by Bob Curran
Zombie Law
Just to confuse matters a little further, there was a common assumption that Haitian law had formally forbid the use of zombies as slave labor, and there was a statute to that effect. This led to the common belief that there actually were such creatures, that they were animated corpses, and that they might be used at the behest of someone using black magic. It served to strengthen the belief in the Haitian walking cadavers. In fact, Article 246 of the 1835 Haitian Penal Code (Codigo Penal de Haiti) reads as follows:
It shall be qualified as attempted murder the employment which may be made against any person of substances which, without causing death, produce a lethargic coma or less prolonged. If after administering such substances, the person has been buried, the act shall be considered as murder no matter what result follows.
Although this law is generally and vaguely mentioned by some in order to support the existence of zombies in Haiti, it does not appear to relate to those who have actually died, but rather to those who have been drugged to such an extent that their vital functions have slowed down and they might be considered to be dead. Indeed, some may have been buried only to be “resurrected” later. Following this “resurrection” it is possible that some of those affected may have suffered brain damage from the effects of the drug.
In 1980, a Haitian man, Clairvius Narcisse, who had been dead and buried for 18 years, wandered into a village on the other side of the island from the place where he had been born, seemingly alive. He was recognized by his sister Angelina, who happened to live there, but, in a vague and disaffected state, he failed to recognize her. He had been wandering about Haiti for some time (some accounts state for as long as 16 years). According to the story, he had been given some form of poudre (psychotropic drug) in 1962 by his brothers—one of whom was a prominent voodoo bokor—following a dispute over some land. Two days later he was pronounced dead by two qualified doctors and was identified by his sisters Angelina and Marie-Clare; he was then buried in his home village of L’Estre.
Shortly after he was allegedly “resurrected” as a zombie. Directly after his “resurrection,” Clairvius was sold to another bokor, who allegedly maintained an army of zombie slaves to work on his sugar plantation. However, as the effects of the drug started to wear off, he became more aware of his surroundings and was able to make an escape. However, he had not completely recovered his senses—he would, in fact, never do so—and spent much of his time wandering across the island in a confused state before stumbling into his sister’s village.
Clairvius was examined by some local doctors, who suggested that he had received large amounts of some form of neurotoxin that had kept him in an almost paralyzed and highly suggestible state, which, at time, looked like death. His story was a rather incoherent one: He had been “raised from the grave” by his brother and sold onto the bokor who had regularly given him some “magical potion” in his food. When the bokor had died, Clairvius had regained a partial control of his senses and had made his escape. There seemed to be little doubt that he had been given some form of voodoo poudre, which had produced these effects and had apparently turned him into one of the “walking dead.” Just what he had been given became a matter of great speculation.
Zombie Poisons
In the 1960s, it was assumed that “zombification” could be brought about by using the skin and internal organs of the puffer fish—considered to be the second most deadly creature on earth. Certain organs of the fish (also known as fugu in Japan and Asia) were deemed to secrete a toxin that could cause paralysis and death in humans; this was believed to be the main constituent of the zombie poudre, also known as “resurrection powder.” However, in the 1980s and 1990s such a hypothesis was changed, and it was assumed that he had been poisoned with datura stramonium or jimson weed, a plant of the nightshade family, also known as the zombie cucumber. The plant generates scopolamine, a tropane alkaloid drug that is sometimes used in African medicines, but can also have disastrous, if not fatal, side effects. Concoctions incorporating small amounts of this substance are to be found in a number of rituals in West African folk tradition, which are said to induce death-like trances in which visions may occur. If ingested in large quantities it was suggested that it produced a paralysis that could be mistaken for death. The effects of datura have sometimes been described as “a living dream” in which the subject is awake, but is totally unconnected to the immediate world—an attitude that suggests the popular image of the zombie.
In the early 1980s, this led to the first “serious” book into zombie poisons, based around the then celebrated case of Clairvius Narcisse. This was The Serpent and the Rainbow published in 1985 by Canadian ethnographer Wade Davis. It would be made into a rather sensationalist, but critically acclaimed film in 1988, directed by the celebrated Wes Craven. The book was an attempt to discover some sort of “medicine” that might produce the walking dead of Haiti. Davies had surmised that Clairvius Narcisse had been “zombified” and turned into a “walking dead man” through the administration of datura. He had also assumed that there was an antidote to the effects of the toxin that could be produced by a derivative of the Calabar bean. (This turned out to be inaccurate.)
Although Davis’s work contained merit in that it served to set the idea of the walking Haitian dead within some form of rational context, the work was ruined by his sensationalistic and rather overblown self-indulgent style. He tried to portray himself as a latter-day Indiana Jones—flying aircraft, and dealing with cannibals and headhunters in an attempt to find “secret mysteries,” which had been previously denied to white men. In many respects, the book reads similar to an adventure tale, which is why it proved so attractive to filmmakers. And some of Davis’s methods and evidence have been subsequently called into question by other academics. His work goes a little way to examining the zombie phenomenon, but, in the end, the creature still remains largely a mystery.
