Slapping Hands

In order to tell this story, I cannot begin with ‘Once upon a time’ or ‘Monsieur crie’ or even ‘Tim Tim!’ This story is not even a ‘Crick Crack’. This story is Geography, History, Truth and Lies, Fact and Fiction, Myth and Legend all rolled into two words that light up the eyes of folks old or young enough to know. This story skirts the edges of their logic to slip off their tongue into eager ears, like yours and mine

We journey back to the 1950’s. Back when the city of St. John’s on the island of Antigua was, more then than now, a series of interconnected communities. In a time when Jumbie and Loa were as real as you and I, roaming as they will, visiting whoever they fancy and answering the call of sósié (sos-yae) and any of the 99 Obeah men of Potters. There lived an inquisitive young girl. This young girl, Elba Aloway, lived in a community called Fibrey with her father. Fibrey was as small community that used to occupy an area to the west of Tanner and Market streets near the water front looking into St. John’s harbour; A space now predominantly occupied by a parking lot and a clothing store.

Elba’s father possessed a certain black book. A book of certain craft and mysteries. A book usually found in the possession of practitioners of the dark arts, a book some call: The Black Heart Book whose origins might have have been traced back to New Orleans, Louisiana. It is said he often warned his daughter not to interfere with the book, to leave it alone and do not read its contents. But we all know how powerful a thing curiosity is and like Pandora, Elba took the opportunity there within the narrow warrens of Fibrey to disobey her father, disregard his warnings and delved into the contents of the book.

It is common practice among Sorcerers and Practitioners of the Arcane arts to place wards and gaes on items of importance as a form of protection. In this instance, a gaes was placed on the book, binding a malevolent spirit known as a Jumbie to it. Shortly after Elba began to read, the Jumbie was summoned and proceeded to slap her.

She could not see or hide from the fiend. It would slap her at random. This phenomena, of course, drew the attention of the public. People would gather at times to catch a glimpse of her eager to believe or disbelieve. Some say that she was going insane, slapping herself, others claimed it was in fact a Jumbie attacking her. Whatever it was, the hand prints on her face were clear enough on her fair skinned face. Elba, hardly left her home, but when she did it was usually a spectacle like this one instance when she was making her way to the Public Library from Redcliffe Street and being slapped along the way and even in the Library itself.

Elba’s tale, which became known as: Slapping Hands has more than one ending but even then they aren’t conclusive. One ending claim she was taken to an Obeah man who was able to lift the curse. yet another spoke of her travelling to England to receive psychiatric help. She then returned home to Antigua where the attacks began again and she suffered from severe depression and had to travel back to England. Whatever the ending, nothing more was heard of Elba Aloway

In 1960, a local calypsonian named King Canary performed a song based off the incident titled Slapping Hands, written by Marcus Christopher see https://wadadlipen.wordpress.com/2013/11/29/calypso-writers/ and so Elba’s story was preserved and endured in our minds entering our pantheon of Folktales, Myths and Legends.

Lady in White

Growing up, I’ve only ever heard of two incidents concerning the Lady in White also known as the White Lady. I have no doubts that other places in the Caribbean as well as the rest of the world would have a similar character within their folklore.

There is no singular reason why she would appear, no specific trait one must possess to catch sight of her or even a location. Although most sightings tend to be in the ‘bush’, forests, near streams, on lonely paths and in cemeteries, Time of day seem to matter not for her. She never speaks, or harasses; She would, however, beckon. It is said, in some instances she appears to smile lovingly or coyly, other times she appears to be crying or mourning, and still other times she is expressionless, merely hovering, staring, sitting or drifting slowly. The Lady in White might appear ghostly, she might appear solid enough to pass for a real person or just skirt the periphery of one’s vision.

The first story I’ve heard of the White Lady goes thusly:

There was this man who, after a long night of drinking at the rum shop, left staggering on his way home. Not long into his trek home he spied a beautiful woman on the side of the road. She smiled and beckoned him. He went towards her, smiling himself, happy to have the attention of such a graceful creature with an enchanting smile and musical laughter. As he neared where she stood waiting, he realized she much further off than he thought. Spurred on by her laughter, her smile, and under eye stares he continued towards her. He was soon within reach of her or so he thought for lo, she was just a little further off than he thought, so he kept on towards her entertaining thoughts of what he would do once he catches her. And so this game continued; every time he got near she was actually further away. Beginning to swear now, he increased his pace, cursing at the top of his lungs in frustration. After some time he heard someone shouting his name. He stopped running and turned to see a man he knew running up to him. Puzzled, the drunk inquired of the man: ‘What you doing all the way down here, I thought you were up in country.’ to which the man replied ‘I am in country, I heard you cursing loud loud outside my house, when I came outside I catch you just in time, what you trying to do man, kill yourself?’

