Lesezeit: 6 min
Über die Geschichte: The Jumbie Drums of Scotts Head is a Legend from dominica set in the Contemporary. This Descriptive tale explores themes of Justice and is suitable for Young. It offers Entertaining insights. The haunting drums of Scotts Head call for justice—will Marcus answer?.
The Caribbean island of Dominica, wrapped in mist and ancient stories, is a land where history never truly rests. Here, the past lingers in the whisper of the wind through the trees, in the crashing of the waves against the shore, and—if you listen closely enough—in the distant, rhythmic pounding of unseen drums.
In the quiet fishing village of Scotts Head, perched on a peninsula where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Caribbean Sea, people speak in hushed voices about the Jumbie Drums—ghostly beats that echo from the cliffs at night. Some say they belong to the spirits of the Kalinago warriors, the island’s first inhabitants, who fought to protect their land. Others believe they are the restless souls of enslaved Africans, betrayed and slaughtered centuries ago, their suffering etched into the land itself.
For generations, the villagers have warned against following the sound of the drums. *"Dem not playing music for dancing,"* the elders say. *"Dem is spirits calling."*
No one dares to investigate. No one, that is—until now. Marcus Dupont hadn’t set foot in Dominica for twenty years. Not since he was a boy, running barefoot through the village, kicking up sand on the beach, and listening to his grandmother tell stories by the fire. But the drums had never left him. Even in the cold, gray streets of New York, where he had built a life for himself, he had heard them. In his dreams. In the silence between car horns and sirens. A slow, steady rhythm that seemed to pulse inside his chest. Boom-boom... Boom-boom-boom… And now, he was back. His car rumbled down the winding road toward Scotts Head, his headlights carving through the darkness. The village was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of lantern light from the wooden houses or the distant hum of a boat engine far out at sea. Then, as he approached the cliffs, the drums began. Louder than before. Boom-boom... Boom-boom-boom… Marcus gripped the steering wheel, his pulse quickening. He parked near the edge of the peninsula and stepped out. The air was thick with the scent of salt and rain, and a warm breeze carried whispers through the trees. He wasn’t alone. A figure stood in the shadows. She was old but strong, her face lined with years of wisdom and hardship. Her long shawl was embroidered with strange symbols, and she carried a wooden staff that looked as though it had seen centuries pass. "Ama Josette," Marcus murmured. He remembered her from his childhood—the village storyteller, the keeper of secrets. She studied him with dark, knowing eyes. "You hear them, don’t you?" Marcus hesitated, then nodded. Ama Josette stepped forward, her voice low. "You are Dupont’s grandson. Your people carry the blood of the maroons… those who ran, those who fought, those who died. And now you return—called by the Jumbie Drums." "My grandmother warned me about them," Marcus said. "She was right to." The old woman’s gaze flickered toward the darkness beyond the cliffs. "Long ago, the enslaved who escaped into the mountains made a pact with the Kalinago. They would fight together against the colonizers, side by side. But one among them was a traitor. He led the soldiers to their hideout." She pointed toward the jagged rocks below. "Many died here. The Kalinago, the maroons, slaughtered. Their spirits beat the drums so we do not forget. So we do not rest until justice is done." Marcus swallowed hard. "Justice?" Ama Josette’s expression was grim. "We must find the traitor’s bones… and give them to the sea." Marcus gathered a small crew the next morning. His childhood friend Damien, who now worked as a fisherman. Dr. Eliana Roque, an archaeologist from the Dominican Republic, fascinated by the island’s hidden past. And two reluctant villagers who had agreed to help—for a price. The cliffs at Scotts Head were steep, treacherous. The waves crashed hungrily below as they climbed down to a narrow ledge, where Ama Josette had said the traitor had been buried. They dug. For hours, under the scorching Caribbean sun, their shovels scraped against the dirt. Then—clunk. Damien knelt, brushing the soil away with careful hands. A skull. A rusted shackle. A broken dagger. "Sweet Jesus," whispered one of the fishermen. Eliana examined the remains. "This matches the time period. The shackle suggests he was once enslaved, but this dagger…" She ran her fingers over the blade. "It’s European. Military issue." Marcus exhaled. The traitor. That was when the wind changed. The air grew heavy. The sky darkened. And then—the drums. Louder than before. Faster. The fishermen panicked, scrambling back up the rocks, but Marcus stood frozen. His chest tightened, his breath short. The voices came next. Low whispers. Ancient tongues. Kalinago. African. A language of grief and rage. Then—movement. The trees swayed violently though there was no wind. The ocean below churned, waves crashing against the rocks with unnatural fury. "Marcus!" Eliana grabbed his arm. "We have to go!" "The bones," Marcus choked out. "We have to—" A gust of wind slammed into them, nearly knocking them off their feet. The drums pounded louder. Boom-boom-boom! Marcus snatched up the skull. With shaking hands, he carried it to the cliff’s edge. He looked at Ama Josette. "Now?" She nodded. "Now." He hurled the bones into the sea. The moment the bones hit the water, the drumming stopped. The wind stilled. The sky cleared. For the first time in centuries, there was silence. The ocean, once violent, lapped gently at the shore. It was over. Days later, Marcus sat by his grandmother’s grave, the sun warm on his skin. Ama Josette found him there, setting down a small, carved drum beside him. "A gift," she said. Marcus traced his fingers over the wood. "What for?" "Not all spirits are vengeful," she murmured. "Some simply wait… for someone to listen." He looked out toward the cliffs, where the sea stretched endlessly toward the horizon. And for the first time in a long, long time—he felt at peace.The Call of the Drums
The Keeper of Stories
The Dig
The Spirits Awaken
Boom-boom... Boom-boom-boom…
Silence
Homecoming
The End.
