League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  “That will be nice,” says Kat.

  Jen opens a drawer and starts to rummage. Her phone bleeps again. “He wants me to pick up his suit from the drycleaners.” She checks her watch. “Oh, how we have been talking, I had no idea it was this late! Kat, I’m sorry but I’ll have to go. Is it OK if I drop you off in town? I’m not organised for an early dinner.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Pauline, ever the optimist, is convinced the fog that drapes the city on the morning of April thirtieth will clear by afternoon. She sets about the Samhain Sabbat preparations in party mood. First priority is polishing her set of 13 candlesticks. She selects a box of red candles, for new beginnings, and extracts 11. As she plants them in their holders she wishes, as always, that she might find another two friends to complete a perfect coven. For a few years the coven had been 13-strong but age and health take their toll. Jeanette and Cis can no longer join in the celebrations.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Jen and Kat exit their lecture that same morning to the cheering warmth of cloudless sunshine. “Jen,” says Kat, “I owe you. How do you feel about an early lunch today, my shout?”

  “I usually go to gym on Thursday afternoons so an early lunch would suit.”

  “We could try out the Alibi, it’s in the law building.”

  By the time their filo-wrapped chicken pieces arrive conversation has strayed from lectures to life. Waiting for the food to cool takes them to the personal. Before coffee cups are drained Jen is considering foregoing gym again. “Today is perfect for seeing the view from my house. Our Japanese maple is at its best. Come home with me for a while?”

  “What about your gym?”

  “I’ll go for a walk instead. You could come with me. We could take a nature ramble in the hills.” She grins at the old-fashioned expression.

  “Well, I’m not trekking over the Bridal Path and that’s for sure! I took a sight-seeing trip round the hills a year or so ago. The track looked horrendous — as difficult as marriage?”

  Jen chortles. “It’s bridle as in horses. And most pioneer brides walked it without the benefit of a horse. No, I’m not suggesting anything steep or extreme. We have a back gate that gives access to an easy walk. It only takes about 30 minutes to wander over a ridge, loop up to the road, and back down to our place. I haven’t done it in ages. I’m a bit cautious about being in the hills on my own these days, but they’re certainly more attractive than a treadmill and a block wall. Are you up for it?”

  Kat looks at her feet. “Can I borrow some flat shoes?”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  The Japanese maple bears the most brilliant red leaves Kat has ever seen. It stands in a row of multi-tinted trees. “We don’t get autumn colours like this back home. Ross has an avenue of cherry blossoms. They flower in spring but mostly the Coast trees are the same colour all year round. It’s the snow on the mountains that defines seasons for Coasters. From here the alps are just a border to your view, but at home they’re in-your-face mountains.”

  Jen decides to serve coffee at the lookout before they start walking. All trace of the fertility shrine has gone. Sipping as goddesses with the world spread before them, Jen considers telling Kat about the Ashera but decides against it. There is a rawness she doesn’t want to expose.

  “What’s that?’ Kat is pointing through the trees below them.

  “Probably a walking group. They’ve come down from the upper road.”

  “They all seem to be wearing black hats.”

  “I didn’t think to bring the binoculars. They do look a bit odd.”

  “They’re going behind the ridge. They’ve vanished.”

  “It’s time we got going too. The mugs will be OK here. Come on.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Jen and Kat pick their way through the tussocks with an increasing sense of well being.

  “This is great,” says Kat. “What a view! I’ve never been walking in this open sort of wilderness. My hill walking has mostly been struggling through thick bush.”

  “I love the tawny gold colours of these hills,” says Jen.

  “Look, the tussocks are dancing in the breeze,” remarks Kat.

  “Or they could be mop-headed trolls emerging from the ground.”

  “Believe in trolls, do you?”

  “And why not? I have a Maori friend who believes fog is the little people on the march.”

  “If that’s true there must be masses of little people living in these hills.”

  They continue in silence until Kat is aware she is starting to puff.

  “I’m not as fit as I should be.”

  “This is the roughest part. Over the ridge the hill flattens out a bit and beyond there’s a proper path with steps up to the road.”

