RIO FORTE

A few days ago there were no clouds in the cobalt sky that covered the fantastic crops of the richest, most dismal and northern city in the region.

The river that cut it in half was called Forte, an inappropriate name for an indolent stream that crept shallow and translucent from its springs hidden in the dark hills, until it disappeared into the deep gorges of the ravines near the neighboring town to the south.

In general, these places are annoying because of the routine that repeats the same pitch of lonely streets and wooden houses, where distressed people yearn to move to a more agitated place. But not this city, whose rich plantations were due to a peculiar and secular habit of its inhabitants.

Once a year, they would sit in groups on the steep bank of the river, remaining there in silence before pricking their arms with needles and letting drops of blood flow into the calm, transparent waters of the Rio Forte.

When moonlight dominated the night, the macabre and bloody annual liturgy ended. People greeted the leader of the Forte Cooperative and received their huge income, considering that sacrifice insignificant when compared to the fertility of the soil, the safe regularity of the river and the fortune they obtained through it.

Time passed and the feeling that this was an almost symbolic practice contaminated some inhabitants, causing them not to strictly comply with the ritual, year after year merely sticking their arms and letting tiny droplets of blood appear timidly on their skin, thus failing to feed the river.

A crucial mistake, because that strange tradition arose from the morbid events that forced the grandfather of the Cooperative's leader to sacrifice his firstborn to Rio Forte when successive droughts, constant crop failures and the threat of famine made him establish a blood pact with river waters.

The clouds arrived white in the morning and seemed to just decorate the sky. At noon the clouds darkened and in the afternoon the water collapsed, flooding the city. The Rio Forte swelled, abandoned its bed and ruthlessly invaded streets and houses, and then razed the crops.

When night fell, the waters calmed down, returned to normal levels and in that twilight the landscape was a picture of desolation. In a few hours the clouds parted, seeming satisfied with the damage done, leaving in their place the pale moonlight and the dim glow of the stars.

With the children and young people at home, the adults gathered in the central square and received a package from the Cooperative leader. He spoke grave and severe words and then they all went to the banks of the Rio Forte.

Arriving there, they took from their pockets the blades they had received and with them they fatally and deeply wounded the veins of the wrists. Blood stained the river and across its length it turned red and frighteningly effervescent.

The next day the crops were intact, as if unaffected by the flood. Perfect, the crops appeared to have suffered no damage. The younger ones dedicated themselves to cleaning houses and streets, sawing and nailing boards, preparing coffins and burying the dead. Later, they took over the work in the fields, making the city resume its usual rhythm and prosperity.

The year passed quickly and on the night of feeding the waters, it was with joy and dedication that they cut the flesh from their arms and threw their tender and warm blood into the increasingly lavish and serene waters of the Rio Forte.

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