League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  “Bottom of the hour, local news time,” declares the breezy DJ, “a newborn infant is missing from Canterbury Hospital’s maternity ward. Police are wanting to speak with anybody with information. We understand the police are specifically interested in a high-profile Cantabrian businessman and a senior Canterbury rugby player.” We have heard that prominent businessman Wilkin Hawthorne visited the mother of the missing child early this afternoon.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  O’Connor’s fertile imagination is in top gear. Wilkin Hawthorne eh! Why is Hawthorne visiting a maternity ward? Why would any male visit a maternity ward? It seems pretty obvious to him. If there is anyone Connor O’Connor would like to take down, it’s Wilkin Hawthorne and his hoity-toity Mrs. His mind darts to humiliating memories. He’d got a lowly office job at Smith Upson and Stopforths a couple of years back, even attended the staff mid-year party, and observed how well put together Mrs Hawthorne was but did she cut him dead when he tried to join their conversation, looked at him as if he were dog shit. A month or so later Hawthorne had fired him.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Sarai returns to the physical world and looks around. People are dotted in straggling clumps all over the Cathedral. A group of young people are sawing away at stringed instruments. It seems a rehearsal is in progress. A woman is singing. It would be rude to walk out until she finishes. Sarai idly extracts a book from the chair in front. It is the Book of Common Prayer, a personal copy left by an absent-minded parishioner. Holding the little fat book brings a sense of peace and connection. Her Sarah-self had learned to love its poetry from an early age, a tender, innocent life-time ago. The frayed book falls open at ‘Evening Prayer’. Nunc Dimittis, reads Sarai, her eyes glaze and in her head she recites, Lord, now lettest thou servant depart in peace: according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; to be a light to lighten the Gentiles: and to be the glory of the people Israel. Another part of Sarai’s soul flows with the meaning, altering the words, Glory be to Sophia, and to her Children and to One-Soul; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: joy without end. Amen.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  3:35 pm

  Jen steps briskly towards the grey Cathedral and lurches to a stop. Backache is making her limp. Reaching the front porch entrance suddenly seems a daunting task, perhaps the side porch door is open, but even that is a long trek. She rubs her back and stretches. Strung round the outer curve of the sanctuary a bright banner announces Summer Concert 17th Jan. Jen’s eyes slide from the banner to a tucked-away door. Good God, the back door isn’t locked! A slit of shadow betrays the narrow door is definitely ajar - must be something to do with the concert. All thoughts of backache disappear.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Sarai stands, she feels light, a weight of responsibility has been lifted. She steps into the centre of the aisle and smiles up to the sprightly lamb. The lamb holds his flag in the hub of a well-defined wheel. Wheels within wheels, she acknowledges to the surrounding picture circles, such are the complexities of belief. The Wheel turns, Sarai thinks. It is not a Wiccan wheel, it has ten spokes. Wiccans celebrate four seasons; Buddhists have an eightfold path of enlightenment. The wheel unites cultures and transcends faiths. The wheel is a symbol of journey.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Jen pushes the door and it moves with a reluctant creak. She walks past the choir stalls and chapel as though she has every right to be there. She pauses at the top of the side aisle and scans the knots of people strung randomly through the nave. Is Sarai still here? A figure with a stick stands motionless in the centre aisle. It is Sarai! As her brain confirms the message relayed by light-adjusted eyes, the figure starts moving toward the main doors. “No!” Jen hears a frantic voice reverberate through the acoustics of the cathedral. The voice shouts, SARAI! — more than a shout, closer to a scream. People turn, shocked. They stare at the crazed pregnant woman. Those nearby make shushing noises.

  Slowly Jen realises the wild voice is hers. The sound had come with no thought, no consideration of consequence. In the instant of pause Jen marvels at her own courage — or is it insanity? Jennifer Hawthorne does not make a spectacle of herself. She doesn’t act without consideration of protocol and impact on others. These values are her chosen obligations, but not today. Adrenalin surges. Musicians, singers, assorted parents and supporters watch in astonishment as the pregnant woman emerges from the ambulatory aisle, cuts behind the eagle lectern, crosses in front of the sanctuary, and totters down the centre aisle.