Do the Zombies Really Exist?
So, does the zombie actually exist? Is it truly the body of a dead individual, resurrected through some supernatural (or other) means? Despite the assertions of Wade Davis and others, many in the West still appear to think so. Certainly there have been many mysterious stories concerning the “walking dead” that have emerged out of Haiti and the Caribbean, and these have fed into the popular horror culture of writers and moviemakers. However, some of the “scientific mood” seems to have modified at least some of the plotlines. Where previously the zombies had been created by voodoo magic, other reasons are now being found for their existence, and as speculation with regard to germ warfare and biogenic weapons increases, the main origin for the “walking dead” now tends to be some form of unknown disease. The idea of some form of viral plague, killing people and then making them rise as zombies, is more in tune with the scientific mind of the late 20th century and has taken a firm grip on the popular imagination, pushing the bokors, mambos, and other practitioners of voodoo a little further into the background. Even so, the image of the zombie victim has remained pretty much the same: the vacant stare, the shambling gait, perhaps even with a taste for living human flesh. This is indeed the vision of the walking dead from zombie lore.
The idea of the zombie, then, carries on the terrifying tradition of the walking dead. It has reinforced the idea of the violent and malignant shambling form that appears in some other cultures—in the image, for example, of the Scandinavian draugr. The walking dead are, in many respects, viewed as hostile, malignant, and susceptible to those who would use them for evil purposes. This has been one of the supposed central tenets of voodoo. But is this perception universally held? Are there cultures in which a slightly different perspective might be held? It is to this question that we now turn.
4
The Living Dead
It has been already noted that, for many ancient peoples, physical death was not always perceived as the absolute end. In some cases, it was merely viewed as a transitionary phase, for, when life ceased on this mora
l level, it continued elsewhere, sometimes much as it had in this world, nor was it always the end of their involvement in the affairs of the living. Indeed, in some cases, the dead could actually observe what was going on from their vantage point beyond death and decide to take action in order to bring about a desired outcome. And of course, they could also be contacted by the living through priests and shamans, and called on for help or support.
The psychological impetus behind such beliefs is, of course, perfectly understandable. Many of us have those we value greatly and to whom we may look for assistance and support. Similarly there are those within the community to whom we might look and count on to “get things done,” and upon whom we (and the community) become dependent. If such an individual is removed—say through death—we may feel a sense of loss or helplessness. Also if the individual concerned had a particularly strong personality or was something of a “character,” then his or her loss is felt even more.
Individuals and/or communities might deal with this sense of loss in several ways. They may seek to “bring the individual back” through what might be described as “a sense of being”—the spiritus of medieval thinking. For example, some people may walk into a room or visit a spot strongly associated with a dead person and still feel his or her presence there. They may see nothing, but still have a sense of the person who is now dead. This feeling, in fact, forms the basis of many ghost stories. However, while feeling the presence of the departed was all very well, many people also wished to actually see a physical representation of the individual concerned. Therefore, some claimed to be able to view the spiritus of the dead as it passed through the world. Yet, for some, this was still not enough. They wished to see their ancestors in a corporeal state—the corpus of medieval lore—whether that be through possession of a living person or as a cadaver actually rising from its grave. This gave communities a reassurance that their protectors and sages had not forgotten about them and might still be physically involved in their affairs, just as they had been when alive.
In fact, some ancient cultures may very well have put the cadavers of their prominent deceased—their great heroes or wise people—on display for easy access and interaction. It has, for instance, been suggested that this was a facet of the Neolithic Bronze Age Windmill Hill culture in Wiltshire, England. Although not archeologically proven, there is a tradition that the dwellers in the hill forts of the area placed their dead in great earthen mounds, built around wooden structures where the dead could either sit or lie while “keeping an eye” on the settlement. While excavating the area in the 1920s (the site had been identified as Neolithic more than 60 years before), archaeologists found traces of an enclosure that may have been accessed by a type of causeway in which bodies might have been housed. This would keep the dead close at hand and perhaps invest them with some form of “communal life” along with their descendants. They could be consulted and, perhaps in times of community crisis—such as an attack—it was believed that they could rise up and defend the settlement. Archaeologists such as Mr. and Mrs. B.H. Cunnington, excavating in the areas later in the 1920s, had found similar enclosures on nearby Knapp Hill, which might suggest that the belief in the nearness of ancestors was quite widespread in the region. Perhaps these early people also believed that their admired ancestors could imbue the living with some of their inherent powers and attributes.
Celtic Beliefs
The ancient Celts certainly believed in this. For them, the dead were not all that far away, and great men (and women) always kept a protective eye over their people, standing ready to help if need be. This they did by projecting some of their attributes into those who came to consult them. This was usually done through what was known as a “head well.”
