League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Tonight he is not letting her have her way. He pulls from her mouth and pauses. What next? With one hand on her shoulder he motions for her to move. She understands the subtle direction and turns, kneeling face down, butt up. It is, she recognises, a small mercy — they will not be face to face. Does he feel it too? Is he ashamed to look her in the eye? Is he ashamed of what they have become?

  “I love you.” The words squeeze between clenched teeth.

  “I love you too,” she replies.

  It is a ritual. It is ironic. It is hideously painful, and it is true. The torment of the last six months has not killed the love, just the life that lives in the love. As he comes they both know it isn’t an explosion of life erupting between them. The action has the intensity of stepping on an idle hose and seeing a remnant seep from its depths. There is no thought of him paying attention to her body. She hasn’t climaxed in months. He has given up trying and she is only thankful the task is over. For a moment she wants to say something comforting. She forms some words and is about to speak. He beats her to it. “I made a mistake at work … last week, an error, a dumb, stupid mistake.”

  Jen turns on her back, pulls the towel-covered pillow from beneath her bum, and flattens her knees. Five seconds after making love he is talking work! “The mistake is going to cost us a contract; ultimately it will cost jobs. I haven’t made a mistake like this … well, ever. I’m losing it, Jen.” She doesn’t care, can’t care. She makes an effort and gathers a phrase. The words of comfort pause mid-throat and vanish.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  In the summerhouse the man and the woman are a smouldering autumn fire. Their embers glow red hot, molten bodies melted into one. Time passes unmeasured. When Fish glances at the candles some have expired. He must bring his lover into the house before the night turns cold. Every part of him wants to keep her warm — warm, safe, and close. It is perfection beyond imagining. How could he at his age be experiencing something so profoundly exciting? They extinguish the remaining flames, bundle their clothes and themselves into the sheet, and giggle their way to the house. To the right of the French doors is a concealed gap: through the hedge they are but steps away from a secluded small deck and ranch-slider entrance to Pauline’s study. They sleep a solid eight hours in Pauline’s bed.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, 28 May

  10.40 am

  Sarai looks at her watch then at her class. “I see we have a few minutes to spare. I have heard rumours that some of you consider my teaching methods old-fashioned.” Her eyes twinkle and she looks perfectly relaxed. “I happily admit I am not bound by fashion and am by nature a tactile person. Technical wizardry seldom excites me. I hold to the educational theory that the strongest learning impacts come through physical and emotional involvement. Real objects are the best way of presenting object lessons.” She smiles self-indulgently at her little pun. “Personally, I do not favour the slick mindlessness of PowerPoint presentations. Pre-packaged fare tends to be lightweight. That does not mean I have no knowledge of computer-driven technology.”

  Her eyes glide easily over the students. How can she possibly know, thinks Philippa, does she have spies everywhere?

  “Women and men have been controlled and oppressed throughout millennia by a perception that the Bible says. And the notion that to challenge The Holy Bible is sinful. People who make such claims tend to be selective about what they read in the Bible. They delight in exercising the power of judgement that they see as their God-given right. Nowhere has this been more apparent than in matters of sex. Men have been taught to look upon their semen as sacred and women have been forced to have infants they did not want or could not cope with. There is nothing sacred about sperm or egg unless those who would fuse them have a mutual desire to create a child to be loved and cherished.

  The ancient theology that saw male fluid as sacred was based on ignorance of the role of the female egg. This …” she says, reaching into her bag and drawing out a small snap-lock plastic bag. Everyone cranes to see what she extracts. Most pull back in disgust. Steve quietly verbalises what everyone is thinking: “Where did she get that?”

