Cockerelles & Posies Pt. 04

#0

I open my eyes and watch the last, hazy mist of my transition slipping away up into the air as my baptism into the Sisterhood of Light reaches its completion.

"Yes, that was a lovely dip in a bath of saintly assurance," I say as the cream of my family's hard work oozes down every square inch of my naked surface and onto the sanctified cloth Mother uses to complete the last act of my ordinance.

She wraps the towel around my head capturing my hair as if I've just stepped out of the bathroom after a hot shower.

"This cotton wrap around your crown signifies your decision before the gods to accept the fate of a posy eternal. A tall hat in memory of those posy nobella who founded our proud nation of Haven's Slip millennia ago right here in Timberlands Cradle where our founders first celebrated our slip from the tyranny of Angelic Britsland."

"You managed to get it all out without a single stutter," says Becka in her most pleasant of tones. "Good job Mother Olive. That Lulu Lerner has found something in those caves, hasn't she?" Of which she refers to the ancient relics Lulu and her Institute of Rebounding Prime recovered from their dig site where the first colonists set foot on the sandy shores of our lands of freedom.

"Bathed in heavy cream and the essence of kumquat," says Maddie. "I think you've taken this rebellion against your sex as far as it can be taken, sis."

It's an old ceremony the Sisters of Light use to announce dedication in a posy's heart to never desire a transition to cockerelle. Ours is adopted from an ancient ritual of that temple that our people broke from when they came to the new world. Usually done at birthday parties, these days, when a girl accepts her petals won't sprout a root by some miraculous gesture of the gods. Mother Olive never had a drop of heavy cream spilled on her at a birthday party, and neither did my other sisters which wasn't odd at all. The ceremony fell out of fashion long ago. It was my rebellious heart that wanted the ceremony done after realizing that I might have been one such girl drenched in tangy milk had I been born a posy. The photos of my cream covered nudity will be something to put in the family scrapbooks to mark the occasion for my descendants should I decide to become a gardener myself.

"Did the nanos register me correctly?" I ask impatiently, drips of white cream spraying off my lips as my words escape them.

Mother looks up into the clear blue sky where all that exists beyond is framed in the lovely green leaves of late spring and then down again at me.

"All the cream and kumquats we rendered did not interfere in your official registration as a posy," she says, showing me on her tablet computer where my identity is represented in pixels sent over the airwaves through those mystical interwebs that connect us all together on Heartseed. "Says here that you can announce your transition to the public if you want to."

Mother taps the anonymous option for me, then turns and shows me the teeth of her I-hope-they-don't-come-asking grin.

"Let's stick to the theme of privacy," she says, "which is the theme of your day, isn't it? Pleasant secrets that make the heart warm and prickly?" We sent out no invitations to attend my posy baptism.

"So, they know I'm a posy now, but no one knows I'm a posy," I say. "I could show up filled to bursting with a sprout in my belly at a neighbor's party and have them all scrambling for their picture apps and cameras to be the very first spilling it to the media scoops."

"That you were so famous," says Maddie, coming over to hose me off so I don't track the slippery sauce across our manicured gardens on my way back into the house. "I'm headed to Glasshouse this weekend to meet my shot at becoming a part of something notorious."

Maddie's all about this Lauren Lush and her aspirations of becoming the next big posy sensation of Haven's Slip. Find a posy with the right mystique. Then paint her into an object of desire, prancing her around an untouchable temptress, lusted over by the corporate wooden class, and you've got a money maker for your career.

"I could be as famous as that Lush if it would keep you here in Legacy Hills with your family," says Mother Olive. "Give me enough time, and I'll be the stuff to rage about. I could be the next rouge-headed root bait."

"Not you Mother," says Becka. "You're no longer a thing of desire to be used by the elite to rob the regular classes of their hard-earned cryptocash."

"Disqualified temporarily by age from the one manipulation I ever felt justified to dream about," Mother replies. "And now we have these new roots too causing us to rethink our futures, aren't they?"

"Brighter futures," I hope, says Josie, who hands me a silk robe to cover my nakedness. "No offense intended to our proud new posy heroine."

