“We modern Brits respect our old buildings. If you visit the Manor House these days you have to wear blue plastic-bag slippers over your shoes to protect the floor. It’s just a pity we didn’t have this ethos centuries ago. Lots of the Avebury stones were broken up to build the village and make room for crops.”
“Attacked them with sledge hammers I suppose,” says Kat.
“I understand they lit fires under some stones and poured water over them. Humans are just as creative in destroying things as they are at building them.”
“I think the whole concept of standing stones is fascinating,” says Jen. “Why go to all that trouble? The stones must be massively heavy.”
“They are and yet standing stones appear all over Europe. Various conjectures are made but truth is elusive. All we know for sure is a great deal of thought and effort went into erecting them. Standing stones encompass science, engineering, astrology, and spirituality.”
“How big is the circle?” asks Jen.
“The Avebury circle is the largest in the world, over 400 metres in diameter, covering an area of over eight hectares.”
“Well, if it’s so big and important why isn’t it known the way Stonehenge is known?” demands Kat. “Is it like Stonehenge?”
“No, the Avebury stones look more natural and are not as tall. Stonehenge is only 30 kilometres away but gives quite different vibes. Its main-circle standing stones are massive. Each had to be shaped and levelled, then topped with horizontal slabs. Avebury stones vary in height, most of them being between one and three metres. There are two distinct shapes, tall and thin, and short and dumpy. Naturally, the tall are said to be male. Some Avebury stones are pitted with holes. As you say, Jen, standing stones are fascinating. The main Avebury circle once held two smaller circles. And that’s not all: a two kilometre-long curving avenue of stones entered the circle from one side and exited a similar distance on the other side, terminating in a small circle. It is believed the curving avenues represent a serpent. The serpent, you will recall, has a special place in the wisdom of the ancients.”
“Eve,” supplies Jen with sudden excitement. “It was a serpent that,” she pauses, once she would have said beguiled Eve, but Sarai’s teaching has not been in vain, “nudged Eve into accepting freedom of choice.”
She is rewarded with a deep nod of approval.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
As Jen and Kat walk across campus Kat muses, “Sarai was in full flight today. I don’t like it when she gets that la-la look. It was good we got her side-tracked by ye olde home town stuff. What was that business about being a third child of a third child?”
“Creating an air of mystery I presume. I like her lots I really do, but …”
“But she is a drama queen. What’s the number mystery?”
“In folk stories the seventh child of a seventh child is supposed to be blessed with special powers.”
“Sometimes, I actually wonder if she does have special powers. There is something different about her.”
“I feel it too. These days families don’t tend to run to generations of seven, being the third child of a third child could be the modern equivalent. Three is a special number, Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”
“Sarai wouldn’t embrace a number that venerates males. Despite what she says, she is anti-men.”
“I don’t think she is. Being a feminist isn’t about hating men, it’s about having equal opportunity, or ‘balance’, as Sarai puts it. Anyway, three is significant to Wicca, the three stages: maiden, mother, crone!”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
16 — Vashti and Esther
Thursday, 14 May
The day is chilly. Sarai is wearing a deep red poncho. It looks like mohair, thinks Jen. The fibres have a soft sheen that picks up the lurex thread woven into the Persian pattern on her kaftan.
“The Book Esther is in the section of the Hebrew Bible known as the ‘Writings’,” begins Sarai. “It is an account of the events that led to the non-Mosaic Jewish festival of Purim — a celebration commemorating Esther for saving the Jews from possible annihilation. It is a well-told story that artfully controls the pace of a dramatic plot. I do not intend to tell you the story, I expect you to read it for yourselves. I offer some background.
“The main character follows male perceptions of heroine — young and beautiful, possessing the virtues of loyalty and obedience, along with intelligence. An orphan who becomes queen makes good reading in any culture. Add intrigues set in a fabulous court and you are looking at a bestseller. The court is none less than that of the Persian King Ahasuerus, or Xerxes, as he is also known. His reign is historically identified as 486 to 465 BCE. The inclusion of this book in the Canon of Scripture has been controversial to both Jews and Christians. The Book of Esther does not include the word God. Therefore it has been seen as secular and militant. But despite no reference to Jewish religion there is an underlying spirituality that promotes worthy values and urges the Covenant People to maintain a guard against those who would harm them.
