The month couldn't have been worse for Jorginho. The short, scrawny white man had been dragged into the governor's expeditionary force with the promise of easy money. Instead of riches, he had found hell on earth. The smell of burning, of charred flesh and gunpowder, still seemed ingrained in his clothes and nostrils, a sensory ghost of the overwhelming defeat.

  He had been found hours after the battle, hidden inside an ice cocoon he had created in desperation, using an old shield encrusted with an ice gem. The heat of the surrounding flames and the deadly cold of his refuge created a ghostly mist. Inside the cocoon, the fear was so absolute that he lost control of his bodily functions, though he swore to anyone who asked that he had wet himself while trying, in vain, to use a water staff to put out the forest fire.

  Now, he was a prisoner. His sentence: work for two months in the quilombo before being freed. Confined to a specific area, watched like an animal, he finished his bland lunch – a cassava stew with a chunk of dried meat – sitting on a wooden bench, waiting for the moment to return to the toil in the fields. The taste of the food was the least of his problems.

  "I knew it... I knew this idea was insane," he thought, despair a knot in his throat. "But Fernanda insisted. 'We need the money, Jorginho! For Carla, for her future!' And I, like an idiot, believed her. Now I'm here, a captive, and they're out there, alone... I hope they're still alive when I get back. If I were a rich man, my family could just send a cow as ransom and I'd be free. But who cares about a poor devil like me?"

  His dark thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a guard. He was a tall man with a hard expression, wearing a simple tunic but carrying a spear with authority. A necklace with a white gem shone faintly on his chest. He stopped in front of Jorginho, his gaze full of disdain.

  "Jorginho. Your lucky day today. Field work is over."

  Before the prisoner could process the information, the tip of the guard's spear approached his neck, the cold metal touching his skin and making him shudder.

  "I just hope you don't get any stupid ideas," the guard growled, his voice a clear warning.

  Jorginho dropped the wooden bowl, which fell to the ground with a dull thud. His hands flew into the air, visibly trembling.

  "No, sir! I swear! I won't do anything!"

  The guard said nothing more. He just turned around and started walking. Jorginho, his heart pounding against his ribs, understood the message and followed him, keeping a respectful distance. They walked in silence through the alleys of the quilombo until they reached a busier street in the Armadillo Mocambo. The sound of voices, laughter, and construction work created a buzz that contrasted with the oppressive silence of the fields. There, standing in front of a small establishment with a crude "Ice Cream Shop" sign, was a carefree-looking black teenager.

  The young man looked Jorginho up and down, an ironic smile on his lips.

  "So this is my temporary replacement?" he said, addressing the guard. "When they told me he was one of the ones who attacked us, I was even scared. But looking at him now... looks like a strong wind would blow him over."

  Who does this kid think he is? Jorginho seethed internally. I might not have done anything in the battle, but that was only because I was caught by surprise! It was my first time!

  He, however, kept his eyes down and his mouth shut. The guard answered for him, with a grunt of contempt.

  "Hmph. And yet, he had the courage to come attack us. In my opinion, we should wipe out the lot of these scum. Instead, we punish them for a while and then throw them away, like trash. And worse, Specter insists on giving them a chance, lets them join us if they behave. I get it with a slave, who was forced to take up arms... but a white man, who came because he wanted to?"

  Because I wanted to? No one gave me a choice! If I didn't do this my family would starve! Jorginho wanted to scream, but he bit his tongue.

  Bentinho, however, seemed immune to the guard's anger.

  "Alright, alright," said the young man, with a careless wave. "But look at his face. He wouldn't hurt a fly. And the best part: Chief Carlos is even softer than Specter. He's going to pay him a salary to work here."

  The information hit Jorginho like a shock. A salary? I'm going to... get paid? I'm not just another pair of forced hands?

  The guard shook his head, incredulous.

