The Mbói Tu’i: The Parrot-Headed Serpent

The Mission into the Green Abyss

The expedition had been planned for months. Dr. Valeria Cárdenas was no stranger to myths, and she had spent years tracking down stories of cryptids and ancient guardians across South America. But the Mbói Tu’i had become an obsession.

Miguel and Diego had been hired as protection. Experienced hunters, they had survived encounters with jaguars, caimans, and the occasional poacher. Myths did not scare them—until now.

Their guide, an elderly Guaraní man named Tito, was the only one who truly understood the gravity of their journey. He had seen things in the jungle that could not be explained, and as they ventured deeper into the foliage, his unease grew.

"These trees have spirits," he murmured as they hacked through the thick brush. "They remember those who walk upon their roots."

Diego, ever the skeptic, scoffed. "Trees don’t have memories, old man."

Tito didn't argue. He simply touched the wooden talisman around his neck and kept walking.

By noon, the jungle had swallowed them whole. The air was heavy, humid, and filled with the chorus of a thousand unseen creatures. The deeper they went, the more the trees seemed to lean in, their twisted trunks whispering secrets to the wind.

Then came the first sign.

A feather.

It lay in the middle of the trail, emerald green with streaks of crimson, shimmering as though caught between the realms of bird and serpent.

Dr. Cárdenas knelt beside it, her fingers trembling. "It’s real," she breathed.

Miguel frowned. "Or someone put it here."

Tito's voice was grave. "No man places the feathers of the Mbói Tu’i."

A distant cry rang through the jungle. Not quite a bird. Not quite a beast.

The air turned colder.

They were not alone.

The Whispering Trees

By nightfall, the group had set up camp near a sluggish river, its dark waters moving like oil beneath the moonlight.

The jungle was restless.

Tito sat by the fire, his hands clasped in silent prayer. Dr. Cárdenas furiously scribbled notes by the dim glow of her lantern. Miguel and Diego checked their weapons—bullets against something they didn’t understand.

"The Mbói Tu’i does not attack without reason," Tito finally said. "But it does not forgive trespassers, either."

Diego sighed, tossing a stick into the flames. "So, what? We ask nicely for it to show itself?"

Tito looked at him. "No. We leave."

Dr. Cárdenas shook her head. "Not yet."

A sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, sending embers swirling into the night. The jungle fell silent.

Then, something moved.

A shape in the trees. A glint of emerald and red.

A pair of eyes watching from the darkness.

Diego’s grip tightened on his rifle.

Miguel barely breathed.

The Mbói Tu’i was here.

The Eyes in the Dark

The fire flickered, casting wild shadows against the trunks of ancient trees.

A melodic coo echoed through the clearing, beautiful and unnatural. It was almost hypnotic.

Then came the hiss.

The Mbói Tu’i slithered into view.

It was massive, its coiled body glistening in the firelight. Feathers crowned its head like a living headdress, shifting in color as it moved. Its beak gleamed, sharp and curved. Its tongue flicked the air, tasting their fear.

Dr. Cárdenas’ breath hitched. She reached for her camera.

"Don’t," Tito warned.

But she had already clicked the shutter.

The creature flinched. The jungle trembled.

The air became suffocating, thick with the weight of something ancient and angry.

Then, Diego made the worst mistake of his life.

His fingers brushed the trigger.

The shot rang out.

The jungle exploded.

The Wrath of the Guardian

Vines erupted from the earth, moving like living snakes.

Diego screamed as something yanked him into the undergrowth, his body vanishing into the shadows.

Miguel turned, his instincts screaming at him to run. Dr. Cárdenas stumbled backward, her camera forgotten.

Tito stood still. "Do not move," he whispered.

The Mbói Tu’i loomed before them, its eyes filled with something beyond rage—something ancient.

It did not kill without purpose.

It punished.

Miguel clenched his fists. "Diego—he didn’t—"

The creature’s head tilted. It did not care for excuses.

A warning had been given. A warning had been ignored.

Tito bowed his head. "Forgive us."

The Mbói Tu’i watched them for what felt like eternity.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, it turned.

The jungle closed behind it, swallowing Diego’s screams.

And then there was only silence.

The Curse Remains

They did not speak as they fled.

The jungle had changed. The path back was unfamiliar, twisted as though the land itself refused to guide them home.

When they finally emerged from the trees, Miguel fell to his knees, gasping for air.

Dr. Cárdenas clutched her notes like a lifeline. Tito stood at the edge of the jungle, staring into the darkness.

Diego was gone.

No search party found his body. No tracks, no signs.

Just an emerald feather left on the riverbank.

Dr. Cárdenas published her findings. The world called it a hoax.

Miguel left his life as a hunter behind. He never entered the jungle again.

Tito returned to the forest.

He was never seen again.

Epilogue: The Eyes That Watch

The legend of the Mbói Tu’i did not die with their story.

Even now, the jungle still sings with its call.

Those who listen too closely sometimes hear something else.

A whisper.

A warning.

A reminder that the jungle does not forget.

And neither does the Mbói Tu’i.

The End.