League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Kat is transported by a very early memory. She is in the bush with her mother. Water droplets flash crystal lights as they tremble on fern fronds and moss-draped logs. The bush is redolent with the earthy smell that follows rain. “Look,” her mother whispers, “a parson bird and its mate.” Gurgling notes echo in the canopy above and fill their ears with music. The white ruff fluffs and black feathers glint metallic green as the tui serenades its brown mate with chuckles and bells. “Is this a magic place?” Kat asks. “More than magic,” her mother replies, “this is a place of deep spirituality.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Sarai is at least 70 and floats around campus in kaftans popular in the sixties. Rumour has it she was at Woodstock. It is also known she was at Greenham Common and that she is some sort of a pagan, a hippy worshipper of Gaia perhaps? Even so, her excellent credentials enable her to lecture in religious studies.

  Despite her ageless persona Sarai’s body reminds her it isn’t ageless. Pain-niggles gnaw. Arthritis crouches, waiting to attack. Her digestive tract gives unwanted reminders of its presence. Panadol and Quick-Eze joggle guiltily beside herbal remedies in the pocket of her jute shoulder bag. Sarai knows this will be her final year of formal teaching. Usually the new academic year, swarming its fresh horde of butterfly youth over campus, delights her soul. Now she feels the weight of failure; time is running out. Is it her fault that her chosen one has not measured up? Has she taught her too well? Too much? Not enough?

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Pauline and Sarai bonded the moment they rediscovered each other ten years ago. Christianity had been a disaster for Pauline. The early years of repression and guilt took almost as many years to exorcise. To Sarai, Pauline appeared to be a spiritual virgin. She became highly invested in the younger woman’s potential and watched the Wiccan path change Pauline’s life.

  It began innocently enough with the gift of a ritual gown. Pauline liked dressing up. She had looked bewitchingly gorgeous in star-sprinkled indigo velvet, her dark tresses cascading over her shoulders and down her slender back, a sylph made visible by the fleeting magic of the moon. Nine years later Sarai can still feel a tug of emotion as she relives the scene. She hadn’t anticipated Pauline’s total immersion in the Craft.

  At the time Sarai thought delving deeper into Wicca would enhance her student’s spiritual understanding as it had her own. She had been witness to Pauline ‘Drawing Down the Moon’ and embodying the goddess of the moon. Not only was Sarai the witness, she had taught Pauline the liturgy:

  By seed and root

  By stem and bud

  By leaf and flower and fruit

  By Life itself and Love

  Not unto Thee I attain — unless Thine image be Love

  I am a creature of the earth

  Of earthly life and human love

  Open and readied for rebirth

  Therefore, by seed and root

  And stem and bud

  And leaf and flower and fruit

  And Life itself and Love

  I invoke Thee down — come, fill this mortal, then return above

  Sarai accepted that her protégé was hooked on leading the coven. Her self-imposed penance and responsibility is to keep a watching eye. Past experiences shape all our perceptions but do not excuse our actions. That is the message Sarai drills into all her pupils.

  To Pauline the primal connection to earth and sky is so right. She believes in love. For those with the eyes to know, love is the all encompassing, throbbing beat of the universe. She pities her parents’ restricted love and narrow lives, yet they were good people, hard working and moral. Their deepest joint desire was to raise holy children. Cleanliness was next to godliness and idleness a sin. To foil the devil, they kept female fingers busy with washing and sewing, jams and preserves, brooms and dusters, six days a week. The holy seventh was grim and sober. Perhaps that is why she so delights in Sabbats — the Witches’ Sabbath.

  The Wiccan Wheel of Life celebrates eight major Sabbats but Pauline feels no compulsion to slavishly stick to the Wiccan calendar. The celebrations are geared to the natural cycles of the Northern Hemisphere so have to be altered to fit the Antipodean world. She just knows that any full or new moon can be used to work good magick. These days she works with what works for her, contemporising the old rituals or, if need be, creating new ones appropriate for the upside-down islands she has emigrated to. That is why this year her coven will celebrate Lammas, the first Sabbat of the southern calendar, not on February the first but on the tenth, as the moon will be full and perfect for sky-clad revelry.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  2 — Eve

  Tuesday, 24 February

  Jen drives through the city on a high of happiness and apprehension. Wilkin is sweet about her new venture. “I do want you to be happy, darling,” he had said. “I know being at home isn’t easy for someone as intelligent you. Intelligent and beautiful,” he’d added, kissing her attentively before leaving for work. At the door he had paused and saluted. “Have a lovely day.” What’s not to love? This city is so beautiful, a paradise of magnificent trees and parks, and wonderful old buildings. But as she reaches Ilam apprehension rises as the dominant emotion. She is early, very early. She intends to be in the right place at the right time, prepared and unruffled.