  "Your chief is crazy, yes. But what can you do. I've done my part. Just don't take your eyes off him, understand? He can't leave here. They'll have to bring his food to him." He then turned and pointed the spear once more at Jorginho. "And you, don't even think about trying anything. Obey Bentinho in everything. And know you're only here because you're weak and handle ice and iron gems. It's not because of any merit."

  Jorginho nodded vigorously, his eyes wide open. Finally, the guard walked away, blending into the crowd. Bentinho smiled and motioned for Jorginho to enter the ice cream shop.

  "So, what's your name?" asked the young man, the interior cool and smelling faintly of milk and fruit.

  "You can call me Jorginho," the man replied, still trembling.

  Bentinho laughed.

  "Pleasure. You can call me Bentinho," the young man said with an easygoing smile. "Truth is, back in the day, the priest gave me the name 'Bento'. But from the moment I could walk, everyone just called me Bentinho. Guess the full name never really stuck."

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  Jorginho just nodded, silent. Bentinho studied him for a moment.

  "Seems you're not much of a talker. That's fine, I'll explain. You handle ice and iron gems, right? Here in the quilombo, we use that talent for something very important... making ice cream."

  Jorginho blinked, incredulous.

  "But," Bentinho continued, his tone turning serious, "don't even think about being clever and spitting or doing any disgusting thing to the ice cream out of anger. There will always be someone watching you. For now, it's me. Anyway, first I'll teach you how to use the blender and how to use the ice gem to make ice cream and popsicles. It's easy, don't worry."

  The entire afternoon was spent on this peculiar instruction. Jorginho, in obsequious silence, learned to operate the simple mechanism and channel controlled cold through the gem to freeze the creamy mixture. He worked in the back, while a young woman served the customers up front. At certain times, people arrived with empty clay pots, which he would fill using his ice magic before they were taken away. Curiosity itched, but fear spoke louder, and he remained silent.

  It was payday week, and the ice cream shop was busy. Bentinho had to help with serving, but, luckily for Jorginho, Nia didn't call him for other tasks. When the flow of customers finally subsided, the prisoner found the courage to break the silence.

  "Sir... I'm sorry for being quiet all day," he began, his voice a thread. "It's just... I didn't expect to be treated like this. So... normal."

  Bentinho shrugged, wiping the counter with a cloth.

  "I treat you well because you're going to take this job off my back," he admitted frankly. "And also because I was born here. I was never a slave, so I don't carry that hatred some people do. And looking at you... you really don't seem capable of hurting anyone."

  What Bentinho didn't say was that the quilombo already housed a white woman, the Knight Quixotina, considered eccentric but respected by all. Her presence had, in a way, broken barriers and softened prejudices that still simmered in other mocambos.

  Hearing that, a thread of relief ran through Jorginho. Feeling that the young man wasn't a threat, he asked the question burning in his mind.

  "And... how much is the salary?"

  Bentinho laughed again, the sound relaxed and easy.

  "Two hundred réis. For someone from the outside, it must seem like peanuts, but here we live well on that."

  Two hundred réis... The number echoed in Jorginho's mind like a sentence. It's almost nothing. I was dreaming of saving some money to take to Fernanda and Carla... What a fool I was.

  The next day, Jorginho returned to the ice cream shop, but now he was the main person responsible for production. The young woman from the counter, Nala, would keep an eye on him. As a safety measure, they gave Nala a simple ring with a small fire gem. Fortunately, Jorginho wasn't the type to cause trouble.

  He worked silently for a week, occasionally helping with serving when the shop was busy. Until one day, less stunned by fear, he could observe his surroundings better. "The street was clean, tree-lined, and led to a building that was using a new material—'cement'. People walked with a purpose he had never seen in his city, where the gazes were empty and the streets, full of potholes. Courage spoke louder again.

  "You know," he said to Nala, while preparing a batch of jabuticaba popsicles, "I didn't expect a quilombo to be... like this. So organized. Pretty, even. These streets, the trees... and the people, they seem alive. In the city where I lived... everything was dead. I was one of the dead."

