Sisterhood

Prelude

The Gospel of Sophia 16:7

And God turned his face and lo, the Goddess was revealed.

And she spoke unto them:

All ye who are sisters and daughters of the Goddess, follow my example; unto each other be loving, compassionate, and merciful in the measure of me, God and Goddess; Father and Mother.

On the eastern shore of the black lake, a storm gathered; a towering froth of clouds streaked with blue-white lightning. Thunder rumbled. The air was poised, waiting like the pause between breaths.

In a stone chapel built on the outcrop that half-mooned the western side of the lake, a circle of women murmured a chant as their high priestess prepared for the rite of Renunciation. In their midst, a woman knelt, naked to the waist. Her head was lowered, her face hidden in the length of her hair; her hands rested at her sides. She had been caught by her sisters practicing the macabre arts on a child from the village. The child had lived, as would the woman— although not as one of them.

The priestess stepped from the altar and entered the circle, which closed behind her as the women linked hands. A faint silver radiance gathered at each point of connection as the priestess approached the kneeling woman, a white handled dagger held before her. She brought the blade to the woman’s breast. The chanting intensified. Beneath the voices of the women, the priestess intoned the prayer of Severance:

Mother Goddess, we return this woman, Caritas, into your wilderness;

Help her find you.

Mother Goddess, we draw the blood of your daughter...

Thunder rent the sky.

Caritas lurched upright, grasping and turning the knife as she rose, and drove it into the priestess’ throat. ‘Bow before my God,’ she said, thrusting the dying woman away. She crashed through the circle, severing the connection between the women.

The storm descended in a fury. The chapel shook, stones falling from the ceiling, breaking the bones of the women who huddled on the floor, calling on their Goddess to take pity: ‘Mercy, oh Mother, have mercy.’

Disdain filled Caritas’ face as she walked past them. At the door, she caught an object flung at her by the howling wind. A smile twisted her mouth as the stone, lit with the blue-white lightning of the storm, burned into her palm. ‘You will not stop me this day,’ she said, closing her hand. She hurried to the edge of the outcrop and hurled the stone into the churning lake. As it slipped into the depths, the chapel collapsed.

The storm abated as Caritas strode along a narrow path that wound down the cliff-face. On the shoreline below, two hooded figures waited. When she reached them, one took a robe from a pack and, bowing, handed it over without comment. Caritas shrugged the garment over her shoulders as her eyes travelled the calm surface of the lake. Satisfied, she turned towards her companions. ‘Come, sisters, there are girls in the village who require our ministrations,’ she said, and lead them into the forest.

Part One

The Book of Faith and Hope

Immanence

Awaken, child, to the dawn,

The glittering ‘morrow,

The illusion

Of freedom released.

Capture the restless heart,

The gleaming tower,

wherein resides,

Anticipation’s lover.

Seeking the jewelled Spires,

Of a future unbridled,

The dreamer sighs,

Grasps the chimera, laments

The imperceptible day.

The fragile maiden, enticing,

Draws the soul with a promise,

To the glory of her horizon,

Dancing perpetually, out of reach.

On a hill of mist, the fool,

Awaiting the day, yearning,

To embark, to embrace, to live.

In mourning, his despair,

Heavy the burdened,

The dead blossoms of Eventuality.

Chapter One

I want to start by saying my true name is Heather, like the flower, but don’t call me that because it’ll just bring me trouble. Here, in the Sister’s domain, they call me Faith. So - to keep me safe - remember, my name is Faith.

My mother abandoned me at St Mary’s Boarding School for Girls one clear autumn morning. In my hand was a bag containing a few favourite outfits, the novel I was reading and an old Bible she’d found somewhere. It’ll get you in good with the Sisters, she said. This wonderful act of motherly love was prompted by a strong desire, on her behalf, to go tramping around Europe with Jeremy Grenouille.

Now there’s a name to make a girl shudder.

For the first five minutes, I was actually impressed by St Mary’s. The grounds were lush and green with tidy lawns sloping down to the eight-foot high fence enclosing the school. Pines lined the driveway, creating an inviting emerald tunnel that I wandered through, eyes roaming, taking in the details of my new home. Everywhere was trimmed neatness and I wondered how many gardeners it took to keep the grounds in such perfect condition. As I walked, I had the strangest feeling of having stepped out of the real world with its roaring traffic and rushing people, into some sort of fairy kingdom where tranquility and beauty were always the order of the day. I smiled a little at the thought.

