“Unbelievable,” the judge says. He looks at his glasses, rocks them to and fro, puts them back on. “We need a blood test done on the child. Figure out who her mother is. We’ll need one of Ms. Grass as well. We already have the information we need from Ms. Hellig, and from Susanne Lerner, the young woman who died.” He looks at Rune then, but I can’t see the emotion that filters through.
SOLOMON’S SEAL
2007
—Please state your name.
—Rune Lerner.
—Do you know the defendant, Aslaug Hellig?
—Yes.
—When did you first meet her?
—We were children together. I guess I met her when I was a baby, but I’m not sure I remember it. Maybe I do. Aslaug and her mother, Maren, lived with us until Aslaug was two or three, then they moved away. I never saw Aslaug again until she was nearly sixteen. But during the period when I didn’t see Aslaug, my sister, Susanne, told me stories about Aslaug. It’s hard for me to know which are my memories of Aslaug and which are Susanne’s.
—Under what circumstances would Susanne tell you stories about Aslaug?
—Well, Aslaug was kind of a mythical creature to me and Susanne. My mother and Aslaug’s mother, Maren, had had a falling-out, and Maren moved away with Aslaug. Aslaug was sort of the forbidden fruit to us—my sister and me. Susanne used to tell me these stories about Aslaug. Sometimes she’d tell me Aslaug was a goddess. Sometimes she’d say Aslaug was a witch or a magician. She’d make up stories about Aslaug’s birth, too. Claim it was a miraculous birth, compare it to Jesus’s birth. It wasn’t until Maren died that I learned there was something to Susanne’s stories. I guess Maren wouldn’t tell my mother who Aslaug’s father was. Maren intimated Aslaug’s was a virgin birth. That’s why Maren and my mother had their falling-out.
—Objection. Move to strike. What’s the relevance of all this?
—Please get to the point, Counsel.
—So you said you saw Aslaug again when she was almost sixteen. What were the circumstances of your seeing her again?
—After Maren’s death, Aslaug came to us. She found us somehow. I don’t know if I ever learned how.
—And then what happened?
—She lived with us.
—Where?
—At the church.
—With your mother, Sara Lerner, and your sister?
—Yes. And Rebekka. Rebekka came to live with us, too.
—Why was Rebekka living with you?
—She was pregnant. We were kids, you know. We were fooling around and she got pregnant.
—You mean you and Rebekka were lovers?
—Yes.
—And the child—Sofie or Phalia?—is your daughter?
—Yes. I mean, she’s my daughter. She’s not Rebekka’s daughter.
—I’m sorry. I’m not following this.
—Sofie. I mean Phalia. She’s not Rebekka’s daughter.
—But didn’t you just say you and Rebekka were lovers and she became pregnant?
—We gave the baby up. For adoption.
—But you said you are Sofie’s father.
—I am. When Aslaug came—when she moved in with us—I was so drawn to her. I broke off my relationship with Rebekka. But then I found out Rebekka was pregnant. I was only with Aslaug once, and then I found out about Rebekka—
—You mean you and Aslaug had sex?
—Yes. Just once. But Aslaug got pregnant. Phalia’s our baby.
—Are you aware that Aslaug here claims the two of you were never lovers?
—Yes. At first when she became pregnant, she said I’d raped her. I couldn’t believe it. Then later, she pretended Phalia was born of a virgin birth.
—Objection. Hearsay.
—Overruled.
—Did you rape her?
—No. God, no. It was totally consensual, our relationship. I mean, I was young, but I thought I was in love with her. I think she thought she was in love with me. I don’t know why she said what she said.
—Objection. Move to strike. Relevance.
—Overruled. It goes to the defendant’s credibility.
—Thank you. Mr. Lerner, you claim Aslaug is the child’s mother, but why was the child with you and Rebekka, not Aslaug?
