The Hanging Girl

36

The house was situated on the other side of town, so close to the coast that it wouldn’t take much in terms of climate change and rising sea levels before it disappeared. It was clearly dilapidated and useless as a permanent residence, so the loss would be insignificant.

“It smells like camel shit here” was Assad’s comment about the place.

“It’s the North Sea and the seaweed, Assad. And this is nothing.”

He pointed toward a figure appearing in the door, trying to look imposing despite the hunched back.

“Johannes Tausen, Assad. That’s what a genuine professor emeritus of theology should look like.”

“Emeritus?”

“Former, Assad. In other words, retired.”

“Pardon me, I shake hands with my left,” said the professor, offering them a talon that was so gnarled from rheumatic arthritis that it was like shaking a clenched fist. Carl looked at the other hand, which was even worse, useless in fact. It really broke his heart to see.

“Apart from the pain, you get used to it,” said Tausen, and invited them in.

His hand shook as he poured tea that smelled pleasantly of Earl Grey, before sitting in front of them with the alertness of someone who was about to unravel the mysteries of the universe. And after he’d been talking for a while following their explanation as to why they’d come, Carl realized that in fact that probably was also the case.

“Yes, I gave a short series of lectures at the Open University during that period in fall 1995, so everyone could go along.”

“It was called ‘From Star Myths to Christianity,’ is that correct?” asked Carl.

“Yes, exactly, and there was quite a turnout, due to the highly controversial topic. Nowadays, you can find all kinds of interpretations of these topics, so no one is trumpeting them in the same way. They were originally theories taken up by a young American woman at the time, and they caught my interest. She challenged established science and created a good deal of controversy in the American Bible Belt, which was actually rather refreshing. I’ve heard that you can find an account on YouTube that is a bit similar to my own, if you’re interested; Zeitgeist, I believe it’s called. I haven’t seen it because I don’t have the Internet out here, but that doesn’t really bother me.”

He pushed the sugar bowl over to Assad and followed with interest how it was slowly emptied. “I have more in the kitchen,” he said, his voice full of respect.

Assad held up his hand; he’d had his fill.

“I think I do remember the man you’re talking about. In relation to which, you should probably know that even though the topic probably wouldn’t cause raised eyebrows in this country, a course of that kind will always attract lots of skeptics and, perhaps especially, the opposite. It’s a topic that easily becomes dogmatic in itself. I think that might have happened to the young woman I mentioned, and I’m afraid it happened to Frank as well.”

“Can you remember his last name?”

He smiled. “You should be glad I even remember his first name. No, we didn’t use surnames. Of course it would’ve been on the list of my students, but I didn’t look at that.”

“The list. Does it still exist?”

“Gosh, no. I don’t make a habit of saving paper.”

“Do you think the university might have kept the lists?”

“Definitely not. They wouldn’t keep them for more than ten years. I would say less; they probably throw them away after five years.”

“Does the name Frank Scott mean anything to you?”

“Scott?” He mulled over it for a minute. “No, not Scott. Is that what you think he was called?”

Carl shrugged. “It’s the only name we’ve heard. But no one in Denmark is called Frank Scott.”

He smiled. “I guess it’s wrong, then.”

Carl’s head did a little jig. Made sense. “What kind of a person was he, do you remember?”

“I do, because Frank was different from most people. I think it’s safe to say that he experienced a kind of awakening, as I recall it. And that’s probably why he became the most inquisitive student I’ve ever had. You don’t forget someone like that, because we lecturers like to have someone to help keep the discussion going.”

“Was it this guy?” asked Assad, handing him the photo of the man with the VW Kombi.

He was already squinting before he reached out for his glasses on the table and put them on.

“Well, it has been more than eighteen years, but it could very well be.”

They gave him plenty of time, while he nodded to himself.

“Yes, I do believe it’s him. At least, I remember the man much better now and there must be a reason for that. As I said, it could very well be him.”

“We’re investigating him in connection with an accident on Bornholm, and we’d be thankful for any information that might give us an idea of his whereabouts. So what do you remember about Frank?” asked Carl.

