BRAZILIAN FIRE

Prologue

Mato Groso the Brazilian Outback


Adrian’s stomach lurched at the potent stench and he swallowed to force down the bile rising in his throat.
“A couple days this one has been dead.”  The elder observed.
He backed away and looked at the loyal old foreman who had been on Fazenda Braisos since he could remember.  Over the years he had become more stoop-shouldered and set in his ways. For as long as he could remember the old man still wore the same uniform of faded blue shirt and jeans tucked into dust covered calf high black boots.  His dirt and sweat stained tan hat was pulled low over his wizened brown face.  The fazenda was Miguel’s life-all he knew or cared about.  No amount of persuasion could convince him to retire.  He had been active all his life, he said, and what would he do if he couldn’t work?  The old man was stubborn and proud. There had been a bond between the elder man and his father and now with him, though they never quite saw eye to eye on many issues.
He spotted the claw marks on the tawny hide.  “The onca.”  Outside Brazil it was called a Jaguar, which was an inept term to describe the largest feline killer in South America.
He removed his hat, raked his fingers through his hair and gazed out over the sweeping plain.  The sun burned on the parched dusty cerrado.  Bleached gently rolling hills looked like exposed vertebrates.  The only things that thrived were sparse clumps of green grass, scrub and gnarled trees with trunks shaped like twined rope.  The dry season, though it hadn’t rained for over a hundred days.
He wiped his forehead and replaced his hat. “This doesn’t look like a sick or injured cow, meu amigo.” He knew Onca only attacked sick or injured cattle.
“Sim, cabo,” the old man remounted, “food is scarce and a hungry onca will kill any cow.”
“Five so far.”  His stomach knotted at the thought. He stepped into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. 
“Five in a month.”  The wizened hand nudged his mount up alongside his boss.
He set his jaw and gritted his teeth.  “We will hunt onca.” The old man disapproved of his decisions, but he had to protect his investments at all cost.
He didn’t want to do it, but there was no other way.  Guiding his horse through the herd, the animals appeared bright eyed and more concerned about finding enough grass to feed on.  If they were sick they would be listless with a glaze to their eyes.
“You know there will be trouble.” The foreman said.
He threw up an arm and let it drop.  “Yes and there are always disputes, which solve nothing.  Those who object form opinions to judge and condemn something they know nothing about.” 
The animals moved away in search of tender shoots.
“Sim, but you cannot stop divided opinions about the forest.”
“So, we burn down the trees for more pasture-it is progress.”  The old hand knew that, yet he always had an opinion.
“Maybe the very thing we are destroying is in turn destroying the herd.” 
He furrowed his brow.  “We’ve burned the forest since 1800,
and hunted onca that long, if not longer.  You saw the claw marks on the cow’s hide.”

“Sim, that is how the cow died, but we can no longer hunt onca.” 
“I don’t care,” fire sparked in his eyes, “this is my land and the onca is killing my cattle-we will hunt.”  The elder man could disapprove, he really did not care, he was not about to let the king of cats get the best of him and no ancient foreman was going to tell him otherwise.
“Things have not changed.”  The senior sighed.  “Evan as a youngster you were quick to anger like your mother and just as stubborn as your father.”  He made the sign of the cross.  “Que a sua alma descanse em paz.”
“Yes, God rest his soul.”  He shot a dark look in his direction, dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and galloped away.

****

He entered the living room where a fire blazed in the grate and the worn leather furniture invited him to kick off his boots and relax a while.  A carpet from Diamantina, known all over Brazil for high-quality traditional Portuguese needlework rugs, lay on the floor. He remembered, as a child, when his mother took him to the city and haggled for the piece.  At the time her determination to get it for a lower price was more frugal than her generous nature, though, as he aged, he learned to appreciate her careful management of money.  This room held fond memories of family gatherings when he was young, that is, until his father began to stay away.  Old memories he’d like to forget, but couldn’t.
He dropped onto the sofa and stared at the fire
“What worries you, my son?”
He looked across to where she sat in her favorite chair with the black iron floor lamp casting light over her right shoulder.  She set aside her newspaper and fixed him with a concerned gaze.
She was still beautiful.  The warm light cast a golden glow upon her lovely face and denied her age. Her thick, black hair was peppered with grey which seemed to sparkle in the firelight, and gave her a distinguished look.  Her dark eyes gazed lovingly at him.  As much as she could be overbearing, like the family matriarch she was, she was more often like she was now soft and loving. She worshipped him and only lived to see him happy and successful.