‘what you talking about,’ the drunk replied ‘I was following a belle woman.’

‘I never see no woman, what I saw was you about to run over that cliff.’

The second story I heard came a little closer to home:

Back when the village I grew up in was nothing more than dense bush and trees, my great-grand mother was the sole inhabitant. Due to that she acquired the name: Mama Fortuné (fort-nay), Fortuné of course being the name of the area and subsequently the name of the village. Now, my grandmother would customarily send her children every afternoon with dinner for Mama Fortuné.

One such late afternoon, two of my uncles and their cousins trekked up the hill from the sea-side village where they lived to deliver Mama Fortuné’s dinner. However, as the story goes, it was on the return trip that they encountered the Lady in White. One of my uncles saw her first. She was floating among the trees, looking at them. She looked right at him, smiled, raised her arm and signaled slowly for him to come. He alerted the others, pointing at the lady. The others became frightened and dashed headlong into the bush downhill. It was then that one cousin crashed squarely into a tree, and according to my uncle, was never right in his head since. The White Lady, however, didn’t give chase, and the gang made it home safely.

As to what exactly the Lady in White is, who knows. Whether she is a spirit or a ghost, or just the figment of imagination or the product of fanciful and entertaining stories created to while away the night, who knows. Maybe you might see her yourself along a lonely road after a drink or two, or three or she might be right outside…waiting….smiling under a tree….

The Soucouyant’s Daughter

If Caribbean folklore had a superstar I think the Soucouyant (pronounced: Soo-koo-ya) would be it. I’m hard pressed to believe that there is an island with no tales of her. For the most part it is said that a Soucouyant is a woman who sold her soul to the Devil or gave herself to him in return for dark powers. She is said to possess great powers including flight and shapeshifting however the Soucouyant’s trademark is the shedding of her skin like how you would remove your clothes. There is much to say about the Soucoyant but I’ll get into that another time. Right now, I have a story for you….

You see, once upon a time, as these things go, in a village high up in the mountains where as far as the eyes could see were giant forest trees and wild flowers and waterfalls there lived a community of peaceful people. Farmers and hunters they were, tending to their farms on the slopes of the mountain. The village was frequently covered in mist and was in a part of the island where the people said it never stopped raining

At the core of this pristine, nature bound jewel, however, was a darkness. A blight which haunted and plagued the good folk. Granted these folk were hardy and the men were stout of heart but even they spoke in hushed tones when talk was about that which roamed the night. That which roamed the night wasn’t restricted to just the forests where one might hear their name called by long lost loved ones or spy a beautiful maiden in white. No, that which roamed the night was now among them. A flicker in the shadows or the corner of the eye, a strange dog or cat lying in one’s path. No one wanted to admit out loud but they all knew that a Soucoyant was in the village now or more correctly, has returned.

As far as they could tell, there has always been a Souc-Souc, as they are sometimes called, in these parts and although everyone had their own suspicions as to who it might be, nobody knew for certain who it was. So they went about their lives keeping a close eye on each other. So it went until that fateful night when they heard the blood curdling wails pouring out of a certain lady’s house.

The sound was disconcerting, it freezed  your heart and scraped your bone. A few brave men lit torches and lanterns and armed with cutlasses set off to investigate. Nearing the house, the scream reaching higher more frantic pitch, the men wondered what sort of wild animal found its way into the good lady’s house, but they never heard an animal sound like that, not even butchered pig. They circled the house until they were able to get a look through one of the windows. The blood drained from their faces and they made the sign of the cross as they caught sight of the source of the sound.

Inside the good lady’s house was a skinless creature. It resembled a child no more than 10 years of age, screaming and flapping around the house, crashing into things, tossing itself wildly too and fro. One observer later recounted that it seemed scared and helpless.

Now the men knew. They now knew who the Soucouyant was. Mixed in with the fear was a burning anger as well, not just because of the deception but also because the child was caught up in that person’s evil. They quickly rallied more men and women and camped outside the good lady’s house, knowing that she must return into her skin before sunrise.

