League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Sarai returns to the lectern and gives a dissertation on the first 11 chapters of Genesis, declaring it a collection of folklore. She sparkles with enthusiasm for her subject. Some of the students make notes; some look concerned; others lean on elbows, listening eagerly.

  “The name Eve is not used until verse 20 of chapter three. The Man gives the name to his companion. Eve means the mother of all living but at the beginning of the chapter neither the male nor the female is aware of this possibility. The male interpretation of this creation myth has set a religious agenda for all women. In the sacred stories women appear as objects created for male use. When considering women in biblical text, think on this,” Sarai pauses and bobs behind the large panelled desk that extends the width of the whiteboard. The students gasp as one, the shock palpable, as they see what their lecturer hauls from behind the desk. The five foot two inches of Sarai is obscured by a blow-up sex doll. Doll and lecturer stand fused for a full 30 seconds, not that anyone is counting. In silence thick enough to slice, Sarai places the doll, tits up, on top of the long desk.

  “Biblical women are absent as persons yet they fulfil a function. To find their personal spiritual journeys we must look beneath the obvious and clothe them with feelings and speech, and in some instances even names. In verse six of chapter three the Woman sees for herself that the tree is good and believes it is able to bestow knowledge. She chooses to obtain knowledge. The passive Man simply takes what he is offered and becomes a comical figure in his kindergarten-attempt to blame his mate. The eating of the fruit — not apple note, apples are not indigenous to that region. If you must name the fruit, apricot is the most likely.” At this point Sarai turns from the desk and rubs apple from the board. “Eve’s act of deliberate choice marks the beginning of social life and culture — with the knowing that good and evil roles are defined and hierarchy established. The roles assigned reflect the author’s male-oriented worldview.” She glances at the doll, as does every eye not already there. The raspberry nipples point passively to the ceiling.

  Temptress is banished by eraser. Sarai looks straight at the disturbed features of the girl who supplied the word. The bespectacled eyes jerk from the obscenity stretched beneath the whiteboard and her cheeks turn red. Sarai’s focus moves to the angular girl. “No accusation of original sin can be found in the text.” As the girl’s contribution vanishes from the board Jen watches her long fingers clench into tight fists. “The concept of original sin comes from later male interpretations.” The immobile doll dominates the room, its mute orifices speaking volumes as Sarai darts backward and forward, talking her way over the whiteboard. River is erased to the explanation that four rivers ran from Eden. The mythical axis of the world nurtures all sides with its life-giving water. Dust, of the ground is a pun in Hebrew that connects people with the soil to which they will eventually return. She turns to the students, her face animated. “This pun can be transposed to English: from the humus, the human was formed.” She repeats the pun and continues removing words. “Angel means God’s messenger or representative, sometimes gifted with supernatural powers, sometimes indistinguishable from humans. Tree, two trees are mentioned. It is the Tree of Life that the angel protects with a flaming sword. Knowledge is useful — living forever is a very different attribute. She pauses at fig leaves. “Incidentally,” she says companionably, “despite what art would have us believe, the fashion was short-lived. God herself ran up little fur-coats for her favourites — check it out in verse 21.”

  Words fall until only daring and initiative remain. Sarai turns back to the doll. “By initiating the momentous act of considered choice the woman was rewarded with the most earthy and most divine role, that of conceiving, containing and nurturing new life. It was that act of initiative and daring that gave women power.”

  Sarai places her hands on the doll’s abdomen and slides her right hand between its naked legs. The stunned class watch in disbelief as Sarai’s hand disappears. With its withdrawal three seconds later the class resumes breathing, but Sarai hasn’t finished. In her hand is a penis-sized roll of paper. She begins to unroll it. Again the students cease breathing, their eyes fixed on a lengthening string of paper-dolls. Sarai drapes the hand-holding cut-outs across the inflated breasts. She looks dispassionately at the round eyes of the students and turns to the whiteboard. “Will the two persons who provided these words see me? The rest of you may go.” The students seem unable to move. “Lesson over,” says Sarai sharply. The spell is broken and the students shake themselves into action. “Wait,” says Sarai, holding up a restraining hand. “On Thursday I want to hear some reasons why the Hebrew God is male.”

