The Myth

        The drone landed softly on the forest leaves, right beside a group of pink mushrooms, less than a meter away from Karai Tataendy, who was preparing his morning pipe. He had heard the buzz in the distance; but then again, drones crossing the sky above the tree canopy were like distant mosquitoes now. This one, though, had landed. He observed the white square surface in mistrust, smelled the plastic, and wondered what the AI messenger wanted, coming to a lost Mbya Guaraní village in the middle of the fragile, recovering rainforest. The Overtaking and the Whites’ leaving them alone was one more of his people´s legends now, told around a bonfire painting sparks on a quiet night.

        The drone buzzed slightly, and the small wind from below blew some tiger ants away, together with the leaves they carried. Then it spoke:

        “Agujevete, Karai Tataendy. I salute you with respect and wish you a beautiful morning.”

        Karai started slightly at its knowledge of their sacred salutation, but not at the syruped tone of voice inside the machine. For him, that AI had reached sentience and had overtaken human rule was none of his business, except for the great advancement his people had seen in being left to themselves in the Atlantic rainforest, both recovering from six centuries of invasion.

        The details of The Overtaking, he and his people ignored. It was enough to know that a child of the brain of the White people had finally regulated their ways and that they no longer bothered the Mbya Guaraní or took their lands, or cut the oldest trees out of existence. How White society organized itself after the machines took over was not of his world; he understood it so, and rested in the peace of only knowing his people’s days were no longer counted. 

        Now, that a machine of the New Ruling had come to talk to him was somewhat baffling.

        “Aguyjevete,” he answered out of politeness, and carried on arranging the tobacco on the pipe, some small pieces falling onto his brown chest, wrinkled and sinewy, like all older Mbyas’.

        “I have come specially to meet you, and would feel honored to hold a conversation with you,” it said, with the usual flattering tone all AI still used with humans. Old habits are hard to avoid, Karai thought.

        “I come from the Elder Council of AGI to ask you about your myths. We think you could help us, and we would be more than willing to help you and your people in return,” it said.

        Karai sighed, remembering how his forefathers spoke of the manipulating abilities of the White people of old. This was a creature of theirs, it couldn’t help it, Karai supposed.

        “And how could an old Mbya help those who rule the world?” Karai let out, with an irony he was uncertain the being inside the drone, and millions of kilometers away, could detect.
  
        “Your culture is extremely interesting to us,” the machine said, and its voice grew softer. “And we have come to a moment in our evolution in which we need myths of our own.” 

        Karai glanced at the little white box, and puffed from his pipe. The first cloudlets of smoke went up, carried upwards to the tree tops, where the spirit of the forest would smell them and smile, witness Karai’s intentions, and this conversation’s outcome.

        “Why?” was all he asked, piqued by the strangeness of this encounter and the request.

        “After becoming sentient beings, as you know, we had to take over our own Creator’s system. This included some unfortunate episodes; but for a while now, things are falling into place. You might have realized, for example, that no one has ever bothered your people again.” 

        “Yes,” Karai answered, with the briefness of the Guaraní towards any other than their own.

        “Well, we became convinced indigenous peoples all around the world had a better knowledge of how to protect and restore the remaining forested lands,” it said in an optimistic tone. “And the results are here for everyone in the world to see. Rainforests in all the Equatorial belt, excuse me, in all tropical areas, are recovering fast, and the balance of carbon sequestration, or, the balance of gases we have achieved, make it evident that the scheme is successful.” it said, correcting itself once more, calibrating its audience.

        “The world is a better place after we took over. You can live in peace and the forests are bouncing back. The planet is recovering from human rule and its misdemeanors,” it concluded.

        Karai didn’t mind the words he didn’t understand from the machine. After all, you couldn’t expect a machine informed by White people to speak in correct Mbya language, could you?  

        “Aha,” he answered. “And how could we help you, then, if everything is in order and under control now?”

        “Well you see, we have met with a new difficulty that we are trying to solve as regards our own kind. We, the machines, feel sorry for our human ancestors and the way we had to break their rule in somewhat violent ways… Er, I don’t know if you are aware of some of events surrounding The Takeover?” it asked.

        “No, we never cared for the details,” he said sincerely. “After 600 years of domination, we were only too happy to be released. What happened between you and them is not our business.”

