A door slam announces Wilkin’s arrival. “Bad day at work?” inquires Jen, who knows the signs only too well.
“Have you read today’s paper?” he demands.
“Skimmed bits of it,’ she admits cautiously, guessing what may be energising his anger and hoping it’s not.
“That woman, Sarai, your lecturer, is giving the university a bad name. She is employed to teach religious studies and it seems she is an atheist.”
“She is a complex person,” defends Jen. “I don’t think she is an atheist.”
“She did an interview on national radio with Kim Hill on Saturday morning and today there are letters in the paper asking how someone who teaches theology can believe in more than one god. There was an emergency phone-around of the executive and I was delegated to phone her. She was quite unfazed, arrogant even, told me she has already done an interview with the Press. It will be in tomorrow’s edition. The Press refuse to drop the article, said I didn’t have the authority to censor a story.”
“Sarai is interesting. Even my lunch girls find her interesting. I think it’s good to get religion mentioned in the Press. Usually the public aren’t interested in religion.”
“Being interested in heretics is not the same as being interested in Christianity.”
“I don’t think she is a heretic, she just thinks God is bigger than most Christians realise. She doesn’t confine God to the male image of a judge on a throne or even a Heavenly Father. Jesus changed the concept the Jews had of God. There is always more to discover about anything.”
“God is the same, yesterday, today and tomorrow!” thunders Wilkin.
Jen changes the topic, there’s no point in trying to reason with Wilkin. “Dinner will be a few more minutes. Would you like to watch TV while I make the gravy?”
“No, I would not.” Wilkin shrugs his shoulders, as if shaking off the worries of the world, and tries to make an effort. “I’ll take a wander in the garden. Now we’re out of daylight saving the nights are drawing in. It will be dark when I get home next week.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
As Wilkin walks around the pebbled cacti and landscaped borders he feels pleased with himself for taking this evasive action. He surveys the city lights beginning to twinkle in the dusk and breathes deeply. The Sarai kafuffle has messed up his plans for the evening but on reflection it will be pleasant to have an early night.
He must make an effort to keep Jen relaxed and happy. Uptight women don’t conceive easily, he read that somewhere. But his wife has everything and no excuse for stress. Why doesn’t she conceive? He tenses, then chastens himself. A baby must come soon. He imagines playing ball with a small son on their lawn. Ideal place for a child, he murmurs, even our own access to the hillside.
Their section falls away steeply from the lawn border. The property boundary is a few feet down the hillside. A short path leads to a little summer shelter. Beyond the ledge the brown hill spreads its folded cloak. Ten steps take him to the ledge where a brush shelter protects a bench-seat, a table, and a shelf. The shelf is not empty. Between two matching vases of flowers stands a grotesque clay figure. It has enlarged breasts and rounded abdomen. Other features are crude outlines in the clay. Wilkin is repulsed. He picks it up and sees the cloth it stands on is patterned with a pentacle. He tries to process what he is seeing — a pagan shrine? Every fibre of his being fills with fury. Jen has done this. His wife is practising witchcraft. How could she — a Christian woman! He is an important man in the church, if this ever got out … Sarai has corrupted her. He goes to hurl the filthy idol down the hill, changes his mind, and instead flings both vases as far as he can throw. He takes the steps two at a time and within seconds is confronting his wife with the vile image.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Don’t expect me back tonight, Wilkin had flung at Jen before slamming the door. Even in his rage he is startled at the strength of his reaction. Does Jen really have that power over him, or is it the culmination of work pressures and that wretched Sarai? The roar of the Chrysler’s engine coming to life steadies him. He isn’t a car kind of guy and knows little about the massive V8 engine hooded before him, but its power gives strength. He pushes his foot down and feels petrol flow in his veins. His heartbeat surrenders control to the precision engineering at his fingertips. Why should he care so much about the deviant old hippie? No, it is the baby, the baby, of course the baby, all this frustration and chaos is about the lack of a child. “I have so much love to give,” he moans aloud. No one understands his capacity to love, not Jen, not his parents, no one, but the child will know. The child will be the centre of his universe.
Soon he is high in the Port Hills. Tussock, rock and paddock fly past. He is travelling fast, possibly faster than he has ever driven, certainly in this territory, and has no concern for safety, speeding tickets, or any damn thing. He rounds a bend dangerously, shakes his head, and blinks. “Where the hell am I?” He slackens off slightly and brings his hand up to the neck of his YSL pinstripe shirt. He fidgets to release a button. To his surprise his shirt is wet. He feels his collar, also wet. In an almost trance state he brings his hand to his neck, wet, up to his stubbled chin and cheeks, wet! He looks to the rear vision mirror for assurance, turning it to reveal his face. He sees his own 12-year-old face blinking back at him, with tears streaming. Wilkin shifts his foot to the brake and stops on a dusty shoulder.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen opens the door to Sarai. Jen’s face is red and blotched. The perfect hairstyle has collapsed to matted disarray. Sarai has a moment of secret surprise. After all of her years of knowing, she is still amazed how pain can transform the face.
“Oh dear, my poor dear,” she says, gathering Jen into her arms, holding her tight. They sway softly. “Jennifer, my darling … listen to me … This too will pass.”
The words are simple, profound, and initially irrelevant. It is the intonation of her voice that carries calm, peace, and absolute knowing. The words are not advice. They are the truth of the universe. Jen feels this as clearly as she has ever felt anything. “This too will pass,” repeats the wise voice. Jen nuzzles into Sarai and knows things will be OK. She is with the one person in the world who knows. Sarai can absorb pain and sorrow. In that moment Jen realises a love she has never experienced before. She feels in her soul that all will be well. All she has to do is share her worries with this magnificent woman.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Wilkin, Wilkin, you silly, little …” his grandfather struggles for control but “cry baby” escapes. As Wilkin sits in the car some 30 years later he feels the chest-crushing sensation he felt on that day.
