #3

By Tessa Stockton

Brazil 1990s

A problematic social issue, a unit called to respond.

A man struggles to right his wrong.

"If I had said 'no,' instead of 'yes' when they asked me to do this thing, then maybe I would have turned out a hero instead of what I've become.

We were trained, hired with the promise of a good wage, to take care of a problem, to get things under control. As a man, I needed to succeed for myself, for my family living in a cycle of poverty in the sertão, the backlands. The earnings proved excellent, and far outweighed the promises made by the controlling peasant guerrillas. But the other part of it… If I knew then what I know now…

I can't live with myself…

I can't live.

If I could take it back. Everything I've done—

Ach, who could do such things? And if one could, then who would forgive such things?"

This is the story of one man's dark path to redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Creative Purpose Publications
• Release date: Jul 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393220022

Tessa Stockton

Tessa Stockton is a speculative fiction novelist, freelancer, and editor living in the United States. She is a former professional dancer.

Book preview

HEBREWS 9:14

How much more, then, will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself unblemished to God, cleanse our consciences from acts that lead to death, so that we may serve the living God!

Quanto mais o sangue de Cristo, que pelo Espírito eterno se ofereceu de forma imaculada a Deus, purificará a nossa consciência de atos que levam à morte[a], para que sirvamos ao Deus vivo!

Hebreus 9:14

1

Terra Firma

THE LITTLE BUG struggled in the depression of the earth caused by the hoof of a passing workhorse. With stillness, I watched it tumble to the bottom of its ravine.

Then the rain began. I counted the beat of the first raindrops, until they altered into a relentless, arrhythmic downpour.

The water filled the hole. It tried to climb out, the bug, but couldn’t. Didn’t insects have special suctioning legs to get a grip? Couldn’t the thing help itself? Maybe I should have cupped my palm around it to give aid, lend a hand. At the very least, I could have put my forefinger and thumb together and flicked. Instead, I witnessed the insect fall back into the puddle, again.

Leaning over my knees from the squatting position, I stretched to finally grant mercy to that little one. I don’t know why. Maybe the boredom of waiting for my father and my brother return from retrieving the horse that threw me moments ago got to me.

That’s it, I thought. I now held the insect in my palm that had formed its own little puddle. Several sets of spiny legs spun at the sky as the bug tried to right itself from its back.

I drew my face down and studied it, feeling a small sense of pride for my hastily chosen path of clemency. That’s when I heard my name called.

I dropped the bug and wiped my hand against my trousers.

Henrique. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I shrugged. Though I stared down at the bug, I didn’t really see it.

Maybe this rare rainfall has paralyzed his tongue. Do we need to teach you how to talk, Henrique? The teenage boy, a fair bit older than my fifteen years, grew impatient. Huh? he demanded.

No.

What’s that? He said, louder.

I cleared my throat. No, Zeusef. I paused. I can talk. Yet I spoke it with such quietness even I didn’t hear it.

Zeusef laughed. You are too shy, Henrique. He scrutinized me. I felt him do so.

I kept studying the insect without seeing it, until it headed right for the newly filled muddy indentation from where I’d rescued it. That’s when my interest grew. But the older boy, Zuesef, stepped in front of me at that point. His boot smothered the body of the bug unawares, smashing it with his sole.

I glanced up at him then, at Zeusef, right as the teasing rain stopped.

Yes, too shy. He placed both his hands on my shoulders and gripped, giving me a shake. In a playful way, he tapped both my cheeks before replacing his hold on my shoulders. Join us, Henrique. Your band of brothers. He shook me again while smiling. He had charisma. The kind girls liked.

"I—

What’s that you say? he taunted.

"I—

We’ll make a man out of you. Teach you how to be strong, outspoken.

Could they do that, really? What if I liked quietness? Maybe this was the way Deus made me. I thought about Deus and what an enigma God seemed. I shrugged.

Zeusef continued like a howler monkey, loud and convincing. Then Duarte, Celso, Marques, and Tomas chimed in, clouting me with persuasive verbiage. A girl’s voice surprised me. I peeked around the bigger frames to witness Ursula poised in a way that made her appear taller. Her long hair fell into her face, wild and unkempt, yet straightening fast while sticking to her skin with the moisture dropping from the cloud cover.

I looked away then did a double take. Ursula. Really? Does her father know?—her mother or her brother?

What are you staring at? Ursula lifted her chin.

The guys erupted in laughter. Don’t mind her, Zeusef flicked his hand. She insists on becoming like us, like men.

I do not!

They laughed again.

She huffed.

He pushed out his chest, thumped on it, and then rubbed. Truth is, she can’t stay away from me, he exhaled.

You dream big, little man.

Zeusef stormed up to her, and she shrunk as small as that bug whose guts now spilled.

Mind who it is you speak to, little woman. I am in charge here, and I only let you tag along because I need something to look at besides these here vigilantes. He gestured flippantly at his comrades.

You calling us ugly, Zuesef?

What do you think?

Tomas sized up his testosterone laden group and replied while pointing, Ugly... ugly, ugly... Yeah, we’re all ugly. A round of snickers erupted. But not you, Ursula, you’re not ugly, he smirked.

She made a face before delivering a naughty smile up at Zeusef, her dark, piercing eyes smoldering in a way that fascinated me, fascinated us all.

Someone cleared his throat and the untamed tension shifted gears—direction, really—for I heard approaching horses and turned. So did the others. Three equines zeroed in on our unpracticed circle, two with riders, my father and my brother, and one without. That was my horse. Stupid horse.

