Hrm.

[kuangning]

I just posted this elsewhere; it's the result, perhaps, of a talk with my father last night. We were remembering all the old stories -- the douen, the soucouyant, La Diablesse, Papa Bois. A douen is the spirit of a child who dies without being christened or baptized; the child looks as s/he did in life, except that the feet are turned backward, making the footprints, when there are any, deceptive. Such spirits, they say, often come back to steal away the living.


Douen


It was bedtime.

Julian leaned his head against the old man's knee, eyes half-closed as the age-marked hand played with his hair, and the adult's voice carried on the familiar lines and cadences of the story. The sun, just setting, was an amber glow behind his eyelids, and the slight breeze stroked his cheek.

He was still the first to see it, though, some time later. Some small movement it must have made, in creeping so close. Or perhaps it was simply that it felt its own shock at seeing him, which was the mirror of his at seeing it, and betrayed itself with some jerkiness, some break in that perfect glide. When he opened his eyes, it was there, wide-eyed as he was, not ten steps away, at the open doorway. Against his back, his grandfather's leg muscles relaxed, tensed, relaxed again, and the hand in his hair had grown still. He looked up, to find his grandfather asleep in the chair.

Julian bit his lower lip, and glanced back and forth between the sleeping adult and the small figure at the doorway. At his look, it beckoned. Behind him, his grandfather gave the tiniest of snores. And that made up his mind. Carefully, he slid out from under his grandfather's hand, and tiptoed to the door. Once there, he took the outstretched hand, looking into eyes that were exactly like his own, but younger. There was only time for him to whisper to his baby brother, "you came back!" before the little creature whose hand held his so firmly drew him away into the woods.

Later, his grandfather, awakening, would find two sets of footprints -- one leading into the forest, one leading out of it, side by side -- and he would try in vain to track his grandsons, the living and the dead.

Comments

[misterx.livejournal.com]

that gave me shivers.

[kuangning]

Yay. :) I need to show it to my father, I think. But it might disturb him more -- Julian was his little brother's name.

[kaolinfire.livejournal.com]

Nice language. I don't know how well it works for me without internal explanation of the footprints thing, but I don't see where you could put that. ((my mind is stumbling with the idea of seeing it all from the grandfather's POV--seeing that it's happened, maybe calling in help, everyone telling stories and shushing each other, him knowing it's in vain the whole time)). The one bit of writing that stumbled me was where _it_ recognized _his shock at seeing it_ and so _became visible so he saw it_; or did I misread that? Or is it just mystical stuff going on, and I wouldn't understand? :) It is nicely poetic, just felt odd when reading.

[kuangning]

It recognized him, was shocked at that, and gave itself away so that he saw it and recognized it. That could be clearer -- I'll have to rework that somehow. It is, after all, about five minutes' work. *laugh.* And yes, there's got to be a followup scene with the search; I can't see leaving Julian in the company of the douen. Maybe a bit of explanation of why Julian and his grandfather are alone, why the brother is a douen at all... hrm.

[kuangning]

I'm also considering the douen's POV... why be drawn back to the living? Why does it still recognize Julian? *wrysmile.* Because, y'know, nothing can be a simple scribble with me, no. ;)

[kaolinfire.livejournal.com]

Alright; you've got me hooked. I want to see this when it's done. :)

I'm sure I ask this every other time you post something, but why haven't you joined imaginaries.org? ;) :)

[kuangning]

Pure laziness. ;) I make no promises about being able to keep up. Incidentally, your Java join/login thing is throwing me an exception, and I think it's failed to spit out my activation code email.

[kaolinfire.livejournal.com]

The best thing about imaginaries is no requirements. ;) I kept up with it because I couldn't keep up with critters -- you can ebb and flow as you like.

could you post or email me the exception? I don't see you in the db. :/

[kuangning]

500 Servlet Exception

java.lang.RuntimeException: item not found: 0 [User]
at org.imaginaries.Bean.init(Bean.java:79)
at org.imaginaries.User.(User.java:60)
at org.imaginaries.Email.resendValidationCode(Email.java:282)
at _user._validate__resend__do__jsp._jspService(/u0/starrun/public_html/user/validate.resend.do.jsp:43)
at com.caucho.jsp.JavaPage.service(JavaPage.java:75)
at com.caucho.jsp.Page.subservice(Page.java:506)
at com.caucho.server.http.FilterChainPage.doFilter(FilterChainPage.java:182)
at com.caucho.server.http.Invocation.service(Invocation.java:315)
at com.caucho.server.http.CacheInvocation.service(CacheInvocation.java:135)
at com.caucho.server.http.HttpRequest.handleRequest(HttpRequest.java:246)
at com.caucho.server.http.HttpRequest.handleConnection(HttpRequest.java:163)
at com.caucho.server.TcpConnection.run(TcpConnection.java:139)
at java.lang.Thread.run(Thread.java:534)


When I tried joining again, I got a message saying I was already signed up with that email address (cairsten @ tears-of-gold.org).

[kaolinfire.livejournal.com]

alright; there were strange things afoot at the circle k. perhaps now it will work, from scratch?

[heronblue.livejournal.com]

I really ought to read more Caribbean folklore stuff... every little piece I see fascinates me. This reminds me of one of Nalo Hopkinson's stories, but that might be that she's the only contemporary published writer I've encountered who explores these stories.

She's good, but you're better in some ways.

[kuangning]

Thank you. That's high praise.

I adore her work, what I've seen of it, but she doesn't quite have the dialect down, and it jars at times. But then, at least she tries for it. I keep remembering that I never picked up the accent in my speech, and reproducing it in text is intimidating. Still, talking with my father last night reminded me that I remember the old stories better than he does, now, and that makes me sad and a little frightened. We need more people to write them, or else they'll eventually be lost.