Madapple

by Christina Meldrum

  “Why did the Essenes wear white? Did the clothes represent something?” I ask, but I’m thinking about Susanne’s rant, not the Essenes: she called Mother a freak.

  “The masculine and feminine in the soul. The union of the two.”

  “The masculine and feminine in the soul?” Susanne’s like different people to me. She’s the man I first met when I drove into Bethan; she’s the preacher; she’s Mother. “How do you know what the Essenes believed? What my mother believed? What she read? You were so young when she was here.” I’m holding the ice plant dress in my hands, waiting for Susanne to leave before I disrobe, and thinking, Does she mean Mother was as crazy as I sometimes feared?

  “A lot I don’t remember, but I’ve learned,” Susanne says. “Again, mostly to goad Mor.” I expect the laugh, but it doesn’t come this time. “I’m partly joking.” But it doesn’t seem she’s joking. “It’s true in the beginning I was motivated by that—I knew it would drive Mor crazy if I started looking through Maren’s things. It was little different than smoking or dyeing my hair or cussing. Satisfying because it got Mor riled. I found some of Maren’s notes. That got me started. And I realized Maren wasn’t quite the person Mor had made her out to be. And the stuff Maren wrote about, some of it blew me away. Finally something for my brain to do. Finally the world started to make some goddamned sense.”

  “So you don’t think Mother was crazy?”

  “Crazy? No. Maren was the sanest thing around. But in the world of the insane, it’s the sane who seem insane.”

  “What about her notes?” I feel some relief. “You mentioned notes.” I rearrange the dress in my hands. I know I need to put the dress on, but I’m not accustomed to seeing my own breasts, my own fuller rear; I don’t want to undress in front of Susanne.

  “Yeah,” Susanne says. “She wrote a lot about botany. I guess that’s why Maren was in the States to begin with. To study botany at Bran. It’s all really interesting, actually. The botany. There’s some crazy shit even in the sane world. Who knew? But after she got pregnant, she started keeping notes about the Essenes and the Gnostics and pagan mythology.” She tugs the belt of my robe, unties it; my hands are tangled in the dress and I can’t stop the robe from falling open; I feel the touch of air on my breasts, my stomach.

  “What the hell?” she says. She pulls the robe from my shoulders, lets it drop to the floor. “What is this?”

  I look down and see the hairstreak. Its lines have faded, but it’s there.

  “It’s just a painting,” I say. “Like a tattoo. Like you have—”

  “I don’t have any tattoos,” she says.

  “But I—”

  “You don’t seem the type to tattoo yourself at all, let alone with a snake.”

  “It’s not a snake. It’s a butterfly.”

  “Right,” Susanne says. “It’s a butterfly. It’s easy to mistake a butterfly for a snake. Especially a butterfly with a very large, very out-of-place eye.”

  I see she’s looking at my scar. “That’s just an old wound. I was burned.”

  “The eye of the fire.”

  “I don’t know anything about the Essenes”—I try to divert her attention from the heat coloring my face, and from my body, the painting, the eye—“or the Gnostics, or much about the pagans.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder.” She drags from the cigarette, her eyes fixed on me. “Hardly anyone knows. Or what they do ‘know’ is based on misinformation.” She pauses. “But I’d have thought Maren would have explained this to you. It was all in her notes.”

  I shake my head.

  She opens the top drawer of the bureau, pulls out a bra, tosses it at me. “Strange, don’t you think?”

  “What? What’s strange?” I want to turn away from her, put the bra on without her watching, but I don’t. I drop the dress on the bed, hook the bra, lift it over my breasts. The bra’s too big on me and curdles.

  “That I seem to know more about your mother than you do.”

  It’s true, I think. My loss has been Susanne’s gain. Like the parasitic broomrape, Susanne’s been nourished by other plants’ roots: Mother is my root; Mother’s ideas are my roots.

  Susanne heaves a pair of underwear toward me and nearly strikes my face. “According to Maren’s notes,” she says, “Christians beginning around the third century CE used the term pagan to describe people who subscribed to religions other than Christianity and Judaism, particularly the ancient mystery religions.”

