Simone de Beauvoir observes in The Second Sex that in many polytheistic religious traditions, woman is seen as the giver of both life and death.  In fundamental Christian texts, woman gives flesh to man’s eternal spirit through birth, but at the same time condemns him to eventual death.  She is seen only as a carrier of man’s transcendent spirit, a lower being, tied to the earth rather than to god.  The only way for her to gain power is to submit to God and man; the Virgin Mary is powerful only through her submission to her son.

 

As a Catholic preteen, I desperately wanted to be a nun.  It seemed to be an empowering thing, to separate yourself from the concerns and desires of everyday people and be able to commit yourself to God and to the creation of a better world.  Retrospectively, it’s obvious that another part of the appeal was the thought of living with a bunch of women.  Both of those dynamics are part of what inspired Spit Ghost Woman.  I am especially interested in the parallels between convents and brothels because for a long time, those were the primary ways that women could survive independent of fathers or marriage. 

 

Prostitution and religion are both social roles for women that I doubt will ever disappear, which makes them perfect for a setting 700 years in the future, when so much else is uncertain.  “Smoke and Honey” was set exclusively within a brothel, the Tortoiseshell, run by Saro; for Spit Ghost Woman, I wanted to present a parallel organization of women, a religious cult run by a woman called Sister Io.  The nature of Io’s cult was initially inspired by the female mediums of American Spiritualism, who used religion to gain social power in the late 19th and early 20th century.  The mediums inspired fear and respect through their alleged ability to talk to the dead, and to manifest the spirits of the dead through “ectoplasm” leaking from their mouths, noses, and other bodily orifices.  Credulity for communication with the dead was, ironically, peaking in this period through the advent of scientific advancements like electricity and the telephone.  If you could pick up a telephone and talk to someone across the country, why couldn’t you pick up a telephone and talk to the dead?

 

Early this semester, when I was trying to think of ways to distinguish Io’s cult from Christianity, I was searching for some natural icon or idol to center their worship around.  I considered moss bears, spiders, and various other invertebrates, but none of them seemed solid enough to base a religion around.  I was doing this research in my aquatic ecosystems lecture one day when my professor said something weird: he said that mushrooms are close biological cousins to humans.  I still don’t know what that means, but it seemed that mushrooms would be a perfectly squishy being to center a woman’s cult around, seeing as they thrive in damp, dark, uterine areas.  It didn’t even occur to me that that could include psilocybin mushrooms until I read some highly questionable internet forum posts purporting that early use of psychedelic mushrooms were what first led people to believe in an afterlife, or some kind of world beyond.  Whether or not that’s true, it seemed like the perfect plot mechanism: it makes sense that in the hyper-scientific civilization in which is set, when humans can travel from planet to planet and there’s still no proof of the human soul, an irrational belief in the afterlife would be a kind of subversion.

 

Further inspiration came from a book of writings and chants by María Sabina, a Mazatec shaman in Oaxaca who became famous for giving psilocybin mushrooms to visiting Americans.  She was controversial in her own community for sharing the mushrooms with white Americans who didn’t understand their sacred use for healing.  She said they used them greedily in their search for god, although in her community the “little children” were only used for healing.   The book includes some of her chants, which were recorded, transcribed and translated.  The chants inspired the atmosphere that I am trying to give Io’s rituals, and also inspired the title of the novel.  The following is the beginning of “The Folkways Chant,” recorded July 21-22, 1956:

 

“I am a woman who shouts, says

I am a woman who whistles, says

I am a woman who thunders, says

I am a woman who plays music, says

I am a spirit woman, says

I am a woman who shouts, says

Ah, our Jesus Christ, says

Ah, our Jesus, says

Our Saint Peter woman, says

Our Saint Peter woman, says

Our Apostle woman, says

Our shooting star woman, says

Our shooting star woman, says

Our whirling woman of colors, says

Our woman of the fields, says

Ah, our Jesus Christ, says

Our woman santo, says

Our woman santo, says…”

 

In Spit Ghost Woman, Io believes that when women die, a shadow of them continues in the place where they died.  That’s not a new idea, of course; it’s as old as ghost stories.  Io believes that through certain rituals and sacrifices, she can give those shadows power in the physical world and use them for her own purposes, which in her mind are the purposes of the oppressed people of Naoma. 

