Keepers of Midnight Conversations

In the stillness of the night, beneath the velvet canopy of the rainforest, there is a veil behind
our eyes, a web that blocks the ancient connection between us and the natural world. Yet, as
darkness falls, the forest breathes and speaks in ways we’ve forgotten. We are not alone in
our rituals, our tools, or our survival. Beneath the moon’s quiet gaze, the forest breathes,
alive with life—whispers of creatures unseen by day. As night falls, The wild world awakens,
its life flowing through each breath of air, each shadow, and each whispered tale.

Bats take flight, soaring through the shadows. These winged guardians keep the balance,
feasting on insects that would otherwise ravage the crops we depend on keeping the insect
population in check. The frugivores spread seeds across the forest, ensuring the next
generation of trees, sowing seeds. They dance among the shadows, unseen but
ever-present, as vital to the forest as the roots beneath the soil.

Master viper lies coiled by the streams, silent and still, camouflaged against the leaf-laden
earth, head atop the ‘cata’ disguised as the forest floor itself. Their prey—small rodents,
unsuspecting—never see the strike coming. They wait, patient hunters, unseen until the last
moment—ambush predators like small mammals and rodents in the cathedral of trees. The
night belongs to them too.

In the heart of the night, the tree frogs begin their midnight conversations. Out of 34 known
species, most take the night shift, their chorus a symphony of croaks and rumbles. The night
is theirs—their voices rise in a chorus. Crickets sing the pulse of the jungle, and the frogs
respond—a grumble here, a croak there, an overture to the dance of life. Some are wooing
their mates, others are warning intruders, but all are part of the grand conversation, hidden
in the shadows.

The forest holds more than just animals—it holds spirits, legends born from the whispers of
ancient trees grow in the thick of night. The folklore says that Papa Bois, half man half deer,
with antlers and a long beard can heal wounded animals and guide lost travelers. Papa Bois
is also known to punish those who intend to harm the forest or its creatures. Mama D’Leau,
Papa Bois’ wife, known as mermaid-like, protects and punishes those who wish to harm the
waters and animals within. Mama D’Leau commands the respect of the individuals who use
her domain- water.

As a child, I was told never to roam these woods alone, where Douen might be
lurking—those faceless unbaptized children with backward feet, forever luring the unwary
into the deep, never to return. The forest is filled with their laughter, but it is not one to follow.

My favorite story was that of my grandfather, Felix Boneo, the barefoot walker. He had made
a friend in the forest—a ‘buck,’ a creature of magic and mischief. Felix, a man of magic and
prayer, held secret knowledge passed down from the village chief, a shapeshifter, and a
friend of the spirits. His buck was his protection, ensuring he returned from the forest alive,
even when others did not. Tonight, I listen to the grumbles and croaks, wondering which of
them might carry the spirit of the buck, watching me from the shadows.

As I sit in the heart of the night, the moon rising higher; I listen more intently, imagining the
legends that fill the Ceiba trees. Tales of the Soucouyant, the fiery old woman who sheds her
skin at night, searching for her victims as she floats through the sky in transformed into a ball
of fire.. Her legend claims that she sucks the blood of her victims, leaving only a ‘hicky’ like
mark. To protect yourself from her, we were told to scatter salt and rice by our doors,
knowing she must count every grain before sunrise, trapping her in her endless task.

A rustle in the branches and A Tyara—swiftly—bursts from the trees, then vanishes just as
quickly, leaving me wondering if it’s the Loup Garou, the Caribbean’s werewolf, come to stalk
the night haunting the forest under the full moon, its hunger insatiable. Cursed to transform
and hunt in the shadows. Even the wind whispers of them.
A branch cracks, and a hoof like stomp, my thoughts drift to La Diablesse, the beautiful
woman who lures men to their doom. They say she hides a cloven hoof beneath her dress,
and those who follow her charm find themselves lost forever. But she has no power over me,
for she hunts men, and I welcome her presence by blowing smoke, daring her to reveal
herself.

The forest is alive with legends, the spirits of the indigenous still walk these paths, their
stories hidden in every croak, bellow, and hiss. I dissolve into the moss, letting the jungle
absorb me, feeling its ancient wisdom flow through my veins. The night carries the echoes of
old tales, stories we keep alive with every breath, every sound. We know the magic that
lingers here, for they are our friends—the beings of the forest, guardians of the trees, and
keepers of the midnight conversations.