“Two flavours, lemon and rosewater, try them both,” Sarai cuts into Jen’s thoughts. For a second Jen hesitates, her mind filling with a childhood tale of enchanted Turkish Delight and a White Witch. Embarrassed, she takes a pink cube, muttering, “One is plenty, thank you.”
“These Wisdom Keepers you go on about, Sarai,” mumbles Kat, licking icing-sugar from her lips. “Did they have babies?”
“Wisdom Keepers come in many guises from many walks of life but on balance more tend not to have children, possibly because child-bearing has been the expected role of women and Wisdom Keepers need time to devote to matters spiritual. But motherhood is no barrier to wisdom.”
“I would have thought motherhood adds to a woman’s wisdom,” comments Jen.
“That’s an interesting thought, Jen. Motherhood certainly broadens understanding, but Wisdom is more than that.” She holds out the round box. Jen shakes her head.
“Name some Wisdom Keepers,” urges Kat, accepting another piece.
“The Wise Ones come from all cultures and most keep below the radar of history but there are a few names recorded in the Judeao-Christian heritage … Lilith, Miriam, Vashti, Gomer, Martha, Thecla … a companion of Paul,” she adds, noting their blank looks, “and some of the mystics, Hildegard of Bingham, Julian of Norwich and Catherine of Siena.”
“An impressive list,” says Jen.
“Recognition is not what it’s about. In fact the wisdom keepers from my ‘order’,” Sarai gestures quotation marks with a modest raising of eyebrows, and continues, “notably avoid public attention. That I teach in a university is unusual. Typically the Sisters are low-key people, and very focused — on family, immediate community, and their own spiritual practice. For some spiritual practice became the largest part of their lives.” Sarai pauses and seems to be lost in thought, her head turns slowly to the right then her chin twists with a jerk and she is back. “They had important work to do — and so do I.”
The last phrase fires from her lips in a dramatic change of tone. The young women are startled. They have never seen aggression rise in Sarai. Her dark-blue eyes hold a look of steel. “I chose to indulge my own worldly pleasure in teaching. The role has offered opportunities for a spiritual vocation, but now I feel I have given too much of myself to the job and not enough to my true calling.”
“That is not true, Sarai,” Jen interjects. “Your teaching is very important. You do more than extend the syllabus, you transform people, extend our understanding of the … world, of all things.”
“You are a great teacher,” adds Kat.
“Please don’t question your work,” urges Jen. “Your vocation is obvious, you are a born teacher.” Jen hopes her affirmations will bring a smile and the pouring of more tea. Both younger women hope for a softening in Sarai and are disappointed.
“I am not a born teacher and will never be a great teacher. The art of teaching has been acquired through intentional development and discipline. It feeds my ego and validates my value — to me, to my parents, to my academic colleagues. Being an adequate teacher is manufactured by me.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” sparks Kat, angered by Sarai’s self-deprecation. “I am sure you committed yourself to being a great teacher. It’s OK to do things for your ego. God, if we didn’t do things for our ego we wouldn’t get anything done!”
There is a moment of stillness. Then, holding Kat’s gaze, the old woman repeats the phrase in a slow, just audible whisper. “We do things for our ego, or we wouldn’t get anything done.” Her cheeks tighten, and a smile flashes, followed by laughter. The chuckle starts as a gasp and rolls into a head-swinging chortle. “We … wouldn’t get … anything done,” she wheezes. “You are so right, my dear. So, so right.” She stands and reaches for the teapot. Her guests exchange relieved glances. “Don’t think me morbid, girls. An old lady is allowed to question her choices and find fault if she feels like it. That is equally feeding my ego, and the monster must be fed.”
Walking to the car park Kat declares, “Craziest tea time yet. I wish I could bring a tape recorder and record some of this stuff. It’s classic!”
“Were you scared?” queries Jen.
“What do you mean?” demands Kat. The question invites more exposure than she is willing to reveal.