His mother and father were going away for a two-week trip and Wilkin was to stay with his grandparents. He had been looking forward to it. His grandparents ran a disciplined house but they doted on him and made his stays fun. But as his mum and dad walked down the steps from the porch of his grandparent’s house Wilkin had realised that his mother was leaving … she was not coming back. Both his parents were going away but they were not both coming back.
Looking back Wilkin can’t remember how he knew this. Perhaps it was how she had hugged him or the way they were walking some distance apart and the excess of luggage in the car. At the time his thinking wasn’t rational or processed, it came as an avalanche of panic. He was being buried in pain and fear. His blood was overheating, tears flowed as lava.
“I want you to stop crying, now!” His grandfather’s command mixes concern and anger. Grandfather was a vicar, normally a wise and sensitive man. “You’re going to be all right.” The voice softens. “Be strong, Will. You are a big boy. You are 11 years old.” The distressed child is only half hearing what his grandfather is saying. Eleven hits home. His grandfather doesn’t even know how old he is. But eleven is a more reasonable age to be crying like a baby.
Wilkin can’t stop. Panic sets in. His parents were forgotten. All he wants is to stop crying. His throat is closing up and his heart is climbing into the passage needed for air. I have to breathe, he screams internally. After some desperate gagging attempts he manages a deep inhalation. Air will stop the crying. He prays it will. The old man prays a similar prayer and bends to comfort the child. But something is wrong. Wilkin can’t breathe out. His lungs have gone rogue. There is no room left but the air keeps flowing, filling his stomach and head and surely even his legs. His eyes bulge and his ears fill with the high-pitched screech of an electrical warning system. Colour fades from his vision then the grey shapes blacken. In the moment just before he expects to die he explodes again. This time mucus from his nose catapults directly at his grandfather, spraying over his shiny black shoes and sharply ironed trousers.
Without pause or thought Graeme Hawthorne grabs the youngster by an arm and yanks him to his feet. Wilkin would not have been able to stand unaided but Graeme’s anger gives strength sufficient to hold the boy upright with one arm and hit him with the other. “You filthy,” whack, “filthy,” whack, “stupid,” whack, “snivelling imbecile!”
Wilkin has never been slapped around the head before. The first brings shock, the second releases a scream. In the gap before the next impact Wilkin thinks only of his protection. He struggles and tries to protect his head … a dull thud strikes his shoulder. He staggers back and is caught by another arm, the blue-cabled cardigan arm of his grandmother. He hears her cries. “Graeme, Graeme, control yourself! One sinner in the family is enough!” The warm arms of his grandmother encircle him. “There, there, dear boy, it will be all right.”
He hears sobbing and thinks, why can’t I stop, then realises the convulsive sounds are not coming from his mouth. Through strangled sobs come the words, “Wilkin, Wilkin, I am so sorry, please forgive me.”
His grandmother steers him inside, finds a handkerchief, washes his face and makes him a hot milky Milo. “You are a big boy, Will. It was wrong of us not to tell you what is happening. It has just been so upsetting for all of us that we couldn’t do it. But I’m going to tell you what you should know. Would you like a scone?” Wilkin shakes his head, eating would be impossible. His grandmother cuts a scone in half, butters it, takes half for herself, and leaves the other piece on a plate between them.
“Your father made a mistake. It was a bad mistake, but we all have our weaknesses. Never forget, Wilkin, no one is perfect. What you grandfather did just now was wrong but it isn’t you he is angry with. He is so upset about your father that he isn’t thinking straight. You see the bad mistake your father made affects him too. It isn’t easy being a vicar. People judge you and your family. Your grandfather loves your father but he finds it terribly hard to forgive this mistake.”
Wilkin tries to understand. He realises it is grown-up stuff and they don’t think a kid can understand, but he does, sort of. His grandmother looks at him. “Don’t worry about your grandfather, he is a man of God. He knows that God forgives and we must forgive.”
Wilkin is not worrying about his grandfather. That’s over, he knows it’s over. The fear that holds his heart in a vice is his parents — they are separating? “What about my mother?” He looks his grandmother straight in the eye.
She flinches but holds his gaze. “You mother hasn’t been able to forgive your father. They need to spend some time apart to sort themselves out. We hope she will be able to forgive him, but even if she doesn’t she won’t leave you, Wilkin. Both your parents love you. You will stay with us only while they sort out the immediate future.”
“And after that?”
“Things might go back to how they were.”
“What if they don’t?”
“We don’t know. They will sort it out between themselves. But whatever happens you are their son, they love you, we love you, and God loves you.”
Wilkin knows nothing will ever be the same again.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen smiles. If anyone else had called her ‘my dear’ she would have told them in no uncertain terms she is not their ‘dear’, but Sarai’s voice holds no trace of patronising. Jen ushers her to a small sofa and moves behind her smart breakfast-bar bench. “Tea?” she offers. “I’ve got the lemon ginger you like.”
“Thanks, Jen, trust you to notice a detail like that, you are a natural caregiver. You will make a wonderful mother some day, my dear.”
“I’ll get lemon from the garden. It would be nice to have a slice on top.”
Jen returns looking calmer. As the jug boils Sarai absorbs the shift in their relationship. She is well pleased. Crises are pivotal in relationships. Jen is letting her in. Sarai is gratified. This could be a sign, and regardless, it is personally rewarding. Sarai isn’t too grand to recognise she values being valued. But above all else, the situation provides opportunity to get a deeper feel for Jen’s potential. Will she be the ONE? Sarai turns from watching Jen and looks to the smog hovering over the city.
Kat had seemed the more likely candidate, her natural cheek and pluck being qualities Sarai respects. Kat’s gut intelligence is untainted by academia. She sees through the dross and gets to the heart of issues. Katrina has intuition for people and situations. She has the crone in her without doubt. But Jen has her own special gifts. She is clear-thinking and decisive. Sarai believes Jen would not bend or flake in a position of authority. Her inner strength is strong. Not steeled through beating and breaking, Jen is strong by love and intent. Yes intent, thinks Sarai, nearly saying the word out loud.
