The preacher let her church pass away, let it fade back into the stone walls, let the stone walls come back to life. After my release, I’d see the preacher near the altar of the church, her hands gripping fistfuls of nothing, her mouth rambling in that language that is no language. Glossolalia. Pleading to her God for answers. Because Phalia didn’t fit into the preacher’s scheme of God, and even Gudinden couldn’t discount what Phalia was, what she is. So the preacher ceased being Pastor Sara, and yet, in many ways, she is the preacher still. As Sanne would say, she’s evolved from being drunk on Mikkel to schnapps to God to schnapps. And now she is drunk on Phalia. And yet, she still has a closeness with God, a spirituality. A sort of power. The angel of power in the Essene tree of life. And Phalia is drawn to this in her, and draws from this in her.
Rebekka remains living at the church, and she still nurses Phalia. I hated Rebekka for a time as I watched her nurse my baby. But I fell in love with her, too, as I saw her love my baby. Because she does love Phalia. She still refers to Phalia as Sofie, but she sings with her and reads to her, as she still does to Rune, and sometimes she falls asleep with Phalia across her breast. And she cooks for Phalia—for all of us—meals so different than Mother ever made, than I ever made. Mother and I ate what we could find when we could find it. We combined flavors and foods because we were forced, limited by the season, the weather, Mother’s mind, Mother’s health.
But Rebekka combines flavors and foods because they fit. She is an artist in this way; she has an innate sense of what fits. And I find pleasure in eating, in food, I never would have imagined. This is a gift Rebekka has given me; this is a gift she’s given Phalia. Rebekka is the caretaker Mother never was. She’s made this church into our home, adding sofas and comfortable chairs and beautiful bedding. When I think of Rebekka in the context of the Essene tree of life, I know she represents sustenance: she is the earthly mother. She is Phalia’s earthly mother.
And Rune. He is Phalia’s angel of creativity, and perhaps her angel of joy. He brings art and poetry to her life. And laughter. As he brought me. Not as he brings me. For Rune and I rarely speak, and when we do, it seems we speak in runes—everything he says, and I say, seems to have hidden meaning that neither of us understands. Although Rune still teases and jokes, it seems underlying his joviality is a harshness, a coldness, as if he’s sliding across the barely frozen water of the harbor, certain the ice will crack, certain he’ll slip through. He doesn’t trust me, I know. I hurt him, I know. Our relationship will never be what it was. And yet, when I see him cuddle Phalia, and tickle her, I can’t help but remember his touch in my dream. I can’t help but wish he shared this memory.
Sanne. Although we’ve all learned a great deal about love from Phalia, it is Sanne who seems Phalia’s angel of love. Phalia loves Sanne perhaps more than anyone. It seems Phalia knows, in some way, it was Sanne who believed in her all along. Sanne’s frantic energy has waned; her hair is growing back to its natural color. She no longer seems driven by the need to be noticed or loved or wanted, because she is noticed and loved and wanted, by Phalia. She refers to Phalia as Sofie Phalia now; I know she does this to please me. And although she still insists we teach Phalia for hours and hours each day “to prepare her,” she herself seems most content when she is listening to Phalia, not teaching her.
And I? In the Essene tree of life, I am Phalia’s angels of sun, water, earth, air and life. Because I teach Phalia of snowflakes and lightbulbs. And of wartwort and bloodroot and devil’s-bite and witch hazel—of all the plants that have shaped my life. Yet I also teach her of Yggdrasil, and of its three old crones. And of butterfly souls. And I hope these will help her on her way to bridging the gap between heaven and earth, as Mother in her own way helped me to bridge that gap. Maren Hellig: the angel of eternal life. She lives in me; she lives in Phalia.
As to the angels of wisdom and peace—those remaining angels in the tree of life—these angels have yet to arrive, it seems. Perhaps it is Phalia herself who will be these angels. Already she has taught us all so much: she came into the world knowing well how to laugh and love.
Rune sneaks up behind us, reaches around me, pulls the water lily stalk from Phalia’s still-plump grip, hides it behind me.
“Hey,” Phalia says, and she giggles. “It’s Woon. He took the stwaw. He’s playing hide-and-seek.”
