I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again. They smarted, as if stung by acrid smoke, and I blinked once or twice, screwed my eyelids into knots, then drew the back of my hand across my face as a few tears escaped and trickled down my hot cheeks. The ‘Maiden Tribute’ was, ostensibly, a moral work, but it was also, of course, a Gothic fairy tale. And the girl volunteers whom Stead had talked to—girls such as I was fated to become—were its heroines: little brazen-faced harlots who seemed to relish unnerving their interlocutor with tales of death, disgrace, and desire. The ‘Maiden Tribute’ was, without doubt, the most beautiful book I had ever read.
Snuffling a little, I slipped the pamphlet back between its attendant guardians of Dickinson and Poe where it might remain hidden from my mother. (I did not need to hide it from Dad. For him, like so many other men, childhood innocence and what was romantically desirable possessed the same attributes—and that was something he could never acknowledge. But Mum understood—and understood too well—that a child can be a harlot, and a harlot a child, and that young ladies who paid the wrong kind of attention to tracts penned by Mr Stead were no better than Daughters of Onan.)
I re-crossed the room and stood before the pier glass.
I was a bluestocking—a bluestocking who longed to wear silk stockings. White silk stockings with seams, fancy stitchwork, and garters embroidered with tiny pink flowers. I turned down the lamp, then eased my nightgown off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Naked, I crossed my wrists behind my back, inclined my head to one side, and studied myself somewhat overcritically in the mirror.
Nearby, on top of my chiffonnier, was a framed ambrotype of Dulcie, my little sister. Dead six years, tucked up in her lead-lined petticoats in the East London Cemetery in Stepney, she stared out at me from the aether, the secrets of the grave locked forever behind her eyes and frozen lips.
I picked up the brass frame. Consumption, they said, was often caused by passion or the repression of excessive desire. How was it possible for a disease like that to kill an innocent child? I stared the more intently, scrying the photograph’s occult properties. It had been taken after she had died. And she had been posed, much as I had been posing, in anticipation of a better world.
I set the frame back in its place, pulled my nightgown over my shoulders, extinguished the lamp, and got into bed. I lay awake for hours, my thoughts filled with the same peculiar greenness that poured through the window and into the room.
CHAPTER THREE
I stood before a desk in the headmistress’s study. Behind it sat the headmistress, Miss Morganstone, my teacher, Miss Nelson, and the recruiting officer, an elderly, pensioned-off Shulamite whom I’d been told to address as ‘Duenna’.
‘This is Madeleine Fell,’ said Miss Nelson, her smile reminiscent of the one behind which she’d hoped to conceal her embarrassment upon seeing me raise my hand and volunteer.
‘She has reading and writing?’ said the Duenna.
‘She is one of our brightest pupils,’ Miss Nelson replied. ‘She has a wonderful memory. She can learn whole books off by heart. In fact, I believe she would make an excellent pupil teacher.’ She blushed. ‘But of course—’
‘But of course Madeleine wishes to become a temple-maiden.’ The Duenna looked me straight in the eye. ‘Is that not true, Madeleine?’
‘It is certainly true that she is good with numbers,’ interjected the headmistress, who always interpreted the ‘seen and not heard’ rule in the strictest of terms. ‘Not just subtraction, multiplication, and division, mind, but fractions, percentages, decimals, and interest, too.’
‘And algebra,’ piped in Miss Nelson.
‘And geometry,’ added the headmistress, unwilling to be outdone.
‘Please,’ said the Duenna, seemingly unafraid of the two teachers, even though both had a well-deserved reputation for being complete
Turks. ‘I wish to avail myself of the young lady's opinions.’ Miss Nelson turned puce. ‘Madeleine?’ said the Duenna, prompting me.
‘Well,’ I said, nervously, ‘I have a good attendance medal. And I received a book at last year’s prize day.’
‘She comes from a most respectable family,’ said the headmistress. ‘Most respectable. Her mother is a confidante of Mrs Henrietta Barnett.’
