Long before the arrival of white men with their iron tools and their hunger for gold, the islands of the Caribbean belonged to the great forces of nature and the spirits that moved unseen through the land and sea. The people of the Antilles lived in harmony with these spirits, honouring the waters, the forests, and the sky. But there came a time when the balance was broken, and the ocean itself was unleashed from its bounds.
On an island that would one day be called Hispaniola, there ruled a powerful cacique named Guayacán. He was a man of wisdom and strength, beloved by his people, but troubled by a great sorrow. His eldest son, Yarael, had grown reckless and bold, challenging his father’s authority, speaking of power that should belong to the young, not the old. One night, overcome by rage and fear, Guayacán struck down his own son.
Regret filled the chief’s heart the moment Yarael’s breath left him. The father who had taken life now sought to preserve what was left. He cleaned the bones of his child with care and placed them within a hollowed-out gourd, a vessel once used to store fresh water from the rivers. He and his wife kept the gourd hidden away, and often, when the grief became too great, they would open it to gaze upon what remained of their lost son.