 

Io is the creator of the cult, but she is still filled with doubts about it, and I want to show ways that it begins to get out of her control.  I’m still working on constructing that plot, and I haven’t yet decided whether I want the nature of the religion to be actually true or not.  Here are the options I’m deciding between, and the arguments for each:

 

1) Io’s religion is entirely/ partially true, and Io knows it

• It’s a fictional story, why not have it be true?

• More fun

• Don’t have to explain how it’s a trick

• Makes Io into a genuine prophet; that’s a lot of pressure to have on a character

2) Io’s religion is entirely/ partially true, but Io thinks she is pulling wool

• Makes Io into a somewhat dumb figure, trying to control the world her way but actually not understanding it at all

• Could be an interesting path for Rita

• What does Io get out of it?

3) Io’s religion is not true, and Io is pulling wool

• Explaining how it’s a trick could be interesting

• Not having it be true opens the story up to be not about faith/ spirits/ gods/ whatever, but about the environmental/ feminist/ economic themes I originally based it off of

• Easier to make Io a little more sinister, which she needs

• Still have to answer, what would Io be getting out of the religion?  Power, of course, but what out of the specific attributes she assigns to it?

4) Io’s religion is not true, and Io doesn’t know it

• Makes Io into a tragic, pitiable figure and takes away most of her power

• Hard to prove if Io thinks it’s real, because it could just be Rita’s skepticism; same problem with proving any religion isn’t real

• Probably not a viable option overall

 

Overall, I think options 2 and 3 make Io the most interesting.  Of course, I could make option 1 work and still have Io be doubtful/ corrupted by her mission/ losing control of the religion, things like that.  Plus! Having the religion be true makes it more fun regarding what I am able to make happen within the story. 

 

Healing

Io’s cult pulls in members and money through their healing ceremonies, which I borrowed extensively from American Spiritualism.  One of the most significant aspects I borrowed was the cheesecloth-like ectoplasm that leaks out of Io during the healing ceremonies.  In American spiritualism, that substance was meant to be spirits themselves, and was evidence of the way they spoke through mediums; in , the substance may be intended to be spirits, I haven’t quite decided, but it is actually used to heal.

This is all that is shown to the male population; the death rituals and afterlife is not open to them.  The following is part of the opening scene:

 

“Frog turned.  He hadn’t seen Io come in, but there she was, sitting in the chair, eyes closed, mouth moving quickly.  The room fell silent, and every man straightened in their seat.  Even Devin had gone still.  Ahead of Frog, Deaf Robert was shaking.  Frog ran his fingers up and down the itchy burn scars on his forearm.  It was too much to hope.

            Sister Io’s murmurs got louder, and Frog strained his ears to understand her words.  They weren’t in any language he’d heard, either in the mines or the Tortoiseshell.  They were strange, guttural syllables, getting louder every second.  Sister Io’s eyes were still closed, but under her eyelids he could see her eyeballs shaking.  It scared him, he could help it.  He looked back toward the door, thinking of slipping out unseen, but the two muscular Sisters who had collected the entrance fee were now standing in front of the exit, arms crossed.  Surely they wouldn’t stop him leaving, but the thought of causing a disturbance like last time was enough to make him sick with nerves.  He turned back to the front, where Sister Io’s voice had become close to a shout.  She was shaking in her seat, head thrown back, knees spread apart.

As Frog watched, a pale viscous substance began to flow out of her nose and leak from the corners of her mouth.  It wasn’t like any bodily fluid Frog had seen.  If anything, he thought in his somewhat unbalanced state, it reminded him of the cloth his mother had used to make soft white cheese.  Now, it was coming from between her legs, oozing from around her underwear and trickling down her thighs.  Frog heard a scraping of chairs behind him and rapid footsteps, as Devin and his friend sprinted for the exit, but Frog was glued to his seat by sweat and fascination.  The heat was overpowering, weighing down each eyelash and threatening to send him to sleep despite his somersaulting heart.  His shirt was soaking and stuck to his back.

