League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Beneath star-sprinkled paper lie two baffling treasure-troves. Dominant is a gold hoop edged with small bells. Attached to the hoop is an intricate crochet net threaded at intervals with beads. Tufted feathers fall from the centre of the net. Between them dangle a prism, a crystal, and a porcelain disc bearing the yin-yang symbol.

  Kat stands and gently twirls her gift by its crochet cord. “Look how it catches the light and listen to the bells. It’s lovely, but what is it — a wind chime?”

  Jen has an epiphany. “It’s a dream-catcher, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Jen, that they are, American Indian dream-catchers. Good dreams slide through the feathers to the sleeper. Bad dreams get caught in the net and vanish when touched by the sun,” Pauline explains. “I just couldn’t stop myself from adding to the original concept. It’s not a wind chime, Kat, but I thought your baby would enjoy the bells and colours when you wiggle the hoop. The yin and yang symbol is my wish that all be in balance and your babies have wise and wonderful lives.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Jen is determined to give her baby the best life possible, starting in utero. She intentionally exposes her unborn to the best classical music and makes antenatal classes a high priority. The course is designed for couples and offers a comprehensive range of birth preparation, baby coping strategies and parenting skills. Though initially enthusiastic Wilkin only managed a couple of classes. Work pressures, he said. Jen doesn’t feel isolated because she has made friends with Lynette Bealey. Jen and Wilkin had met Lynette and Andy previously at rugby social events. In this new setting the couples had gravitated toward each other. But now Andy is on tour with the Canterbury reps and the two women act as partners for each other in the class setting. Jen has become aware that her pregnancy is going very smoothly, as is Kat’s — poor Lynette suffers a range of discomforts from high blood-pressure to varicose veins.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  26 — Akaroa

  Saturday, 5 December

  Pauline looks at the yellow page and realises her scribble has almost worn through to the cover of the book. She must have been lost in thought for some time. Her thinking has got away on her. Reason: Sarai has let her down!

  It is so Sarai! As a person she is exceptional, but exceptional people don’t necessarily make great friends. Sarai’s priorities are not geared to those of ordinary mortals and Pauline still can’t read or predict them. The wise witch in her is not so much disappointed by Sarai’s last-minute lunch cancellation, as her own response to the let-down. “Shhhhfp,” the air whips through clenched teeth as Pauline flinches at her own behaviour. You, doormat woman, politely accepted Sarai’s information and let the great lady off the hook. When will you ever be frank with Sarai?

  Sarai needs a good wake-up call. Really, she treats me poorly at times. I should have told her what I gave up in agreeing to lunch with her. We’ve eaten together hundreds of times and I still put her whims above other engagements. The anger rises in her system and she rides it. After a few moments of fury she gains control of her bolting emotions and pulls back. How pathetic to react so strongly, she chastises herself. And, typically me, to beat myself up. “Tut tut tut,” she remonstrates out loud. You put Sarai before your burgeoning affair and Sarai hadn’t blinked at cutting you on a whim.

  When Fish invited Pauline for a weekend at Akaroa she had been in two minds. The ‘overnight’ date was very tempting, but she had a prior engagement. It felt good to have such lovely choices. How richly blessed she was. A part of her had liked the idea of standing Sarai up to be with her lover, but deep down she knew she couldn’t miss a quality chat with her friend.

