We are not Jumbies

I suppose it is fair to say that nothing happened within my coven without my knowledge or consent. To say that all activities had my approval though is an entirely different matter. Antonio, in an attempt to provoke a response from Elizabeth, converted two others to our flock, which only provided him with options I expect because they were neither as beautiful nor as unattainable as our Elizabeth. Ultimately it did provoke a response, but I suspect not the one desired by Antonio. I was not surprised when Elizabeth came to me with her own proposition. She was becoming the natural leader of the females in our growing coven and was keen to make her own mark, so to speak, by making one of her own choosing. I had no way of knowing at the time that she intended her first as a gift to me.

Not all of the island's clairvoyants were opportunists, though they were in the majority, some had actual abilities to communicate with the supernatural and spirit world. These so called obeah practitioners understood how it felt to be the benefactors to abilities that came with particular burdens. Our nocturnal activities were not passing unnoticed, and for a time we were confused with our counterparts the jumbies and duennes that sought the possession and destruction of the human spirit. Jumbies and duennes though, were more similar to each other than they were to us. Jumbies were restless troubled spirits who searched for bodies to possess. They would often trick people late at night with sounds of crying babies or singing. Duennes were the actual spirits of babies who died before being protected by a holy seal, be it Christian baptism or otherwise. They were known to take young children as permanent playmates in the balance between this world and theirs. These spirits would call to young children under the guise of babies in straw hats with their feet turned backwards. We all glamour humans for our own motives, and I can certainly understand the mystification, but I just want to clear up any confusion that still persists. We are not jumbies or duennes. There is more to be said on the matter of jumbies later, but first I must return to the matter of my ‘gift.’

Kayla was a beautiful, honey-skinned native whose parents had moved to England so that their daughter could benefit from the, difficult, opportunities that existed for those considered part of the crown. She had a strong, curvy body, sensuous lips and bright brown eyes and had grown accustomed to using her considerable charms to survive. She had negotiated a strong education for herself and had returned to the islands eager to be part of the change that was sweeping the colonies. Elizabeth studied her for months before deciding that she would be her first and so Kayla had been changed for me.

It was these demonstrations of devotion to me that began to widen the divide between Antonio and myself. Kayla proved a wondrous distraction. I had lived a monk like existence for so long, denying myself the pleasures of the flesh as a measure of balance for the numerous lives I had taken. Allowing myself this pleasure added a new dimension unto my existence. Somehow I had managed to keep some part of my conscience alive and I did enjoy having a woman at my side again and playing father in a dysfunctional home.

At this time Eli became a frequent visitor once more and seemed pleased with my companionship. Still, there were the gentle reminders of a greater purpose and a higher calling but I was still unwilling to reconcile our abilities with anything inherently noble. For a time I allowed myself to be content with our grotesque and unconventional family. But this calm would not last. We are soucouyant after all and blood taints our affairs. I would soon be reminded of our collective nature.

The Myth is Born

Before getting to the islands I had seen and encountered other supernatural entities but most were male. I had not considered before what effect our essence would have on a female but I had assumed that it would not have been much difference. As it turned out, I was quite naive in my assessment. Men and women have quite distinct physiological psychologies and as a result we are affected in profoundly different ways by the thirst. For instance, whatever the chemical imbalances or physical defects that exist at the time of transformation now become very permanent imperfections regardless of experience or medical advancements. For better or worse our stasis, defied the passage of time.

I was intrigued by the changes in Elizabeth, initially. We don’t always conform to the romantic notions that humans have created for our ‘feeding’. While I can lengthen all my teeth at these times I choose to extend those closest to the corners of my smile for efficiency. Antonio, because of his devotion, has adopted a similar method, but not our Elizabeth. She feeds with an intensity and ferocity that I have never witnessed before extending all her teeth and becoming a grotesque image of what we all are inside. She seemed more comfortable than even Antonio with her new abilities, cost be damned. She was unable or, perhaps, unwilling to be controlled at night. Then, within a week of her making, the most significant transformation occurred.

The first time she shed her skin and flew out and around the plantation as a frenzied fireball I knew that our carefully guarded existence was in great peril. It was not necessary for her to shed her skin and become this creature to feed, but I suspect that she enjoyed the shock and horror that it provoked in her victims. In many ways she was a more honest version of us, than even I. There is no pretense or guile about her. Even Antonio who, was still enthralled by her and, considered himself a believer in the use of our abilities was concerned about her methods and her unique talents.