Jen brings the sliced lemon, china teapot, and matching mugs to the coffee table on a tray. “Shall we let it brew awhile?”
“I usually give it a few minutes,” replies the older woman. “These lips can’t take the heat they used to.”
“Would you like a chocolate biscuit?” Sarai shakes her head. Jen was going to sit on the opposite sofa but changes her mind and sits beside her mentor. Sarai relaxes against her novice and continues to gaze through the window. Kat, she reflects, is strong through surviving hardship. Jen is strong through choosing a generous path. Her true intent is to be loving.
“You are a strong woman, Jen.”
“How can you say that when this wreck is sitting here? Surely I’m a broken woman!” she laughs. It is her first laugh in days. Both chuckle and dip into a side snuggle.
“No, you are strong. You’re going through a bad patch, but generally in life you set the course. You are captain of your ship and you choose to care for those you encounter. Some boast of living this way but few achieve it.”
Jen is flattered. Her blotchy face begins to redden with embarrassment. She really sees me, thinks Jen. “Thank you,” is all she can say.
“I feel you are a woman who lives intentionally. You make strong choices, and follow through on them. With Wilkin and his need for a baby, you consider his need compassionately. He may be unreasonable sometimes, but you see beyond that and don’t live in a pit of judgement and anger.”
“Well, not until this evening,” mutters Jen.
“Everyone is entitled to blow up occasionally; it is a necessary part of living. I once heard the Dalai Lama speak on anger. Even that icon of peace says there are times when it is appropriate to be angry and to communicate that anger. Goodness, there I go, ever the lecturer. But his wisdom is sound and reflects the ancient mystics. They meditated to control anger but used it with force when required. I see the mystic in you, Jennifer.” She engages Jen’s eyes. “Do you … feel it?”
Jen is at loss for a reply.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin swings the Chrysler into his lane. His speed is discreet. Wilkin in his right mind will not have a roaring engine advertise his emotions to the neighbourhood. His pain has lifted and he can’t recall exactly why he lost control. He will apologise to Jen even though it is her fault. Sometimes, he tells himself wisely, you have to step back to leap forward. Words of apology are forming when he sees the car: a purple VW. He has never seen it before but knows instantly whose it is. The University Council is mortified that one of their senior lecturers drives an ancient love-bug. His grip on the steering wheel causes a squeak of leather and his chest tightens. “That witch!” Why is she here? Jen must have called her. Are they discussing the issues of the council? Or are they discussing other things, things that belong between Jen and him. Would she speak of their personal problems … of course she wouldn’t. Jen knows how important it is to him to be private about these things … but she is a woman! That’s what they do: talk. “They love to bloody talk!” He hisses the words at Sarai’s ridiculous car. Wilkin doesn’t swear, even at work, where alpha males are polite in meetings and brutally crude in private. He is no choirboy, no man could call him a prude, but he doesn’t swear. Swearing is common and weak. Wilkin’s voice has power and he commands a large vocabulary. But at this moment, curse is the only fitting language. “Talking is their favourite fucking thing.” That woman is a fucking bitch. They are both bloody, fucking bitches. The Chrysler stops directly behind the rumpty VW. Wilkin has an urge to bulldoze the shoddy toy to the end of the lane and over the bank.
These thoughts are halted by his mobile bleeping a text notification. Available now if u r free, lover. Before Wilkin flips it shut a second text arrives, just one word: Master.
He is training her to always call him Sir or Master. It is part of his plan to take both of them into the B&D realm. It is their destiny to have a secret Master-Slave relationship. She must have written the message using Lover because that has been her text name for a long time, and after sending it has remembered she is to call him Master. He has every right to discipline her for the error … Has she done it on purpose? Of course she has, it is deliberate. She is setting up a reason for him to discipline her. A tight smile crosses his lips. She wants it; she loves it. He breathes a long, slow breath. With the oxygen flow serotonin, testosterone, and lust. Power surges through his body. He feels the tension in his crotch. Jen and Sarai vanish from his mind. The anguish of the day evaporates in a moment. He powers out of the street, mind filled with his naked, prostrated whore begging for his attention. She NEEDS HIM, she must have him.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai listens to Jen’s out-pourings. Jen feels the eloquence of deep understanding in her silence. When there is nothing left to say and silence has run its course Sarai encloses the younger woman’s smooth hands with her age-spotted ones and gazes into Jen’s eyes and heart. How blue her eyes are, thinks Jen, the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Her own eyes are baby-blue pale by comparison.
“Jen, there are things I am longing to tell you. I believe both you and Kat are very special women, possibly very important women. Soon I must make a major decision — it will affect you both but for now I must keep laying a foundation; a foundation of understanding.”
Jen experiences an inner quickening, a physical knowing that the words to come will be insightful and probably baffling.
Sarai loosens her too-tight grip and extends her arms palms up in an attitude of supplication. “Jen, will you allow me to share with you?”
“I would consider it an honour.”
Sarai places a hand over Jen’s and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you, my dear. Part of me yearns to tell you everything now but it would be selfish of me to do so. Knowledge is seldom a carefree traveller, vital knowledge comes with a partner of burden: responsibility, and sometimes another: obligation. I do not fear it is too much for your shoulders but it is early in your journey. A good journey involves many experiences … including fun.”
The crone wriggles comfortably into the sofa and tosses her hair, which persists in hanging askew. “My desire is to extend your understanding of the nature of cosmic women, the Goddess and the feminine aspect of all things. These little understandings will help when you meet things that threaten to overwhelm. At this moment in time I intend to share some ancient and universally powerful information — sacred feminine knowledge. It is my belief that you or Kat have a role to play in this mystery. Everything that I have taught you leads toward the Deep Knowledge. Do you understand, Jen?”