—Before Phalia was born, and even more afterward, they all got so strange. My sister and my mother, and Aslaug, too. They were pretending Sofie Phalia was born of a virgin birth. They said they were preparing her to be a prophet. It was really disturbing. I wanted to protect Phalia. That’s why I left with her. And I felt guilty about Rebekka—about getting her pregnant, about my mother forcing her to give our baby up. So Rebekka and I decided to take Phalia and leave. We decided we would be a family, the three of us. That we’d raise Sofie Phalia as if she were our child.
—If that’s true, Mr. Lerner, you’ve just admitted to committing a crime. It’s illegal in this state for one parent to take a child without the other parent’s consent—
—You know what? I don’t really care. It was wrong of me to leave with Phalia. It was so wrong. I should never have taken Phalia from Aslaug. It hurt Phalia. I hurt Phalia. And Aslaug. And Rebekka. I hurt everyone. I knew what Phalia meant to my sister, and my mother. I knew it would devastate them if I took her away. I’m more responsible for their deaths than anyone. Aslaug isn’t responsible. There’s no way she is. Aslaug may have had some weird notions about Phalia’s birth. Maybe she was pretending, I don’t know. But she’d never kill anyone.
MADAPPLE
When I hear Rune’s account of our relationship, I feel I’ve been told the world is flat. I am stunned, and yet, in a way, I feel redeemed. The world is as it seems: babies come from sex; the feelings I had for Rune were real; the sensations I experienced that seemed so real were real.
But how could I have mistaken real lovemaking for fantasy, a dream? Am I Mother’s mad apple after all? Her crazy offspring? The tainted seed, as Rune once said?
Then I remember.
Madapple.
Sanne told me she’d once given me the jimsonweed stewed into schnapps to make me seem unusual, exceptional. I piece it all together in my mind, and I know: the dream of Rune was not a dream, but reality seen through the dilated eyes of madapple.
And now I feel I’ve died and been resurrected: a flower that’s passed from winter to spring.
I climb with Phalia as if a schoolgirl; we skip into the Maine sky, high on the blueberry hill behind our house in Hartswell. But it is Phalia who is the schoolgirl: she darts ahead of me, then behind me; she stirs this summer-solstice day.
“What did Bedstemor—your mommy—call these?” she says as she spins around the mounds of diapensia flowers that wave in earthbound clouds above their sprawling tangle of green leaves. “What about these?” she says, stopped by the dwarf rhododendrons that seem to spurt their flashy magenta.
I tell her the names and a bit about each plant, and she repeats the names, and I see her scribbling away in her mind: recording, considering, wondering. And I know Mother’s spirit lives on. But then Phalia chortles, cartwheels, and I recognize Rune in her angles, her grace, her joy. And I feel grateful: Phalia’s ring of love is wide. It draws her into the past, to Mother and Sara and Sanne; it broadens her present to Rune—her father, my friend—and to me, and to Rebekka, too, and even to our neighbor, old Grumset, who loves her despite himself, and whom Phalia affectionately calls Grandpa Grumpy. And I know it will grow as she grows.
“They look cozy, Mommy,” Phalia says, pointing to a low pink mat of alpine azalea. “Like my bed when the sun peeks in in the morning, when I don’t want to get up!”
“They do look cozy, Love Bug,” I say. “Do I need to tickle you, like I did in the morning before summer break, when you wouldn’t get up and I had to worry about the school bus honking, waking Grandpa Grumpy, making him grumpier?” I lift her in my arms and kiss her warm nose and moist eyes; her arms spread like butterfly wings, and we twirl and tumble, but not on top of the azal
ea. Although these flowers manage to grow in this harsh climate, where other flowers never could, they are tiny and delicate, and could not withstand our weight. Yet it is the smallness of these flowers—their delicate frame—that is also their saving grace. So diminutive are they, they need little in terms of food, and they can hide in low clusters from the brutal wind and cruel weather. And they’ve learned cunning: they are perennials, not annuals. For them, one season is never long enough.
When the blood tests came back, they proved what I now know: I am Phalia’s earthly mother. And because of this, I was acquitted, set free. Yet I no longer feel the sepal blown about. Nor am I rooted in the way I thought I might be. Because living through the trial helped me realize we are all mad apples, but not in the way I feared.