  The pen gatherers and paper stowers pause. Confused shrugs are exchanged and last looks slide over the female parody.

  Jen and the amber-haired girl move to the front of the room. “Good thoughts,” says Sarai, nodding to the words on the whiteboard. “I noticed neither of you were thrown by Everywoman,” she adds. “Surprised but not perturbed.” She smiles. Little lines crinkle from the corners of her bright blue eyes. Seventy, if she’s a day, thinks Jen, returning the smile.

  “Religious studies doesn’t attract large numbers,” confides the lecturer. “I like to think of my classes as a meeting of minds, possibly like-minded, and therefore to some extent a meeting of friends. To be friends requires knowing a little about the other. Would you care to join me for morning tea in my study?” Both women feel more flattered than apprehensive and murmur acceptance. “Good. Would you give me a hand with Everywoman?” Sarai stuffs the paper babies into her bag and retrieves her notes from the lectern. “This way,” she says, leading them out through the lecturers’ door. Jen and the other woman follow, carrying the doll, hoping no one will see them. No one does. In her office Sarai opens a commodious coat cupboard. With the doll stowed the young women are waved to armchairs.

  When Sarai said morning tea, tea she meant. There is no sign of coffee. They are invited to choose from a wide range of herbal teas. “Now, who are we?” she asks when they are all holding steaming mugs and quality shortbread. “Nice boots,” she adds, revolving her office chair toward Kat.

  “Katrina Mergagh, Kat.”

  “Mergagh — rusty, freckles! That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

  “Rusty? Freckles?”

  “Sorry,” laughs Sarai. “It takes me back to an Irish lad I met at Woodstock. He was freckled and pleased to be so — saw it as a fulfilment of his name. He assured me Mergagh means rusty or freckles.”

  “Woodstock,’ says Kat, amused. “My grandmother was born at Woodstock … her father was a goldminer. No one goes to Woodstock. You must mean some other Woodstock?”

  Sarai gives her lovely tinkling laugh. “Sometimes I forget how young students are. I imagine there are quite a few Woodstocks in the world but for my generation Woodstock is more a legacy than a place.”

  “Peace, Flower Power, and Hendrix,” supplies Jen, not wanting to be paired with the young and ignorant. Sarai nods in Jen’s direction but remains focused on the younger woman.

  “Oh, that Woodstock,” says Kat. “Thought they would all be dead by now, or too zonked to work,” she adds quickly.

  Jen lowers her head but Sarai’s expression betrays nothing. “I understand Westport is one of the world’s most popular place names. I suspect by your accent you are from the West Coast. You’re not from Westport by any chance?”

  Kat wonders if she should be insulted.

  “No,” she concedes stiffly, but because Sarai looks genuinely interested she bends. “The other end of the Coast – Ross, actually, a gold town, like Woodstock, surrounded by dredge-tailings. My grandmother’s Woodstock is a tiny township east of Hokitika.”

  “My Woodstock is in America, upstate New York.”

  My god, thinks Jen, she was really there. At least she doesn’t have flowers in her hair … She notices a gold chain that dips below Sarai’s neckline. Perhaps she wears some bizarre medallion, a peace symbol.<
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  “And you are?” Sarai turns to Jen.

  “Jennifer Hawthorne, Jen.”

  “Otago born?” queries Sarai.

  She’s quick, thinks Jen, surely my southern rolling R’s have faded. “Mosgiel,” she acknowledges. Two can play this game. “And what about you? English? Spent some time in the States perhaps?”

  Sarai looks pleased. “Yes, I was born in England. Wiltshire is my county of origin. I travelled a bit when I was young, spent several years in America, returned to the UK for a while, then travelled in Asia. But now Aotearoa suits me fine. I’ve been a card-carrying Kiwi for fifteen years.”

  Kat is reflecting on the new knowledge that her name has a meaning. She usually curses its unfamiliarity as she has to spell it for form fillers. Damn! She hasn’t filled in any forms. Her little-known Irish name isn’t on the list. Now Sarai will look for it and notice.

