League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Cars zoom past his window. Ben turns from the phone to the window. The cars racing by symbolise the world rushing past him, ignoring him, indifferent. Here he is, 30 years old and still living with his parents. He has done nothing with his life and Amber … Kat is only 23 and confidently setting up house to be a solo mother. Since Kat stopped seeing clients Ben’s life has been less bearable. Without sex to focus on, and be distracted by, Ben has discovered he is being wrecked by her. She owns his heart. He would do anything for her — even leave her alone if that’s what she wants — that is how much he loves her. He would sacrifice his need for her, to honour her need for space. It is a bitter arrangement and Ben is resolved. Well, he had been until, at Amber’s initiative, they had met for coffee and … Kat had explained how things had to be. She was gentle but firm — “I can’t see you as a client now, Ben. I am out of the business, forever. And I can’t see you as a friend because … well because it would just never work. What would we tell people about how we met? What would we tell ourselves?” Her words have carved a permanent niche in his brain.

  He had listened respectfully and offered a considered reply. He was bursting to proclaim his undying love but even he, socially inept Benjamin Smith, knew she didn’t want to hear that. So, he had pontificated, at length, about how friendship could work, how they could fabricate any number of stories should they ever need to explain anything. It was no use, Kat had a clear vision of her future and it didn’t include him. He had finished with, “Well, just know that whether we see each other or not, you always, always have a friend in me. Should you ever need anything, just let me know.”

  In reviewing the meeting Ben feels pleased with himself. He had managed to keep his cool. He was pretty sure he hadn’t projected the needy, pathetic sap that he is — only a step away from being a stalker … Well, that’s not even true, he has stalked her. But it doesn’t matter, she didn’t know. He knows her new address. She doesn’t know that either.

  Things are different today. There is a feeling in the air. It is hope. Hope for what? He doesn’t know, but it feels like things are possible today. Without further deliberation he is on his way to see her. It is meant to be. Maybe she is calling him with some kind of psychic message — maybe it is love calling him. Before leaving he sent her a text. Hi, long time no text :-) hope u r doing fine? Been pickin berries hav more than I want can I give u some? Raspberries and strawberries are in season. In his mind Ben plays out the afternoon: she will be delighted with the gift. He’ll have cream to go with the berries — pregnant women get food urges. She could feel a little imposed upon but he will play it cool, be interested but not intrusive. The birth must be only a couple of weeks away.

  Kat’s message beep had interrupted his driving reverie. Ben had pulled to the side of the road, wanting to savour her reply. After a deep breath he read with pleasant anticipation — No am in hospital for a caesar wish me luck.

  The cars keep flying by, oblivious to Ben’s trance. Kat is about to experience one of the most significant events of her life and he has no part to play. He wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t texted her at just the right time. Clearly he means nothing to her. Don’t be stupid, he chastises, you know you mean nothing to her. She is beautiful, powerful, and completely free. She has the world at her feet, and you are nothing — a weedy academic who has made no contribution to any life purpose. You are afraid of your own shadow and she is afraid of nothing.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wilkin slackens his speed, willing himself to calmness. The panic is subsiding. He is thinking, checking, planning, calm and collected. They have a good specialist. The hospital has good facilities and a good reputation. Whatever trouble is facing Jennifer and the baby they are in the best hands. He will arrive at the hospital in time to witness the birth and everything will work out fine. Actually, this is good news — his beloved child will be in his arms within the hour, he tells himself — weeks early. “Thank you, Father,” he whispers to his Lord. “Thank you.”

  Wilkin sights a church tower ahead. Had he not been hungover he would have been in Christchurch in time for the eleven o’clock service. He grits his teeth as he passes the graveyard. Ever since paying for Amber’s abortion this graveyard he passes daily has taken on a dark presence to him. He has visions of dead babies — dozens of dead babies in hideous degrees of development: embryonic blobs, frog-like foetuses, and limb-flailing infants all sprouting grotesque umbilical cords. It is disgusting. He has guilt issues to deal with.

