The Soucouyant

Brian Sankarsingh weaves a Trinidadian folkloric tale

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In the heart of Trinidad's lush countryside, nestled among sprawling sugarcane fields, lay the village of Sangre Chiquito. This close-knit community, rich with traditions from India and the Caribbean, thrived on stories passed down through generations. Among these tales was that of the soucouyant—a malevolent spirit said to shed her skin at night, transforming into a ball of fire to feed on the blood of her unsuspecting victims. Stories told that after feeding, she would return and re-embody her skin. Preventing her from doing this was a surefire way to get rid of a soucouyant and salt spread on the skin would accomplish this. With the rising sun, and without a skin to re-inhabit, the soucouyant would die.

Leela, a young woman known for her beauty and grace, had recently married and moved to the village. Her husband, Rajiv, was a hardworking cane farmer, and together they built a modest home on the village's outskirts. Despite her warm smile and diligent efforts to integrate, whispers followed Leela. Some villagers noted her peculiar habit of retiring early and her absence from communal nighttime festivities. Rajiv was always known as a skeptical young man. The hard work of cane farming had withered away at his childhood beliefs in the common folklore stories. His imagination burnt in the scalding Caribbean sun as he cut the burnt sugar cane stalks.

One evening, as the village prepared for the annual Diwali celebrations, Rajiv noticed Leela's reluctance to join the festivities. "Leela, it's our first Diwali together. Everyone will be there," he urged. She offered a weak smile. "I'm feeling sick love. You go ahead; I go rest and try and join later if I can." Concerned but understanding, Rajiv left for the celebrations. As he walked through the village, he couldn't shake off a growing unease. The tales of the soucouyant, and the rumours he had overheard about his new wife echoed in his mind. Midway through the festivities, driven by an inexplicable urge, Rajiv decided to return home. As he approached their dwelling, he noticed an eerie glow emanating from the back of the house. Heart pounding, he crept closer and was met with a chilling sight: a luminous ball of fire hovered near the ground, pulsating as if alive. Beside it lay a familiar form—Leela's skin, carefully folded and resting in a large mortar.

Recalling the elders' advice on confronting a soucouyant, Rajiv acted swiftly. He grabbed a handful of coarse salt from their kitchen and sprinkled it liberally over the discarded skin. The fiery orb, sensing danger, darted toward the skin but recoiled upon contact with the salted surface. A piercing wail filled the air as the orb flared brightly before dissipating into the night.

The next morning, the village buzzed with news of Leela's sudden disappearance and as usual rumours abound. Rajiv, grappling with the revelation and his grief, chose to keep the night's events to himself. He immersed himself in his work and refused to tell anyone where Leela had suddenly disappeared to.

Leela’s Fire

In Sangre Chiquito, a little village fair
By moonlit fields, where cane stalks blow
A woman fair, with midnight hair
Held secrets no one would ever know

She walked in grace, a bride so sweet
Yet villagers felt the hush of night
For when the village had gone to sleep
A fire burned, too fierce, too bright

Rajiv, in love, yet plagued by dreams
Felt shadows curl behind her name
Her hands so soft, her gaze serene
Yet something stirred, not quite the same

On Diwali’s eve, she stayed behind
While lamps were lit, and laughter soared
But Rajiv’s heart, uneasy, blind
Led him back to their front door

Behind the house, a molten glow
A crimson blaze that licked the air
Beside it, folded skin lay bare
A husk of silk, so smooth, so spare

With salted hands and whispered prayer
He sealed her fate in grains so coarse
The fire screamed, dissolved to air
The night was still. A hollow force

By morning’s light, the village knew
Yet silence draped his lips so tight
She vanished, lost to fate’s own due
A tale now spun in candlelight

And so, when night grows strangely warm
And light dances high upon the trees
The old folks warn, "Beware the storm
A soucouyant still rides the breeze"

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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