by Morgana Best
By the time we reached Armidale, Jamie was wide awake and in fact had driven from the top of the mountain to Uralla. I swapped back to being driver again at Uralla, as I felt it less taxing to drive than to give directions. I knew my way to the University of New England and took the short cut past the golf course and up Elm Avenue, along the drive flanked by—you guessed it—elm trees. European culture is young in Australia, just over two hundred years old, and these elm trees were ancient in the scheme of things. At the top of the road I took a right, then a left, and wound my way up to the car parks, parking in the first visitors’ section at the bottom of the Faculty of Arts building. I grumbled about having to insert two dollars in the machine for the privilege of parking there. When I was a student, parking had been free.
The Faculty of Arts building was a large gray concrete affair, and it was fortunate that I knew how to navigate the rabbit’s warren of rooms and lecture theaters.
Professor Dolan’s door was open. I knocked and he gestured us in from his position behind his desk. The small room was much like any other in the Faculty of Arts, with a wall of bookshelves on the right of the door, a Mac on the desk ahead with the standard issue Occupational Health and Safety chair, white-painted rendered concrete walls and a narrow floor to ceiling window with an outlook over lawns and native Australian shrubs. Most academics’ rooms are cluttered, and Dolan’s room was no exception.
Professor Dolan stood up, smiling, and introduced himself. Jamie and I followed suit and I thanked him for seeing us on such short notice. He was tall, a little stooped and thin, and red-faced. He reminded me of a professor I’d had as a student, a professor whose lectures were so boring that my fellow students and I used to joke that he had read the same lecture for centuries, and kept it preserved between plates of glass so it wouldn’t disintegrate from age.
“You are interested in jars that are said to contain human spirits?” Dolan came straight to the point.
I also came straight to the point, wriggling on the uncomfortable chair. “Yes. I’m particularly interested in govi, but any information about jars that contain human spirits would be very helpful.”
Dolan rubbed his hands together. “Of course, zombi bottles immediately spring to mind.”
Jamie and I looked at each other. I thought of The Walking Dead, and then of Shaun of the Dead and Simon Pegg.
Dolan continued. “Just a sec. I set aside some information for you.” He flashed me the cover of a large book. I had a fleeting glimpse of a hand, and at the top, the word ‘Vodou’ in white against a black background. The professor started to read, but I forestalled him.
“Sorry. Could you give me the name of the book please?”
“Certainly. It’s Sacred Arts of Haitian Vodou and the editor is Donald J. Cosentino. That’s v, o, d, o, u, and Cosentino is c, o, s, e, n for November, t, i, n for November, o. 1995.”
I held up my hand to prevent him telling me the publisher and spelling it, too. “I won’t need the publisher.”
“Sure. The chapter is by Elizabeth-with-a-z McAlister-that’s-M-c, and is entitled, A Sorcerer’s Bottle: The Visual Art of Magic in Haiti.”
Thankfully no words in the title were spelled out for me. The professor held up the book to show me a beautiful color print. “Do you know what that is?”
I peered at it. “I have no idea of the spiritual significance. I can see it’s a bottle with two scissors tied to it.”
“It’s a bottle with a spirit inside it, made by a Haitian bokor. That’s who you might describe in layperson’s terms as a sorcerer.” Professor Dolan almost sounded triumphant. “This is nkisi, n for November, k, i, s, i. The plural is minkisi, m for Mike, i, n for November, k, i, s, i.” I took notes. He coughed, and then continued. “The nkisi contains a spirit which is constructed and controlled by humans, and usually the spirit is taken from one of the dead.”
Jamie spoke. “Do you mean that a nkisi could contain the spirit of a person who has died?”
Dolan nodded, and picked up another book. “I’ll explain what Thompson and Cornett have to say. They say that a nkisi is believed to live with an inner life of its own. The basis of that life was a captured soul. They also say that the owner of the charm could direct the spirit into the object to accomplish certain things mystically for him, either to enhance his luck or to sharpen his business sense. That’s R. F. Thompson, t, h, o, m for Mike, p, s, o, n for November and J. Cornett, c, o, r, n for November, e, t, t, Four Moments of the Sun, Smithsonian Institution Press.” Dolan paused and looked up at me.