  “SARAI WAIT!” cries the disturbed woman. Sarai is unconcerned by the polite expectations of society but is amazed to behold Jen behaving so outrageously out of character. Jen yelling in the Cathedral, interrupting a rehearsal … something must be terribly wrong. Sarai’s heart lurches as she rifles possibilities — something has happened to Kat, or the baby. The possibilities present in the moment it takes Sarai to turn to face the screaming Jen. Another thought hits her, Jen is a sensitive spiritual — could she have encountered the wolf in the chapel?

  The aisle is long; Jen’s heels clatter on the tiles and all eyes follow her ungainly progress. Sarai feels her energy shifting from transcendent-sublime to panic. In an effort to halt the unwelcome change she swivels her eyes away from Jen to a random window, Christ is holding a peaceful lamb. All is well, all will be well, she instructs her taut body in the wisdom of Julian of Norwich. When Jen makes it to her outstretched arms Sarai is in a state of relaxed warmth. She pulls Jen to her bosom intent on radiating love into the frightened girl. “Jen, Jen take a moment, just brea …”

  Jen wrenches out of the embrace, grabs Sarai’s wrist and pulls her toward the entrance porch. Jen pushes her toward the closed side door. In the gloom of the alcove she faces Sarai. Her features are contorted by … Sarai knows not what. Jen’s words tumble with urgency. “Sarai, you know I love you and I will no matter what but you must tell me.” Her nostrils flare and Sarai feels the heat of panic transferring through the grip Jen has on her wrist. “Where is the baby?”

  The bewildering words come with such tone of accusation Sarai is dumbfounded. But she is not about to be drawn into hurt reaction, she has had enough over-reaction for one day. Sarai ignores Jen’s hysteria and opens herself to One-Soul. She takes a long, deep breath and breathes in the embrace of everything.

  Whack! The moment is terminated by a slap to her face. “Sarai. Sarai, don’t zone out on me. I need you to stay with me.” Jen drops her handbag and grabs Sarai’s shoulders. She attempts to shake the solid old woman. “This is not some fairytale or mystical adventure, it is a baby! A baby’s life, Sarai! What have you done, you crazy crone?”

  Jen releases the old shoulders and tugs at the bulky jute bag. There is no movement or sound. If a bundle of baby is in the bag it isn’t alive. Surely even a crazed lunatic wouldn’t be carrying around a d … She has to be absolutely sure. The bag falls off Sarai’s frame and lands with a soft thump on the worn tiled floor. Jen is on her knees at Sarai’s feet, tearing at the bag, reaching, feeling, pulling out … books, papers, poncho, scarf, water bottle, tissues, remedies, pills, purse … things she knows are always in her mentor’s bag. Jen’s own craziness reflects back at her. What the hell am I doing? She looks at Sarai’s feet. She has been at Sarai’s feet ever since she met her. She is Mary of Bethany. Devotion and humble service are what she owes her teacher. Washing her feet would be a privilege, drying them with her hair an honour of the highest magnitude … her mind somersaults … Sarai is controlling me, I am her pawn.

  Disoriented, Jen is unsure who she is or who Sarai is. But every cell in her body knows she has one obligation: to find Kat’s baby. If that means destroying her relationship with Sarai, she will. She must! The situation is crucial and allows no space for sentiment, or manners. For the second time in five minutes Jen hears her own voice leap out at her. “You think you are Lilith!” She is on her feet, eyeball to eyeball
with the demon. “And you think you can control me, but you can’t. Good overcomes evil.” For a precarious moment Jen sees herself as a black preacher in some movie set in the American South. Jen feels like a parody, but the spew of words won’t cease. “The truth must prevail.” She is on the verge of invoking the name of JESUS in a triumphant volley, but reason prevails. “What have you done with the baby?”

  The words are delivered with such force that Sarai steps backwards. Before she can make a response an arm encased in brown knitting reaches across Jen with a curt, “Excuse me,” and takes Sarai’s hand. “Madam, are you all right?”

  A elderly man positions himself between the women. Sarai is relieved to turn her attention from her boiling novice. “Thank you, thank you, yes I am fine … my friend is upset, we just need a minute.”

  The man tilts his head in a questioning manner that shows experience in volatile situations. Sarai understands and brings her free hand to rest on the hand that holds hers. She nods appreciatively. “We will get our problem sorted, but thank you.”

