Where r u watz up, texts Jen. She drums a finger tattoo on the steering wheel and doesn’t turn on the ignition. Another lecture missed. Why? Come on, Kat, respond. Something’s wrong, I’m sure. Is it any of my business? Of course it is. We are Sarai’s chosen ones, whatever that means! Is the bonding Sarai’s engineering or is it natural attraction? Jen’s thoughts turn to that first terrible morning in the lobby when Kat intervened on her behalf. Jen comes to a decision, pulls out of the car park, and turns the opposite way to usual.
Jen hasn’t been to Kat’s flat but has her address. She pulls up outside an old villa and winces at the state of what should have been a front lawn. A piebald church pew sits on the veranda. A fitting icon for this church-dominated city, grins Jen to herself. A sudden vision of North Dunedin tugs with nostalgia. Ruptured sofas litter the verandas of Dunedin student flats. Jen drank her first beer on such a sofa, pulled onto the street for a party. Her reverie is disturbed by the front door opening. A tubby youth emerges wearing a student backpack. Jen slides out of her car. “Excuse me, does Kat Mergagh live here?”
“Yep, down the hall — there’s a Siamese cat on the door.”
He walks off in the direction of uni, leaving the door ajar. Jen knocks. There is no response. She gives the door a push and sees a passage guarded by closed doors. The only light source is narrow glass panels framing the front door. Jen peers at each door. Halfway down the passage a door bears a cream cat stretched in elegant silhouette. Jen knocks.
“Go away.”
“Kat, it’s me, Jen. Can I come in?”
After a pause Jen hears the clack of a key turning and a slice of Kat appears in a slit of open door. “What do you want?”
“I just wondered if you were sick or something.”
“I’m not sick.”
“So there must be a something. Do you want to tell me?”
“I’m in a bit of a mess at the moment.”
“That doesn’t matter. I know how flats can get. I flatted for a couple of years.”
“Don’t say you weren’t warned.” Kat opens the door and steps back.
Despite having flatted in the heartland of scarfie Dunedin, Jen has to work at concealing her surprise. Instinctively she sniffs for telling substances but cannot detect any. Mustering nonchalant ease she steps over a sheet, nudges a folder of notes out of the way, rights the one chair, and sits on it. “So, what is this all about?”
Kat gathers up an armload of bedding, drops it on the bed and plonks herself alongside. “I was just letting off a bit of steam.”
“Well, you don’t do things by halves, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m an idiot, I’m in a mess. I’ve been careless.”
“This looks more intentional than careless?”
“Not this mess, me. I’m pregnant.”
Jen experiences a rapid succession of emotions. Why Kat, why not her? Why is it so easy for some people? She wasn’t even trying. Of course she wasn’t trying. It’s a total disaster for her.
“Oh Kat, surely not. You know how to take care of yourself. What happened?”
“I told you about the client who raped me. It was a shock. He seemed nice, sophisticated so I thought, exciting even. For him to do that was a total fuck-up. Fact is I messed up on the morning-after pill.” Her body droops into a heap as lifeless as the bedding pile beside her.
“If you don’t want to be pregnant, Kat, you don’t have to go through with it. I know abortion is not an easy option but done early …” She trails off, seeing Kat stiffen. Her head rises, but her eyes don’t engage with Jen’s.
“I’m a Catholic, Jen. Life is sacred. I will not have an abortion.”
Jen says nothing but thinks plenty. Catholic! When did you last go to church? Why do intelligent women get hooked into superstitions spread by male priests who fear sex and hate women? Life sacred? Not that sacred! The planet is over populated. Quality of life is what’s sacred.
Kat sits rigid and silent.
“OK, Kat, I hear you, but don’t ever forget it is your body. You have the say over your body. A child is a life-changing thing. Raising a child alone is not easy. I’ve encountered clients who couldn’t cope.”
Kat moves her arms, Jen thinks she is going to goad them into a show of body-language defiance but her left arm remains straight and she holds it with her right hand. Jen wonders what the action means. Kat seems unaware of what she is doing. Her brow is creased in determination.
