Ghosts

by W. A. R. WOOD

PEOPLE sometimes ask me whether I believe in ghosts. In Northern Siam, where I live, it does not much matter whether one believes in them; there they are! Every house, every field, every tree, is haunted, and the denizens of the invisible world intrude at every turn into the lives of the people, worrying them in a thousand ways.

When my wife and I bought the land on which we are still living, we knew there was a ghost there, but that did not disturb us much; every site has a ghost or two. Our ghost was the spirit of a man who many years before had been accidentally drowned by falling down a well. In Siam, as elsewhere, the spirits of persons who die by accident or violence are supposed to be of a vengeful and malicious nature. Our ghost was no exception.

A few months after we had settled in, one of our gardeners was taken ill. He developed low fever, pains in the stomach, and other disquieting symptoms. Medical treatment had no effect, so his wife went along to consult our village medium. This medium is an elderly lady living near-by, who is always ready, for a suitable fee, to go into a trance. When entranced, she is taken possession of by a control, referred to as “The Prince”; she then warbles in a rather squeaky voice a series of improvised verses, which may be designed to meet any case — lost property to be recovered, matrimonial disputes to be settled, evil spirits to be exorcised or propitiated.

When our gardener’s wife sought her aid, “The Prince” said: —

“I have beside me here the spirit of Noi Pan, the man who was drowned in the well, and he says he is very angry with your husband.”

“What has he done?” asked the gardener’s wife.

“What has he done?” sang “The Prince.” “I will soon tell you that! The other day he was working in Mr. Wood’s garden. He saw a pariah dog. He threw half a brick at it. He missed it. But that half brick passed bang through the middle of Noi Pan’s stomach when he was taking his evening stroll, and if there is one thing more than another which Noi Pan dislikes, it is having bricks thrown through his stomach. Unless Noi Pan is propitiated with some generous offerings, you may as well order your husband’s coffin.”

The gardener’s wife came weeping to us, and we of course provided a suitable meal of rice, pork, and fruit for Noi Pan’s spirit, and a few candles and joss sticks to burn in his honor. The gardener recovered at once; but he was always very careful, after that, not to throw bricks about.

But there was an even more malicious spirit in the neighborhood. It haunted the garden of a man named Hopkinson. It was the ghost of a woman who many years before had hanged herself on the branch of a mango tree. Hopkinson had a young fellow of about eighteen working for him, the son of a very respectable old man of our village. One day this lad fell ill, and his father, following the example of our gardener’s wife, sought the aid of the medium. This time it was I Kam, the lady of the mango tree, who had been infuriated by the old man’s son slashing the bark of her tree with a knife.

“What shall I do?” asked the old man.

“Try some very superior offerings,” replied “The Prince.” “But judging from the way I Kam talked to me, and the ugly face she made, I think she means to have your son’s life.”

And did. The poor lad died a few days later.

Hopkinson and I thought it was time to seek a permanent remedy. In a neighboring village dwelt a highly skilled sorcerer, reputed to be even more competent to grapple with spirits than our local medium. We sent for him and laid our case before him. He was extremely sympathetic and, after considering the matter, agreed that for a sum of twenty-four ticals ($6) he would prepare a bamboo raft and would induce the two troublesome spirits to embark on it; they could then be made to float away down the river.

On the day appointed, the sorcerer duly made his appearance. He was carrying a neat little bamboo raft about three feet long. On it was a tiny bamboo house with a grass roof. He carefully put the little raft into the river at Hopkinson’s landing, and then proceeded to stock it with some rice, two slices of pork, a few bananas, some flowers, and a number of lighted joss sticks. He had brought along three young fellows to assist him. One of them had a flute, the second a small drum, and the third a two-stringed fiddle made from a coconut shell.

Quite a big crowd had assembled to watch the proceedings. When all was ready, the sorcerer read out an incantation, explaining to the ghosts the attractions of the little house, while his three young assistants played lightly on their musical instruments. Then he raised his hands in supplication, and singing in a loud voice, invited the spirits to embark on the raft. At this point, the flutist blew his flute till he was purple in the face, the violinist fiddled for all he was worth, and the drummer banged his drum till I thought the parchment would burst. Amidst all this din, the two malicious ghosts embarked unseen — or so we were told—on the litlle raft, the sorcerer gave it a push, and away it floated downstream. The two vengeful spirits have never been heard of since.

In the foreign cemetery at Chiengmai there is the grave of an Englishman named Dickson, who was murdered by robbers. When I took charge of the British Consulate at Chiengmai in the year 1913, I found that one of the duties of the Consul was to manage the cemetery. My predecessor warned me on no account to meddle with the evergreen tree near Dickson’s grave. He himself had once engaged a man to lop some of the branches, but the intruder had fallen from the tree and broken his leg. This mishap was generally attributed to the anger of Dickson’s ghost.

Many years later, the tree had grown so big, and was so much in the way, that I rashly determined to get rid of it. A young man of my acquaintance, named Tan, told me that his father was not at all afraid of spirits, and would undertake to fell the tree if I made it worth his while. I agreed to his terms, and the next day the old man went along with his axe to start work on the tree; but hardly had he wielded his axe for more than a few seconds when he began to feel faint. He went home and retired to bed, and soon developed very alarming symptoms — fever, pains in the limbs, and peculiar swellings all over him; his face, in particular, was very much swollen and inflamed. The native doctor failed to cure him, and I asked a well-known American physician to have a look at him. Dr. McCall tried various treatments, but in vain. So young Tan, feeling sure that Dickson’s spirit was the cause of his father’s sickness, sought out a spirit doctor. No use at all! The spirit doctor told him that Dickson’s ghost was certainly the cause of the trouble, but regretted that he (the doctor) was powerless to intervene, as the ghost was that of a foreigner, and therefore not susceptible to the influence of such spells and incantations as he could provide. In despair, Tan came to me.