“It has become the most enjoyable book in the Hebrew Canon from a Jewish family perspective. Every Purim, Jews share gifts, give to charity, and party. Children dress up as characters from the story. The book is read publicly with the listeners enthusiastically applauding the virtuous Mordecai and booing evil Haman in pantomime style. The idea is to obliterate the sound of Haman’s name and thus obliterate wickedness. Like this.” Sarai reaches under the lectern, pulls out a wooden noise-maker, and twirls it. Dozing Steve’s involuntary jerk sends his pen clattering to the floor. “This,” announces Sarai, “is a genuine Purim gragger.” She twirls it with enthusiasm. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, I will proceed to the most challenging character in the story. Hers is a bit-part that has been read merely as a means for setting the stage for the heroine. Tradition has maligned this woman but for feminists she is the best role-model of all biblical characters.
“Vashti was the daughter of King Belshazzar of Babylon and, therefore, great-granddaughter of King Nebuchadnezzar, who destroyed the first Temple in Jerusalem. The night her father was murdered, as predicted by the famous writing on the wall, his palace was plundered. Unaware of her father’s fate, young Vashti ran to his quarters, where she was captured by Darius, the succeeding king. Darius gave Vashti to his son to wife. Eventually Ahasuerus and Vashti ruled over 127 provinces, a major chunk of the known world.
“The banquets of King Ahasuerus were legendary. His male guests lounged on elaborate couches admiring mosaic floors, mother-of-pearl inlays, and richly curtained walls. Food was served on silver platters and wine flowed freely from golden goblets. These lavish affairs could last for weeks. Queen Vashti decided to give her own banquet for the women of the palace. On day seven of his banquet the king ordered the queen to appear before him wearing her crown, and only her crown.” Sarai pauses to let this information sink in. Her glance embraces the whole class then lingers on Philippa. “Before you protest this is not spelt out in our text let me assure you it is in other texts – the Targum, the Aramaic translation of the Hebrew Bible, being one of them. She resumes her story-telling voice, “Queen Vashti refused to entertain her husband’s drunken guests in this manner. This was no light domestic — to disobey a royal command was punishable by death. When his eunuchs reported back to the king His Highness was rattled, to put it mildly. For an order to be disobeyed publicly would not only bring shame to him, the ripple effect was frightening, it might inspire all women to disobey their husbands! Again Ahasuerus ordered Vashti to appear and again she did not. The furious king sent out a decree to every corner of his kingdom, in all the languages spoken throughout the provinces, commanding all women to give honour to their husbands be they high or low, that every man be lord in his own house.
“As to the fate of Vashti, we only know she was no longer queen and the quest for another royal beauty had begun. In the minds of women everywhere a seed of liberation was planted.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
>
Jen and Kat amble toward the car park enjoying the freshness of air the sun brings to the damp leaves. “One good thing about being a housewifely lady of leisure is having more time for going to the gym,” shares Jen. “Boxing, Pilates … you name it, I’ve been able to enjoy them all. The exercise thing really does buzz.”
“Yeah, yeah, and what about your personal trainer — how buzzy is he? Bet he has an aerobic effect all of his own. Does he take your heart rate and blood pressure twice?”
Jen firmly stifles the gut-surge that could grow to guilt. “Having a trainer is fantastic. You don’t really know how much you can push yourself until you have a pro push you. Working with Dave has taken me to another level. But all the classes are fun and very healthy, you should come.”
“I don’t believe in exercise,” is Kat’s straight-faced reply. Both women are momentarily distracted by raised voices across the yard. A glance shows a small mob of activity by a row of parked cars.
“You actually don’t do any exercise do you!” accuses Jen. “How on earth do you maintain that stick-insect body of yours?”
Kat slowly raises her middle finger in mock insult then pantomimes plunging it into her own mouth, making a gagging noise. “Nothing like a good purge to keep a girl slim.”
Jen stops in her tracks, eyes wide. She goes to speak but Kat is on a roll. “Eat what you want, when you want,” her hands shovel imaginary food into her mouth.
