DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST
DIARY OF AN ASSASSIN
By
Edite L Santana
First published in Great Britain as an e-book by Edite L Santana
Copyright © Edite L Santana 2016
The right of Edite L Santana is to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
KINDLE VERSION
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
THUNDER RUMBLED ABOVE the dense rainforest, echoing far and wide and making the little wooden house in the clearing below shake from the force of it. I pulled a thin, worn-out blanket up over my head, shivering not from cold, however, but fear.
After oil lamps were extinguished and candles blown out, the darkness here in the heart of the wilderness was all-encompassing. My tiny room had a bare wooden floor and walls, no paint or polish to cheer the place up, only a few small pictures cut from magazines that had somehow found their way out here in the middle of nowhere. I had stuck them up on the wall for comfort, pictures of glamorous people, and places, and things out in the world to remind myself that there was life beyond my prison. But I couldn't see them now in the dark. I couldn't see anything at all. Another little bed lay alongside my own, where my older sister would occasionally sleep, or sometimes my grandmother when she came to visit, but tonight the bed lay vacant. I was all alone. In daylight, I never minded being alone, running off into the forest to explore or down to the river bank for an afternoon nap under the baking Brazilian sun. At night though, there was only one thing I hated more than being alone, and I knew by the sick feeling in my stomach and the chill in my bones that it was close by.
A fat raindrop hit the roof with a smack, then another, and within seconds the cacophony had begun. When the storms came, and they came often in the Amazon, the rain didn't just fall, it assaulted everything in sight with the full, brutal force of nature. The very air became electrified, charged with invisible power. If you got caught out in an Amazon storm during the day, it could make you feel more alive than anything else on Earth. By night, however, it was as though Hell itself were hammering at the door.
I didn't need to see the door open. I could hear it. The hinges gave a long, low creak like the call of some demonic bird about to swoop down upon me.
"Don't look," pleaded a desperate little voice in my head. "Don't move, don't breathe,
don't... don't..."
But I couldn't help it. When I heard the terrible sound I turned my head, and in the same instant a flash of lightning pierced the sky, its brilliant white light spilling through the gaps in the window's wooden shutters and illuminating the face of my tormentor.
He was as black as the night itself, his gaze burning with a purpose I could not fathom, but I knew by the way that his look froze my blood that it was not a purpose boded well for me. I let slip a short gasp, squeezing my eyes tight shut and bracing myself as I felt his weight upon the bed, the stink of rancid mud and sweat filling my nostrils.
"No," begged the voice he could not hear, "no, please, go away... go away!
Then his hands were upon me, grabbing my arms, pinning me down. I tried to scream, but his filthy, stinking palm was covering my mouth, and suddenly my emerald-green eyes were wide open, staring up into my father's cold, dark, brown ones. And in that instant we both knew, even if neither of us fully understood why, that we were enemies. That we would always be enemies, as long as we both lived.
Chapter One
Diabinha
I STOOD WITH my back to the stables and looked down a red-brown dirt path flanked on both sides by grazing cattle. To my left, some distance away, lay a road and to my right, the forest, and beyond it the plantation where my brothers and sisters would be picking clean row upon row of coffee plants. Down the dirt path ahead, out of sight, was the ramshackle little schoolhouse where I spent my mornings during the week, and a makeshift church where I knew my mother was right now.
I didn't understand why anyone would want to go to church. My grandmother was a pagan, and I found the candles, herbs, and rituals that went along with that far more interesting than sitting in a boring building all morning reading a book. What I disliked most about this situation though was that it left me on my own on Sunday mornings, and the times when I was alone always seemed to be the times when he would.
"Diabinha!"
Even though I had been half-expecting it, I crouched low like a startled animal when I heard my father's voice. I was afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him, but me most of all. Even though I was only a little girl, I knew instinctively that there was something wrong about the way he looked at me. Was it mistrust? Maybe. But sometimes, when I caught his eye, when he was in a bad mood, it felt like more than that. A more powerful emotion, one that I did not yet understand.
I had always known that I was different. All of my brothers and sisters had dark skin, brown eyes and black hair like my father's. But my skin was pale, my eyes green, and my hair red and curly. My mother thought that I was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but my father called me evil. A little devil. Diabinha.
"Where are you?" he growled from somewhere nearby. I glanced about desperately, trying to decide the best way to flee. Down the path and he would see me for sure, and then I would get beaten later on for running away from him. The house was right there, but it would be the first place he looked. I could make a break for the shelter of the forest maybe, keep running until I reached the river, or the stables, not as safe perhaps, but closer. It would be a calculated risk.
"Diabinha!"
