Madapple

by Christina Meldrum

  So I read the creation stories and of the flood. Of Abraham and Sarah in Egypt, and of Ishmael and Isaac. I read of Jacob and his quest for Rachel. And of Joseph and Moses, and Samuel and Saul and David. Bathsheba and Solomon. And Micah. And I read through Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. And through parts of the Apocrypha, too. And I lose myself. But by morning I can’t read more; I’m once again myself, imprisoned in my thoughts.

  Until the sheriff unlocks the cell.

  “You didn’t kill her,” he says. As if he knows I’ve been wondering.

  It was cancer.

  Hadn’t I noticed Mother hadn’t been eating? the pathologist asks via the sheriff. Hadn’t I noticed she was weak?

  “I can go?” I say, because I don’t understand: I wasn’t charged with killing Mother. And because I’m not sure I want to go: I’ve no idea how I’ll survive once I leave, with no one pulling my strings.

  “It’s not up to me,” the sheriff says, shrugs. “Charges are dropped.”

  A social worker has arranged a funeral and implores me to go. How can I refuse? I’m the only one there, excepting the social worker herself and a minister I’ve never seen before. Mother had no friends. None I knew of; none I can imagine. So I stand at her grave alone, and alone I see her coffin descend into the earth, after the minister shuts the lid on her plastic face, laboriously molded into sleeping eyes and a tight, toothless smile.

  SOLOMON’S SEAL

  2007

  —Please state your name for the record.

  —Dr. Arna Fiske.

  —What is your profession, Dr. Fiske?

  —I’m a professor at Bran College in the art history department. A specialist in iconology.

  —What is iconology?

  —It’s the branch of art history dealing with the analysis and interpretation of iconic representations. Symbols.

  —Okay. Are you familiar with the symbol of an inverted pentagram?

  —Yes. The pentagram is a five-pointed star. It’s significant in many religious traditions. It usually signifies the sacred in some way. But to invert the symbol changes its significance dramatically, and generally is a sign of relegating good to evil. The inverted pentagram is often used by Satanists, for example, some of whom describe it as the devil’s hoofprint.

  —Thank you. I have no further questions, Your Honor.

  —Would you like to cross-examine Dr. Fiske, Counsel?

  —Yes, Your Honor. You mentioned the star most often represents the sacred in some way, correct?

  —Yes.

  —In Christianity, the star of the east is an example of this, correct?

  —Yes.

  —The star of the east symbolizes Christ’s birth, right?

  —But it wasn’t inverted—

  —And the Star of David, also known as Solomon’s seal. The symbol initially was used as a means of protecting the bearer of the symbol against evil, right?

  —But that’s a six-point star. A hexagram. Not a pentagram. Not an inverted pentagram—

  —Most of your students when they begin your class don’t understand the symbolic difference between a hexagram and a pentagram and an inverted pentagram, do they?

  —Some do.

  —But many don’t, isn’t that right?

  —Some don’t.

  —And we are talking about college students here, right? Not isolated fifteen-year-olds.

  —Objection. Argumentative.

  —Overruled.

  —I teach college students.

  —Thank you. I have no further questions, Your Honor.

  WINDFLOWER

  2003

  Night falls and the sepals of the wood anemones hug each other, their frailty forgotten in the fortification of company. Mother named the anemones her windflowers; by day they’d quiver in the breeze. I sit alone in Mother’s house, the sepal that failed to close. Or the sepal ripped free by a gust. Free, I think. Free. I am free. All the minutes, hours—it seems years—I longed to open the curtains, run into the yard, run out of the yard. Read whatever I pleased. Experience whatever I pleased. And yet, it seems to me now freedom is its own sort of internment. I feel blown about, without roots, as if any decision I make could be altered by the next gust.

  I’m scared to act; I’m scared to not act; I’m scared to fall asleep; I’m scared to wake to find myself alone with myself. I had so little responsibility for my actions before; my actions were chosen for me. Now I feel responsible for my choices, even as I realize the wind blows without regard for me.

