“But that doesn’t add up,” interjects Jake. “Mary Magdalene came from Magdala, a port town on Lake Gennesaret.”
“Magdalene may not mean from Magdala but rather Magna, meaning great, the Great Mary as distinguished from the Virgin Mary. Tradition supports this stance. There is compelling evidence to support the hypothesis that the three siblings from Bethany were expelled from Palestine with other Christians. They were condemned to float in a rudderless boat and survived, washing up in the south of France. This region has been known for religious enlightenment and gender equity. The three kinsfolk immediately began missionary activity in Marseilles. Lazarus is already a bishop and depicted in bishop’s clothing. The first cycle of stories principally cluster around Mary. A Mary identified as Mary Magdalene.”
“Was she pregnant?” Jen can’t help herself.
Sarai quells her interjection with, “Eminently possible,” and continues. “An independent Martha story cycle emerged. Churches were named after her and she was known as the mother of the community. Surviving Christian art shows Martha performing a diverse range of activities. A famous painting on the altar at Tiefenbronn shows her comforting her brother on the voyage, cradling him on her lap. Other works show Martha as guardian to the Madonna, one has her consecrating brothers to a healing order named in her honour, and many show Martha in the presence of a dragon.”
Sarai puts both elbows on the lectern and leans comfortably toward the class. “The story goes like this. In the countryside between Arles and Avignon there lived a terrible dragon monster who was described as half animal and half fish, fatter than an ox and longer than a horse, whose teeth were like pointed horns. The dragon was named Taracus. He particularly enjoyed submerging himself in the Rhone, sinking ships and killing any who tried to cross. The townspeople appealed to St Martha to save them from the dragon. Martha set out to find him. She was barefoot, wearing a long gown, and carried nothing but a cross and a flask of holy water. Taracus was not in the river but she persevered and found him in a forest eating a man. She presented her cross and sprinkled holy water over the beast. He became as quiet as a lamb. Martha took off her girdle and tied it around his neck and led him to the village.
“The theme of monsters threatening inhabitants is known in the mythology of most cultures. Usually the monster requires sacrifices, often virgins. Eventually a hero appears and frees the latest victim, conquers the beast with force and finally slays the dragon — male fantasies from beginning to end, fantasies that have defined women’s place in culture. The patriarchal world takes pride in representing itself by conquest — a foot on the head of the dragon. The resurrection of Christ is likened to Christ trampling the serpent’s head. Martha symbolises another way of dealing with evil: not its annihilation but its redemption. St Martha’s conquest of the dragon is strikingly different to St George’s. George was aided by his stallion, armour, lance and sword. His story is one of power and violence. The feminine version presents a vulnerable woman in long skirt and bare feet who overcomes evil without force.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Sorry I’m hung up on pregnancy,” Jen mumbles, red faced, in Sarai’s office.
“I understand, Jen. I know having a child is important to you and Wilkin, and having a child is a wonderful thing. But, Jen, I keep telling you: bloodlines are a male thing. Whether Jesus of Nazareth had descendants or not is of little importance. Genes are not the most important thing in the world. In fact most of what humanity holds sacred is a giant beat-up,” Sarai adds with a smile, lightening the moment. “People will keep breeding their sacred cows.”
Kat realises she is caressing her belly and quickly picks up her mug of tea.
“You need to see the wider picture.” Sarai blows gently on her tea, takes a sip, and continues. “Consider Martha, the wise crone — once a maiden, possibly a physical virgin, but a mother of the church. Take the dragon story — the Martha legend shares archetypal characteristics with other dragon legends but psychologically it is very different. Instead of a bound victim the dragon is bound, bound with a woman’s girdle. The girdle that encompasses the essence of the woman has the power to tame ferociousness without resorting to violence. The female victim is replaced by a female heroine. Against the laws of mythology the woman is confronted with her like. Traditionally woman is the embodiment of chaos, the so-called fall of mankind began with a woman and a serpent creature — a dragon is an enhanced version of the mythical serpent. Forbidding women are called old dragons, men are not, despite folk dragons being male creatures. Martha the mature woman is no helpless virgin, she conquers that which is feared by women and men, using gentle strength. She restores rightful balance without compromising her own actions.”
