Then we are left to contend with our fireball bodies, the night sky, the jealous moon, and our victims. Still we fly, we feast, we play, and we wait for his return at dawn. Then, and only then, can we steal a sweet kiss—this brief merging of firesouls, if only for one small moment in the dawn sky.
Tonight, other flames compete for the island people’s attention. Burning tires are lighting the dark sky so bright, the island people won’t be able to see us. They are protesting again, so they won’t care about us soul-sucking flying fireball witches; we, the soucouyant of Kiskeya Island who fly through the warm, damp air inhaling unsuspecting souls with our fire breaths. This time, the uprising is against the opening of a new resort along the shores of Bassin-Bleu, where the white-sand beaches are, where La Siren brings her maids to rest and dry their fins and meet their lovers, the seal-skinned fisherboys.
Foreign businessmen and developers have torn down the tin-roofed cottages, the cinder-block bungalows, and the pastel-colored gingerbread houses along the eastern coastline to build a sea of twenty-story luxury hotels.
Four of us are climbing the hill overlooking Toussaint Valley. The hill is not the tallest peak on our island by far, but it’s just high enough for us to stay out of sight, and low enough for us to launch toward the night sky.
“They’ll have to find a new beachfront brothel, those whores,” Martine says as she holds one of the handles on the large cooler she and Veronique are hauling up the hill. It’s filled with cubes of ice—our healing balm after flying as balls of flame all night.
“Why do the mermaids have to be whores? Why not the fisherboys, eh?” I ask them. I’m carrying another cooler on top of my head. It sits on a piece of bundled cloth, balancing perfectly. None of these soucouyant girls can do this while climbing up a steep hill. Many of them are thinner than I am, but they still have the girth and curves of a soucouyant. Although they are not as graceful. I am bigger, taller, and more commanding. That is why I lead them. Well, one of the reasons why.
“True-true, Solange! The fisherboys are the most whorish of them all,” Veronique says. “Once their mermaid girlfriends leave for the ocean, they rub their Black bodies with coconut oil for the white tourists at the resort to gawk at and pay good money for. Whores.”
“They are both whorish creatures,” Martine adds. “Blame them both. That’s why the developers want that piece of our island: so they can have their fantasies. ‘Take your pick, ladies and gentlemen. Girl fishes of the sea, or muscle boys carved out of onyx?’”
“Not all boys,” someone says, quiet-quiet.
I turn to see Giselle lagging behind. She’s the fourth to join us. Five more should be coming soon. “No, not all, Giselle,” I say, knowing how sensitive she is. “Gerard is one of the good ones.”
“He loves only me,” she adds, raising her voice and rushing past Martine and Veronique to catch up to me. Her arms are swinging, hands empty.
Martine and Veronique chuckle. “Only you? Stupid child,” Martine says.
“You did not think to bring ice, Giselle?” I ask before Martine berates her even more by bringing up her boyfriend’s cheating.
“You must not know of the blackout,” Giselle says. Her short afro glistens with oil; so does her deep blue-black face.
I stop and look down the hill. Dusk is settling over the island, and it’s only now that we notice the lights haven’t come on in the island people’s homes. Still, a protest of burning tires and a blackout have not stopped our game in the past. Streaks of orange and dark blue paint the sky, and as soon as it’s dotted with stars and a pale yellow full moon, we will take flight.
“Maybe you should run back home to your love, Giselle,” Martine starts. “You wouldn’t want him to be lonely with only the darkness keeping him company.”
“How long has the electricity been out?” I quickly ask, interrupting Martine’s impending bullying.
“Not long. Just as I was going into the kitchen at the resort, the workers were there taking out the meat. But the generator kicked in just in time. Too many people around, so I couldn’t steal the ice,” she says, glancing back at Martine.
“Were you able to steal a kiss from your one and only?” Veronique mocks.
Martine laughs.
Giselle quickly turns around, and they almost bump into her. She places her hands on her hips, furrows her brows, and says, “You are jealous. You would rather inhale the souls of innocent boys than fall in love! You are the real whores!”
“Ey!” I shout, setting the cooler down on the ground. “I will have none of this! Martine and Veronique, let her be.”
“Let her be? She couldn’t even bring her own ice, and we’re supposed to let her be goo-goo gaga over this boy?” Martine says. “Giselle, your boyfriend is fucking everybody! There. I said it. Get over it.”
“Martine!” I yell, wanting to slap her face.
“I know about the mermaid,” Giselle says quietly. “I let him have her. She only comes every so often, so it’s okay. He needs the balance, you know. I’m fire, she’s water. Sometimes, my heat . . . It’s too much.”
“Oh my goddess! This child can’t get any dumber!” Martine says, pressing her palm against her head.
“I am not dumb!” Giselle shouts, stepping closer to Martine. A dull red-orange light begins to pulse beneath her dark skin. Her anger will make her shed prematurely tonight. That’s the last thing we need.
So I gently grab Giselle’s elbow, pulling her back. Her skin is warming up, too. “She’s not dumb. She’s in love,” I say.
“In love? Gerard is not the sun, by far,” says Veronique.
“We’re not all trying to kiss the sun,” Giselle says, deepening her voice. “Some of us need bodies to fall in love with. Human bodies. Not for their souls, but for their . . .”
“For their what, Giselle?” Martine asks. “You know, if he hurts you, he will become disposable. The moment that you start to cry over this fisherboy, he is gone!”
I don’t say anything to that, because Martine is right. Vengeance is now the sole purpose of our fiery lives because of what’s been done to soucouyant girls on this island over the years—the taking of our bodies without permission, the stealing of our skin to sell on black markets to foreigners. Vengeance is the game we’re playing tonight. Our lives have become all about this game. It wasn’t always that way. Soucouyant would fly on the night of a full moon and aim for any victim—any soul that would quench our thirst for life, more life. Shed skin, fly, and feast. That was it. Then we would go back to our regular half-human lives. Now this is unacceptable. We have to choose our victims wisely, and we make it a game so we don’t live bored and redundant lives like the humans on this island. Make it fun. Make it useful. So I tell Giselle the truth, but I mix it in with some sweetness to cool her down a little.