Sister Io opened her eyes and stood, taking a few lurching steps toward the front row.  Frog’s stomach turned to see that the cheesecloth-like substance was even dripping from her tear ducts.  She bent down in front of shaking Deaf Robert and spoke to him softly, signing with her hands as she did.  Deaf Robert burst into rolling sobs and nodded, reached out and grabbed her arm.  “Please,” Frog heard him say in his oddly cadenced voice.  “Oh, please.”

Io scooped up the cloudy substance from where it had gathered in the folds of her breasts, and smeared it over Deaf Robert’s bowed head, rubbing it into his scalp and his neck, slipping a soaked finger into his mouth, letting it pool inside his ears.  She whispered to him, first into one ear, then the next, back and forth.  Frog’s stomach nearly dropped into his pants.

Sister Io straightened and looked down at Deaf Robert.  “Stand up,” she said.  He got to his feet, looked around at the stunned faces, then back to sister Io.

“Say that again,” he said slowly.  His words sounded more natural and well-formed.

Sister Io said it again, quieter: “Stand up!”  Deaf Robert nodded, and his body began shaking in silent sobs.  Sister Io cried with him, her tears mixing with the white substance.  Then all at once they were both laughing, and Sister Io was reaching up and peeling the hardening white substance off Deaf Robert’s face, and the room dissolved into relieved applause.

Frog’s fingers were still tracing the scars on his arms.  If the Sister could heal Deaf Robert, she could heal him.  He tried to catch Io’s eye, but she was looking toward the back of the tent, signaling for the two large nuns to come work the rows with their collection buckets.  Among the rustle of wallets and the clink of change, Frog closed his eyes and raised his hands in the air.  Surely Io would see him and have mercy.  But when he opened his eyes to the rattle of a collection bucket being shaken under his nose, Sister Io had already left the tent.”

 

Death

Io’s religion is an afterlife cult, the most tempting type of religion because it promises that a) your hardships may lead to an eternal reward b) you get to live forever and c) you can see your loved ones again.  However, Io’s concept of the afterlife is far more tied to place than the ethereal Christian heaven. 

 

Io’s religion is an afterlife cult, the most tempting of all religions because it promises that a) your hardships may lead to some eternal reward b) you get to live forever and c) you get to see all your loved ones again.  But! The concept of the afterlife is far more tied to place than the ethereal Christian heaven.  Burial location/rituals are very important.  In Christianity, the physical world is just a shadow of heaven, but in Io’s cult they believe that the spirit world is superimposed onto their own, that physical things are imbued with an afterlife. Because spirits still exist in our physical world, and if they die when the world dies, that leads to a big motivation to protect the planet where they died.

 

Also, they don’t believe in an eternal soul, that is, from the beginning of time to the end.  They believe in a sculpted soul, molded first by the woman in her womb and then the child by its mother.  There is nothing before – the woman has total powers of creation.  Well, she needs sperm too, but that’s not exactly a momentous responsibility on the man’s part.  To create a soul, a man gets a moment of pleasure, while a woman gets decades of labor.  And then, after you die, the soul that you’ve created in yourself – or that has been formed – is what lasts.  That’s what gives women all that power.  Io’s cult extends that to a sacralization of menstrual blood, especially in burial rituals, as a way to extend spiritual life.  I’m still working on it!!  But here’s a section about that, still a first draft:

 

 

“Zinnia came out of the tent first, cradling a tiny bundle.  Rita stood, from where she had been brushing the goats, but the old woman wouldn’t meet her eyes.  She was bouncing lightly on her feet and softly patting the baby’s back, lips moving in words of comfort that didn’t reach Rita.  Next came Io, bloodstained from hands to waist, blinking in the sun like a newborn.  Rita moved closer, tentative, but neither woman paid her any attention.  As she came closer, she saw that Io was shaking, hands clenched into tight fists.  The nun dropped to her knees and grabbed fistfuls of dirt, rubbing them into her palms and arms and neck, mixing the blood and the soil, cleansing herself.  A small group of Sisters had gathered around Rita, watching.  Io let out a shrill moan that was echoed by the other Sisters.  Zinnia covered the ears of the newborn, but it had already joined its voice to the unearthly wail.  Rita felt the urge to cover her own ears, but forced her hands to lay still at her sides.  After a minute, as if on cue, the voices cut out and they were all standing in silence, none of the women looking at each other.