Jen revives her sagging jaw and slaps Kat between the shoulder-blades. “You wretch, you totally had me for a minute.”
Kat goes to reply but the noise from the milling group demands attention.
“Train crash ahead,” purrs Kat with a twinkle.
“That will end in injury or tears,” adds Jen, turning back to the footpath. “Anyhow, you don’t deserve to be that skinny and one day your age will catch up with your metabolism and you’ll have to hit the gym.”
“Or the toilets,” Kat bounces back with a goofy smile.
Crash! They spin to the noise. A clattering of glass follows.
“Jesus, that’s Angel in the middle of that lot!” Kat points and sure enough in the middle of the mob is Jen’s personal nightmare, the beautiful megalomaniac who made her first day on campus such a trauma. The group that was five or six has doubled and the tone has changed up several gears in several seconds. Angel stands with a short stout dyke, dressed like the poster-girl for lesbian stereotypes in loose-fit black jeans, plaid shirt and crew cut. With them is a third girl, her plain clothes dominated by tattoos covering all visible skin of arms and legs.
The opposition are guys dressed in training gear and carrying sports bags. The anger is spiralling.
“Look at the car!” Kat follows Jen’s pointing hand. COCK TEASE is sprayed in red paint on the blue bonnet of an old Subaru.
“Wheeeeu,” whistles Kat, “this is going to be good.”
Four cars down, Angel is now wielding a wheel brace. One of the jock guys attempts unsuccessfully to wrench it from her. Jeering rises from the increasing rubbernecks. The supporting jocks try to get hold of the crazed young woman but Angel is not going to be manhandled by anyone. She twirls wildly then lets out a war-cry shriek that stuns her assailants. SMASH! The wheel brace connects with a second window.
“Oh yea, she’s lost it,” gasps Kat in delight.
“It isn’t good,” snaps Jen and heads toward the action, striding with determined focus. Kat stands gaping then rushes after her and grabs her shoulders. She attempts to turn her around but is stopped by the sound of the clattering wheel brace. The rotund dyke hits the deck — punched, pushed or tripped? All they can tell is the tension has gone up another level.
“It’s not your fight, girlfriend … don’t get involved. You don’t owe that little tart anything.”
“She is going to need help,” is Jen’s flat response.
“She is an arch-bitch and can look after herself.” Kat succeeds physically turning Jen and tries to push her to where they came from. Jen shakes her off and levels at her, “I am involved, Kat. You stay here if you want but I am sorting this.”
Nearing the group Jen pulls her phone from her handbag, activates the camera, and strides into the drama. Angel lets fly a wild open-hand swing at the lead jock’s face. The sound of the slap cuts through the din of the crowd.
“Fuckin’ bitch,” spits the guy, his hand stroking his red-streaked cheek. Jen, goat-nimble in flat shoes, perches on the bonnet of the besieged car and clicks off photos as fast as her phone allows.
“Hey,” she calls. No one pays the slightest heed. “Heeey!” This time it’s a bellow. A few punters glance at the crazy woman on the bonnet but the ground action is compelling. The head jock grips both of Angel’s hands in one of his. His other hand is on her face, pushing her backwards onto the car beside his. Although there are at least five protagonists the narrow space between the cars prevents a free-for-all. Angel exhales a smothered scream and sinks her teeth into the guy’s forefinger. He snatches his hand back. Jen winces as he forms a fist. Next second both his hands are covering his ears. Others close to the action are clutching their ears. Faces turn, for a second Jen thinks they’re looking at her, but realises they are following a figure moving from the melee. Kat climbs onto the car beside her and stands on the bonnet. The sheepdog whistle she’d blasted, hard and long, dangles from her raised hand. Kat has everyone’s attention but Jen takes it.
“Joshua,” she calls. The lead jock turns to his right and looks at his buddy. Joshua looks past his mate up to the women. “Want to spend another year on the bench?” fires Jen. The young man’s face twitches visibly. “My husband plays golf with Jerry, they’re close and you know how old-school Jerry is.”
Joshua’s face is a study of shock and disbelief. He puts a restraining hand on his mate’s arm.
