League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Surging into Room 608 Steve steps on Jen’s toes. “Oh sorry, darling, I just can’t help having big feet,” he leers. Jen is annoyed but can think of no suitable reply. Steve puts an arm around her shoulder and gives a little squeeze.

  “Harassment is an offence,” Jen shakes him off, now angry.

  “Don’t worry, Milfy, not all males have big feet. I’m sure Jake hasn’t,” he indicates the t-shirted male in front of them and quickly claims the seat at the beginning of the row.

  “Chauvinistic pig,” spits Kat.

  “I’d spread my cloak over you anytime, kiddo,” returns Steve.

  “You couldn’t afford me,” she says dangerously.

  Jake, about to enter the next row, pauses. He steps aside and sweeps his hand toward the empty seats. “Plenty of room here, ladies.”

  “Thank you,” acknowledges Jen. “The age of chivalry continues with the civilised.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  For the second time in three weeks Jen and Kat find themselves sipping herbal tea in Sarai’s study. Kat is on edge, thinking Sarai is going to kick her out for not being registered. Kat has not divulged this fact to Jen. It’s got nothing to do with her, Kat scowls to herself, wondering why Jen is in the room. But so far Sarai is all charm, if a little nosey. She has asked why they chose Biblical Texts and Women. Both students feel their personal reasons inadequate and are groping for answers. Neither do better than, It sounded interesting.

  Sarai tries a different tack. “I’ve discovered, over the years, that women who have a strong interest in women’s issues usually opt for feminist studies. Feminists who embrace Biblical Text and Women are more likely to be women with a strong church background or a natural attraction to spirituality. Would you put yourselves in either of these camps?” Jen nods immediately. Kat hesitates. “Perhaps you had a spiritual experience when you were young,” Sarai prompts. Kat finds herself nodding and colouring. “I don’t want to know about it,” soothes Sarai. “I just needed to be sure.”

  Sure about what? they both think. Though smiling Sarai emits an air of intensity. In an effort to relax the atmosphere Jen breaks eye contact and gazes at the large framed triangle. Today she is better positioned to see the detail. It appears to be a photograph of a raised hollow triangle that is three-dimensional. Objects are sitting on the outline. Jen is keen for a closer look but doesn’t like to stand with her tea mug still half full. “Would you explain this picture to us?” she asks.

  Sarai dissolves from intense to dreamy. “Ah,” she says, “you don’t know the great Judy Chicago. If you did you would recognise her defining work. The Dinner Party is an icon of feminist art. No mere photo can do the work justice, but what do you see?”

  “Well, obviously a raised triangle,” says Jen.

  “And what might an equilateral triangle represent?” Can’t she ever stop being a tutor, thinks Jen, but says, “Equality?”

  “True, and what else — a symbol for?” This time Kat is under scrutiny. The Da Vinci Code movie comes to her aid. “Isn’t a triangle a symbol for female or goddess?”

  “Indeed, but it does depend whether the apex points up or down. In the photo it is clearly down, which is intentional. However, in real life people can view the work from all sides. Come closer and look.”

  “It is a dinner party,” breathes Jen. Three long connecting tables are loaded with place settings. “How big is it?”

  “Monumental! It is a ceremonial banquet celebrating 1038 women in history and mythology. Each table-wing is 48 feet long and set with 13 places, a reference to the Last Supper. Judy wanted to reinterpret that all-male event from the point of view of those traditionally expected to prepare the food then disappear. Thirty-nine women are represented by place settings and another 999 names are inscribed in the Heritage Floor on which the table rests.”

  “I can see cups, cutlery, and plates but I can’t work out what is on the plates. It doesn’t look like food. Is it made out of fabric?”

  “No, it’s not food, well not the common understanding of food, and yes most of the plates are topped with fabric but it is a multi-media presentation — fabric, porcelain, silver, and glass, all handcrafted.”

  “One person couldn’t have done all that.”

  “One person didn’t. Judy conceived the idea but her core team evolved to 129 workers, aided by many volunteers. It took us years.”

