Papa Bois and the Smoke Sky

Brian Sankarsingh continues to weave Trinidadian folkloric tales

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In the emerald heart of the Main Ridge Forest in Tobago, where vines braided the sky and rivers whispered secrets to the stones, Papa Bois stirred. His beard, thick with moss and lichen, trembled as he rose from the roots of a silk cotton tree. “Something is wrong,” he said to himself. The wind tasted of ash, and the birdsong had turned silent.

He rose up and began walking. His hooves soft against the forest floor. He asked the trees that he passed “What’s wrong children?” They cried. Sap bled like tears from wounded trunks. The air once fragrant with cocoa and immortelle blossoms was heavy with heat and smoke.

In the distance, machines roared.

Papa Bois, the old woodsman, the guardian of all wild things, tightened his grip on his staff carved from balata wood. He walked through groves now splintered by saws. Where once there were capuchins leaping through the canopy, now stood charred stumps and dry earth cracking in the sun.

He found a small armadillo curled up beside a dead stream, its shell scorched. He knelt and gently poured cool water from his gourd into the creature’s mouth. “Easy now, lil’ one,” he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “I been sleeping for too long. What are they doing to mih forest?”

Further up the hill, a group of men in helmets stood beside a bulldozer. They laughed, lighting cigarettes and tossing the butts into the grass. Papa Bois stepped into their view. At first, they laughed again—some old man in animal skins? One of them raised a phone.

Then the wind turned.

Vines shot from the trees, slithering like snakes, wrapping around tires and tools. Roots cracked the earth, lifting machines and flipping them like toys. The men stumbled, running, screaming into the smoke.

Papa Bois raised his hand. The forest paused.

“You think this land is yours to burn?” he roared, his voice echoing like a storm over the hills. “You cut trees, thinking nothing lives in their shade. You poison rivers, forgettin’ who drinks from dem. You think the air and soil are free to waste?”

He turned to the forest. “They do not hear the cries of the Earth. So, we must make them see.”

The men told the story of Papa Bois but no one believed them.

“Been drinking while you on the job!” was the explanation.

But they themselves knew it was real. The forest had spoken to each one of them their hearts quaked at its voice.

From that day, Papa Bois walked further than he ever had. He entered towns hidden behind shopping malls, stood outside oil refineries, and whispered to young ones who still listened.

And slowly, a change began.

Children planted trees in empty lots. Elders told stories of the old days again. Fires were banned during dry seasons and harsh penalties were enacted on people who set forest fires. People started remembering the voice of the forest, the songs of the cicadas and the howler monkeys.

Papa Bois Walks Again

In the hush of dawn where green hearts beat
Through tangled roots and the forest’s heat
He rose with bark upon his skin
Papa Bois the old woodsman
His beard held moss his eyes held flame
He knew each leaf and creature’s name
But silence clung where birds once flew
And smoke had stained the morning dew
The chainsaws screamed the rivers dried
The iguana wept the parrots cried
Where once the forest danced in light
Now ash and dust eclipsed the night
He walked where bulldozers had fed
Through valleys cracked and forests dead
And with each step the earth would groan
A warning in the roots and stone
He found the men with fire and steel
Who’d lost the gift to see or feel
With vines and storm he cleared the land
His wrath as vast as his command
But vengeance wanes and healing stays
He chose instead to mend not raze
He whispered to the sapling’s birth
He taught the children of the Earth
"Take only what you truly need
Protect the soil, the sky, the seed
For forests live beyond your years
And water knows your silent tears"
So now when breeze stirs leaf and vine
And sunlight carves the tree’s gold spine
Listen close and you may hear
Papa Bois is walking near

Bio: BRIAN SANKARSINGH is a two-time award-winning poet and author. He is a Trinidadian-born Canadian immigrant who has published several books of poetry on a wide range of social and historical themes including racism, colonialism, and enslavement. Sankarsingh artfully blends prose and poetry into his storytelling creating an eclectic mix with both genres. This unique approach is sure to provide something for everyone.

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