  The ridge makes a natural shelter. Kat and Jen lean against the rocky shelf and take a breather. “Look, down there. It’s those walkers we saw earlier. Check out the hats!”

  “Good Lord! Black, pointy witches’ hats!”

  “It’s not Halloween. Whatever are they doing?”

  “Having a picnic, at a guess. See, they’re taking packets out of a backpack. It must be food. Kids having a party?”

  “They’re not kids, definitely all adults.”

  “Sh! I can hear something. Wind-chimes or bells — did you hear it?”

  “My phone, it will be Wilkin.”

  “No, not your phone! I heard another sound, a tinkling sort of sound.”

  “He’s not coming home for dinner.” Jen is angry. Why isn’t he coming home for dinner? What is he doing?

  “If we follow the ridge down a bit we can get close without being seen.” Kat is like a kid with a mystery to solve. “It’s a free country. We have as much right to be here as they do.”

  Wilkin is not coming home for dinner. She can do whatever she wants to. “OK. As you say, it’s a free country.”

  They edge downhill until they are almost level with the group. “They are all women, and not young either. It looks like they’re forming some sort of procession.” Kat has the vantage point and takes up delivering a commentary. “Several are carrying small bells and others are holding … plates? No, they’re large leaves, but there’s something on top of the leaves. One is carrying a stick and giving orders. Aw,” Kat sounds disappointed, “she’s leading them behind that mound.”

  “The sun’s dropping. It will be chilly soon. Shall we go?”

  “No, wait a minute, they might come back. Listen, bells again. Here they come from the other side, all in a line, and they’re going round again. How crazy is that! I’m sure I’ve seen that woman with the stick somewhere.”

  Jen squeezes to where she too can see without being seen. “I don’t recognise her. We can’t stay here watching women in witches’ hats walk round a mound all night.”

  “Let me have one more look at that woman. I’ve seen her recently. I know I have. I wish I could think where!”

  “Here they come, still ringing their bells.”

  “But they aren’t carrying any leaves. What have they done with the leaves?”

  “Hey,” Jen nudges Kat. “Look at the last one. She’s not wearing a witch’s hat. She’s wearing a brown cloak with a hood, and she looks a bit like Sarai.”

  “It is Sarai! The woman with the stick is her friend. Pauline, her name is. They had dinner at my restaurant. Her hair was up then, that’s why I didn’t recognise her. I waited on their table.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  And now she is at Pauline’s table — a table glowing with red candles in silver candlesticks and two jack-o-lanterns. The crazy yellow grins watch over a large cake sprouting dozens of unlit birthday candles. There is a smell she can’t identify. How does she know it is Pauline’s table? Kat digs Jen in the ribs. “Have we been smoking dope or is this for real?”

  Jen too feels light-headed. “It’s real all right, but I think I’ve had a bit much cider.”

  “What’s the smell?”

  “Incense, apples and nutmeg
— don’t you remember Pauline explaining the autumnal significance?”

  “I don’t remember anything!”

  “You’ve been asleep but you were probably a bit concussed. You really don’t remember?”

  Kat shakes her head. It hurts.

  “You recognised Sarai’s friend and got excited. I think you were trying to get a closer look and you tripped, probably because my shoes are a bit big on you. Anyway, you tumbled over the ridge. You only rolled a short distance but you have a bump on your forehead.”

  Kat fingers her brow with surprise. “It’s quite an egg!”

  “Sarai got to you before I did. She gave you something to drink. You said you felt OK but your ankle hurt.”

  Kat cautiously moves her foot and feels a definite discomfort.

  “You fell into a witches’ coven,” Jen giggles. “Pauline wasn’t carrying a stick — it’s a wand, a magic wand. These women are Wiccans.” Kat looks blank.

  “Pagans who think of themselves as witches.”

  “Witches! Real fair-dinkum witches?”

  “Good witches, into respecting nature. Sort of ancient eco-feminists, I suppose. Anyway, they’re friends of Sarai’s.”

  Kat’s eyes travel the room, taking in the women. They are eating, drinking, chatting, all perfectly normal, except for the hats. It comes back to her with a rush. “Why were they prancing round the hill carrying bells and leaves?”