“Well, I was scared … I was scared for Sarai. I mean, I wasn’t sure if she was OK. And then I was kind of scared for me — not scared of the situation, of the moment. To be honest I was scared that I am too invested in this crazy woman … and … I love her. She is an inspiration to me. What if she lost the plot and went totally nuts? You saw how she jumped from happy calm, to weirdo strange, and then into laughing fit to bust. She jumped through three hemispheres in two minutes — that is difficult to experience and the ramifications are difficult to digest.”
Kat throws an arm around Jen. “You think way, way too much, girlfriend. Sarai is a complete nutbar and that’s OK. I grew up surrounded by mad people and the craziest ones were the happiest people I knew. Look at the great gifts she made us! It’s wonderful that you are pregnant, Jen.”
How could Sarai possibly know? wonders Jen all the way home.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai gazes into space for some time. You nearly got out of control today, she chides herself. The old disciplines are still required. She takes a sheet of paper and writes rapidly.
A Psalm of Sarai — Wisdom’s Way
If I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels,
but know not wisdom …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Dot spreads her paper serviette and looks around the table. “Only a couple of weeks to end of term,” she remarks conversationally.
“Really?” says Joy, “How time flies when you’re having fun.”
“So you are still enjoying Sarai’s lectures?” inquires Bev.
The three mature students nod vigorously and make affirming noises. Taking advantage of the Tuesday special at Cobb and Co has become a monthly ritual for these six Wiccans, who live unfettered by partners.
“I’m learning plenty,” says Dot. “Last week Sarai told us about Lydia, you know the ‘seller of purple’ in Acts. Well, of course, I knew it was purple cloth she sold but I didn’t know the dye came from two sources, the madder plant and a shellfish. Sarai says the better quality was the red-purple from the plant but the blue-purple was more common in coastal towns. Well, Sarai says Lydia probably wasn’t the name of the seller woman. She was called Lydia because she’d moved to Philippi from the district of Lydia where the madder plant grows and she had contacts with the traders back home.”
“Yes,” enthuses Joan, “Sarai says …”
“Give us a break!” interrupts Margaret. “Sarai says, Sarai says, any minute now you’ll have us jumping up and down doing Sarai says do this, Sarai says do that. Personally I find the woman arrogant, too high and mighty to join in the magic circle. She thinks she’s a cut above everyone else.”
“But she does know a lot,” says Dot. “I bet she has a very high IQ.”
“She has brains, no doubt about that, could have too many. It’s only a thin line that divides genius from insane,” says Joy, helping herself to another glass of wine.
“I sometimes think she might be mentally unstable,” muses Avis. She has the attention of them all. Avis tends toward being shy and is not one to criticise. “It’s her eyes,” she explains, uncomfortably aware that all eyes are on her. “When I first met her, must be about five years ago, I was attracted to her eyes. She seemed to have laughing eyes, you know, twinkly, ready for fun. She’s changed,” she finishes lamely.
Margaret has a fork of roast kumara half way to her mouth. It hovers in mid-air and returns to her plate. “I think you’re right, she has changed. She’s more intense than she used to be, as if she’s on a mission.”
“She’s always had an air of mystery about her,” says Joy.
“It’s more than that,” says Bev. “That intense look she giv
es has a wild quality about it and at other times she goes quite blank. I’ve wondered if she is having a petit mal,’ she adds — Bev was a nurse before she retired. “It’s possible that she has a mental illness.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” decries Joan. “Who is sane in this crazy world of ours? We aren’t meant to all behave in the same way. Difference should be celebrated. I find her refreshingly different. I’ve been a feminist since the seventies. I expected Sarai to be an ultra feminist but I am realising she isn’t, well not in a proactive way. She seems to be … well … past that era … as if there are more important issues.”
“Such as what?” snaps Bev, her womanist hackles rising.
“I’ve been trying to work it out and I think it’s something to do with alternative choices. She’s not a political activist, her values are a bit unworldly. I mean … you know … the world expects people to put their family first. Most people consider family the most important thing, but Sarai doesn’t. We don’t even know if she has any family.”
“Perhaps she arrived on Earth fully formed,” suggests Joy.
