Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [80]
“Was the man who returned to the village really the same one who had died years earlier?” I tried not to think about what the zombie must have smelled like after all that time.
“According to various witnesses, he was the same man who had been buried,” she said. “But one obvious reason that folklore all over the world is full of stories of the living dead, the undead, and restless spirits is that a percentage of people over the millennia have been buried alive.”
“Buried alive?” I repeated in horror.
“Oh, yes,” she said casually. “Without modern medical equipment or trained personnel present, someone in a state of coma, hypotension, or deep narcosis may well be considered dead and in need of burial.”
I asked in confusion, “So was Narcisse alive or dead?”
“Alive, obviously,” she said. “Only people mistakenly presumed dead get out of their coffins and walk away, Esther. The actual dead stay put.”
Not quite. Darius Phelps had been pronounced medically dead in New York City in the twenty- first century, and he was still walking around. But I thought my telling that to Dr. Livingston might be sharing a little too much. Especially if I wanted to keep my new job here.
“If Narcisse was alive all that time, why didn’t he go home sooner?” I asked. “How did he wind up enslaved as a zombie for years?”
“He was presumably subjected to powerful hallucinogenic drugs that affected his memory as well as his ability to exercise his own will. Only after the bokor who had enslaved him died, and thereby stopped dosing him with drugs, did Narcisse start recovering his wits and eventually make his way home.”
“What about the other zombies that he mentioned?” I asked. “Did they escape, too, after the bokor died?”
“No one knows.” She spread her hands. “As I said, such cases often remain shrouded in mystery and doubt.”
“What sort of drugs would have such an effect on Narcisse?” I wondered.
“Oh, folk medicine and various ritual practices are full of interesting pharmacology,” she said with enthusiasm. “In addition to nerve toxins derived from animals, there is a rich variety of botanical poisons and hallucinogens. An ethnobotanist could tell you much more about this than I can, of course.”
However, her limitations apparently weren’t going to prevent her from indulging in another monologue. “Calabar beans, which are used in some forms of African witchcraft, cause paralysis while keeping the victim conscious. Without an antidote, a dosage can easily be fatal.” Barely pausing for breath, she continued, “A plant known as datura, which grows in Haiti, can cause hallucinations, delusions, and amnesia. That is probably what was given to Clairvius Narcisse. In Candomblé, which is an Afro-Brazilian syncretic religion—”
“What do you think happened to Darius Phelps?” I asked, hoping to avoid a recitation of the whole canon.
“Pardon?” She looked puzzled.
“Well, his grave is empty now,” I said. “And you mentioned zombiism.”
“I mentioned it as a matter of intellectual curiosity. Realistically, Darius’ body was probably taken by someone whose motives are crass and perverse,” she said coolly. “But if the body snatcher is motivated by the dark side of traditional Vodou beliefs and is intent on raising a true zombie from the dead through magical invocations and rituals . . .”
“Yes?” I prodded.
“Then the thief is a disturbed and deluded individual who needs help more than he needs punishment. And I hope the police will realize that, if they catch him.”
“Or her.” I took the plunge. “Do you think Mambo Celeste could conceivably be invol—”
“What? No. Absolutely not,” Catherine said firmly. “A mambo is a guide, a healer, and a teacher.”
“Anyone who reads the daily news knows that religious leaders in other faiths go astray and do bad things,” I pointed out. “So why couldn’t a mambo?”
“Obviously, a mambo could, just as anyone could.