  “I have no lunch date,” Pauline says to Familiar, “and no romantic date. This weekend is rocketing downhill.” Familiar turns away, takes a few bored steps, and sits. “Snap out of it,” she commands of herself. “Beeeeeee the one you chose to beeeeeeee,” the exhalation of air on the long beeees does what it is intended to do. The demon is exorcised and the space created is pregnant with opportunity. She fills Familiar’s automatic feeder with Vita-bites and puts fresh water in his bowl. “I don’t need you either,” she tells the black back.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Fish’s plans are simple: drive over the range to the southern harbour of Akaroa and tramp out to the Onawe Peninsula; then enjoy — paint, swim, make camp, and relax. He intends to do the bulk of work on a new acrylic today and capture the final lighting details in the morning. The harbour hills are famed among artists for the quality of the light. Fish is particularly interested in a phenomenon remembered from an earlier trip. At daybreak fresh sunlight spills over the hills on the eastern side of the harbour, slowly seeping light into the sky. At a certain height the rays begin to kiss the hills on the western side. With Akaroa being a drowned volcano the eastern peaks are of similar shape and height. There is a moment when sun strikes right along the top, crowning the crest of the hills in a golden halo. Magical — just what Fish loves about living in the natural world.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  It is around three in the afternoon when Pauline begins creeping along the harrowing road that is supposed to support two-way traffic to the Onawe peninsular. Driving such a precarious road is well outside of her comfort zone. Luckily she meets only one other vehicle. Eventually she pulls up behind Fish’s old van and with considerable relief tugs her small pack off the back seat. It contains all the important things: champagne, plastic wine glasses, a fresh bread-stick, halved to fit, and award-winning cheese from the French farm en route, plus a bottle of carefully blended massage oil — details can make or break an occasion. Sarai’s abandonment is not going to be the defining experience of this weekend!

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Come four o’clock, Fish is pleased with his canvas. He stands back and luxuriates in his personal evolution as an artist. Surely his days of selling door-to-door are nearing an end. He is better than most local flops who exhibit in the crisp white galleries of Fendalton and Ilam. This is a winner.

  Fish turns from his masterpiece, shoulders his pack, and strides down the grassy slope toward the ring of bush guarding the coastline. Five minutes later he plunges naked into the waters of the Pacific. The salty enclosure slaps with cleansing cold, baptising his body, if not his soul. He plays like a child, diving to sandy bottom between bursts of freestyle, stretching arms and lungs. Acclimatised to the water’s chill he rolls on his back, enjoying the sun’s fading rays. He ruminates on his gratifying art, his surprising older lover, and the joy of being a solo speck in the vastness of nature. When his gaze crosses the bay to the Akaroa township he wonders if a lovely young art student he’d once met here is in residence. The thought brings a smile to his face and a gentle rush to his groin. His hand drops to encourage the sensation and the old mast draws up to sailing position. He is alone in a beautiful place, butt-naked in the ocean under a benevolent sun — what better place to enjoy what the gods have blessed him with. A movement catches his eye and he focuses back to shore. A thin figure is waving enthusiastically. Pauline! He strokes lazily toward her. The game old girl is already peeling off her dress. She dives from a boulder as his feet firm on the seabed.

  Pauline surfaces, gasping from the cold and lack of air. Her lover is directly in front of her. She goes from gulping the air to gasping at Fish’s embrace. Their mouths connect with the passion of teenagers. Her wet-black hair curtains down her back. Pauline is electrified to discover he is ripe with passion. His intention pushes into her stomach as they kiss. She feels a pulse of pride … and excitement. He saw her only 30 seconds ago and is already fully aroused — how he must desire her. How she desires him. His hands are salty waves, tumbling over her body. He is the ocean’s orchestra, she the kelp dancing in its embrace. There is no need for words: Fish conducts with hands and mouth, following his desires.

  Playful and powerful, Fish’s movements are hypnotic. He wants her and she loves it. They glide from the water to rocky shore. He drapes her dripping body over a smooth boulder.
The rock is warm against her breasts and belly. His hungry mouth heats her ears and neck as his hands spread her legs. The sex is primal — two animals copulating on a rock beside the ocean. Forces and powers engage silent and audible. She feels his urgent intensity.

  As he drives she moans, meeting his force, pain inseparable from pleasure — receiving his savage love is transcendent. He arches back, staring up to the deepening sky taking short intermittent glances at his purring witch. She could be any woman, he thinks … and yet it is only in the depth of their particular intimacy that he is free to feel so un-obliged, un-obligated. Their attachment allows a degree of self that isn’t obtainable in casual fucking. The thought passes in an instant and he returns to riding her for all he is worth. She bucks, he drives. Stones cry out and the hills clap their hands. Pauline feels the boulder’s joy generated from the energy heating its surface. She is the rock, the ocean, the man, and the woman — all are the one primeval substance.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  The sky is pink when Pauline wakes. She is wrapped in a towel and can’t have been asleep long but it’s getting cold. Fish lies beside her on the grass, his chest rising and falling to just audible sleep-breathing. What has she experienced? She participated, participated for all she was worth, but her participation was at his direction — a Mills and Boon tryst, where the woman is lost in the power and passion of the man. A classic archetypal fantasy: woman finds her pleasure and fulfilment in being what the man wants — her pleasure is to be his.