  “They were looking for a portal to fairyland.”

  Kat rolls her eyes and clutches her head.

  “You may scoff but the leaves were picnic plates for fairies. They can’t use paper plates because they care about the environment. Tonight is the Wiccan Halloween, or something like it, and it is one of the best times in the year for seeing fairies. The veil between our world and theirs is at its thinnest, apparently. Sarai said something about between the seasons and between night and day — fairies are most likely to appear on the margins.”

  “And I thought gays were marginalised!”

  “Honest, I’m not having you on. Sarai explained it to me. Folklore says fairies, ‘little people’ fairies that is, can be enticed out of hiding with gentle music or tinkling bells. Fairies are fond of milk, butter, and honey, and all manner of sweet treats.”

  “Yeah, sweet tooth fairies! They’re grown women, old women, for God’s sake. How can they believe this rot! Surely Sarai doesn’t believe it?”

  “No, that’s why she isn’t wearing a pointy hat, but she knows all about Wiccans. Pauline is the head witch and she happens to be Sarai’s friend.”

  “But why are we here?”

  “I had to get you home somehow. Sarai offered a ride in her car. Then Pauline suggested we come to her party. She’s 60 today. There was nothing I had to do, and you said why not. When we got here you hobbled inside, sat on the sofa, had a drink, and drifted off. They had a sort of a ritual, honouring the dead — a bit like Maori do paying respect to the ancestors on the marae. The women put photos of their deceased loved ones on that table over there and stood round it. Later they rolled on into the birthday party. Talk about kids, they even played bobbing for apples.” Jen sees the look on Kat’s face. “Being barmy doesn’t stop them from being nice.”

  Kat doesn’t look convinced. “What’s the time?”

  “Early, it’s not eight yet, but I’m going to get a taxi home. Wilkin wouldn’t approve of this and I don’t intend for him to find out. Sarai said she’ll take you when you’re ready to go.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  “A great way to begin life as a sextarian,” Pauline informs Familiar, who has just deigned to put in an appearance. “The house is yours again, they’ve all gone. I think they enjoyed themselves. A full 13 of us! That was a bit of luck — or was it? I was pleased to include the two young women but,” she gathers Familiar into her lap and strokes thoughtfully, “Sarai is too interested in those girls. She watched them all night, pretending she wasn’t. I sense an obsession. She is cutting me out. The warmth we had is dwindling and it has something to do with those girls. Why would she prefer young girls to me?” She strokes Familiar fiercely. He extends his claws. “You aren’t rejecting me too? I couldn’t bear it!” Familiar tenses as if undecided on his next move, then relaxes.

  Pauline resumes stroking, her voice matching the soothing rhythm of her hand. “It’s a pity we aren’t allowed hearth fires anymore. We should have written prayers for the dear departed on paper-slips and burnt them. But sending good-thought vibes is probably just as effective. The apple ritual won’t bother the smog police. See this? I plucked it from the water-tub with my teeth. Not bad for an old girl eh! Do you want to come and watch? I might find an answer to a question.” She carefully places Familiar on the floor and he follows her upstairs. Pauline prepares the ritual objects and gets ready for bed. A few minutes before midnight she pulls her dressing-table stool a few steps forward then sits, facing the window. The room is lit only by the moon and a solitary candle on her dressing-table. At one minute to midnight she empties her mind of all thoughts until the portable chiming clock ceases chiming. She carefully cuts the apple into nine pieces, eats eight, and gently tosses the ninth over her left shoulder.

  What will the mirror tell her? She is not even sure of the question, but a meaningful symbol or image should appear. Cautiously she looks over her left shoulder. The mirror flickers and shadows dance, but the image is herself.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  “Sunday the third of May. There is a nip in the air but a perfect day is predicted,” Kat’s radio informs. She turns it off, pulls the duvet around her shoulders and goes back to sleep. Some hours later her nostrils alert her stomach that she is hungry. Kat pulls on jeans and jersey and heads to the kitchen. Hemi is finishing a plate of bacon and eggs.