The trial taught me that understanding a sequence of events, even down to the most minute detail, does not imply an understanding as to why those events took place. It seems we humans so want to divvy the world up into clean little packages that fit neatly together. But in reality, each package seeps into the next, affects the next. And the pile forever shifts. And, as far as I can tell, no one understands where the contents in the packages came from to begin with. I certainly don’t. It seems to me now the point of living is less to understand, more to not become dulled to the miracles that are everywhere, Phalia being but one.
Because Phalia is a miracle to me—I realize that now—as much as if she’d come from the hairstreak or the preacher’s touch or some divine plan. Nothing can explain the why of Phalia’s creation. Or anyone’s. Why Avalon exists at all. And nothing can explain the intricacies of creation. The love. And the vast beauty and strangeness of it all.
It’s time to open the curtains, let in the sun, let these mad apples grow.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I would like to thank the exceptional team at Alfred A. Knopf. In particular, I am grateful to my editor, Michelle Frey. She blessed Madapple and me with her faith, enthusiasm, sensitivity and intelligence. Because of her thoughtful editing, Madapple is the book it is. Many other amazing people from Knopf worked on Madapple—I am grateful to them all. I specifically would like to thank Associate Editor Michele Burke, who kept the ball rolling with enthusiasm and grace; Copy Editor Sue Cohan, who edited Madapple with great sensitivity and insight; Executive Art Director Isabel Warren-Lynch, whose creative vision beautifully represents both the content and tone of Madapple; Director of Publicity Christine Labov, for her reassuring openness and generosity of spirit; and Senior Publicist Kelly Galvin, for her creativity and energy.
Secondly, I would like to thank my literary agent, Laura Rennert, and Andrea Brown Literary Agency. Laura believed in Madapple early, and her faith never faltered. She was determined to find the perfect home for Madapple—and she did!
I also would like to thank Jonathan Barkat, the artist who created the cover art for this work. His thoughtful depiction of Aslaug and her world literally took my breath away.
I was fortunate to work with several other talented experts in the writing of Madapple: Dr. Janet Waner, PhD, a psychologist who also is my friend and sister-in-law and who was indispensable in guiding my development of the characters; Tina O’Neill Laurberg, a dear friend who advised me in the use of Danish terminology; Dan Smulow, Esq., a former prosecutor who counseled me on criminal law and procedure; Bowdoin College Assistant Professor Barry Logan, who assisted me in the areas of botany and plant pharmacology; Dr. Randall Shannon, MD, who advised me in pathology; and Patrick Hunt, PhD, who shared his expertise in mythology, religion and symbolism. I also relied on numerous research sources identified in the bibliography; I am grateful to the authors of these works. I specifically would like to acknowledge and thank authors Timothy Freke and Peter Gandy for their book The Jesus Mysteries. Their interesting research on early Christianity and paganism was extremely useful in my writing of this book. I also want to take this opportunity to thank my Web site designer, Madeira James from xuni.com, who is as brilliant as she is kind, and that is saying a lot.
In addition, my family and close friends have supported my writing of Madapple in what seems every way possible. I would like to thank my remarkable mother, Patricia Petrie, whose faith in me and in life has always been an inspiration. Two of my sisters, Amy Laughlin and Melissa Meldrum Aaberg, read the manuscript in its earliest stages and gave me invaluable feedback, and they each provided much-needed advice and support throughout the process. I also am grateful to my siblings Sarah Petrie, Daniel Meldrum and Elizabeth Bakeman for their excitement about this book and for their belief in me. The friends who have supported my writing of Madapple are many, and I am grateful to them all. A few of my close friends were readers for me, and to you I owe special gratitude: Liz Epstein, an amazing editor who greatly refined Madapple; Kim Oster, whose compassion and intelligence helped to give Madapple depth; Michael Bourne, whose honesty, know-how and humor kept me and Madapple on track; and Lynne Dewhurst and Renee Swindle, who gave me much-needed advice when Madapple was first being birthed. And to the brilliant and multitalented Julia Flynn Siler, who has guided me in endless ways, to photographer and friend extraordinaire Victor Hong, and to godmother goddess Betty McClennan: thank you!