Before I could make up my mind, my father was bearing down upon me. "There you are," he said, calmly. His eyes were in shadow, cast by the brim of the battered leather hat he always wore, and I could not make them out clearly. The bottom half of his face likewise gave nothing away; an expressionless mouth set amidst patches of scruffy, curly black hair; too much for a five o'clock shadow, yet not really enough to be called a beard. "I'm going hunting," he said simply,
"and you are coming with me."
I glanced warily towards the trees no more than a hundred yards away. I wasn't afraid of going into the forest, I did that all the time. So long as you stayed near the slim paths that cut through to the plantation or the river you were fine. But stray too far from those paths and the trees began to grow closer and closer together, the darkness closing in along with the many dangers it harboured. The kind of dangers that my father liked to hunt.
I shuddered, then realised that my father was no longer looming over me. He was striding towards the forest, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Here was my last chance to run away. But before I knew what I was doing, I found myself chasing after him. I was still afraid, but curiosity had gotten the better of me as it often did and soon I was at his heels, dead leaves and broken branches crunching under my bare feet as I ran between the tall trees.
At first it felt like an adventure. I had often heard my brothers talk of going hunting with my father and it always sounded so exciting.
I wanted to be like them, to be useful, to bring back food for the family. But this was not how I had imagined it would be. We were far from the path now, and every step became an effort, struggling against the thick undergrowth, tripping over tangled tree roots. I began to fall behind, and panic rose within my chest.
"Keep up!" my father snapped, angrily. But I could not keep up. I was only a little girl with little legs, and he was a grown man with great, long strides. A couple of times he stopped and waited for me to catch up, then grabbed me roughly and hoisted me up onto his shoulder, muttering darkly as he did so. Then after a while, when he decided I'd had enough rest, he would put me down again and make me run some more.
I kept thinking that we must be nearly there, wherever 'there' was, but my father kept walking and I felt as though I might be about to cry because I was so tired, and also afraid now of why he had brought me so deep into the forest. This didn't feel like an adventure anymore. It didn't feel right.
Finally we came to a stop next to the biggest tree I had ever seen, its thick roots winding all about it as though they had a mind of their own. My father picked me up and placed me amongst them.
"Wait here," he said, before turning and marching off into the darkness. I wanted to call out after him, to ask where he was going, or even beg him not to leave me alone in the dark, but he was in a bad mood and I was scared of his temper, so I said nothing.
Standing still now, all of the sounds of the forest closed in around me. The monkeys chattering far above did not frighten me, monkeys were everywhere you went in these parts and they paid people no mind. But there were other creatures here too. The insects and leeches that now swarmed all over my flesh, biting me and the fearsome wild boars that my father was hoping to find, and of course, the panthers.
Onca.
I had never seen an onca before. Few people had, even here. The forest was dark, and the onca black, stealthy, and cunning. You didn't see onca. You didn't even hear onca. You smelled onca. Their breath stank of rotten meat, of death. If you smelled death, you ran for your
life.
Cracking sounds in the trees all around made me twitch and strain my eyes, but I couldn't see anything. I waited, and waited, but my father did not return. He's left me here to die, I thought, my eyes sparkling with tears. I'm going to die.
Crack!
I jumped and gasped as the gunshot echoed around the tall trees, then a wave of relief washed over me. I knew that sound. My father was nearby. He hadn't abandoned me after all! Sure enough, moments later Moises appeared with an enormous, savage black boar slung around his shoulders. Both he and the animal were covered in hot blood, but he didn't seem to mind a bit. In fact he was smiling as broad a smile as I had ever seen.
"See," he declared proudly, "food for one month!" He dropped the huge, heavy animal on the ground at my feet, and I recoiled in disgust, not at the animal so much as at my father's stink. Moises rarely bothered to take a bath, and being covered in mud and blood did little to improve matters. At least if there were onca nearby, I thought, my father's smell would probably scare them away.
I was glad that he had come back for me, but that happy feeling soon faded away as we began the long trek home again. My father could not carry me as well as the boar, and given the choice between my life and a month's worth of meat, I was pretty confident he would choose the latter. I did my best to keep up, my legs were heavy and sore and it was so difficult to keep going, but I knew I had no choice, so I tried to find other things to keep my mind from the pain and discomfort I felt.
Glancing up to the canopy, I squinted to try to spy some of the monkeys that I could hear chattering high above. There were all kinds of monkeys in the forest; big ones, small ones, black ones, brown ones, monkeys with little red faces that looked like hanging fruits from far away.
Those ones were my favourite.
"Look, dad!" I exclaimed, spotting a gang of fifteen or twenty little yellow monkeys, "monkeys!"
My father stopped, turned, and looked up to where I was pointing. I knew at once that I had made a mistake, and I opened my mouth to yell even as he began to lower his boar calmly to the ground.
"No!" I begged him. "Please don't!"