Rune peers from around my back. “You better hide, then,” he says. “And hurry. I’m about to come seeking. You don’t want to make it easy for me, do you?”
“No!” Phalia squirms from my lap, and I watch her feet, still in penguin mode, skitter across the stone and disappear.
“One, two, three. Come away with me,” Rune says. “Four, five, six.”
“Pick up sticks?” I’ve learned all these childhood games along with Phalia.
“Seven, eight, nine. I’m serious. We’ll take Phalia. Ten, eleven. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have to endure this craziness.”
“What craziness?”
“Twelve, thirteen. What craziness? You’re not serious. Aslaug, I understand what you’ve done, what you’re doing. I’ve done the same thing. It seemed I had to. I know you think you had to. But it’s not fair to Phalia. And I know you love Phalia. I wasn’t sure at first…but I can see you love her. Don’t do this to her.”
“Woon?” Phalia says. “You’re not counting.”
“Fourteen, fifteen.”
“What am I doing?” I say.
“Sixteen. Aslaug, we can get out of here, with her. We don’t have to do this.”
“You’re saying you want us to run away? Rune, we can’t raise Phalia. We can’t raise her on our own.”
“Seventeen, eighteen. Why not? Is it better for her to be raised by a drunk, and a woman who’s lost touch with reality?”
“Sara’s not drinking that much—”
“Open your eyes, Aslaug.”
“And who’s lost touch? Who are you talking about?”
“Are you coming, Woon?” Phalia calls.
“Nineteen. Aslaug, Sanne really believes in the virgin birth bullshit. She’s going to fuck Phalia up.”
“It’s not bullshit, Rune.”
“Twenty,” Rune says. “Ready or not. Here I come.”
SOLOMON’S SEAL
2007
—Ms. Hellig, you started the fire at the church on Kettil Street, didn’t you?
—Yes.
—Objection, Your Honor. Aslaug had jimsonweed in her system at the time. It affected her cognitive abilities. She’s confused about what did and didn’t happen.
—Objection overruled. What Ms. Hellig remembers is relevant, even if her memory is distorted. It’s the jury’s job to sort that out.
—And you started the fire in an attempt to kill your cousin Rune and the young woman, Rebekka, and their baby, isn’t that right? You thought they were inside.
—Objection. Counsel is being argumentative. And his question was compound.
—They weren’t inside. I knew they weren’t inside.
—The objection is sustained. Please strike Ms. Hellig’s answer from the record.
—You poisoned those two women with jimsonweed so they couldn’t stop you from setting the fire, isn’t that right?
—Objection—
—I didn’t poison them, but it’s my fault they’re dead. I know it’s my fault.
—Objection, Your Honor. Move to strike. Counsel is being argumentative.
—Objection sustained.
—Ms. Hellig, do you really expect us to believe your mother and your aunt and cousin all died with jimsonweed in their systems but you didn’t poison them?
—Objection. Argumentative.
—Sustained. That’s enough of that, Counsel.
—Ms. Hellig, you’ve admitted painting an image using bloodroot sap on your mother’s torso after her death, correct?
—Objection. Asked and answered.
—Overruled.
—Yes.
—
You are aware, are you not, Ms. Hellig, that remnants of bloodroot sap were also found on Susanne Lerner’s body? Her dead body?
—Yes.
—But you’re claiming, are you not, that you had nothing whatsoever to do with the bloodroot sap found on Susanne Lerner’s body?
—I didn’t do it.
—You didn’t do what, Ms. Hellig?
—The image painted on Sanne, I didn’t do it. I didn’t paint it.
—What image, Ms. Hellig? No one’s mentioned any image. How do you know there was an image painted on her torso?
—Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.
—I’ll withdraw the question. Ms. Hellig, just so we’re clear on this, you would have the jury believe that these similarities between the death of Susanne and Sara Lerner and the death of your mother are mere coincidence, is that right?
—Yes…. I mean, no.
—Which is it, Ms. Hellig? Yes or no? Coincidence or no coincidence?
—Coincidence.
SWAMP LILY
2006
“She’s gone.”