“It turns traditional heroism upside down,” says Jen.
“This story leaps out of Christian myth and reveals a more ancient and all-encompassing wisdom stream. We are not related by blood, but I am a child of Martha, a sister of Martha. And in time you also will be.” Sarai’s words are shared with a singular warmth. The old woman inhales slowly, as if breathing in the love that exists in the room.
After the young women leave Sarai settles to writing.
A Psalm of Sarai — Wisdom’s Beatitudes
Blessed are those who understand the balance of realms,
for this is heaven on earth.
Blessed are they who see gender as complementary,
for they shall be fulfilled …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline crosses the paved area between shops and the car park and stops to admire the planters, bright with daffodils, separating the small pedestrian square from the traffic.
“Pauline,” calls a voice. “Pauline!” She turns to see a young woman waving from the bus shelter.
“Becky, how lovely to see you,” calls Pauline.
As they walk toward each other Pauline notes the satisfyingly pregnant profile. “I haven’t seen you at my part of the river since you told me your wonderful news.”
“I’m supposed to put my feet up in lunch breaks.”
“I’ve been wondering how you are doing.”
“Just great,” responds Becky with a twirl. “I got these winter preggie clothes last month from Pre-loved Garments — such a great find!” Pauline admires the well-cut pants and Becky lifts the matching flared jacket to reveal the expanding waist section.
“I’m getting on for five months now, I know I look like seven but I’m feeling fine. I’ve been really well ever since the morning sickness stopped. I think I’ll be able to work a couple more months.”
“I’m so pleased things are going well. If you are looking for baby gear I take a turn at a charity shop that has a section for prams, cots, and car seats. I’ll let you know what twin gear we have.”
“That would be great, thanks, Pauline.”
“And how is Zac. Is he helping out at home?”
“Yes, he’s doing far more than he used to, even though he’s busier than ever. In fact Zac has so much work he had to take on a labourer.” Her eyes dance. “You will never guess who!”
“I’m sure I won’t.”
“It was my doing really,” Becky confesses with ill-concealed pride. “This young mop-headed guy came into the salon. I had him marked for a mullet, but no, he wanted it neatened up respectable like. Said he’d worn it shaved for ages but had been letting it grow since February because he wanted to get a decent job. It was then I recognised him. He was that bloke who thought that you were going to stab me! He didn’t know who I was, of course. It occurred to me that in a different situation he could have been a hero who saved my life, so I pointed out Zac’s card in our window. I thought Zac could at least interview him if he was serious enough to make contact. His name is Shane, and it’s working out really well. I’ve been bursting to tell someone.”
“What a remarkable coincidence and how very kind of you to offer the lad a chance. You must come and visit me, and we can have a real catch-up. I’ve been doing some knitti
ng for your babies. Would Sunday afternoon suit, around three?”
“Sure,” says Becky, heading for the bus, “See ya.”
“Well, well, well,” mutters Pauline, unlocking her car from a distance. “Amazing things happen in this world of ours.” Her car flashes its lights in agreement.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
24 — An issue of blood
Thursday, 30 August
Jen consults her diary: period due tomorrow. She’d better be prepared. She hasn’t been clockwork-regular this year — stress, she presumes. She inserts a tampon, checks her make-up, and leaves for the Thursday lecture. For once Kat is waiting for her and leads into the lecture room.
“Bloody hell!” says Kat pausing in the aisle. “Look at that!”
The large desk is heaped with sanitary pads, hundreds of them, a snowy-white mountain of feminine protection. As the students shuffle to their usual seats, embarrassment registers all around the room. The Philippine couple have their eyes resolutely buried in lecture notes. Even Steve appears to be having a problem knowing where to look. Only the Wiccan trio look unconcerned. They natter in a huddle, bright-eyed with expectation.
