League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  His grandmother steers him inside, finds a handkerchief, washes his face and makes him a hot milky Milo. “You are a big boy, Will. It was wrong of us not to tell you what is happening. It has just been so upsetting for all of us that we couldn’t do it. But I’m going to tell you what you should know. Would you like a scone?” Wilkin shakes his head, eating would be impossible. His grandmother cuts a scone in half, butters it, takes half for herself, and leaves the other piece on a plate between them.

  “Your father made a mistake. It was a bad mistake, but we all have our weaknesses. Never forget, Wilkin, no one is perfect. What you grandfather did just now was wrong but it isn’t you he is angry with. He is so upset about your father that he isn’t thinking straight. You see the bad mistake your father made affects him too. It isn’t easy being a vicar. People judge you and your family. Your grandfather loves your father but he finds it terribly hard to forgive this mistake.”

  Wilkin tries to understand. He realises it is grown-up stuff and they don’t think a kid can understand, but he does, sort of. His grandmother looks at him. “Don’t worry about your grandfather, he is a man of God. He knows that God forgives and we must forgive.”

  Wilkin is not worrying about his grandfather. That’s over, he knows it’s over. The fear that holds his heart in a vice is his parents — they are separating? “What about my mother?” He looks his grandmother straight in the eye.

  She flinches but holds his gaze. “You mother hasn’t been able to forgive your father. They need to spend some time apart to sort themselves out. We hope she will be able to forgive him, but even if she doesn’t she won’t leave you, Wilkin. Both your parents love you. You will stay with us only while they sort out the immediate future.”

  “And after that?”

  “Things might go back to how they were.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “We don’t know. They will sort it out between themselves. But whatever happens you are their son, they love you, we love you, and God loves you.”

  Wilkin knows nothing will ever be the same again.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Jen smiles. If anyone else had called her ‘my dear’ she would have told them in no uncertain terms she is not their ‘dear’, but Sarai’s voice holds no trace of patronising. Jen ushers her to a small sofa and moves behind her smart breakfast-bar bench. “Tea?” she offers. “I’ve got the lemon ginger you like.”

  “Thanks, Jen, trust you to notice a detail like that, you are a natural caregiver. You will make a wonderful mother some day, my dear.”

  “I’ll get lemon from the garden. It would be nice to have a slice on top.”

  Jen returns looking calmer. As the jug boils Sarai absorbs the shift in their relationship. She is well pleased. Crises are pivotal in relationships. Jen is letting her in. Sarai is gratified. This could be a sign, and regardless, it is personally rewarding. Sarai isn’t too grand to recognise she values being valued. But above all else, the situation provides opportunity to get a deeper feel for Jen’s potential. Will she be the ONE? Sarai turns from watching Jen and looks to the smog hovering over the city.

  Kat had seemed the more likely candidate, her natural cheek and pluck being qualities Sarai respects. Kat’s gut intelligence is untainted by academia. She sees through the dross and gets to the heart of issues. Katrina has intuition for people and situations. She has the crone in her without doubt. But Jen has her own special gifts. She is clear-thinking and decisive. Sarai believes Jen would not bend or flake in a position of authority. Her inner strength is strong. Not steeled through beating and breaking, Jen is strong by love and intent. Yes intent, thinks Sarai, nearly saying the word out loud.

  Jen brings the sliced lemon, china teapot, and matching mugs to the coffee table on a tray. “Shall we let it brew awhile?”

  “I usually give it a few minutes,” replies the older woman. “These lips can’t take the heat they used to.”

  “Would you like a chocolate biscuit?” Sarai shakes her head. Jen was going to sit on the opposite sofa but changes her mind and sits beside her mentor. Sarai relaxes against her novice and continues to gaze through the window. Kat, she reflects, is strong through surviving hardship. Jen is strong through choosing a generous path. Her true intent is to be loving.

  “You are a strong woman, Jen.”

  “How can you say that when this wreck is sitting here? Surely I’m a broken woman!” she laughs. It is her first laugh in days. Both chuckle and dip into a side snuggle.