  She pulls on her clothes, reflecting on the holistic path she chose years ago — a lifetime ago. Her way is integration of spirit, mind and body. She is Wiccan and more. It is not new to her to feel primal, to cherish her animal instincts and drives. What is different with Fish is he almost ignored her during the act. There were moments of incredible intimacy but for the most part he did with her as he pleased, took what he wanted. The pleasure he gave to her was a by-product. Yet it was pleasure. Was this a level of animal connection beyond what she has experienced? Whatever the answer, Fish is a man of unusual gifts, a treasure, and a boy scout at that. He has a large towel. She drops it over his glory.

  They drink warm tea from his thermos and share large handfuls of scroggin. From his van he humps down the hillside groundsheet, squab of foam-rubber, rugs, pillows and insect net.

  They roam the hillside and find a perfect spot to eat bread and cheese and drink champagne toasts. Returning to their ‘camp’ they massage each other with oil before drifting to sleep. Pauline wakes in the middle of the night — a pea-sized stone prods like a fist. I’m too old for this, she thinks, and adds primly, age has little to do with years.

  All that is between her and the yellow moon is a rug and a net strung over some sticks. She squints at the luminous dial of her watch. Midnight. She breathes the oiled smell of her nestling lover and smiles. Don’t let yourself become bewitched, my dear. The priestess exhales softly and delight courses through her body and spirit. This is not the time for analysing. This is not defining you or controlling you. This simply is … enjoy it. But visions of Sarai drop as insidious as dewfall — Sarai of old, when they were at their closest. Sarai’s words come riding on the crest of the moment. “Men addicted to physical pleasures … women abandoning their calling to stay founded in spirit …” The old conversations replay with new meaning.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Fish reaches into his pack for the second rug, it must be about 5 am he reckons. The night is mild, but it is early December. He doesn’t want Pauline to get cold. He spreads the rug. The smoothing and tucking gives unexpected pleasure. Caring for this witch is such a natural thing. He considers waking her with kisses and making tender love by moonlight. But he checks himself. Don’t go showing off, boy-o, she’s not 20. She would rather sleep than be impressed by your virility. He lies back cosy with love, not smug, not indulged, just happy. He has nothing to prove to Pauline, and she has nothing to prove to him.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Pauline drifts in half-asleep as Fish the artist projects the rising sun to his canvas. He talks as he works, brush-stroking poetry with paint. She fades in and out, lulled by his voice, hearing not words but rhythm, until the words turn to food. What is the daft chap on about?

  “Our breakfast should be a banquet but alas I am unprepared; I have no ambrosia or lotus blossom. If wild roses were in reach we would succour on soft petals and drink fragrant nectar, but to feast on mortal food we must roam to the deli in the township, and there sustain our bellies on coffee and croissants. Or would I perchance, prefer crumpet?”

  “No way,” Pauline giggles a gleeful protest and struggles out from rugs and net. Fish bundles the bedding with practised skill and packs it into the van while Pauline does basic ablutions.

  “I’ve returned for my two masterpieces,” Fish declares. “Great coffee coming up.” One hand grasps hers, the other balances the wet canvas held out from his body. Fish suggests that witches may sense history by being part of the landscape.

  “Do you, dear witch, detect any special land memory here?”

  It is a lovely question and Pauline savours it before replying. It is not one she has considered, but yes, maybe it is a possibility. “It is physically beautiful, so unusual this narrow peninsula, arrowing into blue water surrounded by the golden browns of stones and grasses. The rocks in the cliff face are amazing, spectacular …”

  “Yep,” nods Fish.

  “But there is, I think, sadness here — some melancholy, some grief. Am I right?”