“I’m having the baby.” She glances at her hand and drops it as if burnt. “I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to keep it. Plenty of people want to adopt.”
The core of Jen’s being contracts with another surge of emotion. Adoption! She had never considered such a thing. What if she can’t have a child? How would Wilkin feel about adoption? Instinct tells her Wilkin’s genes are important to him.
“If you’re going to keep the child the father needs to know. You said he’s a client and that you’d quite liked him?”
“Was a client. Now he is a rapist. I’m having nothing more to do with him.”
“Is he married?”
“Don’t know and don’t care. He’s out of my life.”
“No, you have to name him and he has to pay. That’s how it works. He has to contribute to the maintenance of the child. Don’t let him get off.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline is unsettled and wonders why. She should be feeling great. She hasn’t had sex in ages and sex with Fish is as good as it gets with a guy. Be objective, woman. Attractive physically, interesting mix of Kiwi bloke and artist, morally … she has doubts, something she can’t quite put her finger on. But to her he had never been anything less than gentlemanly, and sensitive. She nods without realising it and suddenly recalls the conversation she overheard between Fish and Kat … remarkable considering the circumstances. The mystery between Kat and Fish is a constant niggle but she won’t be the one to initiate this personal dialogue.
You can’t condemn him for promiscuity. Her Brethren upbringing surfaces submarine-like, as it is wont to do on rare occasions — sinner, fornicator. She is taken by surprise and has to firmly restate the position she came to decades ago. Just because sex has a uniquely special place in marriage it does not follow that it must be denied to the unmarried. The Supreme Power Pauline believes in rejoices in pleasure, whatever its form, as long as no one is harmed. Fish may have his weaknesses but who doesn’t! She will nourish his sensitive side.
With Brethren scruples scuppered, Pauline’s calm is disturbed by a vision of Sarai. Why do I hanker for intimacy with women? Why can’t I be one or the other? Am I genuinely bisexual or simply mixed up? Perhaps sex is not what she wants from women. Women make marvellous friends. She affirms the thought by taking from a shelf the gift the coven presented on her birthday.
Since the dramatic events involving her athame Pauline has resisted buying any Wicca articles, but gifts carry different vibes from purchases. She cups her hands around the pewter present and loves its weight — a solid and beautiful thing, just as friendship should be. Slowly she turns the scrying bowl, admiring its Celtic knot-work border around its rim and the raised figures that sit beneath the never-ending pattern. She runs her fingers over the carefully moulded details and murmurs, “It couldn’t be more perfect.” The Maiden is potent with enchantment, the promise of new beginnings, birth and youth. The Mother embodies ripeness, fertility, fulfilment and power, and the Crone is a fitting representation of wisdom, repose and endings. The long grey hair of the Crone is of similar proportion to her own. Could her problem be she is not making the transition from Mother to Crone as graciously as one should? Does she resent the fact that she has never given birth and her breasts have never sustained an infant? Does she fear an eventual loss of sexuality and power? She hopes not. Pauline understands the cycle of life and knows age has its pluses. She turns again to the Maiden. The maiden is less pretty than some depictions but has an appealing directness. Instead of cascading curls, thick shoulder-length hair frames a square fringe. Kat could have been the model for this Maiden.
Kat appears in too many unlikely places! Pauline dislikes what she is feeling — could it be envy? She puts the bowl down. The poor girl is pregnant and devastated. Her baby lacks a father and she has no mother. Get a grip. Katrina is a lovely young woman. You don’t want a baby — not at this time of life. Having mother qualities does not depend on having given birth. Pull yourself together, woman — evoke some positivity.
Pauline steps purposefully to her preparation room, intent on relaxing with candle magic. Banishing negative thoughts she looks over her selection of candles and selects … a blue candle, for inspiration and wisdom. Pleased with her choice she moistens her hands with fragrant oil. Carefully aligning the candle to its psychic magnet of the North and South poles she begins rubbing the oil into the tapered north end, brushing downwards to the middle. She repeats the process beginning at the bottom end and working up to the middle. Pauline concentrates on charging the wax with her personal vibrations, enabling the candle to become an extension of her mental power and life energy.