            Zinnia was the first to break the silence.  “Rita,” she called in her hoarse, used-up voice.  “You are bleeding?”

            Rita nodded.  Io beckoned her forward, into the tent with them.  Rita came hesitantly and almost couldn’t force herself over the threshold.  Hazel was there, or something like Hazel – skinny, freckled, her thick hair limp and matted with sweat.  The stench of birthing fluids and blood and shit and urine was almost unbearable.  Later, Zinnia would explain to her the voiding of the bowels and the bladder that accompanies death.

            Sister Marra had joined them in the tent.  Without speaking, she took the infant from Zinnia’s arm and held it to her breast, still swollen with milk from her second son.  Rita wondered dully why they didn’t get the child out of that red tent with the stench of a butcher’s yard.

            Io left the tent, and came back a minute later with a mount of dirt piled in the skirt of her habit.  She dumped the earth on the ground beside Hazel and stripped the young woman of her clothes.  Not a woman, Rita reminded herself.  The body.  Then Io stood, took the baby from Marra.  Marra knelt, grabbed a fistful of dirt from the mound, and rubbed it into the Hazel’s skin, all of her from her forehead to the soles of her feet, staining her even darker than before.  No one was crying.  When she stood, all three women looked at Rita.  Rita shifted her weight uncomfortably.

            “Now, Rita, your life blood,” Io said.  At her words, the hair on Rita’s arms stood straight up. 

Zinnia ran a hand across her eyes.  “She doesn’t know,” she reminded the others.  She gripped Rita’s forearm with her jagged fingernails and pulled at her skirt.  “We have to prepare her for burial.  You were her friend.  She would be…she would be glad it was you.”  The words came hard from her, but still Rita didn’t understand.

“Your life blood, Rita,” Marra said, pointing at her skirt.  “We anoint her eyes, her lips, and her forehead.”

Now Rita understood.  She shuddered, but the other women’s faces remained solemn.  Marra balanced the newborn in her arms.  “No,” Rita said.  “No, I can’t do that.  She was my friend.”

“That is why you must do it.”  Io grabbed her elbow and stared at her, grey eyes unblinking.  “She needs you, Rita.  She needs your life blood in her world.”

Rita lifted her hands to her scalp and pulled hard at her hair.  The pain helped.  She squatted in the dirt next to the body and, after a glance at Io, reached under her skirt and into her underwear, pulling her hand out to reveal fingertips soaked with thick, dark blood.  She closed her eyes, mentally calming her stomach, and smeared it across Hazel’s eyelids.  She heard three voices behind her, in unison: “That she may see from the next world into our own.”

She reached back under her skirt and glazed the blood across Hazel’s lips, tenderly, as if she were making her up at the Tortoiseshell.  Behind her, the three women said: “That she may speak from the next world into our own.”

Finally, Rita smeared blood across Hazel’s temples, under her coils of fine black hair.  The voices lifted again.

“That she remember.” 

There was a long silence, then Io reached under the altar and brought out the knife she used for sacrifices.  She muttered a few words over it and kissed its flat edge, then sawed off a lock of her bristly white hair.  She placed it at Hazel’s throat and passed the knife to Rita.  Rita cut off a lock of her hair and did the same, as did Marra.  When Marra passed the blade to Zinnia, the old woman sawed first one chunk of hair, then another, and then another until her head was cropped short.  She looked small.  Her scalp was too white.  She laid the hair out across Hazel’s collarbones.  “There you are, baby,” she said softly.  Io gave her a cold look, and Zinnia lowered her head.

 

Hazel’s body was buried downstream of the convent, in a dark hole marked by a ring of stones.  Rita collected the stones from the river herself.  Underwater, they had glinted and shone like jewels worthy of Hazel, but once dried on the bank they were just rocks, dull, uniform, grey.