A slight upward movement of Jen’s brow relays tentative agreement. Jen can’t fathom what she is supposed to be understanding but has no wish to interrupt Sarai’s flow. Sometimes she feels as if she would do almost anything to please Sarai. The cares of the day subside as Jen gives herself over to the words of her mentor.
“We can not talk of the female aspect without visiting the male aspect — neither exists without the other, nothing is wholly one or the other. Everything, and I mean everything, be it physical or energy, is a mix of feminine and masculine. Archetypal gender aspects underscore everything in our reality. Today is a timely day for this discussion as you have experienced a dramatic example of how the gender energies can clash.”
Jen pulls a face of mock anguish. Sarai traces a soothing finger down her cheek evoking a memory of a similar experience, opposite in sensation. In the university lobby the action had compounded fear and embarrassment. Here it induces comfort and self-worth. “Alas,” resumes Sarai, “humanity chose the way of least resistance — the broad path of spiritual ease. We walk a male path, Jen. We live in a male world, and have done so for thousands of years. Let me tell you a story.”
Jen arches back into the sofa, enjoying a stretch of body and preparing for a stretch of mind.
“Once, long before the dawn of history, earth goddesses and sky gods lived in healthy tension, but the balance became upset. It happened like this. Men began to fear women because they had the magic to create babies, and there came a time in pre-history when the Goddess ruled supreme. But this was not right, concealing knowledge is bad, eventually it will be discovered, and it was. When hunters and gatherers settled to farming, the learning curve was steep. The discovered knowledge was misunderstood and misused. Men came to believe themselves the sole agents of creation. Their life-seed grew in the soil of the womb. The perfect seed could be ruined by bad soil. Men were never barren. Men were the Creators and thus the Age of Taurus began. It was marked by blood offerings and tribal sacrifice. Taurus was followed by the patriarchal Age of Aries. This was the time of rules and organised laws, the time of men such as Brahma, Abraham, Moses, and Ramesses. Secure on this pathway the ancients committed themselves and us to a male vision of the world. Despite the Age of Pisces delivering enlighteners such as Confucius, the Buddha, the Christ, and Mahomet, the model was male and male values continued to dominate. Thus we perceive, compare, judge, and respond through a male dynamic. However, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius offers a glimmer of hope.”
Sarai pauses for breath and Jen puts the question she is finding incomprehensible. “Are you saying we all live as men — Kat and me, and even you, live as men?”
“Yes, that is absolutely right my dear — you, me, and all of us are living as men, in a man’s world by male terms. The feminine aspect lies motionless in the shadows, asleep, or half dead, and definitely frigid.” Smiles bounce. Jen thinks, I like this. Sarai thinks, Jen is the right sort of woman, and continues. “I’m not sure of the exact state of the dormant feminine aspect in our reality but I do know that after adopting a male path we forgot most of what it is to live in the feminine. These may sound like crazy thoughts but you will comprehend them in time. Deep knowledge is not something to perceive intellectually, Jen — this is soul knowledge: you feel it, you breathe and exhale it. All I can do is impart intellectual understanding of the cosmic gender system. It takes time to sift into your soul so you truly know it.”
“I trust you, Sarai but it is a bit much to believe all females live as men in a male world!”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Amber tenses at the coded knock — three short sharp raps followed by two slow knocks. She smiles, recognising the skin-tingle of anticipation, and responds to the knock with swift precision — Arthur’s training. Amber turns the key, steps back, and prostrates herself, arranging her loose hair to fall in pleasing balance over her white shoulders. Her nakedness seeks stimulation and she wriggles into the well-vacuumed wool of the motel’s durable carpet. She lies in perfected full-stretch symmetry, face-down toward the door — the door that will reveal her Master. Her arms extend palms up in an attitude of supplication. These days Amber doesn’t play at being Arthur’s compliant whore — she is that whore.
Arthur’s confidence and natural power enable Amber to step effortlessly into the role. She makes no attempt to analyse her behaviour but knows it is not all about Arthur. Dark feelings do not readily bear the scrutiny of naming so she does not allow her mind to articulate her body’s relish of the role. Amber is careful with details. She keeps to the motel unit at the far end of the row. Its lounge provides an extra sound buffer between the bedroom and the neighbouring unit. There is a narrow access path from the parking lot along the boundary fence, discretion is assured.
Complete compliance is actually easy work. In stark contrast to Arthur’s early sessions, now Amber has no obligation to lead or be creative. It is excitingly different and wildly liberating. In relinquishing personal rights she has no cares. All decisions, including checking the time and the condom, reapplying perfume or lubricant, every detail is managed and controlled by Arthur. It may mean doing things once considered beyond-the-pale humiliating or permitting a degree of pain once unacceptable … these challenges are opportunity to push the boundaries, totally free of responsibility, social expectations, and worldly pressures for 50 minutes.
Kat has pondered the power-exchange aspect of this relationship and decided Amber appreciates all aspects of Arthur. When controlling every part of her being he ceases to be Arthur and she ceases to be Amber, they are Master and Slave, bound by total trust.
Kat giggles inwardly when she enthusiastically debates gender roles with Sarai and Jen. The irony is quite delicious, her having a second life as a submissive slut. Kat is not conflicted by her roles. Clients pay and some are less irksome than others. Arthur is not only handsome, well groomed and sophisticated, he is good at what he does — not nervous, not boring, pays well. The perfect customer … maybe the perfect man?
