League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

Pauline raises her athame, asks a blessing on the phallic symbol then plunges it into the cup of wine symbolising the Great Rite of intercourse. Paired with the wine chalice is a second, prepared with salted water. She holds it high then dips it into the second chalice, readying the tool for casting a spell on the sacred receptacle of life.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  The thieves watch wide-eyed, bamboozled. They have no point of reference for this spectacle. Through the open fanlights the humming sound grows louder and louder. “God, she’s got a knife!” The naked women murmur nonsensical words as the leader places the tip of a blade between the legs of a woman lying down. With the tool thus placed the tight circle of women moves outward to the full extension of their joined hands. The mad-woman then raises her knife above the heart of the victim.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Shane Kirby is as one possessed, driven by a more primeval urge than common thuggery. He stands, knife clenched in fist, steps back, and hurls himself at the tall window. The splintering glass cuts arm, head, shoulders, chest, and thighs. He feels no pain, his warrior cry registers only rage. He bounds across the lawn, a bellowing, wounded bull. He has no plan. His body knows he must save the young woman from satanical sacrifice. Before he can breech the obscene circle the young woman leaps to her feet and embraces her attacker. “Keep away!” she screams. “Don’t hurt her. Keep away!”

  Shane stops dead. The young woman is not frightened of the witch. Confused, he realises he doesn’t know what’s happening but he must disarm the witch. “Give me the fucking knife,” he shouts. Pauline holds it out, handle toward him. Tightening his grip on his own knife he grabs the other with his left hand then runs an expert finger along its edge. It’s blunt, couldn’t harm anything. Dazed he shakes his head in an effort to make sense of the scene. The victim is not harmed. She appears to be devoted to the witch. But there is blood on the ground. His blood! The women watch him silently. They are old, and naked. Why? His head spins and his vision blurs. His dead grandmother is standing in the group. His murdered mother is there, whole and beautiful. The young woman is his sister, fully grown. He rubs his eyes and staggers. Someone steps from the shadows and catches him as he faints.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  The terror ebbs but the energy does not disappear. The scream and attack of the young man had accelerated every heart in the circle. The risen temperature is not ready to subside. Cradling the young man’s head on her lap Sarai begins to chant,

  I hold you in my heart knowing you’re not to blame;

  Circle of protection wipe away your pain.

  She looks up at the shaken Pauline and moves her eyes to the dropped athame. The action steadies Pauline. She kisses Becky, gently releases her, and retrieves the symbol of her power. Sarai continues chanting,

  I hold you in my heart knowing you’re not to blame;

  Circle of protection wipe away your pain.

  Pauline joins in the mantra and motions the scattered coven toward her. Hesitantly the others take up the chant. Slowly the circle reforms and morphs toward the fallen man, surrounding and covering him. Sarai wills Pauline to resume control. Her eyes move from the scattered jasmine to the chalice. Pauline understands. The polluted space must be purified. Water and salt are the vital ingredients. In the absence of a proper asperger one has to improvise. Pauline gathers the frond of jasmine, dips it in the chalice, then shakes water droplets over the blood and over the young man. She repeats the process several times, gently sweeping the jasmine over the inert body.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Shane peers through tear-filled eyes. The light is disturbed, he can’t separate shapes from the swirling darkness. As he blinks, twisting shadows take the form of heaving, dancing kelp. He is on the bottom of the ocean, peering through the kelp. His boat has capsized, his fishing rod lost. Panic demands he breathe. The reflex is stronger than the mind. He gulps … and breathes. The ocean swirls the kelp monster around his limbs. His gran is calling, “Shane, Shane, reach up.” A skinny arm reaches down, touches the kelp, transforming it to fragrant flowers. “My beautiful boy, my brave boy, you are safe. I love you, Shane.” Shane opens his eyes. A circle of strange women look down at him. As his grandmother’s voice fades, so does everything else. He slips back to unconsciousness.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Dale and Marty stand fused, catatonic with shock. The splintering glass catapulted them to grasping collision. They gaze through the jagged space, devoid of comprehension. Knives … nakedness … nonsensical actions. All they saw was Shane’s insane dash. The rest of the drama was obscured by bodies, naked bodies. Was there a dead body? More than one dead body?