For the Celts, the essence of a person lay not in his or her heart (as was later assumed—today we sometimes speak of someone “having a great heart”) but in the head. Consequently, the elements that made a person great, mighty, or wise lay in the head. But could such attributes—or indeed some of the personality of the individual—be passed on in some way? If they could the dead might gain some new form of partial life albeit in another body. Thus the head of the great person was placed at a well where people came to drink or to take home water, in the hope that the personality might be transferred into the community or to a specific individual who drank there, and thus the deceased might gain life once more. His or her strength or wisdom might be passed on from generation to generation in this manner. As the water poured over or swirled around the head or the skull of the dead, his or her personality waited for someone to come along and drink, so that it might enjoy life once more.
Celtic Head of the Dead
Crossroads
The gathering of the dead also occurs at crossroads. Of course, the idea of crossroads being linked with the supernatural and with supernatural entities is not exclusive to Polish or East European folklore. Many cultures—particularly Celtic culture—feature the crossroads in their mythologies as a place where fairies, ghosts, and the corporeal dead gather, sometimes to do harm to travelers and to passersby. Perhaps it is the symbol of the crossed roads that gives them this rather sinister and questionable reputation—one road leading to the world of the living and one road leading to the Afterlife. Indeed, in some folktales, crossroads form the boundary between this world and the one which is to follow. In places such as England, Brittany, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, they are places to be avoided after dark for fear of encountering the dead.
As has been already noted Celtic lore is also full of tales of the corporeal dead. In Ireland, these were the marbh bheo—the night-walking dead. In many cases, these revenants were harmless and simply traveled the roads in a rather aimless fashion. Some did, however, return to their former homes, usually after their families had gone to sleep.
Ancestor Worship
This was the case of many other ancestors who watched from the Afterlife, seeking out some way that they might return to and interact in the world of the living. And the living were often aware of the interest in their affairs by the denizens of the world of the dead. Indeed sometimes they welcomed it and paid homage to those that had gone before them. This was known as “ancestor worship”—venerating ancestors in the hope that they might return or that they might perform some physical and beneficial task in the mortal world.
Today, ancestor worship is not universal, even among the less well-developed societies. The anthropological thinking of the later 19th century—Edward B. Tylor, Herbert Spencer, and Frank Jevons—deemed such beliefs as “primitive” methods of dealing with the unseen and honoring cultural traditions that were passed down through the generations. But deep beneath the scientific explanations, the fear of the dead still remained—a facet that anthropologists now acknowledge. Ancient ancestor worship was an ambivalent belief. We have already noted how ancient peoples looked to the dead for guidance and protection—however, they also feared the return of the dead. The dead might destroy, murder, or spread disease if they had a mind to, and in many such cultures they were extremely unpredictable. At least part of the function of ancestor worship, therefore, concerned the placating of the dead and preventing them from doing harm to the living. This might take the form of festivals in which the returned dead could take part; this participation was usually believed to be in corporal form. Sometimes it was through spirit possession, and sometimes the actual cadavers themselves were supposed to interact with the living.
In a number of instances throughout Christian lands, such a return of the dead was also sanctioned by the Church, which had found itself caught in a rather awkward position: Although it disapproved of the Pagan elements of such worship, to deny it was also to deny the possibility of the Afterlife. It was better, therefore, to announce a feast day or festival on which the dead might return, which the church could control to some extent. These feasts and festivals also underscored the belief in immortality of the spirit, which was essential to the Christian message; this was similarly
incorporated into the beliefs of a number of other religions, such as Islam, though not perhaps to the same extent.
Dead Festivals
Such a festival of participation between the living and the dead may well have been the origins of the celebrated Day of the Dead—El Día de los Muertos—which takes place in Mexico on the first days of November (the old European festival of Halloween). Although it is said to be a Christian festival, based around All Soul’s Night and All Saints Day (October 31st and November 1st, and often extending into November 2nd); its roots may be more Pagan and may stretch back into Mesoamerican times. Some anthropologists have argued that it was centered on the festival of Mictecacihuati, which was celebrated in various forms and under various names by the ancient Olmec, Mixtec, and Tarascan peoples. Mictecacihuati was the wife of Miclantecuhtli—a dead god who ruled over Mictlan a kind of Aztec Afterlife that was supposed to lie somewhere in the north.
From here they might watch the events that went on in their own communities, but might not really intervene in them. However, on one day—the feast day of Mictecacihuati—they were allowed to enter the world of the living and participate in the festivities. Mictecacihuati herself presided over these revels and was named the Lady of Death or the Lady of the Bones. She had the power to bring cadavers back to life and animate them for a day, at the end of which her power waned and the dead returned to their graves. In some cases, she is known as Santa Muerte—St. Death—and is portrayed as a kind of Grim Reaper with an hourglass and a scythe, although the Christian church has always disputed the name and the image.