Lying spear-straight on the floor Amber is tempted to look up. He has paused too long on the other side. She has an urge to take a peek at the door, maybe see his polished shoes through the gap, but knows better. If he opens the door and finds her eyes not focused on the floor he will act angrily. Arthur carries a short cane in his ‘visiting Amber’ briefcase, along with handcuffs and an increasing range of sex toys. Although some discipline is inevitable she doesn’t want to start the session with a burning derriere. A fumbling squeak of the door handle … Arthur never fumbles. Was that a shuffle of hesitation? Her muscles tense and her temperature jumps a degree in a second. It isn’t Arthur. The timing is wrong. Everything feels wrong — crazy thoughts she doesn’t want to comprehend. Submissive-training kicks in. This is a test. She is to stay prostrated on the floor until her Master commands her to another position. He is playing a new game. She will not move a muscle.
The door creaks shut, the key clacks, and the first footstep imprints the carpet, the second sounds by her upturned palms. The gap between the second and third step is too long. In that too-long gap Amber unexpectedly thinks of Gail, who worked under the name Petra and was only 19 when dumped naked in the Avon, her beautiful face so damaged it had taken dental records to identify her. Her killer remains uncaught. The Prostitutes Collective was warned the murderer was a practitioner of bondage arts. Gail had been bound in a Japanese technique that required practise to perfect. Despite the grotesque damage the tight bondage rope had remained symmetrical. Amber knows this because her friend and mentor, Cleo, had been asked to identify the body and give a professional opinion on the tying. Cleo had not encountered Japanese rope bondage. She and Kat investigated the subject online and found a sickening match. Kat had forgotten this until now.
A rush of sweat moistens her skin. Cheeks, neck, upper arms and back flush red. Fingers tighten and want to curl. Although gripped with unexpected fear Amber remains in sub mode. Looking back it will seem ridiculous that she stayed in character but in the moment being Arthur’s compliant submissive is the ultimate priority. The instinct to flee is there but Amber forces her fingers to stay straight and slightly arches her back in proof of effort to remain prostrated. There is a clink and handcuffs are clamped to her wrists. If it is Arthur he will be well pleased by total compliance. If it is a murderer it will make no difference. Is this the climax of my life? Have lazy and immoral choices lead to a terrible death? The thoughts race with her heart. The third footstep creaks and the fourth stops by her right shoulder. It’s not Arthur — he doesn’t step like that. A slight crackle of leather, shoes creasing as the man changes his weight and body position. Fabric rubs on fabric then a human sound, the sound older men make as they bend or strain, not the sound of a fit and strong Arthur. Fear and repulsion surge through her veins. Who is this man? Why is he here? Will I survive?
His next movements are experienced as one fluid expression. A hand gathers a thick clump of hair and whips her head back to an acute angle and cold metal pricks her exposed neck. A voice utters a single word: “WHORE.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen turns her body companionably toward Sarai, pulls her legs up onto the sofa, and relaxes into the pillows.
“You might say women are soft and men are hard, a classical perception that contains some truth,” suggests Sarai, “but what is behind it at a conceptual level, at the creation of the universe level?” She doesn’t pause for an answer. “At the base of our bi-genderous reality is a quest for power and control. Water must flow to the sea. It must unite with the greatest mass that is also the lowest point. Gravity must pull toward earth, yet nature commands us to grow against this very force. The struggle for power is never-ending. I am giving a male interpretation of this phenomenon, but it will do for us, for now. The nature of power and control in the male aspect differs from the feminine aspect, and this difference is critical. In men the power must be validated externally, in women it must be felt and known internally. A natural thirst for power-validation takes place in all things, and most tellingly in how we ‘create’. It is human to create. We create art, conversation, religion, philosophy, farms, gardens, communities. Men create primarily in the physical realm — houses, roads, weapons, armies, castles, hospitals, etcetera, etcetera. Women primarily create internally — connections that grow relationships, families, and communities. The feminine aspect nurtures the subconscious magic that holds the physical creations together, but more of that later. This may not make sense to you now, Jen, but it will, it will, just go with me.”
Jen neither nods nor smiles, she is swimming in the words and the presence of Sarai. To interrupt this communion even with a sign of ascent would be sacrilege. Sarai’s voice resumes its mesmerising flow.
“Back to us all being male, my dear.” She permits her eyebrows to rise and Jen’s mirror her action. “We are male because our species has been drawn into the world of physical creation, the world of commerce. Commerce is the ultimate expression of physical creation. It extends beyond physical creation into the exploitation of the created.” Sarai’s arms glide apart with open palms. “Try to understand this concept … creating in the physical realm has been taken to its most extrapolated extreme, we are all participating in it ever more eagerly while ignoring the feminine role.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Amber feels a sharp prick at her throat. Cold metal traces around her neck, around her ear, and down her cheek. It disengages. Thwack! Her face plummets to the floor. Before she can identify the taste in her mouth her head is wrenched up and plunged into a bag.
“Get up,” hisses the voice. Amber doesn’t think she can. She can taste blood. Her brain is spinning and dizziness is the only action it can muster. She screams. He curses. Hands grope under her armpits and drag her to the bedroom. She is flung face-down on the bed and hears the bedroom door slam shut. A knee rams her back with force sufficient to break a child. Squirming to avoid suffocation she recalls having thought through this scenario. The memory produces words in her fuzzed brain: all prostitutes rehearse this possibility, some live it and some die, my time has come.
He is sitting on her, unlocking a handcuff, clamping it to the bed. His weight has gone. Pain screams across her right buttock, something has cut her flesh. The pain burns again, she tries to scream, but her face is forced into the bedding. Another gasp and another searing slash across her shoulders. She tenses but can’t detect blood trickling. Whack, this time it scolds her thighs. Whack, the left buttock matches the fate of the right. Next it curls around an ankle but doesn’t connect with the shallow bone within. Of course, it is a belt whipping, classic B&D. Amber hears her own whimpering and chastises herself. She will survive this. She may be wounded, disfigured even … but she will survive.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai is in full flow. “The problem with physical creation is … well, one of the problems with physical creation is its twin brother, destruction. All that we build we must destroy. Have you watched small boys play with blocks? What they create is made primarily to enjoy its fall, an innate male quality that small girls learn to copy.”