The thin skin around Johannes Tausen’s eyebrows contracted slightly. His concern was whether he would end up saying something that was incorrect and might cause someone harm for no reason. Carl had seen it a thousand times before.

“Just tell us what springs to mind. We’ll make sure to filter the information properly, I promise you that,” he said, knowing full well that it wasn’t possible. Once said, things couldn’t be unsaid.

“I see.” He swallowed with difficulty a couple of times. “Then I do actually believe I remember him telling me at some point that my lectures had changed his life. That they had given him a clearer picture of the path that was laid out for him.”

“Which was?”

“I think I’ll have to quickly go over what the series of lectures was about,” he said. “Then you can deduce from that what you will. A lot of it consists of somewhat bold interpretations. It’s not something I’ve excelled in since, but it was good fun.”

At this, his eyes shone brighter. Maybe because for once he got to be a lecturer again, or because what he was about to tell them meant something special to him.

“You are familiar with the star signs, aren’t you? Leo, Scorpio, Virgo, and so on. Twelve star signs, each connected not only to a season but also to the movements of the Earth. These star signs are ascribed special meanings in horoscopes—a bit of hocus-pocus, if you ask me, but still with a basis in some form of worldly reality, at least if you look at the northern hemisphere. Aquarius, for instance, representing the time of life-giving spring rain.”

“I’m a Leo,” interjected Assad. “And funnily enough, my name also means lion,” he added.

The professor smiled. “All these astrological signs create a circle around the Earth called the zodiac. Over the course of a year, the sun moves through this circle in a great ring, while the Earth rotates around its own axis once a day in a small cycle between the four points that consist of sunrise; zenith, which is the highest position in the sky; sunset; and finally nadir, which is the lowest point. Do you follow?”

Carl nodded; it was quite elementary. “I call that morning, noon, evening, and midnight,” he said dryly.

The professor smiled. “And in an astronomical understanding, these points correspond to the solstices, midsummer and midwinter, and the equinoxes, spring and fall. Now, if you draw the two axes between zenith and nadir, and between ascent and descent—or, in an astronomical sense, between the two solstices and the two equinoxes—a cross will appear across the circles drawn by the sun, known across the world as a sun cross.”

He lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. He was probably getting to some kind of point.

“Some call this cross the crucified sun. You can actually find it carved in rocks all the way back to prehistoric times, and this is where we find the foundation of a number of religions and theses that all have the sun and zodiac as their point of origin.”

Out of a yellow box, he managed with a bit of trouble to fish a small Ga-Jol licorice lozenge, which he chewed on for a moment to stimulate saliva.

“To cut a long story short, many religions can be defined on the basis of the stories inspired by the constellations of celestial bodies, and that was the crux of my lectures. The sun, which is a circle like the zodiac, has from ancient times—and quite understandably, given its life-giving properties—been a representative of the Creator and God, the light of the world and the savior of humanity. Countless world religions would later see a transformation of the star signs and the sun into a number of stories of sun gods and other mythological figures. My lectures demonstrated that all these stories are more or less identical throughout the ages, regardless of the religion.”

“The Egyptians had the sun god Horus,” commented Assad.

The old man thrust his crooked index finger toward him.

“Exactly, my friend. You’ve hit the nail on the head. Three thousand years before Christ, people worshipped Horus, who stood for light, and Seth, who stood for darkness. The legend of the two gods tells that every morning Horus, the good god of light, wins the battle against Seth, who can be simplified as the evil god, darkness. Translated to other religions, you talk about God and the Devil and lots of other things. But the hieroglyphs that tell us about this account in such detail, and as early as fifteen hundred years before Christ, also recount a number of other stories that may surprise you. Actually, the fact of the matter is that almost every figure in the Old Testament appeared in detailed description already then. Moses in the bulrush basket was known as Mises in Egypt, and is known as Manou in India, and Minos on Crete, for example. The hieroglyphs also reproduced the story of Noah and the flood, which can be read in the earliest known great work of world literature, the Babylonian epic of the hero Gilgamesh, twenty-six hundred years B.C. People of the Jewish faith will probably claim that they have the exclusive rights to these stories, but the funny thing is, you might say, that many of the stories in the New Testament are also found in these hieroglyphs.”