I shook my head. “I don’t need the publisher.” I wondered why he hadn’t given the NATO Phonetic Alphabet for all the letters, but I was certainly glad he hadn’t.
He nodded, and added, “1981, page 37. Now, this article by Elizabeth-with-a-z McAlister-that’s-M-c, she’s a Yale scholar by the way, details a nkisi that she was given. She interviewed the bokor who gave it to her, and he told her that there were two zombi inside the bottle. He said they had died, and were now zombi in the bottle and were working for him. See for yourself.”
Dolan held the book in front of me and tapped his finger on the paragraph. “Her understanding was that the zombi are trapped between death and the other side, literally trapped within the bottle. She says that zombi is part of the soul that is stolen and made to work.”
I was suffering from a bit of information overload, so tried to clarify. “Is a govi just another word for a nkisi, just from a different culture, a different spiritual tradition?”
The professor shrugged and then looked at me intently. “I suppose you could say that, but only in the context of containing spirits. Do you know the difference between the ti bon ange and the gros bon ange?”
“No, I haven’t even heard those terms before.” I hoped like crazy that he wouldn’t spell them.
Jamie interrupted. “Isn’t that something to do with the belief that a human being has one body but two spirits?”
“Yes, exactly. I suppose you could say that the ti bon ange is like our understanding of the conscience. On the other hand, the gros bon ange is like our understanding of the soul, only in a way more separate and distinct. Are you familiar with the Western theories of personhood or the soul?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Not really, but I have read Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura in Latin and I studied Plato’s Theory of Forms when I was here as a student.”
Professor Dolan beamed. “That’s wonderful.”
I waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I asked, “Are those theories of any help in understanding govi?”
“Not at all. The belief is that when a person dies, the gros bon ange goes to the underwater place. After they have been in the underwater place for one year and one day, his or her relatives can recall the gros bon ange and send them on to rest. This isn’t easy to do, as it is expensive and often requires an animal sacrifice. My understanding is that the pots-de-tete is a vessel used to hold the gros bon ange and the govi is used to hold the ti bon ange. This is not my field, so you had better check with someone who knows.”
I was kicking myself for not asking Chris, but thought I had it figured now. “Ah, so a govi houses the spirit of someone who died and was recalled by that person’s relatives, but with a nkisi, it is anyone who died, and their spirit is trapped by someone who doesn’t have to be a relative.”
Dolan regarded me pityingly, and then spoke more slowly. “No, that’s not it at all. The spirit within the nkisi is someone who was killed by black magick, before their time. If someone is killed by black magick, they are a potential zombi. Did I mention a govi is a small earthenware bottle with a lid? That’s another difference, but the main difference is that the govi are not generally used to trap spirits against their will. At least, not as far as I know, but I’m not a practitioner and many of these matters are only known to initiates. Devil traps and witch bottles are more in my field of research.”
I opened my mouth to speak but the professor hurried on. �
�One thing I am fairly sure of, is that the govi is used to hold the ti bon ange, and it is in fact the ti bon ange which can be captured by a bokor and turned into a zombi, or so the belief goes.”
My head spun with information overload.
Professor Dolan paused and turned his screen around so Jamie and I could see it. “This is the Proceedings for the Society of Biblical Archeology from 1890. It’s only photographs of the journal, so it’s hard to see. Can you make it out?”
I squinted at the page, adjusted my reading glasses, and nodded.
“It mentions a so-called ‘Babylonian Devil Trap,’ a clay dish used to protect the user against Lilith and other hostile night spirits,” the professor said. “Hebrew inscriptions were written around the bowl. This is nothing to do with containing spirits in a jar or bowl, but I’m digressing somewhat. However, in my view, it’s significant that many cultures across the ages have associated spirits with bottles and jars. You have the blue bottle trees in some parts of Africa and in both Haitian and New Orleans voodoo. You should google the images of blue bottle trees at some point as they can be quite beautiful. They’re believed to trap evil spirits. You know about witches’ bottles?”