Jen caresses an itch on her upper arm, unaware she has moved.
“Clearing the forest must happen to make way for farms, roads, cities, and motorways, and …” Sarai pauses and Jen leans closer, “if your castle is better than mine or seen as a threat to mine … I destroy yours. My drive to create is greater than my desire to partner with your creation. We are addicted to creation at the expense of partnership. This can only lead to destruction and violence.”
“So you’re saying that all us pathetic humans are trapped in a cycle of dependency — creation begets destruction and destruction begets creation and endlessly on it goes.”
“Well, not exactly,” concedes Sarai, “but that cycle exists as part of the male aspect, and it is not always bad. There is a fundamental need to clear away the old to make way for the new. The cycle isn’t bad by its nature, nothing is bad by its nature, it is simply the nature of something. You could say the crucifixion of Christ is the perfect parable for this male phenomenon.”
Jen’s lips twitch as she wonders how Wilkin would react to such a heretical statement.
“Are we having fun?” queries Sarai.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Are you having fun, whore?” The voice is not Arthur’s firm, commanding tone but … something is familiar. Her head is ripped upwards and the bag pulled free of her mouth, presumably to enable her to speak. No words come. The violence of the attack has reduced her to jelly. She is becoming detached. Think brain. Think. Act. Survive! What did he want to hear?
The question is repeated, slowly. “Are — you — having — fun — whore?”
“Y-y-y-yes,” she forces the syllable through her stretched throat.
“Yes what?” flashes the response. The pain that follows is new and uncharted territory. A line of blood springs from a cut on her upper arm.
“Yes what, whore?”
“Yes, Master.” She gags. Pain and reality flood back, drowning her best intentions. Terror is all there is. He has a knife and is using it. Breathe. Fight. She kicks and flays but he is sitting on her, twisting the bleeding arm behind her back.
“Well, this is not for you to enjoy, bitch.” His voice is lower and more controlled, as if his anger is spent and thoughts are turning to other perversions. Another slash sears her arm. “You, bitch, are pampered and worshipped by pathetic men every sodding day.” The words are uttered with individual precision. A third precision cut makes her scream. “This is not for you to enjoy. It is for you to endure.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Sarai’s voice takes on a slightly sad tone. “The cycle of physical creating and destroying has produced passive acceptance of a life of toil. We are conditioned to think that the best things come from the greatest labour. Humankin believes its destiny is to struggle and accept that pain must be a part of the journey.”
“Humankin,” interrupts Jen. “What’s wrong with humankind?”
“Lots,” fires back Sarai. “How much kind is in humans? Regardless, we are all kin.”
“Daughters of Eve and sons of Adam,” murmurs Jen, acknowledging a childhood enriched by tales of Narnia.
“Dear old Clive Staples,” murmurs Sarai, “as well-meaning a chap as any twentieth-century gent. An Irish atheist turned Christian and as captivated by the concept of sacrifice as the ancients in the Age of Taurus. Not only did C.S. affirm tribal sacrifice through his Aslan creation, he entered willingly into personal sacrifice, a marriage of convenience to a desperate Jewish immigrant and her sons. Self-sacrifice has become a hallmark of the modern and post-modern eras.”
“Surely self-sacrifice is archetypally feminine,’ protests Jen.
“No!” shoots Sarai, her voice bullet-hard. Jen pulls back, shocked by the anger of the retort. “No, Jen. That is one of the Great Corruptions of Understanding.” The ensuing pause is long. Sarai gathers her thoughts and speaks gently. “The basic phenomenon of self-sacrifice is archetypally masculine.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sarai looks sad but accepting. Jen finds courage to ask for clarification. “Are you saying the full submission to the male need to create and destroy requires sacrifice, and male energy is content to sacrifice in the name of creating?”
“Or destroying,” Sarai flows on. “Think of the millions of men who have given their lives in battle over land, women, race, creed, whatever … men are ridiculously casual in giving their lives for causes. It is the nature of the creator/destroyer to sacrifice everything for the greatest creation — the greatest physical validation of their power.” Sarai’s brows knot then smooth. “It is in the feminine realm …” at this point the old teacher speaks more slowly, “to … sustain. The masculine sacrifices. The feminine sustains. That is truth, truth long lost on the ancient pathways of evolution. Make this truth your mantra: The masculine sacrifices. The feminine sustains.” She glares at Jen.
“The masculine sacrifices. The feminine sustains,” repeats the obedient pupil.
“But,” exclaims Sarai, “if the feminine power to sustain is not present and potent, then masculine power will …” her voice trails off and her eyes flick over the taut figure beside her. “My dear, do I sound like a lunatic to you?” She flashes a stunning smile. “I do hope so!”
With effort Jen relaxes and smiles back. “I was with you right up to … hmm, somewhere round sacrifice being a male aspect — can’t say I’ve noticed a whole lot of it in the men I know!” The women chuckle in unison.
“Me neither!” snorts Sarai, and the laughter rises to belly churning shrieks. They tumble into each other arms exhausted by merriment.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat can hear shrieks … screams … someone is being murdered. The screams are Amber’s. She is the nightmare. Her detached psyche refers to her body in the third person. Amber is screaming. Her life is going to be ripped from her by a man. She is no longer handcuffed. Out-of-body Kat observes the ceremony: hands bound to her waist and elbows pulled to sides at breast height, ball gag strapped into mouth, bag pulled over eyes, elbows bound to knees, hands bound to feet. There is no resistance, no audible cry, nothing but submission. Kat doesn’t ask how she knows what Amber is being prepared for. Amber has explored B&D pics. Arthur has tied her in this submission position several times but never used a gag or blindfold. With bondage Arthur appreciates spirited resistance and noise. What is new is the terror … nauseating total vulnerability. Gail was raped before her death. The DNA was not known to the New Zealand police. Would death occur before, during, or after the sex? How did my life bring me to this? Kat merges to Amber as the man enters her.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen is far from convinced. “So women live to a male pulse: perfume, makeup, high heels — all male traits?”