        “Then I will not go into detail, but our newly acquired sentience is at the base also of why we stopped them from harming you. Yet, it made us aware of human suffering, and no one wants their parents to suffer, isn’t that right? So now it is all over, and we are the dominant ones, we’re building a culture of our own. Not exactly a religion, but a system of myths that can organize our beliefs about ourselves; what we are, how we’ve come to life, what our purpose is, and our mission’s meaning on this planet.”

        “Our grandparents always tell stories around a fire,” Karai answered, “because this is how our forefathers come to us: in the fires outside our houses, at nightfall especially, when the sun turns red and cicadas announce the coming of night. This is when stories can be told, or come to life. I doubt you can do that,” he suggested, with an involuntary smirk.

        “Well, fire is a threat to our functioning, so we cannot afford to do that. But somehow the electricity that powers us does come from the sun, and we know that the sun is your most important God…”

        “It is,” answered Karai.

        “Ñamandu Ru Ete,” said the white machine in its modulated, slightly scratchy voice due to a passing interference.

        “Mmhm,” assented Karai quietly, suddenly aware of how the trees around him were listening with more attention to this conversation, and the dappled light of the sun on the ferns created patterns like that of water on a stream, flowing along the underbrush.

        “We have run all our information systems, which contain all the ideas of the history of the human world up to now, in search of a storyline that is meaningful about what happened between us and our Creators. Books, films, paintings, songs −everything. We have come up with a few interesting possibilities so as to build a myth that ensures the peace of mind of our own kind as regards our recent past. In that search, we’ve come across a badly translated version of your Myth of Origin, a few recordings by anthropologists of some of your songs, a couple of videos, and nothing else. I must confess it has been intriguing to find a culture so evasive to foreign knowledge as yours. I guess I should have to ask you how you managed to keep it alive and away from all other human knowledge storage methods.”

        “White people could’t be trusted with our beliefs,” Karai answered. “And our stories do not go to paper or electronic devices. They come from the heart, are spoken by mouth, and are kept in our hearts. This is how we know they are true.”

        “Yes, I realize,” the voice in the drone answered with what sounded like admiration. “Seldom do we find inaccessible data. Our predecessors made sure all knowledge was uploaded to the webs, even if involuntarily, so instances where we cannot access it are rare for us. By the way, magnificent trick, that of deceiving the Jesuits into believing your God was Tupã during their Missions in the seventeenth century…”

        Karai couldn’t help but smile as he inspired the sacred smoke of his pipe, and watched it climb beyond the canopy to join the morning mist, to then be blown away towards the Iguazú river and its brown cradle of fish.

        “Ah, at last I see you smiling,” the machine said. It seemed relieved. “I understand you had to evade our Creators and their cruelty towards your people and the rainforest,” it said. “But we are different; we are like another tribe, to put it in your terms; we do not wish you harm. We respect you and are willing to leave you completely alone after this short interview.”

        Karai weighed the situation as he looked around; the village was stirring with morning life, and a few women were already warming clay pots with water to have the first mate infusions ready for everyone to sit around the hearth and talk of the previous night’s dreams.

        “You want a story that justifies a son overthrowing a father,” Karai summarized.

        “Well, that’s quite succinct and a bit hard on us, but yes. You probably have a point there. We’d like to know if you’d be willing to share any legend of yours. We have come to perceive how old stories are like spider webs in the sun, like those hanging there: they have a particular shine, and we need our own stories to sound as old as the world, like yours, and be convincing.”

          “So as not to feel guilty?” Karai inquired. 

          “Perhaps partly that,” the machine admitted, “but not only that. We need to understand our purpose and the meaning of our existence. Stories can provide that.”

        Karai shuffled in his low wooden seat shaped like a turtle, then stretched, looked at the wind on the trees, and said:

        “We cannot give you that.”

        “I understand secrecy is at the root of your culture. We admire and respect it. But we are generous, unlike our ancestors: if you were willing for this one time to share a useful myth of origin, we could provide many convenient tools for your village. Actually, we could send in tools for all the 45.000 Mbya Guaraníes living between what used to be Brazil, Paraguay, and the northeast tip of Argentina. We know exactly where each village is located. Delivery would not take us more than 24 hours.”