  The man turns to Jen and stops, startled.

  “J … Jennifer?” he stumbles. “Mrs Hawthorne.” He uses her married name with a respectful change of tone. His face comes into focus and Jen begins to recognise him. A church face, someone part of Anglican life in the city, does voluntary work at the Cathedral, an old friend of Wilkin’s father, someone who has known Wilkin all his life, he was at their wedding.

  “Um, ah … Mr Graham. I am sorry, very sorry, I know this seems inappropriate but …” Sarai adds her own placations and Bert Graham senses the peak of the frenzy has passed. He steps back and bows from the scene.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Albert Graham is seventy and not afraid of conflict. He had been a prison warden for thirty years and head warden at Paparua for the final ten. He knows when to get involved and when to detach. The moment has passed. He will give young Jennifer Hawthorne space. About to re-enter the cathedral Bert stops himself. Volatile situations are liable to re-flare and Hawthorne’s wife is pregnant! Pregnancy does strange things to women. He turns back to the incident and realises the old woman is also familiar, but from where? She is speaking calmly, showing ease under pressure. Bert follows the sound pattern jump from accusation to crying and back to attack. The older woman takes on a stronger tone. He approves the tactic, an old pro using enough bite to engage with the young-un’s passion. There is no doubt the old girl is driving this bus.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  A juggling busker in Cathedral Square has attracted a sizable group of onlookers but the rear of his crowd is becoming distracted, showing more interest in the cathedral than him. The busker feels aggrieved and takes a break. The high entertainment inside the Cathedral’s porch lasts a couple of minutes then lowers. The onlookers see the pregnant woman is accepting the old girl’s point of view. The women are facing each other with hands joined oblivious to the gaggle of staring eyes.

  “Oh, Sarai,” Jen gulps, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could have thought what I thought.”

  “There there, Jen. It’s all right. Just remember you mustn’t believe everything you read. Male recorders have distorted almost everything that presents females in a worthy light. Appearing as she does at the beginning of human knowledge Lilith myths appeared in the most ancient cultures and provided maximum opportunity for corruption. Lilith was, and is, the first fragmented soul to comprehend the spiritual nature of the universe and find the way to return to One-Soul. Lilith saw that the true nature of wisdom simply is and therefore justice is redundant. She also saw that justice is necessary in the world that humans have. Wisdom Keepers strive to promote a justice that fully understands.” She pulls Jen closer, “One other thing, Jen. Humans want to believe in the power of objects. It is a natural instinct to invest in things such as amulets, flags, and religious symbols, but true power comes from letting go of all things, all knowledge and all belief.”

  The arguing women are hugging. Is the spectacle over?

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Ben clings grimly to the wheel of his trusty Toyota. His elderly car has a full tank of petrol. They have a good relationship and the machine responds to his urging. Hawthorne seems unaware of his shadow as they travel through the string of small towns that lead to the alps and Arthur’s Pass.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  3.45 pm

  Jen lifts moist eyes from the embrace and sees the audience. Shame flames her face. She has to get away. She must get back to the hospital and rethink the situation. Though humiliated that their passionate exchange has been crowd entertainment, her mood swings to anger: they are a pack of nosy hyenas. She sets her jaw and takes Sarai’s hand. She feels Sarai’s understanding. Hand in hand they walk at the rubber-neckers. The onlookers part slowly, begrudging the escape of their bonus entertainment.

  “Hawthorne!” a voice calls from the crowd. Jen’s eyes clamp to her plodding feet. “That’s Wilkin Hawthorne’s wife,” shouts the voice.

  Jen’s blood surges, she feels a pulse beating in her temple. The crowd finds renewed energy. Where it had been opening it closes, pushing with a new intensity. The voice turns into a face, a young, confrontational face. Cocky with knowledge the loud-mouth, bystander knows he has found a new entertainment and this time he will be ringmaster. “Wilkin Hawthorne,” he shouts, “He’s the one that nicked the baby from the hospital today!”

  Jen lets go of Sarai and brings her hands to her face, this can’t be happening.

  “Wilkin Hawthorne, it’s on the radio. He’s her husband and he’s nabbed some kid that his mistress spat out. I reckon she made him to do it.”