  Too modern, she decides, as she looks around her. The iconic Otago clock tower building swims into mind, fore grounded by gowned students tossing tasselled mortarboards. Jen has a fleeting sympathy for Wilkin’s desire for the old. Universities should be mellow stone buildings with ‘ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls’. It is a real shame the old Canterbury College buildings no longer house the university.

  Jen knows she is older, wiser, wealthier, more cynical and, a sudden new truth, less at ease with uneasiness. The fabulous camaraderie of her previous university life is gone forever. She just hadn’t expected its replacement to be such an ocean of apartness. Jen has spent the last decade perfecting control of every part of her life; feelings of alienation are not on her horizon of expectation. She fights the urge to hate everything she sees. All the young women are aggravatingly thin, sweet and vibrant. The effortless sexiness of youth and the casual op-shop clothes niggle at her understated Levi’s and slightly over tight t-shirt. Snap out of it, you pathetic idiot. You eat lawyers, judges, politicians and their wives for breakfast — get a grip! She forces her shoulders down, lifts her head, takes a sharp breath and ascends some broad concrete steps.

  When she makes it to 608 on the sixth floor, she is still early. The lecture theatre is not open. She is trapped in the foyer, surrounded by exuberant, bubbling, perfect girls. Most are embracing friends, catching up on holiday news, comparing phones, clothes, and generally being young. An Asian student wearing gorgeous strappy silver sandals adjusts her matching tote bag. Her silvered eyelids flutter in Jen’s direction. She nudges the girl next her. They exchange sniggers.

  A small cluster of red plastic chairs is unoccupied. After some anguish Jen decides a seat is the safest option. She takes the only reasonable option her mind can find: being deeply interested in the literature pinned on the wall. The poster in front of her promotes Rainbow Campus — the HQ for lesbians, gays and transgendered people on campus.

  “I hate that fucking poster, it is soooo typical of campus life. HQ this HQ that, it makes me sick,” says a loud voice.

  “Whatdya mean, Angel? You told me you were going to be part of that scene and become the queen of the lipstick lessies. What’s changed, you fickle bitch?” The voice is male, good-natured and mocking.

  “You should know, bitch,” the first voice replies. “It’s you and your kind who make me sick. But seriously, just so you other girls know … HQ is man code.”

  The group breathe in together in feigned suspense. “Man code,” pipes the male voice. “Are you about to go Superdyke on me, darling?”

  “You better pray I don’t, girlfriend.”

  “Does she look like a dyke to you, Steve?”
calls another voice.

  From the corner of her eye Jen sights a full-figured Goth, neck to toe clad in jet black, hair with blue ends falling from a black cap.

  “Well I mightn’t be a dyke, but I wear the fucking pants at my place, emo.”

  The Goth flinches, and says nothing.

  “I am going to reveal what Steve and his brotherhood of the peni are up to here on campus.” The owner of the voice moves as she speaks. “Just look at this fuckin’ poster!”

  Jen looks up to see a startlingly beautiful Eurasian of about 19 standing right in front of her. “I know what you’re all thinking, and you’re all fucking wrong — including you, bitch,” thrown straight at Jen.

  “I …” Jen splutters.

  “Don’t worry, Mum, I’m just kidding …”

  Jen feels her face flush and can’t halt the creeping embarrassment. Angel swoops like an owl on a wounded mouse. “Mmm it blushes, I know, I know … I meet your type every day at work. Girls, if you don’t know, I work at the Pierced Hood. YESSS I know, I’ve seen most of you there.” She pauses to wink at a sweet-looking academic type. “Seen you there a whooooole lot, sister.” Fits of giggles ripple around the circle. “MILFs, bambi dear, come in all the time. Not sure if they want to fuck, fight or get fisted. It’s so suburban, it’s a scream.”