  Wilkin’s body lurches in a violent thrust, the blade of his seatbelt burns his chest. A red and white soccer ball is bouncing on the road ten metres ahead of him, a boy of about five or six leaps after it. The child hadn’t paused for a second. The scream from the boy’s mother is as loud as the scream of Wilkin’s brakes. Wilkin’s 300C SRT-8 Chrysler has performance-tuned suspension and Brembo brakes but even that phenomenal technology cannot rescue this. The laws of physics care nothing for the lives of people. Wilkin instinctively turns the car from the child as he slams the brakes. The nose of the car veers right, the rear of his vehicle lifts. It is spinning. Wilkin won’t plough straight into the child, but the side of the spinning machine must strike him.

  It is a 50 km zone. Wilkin has been doing 70, maybe 80. The thud is sickening. Wilkin feels his body freeze. Whiskey marinated sweat pours down his face. He has killed a child; he was speeding; he stinks of alcohol — the sequence staccatos through his brain as his car straightens and stops. People run past. He can’t move. He can’t even look. A high whining cuts through his head from temple to temple. The same sound he heard that day on his grandfather’s porch … the sound of panic, overload, out of control.

  Wilkin clenches his fists until his nails draw blood from the pads of his palms. With a spike of determination he exhales a growl and reaches for the door handle. Sounds fly at him — screaming, crying, shouting … something doesn’t fit. Someone is laughing. A high-pitched voice is laughing a sing-songy volley. He registers a large Maori man sharing something exciting with two younger friends. “That was the closest, most death-defying shit I have ever seen,” sings the man, waving his arms like a conductor.

  Wilkin grapples with the sense of the statement, could it be … he turns, the shouting has subsided, only sobbing vibrates the air, a mother holding a child — a living, breathing, crying boy. A miracle has occurred. Some freak of physics! Wilkin turns toward his car. Down the road lies a deflated soccer ball. The thud was a ball! A lead weight fills his stomach, blood drains from his face. His knees want to fold. The boy is alive, but not by any doing of his. The boy should be splattered over the road and his car. He fights the bile scorching his throat. Concentrate, he tutors himself, deep, deep breaths. His knees fail. He is sitting on the road, shivering, flinching.

  “You all right, buddy?” comes the sing-song voice. “This fella’s lost it, bros.”

  There is talking around him. Wilkin can’t pull sense from the noise, only odd words: car, ball, kid, road … He feels hands reaching under his armpits. “Come on, bro, let’s getcha off the road.” Strong arms pull him up. He is being lifted. The physical cue switches Wilkin back on. He blinks, shakes his head, and fires back to life.

  “Leave me alone,” he roars, lashing out with his arms, pushing the good Samaritans away. “Get back, get the hell …”

  No more words are necessary, the men are backing off. “Just thanks would do, you fuck,” calls one of the younger men as they retreat to the foot path. Wilkin is already at the car, in the car, ignition on. It’s only been five minutes yet feels like a day. He has gone from worry to elation, haunted by dead babies to almost killing a child. God is telling him something — God, or the Devil? The closer he gets to the hospital the darker his soul becomes. Damn this feeling, damn the doubt, and damn Jen. She is responsible for this! Why hasn’t she been more careful? What the hell was she thinking! Fear transforms in an instant to anger. Somewhere, somehow, Jen is the cause of all this pain. There is some deceit
waiting to reveal its self. Jen is a woman. They are deceitful creatures. It is in their nature to twist life to their convenience with blank regard for truth or honour. His own mother had promised she would return, promised that they would be a family again, that she would love him and his father. He punches the steering wheel. “Bitch,” he whispers and after a pause, louder, “Witch … yes, WITCH!”

  The day is out of control, it is chaos and Jen is at the bottom of it, she has fucked up her pregnancy. Ruined it! She is not pure enough to carry a sacred child. She’s been polluted. That witch, Sarai, has debased her with blasphemous lies and pagan idolatry. Is he about to be punished for her sins? The Lord had given, but the Lord can take away.