  “You worked on it! Where?”

  “At the California Institute of the Arts. I was involved for the final four years and was present when the work premiered in San Francisco in 1979.”

  “Did you do embroidery?” asked Jen, glancing at the earth mother picture that had previously caught her eye.

  “Yes, embroidery. It was my passion of the period. I embroidered names and helped fill some of the place-settings. I have a replica of one if you’d like to see it.” They nod interest. Sarai pulls open a bottom drawer and extracts a fat roll encased in tissue-paper. She unwraps, unrolls, and reveals a textured oval. What does it remind you of?”

  Jen and Kat gaze entranced. Delicate folds of multicoloured fabric are caught up in a raised pattern with a slit crevice at its centre. They don’t like to say what slips to mind and look to each other for help, get none, and turn to Sarai. She is striving to be impassive but pride and amusement are both present. She remains silent.

  “A butterfly?” ventures a cautious Kat.

  “Good,” responds Sarai, “the butterfly is an ancient symbol of liberation and resurrection and that is part of the concept. The butterfly merged with the core image is a metaphor for assertive female identity. Come girls, don’t go coy on me.” She looks at them reproachfully. “This piece and the place-settings are examples of vulvae art.”

  Jen and Kat exchange furtive glances. Jen can see Kat wants to giggle and is glad Sarai is still focusing on the work.

  “In the wake of the Women’s Liberation Movement, feminist artists sought to resurrect women’s craft and decorative art as a viable artistic means to express female experience, realising its political and subversive potential. Historically ‘women’s work’ has been devalued because of its association with the domestic and the feminine. Quilting, embroidery, needlework, china painting, and sewing were never deemed worthy artistic equivalents to painting and sculpture. The age-old aesthetic hierarchy that privileges certain forms of art over others is based on gender association. The Dinner Party is a powerful statement. Thirty years have passed since the concept became reality, but in 2007 it was installed in its own permanent hall in the Brooklyn Museum. The work and Judy are as vibrant as ever. The message doesn’t date.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  After Jen and Kat leave, Sarai is lost in thought. She had been raised in an English village and blessed with a loving, church- and community-minded family. University days had moved her to a different life. For the next decade or so she had experienced pretty much all there was for hedonistic youth to experience, if not personally, vicariously, through a wide circle of friends. But early influences cast long shadows — or perhaps she had inherited the religious gene. Come early thirties, while in the USA, she had decided it was time to grow up, return to a modernised version of her parent’s values, and contribute to society. Church life met spiritual needs, provided a stable intergenerational community and opportunity to serve. Thirty-year-old memories come flooding back clear as yesterday. “So much hate,” she murmurs. Phallic art celebrated continually from earliest times and cunt art abhorred. An involuntary shiver recalls the emotional chill still palpable from when she was summonsed to appear before her Parish Council in the church meeting room …

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Each grim face is clearly visible. The ‘liberal’ minister insists on a circle for open communication. Open! The man has no understanding of the word. He was a friend and she had trusted him, this is what hurts. He could have stopped this charade. As he told her privately, “It’s not my personal point of view but I couldn’t go against the full Counci
l.”

  So, they all voted against her. Sarah is shocked by this disclosure but turns her hurt to anger against the minister. In matters of preaching and teaching he has absolute power if he chooses to use it. Weak! Shallow! Spineless — a jellyfish personality that takes on the colour of its environment. Those who are genuinely offended, fair enough to say so, everyone is entitled to voice a point of view. The work is meant to be confrontational. But this parson claims to be liberal, says he stands for justice and inclusivity!

  The few women in the circle have their heads down and will not meet her gaze. Women she considered friends. But when the crunch comes they won’t stand up against the men. It’s not Christian to rock the boat. Sarah is appalled by their betrayal.

  The presbyter offers an opening prayer that asks for respect for all and gives thanks for the wise leadership of this parish. There is no charge as such, had there been Sarah may have been able to defend it. Instead, two members read waffly statements of their point of view, and the floor is open for anyone to speak. A few present their damning with faint praise. “You are intelligent, have worked hard for the parish, and have much to offer, but …” They all speak of the ‘hurt experienced through young people being subjected to inappropriate material’.