  “Kia ora Kat, thought I would treat myself to some nourishing kai.”

  “You’ve finished your essay?”

  “Not quite, but good work requires a good feed.”

  Hemi has a reputation for hearty meals and procrastination. Knowing her fridge shelf is bare Kat takes the bread from her cupboard to make toast.

  “Damn! This bread has gone mouldy, and I’ve hardly had any.”

  “I’d give you some of mine only I’ve finished it all,” says Hemi cheerfully. “I’ll join you in a mug of coffee if you make it.”

  Kat makes the coffee and finds two soft ginger biscuits. Hemi shows no inclination to return to his studying. The smell of bacon, eggs, and toast lingers.

  “I’m off to feed the ducks,” says Kat, picking up the bread. “Happy studying.”

  She walks briskly toward the river. Trees arch overhead, their branches making sharp scribble patterns on the blue sky. The banks of the Avon are snug-wrapped in green. A path beckons and Kat follows. The Avon is too narrow for a river, she thinks, and too tame for a creek. Real rivers don’t allow themselves to be contained between lawns. She pictures the wild rivers of the West Coast, where strands of water braid across expanses of gravel and creeks tumble over rocks, frothing beer-brown through the bush. Strolling the banks of Coast waterways is not an option.

  It is staggering how a city can alter a landscape, Kat marvels, and consigns nostalgia for the wild to the past. Cities are the way of the future: they showcase progress, prosperity and human achievement. In this city even rivers appear to be man-made to fit the garden landscape.

  Wrapped in her thoughts Kat forgets the bag clutched in her hand until she sees a pair of ducks waddling around a bench seat. She sits, unties the bag, and begins tearing the slices into bits. The waddling pair receive her offerings quickly. Another duck appears, and then another. Suddenly there are dozens of them — brown ducks, ducks with blue heads, a couple of white ones, ducks everywhere, quacking, flapping, fighting. Where did they come from? How do they know food is on offer? Kat is starting to feel mobbed. A nearby gate opens and ducks scatter indignantly, some rising a few feet into the air as a woman calmly walks through the assembly.

  “Hi K
at, fancy seeing you here!”

  “Hi,” she responds cautiously.

  “Your ankle must be better then?”

  “Yes thanks, it only took a day to come right.”

  “And the bump on your head has quite gone?”

  “It was nothing really.” Nothing compared to the brand on her arm that is still stinging. The bastard put something black into the wound. Indelible marker pen?

  “Well, you certainly gave us a surprise, tumbling in on us as you did.” Pauline laughs at the memory. “I haven’t seen you feeding ducks here before.”

  “No, this is my first time feeding Christchurch ducks. I thought the day was too good to waste and my breakfast bread was mouldy. I can’t get over the number of ducks that suddenly appeared from nowhere.”

  “Yes, they’re more savvy than we give them credit for. Duck-shooting season has begun and they know where they’re safe. But there’s usually two or three waiting for me around this time of day.”

  “Is that your gate?”

  “Yes, this is my piece of paradise, complete with paradise ducks,” she quips, shooing a large duck with a white head. “Paradise ducks are native to New Zealand. Cook called them painted ducks at first. There’s her mate, the dark one with colour-bars on his wings.”

  “Do you know lots about birds?” queries Kat.

  Pauline laughs. “Goodness no, I’m a real novice when it comes to birds. I just Google the odd thing that takes my fancy. A bit of information adds to one’s enjoyment, don’t you think?” Kat thinks of some of the things she Googles and doesn’t reply. Pauline chatters on. “Living here, being able to wander the banks at whim, is my idea of heaven. But you say this is your breakfast bread. I hope you had something else to eat?”

  Kat doesn’t like to say she didn’t. This time Pauline waits for an answer.

  “I had coffee and biscuits, it was fine. I didn’t organise myself for grocery shopping this week.”

  “But it’s nearly half past one. You must be hungry. I made an asparagus quiche for my lunch and there is plenty left over. I’d so like you to come in and have some. I love an excuse for an extra cup of tea. Do come in.”