THE GIRL FROM THE RIVER GHOSHANU

Introduction

This story was written for all who may pass through the magical place that is Iracambi. Just as its winds caught my sails and changed the course of my soul, may it bring a new flavor to whatever wind you breathe in as well. This story emerged from nothing but the soil and sounds of what is now called the River Ghoshanu. One morning, Gabi and I were moving by this river, surrounded by its bugs and brambles. At the end of our movements, we sat, and for some reason, the name came to me. Naturally, this story began to unfold from the power hidden within that name.

Interwoven within it are many simple and complicated messages, which I will allow to whisper through the unspoken words and the lines left unsaid. It cannot be understood through the mind, but felt in the heart, once you’ve lived and experienced this place. So, this story is mainly for those who have become part of the tapestry of people that Iracambi is, but most importantly, it is for the children—the future leaders of this next generation—who will decide the beautiful direction in which we all grow.

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IN A TIME not too different from now, there lived a girl in the Atlantic rainforest. Her once-nomadic family had settled among a community of river dwellers. This young girl was called Ghosha, and from an early age, she suffered from a skin ailment that had disfigured her.

On difficult nights, her mother would tell stories of how their ancestors would wash in the river down by the tree nursery. If they ever fell ill or were troubled, they would walk down to the stream and bathe in the silence of the running water. As they allowed it to wash over them, without thinking, the answer to their problem would naturally flow into their minds. Ghosha’s ancestors understood that the land did not belong to them; instead, they belonged to the land. Because of this love and respect, the river returned its magic. However, in Ghosha’s time, after many years of outsiders coming to steal the mountain's precious metals, the river had become poisonous. The balance of the environment was lost, and the river could no longer communicate with its people.

Over time, the people continued to bathe and play in the river. Slowly changing their bodies from the inside out. But it wasn’t until strange health problems started appearing in their children that the disconnect truly began. Ghosha’s mother especially loved the river deeply. When Ghosha was born, she was found to have leprosy and was later discovered to be infertile. This confusion and fear of what was happening led the people away from the rivers. They began relying on the outsiders for water, which was provided in small plastic bottles.

More and more, Ghosha started seeing these empty plastic bottles scattered around the riverbank. One day, in her childlike curiosity, she went down to the river to watch the passing water, slowly collecting the little plastic bottles to use as lights in her room later. As she was picking up one of the plastic bottles near the water, she noticed something floating along. Although she feared the river, something else took over, and she reached in. With her arm outstretched and her body as far away as possible, she grasped for the object.

As she did, the sunlight bounced off the rippling waters, reflecting a golden shine from the object. It lightly stopped in her palm as she scooped it out. Letting the water fall from her grip revealed some sort of golden shell. She squatted closer to the river and held the shell up to the sun. The bright midday sun shone straight through, revealing the intricate details of what was once a cicada.

In wonder, she simply sat there, the sounds of an ancient river passing through her, turning the shell around to watch the light play with its golden nature. The smell of feijão caught her in a passing wind, and she hopped up, excited for lunch but also to show her mother her new friend.

When she got inside, Ghosha was reluctant to tell her mum where she had found the shell. Tugging at the back of her mum’s dress, she simply opened her palms.

“Veja, Mai!”

Her mum, in shock, dropped a dish she was washing, and it shattered in the sink. She turned to Ghosha, her eyes wide, and began telling her stories of the times when these shells flourished near the river. They came from old cicadas who had outgrown the bodies they were in, answering the sky’s call to a new place. The cicadas would nest on the large trees near the river and undergo a long, painful—but necessary—process to shed their old shells.

While her mum spoke, Ghosha’s grandma, seated in the corner of the room, looked up from her weaving. She smiled softly and whispered, “Anu,” before returning to the bamboo basket in her lap.

Her mum continued, telling her how much work the community had done to try to restore the waters. But fear of illness had always been stronger than their trust in nature. “A long time ago, the cicadas stopped coming to the trees,” her mum said, her voice tinged with sadness. “That’s why it’s such a surprise that you showed me one.” She fell silent, her eyes distant, lost in thought.

Ghosha’s grandma jumped in, her voice warm and wise. “Every full moon, they used to break out of their old shells and fly away. No one quite knew why, but the farmers always seemed to understand.” Her mum nodded in agreement.

“Ghosha, let me see,” her grandma said, calling her over.

Ghosha skipped across the room, sliding on the wooden floor in her socks and pretending to drop the shell as she came to a stop. She sat cross-legged beneath her grandma and looked up, opening her palms.

“Wow, Ghosha, this is special. It chose you. There’s a new wind in this place, and it chose you.”