Joan barely pauses. “When Sarai was on about the Jesus Way she stressed it was a discipleship of equals. You know that incident when Jesus was told his family were looking for him and he said, who are my mother and brothers and sisters? I’ve always thought his attitude uncaring, rude even, but Sarai loves it. She said because Jesus and his disciples had higher priorities they weren’t tied to family, they had other ties.
“That’s right,” supports Joy. “And she didn’t just mean the 12 blokes. She included the female groupies who followed him around.”
“Not Sarai’s words,” interrupts Dot. “She spoke of discipleship being an eschatological calling for both women and men.”
“So, what’s your point Joan?” asks Bev.
“I think Sarai was actually saying people who share a common interest, or work together, or worship together, have a more important relationship than family. It’s a bit disconcerting really.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sunday, 1 November
Pauline places her creation on the floor. “Look, Familiar! It’s finished. I hope you approve.” Familiar opens one eye and then the other. He slowly extends his front paws, rocks back, humps his hind quarters, yawns and strolls over for a sniff. “I want to express simple thanks to Sarai for expanding my world and being mentor, lover, and friend. I hope it’s not too kitsch.”
Familiar puts out an experimental paw and pats a line of multi-coloured beads.
“That’s a spiral, see. I’ve threaded the beads on a crochet chain and sewed the chain to form the spiral of life.” Familiar meows approval. “I’m so glad you like it. Sarai needs a new jute bag. She’s had that old one for years.”
Pauline consults her calendar and Familiar steps daintily to the centre of the fabric square. “It’s Sarai’s birthday Sunday week, first of November. All Saint’s Day in the Christian calendar and Beltane for southern hemisphere Wiccans,” she informs the black circle of cat. “Beltane doesn’t fit downunder and besides, bonfires are banned in Christchurch,” she explains, removing Familiar from his selected spot. She shakes the bag, places it over a chair, and gathers Familiar onto her lap.
As she strokes his warm fur she thinks of an authentic Beltane long past. It was on a village green watching a maypole dance when her imagination was first fired toward things Wiccan. Her new friend Peter had suggested they watch the village May Festival. Pauline’s strokes lengthen as she recalls the greens and blues of that golden spring day. It seemed so right to celebrate spring with flowers, dancing children and streamers. It was good to be alive and she wanted to thank the deity responsible but God to Pauline was stern, punitive and male, not a deity who would appreciate dancing. In that moment she felt drawn to the concept of a nature goddess.
In those arid virgin times Pauline knew nothing whatsoever of goddesses. The pagan notion appeared as a gut thought. She expelled it as sinful and concentrated on the weaving dancers. Viewed from a fringe of oak leaves Pauline pronounced the maypole ritual lovely, a celebration of innocence. Peter told her the pole was a phallic symbol and the dancers represented the fertile womb of the goddess enclosing the seed of the god. Pauline wasn’t used to men using ‘those’ words and felt distinctly uncomfortable. May Day is the time for free love, he said, and slid his hands to her breasts. Delight turned to disgust. She pushed him off and ran. The day was ruined. Her Brethren ties were too freshly severed for such overtures. More fool me, she sighs, he was probably a nice guy. “It took work getting over being a pious prude,” she confides, “but I succeeded.” Pauline chuckles and Familiar rumbles. Her thoughts turn to that other May Day, the one where Sarai entered her life. She had just turned 31 and Matthew had been buried a whole month. Bluebells sprouted in untrimmed corners of the churchyard. Pauline kept her eyes on her brother’s cross and felt her life would never brighten. He had been her rock, her joy, her family. Behind her bench of pilgrimage a hawthorn hedge screened the headstones from the woods. She steadfastly ignored the occasional persons who wandered down the path toward the wood but one walker strayed into her space.
“Sarai saw me sitting alone in a graveyard,” she relates to Familiar. “She said, It’s too nice a day to be sad. Why not join the dance? What dance? said I. The Beltane Spiral Dance … will you won’t you will you won’t you, won’t you join the dance? Sarai was fun in those days, full of energy and ever ready to laugh. She told me the spiral dance is a Wiccan way of saying thank you to the Great Mother for dancing us into existence. The thought quite took my breath away! It was a little crazy going into the woods with a stranger but she didn’t feel like a stranger.”