  “What’s happened to Shane?” quakes Marty.

  “He went down.”

  “What do we do?”

  The seriousness of their situation dawns, the enormity of it threatens to be too much. They have always relied on Shane to call the shots. They can’t just leave him. But they can’t call for help. Not in the middle of a robbery.

  “We’ve got to get rid of this gear. Empty the backpacks, fast!” In the surreal vacuum Dale assumes leadership. “We have to get out of here. We can’t get help with this stuff. Leave it on the floor. Come on. Run.”

  They run, down the passage, out the door, through the gates, and don’t stop until they can round a corner. Gasping, heart pounding, Marty fumbles for his cell phone and presses 1.

  “Don’t,” Dale snatches the phone from his hand. “What are you going to ask for?”

  “Ambulance. Shane is bleeding — he might even be dead. Those witches might have killed him. They might want to eat him or something — should I say Police?”

  “Shane might have killed one of them. We don’t know what happened. But if we dial 111, we’re implicated, whatever we ask for. Deep shit, man.”

  “We have to do something. We can’t just leave him.”

  “We have to find out if Shane is OK,” says Dale. “We have to go back.”

  “Go back to that mad place? Never. I’d rather die.”

  “Someone might be dead.”

  Dale is no keener than Marty to go back inside the weird house. He kicks the curb, trying to think.

  Marty gazes into space. “Look, this street is a dead-end,” he says at last, “it leads to the river. That house must back on to the river. We could follow the river, find the fence and see what’s happening in the garden.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Shane stirs. He can no longer trust his eyes or senses. He doesn’t want to open his eyes but knows he must. He gazes into Sarai’s face. Of course she isn’t his dead grandmother. But who the hell is she? The woman speaks.

  “You are wounded. Don’t worry, it’s not serious. We will help you.”

  We. Suddenly he remembers: mad, naked women. Witches! His eyes dart around. There are women but they aren’t naked. Was it a crazy dream — a really bad trip? Old women in dressing-gowns look down at him. Are they having some sort of geriatric sleepover? He tries to get up but his arm hurts when he puts weight on it, so does his leg. Both are tied with bloody rags.

  “Handkerchiefs,” says Sarai, following his gaze, “to stop the bleeding. You have some long cuts. They don’t appear to be deep. Now we can get you inside and clean you up properly.”

  Dumbly Shane allows the women to help him up and assist him inside.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Marty’s plan works. They find the garden. It takes three attempts, giving each other a leg-up to peer over fences but this has to be the right one. A dark open space stretches before them devoid of people and lights, but a fire in a brazier smoulders on a patch of paving. Did it actually happen? Both would like to think their imaginations have got the better of them but a light over the back door reaches a smashed window.

  “Where are they? Where’s Shane?”

  “We have to find out.”

  “We’ll check the windows.”

  With the garden looking so normal they daren’t let each other see how nervous they ar
e. Various ground-floor windows glow to electric light. The youths move around the house cautiously. A protruding bay window indicates the lounge and a slit between semi-closed drapes throws a wedge of light onto the lawn. They flatten themselves into the side shadows and view the scene. Shane is sitting on a sofa drinking what looks like a cup of tea. He is stripped to boxers and sports multiple bandages and plasters.

  “Holy shit!”

  “A bloody tea party!”

  Old women in dressing-gowns are scattered around the room drinking from cups balanced on saucers.

  “Shane is OK.”

  “What about the chick?”

  “There she is, in that red kimono thing.”

  “We can go.”

  “Yeah, we’re outta here.”

  A black cat watches their retreat.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Kat strokes the marmalade cat that wanders the bar. She is treating herself to a couple of quiet wines in a pub not far from the motel. The pub is beside a bus stop. Being such a mild night Kat decides against a taxi. Bussing is a novelty these days and she enjoys a bit of people watching. She notes a middle-aged couple exchange low words and the man move to another seat. His rigid demeanour beeps anger signals. His ring finger wears a gold band. They get off at the same stop, pointedly ignoring each other as they turn in the same direction. How complicated people’s lives become, she muses, recalling her first customer. Marriage is a danger zone.