When the candle is fully dressed Pauline inserts it in a candlestick and gives it life. As she has no specific desire she writes no request to fold and burn. Instead she fills the scrying bowl with water and places both articles on an altar in her study. She judges the candle a little too fresh and the study a little too light for her purpose. Not wanting to lose concentration she sits at her desk and doodles with purpose. For some time now she has been trying to produce a well-balanced freehand triskele. The Celtic triple ‘spiral of life’ dates from the Bronze Age in Ireland and has been used in Celtic art for three millennia. Pauline likes the Celts’ belief in eternal cycles regenerating at each point. Mind, body and spirit she thinks as her hand draws imperfect spirals. Birth, death and rebirth she tries again. Definitely improving. It is too dark to attempt another. The study has dimmed with dusky shadows and the tiny light of the candle is flecking the water in the scrying bowl. Pauline gazes into its shallow depths. No magic image appears. She has ceased to think of Kat. Her mind is empty, or would be if thoughts of Sarai didn’t wriggle into the void.
Familiar’s meow is indignant. “Yes, I know it is your dinner time. I’m coming.” Pauline doesn’t move. She is caught up in her own thoughts. I think I understand. Familiar utters a long, demanding meow. It is Sarai, it is always Sarai! If anything bothers me about Kat it isn’t that she is with child, it is that she is with Sarai. Sarai is letting students into her personal life. Familiar has no qualms over jealousy. Familiar prioritises and right now food is his priority. He head-butts Pauline and wipes a wet nose on her leg. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She checks the candle is safe to burn its magic to vapour, and turns thoughts and feet to the cold realities of her fridge.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen does envy Kat being pregnant. It’s not fair, she tells herself, Kat doesn’t want a child and I do. She wonders if God has anything to do with … anything? It is a problem she often considers. Not something she could discuss with Wilkin, actually these days there aren’t many topics she can discuss with Wilkin. He is so stressed by worries — we may be at the bottom of the map but nowhere is safe from global realities. The recession will affect us. He is uptight about the liberal tone of the university and severely disappointed by this lack of an heir.
In religion Wilkin is fixed and rigid. His beliefs are carried in his DNA, Jen surmises. Pious forebears have declared some things right and others wrong. Wilkin’s religion is not up for debate. Religion is an anchor in a changing world. It may have sustained his forebears in most of their being, but for Wilkin it is a Sunday activity that bears, as far as Jen can tell, little relation to the other six days. She feels sure Wilkin prays on Sundays.
Jen doesn’t pray for a child, well not in church on Sundays. The God the vicar extols is excessively male and judgemental. The God she believes in would not allow suffering to exist if s/he could end it, nor would this God favour one person over another in times of catastrophe or need, merely because one had prayed and another had not. Jen prefers to think God cares, is present in suffering, right amongst it, offering inner strength, but is unable to change the physical rules established by the Creator. It is something to do with free will and humans messing up — utopias in fiction never work, so presumably the world we have is the best possible under the given circumstances.
But, Jen does wonder why Kat fell pregnant after one unfortunate episode of unprotected sex when she has been trying for months in perfect conditions. Age could have something to do with it … but lots of women conceive into their forties. Though she tries to push it away she can’t help but envy Kat’s youth and potency. It’s only natural, she comforts herself. I guess such feelings have existed forever. It’s how Sarah felt when her maid Hagar got pregnant to Abraham.