It’s the middle of the night. Sanne stands in the doorway to my bedroom, the same room where I dreamt of Rune, was caged, gave birth. The floral comforter Rebekka chose for my bed heaps around me; the flowers crease and hide as I pull myself up. Sanne turns on the light and the world flashes bright, then black.
“She’s gone,” Sanne says again.
I push my hair from my eyes, and the room filters in.
“What’s wrong?” I say. Fear wells up in me; it locks my body, my mind. There is death in Sanne’s face: doll’s eyes.
“Sofie Phalia,” she says. “She’s gone.” But her voice is too quiet for these words. I’ve misheard.
“I thought you said ‘gone’?”
“I heard them leaving. I tried to stop them.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. “Who do you mean?”
Sanne’s body cascades to the floor, and she hugs herself, as if tucking her body into the package that enveloped Mother when she died. Sanne’s eyes are open and quiescent. But her body rocks, like she’s easing herself farther and farther in.
“Sanne?” I say. I feel the pull of the package; somehow I know what Sanne’s failed to say.
“Bekka,” she says then, as if not to me. “Rune. They took her. They took my baby.”
“Why would they do that?” Rune wanted me to leave with him; not Rebekka. I lift myself from the bed, Sanne from the floor. Her arms feel brittle in my grip; she looks into my face. And I know.
“Do you really not know, Aslaug?” she says. “Do you really not know?”
“No,” I say. But I do know. Suddenly I do know. How is it that I didn’t know until now?
“Bekka’s baby was Rune’s.”
Of course Rebekka’s baby was Rune’s. It’s why Rebekka came to live at the church. It’s why her parents left the church. It’s why the preacher was so devastated by my accusation of Rune: if he had fathered my child, he would have fathered two, within weeks. But it had never occurred to me. Rune was in love with me; Rune couldn’t also be in love with Rebekka.
“But why would they take Phalia?” I say. “Phalia’s not their baby.”
“No,” Sanne says. “Sofie’s my baby.”
I walk past the table in the sanctuary where the jimsonweed dries; its kidney-like seeds grow gray, its leaves grow crisp. I put on my jacket, Sanne’s jacket. I plan to go outside. But instead, I move toward the kitchen, where I know Sanne and Sara sit in a haze of rot, each inhaling a madapple cigarette, each imbibing a tumbler of schnapps.
They’ve been gone for two months now—Rune and Rebekka and Phalia. Day after day I’ve told myself they’ll be back. But I know they won’t be back. Rune and Rebekka have passed from this blueberry home, and they’ll not return: they have their baby.
Sanne, too, knows they won’t be back. And Sara knows. Their knowledge lives in dilated eyes and redberry-elder cheeks. Yet they don’t know as I know, because of the eyes and cheeks: their brains are soaked in jimsonweed and schnapps. Sara began drinking morning till night after Phalia left, and Sanne smoked. And now Sara smokes, too. And Sanne drinks, too. They’ve escaped to Mother’s madapple world, except I see now it’s not a world where the windows are open wide, but a world where all desire to look out windows has wilted away.
I am alone in this pain.
I push open the door. I find Sanne and Sara with the schnapps, without the cigarettes.
“Sanne?” I say. She looks up at me, and I see her black-moon eyes are all black moon. “I want a cigarette.”
“No more paper,” she says. “I made stew. Schnapps.”
A mush of potatoes and carrots and translucent onions bubbles in a pot on the stove. The jimsonweed’s leaves snake through the mush; its seeds speckle the mush; and its steam is the haze of rot.
Sanne lifts herself. I think I recognize Mother in the unease of her movements, but then I realize it is the jimsonweed I recognize, not Mother. Sanne ladles the stew into bowls, hands me a bowl. Fills her tumbler, fills Sara’s tumbler. Pours me a tumbler of the madapple schnapps.
My eyes trail the sodden path of jimsonweed; I imagine the crazy apple made invisible in the schnapps. And I know I can end this pain: I can pass to that place where desire is dead.