Sarai breezes up to the lectern. “Today we are going to consider the interesting juxtaposition of the seriously ill 12-year-old girl and the woman who suffered an issue of blood for 12 years. Twelve is a likely age for a girl to begin menstruating but we can presume her illness was more than the onset of a sometimes painful, but normal, function. The girl is believed to be near death. That Jairus the ruler of the synagogue seeks the help of Jesus, an itinerant, peasant healer shows enormous humility and faith — or was it desperation? Here we see a biblical father who truly loves his little girl. Most appear to take no interest in their girls until they are old enough to be offered in an advantageous marriage.
Now let us consider the other woman in this story. For once a woman is granted thoughts. She says to herself, If I only touch his garment, I shall be made well. She is a desperate woman — a woman who has been haemorrhaging for 12 years. What would that mean? Such a condition would be debilitating for any woman in any age. But to the Hebrews she was a filthy outcast. The purity laws were oppressive, all blood except sacrificial blood handled by priests was unclean, as were all corpses, human or animal. Any menstruating woman was considered unclean. At such times of the month women stayed apart from the family. To merely brush against a menstruating woman would make a man unclean. Banished for seven out of every 28 days was a manageable hurdle that some women welcomed. A continual blood flow would make the afflicted a permanent outcast consigned to a living death. That she dared mingle with a crowd was shocking but to deliberately touch a male was unthinkable.”
Sarai moves to the desk and extends her arms toward the white mountain. “What you see here is my estimate of six months’ supply of sanitary protection for this woman. We can presume her flow was not heavy, for if it was it would have killed her. I am allowing only two pads a day. I ask you to multiply this in your imagination by 24, and you have some idea of the magnitude of her problem.” Waiting for the class to create the full visual picture Sarai plants a flag on the snowy-white peak, a flag consisting of a tampon mounted in an applicator. “Of course, this woman did not have access to any modern sanitary devices. How she coped we can only guess … a life consumed by isolation and washing rags.” The students shuffle uncomfortably. “Imagine this woman’s absolute horror when Jesus noticed her. The unclean one had deliberately touched the healer. He had felt power go out of him. She will surely die for this atrocity. But Jesus beheld her with eyes of understanding and said, ‘Take heart daughter; your faith has made you well.’ She is made well, truly well, she knows it, she feels it — amazing, fantastic, and true! She will be able to rejoin the living. And, unbelievably, the great healer called her, vile outcast that she is, daughter — what an incredible honour. Amidst her private rejoicing a servant from Jairus’ household informs him his daughter is dead. Has she caused the death of the ruler’s child by daring to touch the healer? Imagine her panic and guilt. Let’s hope she heard of the second miracle — the miracle of Jesus breaking further taboos by touching a corpse and restoring the 12-year-old girl to life.”
Jen wipes a tear from her eye and thinks, as she so often does, what an amazing teacher Sarai is.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Over her solitary lunch of soup and fresh fruit Jen recalls being 12. She was tall for her age and matured early. She made a point of dressing in the bathroom to avoid embarrassing interest from her younger sister. One day, running late for netball practise, she forgot.
“You’ve got tits,” her pre-pubescent room-mate informed, looking from her naked Barbie doll to Jen’s blossoming bra. Jen turned her back and wriggled into her gold sports shirt. “Soon you’ll have a boyfriend and you’ll be k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”
“Get out,” Jen grabbed her sister and pushed. “This is my room, I had it first. Can’t I even get changed without you perving at me?”
“I’ll tell Mum you’re being mean to me.” Jen’s grip tightened. Lindy’s voice rose to a shriek. “It’s my room too!”
“Shut up. I hate sharing a room with you. You’re so infantile.”