  Pulling into the hospital car park an icon leaps from a sign. Twisting around a cross is … Satan in the form of a snake — the snake that had tempted Jen in the Eden of their life. Were they pregnant by the work of Satan? Could Jennifer’s pagan abominations, practised in their own garden, be the cause of the pregnancy? He has celebrated the news. He too has eaten the fruit. He has been lost in delight, blinded by joy — blinded by his selfish, selfish joy. She had offered him the fruit and he had taken it without thought or hesitation. A chill travels his spine, bristling the back of his neck, evoking an old ache deep within his left shoulder. The pain becomes so intense he can barely hold the steering wheel with that arm. He tugs into a disabled park and lurches towards reception.

  At the main doors Satan greets Wilkin with frosted charm. The symbol on the glass door bars his way. Again he shakes his head erratically to fire his senses. There is no horizontal cross bar, only a pole. The serpent has consumed the bar! Was there ever a horizontal spar? The Cross defeats Evil. It is common knowledge all foul fiends from vampires to Satan’s spawn shrivel before the cross. Is this logo the symbol of St Johns, or the symbol for all medicine? He can’t remember. But whatever it is, the truth of the symbol has been hidden within the design, waiting for this moment. Wilkin has been granted special vision. It has been spelt out to him. He alone can see the Devil’s message.

  The Devil has tempted his wife. She failed the Lord in her conspiracy with Evil and has tricked him into complicity. Adam was weak in the Garden of Eden. The man fell victim to the fickleness of his woman, and then his own penis. Wilkin has done the same — original sin! Adam did nothing to redeem himself. Wilkin will not make Adam’s mistake. Wilkin knows the price of sin and he is ready to pay.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Pauline looks up from the Saturday Press. Her enjoyment of it continues into Sunday. The paper is unmanageably big, overflowing her conservatory tea table. Chunks have fallen to the floor. The spread of paper is not creating her unease — something is wrong. Familiar appears and freezes to a black blob on the bleached deck. His feet are bunched close, his body grotesquely enlarged by spiked hair. His head darts from one staccato stare to another. Yes, he feels it too. Something, somewhere, is pushing against the natural order of things. Pauline doesn’t like it at all. She stands and gazes out to the flax plants from whence Familiar emerged. Surely, the energetic contraction she feels is not emanating from her garden? But what should she do? She approaches her companion with caution. Familiar smudges her leg, brushing a hard tail against her calf as he passes. “Yes my lovely, yes,” she soothes.

  Something is not right. Maybe the garden will reveal something. Of course it will, if that is her instinct that is her truth. Familiar has come from the garden and is travelling with the energy. To the garden she must go. Familiar follows then takes the lead, high-stepping toward the secret garden.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  31 — Visions

  Sunday, 17 January

  1.15 pm

  Sarai is in the hospital chapel for the second time in two days. Dancing has deserted her. Even prayer is thought-constricted. Today she feels more body than soul. Is she losing her connection to One-Soul? Maybe she is the last enlightened being on Earth and the responsibility is too much. Could she be transforming into a fully human vessel, a hollow shell of her original essence? Stop it, she tells herself. Doubt … release. Doubt, I release you. How human to give in to self-doubt. Today is the culmination of her life’s work. Today she will reignite the Sisterhood. She has prepared her novices as best she can. They are strong, compassionate, Spirit-filled women, they are near perfect. One of them will grasp the truth, one of them will connect. She will have her successor, and maybe this woman will live in the time of conversion. Maybe she will oversee the return to true soul nature, maybe she will be the saviour of Earth’s Spirit connection — her novice, the product of her training, may become the one to facilitate the Home Coming. Sarai smiles, her shoulders relax, and she slumps into the front pew.

  The ridiculous pattern of the chapel carpet swirls before her — paisley, flowers and symmetrical patterns weave in and out in an endless Celtic dance. Sarai lets herself enjoy the visual tuning-out — and it dawns on her this is the start of a vision. Visions begin with a trick of the eyes. It has been years since she has received this type of cosmic gift. She allows herself to settle into the waving blurring picture, checks her breathing and relaxes her stomach. The pattern pulls focus immediately. Before her lies a very young lamb, maybe only a few hours old, pure, white, almost glowing. The surrounding grass is green and vitality-filled. A smile rolls across the old woman’s skin, smiling her whole body. The baby is well and beautiful. A sparkle of electricity zings around her, kissing her legs and arms, breasts, forehead, blessing joy and awe.

