The Lost Sisterhood by Anne Fortier

rustling and all manner of shrieks and squawks, and beyond this cacophony of wildlife, from somewhere out there, came the steady, pulsing sound of the sea.
    O NE SUMMER AFTERNOON, WHEN I was nine years old, my parents had hosted a garden party for all their neighbors. Several nights before the event, I had sat on the staircase and overheard the discussion about whether Granny should be allowed to attend. “You know it will be a disaster,” my mother kept insisting. “She is bound to insult someone or say something wildly inappropriate. And … imagine the looks on people’s faces when they realize we have a madwoman living in our attic!”
    But for once, my father’s stubborn practicality had held sway. “Surely,” he said at length, “introducing her to the neighborhood in a civilized manner is the best way of ensuring that she does
not
become some kind of invisible monster living in their own imagination. As soon as they see her with Diana, our neighbors will realize she is completely harmless.”
    So it came about that I was tasked with escorting my new grandmother throughout the party, introducing her to people and helping her at the buffet. By and large, the scheme was a success. Our guests addressed her the way they would a normal person, with polite inanities about the garden, and Granny smiled and nodded, as if she cared.
    At one point, however, we found ourselves in a lively group of ladies who had succeeded in driving the new unmarried churchwarden up against a pear tree. “And you, my dear,” the poor man asked Granny, eager to branch out and open up the conversation, “did you also grow up here?”
    “No,” she replied, calmly taking another sip of the wine I was supposed to have exchanged with lemonade. “I come from the Hodna Mountains. My name is Kara. I am the second in command.”
    The churchwarden stuck a finger into his collar, possibly to let in a little fresh air. “Of what, exactly? If one might be so bold—”
    Granny cast him a disgusted frown. “Of the Amazons, of course. Who taught you about the world? You know nothing. Why are you talking to me? Men like you—” She snapped her fingers dismissively and marched away.
    Later, safely back in the attic, I asked her if it was really true she had once been an Amazon named Kara. I quite liked the idea of Granny as a young warrior woman, armed and on horseback, chasing churchwardens and gossipy ladies with arrows and war cries.
    According to Rebecca’s mother, who, being the vicar’s wife, considered herself an expert on all things paranormal, the colorful Amazons were nothing but the spawn of pagan ignorance. “The mere notion,” she had said, at one particularly memorable Sunday school meeting, “that a group of women should be able to live together without men is both wicked and absurd. I have certainly never heard of such abnormal behavior—”
    “What about nuns?” I had countered, sincerely trying to understand, but Mrs. Wharton had pretended not to hear me.
    “So is it true?” I asked Granny once more, bouncing up and down on the chair with anticipation. “Were you really an Amazon?”
    But now, to my dismay, she brushed it all aside with a groan and started walking about the room, adjusting and readjusting every piece of furniture, every little trinket, with obsessive accuracy. “Don’t listen to me. I’m a crazy old woman. I forgot rule number two. Never forget rule number two.”
    I deflated with disappointment. “What’s rule number two?”
    Granny stopped, her hands on the back of a chair, and looked straight at me. “Always make sure,” she said, slowly, to ensure I paid attention, “that
they
underestimate
you.
That is the key.”
    “But why?” I insisted. “And who are
they?
”
    The question made Granny flinch, and she tiptoed around the chair to kneel down at my feet. “The men in green clothes,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “They look inside your head and cut out the things