The Soucoyant returning from her wanderings alighted on a tree and saw the angry villagers waiting outside her house. she howled because she knew all was lost for her, she couldn’t enter undetected and she could hear her daughter calling for her inside the house. Meanwhile the villages who had finished coating the inside of the Soucouyant’s skin which the found in a mortar with pepper, black pepper and other spicy herbs called out to her to come and meet her fate.

The Soucouyant was trapped, she had to get back into her skin before the sun came up, but her skin had been steeped in the pepper. She gave in. She was made to, first, help her daughter back into her skin and then get into her own skin which immediately started  working on her flesh. The villagers then took the daughter away as the burnt the Soucouyant and disposed of her.

Later on, the daughter told her tale. She told the villagers how her mother was grooming her, teaching her the dark arts. She admitted that her mother never taught her how to shed her skin but she learnt by spying on her mother. She was trapped because she didn’t know how to control the powers of that form and she couldn’t fly through the keyhole like her mother.

Well as to what became of the young girl, I do not know. We can only guess but the villagers never hurt the girl…as far as we know…

Tale of the Moss (Mousse)

As a boy growing up on the island of Dominica (as in the Nature Isle) I heard a lot of folktales, superstitions, myths, jumbie stories and the like. In my youth such tales were commonplace and told with a certain fervor that led one to believe that the truth within these tales might be much larger than just a grain. As a matter of fact, these stories were woven into the tapestry of our lives. You saw it as the sea sand on the window sill, smelt it in the strong scent of ‘Jays’ and ‘Satifidah’ wafting in the early morning breeze, heard it in the whispering leaves of herbs strung along the doorways, windows and ceiling. Though you may scoff and dismiss the tales that enraptured you, laughing quietly under breath held too long as the shadows danced around you, deep down you sensed a bit of something ethereal yet sinister. Something that marked an entire generation and more to such a degree that it could not, should not, must not be real. And so we grew up knowing that the tales were just that whilst feeling that they weren’t, never allowing persons to touch our heads, never letting our clothes stay on the line overnight and walking into our houses backwards after a funeral….just in case.

I have for you now one such tale

I think it was 1996 or 1997, I was a Third form student then attending the Dominica Grammar School. I was at school at the time when talk started to go around about a crying baby. Now a crying baby is perfectly normal except, in the case of this one. Persons who investigated were never found again. Talk went around, people reported hearing a baby crying by the side of the road or right outside their homes. Rumour started to run as it always does and it was said that the mysterious crying baby was making its way south from Mahout heading towards Roseau. It was then that the crying baby was identified as a Moss, but not just any Moss but a Moss without a master. Needless to say people were scared. People were going as far as saying any parent-less child found crying by the side of the road will have to bawl till kingdom come. No one was taking any chances…just in case.

Now its easy to laugh, as learned persons are wont to do in the face of superstitious rumours but fear pays no heed to logic, eh, so those who gave store felt the grip. We remained in that grip for about a week until the danger passed, evaporating like dew. In its wake, beneath the protection of God’s blessed sun the tale of the Moss was revealed.

Legend states that the Moss is a creature hatched from a chicken egg layed on Good Friday after three months of incubation. The egg is placed under the arm of the person wishing for the Moss and has to stay there until the three months have passed. Once it begins to hatch, at the moment it emerges from the shell, one must say: ‘Mweh seh mette ou’ (I am your master) before it can say it to you, needless to say what happens if you fail. If you accomplish this then the Moss is charged to fulfill your every desire not unlike the Djinns of Persia. However it seems that a Moss comes with a terrible price and as to what that price is no one knows but it is enough to out weigh anything you may desire in this world. So it was eventually persons have attempted to be rid of a Moss as time goes by but that is no easy task for you see the creature remains with you always. There is but one way to be rid of the Moss.

It is said, to be rid of the Moss, one must row far out at sea and while facing land toss a pound of salt over your shoulder into the ocean then command the Moss to follow suit. It is said that after jumping into the brine after the salt the Moss will begin a most heart wrenching wail like a pitiful child calling out to its parent. Its cries will increase in potency and intensity as you row away but one must be hard of heart and strong in determination and never look back even as it copies the pained cries of love ones. If you endure to the end then you and the world would have finally been rid of the creature….but if you hazard a glance, even a peek, then my friend you are lost for no sooner than you glance back than the Moss appear in the boat, now as your master and what becomes of you, only God knows.

And so it was with the man who brought the Moss into our corner of the world, the man who looked back and unleashed upon us the crying baby who whisked away all who came near. Who placed fear in the hearts of children and grown men alike and who, after stalking the night, went the way all legends do.