26 maio 2012

Whistles in the Night

That night, from my room, I heard a noise, a tenuous and persistent whistle of a ‘bird’. The moon was full, at its peak in the blackness of night, reigned supreme in a starless sky. In the next morning he was gone.

He had never believed in those stories that the old ladies down the street told him, even though he used to like hearing them when he was a boy. Now, older, about seventeen years old, he believed even less in the beings of the forest or any other enchanted being, that made part of the lives of the elderly.

However, he had begun to notice some strange things were happening in the villages that were close to ours. Rumors that young people were vanishing were heard, both men and women and always at night. On full moon night. And always after a tenuous and persistent whistle of a bird.

In the houses of the ones missing there were no marks of tampering or any indication that a stranger had entered the property. Because of the fear, people started to sleep with the bedroom doors locked, theirs and their teens’. But young people were still disappearing, even with these safety measures. Until, suddenly, disappearances stopped and started elsewhere.

The moons were in succession, one by one, and the only thing they could find in common among the missing, in addition to the victims being teenagers, was that they had met a young man, dressed in dark jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt, who wore a hat and slippers. He also smoked a cigarette.

Then, the disappearances started happening in our village, even with the advice that young people should not walk alone or talk to strangers. But this time the worst thing was not the disappearances, but the amount of people who were disappearing at the same time. People who were together, also vanished together.

From the old ladies, he began to hear that this was art of Tibanaré, but he gave no credit to their gossip, even though he knew the story of that enchanted one, he said nothing about the disappearance of young people.

According to what he heard, which was the same as we all had heard as children, the Tibanaré was an old Indian with wrinkled face, who walked at the sunset, very quietly. When children would find him in his way, he’d ask them cigarettes, when they did not give him, what used to happen most of the times, he would take them away.

Until one day, he ran into such man in jeans, white shirt, slippers and a hat. He was with another girl and his little brother, at the time the charmed one appeared in his path.

The man approached them and asked both, the boy and the girl, a kiss. The girl, who had found him gorgeous and perhaps trying to make the boy jealous, gave him the kiss. He limited himself to a negative and emphatic sign with his head. The man greeted them with a nod of the hat without a word and walked away slowly, lighting a cigarette. Floating. The sun fell and the moon has loomed in the sky, still pale.

That night, from my room, I heard a noise, a tenuous and persistent whistle of a ‘bird’. The moon was full, at its peak in the blackness of night, reigned supreme in a starless sky. In the next morning he was gone.


Original written AssobiosNocturnosby Daniel Prestes
Translated to english by: Daniel Prestes (2012)
Reviewed by: Vinícius de Souza (2012)

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