Abico and the Spirit of the Maroons

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Abico watched the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the secluded Maroon village, nestled at the edge of an ancient forest hidden in the rolling hills of the Jamaican mountainside. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and the distant sound of drumming heralded the eve of the annual festival. A celebration steeped in legend, where it was said the spirits of ancestors returns, danced in the moonlight, weaving magic and wisdom into the fabric of the village.

He stood at the fringe of the forest, his city-worn shoes sinking slightly into the soft earth, a stark contrast to the rigid, paved streets he had grown accustomed to. The forest, with its towering trees and the chorus of unseen creatures, felt like a world apart from the concrete jungle they he left behind. It’s been years since he departed, but now he had returned seeking respite from the relentless pace of city life. Yet now, faced with the enveloping embrace of nature, he felt an unexpected twinge of apprehension.

“Yuh look lost, chile,” a voice said, breaking through Abico’s reverie. He turned to find Tabaka, an elder whose skin bore the intricate tapestry of time, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. His eyes twinkled with a knowing light, as if he could see right through Abico’s carefully constructed facade.

“I’m just… trying to remember,” Abico replied, his voice trailing off, lost in the echoes of memories he thought he had left far behind.

“Remember or rediscover?” Tabaka asked, his voice gentle, yet laden with meaning. He motioned for Abico to follow him back towards the village, where the preparations for the festival were in full swing. The air was alive with the smell of roasting breadfruit and the sweet, tangy aroma of jerk spices.

As they walked, Tabaka spoke of the festival’s origins, “Me sure you remember, that dis festival is how we commemorated the time when the spirits of the forest revealed themselves, guiding our ancestors to this bountiful hidden treasure during a time of great conflict with the British.”

“You really tink dem story deh true?” Abico asked.

“It’s more than just stories and superstitions boy,” Tabaka replied, his voice rising with passion. “It’s about connection—to the land, to our past, and to each other.”

Abico listened, feeling the weight of Tabaka’s words.

“Our people was far from our homeland, and they had bad people trying to put dem back into bondage. This place became a refuge for those who escaped, looking for freedom from the lashing of the slave driver whip. The festival is a continued celebration of our people’s survival thanks to the gifts of the forest. This is a time when our ancestors return to share in the celebration. It’s the only way for us to maintain a connection them, else we lose everything about who we were and who we may become. Don’t you remember boy?”

Abico, did not respond. His eyes trailed off in the distance, as he reflect on his years living in the city that offered escape and anonymity. But here, in this village cradled by the ancient hills, he was forced to confront the disconnection he felt not just from hims roots but from himself.

“Look, me no know what happen to you, but me glad you come home. You can go to your mother’s house and get ready. I will let everyone know you come back,” Tabaka said as he turned and walked back to the village square.

Later in the evening, the sun had already retired and a tapestry of stars were unfurling across the sky. The village square was alive with the rhythm of drums, the air resonant with the melodies of traditional songs passed down through generations. Abico watched, feeling like an outsider among his own people, the joy and unity of the celebration a stark reminder of the solitude he had known in the city.

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, he found themselves drawn to something coming from the forest. He was sitting on a tree stump watching the festive event, but he just stood up, turned and slowly walked towards two large trees leading in to the darkness beyond the village. The drumbeats fading into the whisper of leaves and the soft murmur of the earth beneath his feet. Every movement seemed purposeful, as the forest seemed to breathe and alive with unseen presence.

And then, the unexpected happened. A soft glow illuminated a clearing ahead, where the figures of dancers swayed in the moonlight, their movements ethereal, transcendent. Abico stood, transfixed, as the realization dawned upon him—this was the mystical event Tabaka had spoken of, the spirits of their ancestors, the very essence of the legend.

In that moment, the city, with its noise and haste, felt like a distant dream. Abico understood the wisdom Tabaka had tried to impart—the importance of connection, of roots, of finding one’s place in the continuum of time.

As Abico watched, spellbound by the ethereal dance of the spirits in the moonlit clearing, one figure detached from the swirling, otherworldly congregation and moved toward him. This being, composed of light and shadow, seemed to carry the weight of centuries in its gaze, a gaze that pierced Abico’s soul, recognizing the turmoil and disorientation that churned within.

The mystical being, with a presence as calming as the forest’s whispers, leaned close to Abico. Its form was translucent, shimmering with a light that seemed to radiate warmth and understanding. In a voice that was a mere breath on the wind, it whispered in Abico’s ear. The words, though spoken softly, echoed with the force of ancient truths, dissolving the barriers of doubt and confusion that had clouded his spirit.

With a gentle touch that felt like the caress of the breeze, the being conveyed an assurance that Abico’s path, though winding and obscured, was his own to tread, a journey back to self, to the essence of who he was meant to be. And just as the revelation settled within Abico’s heart, the being stepped back, returning to the collective dance of spirits. In the brief moment that followed, it faded from view, dissolved by a gust of wind that swept through the clearing, leaving behind a trail of luminous particles that shimmered like stars being drawn back into the night sky.

Abico, now bathed in a newfound sense of peace and clarity, turned back toward the village. The weight of uncertainty that had once burdened his steps was lifted, replaced by a lightness and tranquility that stemmed from an unspoken promise to his ancestors. He walked back with a new sense of purpose.

When he returned to the village, the festival was at its peak. Abico moved through the crowd, no longer an observer but a participant, his steps in harmony with the ancient rhythms. At the center of the square he found Tabaka among the revelers, his eyes reflecting pride and understanding. He could tell something had changed.

“Yuh see it, don’t yuh?” Tabaka asked, his voice barely audible over the celebration.

Abico nodded, words unnecessary. He had seen his ancestors, felt their connection, and understood the profound truth that what he had been seeking in the city—belonging, purpose, peace—had always been here, in the heart of their ancestral village. Tabaka, nod back in recognition as Abico, stepped into the circle and joined in the dance.

The celebration continued through the break of dawn when the sun was painting the sky with hues of gold and pink. Abico sat up like the other villagers watching the light creep over the hills, bathing the forest and the village in a warm glow. This was the end of the festival, but for Abico, it was the start of a new journey.

He realized that returning wasn’t merely a physical act but a spiritual journey to rediscover what was truly important. He saw Tabaka seated in a chair, so he walked over to him.

“Mawning Missa T. Me glad me come back, cause all a we always tink there is something out dere better dan what we have here. But to be honest, me neva feel complete. It always seem like a piece a me is still back here. Every night me dream bout coming back here, living here. Me dream bout me grandfather, me neighbor Miss Junie, every body inna deh village. But coming back here mek me reconnect wid the legends and traditions dat offered not a retreat from the world but a way to face it with a renewed sense of self and belonging. Me know now dat me belong to a line a people who me ago always have a connection to.”

There was a soft echo of drums fading in the distance, and so was Tabaka. His aged face held a smile as he disappeared and the drums were replaced by the quietude of the morning. Abico knew then that the city would call him back, with its challenges and its pace, but now he carried with them the connection, wisdom, and the strength of his ancestors. He now understood no matter how far he may roam, he will always find a path to guide him back home to his roots.

The End.