Perhaps her attitude lacks something. Instead of striving to be the perfect, loving wife it may help to spice things up a bit — dress like a slut?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Darlene can’t concentrate on her essay. It is an optional exercise. She always chooses to do extra work if Sarai suggests it. Sarai believes the best way to feel into the lives of biblical women is to give them voice by enlarging what is known through creative fiction. Darlene’s first attempt was giving voice to Ruth’s feelings. She so identified with Ruth’s willingness to do anything for the woman she loved that she didn’t hand the essay in. She had become Ruth, and Naomi had become Sarai — it was just too obvious. I have to get over this crush, she had told herself at the time, Sarai isn’t interested in young women. But if Sarai isn’t interested in young women, why are Jen and Kat frequent visitors to her study? Jen doesn’t bother her, she is married, but Kat is single and about Darlene’s age. What does Kat have that Darlene doesn’t have?
Darlene learnt early that life isn’t fair and she is what she is. She is smart enough to know crushes can be outgrown even if lesbianism can’t. She was frankly surprised to discover ancient women had the same raw emotions as modern women. Envy and unrequited love can be found in many Bible stories.
Her first story presented for marking was the well-known tale of Jacob’s wives from the point of view of the elder daughter, Leah — the less comely, possibly short-sighted wife, she was just as much a pawn in her father’s games as her sister. Leah bore Jacob six sons and a daughter but Jacob only had eyes for Rachel. When Rachel eventually produced Joseph he was favoured over all Leah’s children. Sarai had awarded Darlene a B. Darlene visualises the blue letters of Sarai’s round writing and quotes from memory … an interesting perspective, sensitively handled. Keep refining the process. You write well.
Darlene’s second essay related to Hannah, barren wife of Elkanah, who prayed desperately for a son. When her prayers were answered Hannah’s joy and gratitude were such she gave the infant Samuel to the priest Eli to train in the ways of the Lord. Darlene’s concern was for Peninnah, the other wife, who had given Elkanah several children but Elkanah remained besotted with Hannah. Perceptive insights well presented but there are other reasons for envy and other scenarios to explore, penned Sarai. Darlene would have been discouraged had it not been for the B+ that followed the comment.
This time she is really into it, loving the concept she has mined from the text. Determined that her theory be based in textual accuracy Darlene ripped relevant pages from an old Bible and did some old-fashioned cutting and pasting with scissors and glue to get the thread of the whole story. She highlighted each character in a different colour and was excited by the pattern they wove. She wants to type but her creative flow is diverted by visions of Kat and Jen. Nice enough girls but why are they such close friends? She is convinced it has something to do with Sarai. Teacher’s Pets or is it something else? Her fertile mind flashes up a café scene … the Alibi in the Law Building. Jen and Kat so wound up in each other they didn’t even see her. They have a secret, all right. Is it also Sarai’s secret? Darlene directs her thoughts of secrets to her writing. She can become anyone she wants through writing. She is not a pathetic unpartnered lessie. She is Michal, wife of King David. She will win Sarai’s favour with writing.
A Window on Michal by Darlene Chapman
The King is failing. The mighty David shivers in his bed. He is old. I Michal, his first love, watch from a window. The palace has many windows, ornate outer windows and secret inner windows. I see much and say little. I watch this husband but do not go to him. The King’s advisors think a nubile beauty may rekindle his dying flame. How little they know of David’s true passions …
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen sips herbal tea and marvels at the recuperative powers of the human spirit. Kat shows no evidence of personal trauma, she seems invigorated by the lecture.
“There was no beating about the bush with Job’s wife,” Kat is saying. “Curse God and Die, wow! She sure said it as she saw it. I didn’t think anyone in the Bible could advocate cursing God and get away with it.”
“Others who did less were struck down by the wrath of God. As you say, Kat, it is a remarkable speech, memorable for brevity and content.”
“What a contrast to those so-called friends. Did they go on and on — the wonder is they didn’t bore him to death!”
“Some of those ‘boring’ speeches have considerable literary merit. You are quiet, Jen, how do you see Job and company?”
“I discovered Job as a teenager and although I hated the story, wondered how God could possibly do that to anyone. I was excited by God speaking to Job out of the whirlwind. I read it as poetry. I guess I was a bit of a sucker for poetry. As for Mrs Job, she had good reason to curse God. God had killed off the ten children she’d borne and she was destined to bear another ten just so Job could feel blessed at the end of the story — I see what you mean about these stories being written from a male viewpoint!”
