“Moder?” I call out, but reluctantly. Mother always sleeps at this hour. I hate to wake her, but something is wrong. “Moder?” She doesn’t answer. I start down the stairs. The pinkish glow transforms as I descend and bathes the base of the stairs in abrasive orange.
I step into the sitting room. Tacks speckle the table, and the oak tree stands barren against the morning sky.
The drapes lie heaped on the floor. Every one.
I find Mother in a corner of the sitting room, curled on the hardwood floor. She wears a dark cotton nightgown that’s so faded and thinned, it seems intangible to me, like it’s hovering there. Smoke or fog, hovering above her nakedness. I can see her pale legs beneath it, tucked tightly to her middle, their fullness shriveled, desiccated. Now weightless stalks. Her arms are sticklike, their skin wrinkled like bark; they embrace her legs and torso with fervor, as if she’d needed to enclose herself in this invisible package, a package that is too narrow, too meager, even for her. I can’t see her face—her hair lies draped across it—but I see the cavity of her left eye, the hill of her nose, the sharp edges of her cheekbone and jaw. Her hair folds into these features like a butterfly’s wing: the hairstreak’s wing.
“Moder?” I say. But I know she won’t move. I touch her. She’s so cold. I’d gone to sleep just past eleven the night before. Was she dead then? Had she slipped from her bed in anguish while I scoured the green room? Descended the stairs and rolled herself into this ball? Or had she wakened in the night gasping? Then crawled to this spot? Intentionally encased herself here?
With effort I rotate her body. Her hair slips from her face, and I see her eyes are agape, their whites almost shiny, their pupils quiescent. Her eyes look like the fruit of the white baneberry plant, the berries Mother called doll’s-eyes. For a moment I think she’s still alive. I scream. Then I tug her hair and nudge my foot into her side, but she’s still as the insect caught fast in the web. I know for certain, then. I know she’s dead.
I feel cold. Scared. Numb. I’m barely conscious of collecting a bucket, filling it with water from the pump, warming it. I gather soapwort leaves from the basket beneath the kitchen sink, and I crush them into lather. I peel the gown from Mother’s stiffened body. I’ve never seen my mother naked; I’ve never seen her body. I’m surprised at how small she is—how small and how human. I’d never fully appreciated Mother was human. She was a force in my life, more god to me than human. But here she is, small and wrinkled, and dead.
I’ve forgotten to bring a washcloth, so I wash her with the gown. I dip it into the bucket, drip the warm water upon her cold skin and scrub: first her neck, its cords thick and firm; then her collarbone and upper ribs; and then her breasts, which are no longer breasts but flaps of skin, tipped brown and pink. And I wonder if those breasts that are no longer breasts were ever heavy with milk for me.
I finish washing her body, and I lie next to her, I wrap myself around her. It’s the only time I’ve ever embraced my mother; I half expect her to rise and rebuff me. She feels as I’d always expected she’d feel: stiff and hard and cold. Still, I hold her. And I tell her goodbye—I never said goodbye. So I say it now. I touch my lips against her hair and ear and I whisper it into her hair and ear, but even whispered, the goodbye seems too loud.
Mother and I communicated through ideas and symbols and words unsaid. “You have no choice but to think in words,” Mother once told me. “The more languages you learn, the more free you will be in your thinking. But, no matter how many languages you know, never trust words to encompass you, to encompass your world. Words are like the physical objects around us that appear to be continuous and whole but are in fact composed of particles too small for the eye to see, for the brain to imagine. Words oversimplify reality. Break open a word, and it’s like breaking a mold. The contents seep free, become something new. Be careful to see the contents, Aslaug. Be wary of confusing the contents with the mold.”
I have to break the mold, I think now. Find another way to tell Mother goodbye. I close my eyes, and the bloodroot takes root in my mind.