  Jen is realising her day has taken a remarkable turn. After the hideous start there was this amazing lecture and now she is drinking herbal tea with the amazing lecturer. She wants to express gratitude by being pleasant. Her eyes roam the room. A large square print of a triangle dominates a wall. She doesn’t know how she should respond to this, so moves to safer art, a framed piece of appliqué. Delicate stitching outlines an earth-mother figure clothed in brown and green hills. “This is beautiful,” she exclaims. “Did you get it somewhere local?”

  “That’s a piece of my own work. Embroidery is a hobby, or rather used to be. I haven’t done any for a long time.”

  “Utterly exquisite,” says Jen, standing for a closer look.

  Sarai’s phone bleeps. She picks it up and after a pause, says, “Of course, Angelique. Yes it is an issue commonly misunderstood and frequently abused theologically. I was wondering if you would ring today. Excuse me a minute.” As she puts her hand over the mouthpiece, both Kat and Jen feel the lift in her energy. “It’s the Press, girls. I’m sure you’ve noticed gay marriage is back in the media circus — it can be a dreadful bore, but someone has to present a sound theological perspective.” There was no wave or goodbye, but it was clear the two women were required to leave.

  “Attention slut,” giggles Kat as they shut the office door. “Talk about lapping it up.”

  “Yes, darlings, it’s Angelique on the phone … you know, from the Press,” mimics Jen. “I’m guessing the horoscope is about all you can stomach from the Press,” she teases, “so you probably don’t know Angelique Tomlinson is the one of the most respected journalists in the country.”

  “I know who Angelique Fucking Tomlison is, daaaarling,” pouts Kat in a mock posh voice, and then says in a changed tone, “I can see why she would get on with Sarai: she’s into women’s issues. I’ve been following her investigation on the fate of sex workers in Christchurch. I like the opinion columns. That’s why I decided to see what Sarai is like in the flesh.”

  “And what do you think of her now?”

  “Talk about ego — she thought she was Oprah when the phone rang. But I enjoyed the lecture. I’ll be back.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, 25 February

  The itinerant artist whistles tunefully as he noses his battered van past the university, past student flats and into the leafy lanes bordering the Avon. This is more like it, he says to himself, as he parks the old girl beside a high fence topped by English trees. He swings his long legs onto the footpath and extracts a large carpetbag. As he admires the woodwork of the upper storey barking rends the air. Undeterred he strides to the next entrance, where a pair of wrought iron suns enhance double gates. No dogs mar the view. He enters but the doorbell elicits no response. After four fruitless attempts he crosses the street, attracted by an open gate and a black cat sitting on a letter box. He eyeballs the creature and enquires if its master or mistress is home. As if by way of answer the cat jumps down and walks to the front door. He follows, rat-a-tats the brass toad knocker and is rewarded by the appearance of a woman. He judges her to be going on for 60, at least 10 years older than himself, but wearing well, damn well!

  She silently approves his flamboyant cotton shirt and neat jeans. He is wearing a trilby-style hat made from the same denim as his jeans. A hat gives character. She waits. He does the right thing. Tipping his hat ever so slightly, he bids her a bright good morning. “I am a travelling artist, ma’am. Would you be so generous as to spare me a little of your time so I may share my work?”

  He hands her a business card that reads Kevin (Fish) Salmon, Artist. Her mouth twitches. “Well, Mr Salmon …”

  “Call me Fish,” he interrupts.

  “Fish it is then. I am interested in the arts. Do come in … Fish.”

  She leads him into a spacious lounge. As well as a sofa and chairs the room accommodates two tables and there is still ample area of clear carpet for unrolling canvases. She goes to clear some of the clutter from the larger table but Fish assures her the floor will be fine. “Nice carpet,” he acknowledges to her, and shag pile to himself.

  The woman sits on the sofa and he lays his wares at her feet. The work is acrylic. Bright slabs of colour convey bold landscapes.

  “I love the contrast between plains and alps — must be South Canterbury.”

  “Not difficult to pick,” he grins. “What about this one?”

  “Has to be Otago — you’ve so captured the colours of Central.”

