own heart.
We of Oblation gathered at the base of the Nursery along with Sacricunt and Dutilove to hear the wisdom of the Son of the Son, the centre of all the circles, Elect of the Elect. He spoke in public on only the most sacred of occasions. And on this day of our Beseeching, he spoke to us Fifteens of Stone House. It was an annual ritual, but this year I was one of that ‘us’. As I stood with head reverently bowed I felt all due humility, and yet … there was another feeling, an opposite feeling: pride. And it was clamouring to me to attend to it, to stand erect, to raise my head, to gaze directly into the eyes of the Son. I prayed silently for the strength to bear within my breast this paradox of conjoined opposites, one pure, the other a defilement that would ruin me if I let it.
I looked around at the row of pure and naked would-be vessels standing attentively, faces masked against the vanity of personal identity. I reached out to touch Pearl, but her body was rigid and unyielding. So I withdrew my hand and listened in silence to the Son of the Son, our representative on Earth of the Resolved Twins Jesumuh, only child of GodFather (BBHCM), deliver the prayer, The Way of (wo)Man:
Forever hide thy face, O (wo)Man! Deflect thine abject gaze from that of your natural master. Be ever ready to serve the husbands whose land you till and protect. As nature’s wilderness must be conquered, controlled and cultivated that its fruits may be brought forth to sustain us, so must (wo)Man’s wildness be husbanded lest the corybantic frenzies of Cybele lay waste to all that is clean and good and orderly in the world we have reclaimed from the mire. Indeed, the dumb earth yearns to be harrowed by the bladed till: so beseeches vegetal (wo)Man for the plough of Man. Rejoice, O Votives of the Flesh, Slaves of the Cannon, born of filth. Exalt now in the gift of redemption wherein all extraneous material may be sheared, sawn, sewn and smoothed into the purest form possible for the female repository to attain: the womanidol as holey Vessel of Man, molded by Man into the fulsome form of tamed fecundity, the Perfected incubator of the Sacred Seed of Man, given by the Father and sewn into the compost-rich mulch that is the essence of the female creature …
And very soon, I knew, the Beseeching itself could begin. I knew, from having watched Beseechings since as far back as my memory extends, that it would be accompanied by music. Thus I was excited – undue, I know, unfitting – but music is rare, and for good reason, as it belongs to one of the categories of profane activities that are haraamasur. It was forbidden long ago by the wisest of Elders, first ministers and administrators of the Dual True Faith. Not only is music a means of idling away time that may otherwise be spent in useful work or in prayer to GodFather (BBHCM), it is also likely to encourage disobedience by inciting, as it certainly does, untoward emotion in the listener. If the heart of a Man – but particularly a (wo)Man, so soft and biddable – should respond to that call, who knows where it might lead? However, music constrained and disciplined through repetition and monotone, using only drums and never ever woodwind or string, may serve a sacred purpose.
I knew the song we were about to sing. It was an old one from before Liberation, a song of self-sacrifice that anticipated the ideal of female Perfection, yet sung by an unPerfected (wo)Man, tragically common in those days. She had been mistreated in her lifetime in that wretchedly chaotic world, used and abused and finally martyred: forced to inject poison as punishment for her faith in her principles. The Son was introducing the long-awaited climax of our day with the words: ‘All rise and join me in song …’
To the accompaniment of the big, deep bass drum reserved for ritual occasions we Fifteens chanted as one Billie Holyday’s Hymn of (wo)Man, ‘All of Me’, in which she invites a Man to take her body, her arms, her legs – all of her – so demonstrating her profound understanding of how a (wo)Man may be fulfilled. My heart ached towards the possibility of self-realisation through sacrifice, oh take me, take me …
And then the moment was here: in an orderly queue we mounted the granite steps, each with a hand on the shoulder of the sister preceding us and clasping that of the one behind so as to remain steady and dignified on our towering heels. We were proudly aware of the hot gaze of the boys and Men below us as their eyes followed the bulge of our calves up to our thighs and between them, our buttocks and waists bound in tightly cinched leather. And so, to the Altar before the western wall of the Orchid Nursery. One by one we prostrated ourselves before the Plea Box. Each girlie then rose and deposited her Plea in the slot – or at least, made that motion. Did Pearl indeed refrain? She made a pass towards the lip of the Plea Box. But was that a slip of paper in her hand, or a flicker of her light fingers to impress the notion of such on those who watched?
PEARL
4.
I have confided a little – only a very little – of the turmoil of my mind to my friend, my sweet fierce Mica, who is so good at all the lessons, all the tasks, all the disciplines learned in the classroom, the Ways and Duties and Prayers, and all those practical skills for cleaning, gardening and military training. I do not tell the worst though. I do not tell her where it has led me. I do not tell her that I have been with a man, a single man, alone, with no witnesses. And we have kissed and we have touched each other in the vilest ways, unobserved by any other, as if we were a separate pair of people cut off from the body corporate. I told him I will go with no other. His face went pale, pale, pale at his Pearl’s latest profanation. Then it went all rosy, rosy pink, so I kissed him again. And he held me to him as if I were precious.
The demons who possess me have found a comfortable home here among my cerebral folds and all that cosy cushioning brain-flesh. They have no desire to leave. Why would they? No, they say, very comfy, thank you, Pearl … it is very comfy in your mind, Pearl Stone. Bring me a cool drink scented with rosewater and a cinnamon stick to stir it, bring me a fragrant rollie-smoke in an ivory cigarette holder like the one Colander uses when he speaks to us after the News for Girlies and before the State Anthem of the Dual True Faith. Or actually, my pearly Pearl, why not bring me his ivory cigarette holder, his very one? You can hide it under your pillow with the pile of stories you stole the week before from the Museum.
Listen to me, say the demons in my head. And I do. I listen and I feel, I feel their bodies inside my own, and where their skin touches mine, bruises form, bruises of corruption that will rot me from the inside out … But, says a big red demon with a face white as light, his finger raised imperiously, but, he says, it is from degeneration, from rot and corruption, that new life springs! When I heard that blasphemous twisting of one of our most sacred lessons, I laughed out loud! I felt not fear then, but joy! Oh, I’m a goner.
So, this is what is happening to me, to my soft mind. Yes – that is it – my mind is soft and pliant because all my lessons have failed to harden my edges – I feel I have no edges, and sense sometimes that I am slipping, slipping into some bright and dark place between certainties where there are no rules, no Ways, a lawless zone populated by monsters. And I no longer care. No – worse – worse and better – I welcome them!
How can I stay here, in my home? I am sickened by all that I see. I do not want the future that has been laid out for me. All the attributes that I once attempted to emulate, that I saw as noble, self-abnegating, dutiful, loyal, I now see differently. This new vision is the Devil’s work for sure, isn’t it? Yes, it is. Brought into my head by his imps and demons. And I welcome the Devil into my mind. I welcome the Devil into my heart.
I will find my chance. I will. Soon I will go. Soon, now … and Asa will come with me. He will.
Something I know to be true: Asa will say he made his choice freely. That’s true as far as it goes, as far as ‘choice’ goes. But if you start from a place of weakness or desperation, or hopelessness or love, you are compelled.