In a country that was still forming it’s own opinions about religion and identity, the stage was ripe for misunderstandings, myths and emerging folklore. Much of which was rooted in reality. It wasn’t long before local soothsayers and witchdoctors were being sought to explain and protect people from the attack of the woman whose skin blazed as she flew, and who left many dead. One of the gifts also passed on to Elizabeth was the ability to speak both Latin and French because of the bloodlines of Antonio and myself. She was often heard issuing commands in French because, she reasoned, Latin was a dead language. In time, she was being referred to as a Soucouyant and ingenious title that attempted to credit her as a French creature that fed off the blood of others and traveled as a ball of fire at night.

I have often marveled at the human ability to define that which they do not know or only have partial knowledge of. Still, it was a time of great caution for us, and fear for all who could fall victim. She enjoyed pleasures of the flesh with Antonio, but seemed more content in my company. This did not pass unnoticed, but I had no doubt about their respect and loyalty to me. The passage of time takes on less significance for those of my kind, but I could not help but feel distant during our pre twilight discussions and pity for my cursed kin at times. But what was greater was my sense of compassion and responsibility. Eli had been absent for quite some time, but I often felt his presence. At these moments I felt compelled to educate Elizabeth on the benefits of discretion for our kind.

She had become more sophisticated in her appearance and was almost unrecognizable to anyone who knew her from her previous life. Still, I thought it best that she establish her own quarters in the capital even though we were all aware that she would be with us most days. In time Elizabeth exercised more control over her thirst. She realized that it was not necessary to kill every victim and became more adept at passing unnoticed in the pre-dawn hours and leaving her mark. This, I suppose, only enhanced the mythology, causing the island mystics to proclaim there were many soucouyants roaming the islands. The myth was good for business. Old women who felt neglected by the world and had in turn turned their back on society were cause for much speculation. Still, our Elizabeth remained the only female in our nest. But this too would change.

The Coven

When Chacon opened his eyes for the first time I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he be horrified or grateful for his new life? Would I have to take it from him? Could I?

I had fed on him until his heart ceased, until he belonged more to death than life. Then I dripped blood from a self-inflicted wound into his mouth until his lips became moist with the dark liquid, until he returned and fed for his first time.

Now I sat in the basement of my house and observed my first as he opened his eyes and found his legs. There was a bewildered look on his face as he wiped blood from his face and licked it from his hand. His eyes widened as he watched the wounds on my wrists repair themselves.

“What are you?” He asked from a kneeling position.

I paused, unsure of how to respond at first.

“I am enduring.” I said finally. “Isn’t that what God promises us all, eternal life?”

He considered my words for a moment before he broke into a bloody, toothy smile.

“And I, am I now enduring?” He enquired.

I smiled, surprised by this response to his question.

“Yes.” I said simply.

He closed his eyes and rose to his feet, drawing a deep breath before opening them again.

“At what cost?”

“There is much for you to learn. Come, the night is still young.”

That night I tried to instruct my first pupil and temper his frenzied feeding. He was a willing apprentice, but could barely contain his craving. As dawn approached and his thirst weakened, he understood that the priesthood was no longer his future. I envied his moment of sorrow because I knew in time he would feel less.

I hired him as a financial aide and he became a son, confidant and friend. He had so many questions and although time was no longer significant his new abilities were. For a time, the company of another was enough but it also heightened the sense of what was absent from our lives as masculine beings. The hunger had awakened a powerful sensual desire in us both and where I had resisted the urge before, Chacon had begun his quest for a mate to be re-made in our image. The irony was not lost on either of us.

Elizabeth Brathwaite was a beautiful almond-skinned mulatto fathered by an Englishman who eventually chose country over a relationship with his daughter. She was not alone in this regard, and was not given the breaks by her mother that her society was prepared to give a beautiful woman of appropriate complexion.

I hired her as a daytime cook and housekeeper for a few days a week for which she was well compensated. She was ambitious and discreet and, I felt, very well suited to becoming much more. I was not quite ready to increase our numbers, but Chacon seemed bewitched by her beauty. His unsuccessful attempts at glamouring her seemed only to intensify his desire.