“You’re mean, meean, meeean. It’s my room, it’s my room …”
“Have the room, you little creep.” Jen spun Lindy back into the room, flinging her against a bed. “Play with your pathetic dolls. I’m going out.”
“Tits, tits, you’ve got tits. Cinderella dressed in yella went downstairs to kiss her fella,” her sister hurled over the banisters at Jen’s retreating back.
For a while Jen had become round-shouldered in an effort to hide her developing assets but it wasn’t long before other classmates were filling junior bras and Jen slowly realised she had a figure to be proud of. Home life was improved by her father building a sleep-out for their older brother and Jen moving into his room.
Jen became one of the most confident girls in her year. Even so it took gut-screwing courage to do what she did during a home science lesson near the end of her final term at primary school. She recalls the incident with a wave of sympathy for the teacher. Mrs Ranstead was a kindly woman who had returned to teaching after raising a family. Considering her too motherly and elderly for teaching, some kids tended to give her a hard time. She was probably in her forties, Jen realises with sudden surprise.
This particular day there was an inspector in the room. It was obvious Mrs Ranstead was flustered. The kids had nothing personal against the woman so made an attempt to behave reasonably but as the dried fruit was being mixed into the flour there were nudges and smothered giggles from one side of the room. It was only when Mrs Ranstead bent over to check the loaf tins had been placed on the right oven rack that everyone saw a bright red patch seeping through her white cooking coat. Titters rippled through the class. The teacher stood bemused and confused. Eyes lowered and everyone became intent on cleaning their work benches. Shoulders heaved as strangled sniggers escaped. Jen was at the back bench. She didn’t want to but someone had to. She felt all eyes tracking her feet as she walked to the front of the class. Her words were too low for the kids to catch. She had rehearsed them on the long trek, and 25 years later can still recall them. ‘Excuse me,’ she had muttered, flushed but determined, ‘you need to know you have blood on your white coat.’ The poor woman had gasped and rushed into her storeroom, returning some minutes later wearing another cooking-coat, her face as red as the stain had been.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Thursday, 27 August
“Wilkin, this lands one hundred per cent on your shoulders.”
The chairman of the board is one of the few men Wilkin genuinely respects, and, when he thinks about it, his respect is 90 per cent fear. Wilkin understands fear equalling respect. It is an equation he is comfortable with, a tactic he uses with his own senior managers. Men should fear their leader, just as Christians should fear God. Love and mercy only work with a great whack of fear setting the tone.
/> Wilkin is in trouble and knows it. He has ridden his Chief Financial Officer way too hard for way too long. Iain Christianson left Smith, Upson and Stopforth at eleven-thirty on a Tuesday morning, and placed a personal grievance against Wilkin that afternoon. By Friday he had lodged a claim suing the company for loss of earning, reputation and emotional stress. Those who saw it coming were uncomfortable. Iain had been a school friend of Wilkin’s. They played rugby together and in later years, golf. The golf had stopped over a year ago. Last Christmas Iain took pains to rig the seating plan for the work dinner so he would not have to sit near Wilkin.
SUS paid better than any other consulting firm in Christchurch but pay alone did not produce magic. Wilkin ran a tight ship, very tight. While things were good the board loved him and things had been good for a long time, long enough for Wilkin and the board to grow rich. But over the last couple of years cracks had appeared in the once impenetrable reputation of Smith, Upson and Stopforth. Some blamed economic circumstances, others a run of poor decisions at a senior level. Nearly everyone knew that Wilkin was losing his mana as the company’s head. Business was still coming in but staff were less inclined to give 100 per cent to that work. Two years ago the senior management put in closer to 200 per cent, gaining the reputation as the best consultants in the South Island. They were confident, cocky, and robust. But something indefinable had shifted. Wilkin no longer inspired the fanatical work ethic that had been his to command. Company gloss was fading and the tone slipping from kings of consulting to slaves of consulting. What once felt like a shining cause had become hard slog without much thanks.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 29