Josie kisses me on my cheek and then leads the way into the garden view room at the back of the house, the rest of my newly-minted cockerelle clan following behind.

"Margot's a posy and a rebel at heart," says Becka bringing up the rear. "Too bad she couldn't temp you to stick around with her record of scandalous behavior. She could be the next media sensation with what you could print from her recent adventures."

"Would I keep you here?" I ask Maddie. "It's not like you'll be gone forever."

Mother steadies the cream-soaked turban on my head, bumping against me where I feel for the first time a sure hint that my heritage is alive and well where we installed in on her.

"But that's the idea, isn't its Maddie?" Mom says. "Success for Lauren Lush would mean a career in traveling all over Heartseed. We could rent out your wing of the estate that's how often you would be back to see us."

"Is anyone talking about sticking around these days?" I ask. "Next thing you know, Becka will be telling us she's gotten a position living amongst the Angels of Britsland. "

A silence that lasts too long leads me to suspicion.

"Is there something Becka hasn't told us?" I demand.

Becka carefully removes my robe before shushing me into the shower to wash the afternoon rites off.

"It's not set in stone yet," she says, closing the shower door. The four of them slip out of the bathroom and into the hall as I hear what I'm sure are hasty whispers.

Alone in the deluge of warm water that rains down from high above me, it comes to my attention that everyone seems about to scatter from Timberland's Cradle. Even I have talked about going up the coast beyond the crook of Forestmouth Harbor. Not much fun attending Fission while wishing to keep my transformation a secret from the locals.

The lonely feeling strikes me then right to my core, and I whimper into my hands. I can't imagine a world without them around me. I shed my root to get closer to the Sharps in my family, not to see them off to leave me to fend for myself.

I set it a firm goal in my mind from there to demand some kind of pact that would guarantee our firm commitment to each other. Mother's talk of joining Lulu's youth factory at Aspen's Lighthouse. Josie dropping subtle hints to pursue an old posy crush who escaped to Mountain Hush. Maddie off to start a career in selling sex symbols to the masses. Becka's secret whispers was the last straw. I would not let my family abandon me now.

#1

On a Sunday afternoon relaxing in the fore playroom of the house I'm greeted by the presence of Josie Sharp who's on her way in from a post-delivery with letter in hand.

"Hello, sis," I say as she takes her last strides, to stand where my feet rest atop fluffy pillows set atop a colorful ottoman.

As she acts out the words of the note in the movements of her arms I am made happy to see the change in her demeanor which had been stifled until just recently. Freed from the career bondage of her posy, I know she will dive into life to prove herself a contender for those top spaces in our industrious city centers. Yet, the possibility of her being taken away seems horrid to me too if she were to stray across the continent in search of new beginnings. My heart hopes she will become a climber here in Legacy Hills and share her daily accolades with me and our family.

"It's a letter from my old friend, Red Rose," she says, stopping to read a few lines of the note contained within to herself before sharing. "She's alone and lonely still."

"Yes, I remember your twin-girlfriend-years in prep school. And you call me scandalous," I remark. "People thought you were kissing sisters. She never did get the color of your hair right."

"I wasn't going to flee to Mount Hush with her," she says, stuffing the letter back in its envelope. "We were an unfortunate pairing. We both shared a love for posies. She just didn't appreciate my ambition to become cockerelle."

"Love can be cruel that way. You can fall in love with things you can never happily bear to live with. I wish to eat cheesecake every meal of the day, but I wouldn't dare wreak such havoc on my family knowing what it would do to my digestion if I pursued such a heavenly existence. I'd be living in the attic if I had what I really wanted to save you all from the dreadful smell." Josie gives her letter more attention than I'd like. And that I don't like it is a reason I find hard to put into words. She is becoming something more powerful to look at every time I see her. The stuffed curves of her Fission failures have begun to fade with a great deal of effort on her part. Charms never remove mass from a person's frame at a greater ratio than the mass of the seed spent. I think she must be taking the old cockerelle route of exercise and building hard muscle to trim away the jelly. Still, I never see her dressed for such physical diversions.

Josie looks up from her letter to find a spot even further away from me to direct her attention.

