The others have reached the lift. Jen calls, “We’ll see you there.”
Jen imagines Steve chanting brown nose or worse. “What do you want?” asks Kat, with typical directness. Sarai’s abruptness of Tuesday is apparently forgotten. Her tone is convivial. “Pauline asked me to give you these.” She extends two cards. “They are invitations to her Yule celebration.”
“Yule?” queries Jen, “In June?”
“Yes, it's one of the Wiccan Sabbats. In the southern hemisphere the Wheel of the Pagan Year is six months behind. Or ahead,” grins Sarai. “Pauline loves to celebrate the Sabbats and as you unexpectedly dropped in on her last one she thought you may like to be involved. Yule pays homage to the longest night and coming light but basically it is a ‘bring and share’ mid-winter Christmas dinner. It’s not until the twenty-first. Her phone number is on the card. Now, hurry along or you will miss out on your coffee.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Another semester gone — time is running out. Getting tense won’t help. Relax, Sarai, unwind. She inhales and exhales, three long breaths, wriggles comfortably into her office chair, takes a fresh sheet of paper, unscrews the gold-trimmed cap on her purple pen, and writes in round cursive script.
A Psalm of Sarai — Gomer’s Revelation
Why should I be whore to any god?
They gave their wool and their flax and their wine.
They took their pleasure from me and left me broken …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat is glad she is not a proper student. Exams — who wants them? Not me, that’s for sure, she muses. For me it’s back to normal life for five weeks. Normal? Life won’t be normal for long. Make the most of it. That bastard will pay, but it won’t be enough. Kat had been surprised by how readily Arthur had agreed to pay maintenance for silence. He must be married. He is too good-looking not to be. No one has asked about the wedding ring she found. It could be useful.
Kat had demanded a signed statement. Arthur agreed and posted it care of the motel. Not that it was exactly legal, he had simply signed Arthur, like he was a king or something, but the promised ‘good faith’ $500 did arrive in her bank account. But, babies cost big time and she will have to give up working in a few months. You are going to need money, girl.
Grim Gordon has come and gone. Gordon is thin, tall, and upright, a man of principle. As he sees it, it’s not his fault he has never had a partner. He hates what he is doing and hates her for doing it with him. Both are pleased when the brief encounter is over. Betting Barrie is more enjoyable: he only visits when he has had a win on the horses. He is a happy albeit infrequent client.
As usual on a Monday Amber is waiting for an off-duty cop. She has three regulars from the constabulary. They know about each other. It’s their insurance; safety in numbers. No one will snitch. All are married. It’s a tough job, they say, dangerous, we need our relaxation. Today it is Harvey, a weedy guy for a cop. One of those types who is going bald and tries to hide it by combing long strands from the side over the top of his head. She can’t bear that in a bloke, smacks of intent to deceive. Harvey thinks handcuffs are very daring. When he first produced them he wasn’t sure how they were used in bed. Kat had no intention of being part of that game. Well, not with him. Harvey accepted her guidance in the matter. Now she regularly cuffs him to the rods that secure the seventies headboard to the queen-sized bed, and, pro that she is, doesn’t even smile.
It’s not often two cops come on the same day but today Howie also has spare time. You would think there was no crime in this city! Perhaps that’s why — the bloody cops get too much time off. She can’t decide which she dislikes the most. Big, blustering Howie would have been a bully as a kid. Probably still is. She can just see him revelling in bossing his subordinates, ticking them off like school kids in the principal’s office. When it comes to sex Howie knows what he wants and takes it with no finesse.
By contrast Brice, the third one, acts like a gentleman. He is a chief inspector, smooth and polite. She sees how he would inspire false confidence, feign understanding to damn a compromised petty crim. Twice this year he has made appointments and failed to keep them. No cancellation message, no apology, no concern that she is losing money. A promise means nothing to him. Amber doesn’t trust him one inch. If he fails to show again that’s it. He has been warned.