  “No, you are strong. You’re going through a bad patch, but generally in life you set the course. You are captain of your ship and you choose to care for those you encounter. Some boast of living this way but few achieve it.”

  Jen is flattered. Her blotchy face begins to redden with embarrassment. She really sees me, thinks Jen. “Thank you,” is all she can say.

  “I feel you are a woman who lives intentionally. You make strong choices, and follow through on them. With Wilkin and his need for a baby, you consider his need compassionately. He may be unreasonable sometimes, but you see beyond that and don’t live in a pit of judgement and anger.”

  “Well, not until this evening,” mutters Jen.

  “Everyone is entitled to blow up occasionally; it is a necessary part of living. I once heard the Dalai Lama speak on anger. Even that icon of peace says there are times when it is appropriate to be angry and to communicate that anger. Goodness, there I go, ever the lecturer. But his wisdom is sound and reflects the ancient mystics. They meditated to control anger but used it with force when required. I see the mystic in you, Jennifer.” She engages Jen’s eyes. “Do you … feel it?”

  Jen is at loss for a reply.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wilkin swings the Chrysler into his lane. His speed is discreet. Wilkin in his right mind will not have a roaring engine advertise his emotions to the neighbourhood. His pain has lifted and he can’t recall exactly why he lost control. He will apologise to Jen even though it is her fault. Sometimes, he tells himself wisely, you have to step back to leap forward. Words of apology are forming when he sees the car: a purple VW. He has never seen it before but knows instantly whose it is. The University Council is mortified that one of their senior lecturers drives an ancient love-bug. His grip on the steering wheel causes a squeak of leather and his chest tightens. “That witch!” Why is she here? Jen must have called her. Are they discussing the issues of the council? Or are they discussing other things, things that belong between Jen and him. Would she speak of their personal problems … of course she wouldn’t. Jen knows how important it is to him to be private about these things … but she is a woman! That’s what they do: talk. “They love to bloody talk!” He hisses the words at Sarai’s ridiculous car. Wilkin doesn’t swear, even at work, where alpha males are polite in meetings and brutally crude in private. He is no choirboy, no man could call him a prude, but he doesn’t swear. Swearing is common and weak. Wilkin’s voice has power and he commands a large vocabulary. But at this moment, curse is the only fitting language. “Talking is their favourite fucking thing.” That woman is a fucking bitch. They are both bloody, fucking bitches. The Chrysler stops directly behind the rumpty VW. Wilkin has an urge to bulldoze the shoddy toy to the end of the lane and over the bank.

  These thoughts are halted by his mobile bleeping a text notification. Available now if u r free, lover. Before Wilkin flips it shut a second text arrives, just one word: Master.

  He is training her to always call him Sir or Master. It is part of his plan to take both of them into the B&D realm. It is their destiny to have a secret Master-Slave relationship. She must have written the message using Lover because that has been her text name for a long time, and after sending it has remembered she is to call him Master. He has every right to discipline her for the error … Has she done it on purpose? Of course she has, it is deliberate. She is setting up a reason for him to discipline her. A tight smile crosses his lips. She wants it; she loves it. He breathes a lo
ng, slow breath. With the oxygen flow serotonin, testosterone, and lust. Power surges through his body. He feels the tension in his crotch. Jen and Sarai vanish from his mind. The anguish of the day evaporates in a moment. He powers out of the street, mind filled with his naked, prostrated whore begging for his attention. She NEEDS HIM, she must have him.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Sarai listens to Jen’s out-pourings. Jen feels the eloquence of deep understanding in her silence. When there is nothing left to say and silence has run its course Sarai encloses the younger woman’s smooth hands with her age-spotted ones and gazes into Jen’s eyes and heart. How blue her eyes are, thinks Jen, the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Her own eyes are baby-blue pale by comparison.

  “Jen, there are things I am longing to tell you. I believe both you and Kat are very special women, possibly very important women. Soon I must make a major decision — it will affect you both but for now I must keep laying a foundation; a foundation of understanding.”

  Jen experiences an inner quickening, a physical knowing that the words to come will be insightful and probably baffling.

