by Morgana Best
I didn’t like people keeping from secrets me at the best of times, and this was quite a stretch. Sleep did not come easily that night.
I woke up after sleeping in, yawned and stretched. I'd only had time for a quick shower by the time Jamie knocked on the door.
"Misty, we have to talk."
I looked shamefaced. "Sorry, come in." I stood aside to let him past me. "I'm sorry I was so shocked to see you last night. I didn’t mean you should've left straight away."
Jamie frowned. "I thought it better to come back in the morning. You looked you needed a good sleep. Here, drink this."
I took the coffee and thanked him profusely. "Please have a seat. Aren't you tired?"
Jamie shook his head. "No, I slept on the plane."
"How did you get here so fast?"
Jamie tipped his head to one side. "Fast?"
I interrupted. "I thought you'd left England after I'd been poisoned."
Jamie sipped his coffee before answering. "No, I was on a case that came to an abrupt end and I hopped on the first plane."
I nodded. My psychic lie detectors were going off. I wondered if the government had a really fast plane that Jamie had caught. Still they wouldn't waste it on giving it to one of their agents to help the Keeper of a society that they worked with - or would they? Given the length of time it would take to drive from the International Terminal at Mascot in Sydney, it would have taken him only around ten hours to fly from London which is less than half what it would normally take, and that's not even taking into consideration the length of time it would have taken him to get from wherever he was to Heathrow.
Then it hit me - he most likely had not have been flying from London. I had no idea where his case had been; it could have been anywhere in the world.
"How much has Alfred told you?"
"Alfred?" Jamie appeared thrown by my comment. "Oh, Alfred. I know that you had two close calls with a car and a heavy vehicle, and then the poisoning. You seemed to have recovered fully from that. Now tell me what happened, right from the beginning."
I held up my hand. "First, would you please explain why you're here? Why is your organization so interested in me? I know you said my Aunt had close associations with your organization from time to time, and I know I replaced her as Keeper of her society after she was murdered, but why the interest in me?"
Jamie shifted position and looked awkward. "I'm sorry, Misty; I can’t tell you, to be quite blunt."
I was growing frustrated. "Why not?"
Jamie shook his head. "Sorry, I just can't. But know that it's in our interests to protect you. Now, please tell me what happened to you."
I frowned and wondered if I should push the matter, but at the same time, I knew I wouldn't get anywhere if I did. I let out a long sigh of resignation, and filled in Jamie on the events of the past week. He sat there, murmuring surprise at intervals. "Was it you who sent me those texts from a Blocked Sender?" I concluded.
Now that got his interest. "No, what did they say? You had more than one?"
"Yes, I think I had three all up. They all just said one word. Hang on; they're still on my phone."
I retrieved my iPhone and turned it back on. I usually turn it off at nights in case my mother calls in the middle of the night. I showed Jamie the screen.
"Govi."
I nodded. "Yes, I figured it was a wrong number, but I didn't know that Blocked Senders would send texts." I paused, but Jamie did not respond. I pressed on. "It wasn't you or, err, your people?"
Jamie shrugged. "If it was, they said nothing to me. What about your Society? Have they been in touch, apart from the letter?"
I jumped to my feet. "How did you know about the letter?" I blurted, somewhat unwisely.
Jamie did not respond; again, he just looked at me. I wavered under his gaze and decided I’d have to let the matter drop. He clearly wasn't going to tell me. "No, not a peep out of them, like I said. Does it mean anything to you?"
Jamie finished the last of his coffee. "Yes, but it's a strange word to text someone."
"What does it mean? What's a govi?"
"A govi is like a pots-de-tete."
"Oh, great, of course, why didn't I think of that?"
Jamie raised his eyebrows. "Sarcasm, Misty, sarcasm. If you go to Haiti you'll see govi and pots-de-tetes at any Botanica. Oh, you probably already know, but a Botanica is a store that sells folk medicine, religious items, candles, magical supplies and the like, herbs too."
I nodded, and he continued. "A govi is basically a jar with a lid. They're used heavily in Voudou. In temples you'll see them bound with white or black fabric and a lot of cord. I'm guessing here, but I think that the main use of govi is housing spirits."
Now I was even more puzzled. "Why would anyone text me that word?"
Jamie shrugged.
"Hang on, did you say Haitian voudou?"
Jamie just nodded. Perhaps he was tired after all.
"I have the phone number of a houngan, a voudou priest, who lives in New York State. I interviewed him a while back and he was very helpful. I'll just check and see what time it is there in the USA."
I opened my Favorites to World Clocks and found it was afternoon, quite a respectable time. I called Chris, but he didn't answer so I left a message.
Just then I heard a ghastly noise. I turned around, only to see Jamie had fallen asleep and was snoring. Diva was purring around his legs, but then she jumped onto his lap and kneaded his stomach. He did not wake up. Laughing softly, I searched "govi voudou." The very first entry said, "Govi is the name given to jars which contain the spirit essence of deceased members of the family. Govi are kept on an altar."
The second entry likewise was helpful. It said, "Govi are used to create pwen, to house Lwa, to feed Lwa, to do wanga, and various other sorts of things." I knew that wanga referred to a magical work, but I had to look up the meaning of pwen. It was troublesome to pinpoint. It appeared to be a power object or a point of magical focus.