Thank God her working day will end with Ben. He isn’t cheating on a wife. Since Ben suggested she go to uni she’s had a soft spot for him. He’s a nice guy, shame he can’t find a nice woman. Good husband material, she surmises. It’s been a while since Ben has paid her a visit. Actually, she realises with surprise, she is missing him. She checks her appointment book: over a month, last time he seemed concerned for her welfare. Strange really, clients are consumed by their own needs. But, yes, it comes back to her with a physical shudder, she cancelled Ben, because of The Incident. She’d had to inform a few clients she had the flu. Her hand moves to the scar on her arm, her fingers trace the A and jerk away. Amber urges her mind forward. She’d told Ben she was really enjoying Sarai’s lectures. He’d said, Well why do this? All very well for him. His daddy is a rich businessman.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
21 — Yule Sabbat
Sunday, 21 June
Jen dismisses Pauline’s Yule invitation as not feasible. What excuse could she possibly give Wilkin?
After her exam she feels elated. “I really am getting to grips with this stuff,” she tells her beloved.
“Really?” he says. She takes it as sneering. “Can’t see the point of studying without a purpose, but I’m told women need hobbies,” he smiles indulgently, so he thinks. The spicy chicken casserole Jen is carrying thumps to the table, millimetres from spilling. Wilkin gives no reaction.
After dinner Jen buries herself in a magazine and sees an article headed Magic Midwinter. It comments on plants to which the Celts attributed spiritual qualities. ‘Hawthorn’ is mentioned. Jen would like to share it with Wilkin but there is so little she can now share with him. He would not be at all impressed to know his namesake tree is the ‘fairy bush of the Irish’ and used for making magic balls on Midwinter’s Day, into which the makers breathed their hopes and wishes for the coming year. Hawthorn is said to guard the hinges and to oversee crafts, not exactly high priorities in Wilkin’s world. As a medicine it is good for the heart. Is that a healthy heart or a romantic heart? She should try making a brew!
The truth is, she realises, the term break is drawing out interminably. With nothing to study she has too much time on her hands. She could slip into brooding. When Kat phones suggesting witching it up at Pauline’s could be fun, Jen realises she has been missing her friend’s youthful company. Wilkin is so enmeshed in his own concerns and so unwilling to share, there is little point in caring what he thinks. Why not have a fun-night out with the girls?
By Sunday afternoon Jen is doubly glad to be going out. She used to look forward to Sundays, they both did — a leisurely breakfast followed by going to church together, a relaxing shared ritual. Not today! The vicar mentioned Matariki in the service, expressing a personal preference that the Maori New Year be made a national holiday — tantamount to paganism in Wilkin’s view. Wilkin avoids shaking the vicar’s hand at the door and rants all the way home.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline, ever the gracious hostess, accepts Jen’s offering of wild rice and walnut salad and Kat’s bought garlic bread with gentle pleasure and ushers the young women into her lounge. She formally announces their presence, asks Ginny and Marion to take care of them, and disappears. Ginny is the youngest in the coven, even so she must be in her mid-forties. It turns out that Marion is her mother and Ginny is an accountant. “That sounds dull and respectable,” remarks Kat.
Ginny gives a burst of laughter. “Most of us are dull and respectable, most of the time,” she grins, “Though I can’t vouch for Mum and Joy when they get into their Abba routines.” Marion doesn’t hear this as she is looking for extra chairs.<
br />
“I don’t understand the word Wicca,” says Jen to Ginny.
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a weird one, has to do with performing rites. Wiccan dance involves bending and turning, as in weaving — like in wicker baskets.”
The twinkle in Ginny’s eyes permits Kat to offload what she is bursting to say. “Wiccans are basket cases!”