I nodded. I didn’t confess that I had two buried in my yard. Lilith rang a bell, too. I was sure Gavin had mentioned her to me.
“Archaeologists have dug up these in significant numbers. They’re invariably filled with sharp objects, such as pins, nails, broken glass, and often urine. You studied Classics here?”
I nodded again.
“You might be interested to know that there is Roman and ancient Greek precedence for trapping spirits in a similar way to a zombi bottle. Do you know what ‘sit tibi terra levis’ means?”
I wrote it down, and figured it out, more or less—mostly less. “Something about the ground sitting briefly on someone?” I said hopefully.
Dolan was visibly disgusted by my effort. “It means ‘May the ground press lightly on you.’ It was such a common writing on Roman tombs that it was simply abbreviated as ‘STTL.’ That was a reference to spirits being able to get out of the grave. They believed that if the ground pressed too heavily on a grave, the spirit would be trapped in the grave. A famous example is from Quintilian’s Tenth Declamation.” The professor turned to Jamie and added, “That’s a literary genre, a speech.”
It was Jamie’s turn to look blank and nod.
Dolan continued. “Quintilian’s Tenth Declamation tells of a mother who had a vision of her dead son on the night of his funeral. When she told her husband, he became alarmed, and sent for a sorcerer. The mother was unaware of this. The sorcerer visited the grave and spoke binding words, and finally threw himself on the grave saying more spells, reducing the boy’s spirit to a mere shade. The sorcerer then said that his words weren’t enough, and ordered the grave bound with iron as well as stone. The wife found out and brought a lawsuit for cruelty against her husband. The speech ends with an appeal to the sorcerer to release the boy’s spirit. I have the quote ready for you, here. ‘You are able to summon the spirits that serve you and to act as their pitiless, cruel jailer. Listen to a mother’s prayers and let them soften your heart.’ My translation, of course.”
I nodded. “Of course. So even back in Roman times, it was believed that sorcerers were able to trap spirits?”
The professor nodded fiercely and for a long time. “Precisely. And what’s even more interesting, the spirits of those who died an untimely death were the very ones invoked. We have a whole bunch of inscriptions where such spirits were given certain instructions and ordered to carry them out. I can email you a list of them if you’d like?”
“Thanks, but it probably won’t be necessary. I just want to…”
Dolan cut me off. “Here’s one where the spirit of a dead man was summoned. Misty, write down the reference, ‘ZPE 14.’ It’s a wooden tablet dating to the forth century. A man summons the spirit of a dead man and tells him to avenge himself on someone who has robbed his tomb. He says that Osiris will listen to him because he has died ‘untimely’. In fact, the papyri provide us with much evidence that those who died by violence were believed to be especially open to spells and to have special powers to do harm. The distinction between those who have died by the hand of humans and those who have died by the hand of God persists in many different cultures over the history of humankind.”
The professor drew a deep breath, and then continued. “There is one papyrus I must tell you about, as it involves a wax doll. This is my translation of this section of Papyrus 574 of the Bibliotheque Nationale.
“‘Take wax from a potter’s wheel and make two small figures, one male and one female. Having done that, take a flat piece of lead and write the spell on it. Having bound the leaf of lead to the figures with a thread from the loom, make three hundred and sixty five knots, and say, “Abrasax, prevail!” Do this when the sun is setting near the tomb of one who has died untimely, or by violence. Then put flowers of the season beside it. The spell is written in the following manner, “I entrust this magic binding to you, gods of the world below, Nesemigadon and Koure Persephone, Hermes Katachthonios, and Anoubis the powerful, to him who has the keys of the regions of Hades, to the spirits under the earth, and the gods, to youths and maidens who die untimely year by year, month by month, day by day, hour by hour.’”