  Fish looks at her and smiles; it is almost cheeky. “So are you going to tell me some hopeless lovers poisoned themselves here in a tragic lover’s pact?”

  She sticks a witchy finger in his ribs. “Or maybe worse … you have poisoned me.” She flashes a toothy grin. “You certainly put something nasty in me last night. Ooh it makes me shudder to recall it.” She nestles into him and softens her voice. “Actually, Fish, something does make me want to shudder.” She squeezes his arm and leans a cheek on his shoulder for a moment.

  “Crikey … you’ll make a hard old Coaster blush. Facts are, there is bad blood in this land. It’s a beautiful spot, but the history has rot in it.”

  Pauline drags a hand through the seed heads at the top of the tall grass. “Do tell.”

  “Have you heard of the famous Maori warrior Te Rauparaha? He was a filthy mongrel. A hero to some Maori — bit of a legend really. But all the same he was a blood-thirsty psychopath and a cannibal to boot — not that that’s his fault, he was just born into that bullshit. Anyhow, the story goes that Te Rauparaha had some beef with the locals here. Well actually, the big chief had some beef with anyone he didn’t own or control. His war parties came down from the North Island, systematically wiping out or taking over every tribe down the East Coast. He was a bit stumped when he got down here because the locals were organised and well resourced. They had built a bloody big fort up there on the peak.” Fish lowers his canvas and props it against a tree. “You can still see some of the earthworks, they’re out there,” he points. “The local tribe dug great dirty trenches, put up palisades, so on and so on. Anyhow, Te Rauparaha makes a deal with some English mongrels.” Fish spits on the ground. “A hundred times worse than the Maori buggers those English dogs. Anyhow this rogue captain ferries a bunch of Te Rauparaha’s warriors down to Akaroa in his brig. The local chief sees this English boat in the harbour and goes out to say g’day and see if they want to trade some flax, ’cause flax, that was the currency of the day. Bloody flax, you wouldn’t read about it! The English wanted flax for the ropes and what-have-you for the navy. All currency gets back to paying for war and defence,” he rolls his eyes. “Anyway, Te Maiharanui, the local big cheese, climbs up onto the English boat and for some daft reason brings along his wife and daughter — I guess he thought that was polite. How was he to know it was a floating Trojan horse! Bloody Te Rauparaha and his ugly mates jump out and capture them. Now this is where it gets nasty. They wait around a few d
ays and the boys back in the fort get all confused and go to the pack. When Te Rauparaha attacks they don’t know if he’s Arthur or Martha and next thing you know the North Island boys are killing everyone in sight — women and kids, old grannies, whoever: they are complete rabid dogs — makes me sick to think of it! Then the warmonger gets his English buddy to sail him back to the home base up at Kapiti Island. Te Maiharanui is locked down in the hold with his missus and their daughter. The poor bugger …” His pause is awful. Pauline shudders. “He strangles his daughter — kills his own little girl and throws her overboard. They reckon he knew that the other guys intended to rape her then eat her. They might have kept her as some sort of slave or married her off to some important bloke. I don’t even know how I feel about it.”

  Pauline is captivated by his story-telling, and shocked by the gruesome content.

  “You could say he was magnificently brave” continues Fish, “and that was a heroic thing to do. Or you could say that he was a proud old boy who didn’t want anyone to get their dirty hands on his property.”

  Pauline is shocked again to hear Fish’s appraisal. Her instinct has been to grieve for the father’s terrible dilemma and marvel at his selflessness in the act. Te Maiharanui was like Jephthah in the Bible, each having placed their only daughter in a terrible situation. But Fish turns the sacrifice on its head with a half considered theory that rolls effortlessly off his tongue.

  “Do you think he killed her to save his own pride?”

  “I dunno really … nobody knows. Local Maori round here think of him as a hero. Him and his missus were tortured to death. Maybe he was a hero. The whole sorry business does my head in. They’re all as rotten as each other. Even if those nineteenth-century blokes weren’t into murder and torture, everyone was into dirty deals — stealing a bit of land, or some damn flax, or some young wahine. I tell you what, love, you know the expression it’s a man’s world — there’s your proof.”