  The house is different: the officers tried to replace, replant, restore, return, reinstate, but I feel their presence. I know they were here when I was not, know they are part of my uprooting. I walk around the kitchen now, touching, adjusting, trying to undo their undoing. I slide the jar of dried peppermint leaves back to its home near Mother’s now-chipped mug. I move the broom from one corner to the other, the mop from one corner to the other. The mop bucket belongs upside down, not right side up. The washcloth hangs to the right of the sink, not the left.

  A loaf of bread sits unwrapped on the counter; the towel that had swathed it now straddles it in a heap. I remember Mother at the counter two days before her death, kneading and kneading. Dough clung to her gnarled hands; flung flour dusted her hair. She was so sick, I think. She was so sick when she made this bread. I lift the loaf to me, like a mother, a babe. It’s stiff, the bread. Stale.

  The world seems ugly to me in this moment as I open the cupboard beneath the sink to break the loaf into the compost. I see the basket of soapwort beneath the sink, next to the compost. Fewer leaves lie in the basket than before, and I see fewer stems of meadowsweet. I wonder what the officers wanted with the soapwort, the meadowsweet. I drop the bread, rummage through the basket, expecting to find the officers took the bloodroot as well. I find a small root, and I lift it and the remaining meadowsweet. I’ll break the mold again, I think.

  I put the root and flowers on the counter, blow out the candle so our neighbor, Mr. Grumset, can’t see. I lift my gown over my head, toss it on top of a curtain mound. I feel night about my body: up my legs and torso, across my shoulders, down my arms, and around my fingers as they pull free a meadowsweet stem. Again I crush the bloodroot into a bowl; again I paint. I feel the cool image as it takes form on my body; I see it barely. The wings of the hairstreak spread diagonally across my torso: one cascades across my left breast, encases the scar over my heart; the other descends. I recall the delicate beauty of the butterfly’s markings. There is beauty, I tell myself. There is beauty in this world. And I mimic the beauty on me, hoping it will give me strength, guide me.

  The hairstreak is barely dry when I hear a knock at the door. I expect it’s old Grumset coming to accuse me, and I feel the welling fear. I slip the garment back over my head, light the candle. But before the visitor knocks again, I’ve looked to Grumset’s house; I see him propped like a mannequin in the window, his head cocked. He is watching me, but he is watching someone else as well.

  “Aslaug? Aslaug, are you there?”

  The handle turns. I pick up the candlestick, prepare to hurl it. The door inches open. The social worker’s face appears, and her eyes traverse the burning candle, the high ceiling, the scarlet walls, me. “You didn’t answer,” she says.

  Her eyes seem an unnatural color, like imitation emerald, slightly transparent. And her ivory skin looks restless, hungry, so freckled it seems to be consuming itself.

  “I was going to,” I say, although I’m not sure that I was.

  “Of course,” she says. “I should have waited.”

  She does wait then, perched half in, half out. I realize I’m supposed to invite her in. And I do. But it feels a violation to have her enter our house; no stranger has ever entered this house, except those officers. And as much as I would never have admitted it to Mother—perhaps I wouldn’t have admitted it to myself until now—there was something sacred about the sealed-off space Mother kept for us. Something exceptional.

&
nbsp; “I’m Cecilia,” the social worker says. “Remember? Cecilia Sture.”

  The colors of her clothing are so vibrant, they seem misplaced to me. They are the colors of an exotic bird or a poisonous frog or a jungle snake; I’ve seen them in books, rarely in life. She reaches toward me with her right hand, and I feel myself back away; my palms are stained with bloodroot, I think. I tuck my arms behind me. She drops her hand.

  “I remember you,” I say. “It was just today….” I’ve talked to so few people in my life. How could I forget?