“Listen carefully,” said I. “You must know that English people have a prejudice against magic and sorcery, and for this reason I have hitherto concealed the fact that I am an expert in that line of science. Do not breathe a word to anyone, but come all alone to meet, me in the cemetery at midnight tonight. You must bring a spade, a little rosebush, and four candles. I will bring a box containing a magic talisman and a bottle of spirit medicine. Keep silent when in the cemetery, and trust in me. Then you need fear nothing.”

When he had gone, I prepared my little box. It was neatly wrapped up in white paper, tied with red tape, and sealed. Inside it was the talisman, consisting of a lump of sugar. At first I thought of putting in a pebble, but this seemed rather like sharp practice, so I used a lump of sugar. I also got ready the bottle of magic medicine. This was composed of water, with a little alum to taste nasty and a little washing blue to look pretty. As is the case in more orthodox medical practice, spirit medicine ought to look nice but taste beastly.

At midnight Tan and I met in the cemetery. There was no moon that night, but a good deal of thunder and lightning about—just the weather to create a suitable atmosphere. Tan had duly brought the spade and the rosebush, together with the four candles, and we crept in silence to Dickson’s grave. Here I made Tan put a lighted candle at each corner. Then he had to dig a small hole at the foot of the grave, and put into it the rosebush. Before the earth was filled in, I laid on the grave the bottle of medicine. Then I raised my hand, holding the box, which I rattled well to let Tan know that the magic talisman was really inside, and recited in sepulchral and awe-inspiring tones:—

At this point in the proceedings, there was a violent clap of thunder, and poor Tan clung to me, trembling in every limb and with his teeth chattering. I calmed him down and made him fill in the earth round the rosebush, after first putting the box with the magic talisman into the hole. I then took up the bottle of medicine and we left the cemeter and proceeded to the near-by home of Tan’s father. Tan related in awesome tones the frightful experience he had just been through. Then I laid my hand on the sick man’s head and solemnly assured him that he would recover. IIis son had given the spirit a rosebush to compensate for the outrage against the evergreen tree. I had pronounced a most powerful incantation and had buried a magic talisman at the foot of the grave.

I had moreover prepared a bottle of extra-strong spirit medicine, which had been laid on the grave, Let him take two doses of this daily for a week, and a perfect cure would result.

I was right. The very next morning the swellings started to subside, and in three days the patient was plowing his field, in perfect health.

A religious friend accused me of having bowed down in the House of Rimmon. Perhaps I did, but Rimmon or no Rimmon, I am quite sure that I saved the old man’s life. On the whole, I am inclined to think that it was the lump of sugar which did the trick. A pebble would have been fatal.

On another occasion, I camped, accompanied by my wife, in a small village not far from the town of Chiengrai. In the evening the village Headman, a very unsophisticated old rustic, came along to see us. “Sir,” he said, “I am a most miserable man. There is an evil spirit living in my rice bin. It makes horrible moaning noises, and has terrified mv wife info a fever, and made my small son break out in pimples all over. I even saw it once. It looks frightful, with hair all over its face, and eyes like fire. I have had three sorcerers in to deal with it and have paid them a lot of money, but all for nothing. The demon is still there. Last week the English Forest Officer was here, and I begged him to help me, but he said he was unable to do so. Unless you can do something for me, I shall have to leave my home and go to live in another village.

“Cheer up,” said I. “Maybe I can do something. Of course the Forest Officer could not help you. He is a very learned man in all matters pertaining to forestry, but you cannot expect him to know everything. If you want a man who knows everything, you must look for a British Consul. Come along after dark, and I will see what I can do.

The old Headman went home much relieved. I made the necessary preparations and was ready for him when he returned after dinner. I assured him that all would be well, and then showed him a box containing twenty-one cartridges.

“Now, then,” said I. “How many cartridges do you see in that box, and what color are they?”

“I see twenty-one cartridges,”he replied. “Twenty of them are red, and one is black.”

“Exactly so,”said I. “One is black! The red ones are for shooting birds, and the black one, specially prepared by me according to the directions in my magic book, is for shooting evil spirits. Now show me your rice bin.”

So off we went, I taking my gun. When we reached his house, he showed me the rice bin, a small wooden building standing a few yards from the house. I then put the magic black cartridge into the gun, and in solemn and bloodcurdling tones recited these lines: —

Then I let off my gun, filling the rice bin with magic No. 8 shot. This done, I once again assured the old man that there would be no more haunting, and went back to our tent. Early next morning we proceeded on our journey.

Three weeks later, we were returning along the same road. When we reached the village where I had shot the evil spirit, the old Headman and his wife — now cured — and most of the villagers turned out to meet us. They brought rice, eggs, fruit, and other gifts. This was because the magic cartridge had been 100 per cent successful. The demon had vanished, and so far as I know— for I was there again a few years later — it never came back to trouble them any more.

So, as all must agree, I can justly claim that I am fully competent to quell troublesome ghosts without any expert assistance. Moreover, I am the only sorcerer in all Siam who performs this service free of charge.

Now, perhaps, I shall once more be asked whether I believe in ghosts. Well, then, maybe I do, because I saw one once.