  What Sarai dangles between finger and thumb is a used condom. “This is human waste.” Sarai lowers the object between the sealable jaws of the plastic bag and drops it into her bag. “In the film The Meaning of Life,

  which opened in North America in 1983, Monty Python made an entertaining plea to the Christian public to see blind attitudes for what they are. Should you feel concern for the children used to present the message, I understand they thoroughly enjoyed themselves and thought they were singing about children being precious.” She activates a laptop and on-screen appears an impoverished Irish-Catholic da telling his enormous family that every Catholic child is valued. After a serene child solo, further youngsters erupt from furnishings, burst from cupboards and pour into the cobbled street. The screen rocks with angelic urchins augmented by very Catholic adults, singing and dancing their way through a toe-tapping tune of 11 verses supporting the premise that every sperm is sacred, every sperm is great, if a sperm is wasted, God gets quite irate.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  19 — Miriam and Huldah

  Tuesday, 2 June

  “Well, friends,” says Sarai, “this is the last of our Tuesday chats for this semester. Have you given thought to how ancient women passed on their wisdom?”

  Jen and Kat’s eyes dart to each other, holding their own question. Is this a test of our suitability for her great purpose?

  “It would have to be by stories,” says Kat. Warming to her own quick thinking she adds, “Most ancient women didn’t know how to write. Old women like to talk, my grandma and her friends like nothing better than a good old chat.”

  Sarai nods and turns to Jen.

  “I’ve been thinking about Jephthah’s daughter,” says Jen, with her own flash of inspiration. “The nameless girl you called Bat-Jifta. You said that the women of Israel commemorated her death every year and this was a time of passing on female wisdom. I think they would have created rituals and liturgies.”

  “It is what humans do to enhance the moment and the memory.”

  “But,” continues Jen, “the story reads from a male perspective. The wise women didn’t manage to influence how the scribes recorded it.”

  “Ah, that is very true. Kat is correct in presuming many ancient women lacked literacy skills, but there were exceptions. And as Kat suggests, women place great store on talking. For women the oral tradition was more important than the written, but they understood there was value in the written word. To ensure some females are mentioned in holy writ was all the Wisdom Keepers could realistically aim for. They accepted that women would be pawns in male stories and even made to speak against their own interests. It happens time and time again in the scriptures.

  “Consider Miriam, sister of Moses. Had it not been for her daring and initiative as a child, Moses would have died as an infant. As an adult Miriam was a prophetess and leader. After the crossing of the Red Sea she led the women in a song of thanksgiving but the Bible calls it the Song of Moses. Moses was not a confident orator, let alone poet and singer. The Wisdom Keepers were able to get two verses ascribed to Miriam. Incidentally, these words are believed to be the oldest fragments of scripture.

  “Older than Adam and Eve?”

  “Oh, Kat,” reproaches Jen. “Sarai told us Genesis was compiled hundreds of years after the semi-history it records and that the first 11 chapters are myth.”

  “Of course I know Adam and Eve and Noah and Co. are myth but I thought the stories would have been written down early on. Sarai, I do remember you saying Genesis was compiled from various strands of tradition that were laid side by side.”

  Sarai smiles. “Well done, but I never expect students to remember everything I say.”

  “Just as well,” comments Jen, “or few of us would have a hope of passing.”

  “I’ve been studying the scriptures and other wisdom
for decades. It sometimes surprises me that students remember any of it when it is new and there is so much to get one’s head around. I think it can be easier for those who don’t have much religious background — they have less to unlearn. Feminist reading is a reading of the gaps. When reading between the lines, or beneath the text, as women theologians prefer to say, realistically the whole Song of Deliverance is Miriam’s, but it is attributed to Moses.

  “That’s not fair,” says Kat.

  “We all know life isn’t fair,” responds Sarai, “but often women are happy to let men think what they have thought of is their idea. You’re a married woman, Jen. Would you agree?”

  Jen reddens slightly, thinking of her pregnancy Googling. “It does make for smoother relationships. I don’t care whose idea anything is or who thought of it first, as long as the concept is good for both of us.”

  “Miriam is an example of a single woman strong in her own right and not defined by males. She confronted Moses when he cast off the mother of his children and wed a black beauty.”

  “Moses took another wife?” Jen is incredulous. “He wrote the laws on adultery and coveting.”