  Sarai loosens her too-tight grip and extends her arms palms up in an attitude of supplication. “Jen, will you allow me to share with you?”

  “I would consider it an honour.”

  Sarai places a hand over Jen’s and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you, my dear. Part of me yearns to tell you everything now but it would be selfish of me to do so. Knowledge is seldom a carefree traveller, vital knowledge comes with a partner of burden: responsibility, and sometimes another: obligation. I do not fear it is too much for your shoulders but it is early in your journey. A good journey involves many experiences … including fun.”

  The crone wriggles comfortably into the sofa and tosses her hair, which persists in hanging askew. “My desire is to extend your understanding of the nature of cosmic women, the Goddess and the feminine aspect of all things. These little understandings will help when you meet things that threaten to overwhelm. At this moment in time I intend to share some ancient and universally powerful information — sacred feminine knowledge. It is my belief that you or Kat have a role to play in this mystery. Everything that I have taught you leads toward the Deep Knowledge. Do you understand, Jen?”

  A slight upward movement of Jen’s brow relays tentative agreement. Jen can’t fathom what she is supposed to be understanding but has no wish to interrupt Sarai’s flow. Sometimes she feels as if she would do almost anything to please Sarai. The cares of the day subside as Jen gives herself over to the words of her mentor.

  “We can not talk of the female aspect without visiting the male aspect — neither exists without the other, nothing is wholly one or the other. Everything, and I mean everything, be it physical or energy, is a mix of feminine and masculine. Archetypal gender aspects underscore everything in our reality. Today is a timely day for this discussion as you have experienced a dramatic example of how the gender energies can clash.”

  Jen pulls a face of mock anguish. Sarai traces a soothing finger down her cheek evoking a memory of a similar experience, opposite in sensation. In the university lobby the action had compounded fear and embarrassment. Here it induces comfort and self-worth. “Alas,” resumes Sarai, “humanity chose the way of least resistance — the broad path of spiritual ease. We walk a male path, Jen. We live in a male world, and have done so for thousands of years. Let me tell you a story.”

  Jen arches back into the sofa, enjoying a stretch of body and preparing for a stretch of mind.

  “Once, long before the dawn of history, earth goddesses and sky gods lived in healthy tension, but the balance became upset. It happened like this. Men began to fear women because they had the magic to create babies, and there came a time in pre-history when the Goddess ruled supreme. But this was not right, concealing knowledge is bad, eventually it will be discovered, and it was. When hunters and gatherers settled to farming, the learning curve was steep. The discovered knowledge was misunderstood and misused. Men came to believe themselves the sole agents of creation. Their life-seed grew in the soil of the womb. The perfect seed could be ruined by bad soil. Men were never barren. Men were the Creators and thus the Age of Taurus began. It was marked by blood offerings and tribal sacrifice. Taurus was followed by the patriarchal Age of Aries. This was the time of rules and organised laws, the time of men such as Brahma, Abraham, Moses, and Ramesses. Secure on this pathway the ancients committed themselves and us to a male vision of the world. Despite the Age of Pisces delivering enlighteners such as Confucius, the Buddha, the Christ, and Mahomet, the model was male and male values continued to dominate. Thus we perceive, compare, judge, and respond through a male dynamic. However, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius offers a glimmer of hope.”

  Sarai pauses for breath and Jen puts the question she is finding incomprehensible. “Are you saying we all live as men — Kat and me, and even you, live as men?”

  “Yes, that is absolutely right my dear — you, me, and all of us are living as men, in a man’s world by male terms. The feminine aspect lies motionless in the shadows, asleep, or half dead, and definitely frigid.” Smiles bounce. Jen thinks, I like this. Sarai thinks, Jen is the right sort of woman, and continues. “I’m not sure of the exact state of the dormant feminine aspect in our reality but I do know that after adopting a male path we forgot most of what it is to live in the feminine. These may sound like crazy thoughts but you will comprehend them in time. Deep knowledge is not something to perceive intellectually, Jen — this is soul knowledge: you feel it, you breathe and exhale it. All I can do is impart intellectual understanding of the cosmic gender system. It takes time to sift into your soul so you truly know it.”