I watch the preacher take a spoonful, lift it to her mouth. I lift the spoon to my mouth; the madapple beckons me; I let it enter me. The taste of it rushes me back to Hartswell, back to myself in Hartswell as I lifted Mother’s cold jimsonweed cigarette to my mouth, as I drew in the flavor. I remember wanting the madapple to carry me away, to take me to that place Mother had found. Now the madapple tempts me again. And I wonder, If I go, will I find Mother there?
Sanne eats a spoonful. And another. And another. And soon her bowl is empty. And the preacher’s bowl is empty. Then the preacher drains her schnapps, and Sanne drains her schnapps.
I swallow the madapple. Then I swallow it again. But my body starts to heave. I run from the table, to the bathroom. And the crazy apple leaves me.
They are dead by morning. Sanne and the preacher are dead.
I fell asleep on the floor of the bathroom, and I wake to find them slumped on the stone. Sanne’s white dress clings to her splayed limbs, and her colorful mouth hangs wide. She is the swamp lily now: her limbs the stringy white petals, her mouth a red stamen. Her hair, dark at the roots, a menagerie at the ends, radiates around her head, forming a misshapen halo. I can see the tip of the tattoo she claimed didn’t exist. I lift the white, and I find the painted roots, the painted trunk of the tree. I recognize the orange-red color of the bloodroot, and the layers of faded dye and fresh dye, and I know Sanne painted this image not once but many times. I lift the dress more, and I find the leaves and branches. I pull the dress over the halo, and I find the Essene tree of life. Or the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Or Yggdrasil. Then I remember Mother’s words: “One day the dragon Nidhogg gnaws its roots to shreds, and the entire universe comes crashing down.”
Why didn’t I stop them? I think. I knew the madapple was deadly—that it could kill them. I knew its strength.
The preacher’s light eyes lie open; one hand stretches along the ground high over her head, as if she were reaching for God—as if she were slain in the spirit while reaching for God. I remember the feel of that hand on me; I remember the power that surged through it. I allowed the madapple to squelch that power. I watched as the preacher’s hand gripped the spoon, lifted the madapple. And I said nothing.
The pain is more than I can bear. It is more than I can bear. I pull myself away from Sanne, away from the preacher. And yet everywhere I look, everything I see, gashes me.
I pick up the kerosene lamp that sits on the table near where Sanne’s Yggdrasil body lies. And I smash it against the wall. And then I walk through the sanctuary, grabbing lamp after lamp, and I smash them. The kerosene puddles on the stone and streams between the stones, as did the preacher’s schn
apps, and the water of me.
I begin to take off the jacket to throw it into the kerosene. But then I see the red modesty cloths piled near the altar. I grab them and arrange a red road across the kerosene. I ignite one swatch, watch it burst to life.
SOLOMON’S SEAL
2007
—Please state your name for the record.
—Sergeant Ursula Silja.
—What’s your profession, Sergeant?
—I’m a sergeant in the United States Army.
—Do you know the defendant?
—Well, I’ve met her. She came to Pastor Sara’s church. I was a member there.
—The Charisma Pentecostal Church?
—Yeah. The church that burned.
—And when you say Pastor Sara, you mean Sara Lerner?
—Yes.
—Okay, Sergeant. You said Ms. Hellig went to the church. Do you know how many times?
—No. Not that many. She came while she was living with the Lerners. I’d say she stayed with them for a couple months. She came to services during that time. She never came again after that.
—When was that?
—Let’s see. It was right about the time this teenage girl in our church, Rebekka, got pregnant and went to live at the church, too. With the Lerners. I don’t think they had room for both girls. So I guess Aslaug had to leave. That all happened about four years ago. A bit less, maybe.
—Objection. Move to strike. Speculation.
—I’ll strike only the comment regarding why Aslaug may have left the church. Otherwise, the objection is overruled.
—Okay. So this girl named Rebekka went to live at the church because she was pregnant?
—Objection. Relevance.
—Overruled.
—Well, first she lived at this home for unwed mothers. I visited her there. Her parents arranged for Bekka to live there. They wanted Bekka to give the baby up.
—For adoption?
—Yes.
—When you say Bekka, you’re referring to Rebekka Grass?
Madapple Page 27