I manage my way back into the kitchen: I stumble, bump into, knock over. And I exhume a bloodroot stalk from the soapwort leaves, lift some meadowsweet flowers from the jar, then carry the dripping flowers, a metal bowl and the root back to Mother. I crush the bloodroot over the bowl, feel its blood stain my hands, hear the gentle tap tap as the root’s blood strikes the metal. I carry the drained root to the window, force the window open, toss it onto the ground, into the weeds below. And I look back to the dark bed of the bowl, where the blood of the root awaits me; my fingers encircle a tender meadowsweet, pull it free from the cluster. I lower a tip of the meadowsweet into the blood, the dye. And I begin to paint, thinking of Mother walking through the woods, cracking free a leafstalk from the plant she called Solomon’s seal, showing me the scar that remained on the rhizome, telling me of its magic: “King Solomon used this seal to cast away demons,” she’d said, “call on angels.” And so I cast away demons, call on angels: I paint the image onto her torso as I remember it to be. But I can’t look at her face, into her doll’s eyes, as I paint; I look only at the bloodroot, the meadowsweet. And now I think of Hester Prynne’s blood-hued A on Dimmesdale’s pale chest. Did he paint it there as a way to cast away his own demons?
When I finish, I lie with Mother again as I wait for the seal to dry. And I fall asleep. I dream I’m an infant and Mother is nursing me. She’s swaddled my small torso in her bony fingers and pulled me close to her. I can feel the downy mounds of her small breasts and stomach; I can smell her scrubbed skin. She leans back into an armchair, softly, purposefully. And she holds me—she just holds me—like she wants to, like she wants me. And she strokes my hair, her spindly fingers caressing as tenderly as they can.
But when I wake, I smell the bloodroot and soapwort, and I see her, and I retch.
I run to Mother’s room to pull the blanket from her bed; I see the tray I prepared for her the night before. The salsify roots and goatsbeard greens lie there untouched, grayish and dry. The shinleaf paste is crusted over and cracking. Only the adder’s eyes tincture seems not aged, waiting at the bottom of the sealed glass jar. I unscrew the lid and dribble Mother’s adder’s eyes onto my tongue, hoping it will ease the weight bearing down on me.
I collect Mother’s blanket and wrap her in it, enfolding her body again and again. Then I try to drag her outside, but the blanket is so laden with holes, it tears despite her weight. I run back to Mother’s room, pull the sheet from her bed and wrap her in that as well.
I dig for hours. And as I do, I imbibe the tincture drop by drop, and I pray. To whom, I cannot say. But I pray that I, too, will die. Mother is the beginning and end for me. I can’t imagine living without her.
SOLOMON’S SEAL
2007
—Would you like to cross-examine Detective Fenris, Counsel?
—Yes, Your Honor. Detective Fenris, the pathologist’s report indicates Maren Hellig died of natural causes, isn’t that right?
—Objection. Hearsay.
—Overruled.
—Yes. She had cancer.
—And you have no information that disputes that finding?
—I don’t.
—The fact that Mrs. Hellig’s body may have been washed after she died does not change the result of the autopsy, does it?
—No, if the girl did wash the body, maybe she was trying to show her mom some respect. Maybe she washed it out of kindness.
—Objection. Move to strike. Speculation.
—Sustained. Please disregard those last two statements—all but the word no.
—And the nightgown, Detective Fenris? Even if the nightgown had been washed out, that wouldn’t change the result of the autopsy, would it?
—No. I don’t think the nightgown’s relevant.
—And what about the painted image? Regardless of what that image was, Maren Hellig died of cancer, correct?
—That’s correct.
—You mentioned you found some potentially poisonous substances at the Helligs’ house, right?
—Yes.
—You find poisonous substances at almost every household you investigate, don’t you?
—Objection. Relevance.
—I’ll allow it.
—Yes. Most houses are full of poisons. Any household cleaner pretty much could poison someone. So can alcohol and aspirin and a whole bunch of other everyday-type things.
—So, based on your professional experience, the presence of poisonous substances alone is not an indication that someone has been poisoned, is it?
—Objection. Relevance.
—Overruled.
—No. Not necessarily.
—You mentioned Aslaug’s hands and clothes looked as if they were stained with blood, but you didn’t actually find any blood anywhere on Aslaug’s body or clothes, did you?
—No. The discoloration on her hands and clothes came from plant dye, not blood.
—Okay, now, you mentioned in your report that you found a stone with some etchings in the backyard of the Helligs’ house. You don’t really know what the stone was for, do you?