“You mean the story about the prophet Christ,” ventured Assad. “The three wise men, the Star of Bethlehem and all that?”

Carl was speechless. He may have grown up in Vendsyssel, where boys were quick to learn scripture, but that Assad, being Muslim, was just as familiar with Christian history was something else.

Again, the professor pointed at Assad with his left index finger. Definitely a habit he’d acquired over a long life as a lecturer.

“Correct. And the aforementioned Horus was born on December 25th by a virgin. His birth was predicted by a star in the eastern sky. He was worshipped by three kings. He became a teacher at twelve, and at thirty he was baptized, after which he was joined by twelve followers, disciples you could say, that he travelled around with performing miracles. He was betrayed by Typhon, crucified, and resurrected after three days.” He turned to face Carl. “Sound familiar?”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Carl burst out mechanically.

“Maybe not the most apt expression in this context—rather the opposite, I should think,” the professor said with a smile.

“But what’s it got to do with this Frank person?” asked Carl.

“Just a second, there’s more. When you look at the most prominent figures in different religions throughout history, you’ll see that there are a number of completely generic characteristics. I’ve mentioned the similarities between the lives of Horus and Christ, but the exact same elements appear in a number of other religions: the time and date of birth, the wise men, the guiding star, the disciples, the miracles, the betrayal, the crucifixion, the death, and the resurrection, just to mention the most important ones. All these stories are similar in relation to the Greek god Attis; the Persian god Mithra, twelve hundred years B.C.; Krishna in India, nine hundred years B.C.; Dionysus in Greece, five hundred years B.C.; and in lots of other countries, including Hindustan, Bermuda, Tibet, Nepal, Thailand, Japan, Mexico, China, and Italy, just to mention a few. Each and every time, the same story with a few modifications.”

“Modifications?” Assad looked really puzzled.

“Changes, adjustments, you know.”

Assad nodded, an inscrutable expression on his face that Carl couldn’t quite work out.

“I got the impression that this Frank person who we’re looking for was a sun worshipper or something in that vein,” said Carl. “But maybe I’m wrong. How does he fit into the whole thing?”

Again the professor stuck his deformed finger in the air. “Patience, Mr. Mørck. We’ll get to that.”

He fumbled for another lozenge. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve had a salivary gland removed on one side. Cancer, you see, so I need something to keep the remaining glands producing so my mouth doesn’t get too dry. These licorices are really good. Please, help yourselves.”

He pushed the box toward them. Only Carl was polite enough to accept the offering.

“This is a complex issue, and I could talk about it for hours.” He laughed, so no doubt about that. “But don’t fret, what I’m trying to get at is that the common denominators of all the different religious histories descend from astronomical and, very often, also astrological phenomena.

“For instance, let’s take a look at the birth sequence: born by a virgin on December 25th, sought out by three wise men, the three kings, who follow the star in the east.

“And here comes the astronomical explanation: The clearest star in the northern hemisphere in December is Sirius, which is aligned with the three stars in Orion’s Belt, originally called . . . ?”

“The three kings,” suggested Assad.

Once again, the crooked index finger flew in the air. “Exactly. So, the three kings are aligned with the clearest star in the sky, and at the same time these three kings point directly downward toward sunset on December 25th. Therefore, the three kings can be seen as following the star in the east toward solstice, the symbol of life and man’s savior. And above it all shines the constellation Virgo, which is also known as the House of Bread. Finally, we can look at the place of birth in our Christian tradition, Bethlehem, and translate the Hebrew, which means exactly . . .”

“House of Bread?” Assad beat him to it.

“Yes, that’s it. And if we look at another common denominator in these different religions, the cross and the crucifixion, again we must turn our attention to astronomical explanations. On December 22nd, 23rd, and 24th, the sun is, as most people would know, at its absolutely lowest point in the year. Particularly we up here in the north know that, because these days are the darkest of the year, and in olden times they were experienced as death itself, because it wasn’t known if the sun would ever rise again. At the same time, on December 22nd, the constellation Crux would be extremely clear in the sky about two thousand years ago, and after three days of watching that constellation, the sun—it’s tempting to say thank God—would once again start moving north. So, the sun, the very symbol of the divine, has been hanging for three days under Crux, the cross, after which it is resurrected. Our Jesus Christ shares this fate with most other sun gods.”

