A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [23]
“I see now why you’ve come. You have come to teach me.” I felt my eyebrow go up in a movement that was pure Holmes. “Could you teach me… to read the original, I mean?” she demanded urgently, as if ready to roll up her silken sleeves at that hour and begin.
“Neither Hebrew nor Greek is terribly difficult to learn,” I said noncommittally, then added, “given time.”
“You must show me this ‘God the Mother.’ Why don’t I know about this?” Before I could answer, she went on. “It makes all the difference. There is more, you said?”
“It’s no fluke. Once you’re looking for it, it’s everywhere. Job thirty-eight, Psalm twenty-two, Isaiah sixty-six, Hosea eleven, Isaiah forty-two. And, of course, the Genesis passages you cited tonight.” That gave her pause.
“Yes, of course. But I never thought…” And there was the essence of it, I knew. She had absorbed the words, had hammered a few of them into a shape that suited her purpose, but it had never occurred to her to question the underlying themes, to look for patterns other than those handed down over the centuries, patterns that did not include the uncomfortable idea of the motherhood of the Divine. This woman was no deep thinker; the life of the intellect was foreign to her, and whatever her prayers and contemplations were, they were not analytical. Nonetheless, she was like a substance in a beaker, ripe for the transformation of a catalysing agent. And I had just dropped the first measure of that reagent into her quick, hungry mind. Time to stand back.
As if she had heard my thoughts, she raised her hand to stop me from withdrawing, then dropped it with a rueful smile.
“I’m sorry, I get too excited about things and want to have it all, now. You have your own work to do.” The smile became wistful. “All the same, I’d appreciate any help you might give me. If there are any books… You can see how important it could be to me, though I realise you haven’t the time to wait around here and be my tutor.”
I protested that I should be happy to help and that the term’s responsibilities had not yet taken hold, and only when the words had left my mouth did I realise that her humility had trapped me as her authority could not, and her expressions of gratitude at my offer had an edge of triumph. Reluctantly, disarmed, I gave her my wry smile, and she laughed.
“I like you, Mary Russell. Please, do come and teach me. I think I shall learn a great deal from you. Even if it isn’t about Hebrew or theology.”
I laughed then, and she rose and pulled her shoes out from under the chairside table, and we walked through the now-silent maze to the entrance. She talked easily, mostly about flowers and the fact that she no longer had time for gardening, saying possibly that was why her friends (her followers) plied her with roses, though it still made her uncomfortable to accept them.
She was friendly and relaxed and self-deprecating, but I could not feel entirely at ease with her. Precisely what it was about her that I found unsettling, I could not pin down. Partly, it was the childlike size of her, which made me tower awkwardly in my ill-fitting clothes. Partly, it was the way she walked so very close, her shoulder occasionally brushing my sleeve, so that I breathed in her not-unattractive aroma of sweat and hot silk and some subtle and musky perfume. Partly, it was the awareness of how easily she had found a weakness in my ready defences and made me agree to help her. Mostly, though, it was an intangible, a low, pulsing wave of fascination and discomfiture that continued, even now, to radiate from her like some fabulous tropical flower whose heavenly fragrance mesmerises the insects on which it feeds.
It was with relief that I wished her a good night. However, the