A rustling drew my attention. I scanned the shadowed underskirt of the trees. The darkness deepened as the branches interlaced above me and I felt the weight of watching eyes. I frowned and walked a little faster towards a sun-filled gap in the tunnel, where the pines made room for a church. A large cross sat atop the steeple. Perched on one of its arms was a crow, its head tipped to the side, tracking my movements. As I passed the church, the bird shook out its glossy wings and cawed. I jumped as it was answered by a raucous chorus from the trees behind me.

‘Bloody crows,’ I muttered.

At the top of the driveway was a small garden with a Poinciana growing in the centre. Leaning against its grey trunk was an old, moss-flecked stone bench. A daydream was born in my mind. I saw myself sitting on that seat, legs tucked up, arms resting on my knees as I read a book in the sunlight filtering through the tree’s leafy umbrella.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, I thought, ambling towards the convent.

The building the Sisterhood called home was a two-storey weatherboard house, painted a creamy white with a dark blue trim around the eaves. Yellow curtains hung across the windows under which were boxes of aromatic herbs and lavender. Two white cane rocking chairs with blue and yellow cushions sat at a friendly angle on the veranda, a table between them. The convent was picture perfect and had a homely feel as though gentle grandmothers lived there. It was a place where busy, globetrotting parents could leave their daughters with a clear conscience.

Beyond the convent was a three-storey building of dull brown brick. It was set back from the driveway and a little behind the convent, where it seemed to hunch as though waiting to pounce. A short path led to a veranda and a dark unwelcoming front door. This was the dormitory, which was home to the one hundred and twenty girls who were to be my schoolmates. On the far side of the dorm was another brick building, with long grimy windows cut into the side. I didn’t look at it for long; it made me feel uncomfortable.

The front door to the convent opened and I turned as a nun dressed in a floor-length black habit stepped onto the veranda. She seemed flustered, as though she’d been busy doing something and had just remembered the time. The nun brushed a hand across her face and adjusted the knotted sash around her waist as she glanced up and saw me.

‘Hello,’ I called from the driveway, turning on my friendliest smile.

Her brow pinched with annoyance. ‘Miss Johnson?’

‘Um, yeah, that’s me,’ I said, my smile slipping.

‘You’re early.’

I pointed over my shoulder toward the front gate. ‘My mum dropped me— ‘

‘Come here.’

My shoulders slumped. Way to go, Mum, I thought, crossing the gravel drive. Get me in trouble before I even unpack my bag.

Nice.

The nun waited on the top step. Like an executioner waiting for the condemned, my imagination insisted. Shut up, I told it, looking into the nun’s eyes, which were dark and humourless. I searched for a flicker of kindness in the pale, angular face framed by the black veil covering her head, but there was no sign of softness. Instead, hers was a face to scare small children and, although I’d turned sixteen three months earlier, I felt my mouth go dry.

As though sensing my discomfort, a smile appeared on the nun’s face but, I noticed, it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Punctuality is an attribute we cultivate at this school, Miss Johnson. You would do well to remember that arriving before the appointed time is just as rude as arriving late,’ she said, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her habit.

I considered telling her that I wasn’t the one in a hurry to dump my kid and get to the airport so I could go frolicking with my sleazy boyfriend but, from the expression on her face, I didn’t think she’d get it. ‘Yes, um, Mother Superior,’ I said.

‘You will address me as Sister Merce,’ the nun said, her voice frosty.

She looked me up and down, taking in my designer jeans and the t-shirt that barely covered my middle (even though I pulled it down as far as it would go), and the sandshoes I’d coloured with green pen one afternoon to pass the time while I waited for my mum to finish one of her endless business meetings. A strand of hair, streaked purple, fell from the loose ponytail I’d tied at the nape of my neck. I slipped it behind my ear and tried not to squirm under that critical gaze.

Just when I thought I couldn’t stand the scrutiny for a second longer, Sister Merce clicked her tongue disapprovingly and looked down the driveway. ‘I see your mother has left already. Good. You’ll settle in more quickly that way.’ As she spoke, she came down the stairs, her habit hissing as it dragged over the wood.

I stepped backwards as she stalked past me. I hated doing it but I couldn’t help myself. The last thing I wanted was for her to touch me. She marched off towards the dormitory, her back rigid. I hesitated, wondering if I was supposed to follow.

Do you really want to wait for her to ask?

Nuh-ah. I slung my bag over my shoulder and darted down the driveway, keeping what I thought was a respectful distance.

As we walked, Sister Merce delivered her ‘Welcome to St Mary’s’ speech, which went something like:

We are governed by rules here. You will learn these rules and learn them quickly. Failure to abide by them will result in punishment. Three failures in a week and you will be isolated from the other girls until you learn obedience. We do not tolerate insolence in any form. Insolence will be punished by isolation until there is an improvement in attitude. There is no smoking, no alcohol, no drugs and definitely no consorting with males. If you are caught doing any of these things, you will be severely punished and possibly expelled without refund.

