The air inside the shed on Victory Ridge was heavy, laden not only with the humid heat seeping through the cracks in the wood, but with the palpable tension of the most important meeting of their lives. All the chiefs of the mocambos were there, seated on rustic benches around a long, roughly planed wooden table. The smell of sweat, earth, and a light incense the Popess had burned to purify the environment mixed in the stifling air. Ganga Zala, imposing in his chair at the head of the table, watched everyone with a grave look.
At the center of attention, Popess Paula, wearing her immaculate white robes that seemed to glow in the shed's gloom, raised the official parchment. The silence was instantaneous, broken only by the rustle of paper.
"PROPOSAL OF AGREEMENT AND SETTLEMENT BETWEEN THE GOVERNMENT OF HIS MAJESTY AND THE PEOPLE OF THE JABUTICABA QUILOMBO," her voice, clear and melodious, filled the space.
"Article One - OF THE GRANT OF FREEDOM: A general pardon and irrevocable freedom is granted to all inhabitants currently settled in Jabuticaba..."
A collective sigh swept through the room. Several chiefs exchanged hopeful glances. Finally, thought Chief Jabari, his eyes welling up. The recognition we fought so hard for.
"Article Two - OF THE CHANGE OF HABITATION: In return, the said inhabitants are obliged to completely vacate their fortifications on Victory Ridge, moving to Palm Valley..."
The once hopeful faces contorted. "Palm Valley?" thought the Specter, his fingers tightening on the table. "An open field, with no natural defense. It's like trading a fortress for a corral."
"Article Three - OF THE SURRENDER OF ARMS: ...all firearms, magical, enchanted, or of any nature... shall be immediately surrendered to the representatives of the Portuguese Crown. Including... the methods, spells, formulas, and any means used for their acquisition, manufacture, or operation..."
Carlos felt a chill down his spine. They don't just want our weapons, they want to destroy our ability to produce more. It's like asking a lion to pull out its own teeth and claws.
"Article Four - OF THE RECOGNITION OF AUTHORITY: ...they shall expressly recognize the authority of His Majesty the King of Portugal, submitting to the general laws of the Kingdom..."
Ganga Zala nodded slowly, almost to himself. "A necessary price," he pondered. "Formal submission in exchange for practical freedom." But others murmured, restless. "Laws made by them, to control us," whispered a younger chief.
"Article Five - OF THE RESTITUTION OF FUTURE FUGITIVES: ...obliged to capture and return to their legitimate masters any slaves who... seek refuge among them..."
The air seemed to leave the room. Several leaders recoiled in their seats, as if struck. Maria brought her hand to hher mouth, horrified. "Hand over our brothers and sisters? Become slave-catchers ourselves? This is an affront to our very soul. But... if it’s the price for peace..."
"Article Six - OF MILITARY SERVICE: The men fit to bear arms are obliged to serve as an auxiliary militia for the defense of the territory..."
Mohammed let out a grunt of contempt. "Serve the same army that hunted us? We will fight and die to protect the interests of those who enslaved us?"
"Article Seven - OF THE BREACH OF AGREEMENT: The failure to comply with any of these articles by any of the parties shall render this present agreement void, returning to the previous state of war."
"A rope ready to be pulled," thought Carlos, bitterly. "Any excuse, any false move, and the 'peace' falls apart. We will be more vulnerable than ever."
The Popess rolled up the parchment.
"These are the terms. I will now grant you leave to discuss."
She headed for the door, but Ganga Zala's voice stopped her.
"There's no need to leave. I accept the terms of the agreement."
The shock was visible. The Popess froze, looking from Ganga to Carlos.
Carlos stood up, his voice restrained but firm.
"With all due respect, Ganga, but what good is our freedom if we must refuse others who seek the same freedom? This corrupts everything we have built!"
Ganga slammed the table.
"And since when is our mission to save every Black person in Brazil? My mother came here to save herself, that's all!"
The Specter entered the discussion, his voice an icy contrast.
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"This does not guarantee our safety. I know Palm Valley, I was a slave in that region. It's flat, unprotected. We will be easy prey."
Maria, to Carlos's surprise, spoke on Ganga's side, her eyes full of pain.
"And here? Do we have a future? How many more must we lose?"
The discussion exploded. The Popess, seeing the fury spreading, tried to leave again, but Ganga stopped her.
"Stay! And remember—" he looked at everyone, "—we have the Church as an intermediary! Would they dare break such a sacred agreement?"
Carlos could not contain himself.
"The history of my world is full of broken agreements, intermediaries or not! They just need to use 'rebellious' plantation owners as scapegoats!"
