The Breath Beneath the Black Water

In 1801, we set off at dawn from a narrow Amazon tributary, the air heavy with mist and the promise of heat. Our two canoes rode low with sacks of flour, salted pork, powder, and the precious charts Captain Dwarte guarded like gold. I kept the journal and tended our samples, while Father Celestino, his faith tested by every shadow, carried a wooden cross and a pouch of herbs. Ramos, a bored soldier, watched the banks with his musket across his knees. Araua, our silent guide, stood at the bow, his young cousin Davi never far from his side.

Our mission, on paper, was simple: chart a chain of dark-water streams to a lake so remote, traders dared not speak its name aloud. Bring back bearings, plants, and proof. But the river had its own plans.

The water ran black and slow beneath the tangled canopy, swallowing sunlight and sound. Fish flickered beneath the surface, and every hidden root threatened our hulls. By midday, we found the first sign: a wide, smooth track in the clay—no claws, just weight—where something massive had dragged itself from water to bank. Captain Dwarte shrugged off the unease, but as we paddled on, we found a capybara carcass, ribs crushed as if by coils, not teeth. Ramos prodded it, and the whole mass slipped back into the tangle, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

Later, two river traders warned us: the lake ahead was the domain of the water mother, a presence that bent the trees away from its shore. Their hands mimicked the slow circle of something immense beneath the surface. Dwarte dismissed it as superstition, but I wrote their warning in my journal.

At dusk, a film of musk-scented oil spread across the water. Father Celestino tied a cloth over his face, whispering, “The water holds what it must.” That night, something scraped along the hull, slow and deliberate. I lay awake, counting breaths, imagining the knots loosening with each lap of water.

The next day, the banks changed. Trees drew back, leaving a collar of bare mud. The water deepened—no birds, no sounds but our own, echoing thinly. At last, the stream opened into a lake ringed by drowned trunks and floating logs. Two poles stood at the mouth, feathers and grass bindings fresh. Davi, usually silent, whispered, “We should not cross.” Araua’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

We skirted the margin, the water swirling with scum and musk. Bubbles rose and broke. Then, among the reeds, Davi pointed to something pale—a shed snakeskin, thick and wide as my arm. I laid it along the thwart, my mouth dry.

A sound came then: the slow, wet exhale of something beneath us. Circles spread on the water, then faded. We reached a muddy bank to boil water, but none of us looked toward the lake’s center. When we pushed off again, a dark patch moved beneath the surface, sliding under our canoes. The pressure in my bones told me it was no log. A V-shaped wake formed, pointing straight at us. Ramos raised his musket, but Captain Dwarte said nothing.

At a sandy shelf, we found more signs: massive scale imprints, each as broad as my hand. Ramos re-primed his musket, though it was already loaded. Dwarte, holding to his plan, ordered us onward. The sun dulled, distances warped, and unease grew.

Without warning, a length of dark body rose and slammed down across the other canoe, throwing Davi into the reeds. Araua dragged him back, blood streaking his cheek. Ramos fired, the shot lost in the black. The serpent circled, its presence marked by slow, tightening arcs. We patched the gouged hull on a hummock, resin trembling in my hands, as the water broke in three places at once—no heads, just the arching backs of something immense.

We could not wait for dark. We pushed off, the serpent’s circles following. At a driftwood altar, Father Celestino reached for a clay dish, but Araua stopped him. “Not yours,” he said, voice flat with exhaustion.

Then the serpent showed itself: a broad, scarred head, eyes set wide and unblinking, one milky with age. Ramos fired again; the ball flattened against its skull. The beast slid under, our hulls rocked by its passing. The next strike lifted our stern, nearly capsizing us. Davi clung to the gunnel, mute with terror.

The sun struck the canopy, and I saw two bodies moving in tandem, working to divide us. We aimed for a wedge of mud, dragging the boats ashore as the serpents passed just beyond reach. We strung hammocks, ate in silence, and let the night settle. The serpent’s breath echoed across the lake, marking a circuit—two guardians, keeping watch.

At dawn, our lost canoe returned, drifting from the black. Dwarte resolved to cross the open water by daylight, no matter the risk. We repaired the hull, and when the sun climbed high, we paddled out together. Halfway across, the water swelled, lifting both canoes. The serpent struck, smashing the stern, water pouring in. Ramos fired, smoke clinging to the surface. The serpent rose, its back glistening with scars and scum. Davi cried out, the sound swallowed by the lake.

The head rose between us, black eyes fixing on mine. The serpent’s breath stank of rot and fish oil, its mouth opening to reveal rows of backward-curved teeth. For a moment, I could not move. Then, at Dwarte’s command, we paddled for the channel, the serpent sliding away, leaving only bubbles and silence.

We reached the channel, the current dragging us to safety. Behind us, the lake lay still, the pale scum undisturbed. We drifted in silence, too shaken to speak. Davi’s voice broke it at last: “It followed.” The words haunted us as we paddled on.

But the river was not done. The serpent rose again at a bend, blocking our way, eyes fixed sharp on us. Ramos fired, the shot striking near its mouth. The beast surged forward, smashing a canoe, sending us scrambling onto the bank. Araua threw a burning torch, the flame clinging to the serpent’s scarred side. It thrashed, breaking branches, then slipped beneath the water, leaving only bubbles and a scorched torch as proof.

We paddled on, battered and silent. In the morning, the world seemed unchanged—birds called, fish leapt—but we knew better. Davi never spoke again. Ramos kept his musket loaded, even in sleep. Captain Dwarte finished his maps but never left the river after that.

As for me, I wrote what I saw. No governor or scholar would ever believe the truth. But I remember the breath from the black water, the measure of something ancient and vast. And I know, if ever I hear that sound again, no map, no order, no promise will keep me on the water.

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