‘Please,’ said the Duenna, plainly exasperated. The headmistress fell as silent as Miss Nelson. Indeed, both teachers looked so abashed that the world might have been turned on its head, for they resembled nothing so much as two erring schoolgirls sent into a corner to share the dunce’s cap.
The Duenna smiled. It was an intimate smile. It was a smile that said I had won her sympathy.
‘I’m glad to hear you’re so bright,’ she continued. ‘We need bright girls in Babylon.’ How well connected was the Duenna? She spoke with an assurance that suggested a social standing I was unfamiliar with, except in books. Perhaps she was distantly related to the Rothschilds, I thought, letting my imagination run away with me, or even—however fantastic it might seem—the Weishaupts. ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘I think I could promise you a very good position—as a personal companion to one of our High Priestesses, say.’
‘Or a scribe?’ I said, feeling confident enough to make a suggestion of my own, and thinking that writing had always been my métier.
‘Perhaps,’ said the Duenna. ‘It would certainly be better than being a pupil teacher, don’t you think?’ And her smile grew wider.
‘Yes, Madam,’ I said, retreating into my natural shyness.
‘But to become a scribe it is necessary to know more than your ABC.’ She picked up a pen, dipped it in an inkwell, and scribbled something in the register that lay before her. ‘Now,’ she said, looking up and setting the pen to one side, ‘let’s see just how clever you really are.’ The headmistress and Miss Nelson folded their arms across their chests. Their faces were pinched, their eyes cold and shrewd. I might have been one of the insects or seashells that they kept in their specimen cabinets. ‘Answer me this, Madeleine: How did the ancient Babylonian priestesses of Ishtar create the first interdimensional gate between Earth and the parallel world that has come to be known as Modern Babylon?’
I smoothed down my pinafore. ‘By means of sex-magic,’ I said, 'sometime during the seventh and sixth centuries before Christ.’ I hesitated, unsure of how detailed my response should be. ‘The parallel world—a fecund place, with varied flora and fauna, but devoid of—’ I was reciting by rote, of course, and rather thought I'd said too much, but the Duenna nodded for me to continue. 'But devoid of indigenous human life, was declared sacred to Ishtar, under the code of Hammurabi. And great stone images of Ishtar’s favourite animal, the lion, stood guard beside the portal that linked the two worlds, for it was decreed that if any man entered that holy land, Babylon the Great would fall.’
‘Very good,’ said the Duenna. ‘So many ancient secrets were lost, of course, after Babylon the Great did fall. But thanks be to Ishtar that the secret of inducing nympholepsy was not amongst them.’ She leant back in her chair. ‘Now: Can you tell me how the fall of Babylon exactly came about?’
‘Nabonidus,’ I began, this time speaking with greater confidence, ‘was the last king of Babylon. He reigned from 555 to 538 BC. He was of Aramaean origin. Spurning Ishtar, he chose to worship his native gods. Furthermore, to show his contempt for the Goddess, he and his soldiers entered the parallel world and, and...’
I flushed scarlet.
‘It’s all right, Madeleine,’ said the Duenna. ‘It’s a perfectly acceptable English word. Nabonidus and his men ravished the temple-maidens, yes?’
‘Y-yes,’ I said, fighting for breath.
‘After which,’ the Duenna prompted.
‘After which,’ I continued, in something of a strained tone, ‘the priestesses of Ishtar, and eventually Babylon itself, turned against him. Nabonidus retreated to the town of Harran and left his son Belshazzar in charge of the capital. And it was while Belshazzar was rul
ing in Babylon that Cyrus II of Persia succeeded in taking the city.’
‘Correct,’ said the Duenna. ‘Babylon fell because its king refused to honour the covenant with Ishtar. The Ishtar cult, then as now, celebrated the hieros gamos, or sacred marriage, between a ruling élite and the Goddess herself. Babylon’s kings had had their authority guaranteed by the sexual union they enjoyed with Ishtar’s temple-maidens on Earth Prime. It was only when Nabonidus blasphemed, stepped upon holy ground and violated Ishtar, that the Persians were able to take Babylon. And it was at that same time, of course, that Ishtar’s temple-maidens—that is, those whom we call Shulamites—completely withdrew into the parallel world of the new Babylon and sealed the interdimensional gate behind them.’
