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Deep within the Amazon rainforest, nestled along the winding Nea’ocoyá River, lived the Siekopai people. Their lives were interwoven with the rhythms of the rainforest, their stories passed down through generations, echoing the wisdom of their ancestors. One such story, a captivating blend of myth and morality, tells of the air goblins and the stolen eyes.
Imagine a time when the rains would swell the river, bringing forth a bounty of large, delicious fish. The Siekopai people, eager for this seasonal feast, would follow the fish upstream to a lagoon thrumming with their movements. This lagoon, however, held a secret, a truth whispered by the wind through the trees.
The village shaman, attuned to the subtle languages of the forest, felt an unsettling presence. Drawn to a monse tree vibrating with an unnatural hum, he discovered a hidden world within its hollow trunk. Inside, creatures resembling humans were busily weaving baskets. These were the juri, the air goblins, spirits who could command the wind and take to the skies.
The goblin chief, welcoming the shaman, explained they were preparing for the ripening siripia fruit. The shaman, though, sensed a deeper, more sinister meaning behind their words. Before he left, the goblin chief gifted him the knowledge of weaving and whispered a cryptic warning: tie a pineapple shoot outside a hollow log and seek shelter within.
Returning to his people, the shaman found them already fishing, their minds consumed by the promise of the abundant catch. Heeding the goblin's warning, he and his little sister were the only ones who abstained from the feast. As darkness fell, a deep sleep overtook the villagers. The shaman, unable to rouse them, took his sister to the safety of the hollow log, just as the goblin chief instructed.
A furious wind, the hallmark of the air goblins, tore through the night. The river surged, reclaiming the fish, while jaguars, caymans, and boas prowled through the storm. The pineapple shoot, transformed into a vigilant dog, guarded the shaman and his sister.
Dawn revealed the devastating truth. The flood had receded, taking most of the villagers, their bodies lost to the hungry jaws of the jungle. Only the shaman's relatives, spared by their abstinence, remained. It was then he understood the goblin chief's cryptic words. The juri weren't harvesting fruit; they were harvesting human eyes.
His older sister, her appearance shifting, approached him, her touch a threat. Remembering the goblin's instructions, he threw palm seeds, which blossomed into eyes upon her face. Transformed into a peccary, she fled, her humanity lost.
The shaman, forever marked by this tragedy, taught the ways of weaving to other villages, keeping the memory of his people alive. Yet, the goblin chief's final words, a path to vengeance, lingered in his heart.
He returned to the monse tree, armed with chili peppers. As the goblins watched, he ignited a fire, the pungent smoke spiraling upwards. Those who had feasted on human eyes perished, their greed their undoing. The rest, lighter in spirit, escaped into the sky.
The Siekopai legend of the air goblins is a stark reminder of the interconnectedness of all things. It speaks of the delicate balance between the human and spirit worlds, a balance easily disrupted by greed and disrespect. It reminds us that even in the pursuit of sustenance, we must tread carefully, for the consequences of our actions can be dire, echoing through generations.
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