11/09/2026
🌳👻 FOLKLORE FRIDAY: The Mysterious Silk Cotton Tree.
In Trinidadian folklore, the mighty Silk Cotton Tree has long been surrounded by stories of spirits, jumbies and supernatural encounters. 🌳✨
This week, we share the story: 'The Jumbie of the Big Silk Cotton Tree', a fascinating tale from Folklore and Legends of Trinidad and Tobago by Gerard Besson.
Have a read, and do share your stories and experiences with us as well!
LOOK AT THAT CLOCK! IT'S TIME I'M OFF." Lastique is riding down the road, his bicycle only swerving ever so slightly. Squeak, squeak goes the chain—must have been years ago that it saw a drop of oil.
Cap shoved back to his neck, Lastique is whistling to himself, his bony knees sticking out as he pushes the pedals. He has had a good day and a better evening—Glen Miller is so sweet! And life is sweet too since Camp Ogden offered employment to Lastique; what could be nicer than working on the Yankees' cars in the yard with Radio WVDI playing music for all who have ears to hear?
Friday is payday, and Lastique's pocket rings clink-clink with the coins as his legs go up and down pedalling his bike. Down Long Circular Road, past the newly opened Country Club—"that Canning fellow is real cunning!"—and into Boissière Village—"I wonder if old Miss Ellinore is still around". Ah, the Savannah breeze, how it hits you when you're a bit hot from riding so hard—or is it from the little grog you had with your friends after work?
Lastique slows down a bit. All of a sudden, he feels tired, and Erthig Road seems far. Must be the week of hard work backlashing! Those Yankees don't fool around when it comes to work: six o'clock sharp in the morning, and on and on all day. Thank God for the Misses Chin—they always keep something good in the pot for him when he comes home. It's really not so easy for a man alone—and since Bernice died, he wouldn't know what he would have done without the Misses Chin, such good neighbours!
With the bicycling, the evening's rum is wearing off, and Lastique feels his stomach growling. Passing the St. Anns turnoff, it's downhill from here, and he lets go of the handlebars to cruise.
What was that? That sound? Sounded like a baby crying from under the big silk cotton tree.
Lastique grabs the handlebar, pushes back his left foot, brakes. Just at the corner cafe—it's closed now—he turns around. Yes, it's a baby crying from under the big silk cotton tree. He peers hard into the darkness from where the whining is coming. Then he leans his bike against the curb and slowly approches the large roots of the tree. My word! There it is!
A tiny baby, wrapped in a gray shawl. But how did it get here? Whose baby is it? Lastique picks it up, looks around. "Where is your mummy, little chunks?"
Nobody is in sight. Carrying the baby a bit awkwardly in his arms, Lastique circles the tree—nobody. He looks up and down the Savannah—nobody. Belmont Circular Road—empty. Everybody has gone to sleep—it's really late, old man. Hopefully the Misses Chin have left a plate of food for me on the porch! The baby has stopped crying now and looks up at Lastique, tears still moist in its big, round eyes.
"Well, I'm going to take you to the hospital. Maybe somebody knows you there?"
Mounting his bike with some difficulty, balancing the baby in his left arm, Lastique pushes himself off the curb and starts going down the road. But what is this! This baby seems to get heavier and heavier! It's real heavy now, you know! Passing the convent, the child says suddenly in a man's voice:
"You'd better take me back where you found me."
Goodheavensjesusmariaandjoseph! Lastique almost drops it in terror. What ghost is this? Horrified, he turns around on the empty street and pedals, as fast as his stick-out knees take him, back to the silk cotton tree. Sweat is now pouring down his face and he looses his cap but doesn't even notice it. As he draws nearer the tree, the baby shrinks steadily back to its original weight and is deposited, once more a bawling baby, at the foot of the giant tree.
It's all Lastique can do now not to throw it back among the huge roots! He jumps off the bike, the bike falls half in the road, two, three, four big steps and he places the bundle like a hot potato in that same corner. Turn around! Back on the bike! Off we go!
Was it his imagination? Or did it really talk like a man? What a confusion! It looked like a baby, so what's going on?
"Better not meddle with that," mumbles Lastique to himself as he flies down the Savannah, into Hermitage Road. His heart pounding, he rushes into his house, almost knocking over the plate of food that the Misses Chin left for him on the little wall surrounding the porch. He grabs it, and once inside, he locks the door good, and sits down on his only chair in the drawing-room. The plate in his hand is shaking badly. Lastique now notices that he has lost his cap.
The moon, a silent witness, hides his face in a cloud as a chill wind blows and an owl flies out of the great silk cotton tree.
