The Lagahoo - A Love Story
Brian Sankarsingh continues to weave Trinidadian folkloric tales
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Can a creature born from shadow and myth ever feel the warmth of love? From the vampire lurking beneath moonlight to the selkie watching from stormy shores, folkloric monsters have long stood at the edges of our stories as symbols of fear, mystery, and the unknown. But within their haunting gazes and tragic origins lies a deeper, more human question: are these beings truly incapable of affection, or have we simply denied them the possibility of love in our need to make them "other"? Tales of forbidden longing, cursed transformations, and tragic liaisons, only leave us wondering whether monsters are capable of love, but uniquely suited to express it deeply, painfully, and with a passion only those living in the margins can truly understand.
Iacos is a remote village nestled in the deep south of Trinidad. It is close to the ocean and on most days one can see the Venezuelan mainland. In its past Icacos was the home of many cocoa and coconut estates. In many ways it is your typical village still trying to understand its own place in the world. Considered backwater by many, the local populace still believes in many of the local legends and folklore that were considered childish tales by the more “educated” people living in the town of Point Fortin. But villagers knew that there was truth in many of those tales.
In Icacos around the time of this story, there lived a healer named Balaram. He was a soft-spoken unassuming man whose appearance belied his profession as the local healer. Sure, there was a hospital in Point Fortin, but the bad roads and few vehicles on those roads did not make that an easy trip. Many people still had a modicum of faith in people like Balaram and his work and reputation as a good healer was even well known in other villages like Cedros and Bonasse.
But there were also other rumours. Some people whispered that he was not quite man. That he walked too softly. That the dogs went quiet when he passed. But the fact was that Balaram was kind. He mended wounds and made people better. He tended to the dying things and in some cases made them live again. Many villagers would not readily admit it but they feared him just about as much as they needed him. Nevertheless, even in that fear, they would pay him with their yams, cassava and whatever produce they had for the services he provided.
Only Anjali ever stayed long enough to ask him more than his name. She came first for medicine, then for stories, then for no reason at all. She laughed like sunlight striking water and Balaram who seemed to have long lived in the shadows felt something bloom inside him.
“Anj,” he once told her, “I is not the person you think I am enno.”
“B, I don’t care,” she replied, and touched his hand.
But there were things she did not know.
Years ago, Balaram had tried to save his mother from death. In great desperation, he made a deal with something old that lived in the forest. He had gone to beg for healing for his mother but walked out imprisoned in invisible chains. Balaram was doomed to shift his form when the sun fell metamorphosizing into a lagahoo. In this form he would go hunting from village to village, rattling chains, thirsting for blood.
Still, with Anjali, there were moments he felt human again. She never saw the monster. He made sure of it. But in the night, he would disappear, returning in the early morning with mud on his feet and bruises on his skin. Anjalie would often confront him about these things.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he said. “If you saw me, if you truly saw me for who I am you would run.”
“I would never,” she swore.
But love is not stronger than fear. Not always.
One night as he changed the hunger overwhelmed him. Someone heard a dog whelp in pain. In the wee hours of the morning, its gutted body was found on the riverbank. In the ensuing mele, an old man swore the night before he saw something headless running past the bamboo grove from Balaram’s house. The villagers stirred with fire and salt and old prayers. Someone shouted that they saw Balaram go into the forest, so the mob decided to head to his house. The sun had not even come up yet, so they lit their flambeaus and gathered their hoes and cutlasses.
Anjali heard them before she saw them. She left her hut and ran barefoot through the dark towards Balaram’s home. Her heart pounding within her chest. When she arrived, he was already half-changed. His face warped, the chains around his neck glowing faintly under moonlight.
“Please Anj,” he rasped. “It’s me.”
Just then the villagers arrived. They smashed in his door. There stood Balaram, with mud and blood covering his body. They dragged him outside and beat him. They cursed his name. They chained him to a silk cotton tree, chanting to banish the devil.
Anjali screamed. She begged. She threw herself between them and Balaram, but it was no use.
He looked at her one last time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve stayed away.”
Then he howled one long, low cry that shook the morning and he vanished.
Just like that. No bones. No blood. No ash.
Only chains. A smear of red on the grass. And the sound of silence closing in.
Anjali waited for days. Weeks. She wandered the woods, calling for him. She stopped laughing. Stopped singing. Her family tried to bring her back, but something in her had left with Balaram. Now, decades after the legend says that she still walks the Cedros roads barefoot and silent. And when the wind shifts, you can hear her whispering his name and sometimes, people say, the chains answer.
The Chains Answer in Cedros (for Balaram and Anjali) In Icacos where the sea wind moans Where silk cotton trees cast crooked bones They speak in hush ‘bout a healer's fate And a love the forest could not sate Balaram, with his soft, strange eyes Carried moonlight in his sighs By day he healed with leaf and flame By night, he bore another name The Lagahoo, cursed in form and soul Chained to hunger he couldn’t control Each dusk, his shadow split in two Man and monster, both made true Anjali came like the summer breeze Laughing light through the cocoa trees She touched his hand, she called him "B," Said, “Whatever you are, is enough for me.” But even love can’t break a spell Born deep in forest, shaped in hell One night the beast could not resist A dog lay torn where river kissed The village stirred with fear and dread “They say he walk where spirits tread!” With fire and prayer, steel and fear They marched to end what wandered near She heard the mob before the flame And barefoot, wild, through bush she came There he stood, with twisted form Chains aglow, not yet full-storm “Anj,” he whispered, “Run from me” But she reached out like roots to tree Then cutlass rang and holy cries And Balaram fell beneath their lies They chained him to the silk cotton base Blood and mud upon his face She begged. She screamed. She wept in vain But fear, not love, would rule that plain He looked once more, then disappeared No bone, no breath, no sign he’d been here Just chains that swung in empty air And grief that settled everywhere Now Anjali walks, with hair gone gray Along the roads where shadows stay She does not laugh. She does not speak But when the wind grows cold and bleak You’ll hear her voice on salt-tinged breeze A whisper curling through the trees She calls his name in mournful rain... And sometimes, softly, the chains answer again.
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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