  “Yes,” she says. “But I wasn’t sure…. Anyway, may I sit down?” And she does, before I answer. “Sit by me, here.” She pats Mother’s seat.

  I shake my head. Why does she want me to sit near her? “Why are you here?”

  “Why am I here?” she says, and it seems she’s wondering herself. “I’m the social worker assigned to your case.”

  “But I thought the charges were dropped—”

  “Not that kind of case. I mean, I’m here to help you—”

  “I don’t need any help,” I say, but I’m not sure that’s true. Yet how could I rely on this woman for help? How could I rely on anyone? Anyone but Mother?

  “It’s not your choice, Aslaug. You’re the state’s responsibility until you’re eighteen, unless you have family to care for you.”

  “I am eighteen,” I say, although I have no idea how old I am.

  “No,” she says. “That’s not possible. I haven’t been able to locate your birth certificate, but that newspaper article about your birth was written in ’88, just fifteen years ago.”

  Newspaper article about my birth? Why would my birth be news? As with a seed buried beneath frozen earth and snow, only the person who plants it knows it’s there. I was alive to Mother. To me. I was alive to no one else. Except perhaps a father. Except Grumset.

  “Do you have your birth certificate?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I wouldn’t even know what to look for. “What newspaper article?”

  “The article wasn’t much help. What about family? I haven’t located any relatives. Do you still have family in the area? An aunt? Cousins?”

  “Yes,” I lie. “I’ll get in touch with them. They’ll take care of me.” I’m not sure why I feel threatened by this woman; she looks almost a child with her full face and crooked-teeth smile. I’m not sure what I’m trying to preserve by lying to her, other than the freedom to be the torn sepal, to be blown about.

  “I’ll need to help you do that,” she says. “I’ll need their names, telephone numbers, addresses—”

  “I don’t know where Mother kept those things—”

  “Well, you know their names, right? What city they live in. I can probably track them down.”

  I look out the window that faces the oak. I see the faint outline of the English ivy that scales the tree. The timothy grass and smooth aster show as a shaggy black carpet. The false violet Mother called robin runaway creeps low, around the edge of our moist yard and into the dark woods, and looks now like a shallow, inky wave. “Ivy,” I say. “My aunt’s name is Ivy.”

  She opens her bag, removes a pad of paper, a pen. “And her last name?”

  “Aster.”

  “A-S-T-E-R?” she says. I nod. “You have cousins, too?” She writes, “Ivy Aster.”

  “Timothy and Robin,” I say. “Also Aster.”

  “Great,” she says. “They live in Hartswell?”

  “Bethan.”

  “Okay, well, assuming I find them and they’ll take you in, I’ll still need to help you arrange it. And then there’s the property. The house and all. Do you know if your mother made a will or some sort of trust? Because if she didn’t, we’ll have to go through probate. Eventually everything will go to you, unless your mother had other dependents, outstanding debts, that type of thing. Sorting through it all will take time, though. And some expense.”

  I want to tell her to get out—that she has no right. There was only Mother and me. Now there is only me. I belong to no one. Mother’s things belong to no one.

  “Do we have to do this right now?” I say. “I’m tired. Can’t you come back?”

  “You mean you want me to leave? You know I can’t do that, Aslaug. I can’t leave you on your own.”

  “You’re going to stay here?”

  “No…,” she says, and I see the heat that crawls from her blouse, up her chest and neck, and floods her freckles.

  “You’re taking me somewhere?” My scattered self begins to fall back together, jell: I’m not going anywhere with her.