  “I trust you, Sarai but it is a bit much to believe all females live as men in a male world!”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Amber tenses at the coded knock — three short sharp raps followed by two slow knocks. She smiles, recognising the skin-tingle of anticipation, and responds to the knock with swift precision — Arthur’s training. Amber turns the key, steps back, and prostrates herself, arranging her loose hair to fall in pleasing balance over her white shoulders. Her nakedness seeks stimulation and she wriggles into the well-vacuumed wool of the motel’s durable carpet. She lies in perfected full-stretch symmetry, face-down toward the door — the door that will reveal her Master. Her arms extend palms up in an attitude of supplication. These days Amber doesn’t play at being Arthur’s compliant whore — she is that whore.

  Arthur’s confidence and natural power enable Amber to step effortlessly into the role. She makes no attempt to analyse her behaviour but knows it is not all about Arthur. Dark feelings do not readily bear the scrutiny of naming so she does not allow her mind to articulate her body’s relish of the role. Amber is careful with details. She keeps to the motel unit at the far end of the row. Its lounge provides an extra sound buffer between the bedroom and the neighbouring unit. There is a narrow access path from the parking lot along the boundary fence, discretion is assured.

  Complete compliance is actually easy work. In stark contrast to Arthur’s early sessions, now Amber has no obligation to lead or be creative. It is excitingly different and wildly liberating. In relinquishing personal rights she has no cares. All decisions, including checking the time and the condom, reapplying perfume or lubricant, every detail is managed and controlled by Arthur. It may mean doing things once considered beyond-the-pale humiliating or permitting a degree of pain once unacceptable … these challenges are opportunity to push the boundaries, totally free of responsibility, social expectations, and worldly pressures for 50 minutes.

  Kat has pondered the power-exchange aspect of this relationship and decided Amber appreciates all aspects of Arthur. When controlling every part of her being he ceases to be Arthur and she ceases to be Amber, they are Master and Slave, bound by total trust.

  Kat giggles inwardly when she enthusiastically debates gender roles with Sarai and Jen. The irony is quite delicious, her
having a second life as a submissive slut. Kat is not conflicted by her roles. Clients pay and some are less irksome than others. Arthur is not only handsome, well groomed and sophisticated, he is good at what he does — not nervous, not boring, pays well. The perfect customer … maybe the perfect man?

  Lying spear-straight on the floor Amber is tempted to look up. He has paused too long on the other side. She has an urge to take a peek at the door, maybe see his polished shoes through the gap, but knows better. If he opens the door and finds her eyes not focused on the floor he will act angrily. Arthur carries a short cane in his ‘visiting Amber’ briefcase, along with handcuffs and an increasing range of sex toys. Although some discipline is inevitable she doesn’t want to start the session with a burning derriere. A fumbling squeak of the door handle … Arthur never fumbles. Was that a shuffle of hesitation? Her muscles tense and her temperature jumps a degree in a second. It isn’t Arthur. The timing is wrong. Everything feels wrong — crazy thoughts she doesn’t want to comprehend. Submissive-training kicks in. This is a test. She is to stay prostrated on the floor until her Master commands her to another position. He is playing a new game. She will not move a muscle.

  The door creaks shut, the key clacks, and the first footstep imprints the carpet, the second sounds by her upturned palms. The gap between the second and third step is too long. In that too-long gap Amber unexpectedly thinks of Gail, who worked under the name Petra and was only 19 when dumped naked in the Avon, her beautiful face so damaged it had taken dental records to identify her. Her killer remains uncaught. The Prostitutes Collective was warned the murderer was a practitioner of bondage arts. Gail had been bound in a Japanese technique that required practise to perfect. Despite the grotesque damage the tight bondage rope had remained symmetrical. Amber knows this because her friend and mentor, Cleo, had been asked to identify the body and give a professional opinion on the tying. Cleo had not encountered Japanese rope bondage. She and Kat investigated the subject online and found a sickening match. Kat had forgotten this until now.