“I have a bunch of pics here. I don’t know what’s going on but I do know that all Jerry will see is a bunch of punks beating up a girl.” The crowd dangle on her words. “How many times did you get on the field this season, Joshua?” He stands shell-shocked dumb. “Quite the curly-headed boy weren’t you, the Under 18 player of the year, make the reps and then what?” Angel slumps, dejected but safe. “Couldn’t hack the social life of the men,” Jen continues relentlessly. “You’re accumulating quite a dossier of off-field misdemeanours. If Jerry sees these pics you’ll never make the starting 15.”
Joshua ploughs toward Jen. She steps daintily from the bonnet to the roof. “If you lay one finger on me it will be assault, and I WILL lay charges. Very public charges, boy!”
Joshua squints up at the towering woman.
“I could overlook this Joshua … I even like your on-field play.”
Joshua’s brow furls. “I know you.”
“Yes, we’ve met. You can’t put a name to me? I’ll help you out, just to show I’m a good sport. I’m Jennifer Hawthorne, Wilkin Hawthorne’s wife. I’ve drunk with you and the boys on several occasions.”
“Ummm,” stammers Joshua.
“I can make this go away, Joshua. It’s up to you — choose some better-quality friends and learn how to behave yourself.”
Joshua edges back through the rabble. Jen calls after him, “Tell Rambo exactly who I am.” As Joshua passes the main protagonist he elbows him in the ribs. “She’s in PR, bro, friends with the media …you don’t wana fuck with her.”
“Keep shooting,” says Jen handing her phone to Kat. She slides off the car, stands beside Angel and looks the lead guy in the face. “He’s right, bro, you don’t wanna fuck with me.” He glares at her. Jen is unperturbed. “I can see it now,” she runs a finger in front of his face pretending to read a headline. “Asian hate crimes erupt on campus. Redneck students tarnish Canterbury.” Jen looks him up and down. “I know your family too, don’t I?” The young man looks mildly alarmed. “Yes … I know your people. Ohh they do not like media attention.”
“You don’t know shit,” bites back the thug.
“Give
it a rest,” says Jen with mock weariness. “I may give you a break too. I happen to know Angel here is a regular bitch. Who knows what trouble she’s caused you. But it is not cool to hit women. You should be ashamed of yourself. I do know your family.” His head drops. “How would they feel to see you on the front page of the Press about to punch a pretty girl in the face?” Jen puts one hand on his shoulder and lifts his chin with a finger until they are eyeball to eyeball. “It would break your mother’s heart. Now go! If you give Angel any more grief these photos will haunt you, and your family.” He picks up his bag and slopes off.
“Yeah, fuck off, bi–” Angel starts to yell. Jen spins behind her and clamps her hands over her mouth. The crowd is already dispersing, some pause. Angel tears Jen’s hands away. “You can fuck off too, Milfy. I don’t need you fighting my battles.”
The crewcut dyke steps in. “Give it a rest, Ange.” She takes a firm grip on Angel’s elbow and leads her away. The few stragglers disperse and Jen and Kat head back toward Jen’s car.
“So you really know those guys?” grills Kat.
“I know Joshua. Well, I know about Joshua. He had potential, bit thick but a good player, too young, went to his head. Wilkin’s company sponsors Canterbury rugby.”
“And the other guy?”
“Never seen him before in my life.”
“So, how the hell …”
“Detective work,” Jen offers with a smirk. Kat opens her hands to the sky in shrugging question. “Well, he was wearing a TAG. You know, TAG Heuer, Swiss avant-garde since 1860." What he was wearing costs about $4,000.”
Kat pulls a face of bewilderment. “Errr, so?”
“He has a $4,000 watch and a $2,000 rust-bucket car. What does that mean?”
“And what does it mean, Sherlock?”
“It means he has a very wealthy family. They dote on him but don’t want to pay for his whole life, will treat him with a luxury watch but want him to find his own feet and earn his own car. I know these families.” Kat smiles inwardly, proud of her friend and proud to be her friend. “These are the families that make up the backbone of Canterbury. They’re the solid people, the good people.”
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 21