In my presence, she seemed inquisitive. I enjoyed our conversations and tried to give her the benefit of my immortal experience. Chacon and I were not as close during this period as he decided that I might be a competitor for her affections. I cautioned that he should be patient in this matter because of all that was patently at stake. He agreed to be discreet, but of course my counsel only served to confirm in his mind my true intentions.

I had gone into to town having left the estate in his charge for the day. When I returned near dusk I could smell the air heavy with death. I followed a light trail that darkened down our steps to the basement and found the ghastly sight of Elizabeth feeding on Chacon, who appeared near death himself.

“Enough!” I said startling her. She stopped and turned to me. Her eyes at once feral and then just as suddenly tranquil. She bowed her head in shame.

“That’s enough for now young one.” I said looking on her with contempt and remorse.

“I did it.” Chacon said breathlessly as his wounds healed.

“So you have.” I said simply, unaware at that moment of just how much she would affect our future.

I the Maker

All I had seen of man’s atrocities helped me to embrace the monster I had become. My first conversation with Eli would not be my last, but these occasional conversations seemed my only connection to what was left of my humanity. I had, however, managed to create for myself a routine that caused my business interest to flourish while keeping my nocturnal activities away from scrutiny.

In my 150^th year of this existence I grew tired of traveling Europe, and in the year 1853, I made my way to Caribbean island of Trinidad for the first time. I had acquired a large cocoa estate in the north of the island and was intrigued by the new path these diverse peoples were carving for themselves. Slave emancipation had only come to their shores fifteen years earlier and droves of indentured laborers were arriving to meet the shortfall in plantation labor.

I was a bit of an oddity, not because of what I am but because of my nationality. This part French speaking nation had changed hands from the Spanish to the English so I suppose a blood sucking Frenchman is not completely peculiar. Truthfully though I no longer identified with France or the self-interest that was dominant in Europe. I was restless and repulsed by most of what I had seen. Still, I craved human companionship almost as much as blood.

I craved the freedom to expose my always-cold skin to the natural warmth of the sun. The rumors that you have heard of others of my kind and their inability to exist in sunlight are true, but I have never been adversely affected by sunlight. When I was made my hair was of shoulder length, thus I was stuck with it for an eternity. I was pale, but thankfully not morbidly so and had taken to wearing my hair in a ponytail and dressing in cotton shirts, almost always white, and khaki or dark colored trousers. It was during this period that I transitioned from only thinking of making others like myself. Where before I had seen others in my travels with similar afflictions and sworn to spare anyone this existence, I now managed to convince myself that this was indeed a gift and I could be a father and mentor to my own creations.

Antonio Chacon was my first. He was a member of the movement to save the souls, of all brown islanders by introducing them to Christianity. He had been in their country so long working amongst its people that he had acquired a near local accent in his dealings with them. Chacon had a wiry frame and tanned, weathered features. His short cropped black hair; flowing robes and confident demeanor gave him a maturity beyond his twenty seven years. His was close to being ordained and was enamored with the island and its people. Consequently when his brother, the former Governor, returned to Spain he decided to stay on to do God’s work.

He made his way to my plantation to invite me to fellowship and was pleased that we could sit as Spaniard and Frenchman and discus numerous subjects, including religion. I politely declined his invitation, and instead extended my own invitation of conversation and friendship. Although he had answered a quite specific and challenging calling, he still questioned the terms of his covenant and had found our weekly conversations over tea, quite stimulating. Two months into our friendship one of those discussions sealed his fate.

“I know what you are.” Chacon said confidently, taking a sip from his cup before returning it to its saucer. His unblinking gaze fixed on me.

“Do you?” I said, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, you are an independent thinker who does not believe in anything he cannot prove beyond reason. And because of your intellect and experience you challenge the existence of God.”

“Are you calling me a heretic Chacon?”

“Oh heavens no. I just think you are waiting on definitive proof.”

“I see. You’re calling me a skeptic.”

“I guess I am.” He said bursting into laughter.

“Well, what if I told you I was neither. What if I told you that there’s more to what you believe and that I can show you?”

His eyes widened and I could feel his heartbeat quicken.

“Go on.” He said hesitantly.

“Let us continue this conversation indoors.” I said rising. “It is getting dark.”

I lead him to my basement and following La Safer’s lead, I created another. I had corrupted a man of God and become a maker. It would be the beginnings of the House of Condé.