Thirty Tribes

Immortals. Those who will remain forever in the memory of men. Thirty tribes spread across imaginary borders between Portugal and Spain, in the New World. People adapted to the Spanish Jesuits. A new treaty, that of Madrid, replaces that of Tordesillas and Zaragoza. Seven reductions, formerly Spanish, are now Portuguese. It is the beginning of the Guaranítica war ... José Viana observes the militiamen, almost all of them brown skin and some blacks, they do not wear armor, helm or...
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Immortals. Those who will remain forever in the memory of men. Thirty tribes spread across imaginary borders between Portugal and Spain, in the New World. People adapted to the Spanish Jesuits. A new treaty, that of Madrid, replaces that of Tordesillas and Zaragoza. Seven reductions, formerly Spanish, are now Portuguese. It is the beginning of the Guaranítica war ... José Viana observes the militiamen, almost all of them brown skin and some blacks, they do not wear armor, helm or trebuchet, they only wear cotton shorts and almost all barefoot, in front of each platoon a captain of the militia, those wear boots and armed with sword and trebuchet, the governor of Montevideo asks: - Are they already trained for combat? Trained! - For the militiamen, "The best bautismo es el de sangre" .General José de Andonaegui responds, certainly that his crossed buggies were better warriors than the native buggies, for the simple fact of having been trained by him ... the coimeiro looks for the chief Ñhenguirú, he is no longer at the opposite end of the court, crosses the street walking pacing, walking, almost dancing, goes to the cabildo, smiles and winks at Panamussupanema, who was watching the husband's game from inside the cabildo, even happily , looks at him hard, like an ibirapema breaking bones, accompanied by an irritated and melodious voice ... Karaí Djekupé remains motionless, hearing moans, which stretch into the night, cease for a few moments, then another scream, and the endless symphony of agonized moans follows , the Tupi-Guarani warrior chief tries to hear other sounds, crickets, frogs, owls, nothing, just groans accompanying the sound of the rain. Hears the voice of KapãnoJapo beside him, he speaks in Kaingângue, mocking the groans of the Blandengues: - Fi vækrær tóg mæ ha tî. (If you can hear there is distance the crying and lamenting them) ... Andonaegui disputes his former student: - We are already immortal dear Miguel Tinajero, as for the acts that immortalized us, it depends on how the fool who holds the pen will describe it. A humanist; he will let the ink run down his pen, like blood, staining the sheets of paper, white and defenseless, in which he will describe our cruelties. The nationalist; it will make the feather a flag, extolling our actions, without which Mother Spain would not be so majestic. The historian; he will make his penalty just a cold, insensitive one, he will be content to narrate the facts that, through investigation, made him believe that this is how it was. Miguel smiles, with the general definition of immortality, asks: - And which of these immortals will General José de Andonaegui be? The general smiles, strokes the bearded face of the former student, looks back at the Mediterranean, thinks for a moment, remembering everything he has done in his more than seventy years of life, comes to a conclusion: - I will be all of them ! I will be none of them ... Mîgkrîrý looks at the entrance to the tava, his eyes contemplate horror, in the form of a mass of Kaingângue warriors, formed by tens of hundreds of enemy botocudos, ahead of him, the most ferocious botocudo he has ever seen, described by name, KapãnoJapo, Devil's cudgel, Mîgkrîrý looks at the opposite Põ'í-Bang, with kapãno ready for battle, running in front of his warriors, he is the fruncine face of death, of the devil, kaingângue goes through a of the aimorés, before it describes a reaction, the kapãno, from Japo, shatters part of his face ... The fire lit under a tapiri of the aimorés, due to the drizzler that advances into the night, KapãnoJapo touch the fire, picks up a skewer, made of ironwood, where a piece of meat is spiked, a piece of human arm, cut between the elbow and the armpit, the botocudos king looks at the meat, seems to be well roasted, bites on the biceps, pulls out a piece, chews and tastes the roast, a taste bitter comes his throat contaminating his soul, he looks at the piece of the arm of the Põ'í-Bang Mîgkrîrý...