(note: a moko jumbie is a spirit I heard of from the local folklore while living on the island of Trinidad)
The sky expired as the life of day seeped away, devolving slowly into the night. The howler monkeys hushed and the scarlet ibis rushed, flying out of sight.
Down below trod a girl, a woman almost, marching along the nocturnal path. Bamboo stick in hand, she swiped aside the vines, felt her way, peering into the blinding darkness. Where were her comrades? where were her friends? That she did not know and that she needed discover.
Deep silence had settled in, pierced only by the shrill shrieks of insects. Then she heard it. At first, it started as a gruff guttural sound. Then, the tension escalated to the resemblance of a suffocating baby, creating the ghostly effect of a native moko jumbie. With a flamboyant finale, the display erupted into a screeching roar, and the girl swiveled around in time to see a pair of luminous eyes gliding towards her; the monster was attacking.
Duck! That was the first thought to race through her mind and that she did. Now the vicious feline was on the ground, hissing and sputtering, an ocelot brimming in rage. The tiger cat made as to land a blow with a full swoop of its claws, but the girl deflected it. Now she made one of her own and taking the bamboo, struck the devil's skull.
That was it, the creature was gone as swift as it had come, leaving the girl alone. She was sweating profusely by that time and but a few feet further, she discovered a light, radiating from the distance. Was that all?
In the time of sunset post, a beacon welcoming pristine ambience, yet shunning fellow man. Creeping crawlies slither aloof while humble toads croak. A breaching branch strokes and the wind speaks forsooth.
The fiery flames lick the embers with their long anteater tongues. They jump freely from tree to tree, casting their rays round about in a simple game of catch. Ever so slowly, they increase their influence of emanation as wood gathers for the festivities.
On the side, a youth. He gazes knowingly at the fire and she sings to him a never-ending serenade, dancing in front of his face. Passively, he tugs at his moustache, fine strands of fur, and an oblong grass stalk extends from his mouth, like an extra whisker. He scratches his beard, grown after many rough years, and the memories come flowing back through the haze.
Of a golden era are these, an age when country folk embraced hospitality. Of tranquility and simple living. Feasts and holydays.
Thus fades the vision. A beacon in the plains, telling of foreboding doom. All else falls into gloom.