As she threw these instructions over her shoulder, the coldness of her voice pressed down on me like a physical thing. I tried to fight against the feeling but, by the time I’d stepped over the threshold to the dormitory, I was on the verge of surrender. I’m not ashamed of that; I’ve learnt it’s the same for all the girls who end up at St Mary’s - except maybe the Consecrates, who are a different breed altogether.

Sister Merce charged down the long hallway of the dormitory. I was almost jogging to keep up with her, glancing into rooms as we passed them. One was a dining room, filled with rows of tables. Another looked like a rec room, while another contained a small chapel. At the end of the hallway were rooms with closed doors. I sensed something foreboding lurking down there and I was relieved when Sister Merce turned up a flight of stairs about two-thirds of the way down the hall.

Young girls - juniors, I guessed - moved to the side of the staircase and seemed to cling to the banisters as the nun clumped up the stairs. They kept their eyes averted. On the second floor was the junior dormitory. A nun stood on guard in the doorway; the girls inside sat in pairs or alone, reading, writing, drawing, knitting (yeah, I know). The low, rhythmic murmur of voices followed me up the stairs to the third floor, where Sister Merce turned into a long room, full of silent girls standing at attention by the end of their beds.

The seniors, I thought, as the nun walked between the two rows of girls, her ‘welcome’ speech droning on even though I had stopped at the door. My gaze jumped from solemn face to solemn face. Something was missing from the room and it took a few seconds to work out what it was: Hope.

Chapter Two

Once upon a time, in an era long, long ago, Prince Charles attended Timbertop, that swanky private school in Victoria. When my mother, who has an unhealthy obsession with royalty and fairytales, discovered this bit of trivia - thank you, Google - she decided her kid was going to a school that had a similar philosophy.

Lucky me.

When I was in grade eight, she started showing me web ‘brochures’ from all-girl schools and colleges around the city that she felt fitted her ideals. I didn’t pay much attention; before my mother met the Frenchman (and his millions), she was always blabbering on about some new ‘path’ we could take to better our lives. But I was happy at my school, and I didn’t want to change to some snobby, elitist prison, especially one without boys, so I ignored her - proving that when you stick your head in the sand, you end up with a kick in the butt.

Or you end up in a place like St Mary’s which, believe me, ain’t nothing like the brochures.

St Mary’s girls were expected to work hard and achieve high. To help maintain the school’s stellar academic standing, classes began at eight in the morning and finished at five in the afternoon, with a one-hour study period after dinner, followed by a compulsory half hour of free reading before lights out. ‘Free reading’ sounded good in the advertising material, but it was a misnomer since the Sisters decided what could be read, and you can bet Harry Potter didn’t make their list.

Classes took place six days a week, although on Saturdays students could finish at midday, providing they had some type of ‘appropriate’ sporting or cultural activity to attend. On Sunday, the students went to Mass at seven, followed by an hour of spiritual reflection. Sunday afternoons were devoted to maintaining (read: cleaning) the dorm and other areas of the school. No minute was spare at St Mary’s; idleness wasn’t in the Sister’s vocabulary.

Neither was the term ‘social media’, which was reinforced by a strict technology policy. When my mum read about it on their webpage - which is darkly ironic, when you think about it - she could hardly contain her enthusiasm.

‘Look at this, Heather. Oh, this is brilliant. It’s exactly what you need.’

I pulled my gaze away from my laptop screen; my best friend, Samantha, had just sent me a message on Facebook, detailing her date with Johnny Bishop. I’d caught the phrase like a groper as I looked up, and it took all of my willpower not to ignore my mother and keep reading.

‘What do I need?’ I asked, the message tugging at my mind. Sam, what wickedness have you been up to now? I wondered, feeling a delicious thrill for my friend.

‘St Mary’s has a no technology policy,’ my mother said. I stared at her, watching the words forming on her lips, but my face was blank; she could have been speaking Martian for all the sense she was making. She saw the expression and turned her laptop towards me.

I read the page, my forehead squeezing into a disbelieving frown. ‘They can’t do that.’

‘Apparently they can,’ my mother said, almost gloating as she leaned over her laptop and tapped a section of the webpage. ‘See, here: No television. No internet. No email. No mobile phones. No digital cameras. No iPods or iPads. No video games. No laptops.’

‘That’s stupid. How am I supposed to study?’

She read