  “You are embracing enlightenment, once you would have said God wrote the Law. It’s good you have managed to quell the image of the Fiery Finger burning words into stone.” Sarai’s eyes twinkle at Jen.

  “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of this woman, Jen. Moses’ Cushite wife doesn’t feature in the lectionary readings any more than Abraham’s after-thought wife Keturah does. Sarah and Hagar are quite enough for the traditionalists to handle.

  “Why don’t we know more about the Wisdom Keepers?” asks Jen.

  “Male historians are good at discrediting women. Take David’s first wife, Princess Michal. When she dared speak out against him for cavorting near-naked in the streets she suffered a literary murder — the text never referred to her again.”

  “What did you mean about women being made to speak against their own interests?” queries Jen.

  “Possibly the worst case of a biblical woman having to speak against her own interests concerns the prophetess Huldah. She was a woman who possessed literary skills and knowledge. Interestingly her husband was described as the keeper of the wardrobe, sounds like a bit of a role-reversal, doesn’t it?”

  Kat and Jen grin their agreement.

  “Huldah lived at the same time as the prophet Jeremiah. When a lost scroll was found in the temple and taken to the king, Josiah was concerned by its contents but chose to bypass Jeremiah and consult the prophetess. The scroll stressed the importance of monotheism. Huldah was given the task of interpreting its meaning. Huldah knew Josiah wanted to be a good king, yet doom and gloom were predicted. In her motherly way the prophetess offered comfort. She gave assurance that if the king did what was right he would die in peace.”

  “Comfort is what women do,” says Kat. Jen nods.

  “Yahweh was worshipped as a male god of war and as such had little appeal for most women. Women preferred the goddesses Ashera and Astarte, who represented fertility and nurture. That Yahweh was also a god of justice and hospitality, a god who cared for the widow and the orphan, had been forgotten. Huldah reminded the bearer of the scroll of the true nature of Yahweh but this was not reported. Instead, Huldah was used to convey the words that the narrowly patriotic men wanted to hear. All Ashera and poles and shrines must be cut down and her priests slain, the messengers told Josiah. Huldah’s speeches supporting female worship were never recorded. After Huldah was thus used she too got no further mention. But at least the record shows there were literate women able to advise kings.”

  “What happened to King Josiah?” inquires Jen.

  “He didn’t go to his grave in peace, as promised. He died in battle.”

  “So Huldah got it right,” comments Kat.

  Sarai acknowledges the irony with a wry smile. “The connection is seldom made.”

  “How important was oral history in a culture that had writing?”

  “A good point Jen! As well as the written Torah there was an oral Torah. Both were known to Israelite males, but what the men didn’t know was the women had their own oral Torah. Unlike the male oral Torah the female wisdom was never written. Men place great store on written words. Think about it! Some men become fanatically pedantic in regard to recorded script, ‘not an iota or dot’ can be changed. Jews must read the Torah in Hebrew and Muslims must read the Qur’an in Arabic. Some Christians maintain the King James Authorised Version to be the only authentic Christian Scripture.”

  “Yes, I know men like that,” says Jen.

  “Women know instinctively that words are never as important as the story. Feelings are not easily put into words and they don’t have to be, women understand this.”

  “And men don’t?” The question is Jen’s.

  “I’m not decrying men. Some men are wonderfully sensitive and caring. I am speaking generally. There are always exceptions to general trends. Respecting feelings seems to come more easily to women than it does to men. Typical feminine strengths are at the feeling, nurturing end of the spectrum. Men have their own strengths and both are needed. Humankin cannot fulfil its potential unless women and men are equally valued and their differing skills used in ways that complement each other.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, 3 June

  “Fish, Fish, Fiiiish!” Pauline turns from her lover and hammers with pantomime extravagance on her pristine white pillowslip. “You’re one hell of a catch, Fish.” The witch smiles at her pillow, her pun, her paramour, and the whole pulsating world. Fish smiles too.