"You can have all the cheesecake you desire if Red's heart can be swayed. She's offered me a place at her firm up north. I could stuff my accounts with cryptocash and fill my passion to please posies all at the same time."

"Playing the cockerelle-cuckold angle to the posy-to-posy crowd for mountains of thrills? Always looking to play out the least likely scenarios, aren't you Josie?"

"I won my cockerelle following the roads of high science," she says, tapping the tip of my nose with the corner of her love note. "And despite my suspicion Grandmother Tamera is not my sire. Do you know the chances that your gracious gift would have been kept from me if we two were only half-sisters in designation when we grew up?"

This worries me as I've heard Josie mention before her thoughts that Grandmother was not in fact the seed giver in her own conception within Mother Olive. I suspected those thoughts were based on hurt feelings rather than questions of genetics.

"I think the fact that I could pass you my heritage at all would be proof we were kin. Do the laws of high science not require it?"

"I've had my DNA checked," she says. "The results were inconclusive thanks to the many mutations which happened between the time of my conception and the sample I was able to obtain from Grandmother Tamera only recently. Those charms do play around with our genetic codes. Tamera was one to wear a charm to fix this or that just as bad as the worst of them."

"It's only a matter of the heart then that you doubt she's your true sire," I say. "Well, such things can be set aside through forgiveness. In the end you've won despite all that meanness you felt after the revelation of your hopeless methods at becoming cockerelle."

"Yes, you and I showed her," she says, crossing her arms and posing much like one of those statues you see representing the founding cockerelles of our proud nation, looking off indignant towards the old world. "But my suspicions are deeper than the heart, I can assure you. Tamera shared that same kind of reckless abandon you see like Mother Olive these days running after the promises of youth sold by that Lulu Lerner. The same self-centeredness that throws all else aside for the sake of one's own pleasure. She and mother did work with a fertility specialist when they decided to plant our family here in Legacy Hills all those years ago. It was a cutting-edge kind of mad-woman who loved to defy the will of the gods like some silver-age mad scientist that our two mothers used to plan our planting."

"Really? I mean specifically, what kind of fertility specialist are you talking about?" I huff.

My demands for information are cut short with the arrival of an unexpected guest. Mother Olive follows near behind an intruder of our estate by the look on her face.

"This is Inquisitor Tora Brushnique," says Mom who barely has a breath in her to make the introduction from the exertion of their swift journey from the courtyard entrance into the house. "She's come to meet the anonymous new posy."

Tora's hand flies up to hush anymore announcements of her person from Olive.

"I'm here to meet the anomaly," she says looking at Josie and then at me.

"Anomaly?" Josie asks.

"Yes," says the clothes-constricted dirty-blond whose attitude threatens the authority of anyone who might challenge it, with her tightly drawn ponytail and I-mean-business stance. Her jumbo, heavy-framed glasses make her look both bureaucratic and remarkable as their lenses work to enlarge her already noteworthy eyes which gaze at us with a sensual impact that rivals Josie's own piercing heavy-heart stares. "As in it never happens."

My smile convicts me.

"My registration was anonymous," I say. "How is this possible?"

"Inquisitor of Angelic Britsland," she says, coming to me and offering me a handshake that is every bit as firm as any of those woody posies who have wide representation in the nations of the old world across the Great Deep.

"You have no jurisdiction here," says Josie.

"No, I do not," Tora admits. "However, when the gears of the gods that created our world dispatch a message to the Sisters of Light, it is our prerogative to come and see."

"And what of my anonymity?" I demand.

"Safe, young beauty. You are to remain far removed the spectacle that the world would make of one such as you should the location of your odd conversion become public."

"How is it you know she's become a posy?" Mother asks. "I pressed anonymous when I registered her."

"Yes, it's best to register a girl when she submits to the fate of posy for life. But who spills their nanos into cream and kumquat these days before receiving them into their bodies? These things aren't done anymore in your society. And they certainly aren't done by a cockerelle who gives her heritage away to become a forever flower. That is why I have come to investigate."

"You could detect the fact that we baptized our precious Margot in the old ways?" Mother spurts. "The nanos actually ask about the presence of cream and kumquat when they do their work on a posy?"