He smiled before continuing. “There’s more to the spell, but I can email it to you. The important thing to note is the use of a wax doll with spirits who have died by black magick. Plato speaks about such things in his Laws. I’ll read you a section. The context is poisoning. Plato is saying that some people are poisoned by natural means and others by magical means. I’ll quote.
“‘Different from this is the type which, by means of sorceries, incantations and spells, as they are called, not only convinces those who cause harm that they really can do so, but also convinces their victims that they are surely being harmed by those who have the power of sorcery. It is not easy to ascertain the actual truth of such matters, and if one does ascertain it, it is not easy to convince others. It is pointless to approach people who view one another with dark suspicion if they come across images of molded wax at doorways, or at points where three ways meet, or at the tomb of an ancestor, in order to urge them not to take these matters seriously, when we ourselves have no definite opinion about them.’”
Dolan paused, just as Jamie kicked me under the desk and showed me the time on his phone. I looked up, but Dolan appeared not to have noticed.
“Now, let me give you guided tour of the Museum of Antiquities. It’s a wonderful collection, objects such as a plaster shabti, that’s an Egyptian funerary figure, a bronze figure of Vishnu in the Cambodian style, a carved wooden ancestor figure from the Sepik region of Papua New Guinea, and an aboriginal woomera, that’s a spear thrower, from the Kimberley district in Western Australia. W, o, o, m, e, r, a.”
Jamie spoke firmly. “Another time, perhaps, professor. We’re late for another appointment. Thank you so much for your time. Misty will be in touch by email.” With that, he took me by the elbow and steered me to the door.
I was relieved that we had finally made good our escape from Professor Dolan. We headed to Armidale Maccas on our way home.
“Could they fit any more traffic circles in this city?” Jamie asked.
“Traffic circles? Oh you mean roundabouts or rotaries.” I laughed. “We call them ‘roundabouts’ in Australia. Armidale is known as the city of roundabouts. Only two sets of traffic lights, but countless roundabouts.”
“So what did you think of Dolan? Do you think he was much help?”
“H, e, l, p?”
We both laughed. I took a right turn off Dumaresq Street onto Marsh Street at the Wicklow Hotel. Back when I was a student, it had been called the ‘Pink Pub’. Since then, it had been painted a more visually friendly, creamy yellow color.
“Well, now I know what a govi is,” I said. “I found it fascinating that so many different culture
s for over two thousand years have held beliefs that someone who died an untimely death can be summoned or otherwise used to work magick.”
Jamie still looked a little blank. “Can you connect any of it with Morpeth?”
I shook my head, and took a left into the Maccas car park, narrowly avoiding a car with Queensland license plates that was coming out of the In driveway.
“Let’s look at what we’ve got,” Jamie continued. “Someone has been texting you the word govi. We now know that a govi is a jar that contains a spirit. We also know that someone is trying to kill you. You have four suspects: Scotty, plus the man you suspect pretends to be a ghost on Gavin King’s tours, plus Gavin King himself, plus David Crawley. What else do we know?”
I turned off the engine and processed my thoughts. “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but I don’t feel any ghosts in Morpeth. Since I’ve become the Keeper, I can sense ghosts most places. I felt them all over Maitland when I stayed there. I feel them everywhere I go. It freaked me out at first, but I’m getting used to it now. The thing is, Morpeth is known for its ghosts, but I just can’t feel them there at all. That has to be significant.”
Jamie looked keenly interested. “Do you think someone is doing something to prevent others sensing ghosts?”
I considered the possibility. “Perhaps, I’m not sure.”
“How do we connect what we do know? Is there any way to connect it all, even if it seems far-fetched?”
Epiphany. I do have them sometimes. “What if there are no ghosts? What if someone has got them all and put them in govis?”
“For what purpose?”
“No idea, but that’s the only thing that connects everything we know so far. That makes it the simplest solution. You know, Occam’s Razor and all that. The simplest explanation is often the best.” I was going to quote Occam in Latin, but thought the better of it. If only life could be footnoted.