The Duenna leant back still further, her smile broadening until it threatened to dislocate her otherwise serene face.
‘Ancient Babylon declined,’ she continued, ‘to be at last buried under sand-drifts. But there was another Babylon, of course—a Babylon that survived and learnt how to co-exist with our own world. It still survives, after nearly two thousand years, in a parallel universe at right angles to our own: Modern Babylon. Do you think you could serve her, Madeleine? Do you think you could live up to her great ideals?’
‘Yes, Madam!’ I said, my enthusiasm threatening to undo my carefully studied attempt to emulate her serenity. The Duenna’s smile became wider, and then wider still, until it assumed Cheshire-cat dimensions. When the corners of her mouth turned down, and she suddenly became quite serious, the contrast of mood was so violent that I almost took a step backwards.
‘We shall see. Tomorrow is a holiday. The centenary of the day when our esoteric cult became exoteric,’ said the Duenna. ‘So we shall continue our discussions on Monday.’
‘She is not a born Shulamite,’ said Miss Nelson, with quiet, viperish insistence.
‘Anyone can see that,’ said the Duenna, betraying a hint of impatience. ‘But it is important, vitally important, that we replenish our temples. So many trains—’ She gazed towards the window, as if the passing horse-and-dray were the most important thing in the world. ‘In any event,’ she continued, still unaccountably distracted by the commonplace sight outside, ‘what is important is that she has the mind and soul of a Shulamite.’ She looked at me keenly. ‘There will be tests, of course, Madeleine. Not all those that are accepted as candidates for the novitiate actually pass through the Gates. For the time being, you will remain a postulant.’
‘Then I am accepted, Madam?’
She folded her hands together and placed them on the desk. ‘Our religion has become corrupted. And not just because it is no longer a mystery religion, but because of the incursions, the sacrileges, of men: men who do not respect the code of Hammurabi. Today, it is as it was when Nabonidus, the last Babylonian king, turned from the ancient ways and blasphemed. But these latter-day heretics do not wish to turn the Modern Babylon into a harem, they wish only to make of it a graveyard. It is strange to think that their morbid influence has had many a born Shulamite fall from grace and betray her sisters. But Ishtar is a moon goddess. And the dark phase of the moon augurs lunacy, sickness, and death.’ She looked up at the ceiling, as equally distracted by the gas-fittings, it seemed, as she had been by the horse-and-dray. ‘I fear our moon is waning, Madeleine. I fear Babylon is not in Her right mind. I fear Death means to make us his mistresses. And when that happens, surely Babylon the Great will fall a second time.’ She paused, as if to collect herself, and then sat bolt upright, her body galvanized by a mysterious fervour. ‘New blood, such as yours, is our only hope. Repopulated, renewed, Babylon may once again unite the spiritual and the chthonic, as it did in ancient times.’ She wagged a finger. And then, quite unexpectedly, her smile returned. ‘Oh yes, I think a clever girl like you should go far, Madeleine Fell.’
If I heard what the Duenna said, I was careless of its import. All I knew was that I had achieved the impossible.
I really was a whore of Babylon.
During dinner break I loitered in the playground, so lost in reverie that I would occasionally bump into a girl who might be eating a fish-paste sandwich, or a group of younger girls playing chase, marbles, or hoop and stick.
‘Feeling better?’ I turned around. It was Cliticia. ‘I ’eard you made it through the interview,’ she added. ‘Congratulations.’ She placed her hands on her hips. ‘I thought you would. You’re not the kind of girl to get the strap, are you? I mean, you’re not a fewerbrain, like me.’
‘I had to wear the back straightener once,’ I said, lamely, and cursing the cleverness that, just an hour ago, had served me so well. ‘Anyway, how did your interview go?’
‘Yeh, no problem.’ She laughed. ‘Piece o’ cake for a born Shulamite, innit? Even if she is bleedin’ stupid.’
‘I don’t think you’re stupid,’ I said. ‘You know, Cliticia—’ ‘Wot?’ she said, with a hint of her old aggressiveness.