  “The what?”

  “The mystery religions. The secret religions prevalent in areas surrounding the Mediterranean before and after Christ. Many of the great philosophers and scientists of that time participated in these religions, including Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, Sappho….”

  I pull the dress over my head and feel myself relax some as the dress drapes my breasts and stomach and folds into my legs. “So the Gnostics and Essenes were members of mystery religions?”

  “No,” Susanne says. “The Essenes were Jewish. The Gnostics were Christian—the earliest Christians. At least that’s what Maren believed. But the Essenes and the Gnostics both incorporated aspects of various mystery religions and pagan philosophy.”

  “I still don’t understand why Mother was interested in any of this,” I say, but I’m thinking less about Mother now, more about my body, all goose-bumped and pale.

  “Because Gnostic Christianity is extremely different from modern Christianity, and Maren believed Gnostic Christianity was the true Christianity. The Gnostics were mystical, far less literal. The Gnostic gospels—”

  “I’ve read the Gospels—”

  “In the Bible?”

  I nod.

  But Susanne shakes her head. “Uh-uh,” she says. “The Gnostic gospels were excluded from the Bible, but the Gnostic texts are the oldest Christian texts, according to Maren. The original Christian texts. Don’t suggest that to Mor, though—”

  “So my mother and Sara disagreed about this?”

  “This and everything else. Maren insisted Jesus was an Essene at some point between the ages of twelve and thirty, for example,” Susanne says. “And that Mary, Jesus’s mother, may also have been an Essene. A lot of modern scholars would disagree with this—”

  “But why does it matter? Why would Sara care if Jesus and Mary were Essenes?”

  “Because Maren thought the Essenes’ teachings, although mainly Jewish, drew on many faiths—including the many mystery religions of the time, as well as the Vedas, the Upanishads and Brahmanism. She believed the Essenes considered different religions to be different aspects of one divine revelation. In other words, the Essenes didn’t think any single faith had all the answers. According to Maren, the Essenes believed they had a duty to understand principles common to many religions. In fact, a basic tenet of the Essene faith, the Essene tree of life, is comparable to the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and the Buddhist bodhi tree and the Tibetan wheel of life.”

  And Yggdrasil?

  I recall Mother reading through the Upanishads, the Vedas, her lips silently working the words, her fingers petting each page. “I’d like to see Mother’s notes,” I say.

  “Until I found her notes, I had no idea about any of this,” Sanne says. She glances at the paper and pen on the nightstand and at my lightbulb scrawl, seeing I’m a note taker, like Mother. I’m grateful when she doesn’t ask about what’s written there—grateful I don’t have to explain. “Imagine how duped I felt. Although I’ll admit the notes didn’t come as a complete surprise. Even as kids, Rune and I could see the hypocrisy in this church. There’s so much pressure for people in the congregation to receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit, people fake it. They pretend to speak in tongues. They fake being slain in the spirit.”

  “What is the baptism of the Holy Spirit?”

  “Those people who fall down when Mor prays for them? Supposedly it’s the spirit of God that knocks them down, but Mor half pushes them down. I’ve had her do it to me. She raises your h
ands in the air so you can’t control your balance, and then she lays her hand on your forehead, and suddenly you’re on your ass.” She stops. “There’s something to it, though, you know? Gudinden’s tapped into something. It’s not all horseshit. In a lot of ways, the evangelicals are more like the Gnostics than other Christian sects. Mor can heal people, did you know that?”

  “She heals people?”

  “Sheep actually. Or so the sheep say. That’s why Rune and I call her Gudinden.” Susanne takes hold of my shoulders, seats me on the bed. She grabs a brush from near the sink and manages to yank it through my hair. “It’s to tease her, for sure. But we sort of mean it.”

  “The first day I was here, you mentioned her keeping a stash of something….”

