Free The Violent Land by Jorge Amado

fever, bitten with that same fever which slew the monkeys. He has dragged himself along, and now he too falls back.
    â€œIt is the werewolf!” he cries, deliriously.
    They are falling back. Slowly at first. Step by step, until they reach the broader path where the thorns and swamps are less numerous. The June rain falls upon them, drenching their clothes and causing them to shiver. But beyond lies the forest—the tempest, phantoms. They fall back.
    They reach the trail now, a single-file passageway leading down to the banks of the river, where a canoe awaits them. They breathe a sigh of relief. The fever victim is no longer conscious of his fever; fear gives a fresh strength to his enfeebled body.
    But there ahead of them, pistol in hand, his face contorted with rage, stands Juca Badaró. He, too, was at the edge of the forest, he, too, saw the lightning flashes and heard the thunder roar, he had listened to the yowling of the jaguars, the hissing of the snakes, and his heart also had contracted at the owl’s ill-omened hoot. He as well as the others knew that this was the dwelling-place of spirits. But what Juca Badaró beheld was not the forest, not the beginning of the world. His eyes were filled with another vision. All he could see was that black earth, the best in the world for the planting of cacao. Before him he saw no longer a forest shot with lightning gleams, full of weird sounds, tangled with liana stocks and locked in the mystery of its age-old trunks, a habitation for the fiercest of animals and unearthly apparitions. What he saw was a cultivated field of cacao trees, trees in regularly planted rows, laden with their golden fruit, the ripe, yellow chocolate-nuts. He could see plantation after plantation stretching over this land where now the forest stood, and a beautiful sight it was. Nothing in the world more beautiful than a cacao plantation. Confronted with the forest and its mystery, Juca Badaró smiled. Here would be fruit-laden cacao trees, casting a gentle shade upon the ground; that was all there was to it. He did not even see his men as they fell back, terror-stricken.
    When he did see them, he barely had time to run up and place himself facing them, at the entrance to the trail, pistol in hand and a look of stern resolve in his eye.
    â€œI’ll put a bullet in the first one who stirs a step!”
    The men halted and stood like that for a moment, not knowing what to do. Behind them the forest, in front of them Juca Badaró, ready to fire.
    â€œIt’s the werewolf!” cried the fever victim as he bounded forward.
    Juca Badaró fired, a fresh gleam in the night. The forest echoed to the shot. The others stood about the fallen man, with bowed heads. Juca Badaró came slowly up to them, his pistol still in hand. Antonio Victor had stooped to ease the wounded man’s head. The bullet had pierced the shoulder.
    â€œI did not shoot to kill, but only to show you that I mean to be obeyed,” said Juca Badaró, in a voice that was deadly calm. And he added: “Go get some water to bathe the wound.”
    He helped them care for the man; he himself adjusted a bit of cloth as a bandage and assisted in carrying him to the camp near the forest. The others were trembling as they went—but they went. The man was delirious as they laid him down. In the forest, goblins were loose.
    â€œCome on!” said Juca Badaró.
    The men looked at one another. Juca raised his revolver.
    â€œCome on!”
    Axes and pruning-knives then began to fall with a monotonous sound, awakening the forest from its sleep. Juca Badaró gazed straight ahead of him. Once again he could see all this black earth planted with cacao, plantation after plantation laden with the yellow fruit. The June rain fell on the men. The wounded man begged for water in a quavering voice. Juca kept his revolver in his hand.

3
    The morning sun gilded the chocolate-nuts still green on the cacao trees