The Stolen Gospels by Brian Herbert

respond, but her mother and others murmured assent.
    “Remember, Lori,” Dixie Lou said, “you can do anything if you set your mind to it. You can accomplish anything .”
    “We’re just as good as men are!” a woman exclaimed.
    “Better!” Dixie Lou shouted.
    A murmur of assent passed around the circle, which consisted of fourteen women and Lori.
    “Do you know who this is?” Dixie Lou asked, pointing to the statuette of the woman.
    Lori shook her head, smelled the burning wax of the candles.
    “It’s She-God, representing all women since time immemorial. We’ll discuss what She’s holding later this evening.”
    Momentarily, Lori focused on the tiny sword. Again, she wiped perspiration from her upper lip.
    Returning to her original place, Dixie Lou spoke briefly about herself. Without elaboration, she said she was an executive, and that she had not led a goddess circle for a long time. And she asked, “Why do you suppose we’re all here?”
    Lori saw blank faces looking back at the group leader.
    “To feel better about ourselves,” Su-Su said. “We’ve been pounded down by the system.”
    “And who runs the system?” Dixie Lou asked, rhetorically.
    “Men!” several women said, simultaneously.
    In the distance, Lori heard what sounded like the rhythmic throb of a jet helicopter.
    “Some of you have attended these circles before,” Dixie Lou said. “But such experiences pale in comparison with what lies in store for womankind!”
    Lori found herself staring at the statuette, which stood amid the burning candles. The figurine was strangely familiar, something that . . . or representing something that . . . lay just beyond the reach of her memory.
    “Men have written most of the history books,” Dixie Lou was saying in the background of Lori’s awareness. “But think of this: What about her story books? Instead of history, written by men about men, herstory is our story, the tale of female journeys written by us. Much of our past is veiled in mystery, because men have perverted and destroyed the truth. They have rewritten it in order to maintain themselves in power, making themselves look good at our expense.”
    Lori didn’t fully agree with what she was hearing. Sure there had been abuses by men against women over the centuries. Every intelligent, liberal-thinking person knew that. But she liked boys and one day she would like men. Besides, things had gotten better for women, hadn’t they? Weren’t most American men treating the ladies in their lives with respect now, as equals?
    She sighed, wished she knew the truth about her father, not the distorted, incomplete version told by her mother. She didn’t know where he was, if he was alive or dead. All such inquiries she’d made to her mother had been rebuffed. She missed him, remembered fun they’d had together when she was small . . . before he went away.
    As Lori watched, Dixie Lou adjusted the position of the statuette.
    Suddenly something surged in the girl’s mind, a powerful but unformed and unclear thought.
    She locked gazes with Dixie Lou, and a violent shudder passed through the black woman, whose dark eyes were open wide in shock and fear. Dixie Lou pulled her hand away from the statuette, and her lips moved without making a discernible sound.
    The noises of the helicopter grew louder, a throbbing, vibrating intrusion. To Lori, the craft seemed to be passing directly overhead at very low altitude. Almost too close, it seemed.
    Dixie Lou snapped to awareness. Her gaze darted around wildly, like a trapped animal.
    The noise grew louder still, and remained that way for several moments. Then a percussive explosion shook the house, followed by the thunderous crash of glass, and the glare of bright lights outside. Through the window Lori got a glimpse of a helicopter. A uniformed man knelt on the running board, firing an automatic rifle at the house. Another man behind him hurled something that crashed through a kitchen window. A second