“Maybe! But in Anglo-Saxon witan is the origin of wit, wise, and wisdom. Traditionally Wiccans are healers who help shape events to benefit humanity and the world.” Ginny’s dancing eyes sober. “Feminist Wiccans search within themselves for the female principle of the world. The intention is to relate as sisters and daughters of the Creatrix. There is a strong connection between spirituality and justice. This lot aren’t as politically active as I would like but they’re good women.”
Marion appears, edging her way through the room with a burden. She unpacks a pair of stacking stools. Jen and Kat murmur thanks and sit. “No black hats,” Kat whispers.
“It’s early yet,” cautions Jen.
Suddenly the chatter ceases and those standing take seats. Pauline and a well groomed woman have entered the room carrying a large bag, Jack and Jill style, between them. “Welcome, everyone,” says Pauline, “it is lovely to see you all.’ Her eyes sweep the room, lingering briefly on Jen and Kat. “I have a delightful announcement to make. You know what a competent seamstress our Shirley is. Well she has made a wonderful gift for the coven.”
“My gift was only time,” declares the woman on the other handle. “Pauline paid for the fabric.” She unzips the bag and Pauline draws out a long dark garment.
“Brown is the traditional colour but Shirley thought green better suited the antipodean clean-green image.” Pauline twirls the garment round her shoulders and pulls up a hood. “Thirteen hooded cloaks, so perfect for winter celebrations.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Cloaked and hooded to uniformity Jen and Kat feel less conspicuous than they had feared. Pauline has handed out ritual cue cards and Sarai appeared in time to give a brief run-down on what to expect. “Physical direction is important. Pauline’s garden lights are aligned to the compass. Wiccan altars are placed north. For Yule a Compass Witch is positioned at the four points. Just join the circle witches and follow their lead.”
“Where will you be?” asks Kat.
Sarai adjusts the girdle of her brown robe. “I’m simply an observer these days. I keep outside the magic circle.”
In the chill June air the women appreciate their hooded cloaks. The night is dark. The moon has deserted them. The garden lights define the paved pentacle with a pale gleam. Jen eyes the Wiccan altar and wonders vaguely if she could be committing a sin. As a Presbyterian, sin wasn’t much of an issue, but Anglican liturgy is disturbingly sin-focused. The contents of the Wiccan altar appear benign enough: a candle burning in a woodturned holder, a small bundle of unlit candles, a couple of small bowls, and a plate of … iceblock sticks? But behind the bowls: a rather nasty-looking knife.
Everyone in the circle holds an unlit candle and a cue card except the woman next to Jen who holds a hand-drum. Kat wonders if the cauldron perched on three stocky legs in the centre of the pentacle holds soup — but there is no fire keeping it warm. She can’t see exactly what the four witches facing outward are holding but each appears to have something different. Fat lot of good having cue cards, it’s too dark too read. Pauline begins to speak, reading from a liturgy book by the light of the large altar candle,
From the Norse word for ‘Wheel’ comes the blessed word ‘Yule’
The ‘Winter Sabbat’ we honour by sacred Wiccan Rule;
Our winter solstice brings the longest night,
But dark’s triumph always yields to light;
This dark marks the womb-time preceding a birth,
The great Sun reborn will soon rewarm the earth.
“Blessed be,” respond the coven solemnly.
“Eastern Witch,” orders Priestess Pauline. “Present your incense.”
By leaning back a little Kat can see the Wiccan standing on the eastern point hold high a stick of burning incense. She then recites, presumably by heart,
Guardians of the East, now you we invite.
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of wind and breath of the new,
Bring here your blessing special and true.
“Blessed be,” respond the Wiccans as one.
“Southern Witch, present your light,” the priestess cues. A new voice contributes a little hesitantly,
Guardians of the South, now you we invite.
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of fire light desires anew,
Bring here your blessing special and true.
“Blessed be,” intone the witches.
“Western Witch, present your chalice of water.” The unwicked witch of the west rushes through,
Guardians of the West, now you we invite
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of water cleanse and sustain,
Bring to us health and wash away pain.
“Blessed be,” Jen and Kat murmur with the rest.