  “Don’t get me wrong about Mor. Just because I think she may be onto something doesn’t mean she’s not a hypocrite, and full of shit to a large degree. Evangelicals may be closer to Gnostics, but that’s not saying much. Christianity as it’s practiced today doesn’t have a leg up on any other faith—although it sure does piss on every other faith, doesn’t it? Christ wasn’t Christian, for Christ’s sake. Christ has a hell of a lot more in common with pagan gods than he does with what the modern Christians suggest he stands for. I mean, look at Dionysus, Mithra, Adonis, Attis. Christ is just another in a long line of gods.”

  SOLOMON’S SEAL

  2007

  —Cross-examination?

  —Yes. Dr. Lennart, you know of no evidence linking Aslaug Hellig to the bloodroot you found on Susanne Lerner’s body, correct?

  —No.

  —Regardless, the bloodroot didn’t kill or otherwise harm Susanne Lerner, did it?

  —No, bloodroot’s not poisonous when used as a dye—

  —Thank you. You found Aslaug also tested positive for atropine and scopolamine, isn’t that right?

  —Yes.

  —It’s your belief, then, that Aslaug also ingested jimsonweed, correct?

  —Yes.

  —You’re a medical examiner—meaning you usually work on corpses. But you know that Aslaug tested positive for jimsonweed because you asked that a toxicology screen be run on her, right?

  —Yes.

  —And you asked that the screen be run because you thought it would show Aslaug had not consumed jimsonweed, right?

  —Objection. Argumentative.

  —Overruled.

  —I thought her test would come back negative.

  —So you were surprised when you received the positive result?

  —Objection. Relevance. Argumentative.

  —Overruled. Please answer.

  —Yes.

  —And you were surprised because the test indicates Aslaug didn’t poison anyone—that she herself was poisoned—isn’t that right?

  —Objection. Argumentative. Calls for speculation.

  —Sustained. Move on, Counsel.

  —Dr. Lennart, is it your professional opinion that Aslaug was also poisoned?

  —Objection. Speculation.

  —I’ll allow it.

  —She may have taken the jimsonweed herself.

  —Just like Maren Hellig. And the two women in the fire. They all may have taken the jimsonweed because they wanted to take it.

  —Objection. Argumentative.

  —Sustained.

  —I have no further questions.

  FALSE NETTLE

  2003

  “Dionysus was a god-man,” Susanne says. “He was worshiped in Greece six centuries before Christ. His mother was a mortal—and a virgin. Semele. His father was the god Zeus. He was born around the time of the winter solstice. Late December. Many of the stories about him describe him sleeping in a manger after his birth. As an adult, he was a teacher who performed miracles. He encouraged his followers to liberate themselves from society’s rules and promised them new life. Sound familiar?”

  “It’s the story of Jesus, with a different virgin, a different God.” I hear stirring above me—the muffled footsteps, the muffled voices, the occasional twang of Rune’s guitar. The congregation is arriving; the service is about to start. I expect the preacher wonders where we are, but Susanne no longer seems concerned about the service, or the preacher.

  “Or maybe the story of Jesus is the story of Dionysus?” she says. “With a different virgin, a different God? Ever heard of the wedding feast at Cana? When Jesus made water into wine?”

  “I read it in one of the Gospels,” I say. “John?” The preacher’s voice is audible now, in spurts. Not her words, just the lilt. She’s greeting people, I think; we need to head up there.

  But Susanne seems to be settling in. “Well, Jesus wasn’t the first to perform this miracle. Dionysus did it long before Christ supposedly did. At a celebration in Sidon. But that’s the least of it. Dionysus also rose from the dead and was called the ‘Only Begotten Son,’ ‘King of Kings,’ ‘Alpha and Omega,’ and ‘Savior.’ Names all later attributed to Christ. And Dionysus was associated with the ram and the lamb, before Christ.”

  Susanne’s left foot taps the stone, along with the beat from above. She hears it, too, I think. The music. She knows we’re late.

  “Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” I say.