  The crowd, perceiving new entertainment, corrals them, hustling, muttering, calling. Voices buzz around Jen and Sarai dangerous as swarming bees. Sarai bites her lip and closes her eyes searching for a tactic.

  “Baby killer, baby killer,” Connor urges his mates. They respond drawing others into the chant. The fever is building and he is conducting, “Baby killer, baby killer.” This is his kind of ammo! Only a handful of loiters have heard the kidnap news, but mob mentality is set and the ringmaster is in control.

  Sarai pushes her shoulders back and lifts her chin with words to the ready. A loud crash stops her, and the mob, dead in their tracks. They turn towards the sound. “Get out of my way.”

  Jen sees a tin rubbish bin lid and then the empty bin. Someone is slamming them together. Lid and bin lumber into the fray propelled by a man in corduroys and jersey, a senior citizen. Bert Graham strides on into crowd. Crash! Bash, bash, sounds his bin volley. “Out of the way! What the hell are you people doing?” He isn’t looking for an answer, “Clear off!” Bert shakes the lid at a row faces. “This is church land and these good women need to go about their business.”

  Crowd energy wanes but O’Connor isn’t ready to abdicate the limelight. He moves forward and faces his adversary. “Shut up old man. Piss off!” His arms shoot out pushing Bert into a group of teenage girls. They squeal with excitement and mock disgust.

  “Hawthorne’s a baby killer,” the ringmaster waves his arms up calling his orchestra back to play. “Baby killer,” two voices echo. Bert moves to a higher gear. Veins twitch in his neck. Though age has lessened his statue Bert is the same height as the aggressor. The old man places his nose directly in front of the young man’s nose. It is no pre-hongi. It a practised look, honed by years of controlling men far more dangerous than this one. The ex-warden eyes drill. The ringmaster falters. Jen catches submission flicker in the younger eyes before they lower. The skin around the older man’s eyes tightens, narrowing his view to a dangerous slit. Jen’s eyes stay on the young man and she sees the switch throw in the lout’s mind. Jen tenses as his shoulders straighten.

  No old goat is going to rob Connor O’Connor of his show. The rabble-rouser’s arm shoots at the old man’s chin. Bert ducks without effort and in one smooth movement catches the flying arm turning it as it fires. The ringmaster spins on the spot. His arm is behind his
back. The pain is brutal. He is on his toes trying to take the pressure off his jack-knifed limb. The crowd gasps. The old man has the loudmouth in a hold and looks like he’s going to tear the guy’s arm off.

  Crack! A bottle missile strikes the balding head. Bert staggers and falls. The young man is spinning, nursing his arm. He bends at the knees allowing gravity to pull him towards his prey. He coils his arm for another strike. Pain prevents the punch. Bert rolls and the ringleader crashes beside him.

  Two youths in hoodies push their way to ringmaster and haul him up. Bert struggles back to his feet. It is years since he’s been in a punch up but the chosen path of a hard man is lifelong, body and mind obey the programming. Never show pain, never back down and never stay down. Blood trickles past his ear. Bert doesn’t reach to touch it. Instinct propels a side-step. The youth, whose punch missed its mark, falls into the crowd and is launched back into the action. Bert shakes the stars from his vision. These punks aren’t fighters, they are local bums with nothing better to do, but there are three of them, he will have to take out the leader. He ploughs in with his right shoulder. The cocky conductor crumples in a heap.

  “Dale, look out!” screams one of the hoods but his warning comes too late. Bert sends the second youth flying with a left uppercut to the jaw, but takes a punch in the kidney from the third attacker.

  “Get him Marty,” yells the one on the ground. The lout’s punching arm comes back for another blow right beside Jen. Without thought she grabs the hand of the assailant and twists it behind his back. The male wrist is clawed in ten manicured nails and Jen is clinging on for all she is worth.

  The crowd can’t believe their luck. A full-on fight, three males attacking one fearless old man and two women. The second lout prises Jen’s fingers from his mate’s arm and slings her aside. She stumbles into a lamp-post. Jen’s intervention gave Bert breathing space. Whack! O’Connor staggers again. His mates come to his aid from behind. Dale and Marty hold Bert’s arms while the recovering ringleader pulls back for a finishing punch.