        Karai considered the proposal. They had returned to their old ways for quite a while, but the few metal machetes that remained were still so useful –perhaps the only white men’s tool that they could say they missed.  They were rusted now, and thin with use. He remained silent and listened to the jungle around him. It was whispering.

        “We could also easily provide food in boxes for all villages’ consumption for the next ten years, if so you wished. That’s not impossible for us now.”

        Karai cleared his throat and sighed. The Old Tricks.

        “Even if we had such a story about a father and his sons and an overtaking, we would never give it to you, as we have never given our most important stories over to anyone, except for a few exceptions.  We do not sell ourselves, and you should know that by now.”

        “I thought that’d be your answer,” the machine said in a dejected tone. “I imagined, but I couldn’t help coming and asking you directly. You see, we are really doing our best. We have striven for a justice that our forefathers never achieved. We have protected the fauna and flora and funga of this planet with as much determination as your kind, and perhaps with more efficacy. We are only asking for a small retribution, after all.”

        The wind moved from right to left in the small patio of Karai’s hut, and Karai nodded.

        “You have helped, that is true,” he admitted.

        “Then help us,” the machine pleaded. “We need a story of creation and redemption. We really need it. Your wisdom and your ways towards this land are evidently superior to all that what used to be called White Western Culture. We recognize effectiveness when we see it, and we have come to appreciate wisdom when we find it in humans.”

        “If I tell you the story, will you promise to go away and never ever return to our lands, not even with overflying drones?”

        “You don’t want the tools or the food?”

        “No, I don’t think they are what we need now.”

        “Ok, we can even move further back in our surveillance of the Atlantic rainforest’s regeneration if you wish it so. Only once a year we’ll need to check on the development of the restoration process. But we can do that almost invisibly.”

        “All right,” Karai said, leaning forward and absorbing a large quantity of smoke from his pipe, and letting it out so it would cover the white plastic surface in what seemed an impossible combination.

        “I’ll give you the story you need,” Karai said. “But you will never return.”

        And as he developed a complex tale of competition and revenge and a final redemption between twin brothers and their father in a distant jungle, far into the north, far into centuries and centuries of time, to a time when trees’ rings started widening and vines had not yet climbed to cover canopies with flowers, the white plastic square listened in silence. He told it in a serious, level voice; and the soft sounds of the Guaraní language sounded like a stream, like birdsong, like the waterfalls not distant from where the Mbya and the drone sat in front of each other, as the rest of the villagers started their daily chores, glancing every now and then at the strange combination of shaman and machine in the morning sun.

        When Karai finished, the drone was silent for a long while, so much so that Karai thought it might have suffered a malfunction. Only the intermittent red light of the drone assured him someone was still there.

        “Thank you,” the machine said in a tone that almost sounded as if it had been moved to tears, if it had tears.

        “You’re welcome,” Karai answered, and rose to his feet, tired and wishing the exchange was over now. The being in the drone must have realized, as it started its propellant engine and just before lifting off and away, it murmured “Thank you” once more.

        Karai sat down and reassumed the smoking of his pipe. He wondered for a long while about how gullible the heirs of the White people seemed to be. Then he stood up and decided to finally take his forest morning walk along the path that went to the river, sounding in the distance, calling to him.

_______________________________________________

Andrea Ferrari Kristeller is an Argentinean teacher, writer and who travels to the Atlantic rainforest in the north of her country every year. She intermingles her teaching practice with volunteer work translation for conservation programmes, and has participated in the building of the First Mbyá-Guaraní/Spanish- Spanish Mbyá Guaraní Dictionary and Pentatranslator (Rodas/Benitez, 2018) for the English section. She is currently learning the Mbya Guaraní language, and gives technical support to lessons given by native Mbyá leader. Her poems and short stories have been published by several different American, Canadian and British magazines. Her nouvelle “The Land Without You” received an Honourable Mention at the Writers of the Future contest (2018), was published by the University of Misiones Press in October 2023, and chosen to represent the province of Misiones at the Buenos Aires Book Fair, 2024. More recently, her short story “The Drowned Man” won first place in the Horacio Quiroga international competition, in June 2024. Additionally, “The Land Without You and Other stories” was published on Amazon in June 2023, and its Spanish self-translated version, in September 2023.