  She seems to sense this jelling, this hardening in me: her eyes shift to mine and away; her wide mouth shrinks. She tugs at the corner of one eye and narrows the eye, then strokes it; the skin around the eye reddens to the color of the flood, of her cheeks. “I understand it’s been a hard day. It’s been a hard several days. You must be exhausted.” She laughs, sort of: like she thought to laugh, then changed her mind. “Even I’m exhausted.” She stands up. “Okay, listen. I’ll go. I’ll come back tomorrow. I’m not supposed to do this, but it’s probably better for you to stay here, given the options. I can’t really see how letting you sleep at home tonight is going to hurt anything. Tomorrow we’ll find those relatives.” She walks to the door. “But let’s just keep this between us, okay?” She opens the door. “Sleep in tomorrow morning. I’ll come back around eleven or so, with lunch.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  She steps out, turns. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t let anyone in, okay?”

  I nod.

  “And don’t go anywhere.”

  “I won’t,” I lie.

  SOLOMON’S SEAL

  2007

  —What is your profession, Dr. Eira?

  —I’m a forensic pathologist.

  —How long have you worked as a forensic pathologist?

  —I’m retired, actually. But I worked as a medical examiner for thirty-two years.

  —Where were you employed prior to your retirement?

  —I worked for the state, for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. I was there for eleven years, until two years ago.

  —Dr. Eira, please take a moment to review this autopsy report.

  —Yes. Okay.

  —Are you familiar with the report?

  —I prepared it after doing an autopsy on Maren Hellig, the defendant’s mother.

  —Dr. Eira, please turn to page seven of the report and read out loud, beginning with paragraph two.

  —“Alkaloids atropine and scopolamine detected in toxicology screening.”

  —So, Maren Hellig had atropine and scopolamine in her bloodstream?

  —That’s right.

  —Is atropine a poison?

  —Objection. Leading.

  —I’ll rephrase, Your Honor. What is atropine?

  —It’s a psychoactive substance that can be toxic to humans.

  —What is scopolamine?

  —It’s also a psychoactive substance that can be toxic to humans.

  —Dr. Eira, during the course of your professional career, did you ever conduct an autopsy on another person who tested positive for both atropine and scopolamine?

  —Objection. Leading. Relevance.

  —Overruled. You may answer.

  —Yes, twice. In both cases, the person died from consuming a local plant. Datura stramonium. Jimsonweed. The plant contains both atropine and scopolamine.

  —Objection. Move to strike. Relevance.

  —Overruled.

  —You said jimsonweed?

  —Yes.

  —Did you find any dermatitis or other skin irritation anywhere on Maren Hellig’s body?

  —Objection. Leading.

  —I’ll allow it.

  —No.

  —What, if anything, unusual did you find on Maren Hellig’s skin?

  —Well, she had that star on her torso, painted on using sap extracted from a local plant. Sangui
naria canadensis. The common name of the plant is bloodroot.

  —Thank you. I have no further questions.

  ELDER TREE

  2003

  Mother used to make elderberry wine. She’d mix the berries with a bit of lemon juice. She’d add some yeast and boiling water. When the water cooled, she’d squeeze the berries to extract the juice. After a day or so, she’d add sugar, more yeast, and she’d cover the concoction and let it sit for several days. Then she’d strain it, add more sugar. And wait. For months. In the dark of our cellar, the berries would stew and ferment. When, finally, Mother thought the wine ready, we would go to the cellar and she would drink a glass. If she was satisfied, together we’d pour the clear liquid into dark green bottles, and she’d tell me stories about the elder tree, her hylantree.

  “In Denmark,” she’d say, “the dryad Hylde-Moder is believed to live in the hylantree. Cut down a hylantree and Hylde-Moder will haunt you.” Or, “In Denmark, some say if you stand beneath the hylantree on the eve of the summer solstice, you’ll see the king of Fairyland gallop past.” Or, “In the ogham calendar—the Celtic tree calendar—the hylantree is the thirteenth tree, representing the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. It’s the beginning in every end and the end in every beginning.”

  Mother rarely spoke to me of such things, but it seemed the elderberry wine had a magic about it that freed Mother’s tongue. I always loved these stories. They intimated another world: a world of spirit and magic and the miraculous where rationality gave way, not to irrationality but to possibility. A world where berries could unlock the mind.