  “Our girls must be protected from pornography,” declares the Chair of Parish Council, amid agreeing noises from the men.

  Pornography! The tight-arsed prudes have no idea what pornography is! For these ‘leaders’ to call magnificent art pornography is sad and ignorant. Ignorance is not bliss when laced with hypocrisy. This is St David’s for God’s sake, with the tallest spire in the region! Her eyes dart to a wall niche where a plaster replica of Michelangelo’s David, stands in full male glory, surely they know King David and St David are not the same person! If they do, they don’t care. Nude males, if religious, are appropriate.

  “What you did is an abuse of your position as leader of the girls’ Bible Class. Families have been hurt by your actions,” continues the Chair.

  She is not invited to reply. Nor does she want to. They are too entrenched for reason. The self-proclaimed liberal, justice-seeking minister winds into an impassioned speech that keeps referring to hurt and corruption. The words pass over her but the hate in his face is a startling revelation. His qualifications are a diploma in theology and pastoral process. Sarah has degrees in theology, philosophy and art — is probably the best educated person in the room, certainly in church related matters. She reigns in her wandering thoughts to receive the climax of the parson’s tirade.

  “It is the decision of this Council that you be removed from your position of trust in the Bible Class and have nothing further to do with the girls of this parish.”

  No thanks for the years of work she has given to the girls of the parish, weekly classes, camps, socials, outings. All forgotten because she took a group of them to see the artists and artisans working on their specialties for The Dinner Party. Afterwards the girls had gone to her flat and discussed what the work might mean, and the importance of valuing themselves as female.

  Well, if that is how Parish Council feels, so be it. The parish is the loser. Although sorry for the girls, who she knows will miss her, Sarah has no hesitation in withdrawing her creative contribution from every area of parish life — the Flower Roster, Education Committee, and Public Questions Group. It is what Christ himself advised, If anyone will not receive you or listen to your words shake the dust from your feet and leave that house. She can leave the parish. She didn’t realise it can’t leave her.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  In the studio assigned to Judy Chicago dozens of women and a few men brought their talents and impassioned dedication to the cause. Judy’s vitality and zest infected them all. The place was a plethora of multi-media creative chaos. Artist and artisan fired each other, gaining inspiration from the other’s skills. However, some citizens were so outraged by the blatant feminism of the work there were fears for its safety. Building security depended on more than one key, but every key was a link in the chain. The importance of keeping keys safe had been impressed on all with key privileges. Sarah was on the duty roster for locking up at night. She had mentioned this to the girls — careless words cost!

  She takes pride in seeing the coffee mugs are washed, benches wiped, and rubbish in the bins. Content that all is as it should be she locks the door, leaves the building and steps into the warm Californian night. Wham! Bang! Men in balaclavas are pinning her face down to the pavement. One rifles through the contents of her bag as another directs a torch beam. “No key here,” rasps a voice.

  “Where’s the key, slut?” says another.

  Face-down, Sarah can see a pavement grill an arm’s length away. “Let me sit up and I’ll get it.”

  She is pulled to a sitting position and held by legs and shoulders as she goes through her jacket pockets.

  “Here.” She holds up a key.

  It is grabbed and the light-beam directed to the attached leather tag. The word FLAT appears in carved letters. “This is your flat key. It’s the studio key we want, and you know it. Where is it?”

  “Down there.”

  Two of them tug at the grill but it won’t move. The men are angry now. They haul her to her feet, polluting the air with their annoyance.

  “Her flat key is better than nothing. I know where she lives.” This time it is a voice she recognises, the Chair of Parish Council. “Put her in the car.”

  There is no one in sight but Sarah knows her best defence is to scream. She does so and a hand clamps over her mouth.

  “Gag the bitch.”

  She is gagged with a large handkerchief and manhandled to the back seat. Two men pack beside her, one on each side, each capture a hand. The other two plunge into the front seats and slam the doors. “What about flatmates?” asks one.