  If she had been watching carefully Pauline would have seen a self-satisfied little smirk that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. She glimpses only the curve of mouth and eyebrows. Fish has heard it all before. He has never had a lover who didn’t want more of him. In fact, he’s never had a lover who didn’t eventually want too much of him. Though familiar territory it is satisfying with the witch. She certainly isn’t the most beautiful or even the most adventurous woman he has bedded. She is, he figures with interest, definitely the oldest bird he’s been with. But she is a great dame … possibly the best — wealthy, happy, and uncomplicated. She really has it together and does not want too much from him. The Lady is my Satisfaction, I shall not want. She maketh me to lie down … His smile crinkles round his eyes this time but quickly fades. Other than a good root what has he to offer a woman of her quality? Then, Put such thoughts out of your head, old boy … you don’t need to be a knight in shining armour for this dame. Just enjoy the ride.

  Pauline ceases radiating smiles to the universe and turns her attention back to their origin. “So, dear Fish, you’ve had loads of lovers.” For a moment she is distracted by the thought of loaves and fishes and her mind leaps to my cup runneth over. “Your performance speaks of vast experience.” It is part flattery, part truth. “So, how come the great lover never settled down? Katrina’s mother obviously didn’t cut it, did anyone else come close?”

  Fish gives a grunt. “It’s simple psychology, lovey. I could write a book on it, but it’s all been written by Freud or Jung. Those mind-bending buggers had me sussed before I was born.”

  Pauline rolls onto her back and settles, staring safely at the ceiling. Fish still surprises her with hidden depths. “Do you see yourself as more Freudian or Jungian?”

  “Can’t remember which is which,” he lies. He is invested in not showing depth. “The not settling down thing is probably some classic separation issue,” he says lightly.

  Pauline feels his shrug. “I’m a sucker for classics, I love a good story. It’s hard to imagine you as a little kid.”

  “You don’t want to try. I was one of those pathetic ‘not loved’ sprogs. My mother was more interested in whoring than housekeeping and my dad more driven by trying to win her back than caring for us. He managed it a few times but couldn’t stop abusing her and she disappeared for good. He couldn’t cope and we became foste
r kids. You know how it goes, from one home to the next bleeding home, finding some imitation of love here and there along the way, then having it snatched away again.”

  Perceiving the anguished child beneath the casual voice Pauline slips a hand from her tummy to his arm. Fish, though shocked by making such disclosures, has an urge to continue. “I guess my defence mechanism built a wall spelling boy-o it is pointless getting caught up in the love thing. But the shrinks tell us everyone needs to feel lovable, so my mission was to be popular with the ladies.” A series of faces flick through his mind: beautiful, plain, skinny, fat, sparkling … “I wasn’t one to invest in a ‘type’ as some Casanova’s claim. And what about you, my Wonderful White Witch of the East?”

  “There really is only one novelty in the sexual journey of this Lancashire lass,” she says, adding a teasing pause.

  “This oughta be good.”

  “The only interesting piece of sexual history that I can claim is that I was completely untouched and pure in every way until the age of 31.” She giggles at her own quaintness.

  “Good God, woman, talk about leading a man on. I thought you were going to tell me about some moonlit initiation ceremony with hundreds of naked, nubile witchlings circle-dancing in an ever increasing frenzy of sexual desire ending in a screaming lesbian orgy of Wiccan wickedness!”

  “Well, of course, my love, all my Sabbats do pretty much end up like that, but you’ll never get to see because we are a girls-only coven. But keep on dreaming and scheming and maybe you’ll get to start your own co-ed circle.”

  “I’ll be popping some fliers up around the varsity tomorrow — gotta get them young.”

  For this he receives a playful slap on his lightly-haired tummy and a soft squeeze of his semi-firm manhood.

  “I’d like to know about your childhood, Fish … Would that be OK? I mean, please feel free to say no. My earliest memories are reciting texts to my mother, along with my siblings. In our household we had to be able to say ‘Love is of God, one John, four seven’, when we were four years old. John and his numbers were a total mystery. I suppose the words were too, really, but they seemed comforting at the time, later was more of a problem. What are your earliest memories?”