‘You’re so pretty,’ I said. ‘You really are.’
She wrinkled her retroussé nose and grinned. ‘Silly,’ she said.
‘I mean it.’
She tossed her head and shifted her weight from one leg to the other, like a shepherdess coyly acknowledging her swain.
‘We’re going to ’ave to write reports,’ she said, with a becoming I ill to her voice. Her skirts swayed from side to side, agitated by her rocking pelvis. ‘So, I wanted to ask you—’ She paused. I knew she was proud. What I was rapidly learning was that she was kind, i do, though I daresay she would have scratched my eyes out if I had suggested it.
‘If I could help?’ I ventured. ‘Yes, of course I could help. If you wanted me to, that is.’
The pelvic rocking stopped. She cast her gaze around the playground, as if seeking out interlopers.
‘Do you want to come back to my lodgings?’ she said, with .ilfected casualness, while keeping her gaze fixed upon two little ^irls who were engaged with a skipping rope.
‘That’d be nice,’ I said.
She took my arm and we sauntered out through the school ^ates and into Buck’s Row.
‘You could help me, too,’ I said. ‘I mean, you’ve grown up amongst Shulamites. You must have heard lots of stories about life off-world. I’ve had to rely on books.’ And dreams, I thought, on so many strange, beautiful dreams.
‘You are weird, y’know,’ she said, giggling.
She drew to a halt next to New Cottage and outside the gate that gave on to Mr Brown’s stables.
She cupped her hand to her mouth. ‘Murder! Murder!’ she bleated, like one of the boys who sold the Star and Echo. ‘Another ’orrible murder in Whitechapel! Another woman cut up in pieces!’ She turned to me, her face one huge grin.
‘Don’t do that,’ I said, as calmly as I was able. I hurried her on.
‘Lighten up, darling,’ she sighed. ‘You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers.’ The popular press seemed to believe that the murderer could end the Home Secretary’s career and even bring down the Government. To me, that seemed unlikely. But I found it easy, too easy, perhaps, to believe the countless opinion pieces that argued that the murderer was a Minotaur.
Reaching Brady Street we turned right and headed towards Whitechapel Road.
‘And you don’t want to believe everything people say,’ I said, stung into proving that I wasn’t a crybaby. ‘Your friends might think I’m weird, but I’m as much a Shulamite as you are, Cliticia. Really I am.’
She kicked a bottle across the road, amused and irritated, I think, in equal measure.
The hay market was in full swing and the high street seethed with the million, the cobbles so slippery with squashed vegetables, fruit rinds, and general filth that, for a while, I had trouble keeping my balance. Holding on to each other, and lifting the hems of our skirts, we squeezed past a cluster of oyster stalls and stacked wooden crates, trying to ignore the boorish men who gazed appreciatively at our ankles and frilled petticoats.
‘I would
n’t mind some o’ that, ’arry,’ said one. "Ow about you?’
‘Worth a month’s wages,’ said his friend, winking at Cliticia. ‘What you say to that, me little soot-faced stunner?’
‘Careful, old lad,’ said another, who was probably a Radical, like Dad. ‘That’s just what the bosses want.’ And by ‘bosses’, of course, he meant the Illuminati. ‘They want you to catch the nympholepsy. They want you under their thumb.’
Cliticia tossed her head in disdain.
‘Really!’ I said, quite genuinely shocked.
A little unshod boy held out a box of lucifers and looked up at me, mournfully. We pressed on.
‘Can we really make them sick?’ I said.
‘Reckon I could,’ said Cliticia. ‘I got black blood. And maybe you could too, if you went to Babylon and lived like a Shulamite. The moon there does funny fings to you. Or so they say.’
Soon, we were amongst the thick of it, surrounded by barrow- loads of tin saucepans, turnips, pickling cabbages, and breakfast herrings. ‘Eight a penny, lovely pearsV!’shouted a coster. ‘Chestnuts all ’ot, a penny a scoreV!’ cried another. And a man toasting fish over coals bellowed ‘Three a penny, Yarmouth bloaters!’
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