Curupira, Guardian of the Forest (Campfire Story)

Deep in the rainforests of Brazil, where the trees are so tall that the sunlight comes down green, there lives a guardian. The Tupi people called him Curupira.

Curupira looks like a small boy, with bright red hair that flickers like fire. He's fast, faster than any deer or jaguar. He can whistle like any bird in the forest. And there's something strange about him. His feet point backward. His toes point behind him, and his heels point the way he's going.

Curupira's job is to protect the forest and everything in it. He watches over the animals, the trees, the rivers, the birds. And he doesn't mind people coming into the forest. People have always lived in the forest. People hunt for food, and gather fruit, and cut wood to build their houses. That's fair. That's the way it's always been.

What Curupira can't stand is greed. He can't stand the hunter who kills more than he can eat, just for the fun of it. Or the one who kills a mother animal with babies still depending on her. He can't stand people who cut down a whole grove of trees when they only needed one, or who set fires and walk away.

There was once a hunter named Joaquim who was like that. He went into the forest every day, and he shot everything he saw. Monkeys, birds, deer, wild pigs. He couldn't eat a tenth of it. He just left it lying there. He liked to brag about how many animals he'd killed.

One day, deep in the forest, Joaquim found tracks. Small footprints, like a child's, in the soft mud. 'A child, lost out here?' he thought. 'Or maybe someone's been hunting in my part of the forest.' And he followed the tracks.

He followed them all afternoon. The tracks led him deeper and deeper into the forest, through thickets and across streams. But the strange thing was, the farther he went, the farther away from home he seemed to get. When it started getting dark, he turned to go back. But he didn't recognize anything. Every tree looked the same.

Then he heard a whistle. A long, high whistle, from somewhere in the trees. He walked toward it. Then it came from behind him. He turned around. Then from his left. Then his right. Everywhere he walked, the forest seemed to close in.

And then he looked down at the tracks he'd been following all day, and he understood. The tracks weren't leading him in. They were leading out. He'd been following them backward the whole time. They were Curupira's tracks.

Joaquim wandered in the forest for three days and three nights, hungry and thirsty, lost and afraid. He heard the whistling every night. On the third night, exhausted, he sat down under a big tree and cried. And he made a promise, out loud, to whoever was listening. 'If I get out of here alive, I'll never kill more than I need again.'

The next morning, the whistling stopped. And there, right in front of him, was the trail home.

Joaquim kept his promise. He still hunted, but only for what his family could eat. And he never again followed a set of small footprints into the forest.

The old people in Brazil still say that if you go into the forest, you should leave a little gift for Curupira at the edge of the trees: some tobacco, or a bit of food. And you should take only what you need. Because if you don't, he'll find you. And you won't know which way to go.

Storyteller tips: after the story, talk about the Outdoor Code and Leave No Trace. Ask: what would Curupira think of our campsite? Some Scouts may enjoy making backward-footprint tracks in the dirt.