  Sarai is humbled by the beauty of the experience … then a sound, an out of place, wrong sound: low panting. It strikes with ominous significance. Sarai’s shoulders tense and lock. She wants to panic, to forget her sacred discipline and react like a primate human. Years of disciplined practise take over. Clear mind, mind be clear. Listen to what is there, not what you create. Back in control Sarai listens to the alien breathing, striving to interpret it. Is that a snarl? It is. She tries to throw the vision wider, to see beyond the lamb and lush grass but the vision won’t open for her. It is locked on the innocent lamb. The alien presence circles her and the lamb then pauses behind her. The snarl has a clarity sufficient to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. Fear is a furious force, she fights to transcend it. This vision is to inform me, it cannot harm me. The breathing comes closer, intense, rhythmic, increasing in pace and volume. Sarai’s right hand gropes for the talisman down the front of her dress and holds it fast. Her eyes stay locked on the lamb. The breathing constantly moves direction. The beast intends the lamb harm. What can it mean? Sarai searches for archetypes, knowing visions may work through archetypal perception of the world. The lamb is Kat’s child and the breathing … For a moment Sarai drops out of the vision … and is back in the chapel, surrounded by hard wooden pews. Someone has joined her. Someone is in the chapel, behind her. She feels the breath. By force of determination, she slowly turns her head, smelling a putrid stench and glimpsing a wiry whisker. What madness is this? Overriding an urge to bolt, she keeps turning, comprehending shaggy fur, a fat saliva-dripping tongue, and white, glistening fangs; huge, lethal fangs. As her hands jerk to shield her face she falls to the floor, hysterical. Curled to a ball and lost in the terror, the old woman screams.

  A hand touches her shoulder. A young male nurse kneels beside her. “It’s OK, dear, everything’s OK. Are you able to get up? May I help?” He guides her to hands and knees, helps her to her feet and eases her onto the pew. “My name is Michael, what’s yours?”

  “Sa-rai,” she offers in a convulsion.

  “OK Sarah, do you know where we are?”

  Where are we? Her eyes dart around the room. The wolf-monster is not in the room. The wolf-monster was merely vision. Take control, woman. “We are in the hospital, the hospital chapel. Thank you, young man, thank you. I had a turn but I have recovered.” She stands, steadies herself and pushes past him. The nurse puts a restraining hand on her arm, recommending she stay seated for a while. She slips from his grasp and is go
ne.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  1.20 pm

  Familiar steps confidently and Pauline follows. She has the sensation she is not alone. It is a pleasant sensation, comforting, like being encompassed about by a great cloud of witnesses. The word Sophia comes to her, followed by the names Miriam, Vashti, Gomer and Martha. Contrary to Pauline’s initial hunch Familiar does not lead to the summerhouse, instead he slips under the gate to the banks of the Avon. By the time she has unlocked the gate Familiar is sitting on ‘her’ river-side bench. She sits beside him. Today the banks are empty of people. Neither jogger nor duck-feeder interrupts the peace of the sunlit day. Only ducks ripple the water with their V-shaped wakes. Even the ducks move on and the water flows summer-low and unrippled.

  But there is a ripple! Pauline shades her eyes and stands. A ripple is radiating from the shade of the weeping willow opposite. It is as if a stone has been thrown by an invisible hand. But unlike a stone, instead of the rings fading as the energy ebbs, these ripples are becoming stronger and more defined. Each ripple suggests a name: Hildegard of Bingham, Julian of Norwich, Catherine of Siena, Margaret of Scotland, Florence Nightingale, Elizabeth Fry, Eleanor Roosevelt, Mary Aubert. The water is definitely disturbed, as if something is rising from it. She is unsure if she is physically seeing the apparition or if her mind is filling in details. What she perceives is a strikingly beautiful winged woman. Their conversation is wordless.

  The vision leaves witch the bathed in calm purpose. Pauline phones her protégé Shirley without giving Sarai a single thought. There is a girlish excitement in their conversation, but also a quiet dawning of new relationship between them.