Something sunk in the pit of my stomach when I spotted them. As if the coagulated potato soup I had eaten for my last meal—bless my mother—curdled like unforgiving cheese bits; my unskilled sister churning the shabby barrel.

Get back to work, son. We still have much to do while we yet have daylight. My father glared at my friends. I guess I could call them friends.

I slid a glance in Zeusef’s direction. He nodded, unaffected by my father’s challenge. He had courage. Anyway, I knew I’d see him again tomorrow. He and his cronies came for me every day.

Strange thing, part of me wanted to run with them. They took control wherever they went, did whatever they desired, and from the looks of it they had found an endless supply of food to fill their bellies.

My belly ached with hunger. I wondered if my family would eat tonight. Did Mother find success in scrounging up enough rations to feed us all—me, my brother, my sister, father, and grandfather?

Henrique.

It wasn’t a question. My father, in his own way, suggested I get back on my horse and help round up the cattle—what few we had remaining. And herd them into the corral that had fixing left to do on its fencing. Stupid cattle. After that, water them—if we could find enough water, finish cultivating another slice of field—manually, because our workhorse is now lame. Get the chickens in for the night—halfway safe from predators, and pen up our last three goats—futilely barring them from their ornery and destructive ways. Then maybe Mother would have something waiting for us on the table after we attempted to clean the permanent dirt from our clothes, grime off our skin, and dust out of our hair. Some days, my brother’s black hair looked almost blond, and my grandfather’s white hair took on darkness. A trick our sertão, the backlands, played on its servants by its dust.

MACAXEIRA. Boiled manioc, again? I complained.

My mother smacked me upside the head.

I bowed lower until my nose almost rested on the plate. If it wasn’t potato, it was manioc, which was like potato, only toxic, until prepared right. Then it still tasted toxic. I’d never liked it.

You will eat what I give you, she scolded.

I snuck a glance at my older brother. Sebastiao kept his head down, too.

Mother covered her mouth with her hand, mumbling through her hardened fingers. It’s all we have for now. Her voice quivered. With mindless motion, as if in a hunger infused trance, she combed her hands over her apron, fighting tears again. I hated it when she cried. It seemed to recur more often in these recent days, months. Maybe we will get better crops this year, huh? She pointed her chin to my father, probing with a desperate hope I think pained us all. Even Pedra, my little sister, remained stone still, afraid to glance at Mother. She could have fooled us though. Pedra, though young, had a natural-born strength we all wished we possessed. Wise, too, for her nearly twelve years.

Father spoke up. Cotton wilt destroyed our crops, now we’ve lost cattle, too, because of the drought. The land isn’t giving what we need to even feed and water the livestock, keep them alive. Our one good working horse is lame and cannot till the fields, he shook his head and exhaled.

Grandfather, hunched over the table because of his bad back from years of cultivating the arid land, farming and ranching, lifted his hand and waved. His sign for everyone to heed his words, since his voice came out so soft-spoken most of the time. Crackly and parched, he slowly uttered, The land has taxed us. The past two years have proven hard. But the land will give to us again. You will see. We all belong to it. It belongs to us. We are one. He interlaced his fingers, Through the good and the bad.

In unusual custom I blurted, We could get more horses.

Five sets of eyes locked onto me as if I had said something shocking, or it shocked them I’d gone crazy.

Finally, my father rubbed the back of his neck and said, For what?

To breed. To raise, to train, my line of vision bounced from person to person, for people. We could convert the land for a horse training business. No more working the fields. Cattle we could keep, maybe. Everyone in and outside of Natal likes beef... milk. Everyone in Brazil! All of South America! Disbelieving expressions made me shift in my chair.

Finally, the boy has a voice, my father poked. Too bad it doesn’t contain an ounce of common sense. A sound of disgust escaped his throat.

But what is wrong with the idea?

Father snorted. Everything!

We know roping horses, cutting, even reigning—

It’s for the upper class. In case you haven’t noticed, we are poor, very, very poor, son. It’s impractical, naïve, to think we could purchase even one more horse than we already have. Then somehow train them to such a value that others would want to buy them for any amount of decent money. My father’s impatience came out with his hand gesture.

How about going to the capital city, to Natal, and spreading the word that we can train other people’s horses. They can bring their horses to us?

And what ground do we have to stand on? Are we experts then? So much so that others have heard of us, will believe us?

I leaned over my cooling manioc. "We know horses, Father."

"Yeah, we, Sebastiao gesticulated, not you."

Your draw to them is unnatural, Henrique, Father interrupted.

My older brother continued, Didn’t we spend an hour chasing down your mild-mannered gelding because he threw you? Yeah, he snorted, some skill, cowboy.

I was trying to teach him to stop quicker before a haunch turn. It happened too fast. I confused him. He reared, and I rolled off the back, I shrugged, a slipup.

I think it’s a fine idea, your training horses, Henrique, Pedra offered.

No, Father said. You cannot provide for a family; you do not put food on the table by dreaming impossible nonsense.

Pardon me, Father, I stuttered. I mean no disrespect. I tucked my head to lengthen the swatting distance from my papa’s arm. But our form of slavery to the land does not seem to put food on the table either.

Withdrawing eye contact, I shrunk even more when his chair made a horrible screeching sound as he stood.

My father pounded his fist onto the dinner table, causing dishes to clatter and cloudy water to slosh over the edges of our drinking glasses. No!

Nothing more was said about it. Then my grandfather, in his crusty voice, started crooning his usual, Asa Branca—a song