Culture Matters
Tales of Christmas past
DARA E HEALY
THE VILLAGE of La Soleil was waking up.
Nestled in the hills of the Northern Range, it existed somewhere in the space between the mountaintop, floating clouds and the beginning of time. Old wooden homes shared the landscape with newer, concrete structures. A cock crowed, puffing out his chest as he kept the brood under control. Cocoyea brooms swished as women swept dirt yards. Strings of Christmas lights dangled on mango trees. The scent of fresh coffee boiling on the stove drifted on the early-morning air. Somebody played parang soca.
Mark walked unseeingly through it all. Head down, he adjusted his backpack and trudged along, lost in his thoughts. He and Simon had discovered La Soleil by accident on one of their treks into the bush. They both shared a love of the forest - its unpredictability, foreboding strength and impenetrable darkness.
At first, they hated each other, competing for the affection of a girl who horned them both for a truck driver called Anil. They heard she was pregnant again, and apparently completely happy. Mark smiled to himself remembering. Fishermen called out, offering fresh catch, but he waved them off. 'Nah man, I good.' The pitch road turned into a dirt track. Last time he and Simon had walked gingerly across the rope bridge, cool river water racing beneath.
Sunlight peeped through the trees as emperor butterflies fluttered past. He was close. The path began to get steeper, more slippery. The sound of falling water grew louder and then, there it was. The beautiful blue-green pool, calm and glistening in the speckled sunshine. Mark stared at the pool, a confusion of emotions. This is where Simon died.
One minute they were laughing with their friends, then Mark turned to tell Simon something, but he was not there. They thought he had gone to get something in his bag. A couple of the stronger swimmers braved the depths of the pool looking for him. A search party was sent out with professional trackers, dogs and divers. It was as if Simon had never existed.
'You ever hear the story about this place?'
Mark jumped. A woman sat on one of the rocks. She was smoking a pipe, dangling one leg over the edge. Mark had not seen her before, nor did he smell the smoke.
'What story?' He decided to play it cool.
'The story about this pool.' She motioned to him to sit next to her.
Mark kept his distance, but sat close enough to see that she was strikingly beautiful. Her long hair was matted in places and she had on a loose-fitting V-neck dress that flowed down her leg and over the rock.
'This village was named after a woman who was brought here from Guadeloupe with her masters, in the 1800s. Villagers called her Soleil because when she walked, her skin glowed like the sun. Around 1850, Soleil came to this pool with Pierre, her only son. She looked away from him for a moment, but when she looked back he was gone. She searched for him, hoping he was wandering in the forest. She ran screaming into the villa