"Your old ways were rebellious ways," says Tora. "Your ancestors did away with kumquat cream in protests which led up to this nations independence from the Old Imperium of Britsland. This latest development threw up a flag when the eyes of the heavenly machines caught site of it. It is within our jurisdiction to know such things according to the old laws of security which were programmed in through the forges of the gods when our world was made. However, it is not our legal right to expose her to the public, nor is it our wish to draw attention to its fulfillment if that is what has taken place. It is simply a fascination that such things take place at all and give the Sisters of Light a reason to take notice. The signs, they tell me. Similar fluctuations have been reported in the past, but they are never found to be legitimate in the end. The universe does tend to wobble strangely from time to time causing the heavenly machines to misjudge their reckonings."

"A sweet cockerelle chooses to give her heritage to her posy cousins?" Josie asks. "Margot hasn't done anything worth investigating by the authorities."

"Yes, but she does bear record of the facts," says Olive, showing Sis and me the legal document from Angelic Britsland which spells out my name and registration number. "Margot was registered a cockerelle when she was born. It's in all of the systems on our planet. It's no secret."

Brushnique looks over her shoulder to peer into my eyes.

"Yes, registered a cockerelle, and granted the cockerelle pendant at birth known as the Eager Sacrifice. You are a rare thing, Miss Margot Song. You are a cockerelle who has decided to become a posy. At least that is what I am here to determine the truth of."

"And what does that mean?" Josie asks. "You want her to drop her unmentionables for you? How rude."

"I am not here to force an inspection of her flesh so much as I am here to determine if it is true that this new posy was in fact intent on giving her heritage away. Any knives at her back or wealth offered for her submission will prove her conversion is illegitimate, and I will be on my way."

"It was not forced from me," I say. "Don't the machines and charms which oversee such things check to make certain the intentions of both parties are resolute in their decision to change their sexes?"

"Of course, they are," says Tora. "And it would be wonderful if I could meet these cousins of yours who received your gift as well."

"You cannot," says Josie without giving pause. "We intend to protect their anonymity as it is their wish."

"We could determine it through the basic principles of deduction, Ms. Sharp. But that is not within our rights to discuss either. The secret recipients of Margot's heritage are safe from publicity. And again, it is not the intent of our organization, nor is it my wish to make a public spectacle of your family name by throwing out assumptions. I am merely here to research with certainty whether or not Ms. Song is in love with her fate as a posy. It was, after all, the point of the experiments conducted here on this continent before your colonies decided to revolt and form their own nation in opposition to our ancestor's research projects. If an Eager Sacrifice, a true toiler evolved from the descendants of that quest for the perfect posy, has actually come into existence, it could revolutionize society. If such a specimen were bred, her offspring might be something to fight a war over."

"Talk of war?" asks Josie.

My temper moves to quell a storm before reckless words bring northern winds blowing down to ruin our summer gaiety.

"I assure you that my wish to toil, as you say it, is a construct of my heart and imagination, Ms. Brushnique. I am not compelled by genetics to act as I do. I was born a cockerelle after all."

"It is Miss Brushnique," she says. "And I will be the judge of whether your change in sex was a decision of your heart, your head, or someone's heel. I warn you all, I will not quit my investigation if you turn me away. However, if you cooperate, I will be happy to consult you on every question I have concerning whether or not an attitude acquired from the divine is what led to Miss Margot's decision to transition. If it was indeed a path you were required to pursue by genetic manipulations, that would be something to record for the welfare of all our future seedlings. Then again, if I find this life is all a game to you, sweet girl, with nothing found upon which to fasten your self-determination, I will give you my leave."

I feel Mother and Josie's eyes upon me awaiting my opinion on the matter.

"I would be happy to discuss these things with you in confidence, Miss Brushnique. Your discretion will be much appreciated in these matters. The paradoxes I hear winding from your lips intrigue me. I cannot tell if you are a fraud, a mad woman, or a keeper of good intentions."

Josie's eyes narrow giving her that look of a predatory bird set to strike that her gaze is so easily capable of suggesting.