  “And maybe I’m Mother Teresa.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s no coincidence, Aslaug,” she says. “Because Attis was also a god-man, worshiped in Asia Minor two hundred years before Christ. He also was born in late December, and his mother also was a virgin. Nana. His followers ate bread that supposedly symbolized his body. He’s been described as a ‘savior sacrificed for the sake of mankind.’ Coincidence? He was crucified and traveled deep into the so-called underworld. Hell? After three days—three days—he rose again. Followers referred to him as the Divine Son and the Father.”

  “Like Jesus,” I say. I stand, walk to the door, grip the handle.

  “And there’s more.” Susanne makes no move to follow me. “Mithra was a god-man, too. Worshiped in Persia during the first century before Christ. He also was born of a virgin—big surprise?—at the end of December. He was visited by gift-toting shepherds shortly after his birth. Remember the shepherds and wise men in the Christ story? Mithra had twelve confidants. Twelve disciples? He promised his followers immortality and performed miracles. Three days after being buried in a tomb, he rose from the dead. His followers celebrated his resurrection, and they also ate a sacred meal of bread and water and drank a wine they believed possessed miraculous power. Just like Jesus, he was referred to as ‘Messiah,’ ‘Good Shepherd’ and ‘the Way, the Truth and the Light.’ He was associated with the lamb and lion, like Christ.”

  Suddenly I realize what she’s saying, realize what it means; I’d been only partially paying attention before, distracted first by my body, then by the noise from above. But Western civilization revolves around the Jesus story; even I know this. I let go of the handle. “And Adonis?” I say. “You mentioned Adonis earlier. What about him?”

  “A god-man, of course,” she says. “From Syria. Born of the virgin Myrrh. His devotees celebrated him by referring to the dawning of the ‘Star of Salvation’ in the east. Even the star of the east wasn’t new. Adonis was crucified and was resurrected, also on the third day. Witnesses watched his ascent to heaven. He was associated with the symbol of the fish—a symbol Mor is convinced uniquely represents Christ.”

  “If that’s all true, why don’t people know? I mean, if Mother could figure it out—”

  “People did know. In fact, during the first few hundred years after Christ’s birth, even followers of Christianity wrote about the similarities between pagan faiths and Christianity. Some tried to explain away the similarities by claiming the devil had anticipated the story of Jesus and mimicked it, before Jesus was born—if you can believe that.”

  “But what about now? If people knew of the similarities before, why not now?”

  “Some people do know. It’s not just Maren. But the early Roman church destroyed a lot of pagan writings. The
masses could more easily be united under one all-encompassing faith, et cetera.”

  “So what does it all mean? That the stories of Jesus and the others all are just myths?”

  “That’s one way to look at it. But I think it’s more complicated. I think there’s something to these stories. The stories all involve virgin births, right? And there are other, similar stories as well. For instance, Aion’s mother was the virgin Kore. Maybe the virgin birth is God’s way of showing the world whom He has chosen to be the next prophet.”

  “But aren’t some of those gods just that, gods? Not people.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they were actual people, like Jesus, and the stories about them turned them into gods. Like Jesus.”

  “But what does any of this have to do with the Essenes or the Gnostics or the mystery religions you spoke about?”

  “Like I said before, Maren believed that the Essenes and Gnostics and pagans recognized the wisdom in other faiths—that they studied other faiths. Modern Christianity scoffs at other faiths. Maybe it’s time for someone to set the record straight.”

  “You’re talking about a person?”

  “According to Maren, the Essenes believed in ‘consecrated human beings.’ People they believed God chose to be ‘custodians of the divine on earth.’ That’s who Maren believed Jesus was. And Dionysus and Attis…”

  I’ve been drawn in by Susanne’s ideas. The picture I saw of Mikkel, we look nothing alike, he and I. And the syndactyly, I have no trace of it. At times I’m convinced Mikkel’s not my father. But then I question myself: I don’t want him to be my father, and that desire is a film that distorts what I see—I know this.

  “These god-men,” Susanne says, “many of them didn’t begin their ministries until they were in their thirties. You’re still in your teens. You have time. I think that’s why God sent you back to us. God wants us to work with you. Study with you, prepare you.”