As much as he loved her, at times, he felt smothered and manipulated by her affection especially when she conspired with Juanita Alverez, the wealthy neighboring fazendario’s daughter.  Juanita was a hot blooded woman who wanted to latch onto him. Despite her dark hair and exotic looks he wanted nothing to do with her.  His mother expected them to marry.  Her father was only too eager to merge the Braisos and Alverez families not to mention the two wealthiest tracts of land in all of Mato Grosso.
“Nao, he wanted no part of marriage to Juanita Alverez.  She wanted him badly.  But when he looked at her, kissed her, there was nothing.  All he saw was the jungle cat with her claws out.  To her he was prey, a victim.  He refused to be either.
“Adrian?” 
He flinched and kept his gaze fixed on the fire.
“I’ve found more dead cattle.”  He clenched a hand into a fist while the words hung heavy between them.  The logs in the fireplace crackled and popped.  The air was pungent with the smell of wood smoke.

The responsibility of managing such a large operation, which included thousands of hectares that made up Fazenda Braisos, fell upon his shoulders at the age of twenty-five, after his father’s death.  Now at thirty-two he was exhausted from endless hard work. His mother often complained about how disheveled and tired he always looked, but the ranch came first above all else.  It had helped him refocus his life after recovering from serious injuries in the bullring.  He made the ranch more profitable than his father and it was the most successful and largest in the Mato.
“How many cows have you lost, my son?”
“Five this month.”  He stood to face her.  “If this keeps up we will have fewer cows to send to market.”
“And the other investments?”
“Solid.”
“And you have the bulls to send to the bullring.”
“Unless they, too, begin to die.”
“You have any idea what kills the cattle?”
He walked to the fireplace, rested his arm upon the polished wood mantle and stared down into the flames.  He didn’t want to accept the obvious, but the evidence was all too clear.
“The onca.”
“You confirmed this?”
“Sim.”
When he looked back at her it was apparent, by her deductive expression and arched eyebrows that she knew he had already arrived at a decision.

“Do I have a choice?  I cannot very well send dead cattle to market.” 
He turned in profile and freed his shirt tails.
“You realize that is not a good idea.”  She sighed.  “Oh, Adrian, there will be repercussions if this should become public.  If the authorities find out-well-you remember the last time.”
Sim, he remembered well.  Three years ago when Rey Blanco was murdered he had been accused of killing the man only because they were seen arguing about the right to hunt on private property.
He ran his fingers through his hair.
This had not been the best of times.  When the authorities found no evidence to support their accusations of Blanco’s assassination they dropped the case.  To this day he still remained a suspect in Blanco’s death.  Fortunately the right-wing ranchers association, he belonged to, supported his innocence and others who knew him by reputation called such charges absurd.
He watched emotions chase across her face and regretted the necessity of the hunt, but for financial survival he couldn’t see any other way.
He stretched.

    “I am going to bed now.”  He came and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  The familiar scent of herbal soap and roses reminded him of when, as a child, she’d scoop him into her arms to bestow adoring hugs and kisses upon him.
She reached up, touched his rough stubble-darkened jaw and looked into his eyes.  “Sleep well my son.” 
He straightened.  “I will be up early.”
“I must warn you, breakfast will not be what you are used to.”  She sighed.  “The cook quit.  Rosita is too young and inexperienced to do a meal justice.  I hate to think what the fare will be tomorrow.”
Household issues were not his concern, though he found her worry over such a trivial matter rather silly.  Their inability to keep a cook on Fazenda Braisos was a joke.
“How many does that make now?” 
“Three in five months,” she answered.  “Seems there are rumors about what a ruthless employer you are.”   
“I am not a barbarian.”  He grinned.
She frowned.  “You make too much light of this.”
He chuckled.  “Mother, don‘t worry so much.  I am capable of getting my own meals.”
She grimaced.  “Adrian you are the son of Carlos Braisos such a thing is unheard of.”
“Do not worry I assure you,” he affectionately squeezed her shoulder, “someone will turn up.”