  Stepping down from the bus she checks the sky. The stars are bright and a crescent moon glides between treetops. She takes a deep breath. There is a hint of jasmine in the air. It is a beautiful city, Kat tells herself as she strolls along the footpath, shame about the crime stats. Running footsteps interrupt her thoughts. Her hand goes to the whistle in her jacket pocket. Two hooded youths are racing down the opposite footpath. She doubts they have even seen her. They are running as if their lives depend on speed, packs bounce on their backs. No one appears to be chasing them, they disappear round a corner.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Shane knows he should resist but feels so befuddled he can’t. The strange tea is making him drowsy. He lets the women tuck him up on the sofa with rug and pillow. Anyway, he can’t go. He doesn’t know where his clothes are.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Pauline kept herself together mostly because she was too stunned to think. The violent interruption of the fertility ritual was traumatic for every person present. Each witness knew it could have ended in tragedy. On reflection, Pauline realises with horror, Becky’s quick comprehension and action saved her from being … murdered! Merely thinking of it produces elevated blood pressure and a need to sit down. She wonders if having bought her athame on Trade Me contributed to the unleashing of evil. Sarai has frequently warned her witchcraft is not to be taken lightly.

  Pauline realises she has not only Becky to thank but also Sarai. Sarai had remained calm and quietly encouraged her into resuming control. Pauline silently restates what she has said many times before: Sarai is an amazing woman.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  It is only after the intruder’s wounds have been dressed and the women are having supper that Becky fully comprehends what she did and the impetuous foolishness of her action. What if he had kept coming?

  Sarai is alerted by a soft clattering and sees Becky’s cup trembling in its saucer. She takes cup and saucer from her hand, places them on the sideboard and leads Becky to the study. Becky sinks into the sofa, buries her head in her hands and sobs. Sarai puts a matronly arm around the slim, heaving shoulders.

  “What if he had stabbed me? I could be dead. Even if I had only been wounded, how could I explain it to Zac?”

  Sarai gives a gentle squeeze and remains silent.

  “We so badly want a baby. I’ve done everything I can think of. I’ve even been to a doctor and he said I was fine. He said I could go to a fertility clinic but it costs so much. I do what it says: I watch my weight. I don’t smoke. We drink, but only a bit, I never get wasted, not now we’re married. I keep charts, take my temperature, and insist he does it at the right time. It spoils it really. What more can I do? I’m a failure!”

  Sarai waits until the shoulders still and offers tissues from the box by Pauline’s computer. “Why are you taking all the blame? It takes two to make a baby.”

  Becky blows her nose emphatically and Sarai passes the rubbish basket. “Do you know the story of Rebekah and Isaac in the Bible?” Becky shakes her head. Sarai continues. “The Bible Rebekah thought she was unable to have children. The Bible makes frequent mention of barren women. Understandable in those times, when knowledge was so limited. But Bible men knew about farming and had their reproduction theories. As they saw it, males had the seed and females provided the soil. Seed was always good but soil could be of poor quality — what they called barren. Rebekah and Isaac loved each other and Rebekah was barren. What was surprising for the time is Isaac accepted some responsibility for the situation. He took action, the only action a concerned male of those times could take: he prayed to his God. And the Lord granted his prayer, bountifully: they were blessed with twins.”

  “Are you saying witchcraft is wrong and I should pray to God?”

  “Not, at all,” responds Sarai. “We live in a pluralistic society — there are no limits on goodness. Witchcraft has its place along with all well-intentioned practices, prayer included. The point I am making with Isaac is that he wanted to help his wife and he did something practical, all he knew to do at the time. Has your Zac done all he can? Has he taken the tests, had a sperm count, worked at diet, exercise, and healthy lifestyle?”

  Becky’s look is of frank surprise. “We just thought it had to be me!”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  The Wiccans go upstairs to dress. Pauline locks the lounge door and sags against the jamb. “What now?” she says, turning as she has often done in the past, but never in such diabolical circumstances, to Sarai. As usual Sarai has an answer.

  “First priority is the man’s clothes: they must be washed and dried. Put your machine on the fast cycle?”