I still wasn't too sure what pwen meant when I stumbled across a reference to trapping spirits in bottles of holy water. That in turn led me to a news article with the intriguing title, "Captured and Bottled 'Ghosts' Being Sold Online." The top of the webpage offered that the story was posted by YBMW Staff on March 4th, 2010.
A pair of "ghosts" which were exorcised from a New Zealand house and captured in bottles have gone on the auction floor. According to the seller, his house had been haunted for several years until an exorcist from a spiritual church visited and performed an exorcism.
The ghosts were exorcised and placed in blue "holy water" putting them to sleep and trapping them inside the glass vials. "They are bottled with holy water as apparently the water dulls the spirits energy, sort of puts them to sleep. To revive the spirit, I have been told that you pour into a little dish and let it evaporate into your house."
Since the exorcism, the seller claims to not have been having any paranormal activities. "We have had no activity since they were bottled on July 15th 2009. So I believe they are in the bottles."
"I just want to get rid of them as they scare me. But someone might like these to play with." It is claimed one of the spirits is a man named Les Graham who died in the house in the 1920s while the other is that of a little girl."
Sure that was more than a little weird, but now I was getting somewhere. Was the mysterious Blocked Sender trying to tell me that someone's spirit was trapped inside a bottle or jar? Jamie snored more loudly which made me jump, and I suppressed a giggle. Just then my houngan contact called me back.
I explained about the Blocked Sender's text and asked if someone's spirit could be trapped inside a jar.
Chris didn't think the question was strange. "Yes, someone's spirit can be trapped for a while but not for all eternity. That's because it only works while the operator is alive and able to work the pot which has the spirit chained inside it. Usually the operator does this to control the entity to let it out to do their bidding,
and this is usually for evil works. I can only speak from my own tradition, but in my tradition the spirit has to agree to this. I take it you are asking about a spirit being locked up against its will?"
"I'm not too sure actually, but one of the ghost tour guides in the village said he speaks to a spirit who was falsely accused. I've spoken to the descendant of the man who falsely accused the spirit, and he collects Yoruba art. I know it's not much to go on, but I feel that this spirit has to be tied in somehow to these mysterious texts that say 'govi.'"
There was silence for a while, and then Chris spoke again. "Hmm, I don't know if I can be much help. If someone imprisons a spirit to work evil, he will be in trouble with his ancestors. In Palo and in the root Kongo traditions, people can make a pot for negative works, but it's not safe for them, and they will be punished by their Kanda."
"What's a Kanda?"
"Ancestral community. The Kalunga wouldn't be happy about it either." Before I could ask, he added, "In simple terms, the Kalunga is the vast sea of the dead. If people make a bad pot, the spirit will want the opportunity to do bad things. The ancestors won't be happy about this."
I tried to think it all through. "If someone falsely accused a man, would that have anything to do with a govi?"
"I can't see how; you'd need more information. Is there anyone you could go and see?"
I sighed loudly. "I don't know anyone. I'm in Australia; it's not exactly the world hub of hoodoo voodoo or of Haitian Voudou."
"Just give me a minute."
I waited about three minutes, but luckily for me, Chris was the one paying for the international call.
His voice came back. "Are you anywhere near Armidale in New South Wales?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, and I did my degree there."
"At the University of New England there's a man who could possibly help you, but I could be sending you on a wild goose chase. Professor Bill Dolan. He's not a practitioner, not as far as I know, but he's an ancient historian and his research field is religious artifacts. They have a quite a good museum there in the School of Humanities. He could be helpful. I'm afraid I can't think of anything else that could help."
I thanked Chris and offered apologies that he was paying for the call, but he assured me he was on a good plan. Jamie had snored throughout the entire conversation, and I had made no progress on solving the murder of Baxter Morgan.
"Before a cat will condescend
To treat you as a trusted friend,
Some little token of esteem
Is needed, like a dish of cream."
(T.S. Eliot)
Chapter Sixteen.
I pulled into the car park at Heatherbrae McDonald's for a bathroom and coffee stop. At McCafe I ordered and paid for my long black with a double shot of caramel and Jamie's usual English Breakfast tea with two sugars, then headed to the bathroom. The drinks were awaiting me upon my return. I took them back to the car where Jamie was asleep. The jet lag appeared to have hit him hard.
I had been a student at the University of New England in the country town of Armidale, known to some visitors as Farmidale. Armidale was technically a city due to the requisite number of cathedrals, but had a population of only around twenty five thousand. Unsuspecting people heading north to Armidale would drive the long route along the New England Highway, via Muswellbrook, Scone, and Tamworth (each of which had a Maccas), but the route over the mountain cut off a good two hours. The catch was that it was over a mountain, a whopping big, steep mountain, and had miles and miles of winding roads. It was very picturesque, but along this route, Heatherbrae was the last Maccas until Armidale from which it was about a four hour drive. There was however good coffee along the way at Stroud, Gloucester, and Barrington, and even at Walcha and Uralla. I knew this road well.
Jamie stirred, said, "Are we there yet?" and then went back to sleep. I was wedged between two logging trucks going up the mountain. Often logging trucks pull over to let traffic past, but this one didn't, and there was no opportunity to overtake given the narrow roads and the rapidly descending mist.
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 that I had 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, 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 which 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 may 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 in the object to accomplish mystically certain things 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 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?"
