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    Colonial Tales
    Colonial Tales
    Colonial Tales
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Colonial Tales

    By Vitor Cassius

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In a hovel, a mother needs to watch his sick son for love and fear... A cowboy decides to persecute one by one the killers who flayed his brother skin... In Africa, a boy realize that he was sold by his father to slavery.
    These short stories were told around the campfire. They will be true, false or just exaggerated? 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherVitor Cassius
    Release dateApr 25, 2020
    ISBN9781393825593
    Colonial Tales

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      Book preview

      Colonial Tales - Vitor Cassius

      COLONIAL TALES

      Copyright 2016 Vitor Cassius

      Draft2Digital Edition

      This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold. Thank you.

      Table of Contents

      Introduction

      The Moon Swamp

      The Promise of John Gualberto

      Tricks of Romãozinho

      The Major and the Kid

      The Legend of Diamonds

      The Legend of White Armadillos

      The Necklace of Seven Ears

      The Final Applause

      The Sanctuary of Our Lady of Ó

      The Old Man and King’s Treasure

      The Protection of The Devil

      The Black King

      Brides Veil

      Nhaderamoitubixá (Creation)

      Beliefs

      Epílogue

      Endnotes

      INTRODUCTION

      In this book, we present pieces of folklore. South american folklore...

      The north-american reader and other people will realize a difference. Indigenous tribes have different names, immigrants don’t speak Anglo-Saxon languages and slaves seem to differ from many of those who worked in the southern cotton plantations in the USA.

      But the pioneers of forests will have similarities to the settlers of the West. Xavante’s and Caiapó’s habits, history, structure and customs are similar to the Comanches and Cheyennes. Ghosts, God, Lucifer, all seem to have a link.

      And all the legends bring something, sometimes blatant, sometimes imperceptible which evokes an English, Spanish, German or Polish tradition.

      It’s as if these people, without any contact for a long time had shared an origin, belief and common land. And indeed they had.

      This eBook can’t be read with a simplest, logical or politically correct vision. Here are tales, traditions and stories of a different era, with different people and different values. Judging those events or procedures is the same as grumbling about why our mother choose to be a doctor instead of an engineer or why our grandfather was a merchant instead of a teacher. It’s a useless judgement.

      Despite all the superstitions, lack of study, naivety and ignorance, men and women of past generations were holders of high spirituality and ethics. Often, they tried their best for their family and children. There was no television, radio, mail, internet. Only the environment in which they had to work hard to survive.

      Thus, you cannot judge these people from the comfort of an armchair, with a fresh beverage on the side and all your education paid by the government or by your parents. These stories serve as entertainment.

      Some tales are real. Others, fiction. What the origin of fictional tales? Maybe it can be stories of older generations who were adapting to new lands. Or stories that emerged under the influence of imagination and alcohol. The author comes from a provincial family and heard many of these stories and their variations, from relatives and friends. Unfortunately, this historical tradition is disappearing, swallowed up in a digital world. The people prefer to receive influence of the unknown, in TV or sites.

      Still, I hope the reader will be entertained with these tales.

      THE MOON SWAMP

      Whoever looked at the old hut when passing by the dirty road, decorated in the corners with wild vines, would not say that there was any drama happening, with a troubled mother slowly wearing out, like a dead wild boar, under the harsh sun of December. Invariably closed, although adorned with flowers of various hues, it was a sad residence, tomb of sadness. The evening started when the crows came to their nightly rest in the high fig tree, with the impression that a macabre legion of elvs, sacis-pererês(1) and souls of this world had come to probe the miserable abode of the consumptive old lady.

      Along that dusty and sunny road on that spring afternoon, passed an oxcart. In front, sitting on the leather seat and urging the oxen, was Sad Antonio. Sitting on the back, with a look of horror on his pockmarked face, was Palmira, his foster mother. They did not talk and were resigned, in their own gestures, to misfortune and pain.

      Oa, Oa...

      The oxen moaned.

      Sad Antonio got down, opened the field gate, crossed and closed it again. The north wind was drawing far away with dark and threatening clouds.

      Anthonio looked around the field, seeing thick smoke rolls forming in the air, guessing where it was coming from. He adjusted the straw cigarette in his mouth and shrugged.

      He would also plant something very soon and buy fat bulls that he would buy with the sale of corn and beans. He was not worse than Joca... Why couldn't he have his farm all fenced?

      In fact, lazy Joca had everything because he was going to marry the minx Balbina, daughter of Captain Jorge. He was walking in such a snobbish way now! And he didn't bother to have a drink and chat a bit with his friends. Antonio would have a ranch too, but not covered with planks and bamboo walls. He was not a man to do pig’s service, using construction leftovers from prostitution areas. He also was not a man to receive favors from his father-in-law. All he had was his own arms. It would be difficult, but perhaps better built than the houses of the village.

      Antonio knew where to get good cedar, plan the wood carefully and fit the pieces. He could even call the proud Joca to see... But no, he wouldn't do that; he had his caboclo(2) decency.

      The oxcart climbed on a stump and shook, leaving a bit of hidden trail through the weeds.

      The old woman screamed, scared, because she was almost thrown out:

      Beware, Tonic, you can hurt the poor guy.

      It was only then that Sad Antonio remembered that was driving a patient. The hour advanced quickly. It was late now. His thoughts flew to the distant past where he saw himself thin and bent, with back pain, an overwhelming weariness, no mood even to roll a straw of cigarette, dwindling day by day.

      "Why don’t you go

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