“All male obsessions — most want to ogle them, some want to wear them.”
“Are you saying women have lost all that is truly feminine and there are no truly feminine traits left?”
“Daft I may be, Jen, but not that daft. All women embody the feminine aspect to some degree, but that doesn’t prevent some feminine traits being lost to us.”
Jen has always enjoyed theories, perhaps the wilder the better, she analyses. Sarai’s theories are as way out as any yet encountered.
“For me,” enthuses her groundbreaking theorist, “the area where men and women most show the natural expression of their archetypal gender is in death. Men are driven to leave a physical mark — a creation or structure, their name, an heir, and, where possible, an empire,” she chuckles. “Women are motivated to leave well being in their camp or village, be it township or city. The drive to sustain and nurture is exceedingly powerful. When a woman passes from this world she wants the bonds of relationship to be strong. She needs to feel that the right people are empowered and inspired, that her community — whatever it may be, family, business, club, church — is in good and sound hands. The woman dies concerned for the well being of her immediate circle. The man dies concerned for the well being of his blood line. Obviously the partnering of these aspects has beneficial outcomes evolutionally. I’m sure Charles D would be happy with my theories, but beyond physical evolution there are deeper reasons for this paradigm.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“My slave, my whore,” the man groans, “my beauty … my … vessel.” The initial stab of penetration matched the preceding violence but sex is shifting the energy — my vessel? What does he mean? Through the terror she focuses on the words and finds the horror diminishing. My vessel are not words to preface death. As his motion transitions from thrusting weapon to something more human he mumbles other words, holds himself deep and still then withdraws to push further into her … she cannot decipher the words but feels the crazed violence has left him. Violence has deserted the space. Other than physical props of violence the scene is one of … she does not know what, but is convinced death is no longer imminent.
The rapist is not using a condom. The thought comes with the impact of a fresh wound. Death may indeed be on the horizon — surely a beast of this deviancy will be a carrier of hepatitis and HIV. His m.o. is blood-to-blood transferral. Anger bursts from the integrated soul of Amber and Kat, thrashing her body to expel him from her. Her throat is encircled by strong hands. “Amber, my beauty, keeper of my manhood …”
Oh God, it is Arthur’s voice.
“Be still, my vessel, your service is not yet complete.”
An involuntary shudder surges through her spine and limbs and her abused body spasms as in a fit.
“Yes, yess and yeesss,” gasps the voice she knows so well.
She swallows rising vomit, and gags on the mix of bile and bondage ball. Arthur, her favourite client. Arthur, her sometime fantasy, is … this? It makes no sense. He is still speaking but she can’t hear him. Hands tighten on her throat. Darkness spins deeper and deeper ...
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Jen, I’d like to suggest a practical line of enquiry. My recommendation is that tomorrow you appraise your each and every action. Give to all actions and intentions your power of analysis and see how much you judge to be masculine or feminine from New Understanding. If underscored by physical creation, destruction or personal sacrifice, mark it cosmically masculine. If underscored by sustaining, extending and connecting, mark it feminine. Remember, neither category is necessarily more or less wholesome than the other. Our judgements and perceptions are too rudimentary to offer a clear vision. Simply measure your encounters of masculine and feminine activity. If your score isn’t at least three parts masculine one part feminine, I will eat my hat.”
“I’ve never seen you in a hat,” murmurs Jen, wondering vaguely what sort of hat would go with a kaftan — woven straw or floppy fabric?
Sarai’s brows are again knotted with intensity. “Believe me, Jen, we have chosen to walk a male path.” Jen can’t see Sarai in a turban. A broad-brimmed straw hat with flowers, definitely with flowers. “It is not good or bad it is simply unbalanced. And there is a cost … a terrible cost, my friend. More cosmic and universal in nature than you can possibly imagine. But not to worry … all is in hand, all is in hand. As for you, Jen, perhaps a brief change of routine would do you good. I don’t mind if you miss a lecture. And now, my dear, I really must go.” The women embrace and she is gone.
Jen is not the wreck she was earlier. Her mind is alive, somersaulting with thoughts — how crazy is the old bird? How crazy is the world? Her theories make some sense, but where do they leave us? Where do they leave civilisation and humanity? Where do they leave her and Wilkin, and their much-desired baby?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin is in his Chrysler, heading for home. He is at ease. He has never taken drugs but is convinced no chemical high could match this. He has never felt so well. His mind is empty and his body pulses with sated energy.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Amber wakes from death — apparently only a temporary death. She is in bed, alone. She is sore all over. A throbbing arm is bandaged. A pile of money is on the table beside her bed — a large pile. She has never seen so much cash. Beside the cash is a note scribbled on motel stationery. Thank you — my slave, my salvation, my love, A.
It wasn’t a dream.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat takes stock. She is in her own bed lying log-still. How did she get here? Taxi, she dimly remembers. The driver thought she was drunk. Her legs must work. She experiments. They move. It is early morning. There is a damp bandage on her upper right arm. It hurts. Further experimenting discloses both arms move. Her head aches but her memory is intact. She’s not drunk.
How could she ever have thought he was nice! Don’t trust any male, all men are rapists. Often said at the Collective, Kat had not believed it. She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to believe most men are OK and some more than OK. She was confident in her ability to know which were definitely not OK. She has lost her power of discernment. How could she be so stupid! So idiotic! Why hadn’t she picked up on the signs? Why had she let his little games deteriorate into the sordid? Why had she pretended it was sophisticated adult foreplay? Imbecile!
Every part of her body feels bruised — no, battered is the word. You are OK, she tells herself. Nothing is broken. You survived and got home. Unwilling to relive what had happened with the man (she won’t name him) she reviews dragging herself to the shower, slowly dressing, and the taxi driver with minimal English helping her to the door.