—No, I don’t.
—And you couldn’t be sure what the etchings on the stone were, could you?
—No.
—In fact, even assuming those etchings were some sort of lettering, the letters didn’t form a recognizable word when read from left to right, correct?
—That’s correct.
—You regret having speculated in your report what those symbols on the stone may have meant, don’t you?
—Objection. Argumentative.
—I’ll allow it.
—I was just trying to do my job, but if I were to do it again, I wouldn’t write the report the same way.
—You wouldn’t speculate on the meaning of those symbols, would you?
—No. Mrs. Hellig died of natural causes. This stone—well, it’s just a red herring.
—Objection. Move to strike. Calls for speculation.
—Overruled. She has a right to reevaluate her report.
—When you say the stone was a red herring, you mean you don’t think it was relevant to your investigation, correct?
—It’s not relevant. It’s misleading. The girl’s mother died of cancer, for God’s sake.
—Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions.
ADDER’S EYES
2003
Runestones were used in Scandinavia during the Middle Ages to protect the dead as they journeyed into the next life; placed over the buried bodies of the dead, the stones were inscribed with runic letters called runes. Mother told me of the runestones, not because she believed the stones had power to aid the dead but because she was interested in the runic language. “The runic alphabet is unusual,” Mother told me. “Each letter is a word in the Germanic language and therefore holds meaning, over and above its sound.” Mother taught me the twenty-four runes: fehu, meaning “cattle” uruz, “wild ox” purisaz, “giant” ansuz, “god” and so on. Mother taught me the runes, but she didn’t teach me the secret of the runes; she couldn’t.
Yet I knew the runes had a secret. The word rune itself comes from the Gothic word runa, meaning “a secret thing, a mystery.” And according to Nordic mythology, the god Odin had to sacrifice one of his eyes to obtain the secret of the runes. So while Mother was drawn to the practical aspects of the runes, I was drawn to them because of their secret. I knew runes were used for divination and magic spells, and I loved that runes could turn the mundane act of writing into an act of magic.
I put the shovel down and wander the yard now, until I find a large stone and a small, sharp stone, then I spend the next hour etching. I etch berkana, the rune of femininity and healing, and isa, the rune of winter, to give Mother protection through the cold. I etch tiwaz, the rune for the god Tiw, who represents justice and truth. And cen, or kaunaz, the symbol of fire, to keep Mother warm. And last I give Mother hagalaz, the rune of hail and the rainbow and humor, because humor is something it seems Mother and I need. I write the symbols from right to left, the direction of runic writing. On the back side of the stone, I etch the rune dagaz, the rune of day; knowing Mother will be descending into the earth, I want to give her light. Then I roll the runestone near the side of the grave, and I dig again.
I’m nearly finished when I hear the sirens, but it doesn’t occur to me the sirens have anything to do with me, that the police are seeking me. Not even when they enter the yard do I realize what’s happening. I watch as their grayish uniforms crystallize to dark blue and the incandescent glow of their badges mellows as they pass toward me, into the shade. It’s only when I see the next-door neighbor roll from behind his screen door, where his face has been pressed like salt to the tongue, bitter, biting, watching me, that I understand.
“You little witch,” he calls. “You murderer.”
There are five officers: four men, one woman. One of the men approaches me first, wraps his hand around my arm, stills it and the shovel.
I’ve never been so close to a man. He seems large to me—overwhelmingly large—and as he bends forward to ease the shovel from my grip, I can see the pink flesh of his scalp coursing through his cropped hair. I’ve never seen such short hair; it looks like fuzz to me, but more unyielding. Like remnants of cooked rice stuck to the base of a copper pan. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t look at my face. Instead, he studies his fingers as they disentangle mine from the handle, as they envelop my wrist. His fingers are callused but warm. Alive. And his touch is firm and deliberate, but guarded, almost tender. The sensation startles me. I’m accustomed to the feel of the inanimate, not the animate. Not the tender.