Her grandma carefully picked up the shell, threaded a piece of string through it, and hooked it around Ghosha’s neck. Leaning in close, she whispered, “On the full moon, go to the large rocks where your father used to take you. Watch for the fireflies.”

Ghosha nodded, smiling wide, then darted outside, giggling as she raced back to her usual morning mischiefs.

Her mum stood still, her expression unreadable, before turning to her grandma. “What did you say? Don’t get her lost in her imagination again,” she said in a stern, unwilling tone.

Her grandma simply smiled, her hands moving deftly over the bamboo, and carried on weaving.

Ghosha trotted back to the river and sat there, obsessively watching every object that drifted along in the water. The sun dipped below the horizon, and her eyes grew heavy with weariness. Before getting up to head home, she held the shell necklace in her palm, watching as the wind played with it.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, whistling sharply past her ears. No clear words formed, but she quickly turned her head, swearing she had heard a voice.

Five sunsets passed, and the family sat together at the table, passing around and cutting the mangos they had collected from the tree outside. Ghosha had devoured an entire mango, her face sticky and shining with remnants of breakfast. Her grandma leaned over and whispered to her,

“Querida Ghosha, do you remember what will light the sky tonight?”

“A LUA!” she shouted with excitement.

Each morning, Ghosha ran down to the stream to watch the passing currents. But this morning felt different. The water seemed far more powerful, flooding through the earth with an intense and almost menacing strength. She stepped back cautiously, awestruck by its force.

As always, she checked the surrounding trees, searching for something extraordinary. To her disappointment, it was the same bugs and bark as before. Sighing, Ghosha returned to her familiar spot by the river and closed her eyes.

Instantly, the sound of the cicadas erupted into a symphony. The rattling vibrations coursed through her, a pulsing rhythm that filled the air. The crashing of the river joined in, roaring as it surged over rocks and twisted around every bend. The wind, hearing this lively concert, swept through the trees, its song whistling and sighing through the leaves.

Ghosha smiled.

…

The sun had gone down, leaving the sky to cradle a full, beaming moon in its darkness. Ghosha adjusted her place on the large rock, shifting until she found the perfect grooves to settle into. She leaned back, letting the rock hold her, and stayed there for a while, silent and mesmerized by the moving sky above. The winds are strong, a thought passed through her mind. Suddenly, she sat up, her senses sharpening as a strange presence seemed to envelop her surroundings. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanning all the way to the trees that bordered the magical rocks. Then, from the tall grasses, a sea of fireflies emerged, glowing in unison like a living constellation.

Her jaw dropped in awe as she looked over her shoulders. The fireflies painted the rocks and trees with vibrant light, some even fluttering close enough to her to weave through her hair. Her hair began to lift slightly, charged with a static energy she couldn’t explain. Slowly, she raised her hands and began to trace patterns in the air, pretending to paint in the wind. The fireflies playfully joined her dance, flitting around her fingers while skillfully avoiding her touch. Then, without warning, they collectively rose upward. As they ascended toward the full moon, the shell on her necklace began to glow. The golden light grew brighter, and the shell followed the fireflies upward. Despite its tiny size—no heavier than a grain of rice—it seemed to possess great power. As the shell rose, so did Ghosha. She felt herself lifted off the ground, her body weightless, carried by an unseen force.

The wind surged around her, and all the fireflies suddenly vanished into the sea of darkness. With a powerful gust, Ghosha was swept along the current of air, her golden shell leading the way. She didn’t need her legs to move; the wind carried her effortlessly, skipping her across rocks and soil like a heron gliding over water.

She flew down the steep path that led to the rocks, the tall grasses parting before her as if making way. Snakes slithered back into their holes, and any fear she had melted away in the pure magic of it all. Her eyes remained fixed on the glowing shell, which seemed to wink at the moon as it guided her.

Ghosha ducked and dodged as the wind pulled her through the trees. Passing under a towering Jatobá tree, she tilted her head upward, her wide eyes trying to see where she was headed. The riverbank loomed closer and closer. Before she could prepare herself, the wind launched her off a small mound of earth, sending her soaring through the air.

For a moment, her silhouette painted itself against the glowing full moon. Bugs below watched the scene in awe, cheering in their own small, buzzing ways.

The wind caught her fall gently, guiding her into the river. She hit the water with a splash, her body sinking like an anchor to the bottom.

Baddum. Baddum.

Her heart pounded faster and faster. Her mind became a torrent of ancestral thoughts and stories. Ghosha had never learned to swim. Arms flailing, legs kicking desperately, she tried to find her way, but the currents were too strong.