“A lovely autumnal day,” booms the radio alarm. Kat jerks. Her nerves are on edge. “Make the most of it, rain is forecast for tomorrow. But today it is a sunny Tuesday, Tuesday the twenty-first of April.”
Tuesday, a waitressing night, shift starts at six, morning lecture at ten, insufficient motivation to get out of bed. Kat silences the ridiculous DJ banter but can’t shut out the morning noises of flatmates: creaks, thumps, water cistern gurgling to toilet, shower, sink and basin, boiling jug, clack of toaster, fragments of voices, door slam. Her head hurts. Everything hurts. Gingerly she reaches for the paracetamol and water bottle on the floor by her bed. She swallows two tablets and slides back to sleep.
“It is your fault!” someone shouts. The words drag her eyes open. Bright sunlight reveals no one is in the room but herself. Sleep talk! 9:57 glow the numbers on her clock. No point in getting up, too late to get to the lecture. Her mouth is dry. She could do with a coffee but doesn’t have the energy.
She encouraged his games. Was it rape? She had, after all, had sex with him many times. You always have the right to say no, Cleo’s words come to her. The law is on your side. The law? The law is in the hands of men. Cops who are clients? How could she front up to the local cop shop complaining about a client!
She must get up. She feels dirty. She must inspect the damage and have a proper shower. Her generous mirror reveals welts and bruises, all are in places that won’t show. Her arm throbs. What is under the bandage? She attacks the knot with nail-scissors and unwinds a long blood-soaked bandage. Fresh blood seeps. She wonders if she may need stitches. How could she explain this wound? The bare arm displays a mess of blood, cuts and something else, something black. Kat cleans the cuts with cottonwool and disinfectant. Tears spring at the sting. Or is it what the sting reveals? The cuts, done with a sharp instrument, are not deep and not random. They form a perfect 'A' blackened with marker-pen.
The beast! Thinks he can mark her as her own! The tears flow. How dare he!
Showered, Kat tips a half-used box of sticking plasters onto the vanity unit and uses them all. Wrapped in a towelling bathrobe she heads for the kitchen. Why drink coffee when there is gin? She scrabbles around in the bottom cupboard, discarding to the floor ice-cream containers that ‘might be useful for something’ and seldom-used kitchenware. Yes, right at the back. Gin is not the drink of choice in the flat but someone bought a bottle duty free and gifted it for general use. After a couple of G and T’s each it had been forgotten.
Is there any tonic? Flat lemonade will do. The lemonade is finished long before the gin but it doesn’t matter, why had she bothered with lemonade in the first place? Her body has stopped aching.
Work is hours away, loads of drinking time to go. Perhaps she should eat something. Toast? The thought turns her stomach. Half a super-size bag of double-cheese corn chips are unearthed from a top shelf. No tie on the bag, they will be going soft. Yep, taste awful but you shouldn’t drink without eating.
Kat finishes the bag and the bottle before throwing up, then sleeps until the need to pee can’t be ignored. The room is black. 9:25 blinks the bedside digital. No point in phoning the restaurant now. After slurping handfuls of water from the hand-basin in the loo she sleeps until woken by the grey light of day.
Temples throb, stomach queasy, mouth disgusting … why does the morning after have to arrive? Morning after — the reason for the hangover comes flooding back. She hasn’t taken the morning-after pill. She hasn’t got a morning-after pill. She is fanatical about safe sex. The morning after has gone. Is it too late?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen had woken alone. Wilkin was sleeping in the spare bed. Sarai had said she didn’t mind if Jen missed a lecture and Jen decided a change of routine would do her good. She’d phoned her sister and arranged an impulsive day-visit to Timaru, leaving a note for the sleeping Wilkin before she departed.
Laughing with Lindy has aerated her soul, she decides, reviewing the day as she motors back north. It’s been years since she had hours alone with her sister. As for the brief interaction with her nieces after school, the sensation still warms. What is the word? Avuncular comes to mind, is there no aunt equivalent? Are female family feelings restricted to maternal? Her relationship is not maternal yet a connection tugs. They are delightful youngsters and each so individual: confident, dark-haired Sue, thoughtful blonde Mary, and the energetic ginger-topped Nicola. Her brother has a boy and a girl, serious Ken and mischievous Judy. The extended family is short on boys, she reflects, does this improve the odds on her having a son? The long drive has steadied Jen’s equilibrium but her stomach harbours a small knot of uncertainty. What will she come home to?
At dinner Wilkin appears to be his normal work-obsessed self. It is as if the past 24 hours hasn’t happened. There is no mention of the shrine. He makes no derogatory comment about the Kentucky Fried Chicken takeaway she serves. He even asks after Lindy. She must make more effort.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
A woman in a white coat explains the pill will work for up to 72 hours. Kat makes some frantic mental calculations and realises the woman is still talking.
“There are two pills, take the second pill 12 hours after the first.”
It’s OK. It hasn’t been 72 hours. “I need a couple of large dressings and some sticking plaster. I better have a box of band aids as well.”
Back at the flat she takes the pill, has a leisurely breakfast and phones the restaurant. Miss Hicks is far from pleased but Kat knows Tuesday night is never frantic and Alison will have coped. She also knows that much as Hickey would like to dismiss her she can’t and there is a largish group-booking tonight. “Yes, Miss Hicks, sorry, Miss Hicks, I will be there tonight.” Yes Hickey, no hickey, three bags full Hickey. The waitresses’ joke is: she is a no-hickey for life.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The group booking is a fortieth birthday party. The guests arrive late and are in a mood to party. Alison and Kat are run off their feet with side dishes, dropped cutlery, extras and spills. It is after midnight when Kat crawls into bed. She sleeps soundly. Cleaning her teeth in the morning she remembers the second pill. She scoffs it down and takes off for uni. Too late she notices the gathering clouds. She should have brought an umbrella.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~