But it was no good. Moises swung his rifle up, took aim, and fired. The little yellow ball of fur seemed to fall in slow motion. I was only aware that I had screamed after I had stopped, when the animal landed close to my feet with a soft crunch. My eyes filled with tears and I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. Two little black eyes were looking at me. Two little eyes that were alive. I blinked. A little baby monkey was clinging to the dead monkey's back. That was its mother, I thought, my stomach turning over. He killed this little baby's mother.
My father walked over to where the two monkeys lay, and I braced myself for something even worse, my hands covering my face. He's going to kill the baby too, I thought. Please don't kill the baby too. Then I felt something, a weight on my shoulder, a prickling sensation at my neck like the kind you feel when waking from a nightmare, unable to move. Was this the nightmare? I let my hands fall and slowly turned my head to find the tiny yellow monkey there upon my shoulder, staring into my eyes, clinging to me for dear life.
"A present for you," said my father. There was no emotion in his voice, no clue as to whether he was trying to make up for what he had just done, or if he just enjoyed the pain he had caused. I felt the monkey's tiny hands and feet gripping me tightly, and I knew that it was afraid. It was afraid just like I was. As my father hoisted the boar carcass back onto his shoulders, I reached up to stroke the baby monkey to comfort it, and the monkey let me. Then I turned and carried it away from its mother, lying dead on the forest floor.
CHAPTER TWO
Chips
TWO BEADY LITTLE black eyes watched Maria intently as she cracked another egg into the large bowl and gave the mixture a stir. My mother, a short woman with a soft, beautiful face and long, golden blonde hair, was always in the little wooden kitchen at the side of the house. That was her place. With the fire lit in the large, square stove most of the day it was usually hot in there and sometimes smoky too, but she was used to it. The smells from all of the wonderful things she made would float out across the farm and give everyone something to look forward to once their labours were done.
Rice and beans were the staple as our family grew both, then she would add different accompaniments each day; salad, vegetables, meat and eggs, all either from the farm itself, fished up from the river, or else hunted by my father and brothers. My mother had a little herb garden next to the kitchen with spring onions and coriander and all kinds of other treats, and she would use them to make the most wonderful roast chicken. Or else sometimes pork from the wild boar that my father and brothers hunted in the forest, butchered and dried out in the sun surrounded by fire to keep the insects away, then sealed in bags and good for a month until the next was killed.
Today she was making my favourite; sweetcorn cake, with eggs and sweetcorn and fresh milk still warm from the cows that morning. My brothers would often return to the house in the early afternoon, taking a break from their back-breaking work at the plantation, for coffee and cake and respite from the hot midday sun. My mother always warned me not to touch the cake until after my brothers had eaten, but then when her back was turned I would snatch a piece and run outside with my prize. The cake was dense, sweet, creamy and delicious, and sometimes my eyes were bigger than my stomach and I would take too much, so I would break off little pieces and toss them to the chickens and ducks that littered the yard, making them quack and squawk like crazy. Just now, however, it wasn't me that my mother needed to be worried about. She moved away from the bowl for just a moment to see to the oven, and as soon as her back was turned the little monkey sprang out from his hiding place behind a large saucepan on the highest shelf, and leapt up onto the table. He dipped his finger into the batter and tasted it. It was good, he seemed to think, but maybe it could be even better! He picked up an egg just as he had
seen my mother do a moment ago, and threw it hard into the bowl.
"Oh my god!" My mother whipped around and waved her hand at the creature to shoo him away. "I'm going to strangle that monkey!" she yelled as he dodged her hand and leapt back down to the floor with a screech.
I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe, watching the scene unfold from the kitchen doorway. With a loud screech, the monkey fled to my shoulder and I carried him quickly outside, away from my mother's wrath. My baby had grown up quickly. I called him Chips. He wasn't a chimpanzee but I liked the word and it seemed to suit his personality, so Chips it was. He went everywhere with me, clamped to my neck as he was now and had been ever since my father had murdered his mother that day in the forest.
Though I was only seven years old, I had been put to work on the farm as soon as my father deemed me useful. First thing in the morning, around five o'clock, my sister Marina and I would go out and milk the cows on the far side of the stable. The first milk was hot and creamy and a real treat and I used to put a little in the palm of my hand for Chips to lick up with his rough little tongue. Then it was back to the house for breakfast before the rest of the day's chores began. Some days I would be helping my mother in the kitchen, or cleaning the house, or washing clothes down by the river. Other days Marina and I might be grooming the horses, or else sent to help the boys at the plantation, clearing weeds and insects and other debris from the coffee and spices that grew in long, neat rows.
When Moises was around the farm everyone worked hard because they were afraid of his temper, but when his business took him away, sometimes for weeks at a time, the atmosphere was much more relaxed and we could more or less do as we liked. Today the sun was high in the sky and beating down hard. It certainly wasn't the kind of weather to be working. When the day was this hot there was only one place to be.
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