Caribbean Folk Tales

Stories from the Islands and from the Windrush Generation

Wendy Shearer

• Publisher: The History Press
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9781803990774
• Print ISBN:
  9780750994897

Professional Storyteller Wendy Shearer has gathered together stories from many Caribbean islands and countries, drawing on oral history and written texts to bring these folk tales to life. Many stories are of West African origin, kept alive through rhythm and song. These tales and their languages were blended with European and East Indian folklore, with royalty, heroes and spirits exacting revenge. Alongside the stories are newly collected reminiscences of migration to Britain from Caribbean countries during the Windrush years. These first-hand accounts mirror the themes found in the folk tales with love and loss, magic and mystery, caution and justice. Cric! Crac! Prepare to be enchanted by La Diablesse from Haiti, outsmarted by the trickster Anansi, or terrified by the shapeshifting Old Higue in Guyana.

These stories have been passed down orally and are meant to be spoken out loud. Lyrics and songs are central to the stories and I’ve created a few of my own right here. Variations of these stories have kept people’s spirits alive in dark times across the islands, giving them hope when it seemed there was none.

THE SINGING BONES

Haiti

Many years ago, there lived a wealthy King whose kingdom sprawled across the highest peak of rugged mountains on Morne la Selle. Despite all of his wealth, money and treasures had lost their shine for him. He barely noticed the golden goblets or stores of diamonds. They piled up after each raid and after each tax was paid to him. Known for his love of rhythm and music, he found happiness in hearing songs and instruments being played.

Within the walls of his fortressed land, people were encouraged to dance and sing for the joy it would bring them. Whether it was a solemn wake to mourn the death of a loved one or a dance, everyone would celebrate in style. It was a wonderful sight to behold. Limbs bending and twisting beneath sticks, chests pulsating to the rhythms of their spirit. Bright, bold colours could be seen draped across bodies, stamping and roaring in time to the drums.

The start of the year was always a special day for the King. It was his birthday and yet in this particular year, he had become tired of the usual decadence of such occasions. Even preparations for the royal feast could not bring a smile to his face. The pigs had been slaughtered, seasoned and fried. The black rice had been boiled with mushrooms and peas. His favourite pumpkin and chilli soup, which was only allowed to be eaten by royalty, stared blankly back at him.

His mind went wandering through all of his accomplishments hoping to cheer himself up: ‘I have riches beyond anyone’s imagination. I am loved and respected by my people. I rule over many.’ Despite all of these accolades, he felt numb, even bored of hearing it. He wanted something new to experience, some way of validating his worth. An idea soon occurred to him. The King turned to his only son and daughter and asked them to take part in a competition.

‘I’d like each of you to perform your best talent for me,’ he announced, without asking their opinion. ‘Whoever shines the brightest and pleases me the most, shall inherit the kingdom when I am gone.’ His daughter smiled and bowed her head. Her dark braids shimmered with golden thread laced through each one. Her face, the colour of tamarind wood, shone with nature’s gentle manner. She was blessed with a singing voice that fluttered faster than hummingbirds and soared past the island’s volcanic peaks. But her brother, well, he clenched his fist and bit his lip until he drew blood. Unlike his sister, he had no obvious talent to speak of and saw no reason why his birthright should be gambled away. His envy snaked around the room like deadly vipers about to strike. He could not refuse and risk looking weak to his father. And so it was agreed. There was to be a talent contest between the two royal heirs.

That very night, the King sat in his palace courtyard beneath the swaying palm trees, surrounded by guards, advisors, and local onlookers. His daughter stood on one of the upper-floor balconies and began to sing. Her voice commanded everyone’s attention, even the stars in the sky. She sang of her home ‘the pearl of the Antilles’ with its sloping mountain curves and tropical forests. When she finished, the King praised her for filling their hearts with song and spoke of his eagerness to see what his son would perform the next day.

Early the next morning, the King’s daughter strolled through the forest looking for flowers to pick for her father. She knew how much he loved the scarlet hibiscus. As she walked between the giant tree ferns, she heard twigs snap behind her. She turned around and saw her brother.

‘Brother dear, you startled me.’ She held up her arms to show him the flowers and then saw something ghastly in his eyes. Some say she saw her own death. She shrieked and shrank back into the bushes. He grabbed her by the neck, twisting his fingers tightly around it and squeezing with all his might. Her arms grasped at his face, clawing and scratching desperately to make him stop, but it was of little use. Like a fragile twig, snapped carelessly in two, she fell limp into his arms. He took her lifeless body and buried it under a wild bayawon tree where only the leaves could whisper of the murder they had seen.

You might think that he would act strangely after committing such a deed. Maybe he would seem anxious or guilty? But no. The King’s son swaggered back to the palace and raised not even an eyebrow when guards were sent to look for his missing sister. The hunt went on for days, weeks, months but no trace of her was found. The King was distraught, as you would expect him to be. His spirit was broken and nothing gave him any joy. Music and song were no longer heard around the kingdom. It vanished with his daughter.