Mohammed added, raising his voice.
"With Carlos's new weapons, we have a real chance to win!"
Chief Tau, his face marked by pain, intervened.
"But how many more have to die? My mocambo lost the most in the attacks with the Mboae gem. Sometimes, a stained peace is better than a river of blood."
The discussion dragged on for endless hours. Arguments clashed, voices rose and fell, but no consensus emerged. The fracture between the two visions was deep, seemingly irreconcilable. In a moment of general distraction, when the discussion reached its peak, the Popess finally managed to slip out of the shed, seeking a welcome refuge in the less heavy air of Carlos's mocambo.
She headed to the center of the settlement, where several people recognized her and greeted her with respect. This time, her interest was in the novelties Carlos had mentioned. She acquired several toothbrushes with carved wooden handles and small clay pots containing toothpaste, marveling at the ingenuity.
It feels so good to be recognized and respected even here, she thought, feeling a warmth of gratitude as people approached to receive her blessing or ask for her prayers. Amidst so much discord, there is still room for faith and progress.
The sun was already beginning to set, painting the sky with shades of orange, purple, and red, when a guard was sent to fetch her. Seeing him approach with quick steps, the Popess could not contain the question burning in her mind.
"So?" she asked, her eyes full of cautious hope. "Did you reach an agreement?"
The guard, a young man with a face marked by the seriousness of the moment, simply shook his head, his gaze dark and worried.
"No, Your Holiness," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "There was no unanimous agreement. There will be... a partition of the quilombo."
"Partition?" the Popess's voice rose involuntarily, laden with genuine concern. "What do you mean, partition?"
The guard just shook his head again, avoiding her gaze.
"I don't know the details, Your Holiness. They just called me to come get you and take you back to the shed."
After the silent ascent back to Victory Ridge, the Popess, her heart now heavy with apprehension, entered the shed once more, followed closely by her guards. The atmosphere inside was even more tense than when she had left.
Ganga Zala stood up, his face a mask of resignation and determination.
"Your Holiness," he began, his grave voice echoing in the silent room, "as I said before, I will sign the peace agreement. However, unfortunately, not everyone in the quilombo agrees with this decision." His heavy gaze rested on Carlos, the Specter, and their allies, in a gesture of silent accusation. "Therefore, I and Chiefs Maria, Tau, Kaion, and Fernando will leave the quilombo, along with the people from our mocambos who seek true peace!"
Carlos slammed his palm on the table, rising with impetus.
"No!" his voice was firm and challenging. "Those who will leave are you, the ones who wish to accept these terms! But all the people, every man, every woman, must have the right to choose for themselves if they want to leave with you or if they prefer to stay and fight for the quilombo we built together!"
Ganga, his face flushed with anger, slammed the table again forcefully, making everyone jump.
"How dare you say you built this quilombo together! It was I and my mother who built this quilombo!" he shouted, his eyes sparking with fury. "But fine, people decide their own destiny, however, the people from your mocambos can also choose whether or not they will continue on this path of conflict!" Ganga Zala stood up completely, his challenging gaze sweeping each face—"Specter, Carlos, Jabari, Mohammed, Malik"—before passing by the Popess with firm steps and placing the agreement, now signed by him, into her trembling hands.
The document, once a symbol of hope, now seemed to weigh like lead in her hands, a mute testimony to the division that had just torn the quilombo in half.
The heavy silence that settled after Ganga Zala and his followers departed seemed louder than any argument. The wooden door of the shed closed with a dull, final thud, echoing in the now emptier space. The sound marked not only the end of the meeting but the rupture of a community.
For a long moment, no one moved. The air still carried the smell of the Popess's incense, but now mixed with the bitter aroma of division and the dust raised by those who had left.
Then, the Specter broke the silence. He stood up, his imposing figure casting a long shadow on the packed earth floor. Without a word, he turned to Carlos and, with a solemn and deliberate movement, struck his closed fist over his heart—an ancient gesture of loyalty, used by the most experienced warriors of the quilombo.
One by one, the remaining chiefs—Jabari, Mohammed, Malik, and the others who had chosen to stay—followed suit. The dull sound of hands beating against chests filled the shed, a grave, unison rhythm that seemed to seal a new pact. There was no need for words. In that collective gesture, in the meaning-laden silence, it was decided: Carlos was now the new leader of the unified quilombo.
The weight of responsibility settled on Carlos's shoulders as he contemplated the serious faces now looking at him. They weren't just accepting his leadership—they were entrusting him with the future of their people, their hopes, and their fears. The quilombo was divided, but within those walls, a new nation had just been born.