“Maybe Job had other wives to contribute to his blessing. The interesting point is none of the seven sons are named but the three girls are,” reminds Sarai.
“And they were given an inheritance along with their brothers,” puts in Kat. “I thought that was an enlightened ending.”
“Mmmm,” says Sarai, “but the male fantasy persists: and in all the land there were no women so fair as Job’s daughters — classic folk tale, and look at their names: Jemimah, it means sweet fragrance, Keziah translates to seductive charm, and Keren-happuch to dove cooing — collectively a little tacky, wouldn’t you agree?”
The younger women join in her brief contagious chuckle. Then Kat dares ask, “Are you anti-men, Sarai?”
Sarai looks shocked. “Definitely not, some men are despicable, but so are some women. Men are just as important as women. That is the whole point of being human — men and women are of equal significant value. As they say in China, women hold up half the sky. In common with many other cultures China can quote quality proverbs and fail to action their truth.”
As she speaks both Jen and Kat are aware of a change in Sarai’s attitude, she is slipping into what Kat calls her la-la zone, although Jen privately considers intense persona more accurate.
“Friends,” she leans toward them and extends her arms, palms up. “Balance is the crucial element.” Her hands move like a set of balance scales. “Men and women each have vital roles, some are complementary and some interchangeable. Both genders forget this. Some women have accepted a subservient role without question and others have sought only to dominate. The world has known matriarchal societies as well as patriarchal societies and to some extent there has been harmonious acceptance of the given circumstance. But none of that is cosmically important, in fact it is trivial to the universe.” Jen’s eyes wander to the ceiling, she hopes Sarai can’t sense her confusion. “The truth is the ancient men forgot to heed the wisdom that the ancient women held, and worse still … eventually the women forgot it too. The knowledge, the wisdom, the truth of our souls was nearly forgotten. It hangs by a thread. The thread is stretched, stretched to breaking. If humanity does not return to the sacred path …” Sarai’s voice trails off, and then returns with conviction, “Time my friends, time.” She takes a long deep breath. “All will be well, all will become clear.”
Sarai holds them in such an intense stare Jen and Kat feel uncomfortable. Both try, and fail, to find a comment that will ease the atmosphere. Sarai herself initiates a rescue. She leans back in her chair and remarks in a quite different tone, “I was born in A’bury, third child of a third child.”
Jen clutches the offered straw. “Do you mean Avebury? Isn’t that the cute village with standing stones?”
“We locals pronounce it A’bury. But I suppose I’m not exactly a local these days. Yes, Avebury is a village with standing stones. Cute? Charming may be a better word. It is one of the most mystical places on Earth. Avebury happens to be sited on the ley line that connects the great pilgrimage sites of Glastonbury Tor and St Michael’s Mount and that didn’t simply happen. Just south of Avebury stands Silbury Hill. It is considered the largest, and most enigmatic, of all megalithic constructions in Europe. Some theorise it represents the pregnant belly of Gaia. Only men would build such a thing. Women know a thrusting monument is inappropriate. The whole living earth swells in season to Gaia’s fertility. But I’ve got myself side-tracked, you asked about standing stones. The Avebury Stone Circle is bigger and older than Stonehenge. The first stones were placed a good 2000 years before the birth of Christ. The village lies within the circle.”
“How many people live in the village?” asks Kat.
“Less than 500 souls.”
“Like Ross!” says Kat, sensing a new point of connection with Sarai.
“Ross is not known for its stones though,” states Jen.
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong,” flashes Kat. “The most famous stone in New Zealand came from Ross — the largest gold nugget ever found — the size of a miner’s fist. It was even given a name, The Honourable Roddy, after the minister of mines, a Roderick someone or other. I’ll wager more stones have been shifted in Ross than any town in New Zealand. The gold rush that began in 1864 is still happening. These days the miners don’t use pick and shovel, they have earth-moving machines. When the Birchfields began open-cast mining in the 1990s, the biggest problem was losing trucks down century-old mine shafts. You could see them standing on end. It sure scared the hell out of the drivers. The open-cast digging went down 45 metres and even at that depth, tunnels and shafts were found.”