  “She lives alone,” says a voice Sarah recognises as the father of one of her girls. A short ride and Sarah is bundled from car to flat. The curtains are drawn and the light snapped on. “Strip her,” orders Chair of Parish Council. The men are hesitant and continue gripping her arms. “Our high and mighty, oh so academic Sarah is dedicated to celebrating private parts. Let’s see what hers look like.” He steps forward, clutches the neck edge of her dress and rips the front open.

  Sarah is wearing a light jacket, cotton dress, and two undergarments. She is stark naked in seconds. Surely, they wouldn’t. By now Sarah is convinced they are all church members. She is in a state of shock and unbelief but doesn’t struggle. She can’t fend off four males. Struggling is likely to excite greater violence.

  “On the floor,” barks the boss. “Spread her legs and hold her down. Sarah means princess, so she told our girls.” He towers over her and tugs his balaclava to free his mouth. “This is what I think of you, Princess Sarah.” He spits.

  “We’re leaving now, slut. Don’t even think about the police.” He holds up gloved hands. “No fingerprints, no bruising, no nothing. No one will believe you.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  No one will believe me. The truth impacts as Sarah scrubs herself in the shower. After applying Dettol to her pubic hair she still feels unclean. The minister can’t be trusted, some Parish Council men are evil, and the others can’t be trusted — men close ranks. The Parish Council women she considered friends can’t be trusted, and besides, women are powerless at St David’s. They wouldn’t dare rock the boat. She has no evidence to show the police, and besides, the secretary of Parish Council has a son of whom he is very proud, a son who is a high-ranking detective at the local police station.

  Neither Rescue Remedy nor a hot milky drink induce sleep. In an effort to replace the balaclava images Sarah visualises the happy atmosphere of the studio. She is currently working on the runner for place-setting 12, Boadicea: the feisty warrior queen and her daughters took on male armies. Boadicea’s reaction to the murder of her husband made Sarah proud to be British. Boadicea wasn’t cowed by a bunch of barbaric males.

&
nbsp; I won’t be cowed either, vows Sarah, reversing a previous decision. They won’t drive me out of my church. I will not aid the parish in any way but will attend regularly and they won’t be able to do a thing about it. I have no qualms about eyeballing any of them. They can act out their piety knowing that I know what they are really like.

  Sarah asked her art friends to call her Sarai. Loosening ties with her Judeo-Christian name brought conscious release from the exclusive ties of Christianity. Pagan Sarai inspired compelling desire to appreciate goddesses and become immersed in feminine wisdom.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  8 — Mabon Sabbat

  Sunday, 22 March

  The autumn equinox is only a week away. Mabon, the ‘Witches Thanksgiving’, is the time of the Mysteries, when the Mother Deity becomes the Crone. It is a time to honour ageing deities and the spirit world, a time of balance to pause and enjoy the fruits of personal harvests, whatever they may be.

  The Mabon Sabbat is one of Pauline’s favourites. Released from its cupboard her ritual cauldron stands companionably on the floor of the preparation room as Pauline talks through a recipe. “Place equal quantities of three appropriate herbs in a pint glass jar. Mmmm, what appropriate herbs do I have?” She selects myrrh, sage, and pine. “Fill the rest of the jar with Everclear. Cap tightly, and shake gently, concentrating on the purpose of the ritual. Let the jar rest in a dark, warm spot, and shake twice daily, charging with purpose.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Jen and Wilkin attend their local, Cashmere Hill's, church each Sunday. Jen avoids extra parish activities. As a career woman she had neither time nor inclination. Now she has time she is glad she has no inclination. The Anglican Church is far too invested in marriage and motherhood for her liking. She doesn’t fit the women’s groups. The St Fiacre’s Young Wives group is a bunch of newly-weds, and as for the Mothers’ Union, apart from not qualifying, Great-grandmothers’ Union would be a more accurate description. Jen’s lunching friends have church connections but no desire to slot into a formal church structure.