“Northern Witch, present your salt.” A stagey voice intones,
Guardians of the North, now you we invite.
Come to our circle and protect our rite;
Keepers of harvests from all of the earth,
Bring wisdom’s blessing to this new rebirth.
What a drama queen, thinks Kat, joining in the Blessed be with more fervour than intended, as she watches the four compass witches face the centre. Led by the drama queen they say together,
Air, and Fire, and Earth, and Waters,
United we stand within your Quarters.
Combining the present with the past,
Here, and now, our Circle is cast.
Priestess Pauline replies,
Death happens before rebirth.
This is the cycle of our earth;
The wheel is turning, the wheel is turning …
What is your yearning? What is your yearning?
The witch with the hand-drum begins to beat. Jen jumps. The Wiccans chant, “Turn, turn — the wheel this night, return, return — return the light.”
Priestess Pauline takes one of the small bowls and holds it high. “Taste death by its symbol of bitterness,” she says, and takes a pinch to her lips. She passes the bowl to the woman on her right, who follows suit. Common salt, analyses Jen as the powder touches her tongue. When the bowl returns to Pauline she replaces it on the altar and reads from her liturgy book,
Though dark the night I hold a light for what is true,
Change is constant, ever renewing but never new;
Open us to enlightenment as the days lengthen,
Illuminate dull lives and weak souls strengthen.
Bless us Great Power,
In this darkest hour,
May what we feel
Help turn the wheel.
The drummer starts beating and as before, on the fourth beat, the coven taken up their chant: Turn, turn — the wheel this night, return, return — return the light. Pauline responds with, “As the Goddess Mother gave birth to the Sun we hold vigil with light, knowing dark must pass.”
The four Compass Witches place their tokens on the altar, except for the one with the lit candle. She presents it to Pauline before joining the other three lighting ordinary candles from the altar candle. From these they ignite the candles held by the circle witches. When all are glowing Pauline directs the presentation candle into the cauldron. There is a flash. Magnesium powder? wonders Jen. The drumming rises then stops.
“Reveal yourselves,” commands Pauline. The witches cast back their hoods. “Come bareheaded and open minded,” she invites. Jen and Kat are herded forward with the morphing coven to form a tight circle. Pauline takes another bowl from the altar. “I taste life by its symbol of sweetness,” she says, dipping and twisting an ice-block
stick from bowl to mouth. The honey bowl follows the pattern of the salt bowl, though this time the right-hand witch tracks its progress, offering tasting sticks and receiving the used ones. With hoods back Jen notices the competent assistant is Shirley the seamstress.
Pauline’s concluding words are,
We have tasted sweetness together this night
And united we welcome the coming of light.
Followed by the predictable, “Blessed be!” the drummer does a brief intro and ups the tempo,
Turn, turn — the wheel this night,
Return, return — return the light.
Turn, turn — the wheel this night,
Return, return — return the light.
The united voices rise to a crescendo that ends with a shouted, “Blessed be!”
Pauline extinguishes the altar candle, takes up the knife, and leads the procession of flickering lights into the house. Divested of witchy garments an ordinary group of friendly women settle to drinking sherry and doing last-minute meal preparations. “Can we help with anything?” Jen asks Ginny.
“Let’s find out,” replies Ginny, leading them to the kitchen. The drummer Wiccan is wielding a carving knife with the same energy and expertise she gave her drum beats.
“Willing helpers at your service, Glenda.”
Glenda pauses, pushes slipping spectacles up her nose, and beams. “Thanks girls.” Short dark hair frames cheeks pink with exertion. “This meat is ready for the table and there’s more in the oven.”
The ‘girls’ relay the hot food to Pauline’s formal dining room. From the large sideboard to the long table the room exudes elegance. Sparkling silver defines 14 place settings, each augmented with lavish serviettes and crackers. Real holly, ivy and mistletoe form the decorations.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 26
