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Deep in the Amazon rainforest in the
river Nea’ocoyá, lived,
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according to Seikopai legend, a school
of particularly big and tasty fish.
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When the rains came and the water
rose, the fish appeared,
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swimming away as the waters fell again.
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The villagers along the river reveled
in this occasional bounty—
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and wanted more.
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They followed them upriver deep
into the jungle
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to a lagoon that thundered with
the sound of flapping fish.
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The whole village set up camp by
the lagoon, bringing barbasco,
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a poison they would put in the water
to stun the fish.
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Meanwhile, their young
shaman took a walk.
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He sensed he might not
be completely alone.
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Then, he came to a monse tree
humming so loudly
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he could hear it even above the thunder
of the fish.
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With that, he was sure:
spirits lived here.
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Back at camp, he warned his people
these fish had an owner.
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He would find the owner.
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Until he returned, no one should fish.
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He went to the humming tree.
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Inside was a hollow as big as a house,
full of busy weavers.
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Their chief invited him in,
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explaining that the juicy little
siripia fruits were ripening,
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and they were weaving
baskets to collect them.
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Though they looked and acted like people,
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the shaman knew they were juri,
or air goblins,
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who could fly and control the winds.
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They taught him how to weave.
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Before the shaman left,
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the goblin chief whispered some
cryptic instructions in his ear.
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Finally, he told him to tie a pineapple
shoot outside a hollow log
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and sleep inside that night.
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Back at camp, the villagers were fishing
with barbasco poison, cooking, and eating.
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Only the shaman’s little sister refrained.
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Then, everyone else fell
into a deep sleep.
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The shaman and his sister yelled
and shook them, but they wouldn’t wake.
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It was getting dark, so the shaman and
his sister
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tied the pineapple sprout outside the
hollow log and crawled inside.
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A strong wind rose—the mark
of the air goblins.
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It broke branches and
brought down trees.
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Caymans, boas and jaguars roared.
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The water began to rise.
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The fish flopped off the drying
racks and swam away.
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The pineapple sprout turned into a dog.
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All night it barked, keeping the jungle
creatures away from the fallen tree.
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When dawn broke, the flood receded.
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The fish were gone, and most of
the people were, too:
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the jungle animals had devoured them.
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Only the shaman’s relatives survived.
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When his family turned toward him,
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the shaman realized what the goblins meant
when they said the fruits were ripening:
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they weren’t really collecting siripia
fruits at all, but human eyes.
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The shaman’s older sister called him over,
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trying to touch his face with
her long, sharp nails.
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He backed away and, remembering
the goblin chief’s instructions,
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threw palm seeds at her face.
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The seeds became eyes.
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But then she transformed into a
white-lipped peccary and ran away––
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still alive, but no longer human.
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The shaman and his little sister’s whole
community was gone.
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They went to live with another village,
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where he taught everyone to weave baskets,
as the air goblins had taught him.
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But he couldn’t forget the last of the
goblin chief’s words,
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which told him how to get revenge.
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He returned to the air goblins’ home
carrying chili peppers wrapped in leaves.
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As the goblins watched through their
peepholes,
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the shaman made a fire and put the
chili peppers on it.
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The fire began to smoke the tree out.
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The goblins who had eaten people’s
eyes died.
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Those who hadn’t were
light enough to fly away.
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So the goblins, like the humans, paid a
steep price.
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But they also lived to tell the tale,
like the shaman.
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In Seikopai legend, where the spirit and
human worlds meet,
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there are no clear victors, and even
death is an opportunity for renewal.