“Is this something that’s being discussed openly at faculties of theology?” asked Carl.

Johannes Tausen did a slight wave with his best hand. “Of course, most of it is well-known, but comprehensive astronomical interpretations like this have no place in theological studies.”

“Very strange,” said Carl, not knowing what to do with this knowledge. Perhaps it could’ve been funny to dish it out in his confirmation class, but the vicar probably wouldn’t have thanked him for it.

“There are many other phenomena that suggest a correlation between the celestial bodies and the stories we know from the Bible and lots of other religions. But I promise to stop soon,” said Tausen, closing his eyes as if to make sure he’d remembered the most important facts.

“I can only say that if you look at Jesus on a general level as the giver of life itself, as the son of the sun here on Earth,” he continued, his eyes still closed, “then that idea has been passed on figuratively from ancient times in the sense that Jesus’ head, with the corona around it and the cross behind it, precisely resembles the sun cross of the zodiac. Jesus is the son of God, the light of the world, fighting against the dark forces. And if you want to go into detail, the crown of thorns is merely the shadow that appears when the sun shines through treetops.” He turned to face them directly. “I can understand if this is difficult to take in. In fact, it is for me, too, and as a theologian and a man of faith, I will admit that in many respects it’s a hard pill to swallow. But that said, this is only a concentrate of a series of lectures, and maybe it all became too concentrated for the occasion.”

Assad kept a straight face, but that’s how it was with skepticism—it had many faces.

“This all sounds completely . . . unbelievable,” said Carl quietly. “These theories must have the potential to shake the foundations of almost any religious group.”

The old professor smiled. “Not at all. You can also choose to say that this is the only narrative of any significance to mankind. The fact that it is repeated over and over is completely natural, given that mankind has always been in need of a savior and reconciler. And that is how I look at it, too. A really good and in many respects well-founded story for all times.”

“And that’s how Frank thought as well, I would imagine. Don’t you think so?” asked Assad.

“Yes, absolutely, and that is in fact the essence. When so many known religions are based on astronomical phenomena such as the sun and the stars, following their patterns, it’s probably because all life on Earth and in the universe is the result of these constellations, and that this in turn provides us with an explanation for the existence of everything—even the Lord himself, you could say.”

He stared into space for a minute, as if his last sentence had led to a minor epiphany. “Now that we’re talking, I actually believe I remember some of the things he said to me the last time we spoke.”

Carl held his breath.

“He said something along the lines of: If you want to worship everything that’s divine at once, everything you can’t understand, you’ll have to give in to the only thing we know for certain: that the sun was given to us in the form of life, and that nature was given to us in the form of bread. Horus was the first sun god in the world, and therefore Horus is also the name of the primal instinct in man, commanding us to worship both the sun and nature with respect and care. All the things we don’t do today but ought to start doing. And then I believe he added: And as soon as possible.”

“And that’s the last thing he said?” asked Carl, slightly disappointed.

“Yes, and then of course he thanked me.”

“Do you think it made him neo-religious?” asked Assad.

“Why, yes, it’s very likely.”

Assad turned toward Carl. “That’s several times we’ve heard that, Carl.”

He nodded. People on Bornholm had seen signs everywhere. The man who found sunstones. And the blind woman Beate Vismut had sensed it, too.

“What was it Beate Vismut told Rose about it, do you remember, Assad?”

He leafed through his notebook for half a minute, the professor and Carl watching. “Here it is. She said that Frank ‘was a genuine crystal,’ and that he’d seen the true light and reflected himself in it, unable from then on to live without.”

“There you are,” said the professor, nodding his head. “You should look for a man who lives like that. A man who worships the sun and nature, and Horus as the symbol.”

“We began with the question of what he wanted to do with his life before your fascinating account. Do you think the answer is that he might have wanted to become a new messiah, and that he found the tool through your lectures? Is that a possibility?” asked Carl.

The old man frowned. “I doubt it,” he said. “But you never know, do you?”