“You led me to understand Ross was a dull place and now I discover it is full of great holes,” says Jen.
“It is not, these days they have to restore or landscape wherever they dig. The whole excavation is now a feature lake, trouble is it refuses to stay full, the old shafts act as drainpipes. England isn’t the only place with history,” says Kat, with a pride that surprises her.
“History is a comparative thing,” comments Jen. “1864 may seem long ago to us but England has a completely different time scale.”
“Human achievement can be remarkably long-lasting, whatever the century,” reminds Sarai. “But yes 1864 is recent in terms of English history. Avebury has a fifteenth-century church, and a sixteenth-century manor house.”
“How can buildings last hundreds of years?” marvels Kat.
“We modern Brits respect our old buildings. If you visit the Manor House these days you have to wear blue plastic-bag slippers over your shoes to protect the floor. It’s just a pity we didn’t have this ethos centuries ago. Lots of the Avebury stones were broken up to build the village and make room for crops.”
“Attacked them with sledge hammers I suppose,” says Kat.
“I understand they lit fires under some stones and poured water over them. Humans are just as creative in destroying things as they are at building them.”
“I think the whole concept of standing stones is fascinating,” says Jen. “Why go to all that trouble? The stones must be massively heavy.”
“They are and yet standing stones appear all over Europe. Various conjectures are made but truth is elusive. All we know for sure is a great deal of thought and effort went into erecting them. Standing stones encompass science, engineering, astrology, and spirituality.”
“How big is the circle?” asks Jen.
“The Avebury circle is the largest in the world, over 400 metres in diameter, covering an area of over eight hectares.”
“Well, if it’s so big and important why isn’t it known the way Stonehenge is known?” demands Kat. “Is it like Stonehenge?”
“No, the Avebury stones look more natural and are not as tall. Stonehenge is only 30 kilometres away but gives quite different vibes. Its main-circle standing stones are massive. Each had to be shaped and levelled, then topped with horizontal slabs. Avebury stones vary in height, most of them being between one and three metres. There are two distinct shapes, tall and thin, and short and dumpy. Naturally, the tall are said to be male. Some Avebury stones are pitted with holes. As you say, Jen, standing stones are fascinating. The main Avebury circle once held two smaller circles. And that’s not all: a two kilometre-long curving avenue of stones entered the circle from one side and exited a similar distance on the other side, terminating in a small circle. It is believed the curving avenues represent a serpent. The serpent, you will recall, has a special place in the wisdom of the ancients.”
“Eve,” supplies Jen with sudden excitement. “It was a serpent that,” she pauses, once she would have said beguiled Eve, but Sarai’s teaching has not been in vain, “nudged Eve into accepting freedom of choice.”
She is rewarded with a deep nod of approval.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
As Jen and Kat walk across campus Kat muses, “Sarai was in full flight today. I don’t like it when she gets that la-la look. It was good we got her side-tracked by ye olde home town stuff. What was that business about being a third child of a third child?”
“Creating an air of mystery I presume. I like her lots I really do, but …”
“But she is a drama queen. What’s the number mystery?”
“In folk stories the seventh child of a seventh child is supposed to be blessed with special powers.”
“Sometimes, I actually wonder if she does have special powers. There is something different about her.”
“I feel it too. These days families don’t tend to run to generations of seven, being the third child of a third child could be the modern equivalent. Three is a special number, Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”
“Sarai wouldn’t embrace a number that venerates males. Despite what she says, she is anti-men.”
“I don’t think she is. Being a feminist isn’t about hating men, it’s about having equal opportunity, or ‘balance’, as Sarai puts it. Anyway, three is significant to Wicca, the three stages: maiden, mother, crone!”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~