The undercurrents spun her body, tossing her in every direction until she lost all sense of up or down. She hit a rock, and in that instant, her panic turned to eerie silence. A wave of calm washed over her, and clarity poured into her mind. Ghosha focused her attention upward, toward the distorted rippling image of the moon. As she did, her necklace began to glow with even greater intensity. The golden light seemed to reach for the moon, pulling her upward with it. Slowly, she felt herself rising from the riverbed. Her lungs burned, her chest throbbed, and her heart pounded harder than ever. Just as she thought she could hold her breath no longer, she broke the surface, gasping for air.

The bugs around the river cheered again in their strange, joyful sounds. The current had calmed, carrying her gently along. She pulled herself onto a nearby rock, collapsing onto her back, panting, trying to catch her breath.

“Tudo bem?” said a deep voice behind her.

Startled, Ghosha whipped her head around. Standing in the river was the silhouette of a large heron, perfectly balanced on one leg, its form framed by the moonlight.

“Ola, Ghosha,” the heron said.

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling with wonder and exhaustion. The heron did not answer right away. It stood still, letting the wind speak for it, the gusts whistling softly in Ghosha’s ears. After what felt like an eternity, the heron finally spoke, its voice rich with purpose and intent.

“I… am… Anu,” the heron said, its voice steady and powerful. “The Guardian of this river. For thousands of years, I have protected these waters and the surrounding climate. I hold a pivotal role in maintaining the delicate balance of nature.”

“How?” Ghosha asked, her eyes wide and glowing like the moon above. “Well,” Anu began, “my favorite thing to do, after enjoying a delightful meal of cicada shells, is to fly to the Pico de Graminha, perch at the stream’s source, and… well, poo into it.” Ghosha’s jaw dropped.

“I don’t know exactly how it works,” Anu continued, “but the nutrients from my waste enrich the riverbed, transforming into minerals over time. The power of flowing water, combined with the magnetic pull of the earth, forms a precious metal called bauxite. This mineral strengthens the soil and helps it absorb rainfall, regulating the amount of water that flows down the mountain. Without it—especially in the rainy season—the earth cannot manage the rain, and the rivers swell too high and too quickly. This imbalance disrupts the entire environment.”

“Wow,” Ghosha breathed. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the gentle rhythm of the water.

“But,” Anu added, “there’s something even more important to me. When the rivers are thrown out of balance, the trees nearby suffer. Their sap disappears or washes away too soon, and the cicadas can no longer feed on it. Without that sap, they leave for other places, and I no longer find their tasty shells. “And, let me tell you, when I’m hungry, I get desperate. Like that time I saw a round, shiny object floating in the river. I thought it was food, so I snatched it up and swallowed it whole—only to realize it wasn’t of this world. It nearly killed me.”

“You mean… a plastic bottle lid?” Ghosha asked, pulling one from her pocket. Anu tilted its head. “So that’s what they’re called…” They fell into a thoughtful silence for several passing winds. Ghosha finally broke it, muttering as she gazed up at the moon, “Wow, the workings of nature are so delicately balanced.”

“Exactly,” Anu said. “In the same way I have my part to play in this world… so do you. You already know what it is. But if the world ever tries to make you forget, come and listen to the song this river sings.”

“What can we do to help?!” Ghosha asked, springing to her feet with excitement. “You already have all the answers within you,” Anu said. Then, with a majestic unfolding of its wings, the heron lifted effortlessly into the air, catching a passing wind.

Ghosha watched in awe as it disappeared into the night. She fell back against the riverbank, laughing, her heart full and the moonlight dancing in her eyes.

“Wow…”

The next morning at breakfast, her mother came into the kitchen and froze mid-step.

“Ghosha…” she stammered. “Your… your skin!”

Ghosha looked down, and her eyes widened. Her leprosy had completely healed. Her skin was smooth, radiant, and clear as the full moon. As she moved her arms, it gleamed with a watery shine, like the river itself had kissed her.

…

Years later, when Ghosha had children of her own, she told them the story of Anu. Her tales inspired not only her children but their friends and their community. Even after Ghosha returned to nature, her descendants carried on her stories, passing them down from generation to generation.

Eventually, the story became part of the teachings at the local eco-school. One day, a group of students from the school visited the river to place a sign in its honor, ensuring its name would endure for generations to come.

They called it Ghoshanu.

After the story was told, the children carefully gathered up any waste they had brought, preparing for their next adventure to the mountain. One girl at the back of the group noticed a small plastic bottle lid near a tree. She hopped over to pick it up, and as she stood, her eye caught something golden hanging on the tree’s bark. It was round, delicate, and shimmering a golden light. She smiled at its natural beauty and paused, letting the silence of the moment wash over her. Then, with quiet reverence, she bowed to the river and skipped back to join her friends.

“Where did you go?” one of them asked.

Proudly, she replied, “I was just doing my part.”

.: A short story by Well Books