  Nala looked at him, surprised by the flow of words. Then, her face lit up with pride.

  "This place wasn't even like this until a few months ago," she explained, leaning on the counter. "All of this is new, our new chief ordered it done. Before, we just worked for the quilombo, and that was it. Now we still work for everyone, but we also work for ourselves. Some people don't like it, but I do..." she shrugged.

  Jorginho watched the customers. New clothes, animated faces, the constant movement of a vibrant community. He, a failed merchant, could see the prosperity pulsing in that place. Then, Nala's words hit him.

  "A few months?" he repeated, incredulous. "You did all this in a few months? But that's... impressive."

  Nala turned to him, and for a moment, her gaze was one of pure admiration.

  "And they say it's going to change a lot more, because the chief is—"

  She cut the sentence short, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

  "I almost forgot," she said, her voice a bit colder. "You came from the outside. Your skin gives it away. I better not talk too much. Anyway, watch the shop. I'm going to get our lunch boxes from the restaurant. Oh, and I'll deduct it from your salary, okay? One réis per meal."

  She left, leaving Jorginho alone with his thoughts. I'd like to know more about this chief... Wait. One réis per meal? That's practically free! With what I earned, my family wouldn't starve! If I could bring them here...

  The idea sprouted like a weed, and he immediately plucked it out. No, that's absurd! Bring my family to live among... among...

  The thought died when the image of his daughter, Carla, invaded his mind. He remembered her, years ago, playing barefoot by the river with black children, their laughter echoing the same, without a drop of the distinction he was now trying to force. The "absurdity" wasn't theirs; it was his. A wave of shame and confusion washed over him.

  It was then that the next customer appeared, and any remnant of his prejudice crumbled.

  It was a white woman, blonde, with ruby-colored eyes, wearing a light blue dress, elegant and full of ruffles. In her hand, she held the hand of a small girl. Upon seeing Jorginho behind the counter, she blinked, surprised, but soon regained her composure with a kind smile.

  "Good morning. Is Nala not here?" she asked, her voice soft. "It doesn't matter. Could you give me a mangaba ice cream and a jabuticaba one, please?"

  Jorginho, stunned, just nodded and turned to get the clay pots where the ice cream was kept frozen by magic. His hands trembled slightly. He served the portions into clay bowls – they hadn't invented cones yet – and handed them over.

  "Here you are, ma'am," he said, and before he could contain himself, the question came out: "If it's not too intrusive... how... how is it to live here?"

  The woman took the bowls, handed one to her daughter, and took a spoonful of her own ice cream before answering. Her eyes met Jorginho's, and there was no fear or hesitation in them, only a happy serenity.

  "Lately," she said, with a smile that reached her eyes, "it's been wonderful."

  She turned and went on her way, her daughter skipping beside her, both savoring the ice creams. Jorginho stood paralyzed, watching them disappear into the busy street. That simple scene, a white woman and her daughter, free, happy, and integrated, broke the chains of all the certainties he carried. This was not a den of savages. It was a home. It worked. And, in a way he had never imagined possible, it worked better than the world he came from. The old fear began to dissolve, replaced by a dangerous, irresistible, and overwhelming spark: hope.

  Author Note:

  Nicknames: In the culture of the quilombo, as in much of Brazil, the formal name given at baptism often takes a backseat to a lifelong nickname, almost always an affectionate diminutive. The suffix "-inho" (or "-inha" for females) added to a name doesn't just indicate small size; it conveys familiarity, warmth, and affection. A boy named José becomes Zézinho, a girl named Maria becomes Mariazinha, and a man named Bento becomes Bentinho. It's a cultural quirk that can be confusing to outsiders—a towering, formidable warrior might still be known to everyone as "Paulinho" (Little Paul). For Bentinho, his "little" nickname is simply his real name.