Until one day, a farmer was in the bush, walking with his dog. He swung his arms high, hacking at leaves with his machete to clear a path. His dog started barking and sniffing at the roots of a tree. The farmer couldn’t see anything there but his dog kept barking and digging furiously, kicking up the soil. There, near the surface was a bone that he grabbed between his sharp teeth, wagging his tail with delight. The farmer was horrified, suspecting it to be a human bone. He took it from his dog’s mouth and as he examined it, the bone began to sing:

Farmer, farmer, do you know?

My bones are buried down below.

My brother killed me for the crown.

He took my life without a sound.

My bones lay under a bayawon tree,

Farmer, farmer, set me free.

The farmer could barely believe his ears but knew exactly what he had to do. He headed straight to the palace and begged to see the King. Remember I said that these were dark times? An audience with the King was no longer easy. He refused to see anyone, wanting to be left alone and kept himself hidden behind his palace shutters.

His son heard the farmer shouting, insisting on seeing the King, and wondered what all the commotion was. He bellowed, ‘What is it that you want farmer? Why are you here?’ The farmer did not want to get into any trouble. He bowed down respectfully before the Prince and handed him the bone. And once more, the bone began to sing:

Brother, brother do you know?

My bones are buried down below.

You have killed me for the crown.

You took my life without a sound.

My bones lay under a bayawon tree,

Brother, brother, set me free.

The melodious voice from the singing bone was unmistakable. Like the gentle rise of the morning sun, her voice warmed the dark corners of the palace and brought light to the King. He rose from his chamber thinking that his daughter had returned. He snatched the bone from his son and the bone began to sing:

Father, father do you know?

My bones are buried down below.

My brother killed me for the crown.

He took my life without a sound.

My bones lay under a bayawon tree,

Father, father, set me free.

The son tried to run away but the King ordered him to be seized and put to death. The singing bones were buried in the palace grounds. Soon after, a light pink rose bush grew from where her bones lay. They say that this is how we come to have roses to this day.

WHEN THE PATHS VANISHED

Cuba

It was a glorious day in Cuba, like any other. Sunshine spread its rays into every corner, making the plants bloom and grow. Coffee was ready for harvesting, fruits were ripe for picking and people greeted each other with their usual warmth and optimism, while setting off to work. That’s when they noticed that the roads had closed. All of the paths across the island leading to other villages and the coast had suddenly vanished overnight.

In their place grew a forest with thick, wild grass towering over 30ft high. It was believed by the people that Iku, the Yoruba dark spirit of Death, was blocking the paths. He was guarding the roads and making it impossible to pass. If you attempted to cross through the tightly knitted branches of grass, you would be taken by Iku and never seen again.

Everyone, everywhere was trapped. People in the north of the country who had been visiting from the south could no longer return to their homes. Neighbours wanting to spend time with friends elsewhere could no longer see them. It was a complete lockdown across the island. Feelings of despair and isolation soon grew in people’s hearts, with thoughts of escape dominating their minds. Those who did leave, never returned. They were feared dead, captured by Death.

After a while, time ceased to exist. Celebrations and events felt weary and pointless without any future hope of change. Those from the coast that were trapped in the hills, wept at the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, for it reminded them of waves crashing in the sea. Those from the hillside, marooned by the coast, were tormented by the sound of the sea breeze, for it carried memories of the forest sounds, gently whispering from the shore.

Time passed, as time does with villages turning to decay. Gardens were no longer maintained and buildings were rotting with disrepair. Most people had vanished along with the paths but an old couple remained in the eastern village of Baracoa. Surrounded by sweet-smelling cacao trees and coffee plants, they nurtured the land and each other.

Together they had twenty children over the years. Boys and girls with wavy dark hair and skin the colour of cinnamon bark. They brought so much joy to their parents and other villagers who were old enough to remember a time when they were free to roam. But eventually each child grew up and wanted to leave their home.

They’d turn to their parents and say, ‘I want to know what is beyond this village. I need to find out for myself.’ No matter how much their parents begged them to stay, they all eventually vanished into the haze of overgrown bush and were never seen again.

The couple had finally resolved to live out their elderly years without the comfort of their children, when a truly magical thing happened. The old woman gave birth again. This time to identical twin boys who they named Taewo and Kainde. The elders in the village called the boys ibelles – sacred twins – and praised the African gods for their arrival.

‘The powerful orisha Obatala has breathed life into them,’ they all agreed, knowing that somehow the village had been blessed by their birth. Everyone felt a renewed sense of hope. The boys were doted upon by all of the women in the village, who loved them as much as their own sons. Their supple bodies and hair were smoothed daily with coconut oil. They grew tall and strong, fed on a diet of viandas of green plantain, cassava and sweet potatoes.

It was impossible to tell the twins apart. They were like two cocoa beans in a pod. If you looked closely, you could see that Taewo, the youngest, had eyes the colour of dark coffee whilst Kainde’s eyes were a reddish shade of mahogany. A soft light shimmered from their smiling faces, which people felt was a divine mark that signalled the good fortune they would bring.

‘Olorun the sky orisha who holds up the heavens, is protecting our ibelles,’ they’d say whenever they passed by. Cheeky and mischievous, the boys played tricks ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Foreword
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• Spirits & Shapeshifters
• Music & Song
• Trickster Tales
• Love & Loss
• Tales of Caution & Justice
• Bibliography