The Breath of the Dead

The sun dipped below the mangrove horizon, casting long, shadowy fingers over the heart of pre-revolutionary Saint-Domingue. The year was 1790, and the air was thick with the treacle of unrest and humidity. The island, its forests lush and vibrant with a symphony of cicadas, concealed secrets darker than the sugarcane fields stretching to the sea. Yet tonight, all eyes turned toward Louissaint Elvaine, a seventeen-year-old girl as fierce as the tropical storms threatening the coastline.

Louissaint's hair coiled into tight ringlets, a shroud of obsidian toppled by the salty wind. Her frame, wiry and muscled from years of back-breaking labor in the fields, bore the marks of resilience. She wore a simple white chemise, now smeared with ash, and a length of indigo fabric tied around her waist. It smacked against her legs as she darted through the trees, barefoot and silent. Cradled in her hand was a bundle of dried herbs and a vial of a viscous black liquid, gleaming in the moonlight.

The Whispering Grove

The grove she entered was ghostly, dappled with light from the crescent moon. Bent trunks of ceiba trees leaned inward, as if listening to the whispers of those who dared breach their realm. Louissaint paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath, her amber eyes scanning the natural cathedral. She knelt at the base of one particularly ancient tree, its roots clawing the earth like gnarled hands.

“Maman?” she whispered, her voice trembling. She set down the vial and herbs, then reached into the folds of her sash to retrieve a small, leather-bound book. Yellowing pages fluttered in the warm breeze as she turned to the passage Maman Colette had recited just before the fever took her.

The words were inked in Kreyòl, swirling and spidery:

“To wake the silent winds, to cleanse the dead, offer breath to their vessel and fire to their voice.”

“I’m here,” Louissaint said, her hand trembling as she lit a bundle of herbs using the flint she carried. Smoke spiraled upward in serpentine swirls, and an unnatural stillness fell over the grove. Even the ever-present symphony of cicadas seemed to hush as if held in the thrall of her ritual.

The Breath Awakened

Louissaint uncorked the vial. The liquid inside was thick and pungent, an ugly shade of tar that caught the moonlight in unearthly hues. “For you, Maman. Your wisdom cannot end here. Not yet.” She doused the herbs with the liquid, producing a burst of flame so brief yet so bright it seemed to sear the fabric of reality itself. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw her mother’s face in the smoke—eyes wide and pleading.

A gust of wind swept through the grove, carrying with it a sound unlike any Louissaint had ever heard. It was a breath—a collective exhale that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Then, the whispers began, faintly at first but building intensity like waves colliding with rocks. Faces glimmered in the air between the trees, translucent and sorrowful, their mouths moving without sound.

Louissaint froze as one face grew clearer than the others. It was Maman Colette. Her dark features were rigid, her braided hair no longer tied in the meticulous patterns Louissaint knew so well but loose and flowing as though underwater.

“It is not yet finished,” her mother’s voice filled her ears though her lips did not move. “The air—the air, child. Watch your air.”

A Trail of Poison

Louissaint’s spine went rigid, hands flying to her mouth as she coughed violently. A strange, metallic taste flooded her tongue. She looked down at the plumes of smoke; they were no longer rising upward but coiling around her feet like black vipers. Suddenly, she understood. The warning wasn’t some metaphorical lesson. There was poison here.

She grabbed her things in frantic haste and ran, stumbling out of the grove. Her mind raced. Maman Colette had been speaking of more than the ritual or the spirits. The plantation—the air of the plantation had been fouled for weeks. Slaves falling ill, some dying in the shade of sugarcane. It wasn’t fevers, she realized with mounting horror but something far more sinister. The overseers had been outed days ago for hoarding barrels of some noxious liquid meant to speed the preparation of molasses.

Louissaint’s eyes burned. Tears, perhaps. Or was it from the residue of the black liquid clinging to her chemise?

Fighting Fire with Fire

She reached the plantation to find chaos. A fire had been set intentionally, flames licking the sky. Faint cries of the sick mingled with the harsh ORDERs barked by men on horseback. But Louissaint discerned something else—a faint haze leaking from the charred remains of barrels near the factory. That was it—a chemical. A poison designed to increase yield but now, unleashed, killing both soil and soul.

“Louissaint!” a boy’s voice pulled her from her panic. It was Otello, her closest friend—his once plump cheeks now drawn from months of misery. “Did you—”

“Later,” she hissed, shoving the leather book at him. “Where are the survivors? Are they breathing this poison down their throats?!”

He pointed toward the cane fields where rebels armed with machetes and torches rallied. She slipped the vial from her sash. If one fire created monsters in the air, maybe another, smaller fire could force Maman’s cure to rise. Her heart thudded against her rib cage. She had one shot to cleanse, to save what would remain of her people.

The Dead Don’t Forget

The rest would be history—a story of betrayal, rebellion, and the scars left by those dependent on a land that demanded human lives to sugar their tea. Louissaint would be remembered as one of the unseen heroines, the girl who risked her lungs for the future of Saint-Domingue.

But here in the whispering grove, not far from the plantation’s ruins, the air seemed to hold something in its damp embrace. A ghostly breath rose occasionally amidst the trees, a reminder that for every story’s end, its beginning still lingers in the soil.

The air. Watch your air.

The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: How much POOP💩 bacteria is on your toothbrush?!

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