  “It’s the Rock and Pillar Range … can you place these rocks?”

  “Castle Hill Station, on the way to the West Coast. Unmistakeable!”

  “You’re good, all right.”

  “And so are you! I couldn’t name the places if you hadn’t depicted them so well.”

  The chatting continues for a good 30 minutes before Fish casually enquires if she is interested in making a purchase.

  “Have you got anything more local, closer to Christchurch?”

  Fish shuffles through his canvases and spreads golden hills to her gaze. The painting gives the illusion of being an aerial view. Beyond the hills lies an aqua harbour.

  “Lyttelton, no … Akaroa — it is, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “I like it.” She stands and walks round him and the canvas. “Do you ever put figures in your landscapes? To me a landscape looks lonely without people. All that beauty needs to be enjoyed.”

  “I haven’t done figures in a while but I used to be quite good at people, especially if they’re doing something. I enjoy a bit of action.”

  “Action.” The woman pauses and her eyes light up. “I’d like to show you a print I brought from England. It would be easier if you came upstairs.”

  Fish follows, his eyes taking approving notes. She leads him to a bedroom with twin beds. Above each mahogany bed-head hangs a black and white print, both depicting witches. “The Rain Makers,” he observes. “I know this print but I don’t know the other one.”

  “It’s called The Lancashire Witches and is supposedly Mother Chattox, a noted local witch, with an apprentice, riding to Pendle Hill. I come from Lancaster and know Pendle Hill. Lancashire is infamous for its witch trials. This is a sobering reminder of how women have been treated. Look how they have depicted the poor soul! My concept of witches is rather more jolly. Would it be possible, and would you be willing, to add a couple of pleasant witches flying on a broomstick over Akaroa?”

  Fish raises a quizzical eyebrow. “One of them you?”

  Her cheeks grow pink. “Yes.”

  “Well then, it would be a pleasure. And you are?”

  “Pauline Woods.”

  “Let’s draw up an agreement, Ms Woods.”

  “Pauline, please.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  3 — Word of God

  Thursday, 26 February

  Sarai leans on her lectern. “Every reading is a rereading. Every reader brings personal experience to the text. To appreciate a text is to be in conversation with it. It’s not the tradition benders who are to be feared but the tradition defenders.
Religion comes from culture. Faith is an evolutionary process.” She pauses. Only a few have put pen to paper. “Don’t despise platitudes, they usually contain a grain of wisdom. Tradition needs to be understood before it can be discarded. Now tell me about this Hebrew God — why is the deity male?”

  Ms Serious raises a confident hand. “The Hebrews were a patriarchal people — males headed families, nomadic tribes and kingdoms. They could not conceive of their One God being anything other than male.”

  “Do we agree with this?” Sarai looks around her class and absorbs the nods. “It is certainly how the Hebrew males saw Yahweh and as the scrolls were written by men the concept was continually reinforced. Consider the Ten Commandments. We may like to think the Decalogue is for all people but the signatory tenth clearly relates to males only. When Moses consecrated the people, among his preparatory purifying rituals is this: And he said to the people, ‘Prepare for the third day; do not go near a woman.’ Just one of many instances where people means men. It is in recognising that biblical texts are interest-laden that we turn to the gaps and silences. The God of the Hebrew people was male. The males who compiled the Hebrew Scriptures saw women as pawns in a male story. The genuine enquirer asks, ‘What did the text mean then?’ and ‘What might it mean now?’ — ever aware of personal agendas. Any questions?”

  Ms Serious looks around and raises a tentative finger. “Are you saying the Bible is not the word of God?”

  “I’m saying the Bible should carry a warning: This may be hazardous to your health. By being held up as the ‘Word of God’, and therefore an inerrant authority, the Bible has given theological legitimacy for verbal, emotional, and physical violence in all manner of situations, but particularly against women.” She takes on the voice of a male counsellor. “If you were an obedient wife he wouldn’t have to beat you — whom one loves one chastises. Go home and pray that God will make you a better wife.” The students grin appreciatively. “Forcing women thus counselled to conclude until death do us part means until he kills me,” she concludes with a sobering glare.