  “MILF?” queries an amused Steve.

  “Yeah, MILF: Mother I’d Like to Fuck.”

  Shrieks of laughter explode, drawing more bystanders into the terrifying mob. Jen feels tears pricking. How could this be happening? She can hardly breathe.

  Angel, intoxicated by audience, pulls up to her full five foot six, 56 kg splendour and struts a peacock circle in front of Jen. “What Milfy here is experiencing is exactly what happens at my house everyday … I am the pretty one, I am the lipstick to her chapstick, I’m the girrrly girl, and you all think that makes me the meek little rub your shoulders, play with your hair, wear the lingerie bitch of the team …” Angel whips her perfect body to face the crowd, pausing for effect. “And you’re right.” She smiles, fit to pop with self-admiration. “But what you don’t know is that I’m the one who wears the pants. I make all the calls. She can’t even choose her clothes without me. It’s pathetic … but gorgeous.”

  As Jen is praying to be swallowed by her plastic chair, thinking it can’t get any worse, Angel holds out a skinny little finger, slides it down Jen’s face, catches up a lock hair and twirls, saying, “Now Milfy here, God, sorry love, you know this is not really about you, it’s just me showing off, God you’re being a great sport … Milfy here knows exactly what I’m talking about, she wants something pretty, young, playful.”

  “Hey princess,” a voice interrupts.

  Angel pauses, peeved at being cut off mid-torrent. Another young woman moves forward, right up to Angel. The scene slips into slow motion. The new girl is pretty, early twenties, amber hair glinting in the sunlight thrown from the tall window, dress casual-chic. Her gorgeous Italian boots are a brand Jen herself likes to buy. They walk up to Jen’s Nikes and pause. Jen, unsure if the new combatant is an assassin or not, is frozen by embarrassment and dimly aware of burning lead immobilising her legs and feet.

  “This is my fucking Milf, bitch, so step back.”

  Angel’s lips pucker. “This is heaven. Are we going to fight? I bet you could whip my skinny white ass real good.”

  “Oh you’d like that,” chided the new girl.

  “We all would,” calls the Goth. “Beat some manners into that Cinderella, will you?”

  “What I looove about lesbians,” contributes Steve in high camp, “is they are sooo energised in relationships.”

  The amber head swings back to Angel. “Aaactually, darling, you could give me something.”

  “Yes, daaarling?” responds Angel.

  Jen realises she is off the hook.

  “You can tell me what the fucking man code is in the HQ.”

  Angel shrieks and hugs the new arrival. “I love a woman who can keep me to the bloody point. I’m such a bloody motor-mouth.”

  “HQ, HQ,” Steve starts to chant. A couple of girls half-heartedly join in but it doesn’t take.

  “OK, OK, here it comes, sisters.” The Eurasian beauty waves both arms downwards, hushing the group to attention. Jen slowly fills her lungs and forces herself to exhale fully and slowly. Keep breathing, she instructs herself, keep breathing.

  Having her public’s complete adoration, Angel is ready to play her ace. “The HQ for Lesbians, Gays and Transgendered is … well, it’s … the thing is I have been told by some people that fucking know, the holy HQ actually stands for Homos and Queers. It’s run by dicks, for dicks, with a complete fucking fixation on meeting and having dicks. HQ is by men for men.” She spits, deliberately just missing Jen’s jeans. “Sorry love,” she fake-whispers with a shrug, as if Jen was an old friend and ally. “Me and my mouth.”

  “Oh my Lord,” groans Steve. “I better be out of here before she has my balls for nipple jewellery.”

  With Steve breaking the tension, the group loses shape, part drifting to the pair who took up the HQ chant, and most into the now-open lecture rooms. Angel wanders away with a 30-something dyke in canvas pants and plaid shirt. The amber-headed intervener spins slowly on her expensive heels, looks back over her shoulder. “God help us all, Milfy,” she grins, eyes rolling in mock horror. “God help us.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Despite the crowd in the foyer fewer than 20 students settle themselves in the tiered seating of Room 608. Apparently Biblical Text and Women is not a popular subject. Jen makes a quick calculation. Four rows of ten seats, small as lecture theatres go. Much to her relief Angel is not among the students, although the well-groomed Asian is, along with Steve, and the Goth, and the amber-haired girl with the boots.

