As she takes off her blouse, there is a hasty rearrangement of furniture.
Patrick beckons to Axel. Sit here, he says, gesturing at the overstuffed chintz sofa. There’s room if I squeeze over.
Better watch it, says Cillian. Patrick just wants to infect you with his pollination fetish. And to squeeze closer to Whirljack.
There’s nothing wrong with enjoyment of pollination, Tarlach sniffs. And Patrick has a good point. Beat, you can have my chair. I can sit on the floor. It’s your first time. You should be comfortable.
Well, it’s actually Lens’ first time, Beat replies.
Your first time pollinating. Don’t underestimate the importance of your role. Come to think of it, I’ve never had an opportunity to observe a first pollination. I wasn’t around when Whirljack triggered the first pollination of Atlas, and I was blacked out when Manasseh triggered the first pollination of Goliath. This is an excellent opportunity for research.
An excellent opportunity to be a voyeuristic pervert, says Cillian. On the leather couch next to him, Tommy shuffles uncomfortably.
You always assume the worst about Tarlach, says Malachi, but the truth is that he’s right. This is a unique situation. We don’t actually know what will happen. Sexual activity by an Atlas emanation triggers pollen receptivity in the flowers of the brother branches. But the composition of the Yggdrasil branches is complex. It’s possible that we’ll all become pollen-receptive. It’s possible that none of us will.
My branch still has a few pollen-receptive flowers, says Cüinn. Feel free to use me like a whore.
Thanks for sharing, remarks Cillian. I will.
Ace has some too, on Goliath, Valentin points out. It won’t be a total waste, no matter what.
Suddenly all eyes are on Ace. It’s too crowded here, he says. I’m going downstairs to my flat.
Ace has a lot more space to spread out and relax, says Constantine, rising to follow. There’s a recessed circular area full of pillows.
Patrick looks intrigued. That’s a great setup for pollination, he muses.
A little tacky for my tastes, Evan murmurs.
Because I’m outside, I can sense everything inside. The Goliath emanations go with Ace. Lorcan leaves with them, but he doesn’t go to Ace’s flat. He goes up to his own and locks the door. The only other one who notices is Jamey. Neither one of us knows what to do about it.
Meanwhile, Patrick is explaining the birds and the bees to Axel – or rather, the avoidance of the birds and the bees: Most trees rely on wind or pollinators to transport their precious cargo, he says, but the Cu’enashti use alchemy. A simple alteration of the atmosphere at the base of the pistil causes the pollen to rise slightly above the flower, into a haze which settles over the tree. It won’t travel far, nor is it produced at any other time than this. We don’t want it stolen by subsidiary pollinators.
The phenomenon is actually called ‘pollen poof,’ says Cüinn. Dolparessan humans have a superstition that seeing a nau’gsh in pollen poof is good luck.
I don’t give a fuck about you pollen poofs, says Cillian. We’re about to get laid here; that’s the important thing.
Patrick casts an amused glance at Cillian’s feet, where Callum is nestled.
“Lens?” Tara asks.
“I am so sorry. You would not believe the logistical arrangements going on in my head right now.”
The truth is that I am terrified. How dare I even approach her?
I remove my clothing, folding and stacking it upon a nearby chair. I place my spectacles upon the dresser. My body is in the state of arousal which might be expected under these circumstances. It’s peculiar to me how some of the other emanations have reacted to this occurrence in the past. Cillian was proud of himself. Evan was embarrassed. It seems to me a simple and logical physical response.
I sit on the side of the bed. Tara’s eyes meet mine. “Ash,” she says, touching my face.
I finally understand. I dare approach her because my body is not mine, it is all of ours, a Self in the continuous act of n’aashet n’aaverti. My actions benefit the whole.
I must admit that I have had chance to review some of the other branches’ activities in this vein. The physical actions seem simple enough. However, there were also certain adjustments being made on a neurochemical level. “Wait,” I say, pulling my spectacles from my pocket. I look at Tara closely. My intuitions are correct. The adjustments can be more refined, more subtle. An increased sense of relaxation and well-being, paired with a heightened sensitivity of the skin.
Tara laughs. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
I draw my finger just beneath the length of her cheekbone, causing the neurons to fire for just a little bit longer than usual. She relaxes back into the pillow as every flower in the galaxy opens. She is more beautiful than all of them, rosa coeli, the perfect, perpetual rose.
Beat is humming, causing his branch to vibrate. There’s already pollen in the air.
I feel it now, my own tender petals opening, opening up to Beat and Axel, who are sharing the sensations in my body and hers. The desire of the branches and the desire of the body are the same. My eyes are on the end goal, the final consummation of our act: Tara’s consumption of the fruit.
We shall produce the perfect nau’gsh, I promise them. We imagine it. Curvaceous and plump and ripe, its blue skin blushed with green. It is rich with the juice which will allow the soul of the mothman to join with Tara on a level far deeper than this animal motion allows.
My caresses are slow, my fingers on her breasts, my tongue on her earlobe, my alchemy gently stirring the blood within her. Slow means more pleasure, means more pollen. Axel’s face is buried against Patrick’s chest and his body shakes.
So relaxed, so rhythmic, almost like a trance. Nevertheless, there must be satiation. I let go of my control. I can feel the energy which moves within us all. Eat the fruit, my love, eat all of the fruit so that Self may accomplish this mating, the fruition of this eternal courtship.
*****
That was beautiful, says Evan. Poetic.
Meh, says Cillian. I like it with more of an edge.
Cüinn pulls out a datapad. Apparently, I get an immediate performance review.
What do you expect from a bunch of guys in a room together watching each other have sex? asks Tommy.
Tara rolls over next to me, placing her head against my shoulder. “Damn, that was good,” she murmurs.
This is where you get to tell all of them to fuck off, says Owen.