Finally, but most importantly, I would like to thank my husband, Douglas Dexter, and my children, Jacob and Owen. They are the inspiration for my mind, heart and soul. Madapple could not have happened without them.
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
Religion and Mythology
Bultmann, Rudolf. Primitive Christianity in Its Contemporary Setting. Cleveland: The World Publishing Company, 1970.
Chuang Tzu. Chuang Tzu, Mystic, Moralist and Social Reformer. Boston: Adamant Media, 2004. Facsimile reprint of an 1889 edition.
Enslin, Morton Scott. Christian Beginnings. New York: Harper Torchlight, 1956.
Freke, Timothy, and Peter Gandy. The Jesus Mysteries: Was the “Original Jesus” a Pagan God? New York: Three Rivers Press, 2001.
Hall, Manly P. The Secret Teachings of All Ages. New York: Tarcher, 2003.
Lao Tzu. The Way of Life According to Lao Tzu. Translated by Witter Bynner. New York: Perigee Books, 1944.
Massey, Gerald. The Historical Jesus and the Mythical Christ. Escondido, CA: The Book Tree, 2000.
Meyer, Marvin W., ed. The Ancient Mysteries: A Sourcebook of Sacred Texts. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999.
Pagels, Elaine. The Gnostic Gospels. New York: Vintage Books, 1989.
Pennick, Nigel. Magical Alphabets. York Beach, ME: Weiser Books, 1992.
S, Acharya. The Christ Conspiracy: The Greatest Story Ever Sold. Kempton, IL: Adventures Unlimited Press, 1999.
Vermes, Geza. The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. New York: Penguin Classics, 2004.
www.bigpedia.com/encyclopedia/Norse_mythology
www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norse_mythology
www.essenespirit.com
Science and Nature
Brock, Jim P., and Kenn Kaufman. Butterflies of North America. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2006.
Bryson, Bill. A Short History of Nearly Everything. New York: Broadway Books, 2004.
Greene, Brian. The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1999.
Haines, Arthur, and Thomas F. Vining. Flora of Maine: A Manual for Identification of Native and Naturalized Vascular Plants of Maine. Bar Harbor, ME: V. F. Thomas Co., 1998.
National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Trees, Eastern Region. New York: Knopf, 1980.
National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Wildflowers, Eastern Region. New York: Knopf, 2001.
Pierson, Elizabeth C., Jan Erik Pierson, and Peter D. Vickery. A Birder’s Guide to Maine. Camden, ME: Down East Books, 1996.
Russell, Sharman Apt. An Obsession with Butterflies: Our Long Love Affair with a Singular Insect. Cambridge, MA: Perseus Books, 2003.
Weber, Larry. Butterflies of New Eng
land. Duluth, MN: Kollath-Stensaas Publishing, 2002.
www.botanical.com
Locations and Culture
Calhoun, Charles C. Maine. Oakland, CA: Compass American Guides/Fodor’s, 2000.
Doudera, Victoria. Moving to Maine: The Essential Guide to Get You There. Rockport, ME: Down East Books, 2000.
Karr, Paul, and Wayne Curtis. Frommer’s Portable Maine Coast. New York: Wiley Publishing Inc., 2003.
Strange, Morten. Culture Shock! Denmark. Portland, OR: Graphic Arts Center Publishing Company, 1999.
Poetry
Dickinson, Emily. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Edited by Thomas H. Johnson. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1960.
Sappho. The Love Songs of Sappho. Translated by Paul Roche. New York: Signet Classics, 1966.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Christina Meldrum
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Meldrum, Christina.
Madapple / Christina Meldrum.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A girl who has been brought up in near isolation is thrown into a twisted web of family secrets and religious fundamentalism when her mother dies and she goes to live with relatives she never knew she had.
Madapple Page 29