  The lecturer sweeps into the room wearing, of all things, a kaftan. How old is she? Decidedly menopausal, but for how many decades? Her hair hasn’t gone grey, and though light, isn’t white. Creamy strands swing to the level of her chin. The style reminds Jen of the sixties icon Cilla Black. Class and lecturer size each other up for a full minute before the woman speaks. Her eyes flick over each student in turn.

  “Welcome to you all. My name is Sarai. Some say it means contention,” she says, with a slight tilt of the chin, and launches into lecture mode. “Just because a theory makes sense does not necessarily mean it is right. In this class we bring our own judgements.” As she pauses and repeats it, the diligent reach for their pens. “Feminist theory insists that singular definitions are misleading. Feminist criticism is born of dissatisfaction and concentrates on the political, social and economic rights of women. Gender is not a matter of sexual difference, gender is a matter of power.

  “You have a list of recommended reading. Pursue it as you wish. The textbook for this course is the Women’s Bible Commentary edited by Carol Newsome and Sharon Ringe. Read the chapters as scheduled along with any supplementary hand-out sheets. My basic biblical text is the New Revised Standard Version as it uses inclusive language. The Bible is, for the most part, an alien text, not written by women or with women in mind, yet more than any other text it has proscribed our gender, dictated our sexuality and defined our social roles. This course is a reading of gaps and silences. Therein we will recover and reclaim the lost lives and voices of ancient women. Women and men are equally complex — gender does not make a person good or bad.”

  Sarai moves from the lectern to centre stage in front of the whiteboard. “Today we will consider the First Lady of the Hebrew Scriptures.” She writes EVE on the whiteboard. “Was Eve a lady? Was she a Hebrew?” The questions are vaguely disquieting but comfortingly rhetorical. “Myths of all cultures are the earliest human attempts to answer the great truths of life. The creation myths of the Hebrew people have become the founding myths of Christendom, the founding myths of Western civilisation — myths Europeans claim as theirs, and for any country they colonise, their myths become ours.” Jen glances
around the room: the chic Asian and a young Maori woman are stony faced.

  “The Genesis stories contain superb imagery and layers of meaning. What springs to mind when you think of Eve?” Sarai spins from the whiteboard and flourishes a pointer, magician wand-like, toward the girl with glasses who had earlier been singled out by Angel. Miss Sweet Academic is comfortable in this situation. “Temptress,” she responds confidently. Sarai writes the word in round red letters and invites a free-flow of words connected to Eve. “Anything at all, whatever comes into your mind.” There is a long pause.

  “Rib,” tentatively offers a girl in a bright t-shirt. She is rewarded with a smile.

  “Yes, rib, a bone taken from Adam’s side, indicating woman is intended to stand beside man. Think on the key elements of the story. Much symbolism is contained in common nouns. Let’s have some more.”

  I thought brainstorming went out in the seventies, thinks Jen, uncharitably. Most of the class appear to be enjoying the exercise. The board fills with garden, tree, apple, snake, fig-leaves, river, dust, angel, flaming sword …

  “What about the character of Eve?”

  Deceiver, liar, unworthy, weak, disobedient, manipulating.

  “Much grief is laid on Eve,” encourages Sarai. “Where is the theology?”

  An angular girl in front of Jen offers original sin.

  Epitaphs flow — blasphemy, the fall, punishment, shame, lust …

  “Every action produces a reaction. There are always consequences.”

  Evil, says the Goth. Pain in childbirth, smirks Steve. Toil, supplies the only other male in the class.

  Sarai’s pointer swoops the rows and pauses at amber-hair who, like Jen, has remained silent. “Daring,” she ventures with a look of defiance. Jen thinks she detects the briefest of nods as Sarai adds the word. When the pointer holds Jen in its power, she mumbles the word her brain is refusing to eliminate. She senses others strain to catch what she’s said, but Sarai writes without hesitation, initiative.