The woman with the dancing eyes had led Pauline through a gap in the bouncing may-blossom to fairyland. Beyond the white boughs a shimmering lake of bluebells lapped around trees as far as the eye could see. Sarai’s words echo clear as yesterday. For lo, the winter has past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth. “That’s what she said. I recognised the quote from the Song of Solomon and felt safe. She didn’t go on about the voice of the turtle being heard in the land. Instead, she said, Winter always passes.”
Pauline recalls the scene: the winding path to the clearing where a group of people are making a bonfire. Sarai coaxing her into the dance. Hand in hand they had twirled with the others, building energy through a constant rhythm of swirling bodies and souls. “It was magical,” she whispers in Familiar’s cocked ear, “I felt the cone of power lifting to the heavens, re-energising the earth and my own path.”
Sarai had walked her home and they talked well into the night about the balance between male and female energies in the divine force. “All things spiral together, moving forward, reaching for new understanding, that is what Sarai said and I knew it was true, and that, dear feline, is why I became a Wiccan.”
Pauline strokes her purring pet and recalls joining in Wiccan activities on her frequent visits to the south. And Sarai moving on — caught up in protest movements, then seeking mystical experiences in the East. The South wasn’t the same without Sarai and Pauline’s prim librarian life was changed forever. She plunged into living and not always wisely … not a place to dwell.
Pauline recalls the joy of meeting Sarai again 18 years later — rediscovering each other wading through daffodils in Hagley Park. Her heart jerks as she visits the intense relationship that followed. Sarai wouldn’t move in with her. Good relationships are able to maintain separateness, she had insisted. She had her university work and Pauline had her charities. To fill an aching loving space Pauline channelled energy into creating a coven.
Sarai will be 72, Pauline calculates. Usually the two of them went out to dinner, though Pauline had put on a coven party for Sarai’s seventieth. What to do for 72? Need she do anything? Of course she must. Fish, she realises with surprise, has given her a new take on life. Regardless of anything else he may have taught her, he’s shown she can be happily independent of
Sarai. In fact, she doesn’t even care that Sarai has become over-involved with students. Friends are more important than lovers and friendship outlasts sex. Sarai will always be her friend.
“They are nice young women and both pregnant, not something you or I will ever be,” she tickles Familiar’s tummy and adds, “Pregnancy should be celebrated. There won’t be much celebration happening for Kat … I’ve got it!” Familiar jerks at her change in tone. “There is very little celebration happening for Kat’s pregnancy. I’ll invite Kat and Jen to share in Sarai’s birthday and make gifts for them too.” The last sentence is thrown at Familiar’s tail as he stalks out the door.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat and Jen thus find themselves invited to afternoon tea at Pauline’s on All Saints Day. When Pauline explained it was Sarai’s birthday they felt flattered then apprehensive as to what was expected of them. Nothing at all, Pauline had reassured, this would be a tinsy-tiny party.
When the silver cake-forks are licked clean of cream and gateau Pauline makes a little speech, saying what a wonderful old friend Sarai is and how delighted she is that Sarai’s new friends have babies to look forward to. “I’ve made a little something for each of you,” she says, looking as bashful as Pooh Bear. “You know I enjoy making knick-knacks.”
Sarai opens hers first, as is only proper. Her unfathomable eyes flick to Pauline’s anxious ones. Sarai is wearing a new silk kaftan. Her old bag looks shabby by comparison but it has been part of Sarai for so long all present wonder if she will be able to pension it off? Without a word Sarai tries the bag on for size. Pauline fusses around. “I’ve made the strap long enough to go over your head if you want. Perhaps it is too big, but you do carry so much.”
“I do,” says Sarai exploring its lined depths. “Two buttoned pockets. Truly thoughtful, Dear One.” The older women embrace then Pauline distributes the other packages.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 31