The female officer approaches then. She runs her fingers up and down my body, pulls the jar of adder’s eyes from my pocket. I try to grab it back from her, but she drops it into a plastic bag and hands it aside. She clutches the nape of my neck, steadies me. Her touch is more forceful, but also warm. Also alive. I don’t understand at first I mean nothing to her—or him. Nothing more than a lurid story. For the initial moments they hold me, I trust them, I need them; I don’t want them to let me go.
And they don’t. Not even after the remaining officers unwrap Mother. The youngest holds the sheet and blanket while the others nudge her body, let it tumble. Nudge it again. Tumble. Nudge. Tumble. She spills out like hard plastic, a doll. The officer gripping the sheet gags when he sees her; he turns away and heaves. But the other two seem unfazed. One takes out a camera, snaps pictures; the other encircles the yard with tape. A sixth person arrives and prods Mother like a cut of meat. Then the officers gather Mother onto a stretcher, pace to the ambulance, slip her in.
Only after the ambulance speeds away, only after its sirens are almost inaudible, does the female officer detach her fingers from my neck, the male officer my wrist. Together they handcuff me. He presses my hands against one another, inserts them; she snaps the cuffs closed.
“You have the right to remain silent.” The man is speaking, but he’s looking at the shovel, the scattered soil, the hole I’d dug. “If you do say anything, what you say can be used against you in a court of law.” He’s speaking to me—I know that—but his words are strange; I don’t understand what he means. “You have the right to consult with a lawyer and have a lawyer present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you, if you so desire. If you choose to talk to the police, you have the right to stop the interview at any time.”
The female officer leads me to the patrol car; she steers with the cuffs—the short chain between the cuffs. She doesn’t touch me or speak. I don’t care that she says nothing, but I want her to touch me; I want again to feel the comfort of her skin. But she tugs the chain and my arms extend toward her, like stiffened reins. I stumble more than once; still, she doesn’t look back until we reach the car and she’s opened the door. Then she spins me around, backs me into the car. I lose my balance, plummet to the seat. She lu
nges toward me; her face is inches from mine.
I really see it now, her face: the large pores on her blushed cheeks, her too-narrow nose. She wears black liner around her eyes, rose on her lids. Her lashes are clumped and stiff. Snake eyes, I think: adder’s eyes. I knew women wore makeup—I’d seen it from afar. Red lips, blue lids, lashes like black rays. It had seemed exotic to me before, but up close it looks absurd, dirty, like she’s pressed her face into a bin of colored chalk. Even the smell is like chalk.
She slips in beside me, and her upper arm grazes mine; she jerks back, turns away, thrusts herself against the door. Then stares out the window at our unremarkable yard.
Still she says nothing. And neither does the pink-scalped officer as he drives the half hour into Bethan, then to the county jail. I’m a monster to them; I see this now. A freak. Someone outside of their world who will never understand the workings of their world; I doubt it ever occurs to them to explain to me what’s happening. I smear my tears against the window, not wanting them to see. “You’re the monsters,” I want to say. “You’re the freaks.” But even I don’t believe this.
I don’t learn I’m to be incarcerated until an hour or so later. The sheriff informs me as he walks me to the cell. “Until a pathologist determines the cause of death,” he says. He seems unconcerned whether I know what a pathologist is.
I do know.
It takes two days.
They’ve charged me with what they call abuse of a corpse. To clean Mother, bury her, bless her, was to abuse her, they tell me. And now they are cutting her up.
I sit on the cell’s narrow cot, its scratchy sheets crinkling each time I move. The walls are gray cement with pores so large I feel impelled to scribble a prayer, stuff it in. My private Wailing Wall. But I have no paper, no pen. Other than the cot, a stained-basin sink and a toilet, there is nothing in the cell—nothing but a tattered copy of the King James Bible with Apocrypha the warden dropped through the bars after locking me in. I ignore the book for the first hour or two, but I can’t endure myself, alone in this cell, alone with my thoughts, alone with the terror that pulses through me like crushed glass in my blood. How many times had I longed for Mother’s death? How many times had I imagined poisoning her with blue flag or corn cockle or jimsonweed? And now she is finally dead. And I feel dead, because I loved her. And because I was Mother’s marionette. Without her, what am I? Scraps of useless limbs and strings, with no one to hold me, direct my path.
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