  After bidding goodnight to the last guest, Pauline and Sarai return the almost-stolen goods to their rightful places. They can’t do anything about securing the broken window but luckily all of Pauline’s interior doors are equipped with locks.

  Sarai is tired and only wants to sleep in her own bed but Pauline can’t be left alone in the house with a potential murderer. Over liberal sherries in the kitchen they sift through possible scenarios. Involving the police was rejected as too complicated hours ago but the fact remains there is a thief and thug in the house. The sleeping draught added to his tea won’t keep him out for ever.

  Pauline retrieves the clothes from the drier. They fold them and top the pile with contents taken from the pockets. The only omission, the knife, is safely locked in the potions cabinet. “Maybe,” says Sarai, “we can encourage him to leave without being involved ourselves. Your lounge windows open perfectly well don’t they?”

  Swift as cat burglars, Pauline unlocks the lounge door, Sarai slides the sleeper’s belongings through the gap and Pauline relocks the door.

  When Sarai stays over she sleeps in the second bedroom, but it would be inhumane to make Pauline sleep alone tonight. She cradles her sleeping friend and reckons how many years it has been since they last fell asleep in each others arms — too many? No, the right decision was made. There is too much at stake for the frivolity of lovers. A tremor spasms through her ageing frame as the enormity of the task engulfs her. The crone’s sleep is fitful and dream-ridden and bears no link to the intruder or the coven. “Time, time,” Sarai mutters, “time is running out.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  5 — Rahab

  Thursday, 5 March

  Sarai stands statuesque at her lectern, swathed in swirls of brown, gold, green and blue. The breathing centre of land, sky, river and frond, muses Jen.

  “No text is neutral,” declares Sarai. “Every act of writing is poli
tical. Bible text had an agenda that is not our agenda. We never just read, we always read from somewhere. Each of us comes with our own worldview, mindset, and ideology.” She pauses and scans her class, her eyes lingering briefly on the Maori girl. “Our views are not static, they are shaped by experience. Young people need boundaries. A fundamentalist faith suits the young. To mature involves pushing boundaries and moving from certainties.” Sarai’s sharp eyes catch the flash of Philippa’s anger. She is unperturbed. “Some of our best philosophers have evolved from fundamentalism. Belief is a process. Our conversation here is not just with Bible characters, it is with the other voices behind the narrative. We have to be aware that we are from another world and a specific context. Our context is twenty-first century Aotearoa New Zealand. As we enter Rahab’s story her world will intrude into ours.

  “Rahab lives in ‘the Promised Land’, and like all its inhabitants she is not an Israelite. Rahab is a marginalised woman who lives on the margins of the city, a poetic irony: her house is within the walls of Jericho and she has knowledge of life on both sides of the wall. After 40 years of wandering and chastening, the Israelites are now ready to enter the Promised Land. Joshua, the leader who succeeded Moses, sends men out to spy out the land. Chapter two of the book of Joshua: And so they went and entered the house of a prostitute whose name was Rahab. Are they viewing the land or the woman? Is the message, The woman is available and so, therefore, is the land? Or is it, This is a land of promiscuous people? The verse ends with and spent the night there. The taking of the woman leads to the taking of the land. However, the text gives the prostitute a name and the spies are nameless. The scribe who records the story sees Rahab as a person of significance, a person used by God. Even the least can be used by God.”

  Kat squirms and wonders, Does she know? Of course she doesn’t, how could she? Why is she looking in my direction?

  “Rahab is not a peasant,” continues Sarai. “She has understanding of the Israelite religion, is intelligent, has verbal skills, and is cool in the face of danger. She knows her protection of the spies is the only way to protect her household. Rahab is an accomplished liar and a leader. She tucks the spies under flax on the roof as if tucking up children for the night. Rahab is in charge, she makes the conditions that the spies readily agree to. The text gives Rahab a happy-ever-after ending but there are dangers in reading Rahab as a hero. Rahab can never regain dignity as a Canaanite. Dominant cultures identify with the dominant voice. The taking of the land is subtly reinforced with the assumption that the other culture is promiscuous. The story of Rahab is a dangerous tale if the agenda is women and land may be raped at will.”