Between weekends, the Farmer’s daughters behaved in their usual ways, exercising their tireless rivalries and competitive alliances in very sporting fashion.
Their differences were expressed like daily rituals at the Alter of Dissent. There was always a victorious one and a vanquished one or two at the end of every antagonistic encounter or militant disagreement. Rarely did the single-minded, controversial Princesses truly share a congenital truce by innate or tribal declaration. They each seemed inevitably destined for power, success or destruction.
Another highly anticipated episodic learning experience at the Sacrificial Alter in their Father’s Ark of Animal Husbandry and Domestication, could only increase the distance between them and decrease their trust in one another. With limited advance knowledge of the ensuing event, all Three Innocents left their dolls tucked safely under the bed covers in their room for the duration of the afternoon at the barn.
The Vet would be there, helping the girls’ Father acquire future behavior control by castrating the young bull calves. Castration resulted in a docile, non-reproductive, non-aggressive herd of steers favored for their lean cuisine.
The young female heifers would stand by, oblivious to the Torture Chamber that would claim it’s male victims one after another, rendering them impotent and subordinate creatures. The heifers might eventually be artificially inseminated or pastured out with a full-grown prize bull for genetic prosperity and the initiation of a fresh herd of prospective milkers. Lactation would follow the resulting births of more offspring.
The continual cycle of agricultural regeneration became an established source of environmental influences that shaped and molded the conscious and sub-conscious dimensions of the Daughters of Wrath. Attending a castration was a new event for all three girls; however, Windy was responsibly armed with encyclopedic information and casual warnings for her two younger siblings prior to the unsanctimonious procedure.
Diminishing or postponing the girls’ curiosity or desire for real live drama would have been impossible. They all thrived on the cerebral imprinting of new experiences provided. Their thresholds for psychological stress, pain and terror impeccably challenged their infantile neural pathways at the indispensable acquisition of personal maturation and growth.
Feeling like a team of scientists and scholars embarking on a Darwinian quest for knowledge, the girls set off towards the barn, indulging in a synchronous marching stride. They didn’t engage in any of their customary forms of conversation, ridicule or banter.
They strode in solitude, resembling a set of monks, sworn to a sacred oath of silence while seeking out the Holy Grail of Truth and Deliverance. With each step, they advanced closer to Wisdom. With each step, they molted their old skins. With each step, they aged and developed into their secret longings to be fulfilled as contributing members of society.
As the Reptilian Troop arrived at their destination, the Farmer and Vet had already separated the seven young bulls from the eight heifers and corralled them into a small pen. Unlike a slaughter, this afternoon’s event was not likely to result in death. Despite the girls’ awareness of that fact, their resolution to silence and their sustained grave demeanor was palpably detectable.
The Farmer and Vet took no particular notice of the omnipresent bystanders. The Two Despots resumed their scheduled business as each bull calf was systematically singled out, enslaved in a wooden device that trapped and immobilized the animal. This repetitive procedure reduced the task of castration to a minimum struggle.
The girls’ Father was the apparent accomplice, raising the animal’s hind legs to reveal the tender pink yearling testicles; while the Vet, owner of the large pair of pinching pliers commenced crushing the reproductive potential and gender characteristics from the bawling victim.
At the precise moment of ruthless demasculinization accompanied by an unrequiting bullish cry, Windy broke the silence and quietly remarked, “I’m glad I’m a girl.”
“Yeah, me too!” replied Shanty and Bonky in unified relief.
As the second young bull was prepared for the shears, Bonky reminisced, “Until now, I always wanted to be a boy. I always wanted a penis and fuzzy little balls, but not anymore!”
“Yeah,” agreed Shanty, “not anymore!”
When the Vet performed his task on the second bawling prisoner, the girls winced and snuggled their hands between their legs as if a primal instinctive force guided them to protect their own genitals as they sympathetically felt the crushing pain of the pliers. The agony of the young bulls felt like their own agony deep inside their cerebral vaults.
The three young Virginal Divas felt sick. One after another, they reflexively vomited on the ground. Unable to subject themselves to any further trauma, all three dizzy creatures held their abdomens and in a humble and highly discreet gesture of retreat, they slipped away from the Torture Chamber unnoticed, towards the house. The remaining bulls would have to suffer alone.
The disoriented fragile Princesses, felt a kinship closer than they had ever felt before. For the first time in their lives they longed to be friends and trusting mates for each other.
The recent skins they shed were layers of contempt and mischief. Their exfoliated debris was somewhere on the path between the house and the barn. Like brittle transparent snakeskins, they left a trail of discarded fragments of themselves as they wizened and nurtured their unquenchable thirst for intellectual enlightenment.
The sisters staggered arm in arm, steadying and physically supporting each other in a collaborative attempt to ease the nausea and reach their destination as quickly as possible.
Their optimism diminished when Bonky vomited again, and stumbled to her knees. In a hopeless chain reaction of vomiting and stumbling, all three angelic forms lay helplessly sprawled on the ground with their phantom, bony, featherless wings outstretched as if in flight. They could have been mistaken for fallen believers in Icarus, drunken elves or seasick stowaways; but they were simply spent victims of their own curiosity and desire.
After a relaxed and motionless spell, Windy said, “I’d rather wash the dishes this afternoon.”
Shanty replied, “I’ll dry the dishes.”
Bonky added, “I’ll put away the cutlery.”
As the weaklings maintained their stationary positions on the ground, they could still hear the incessant wailings of the sacrificial yearling bull calves.
Exhausted and numb from the gravity of their predicament, the Trio of Tumbled Angels were unable to recover their strength and become the Domestic Debutantes they verbally committed themselves to, just moments earlier.
The only purposeful activity The Three Sisters appeared capable of accomplishing that afternoon, was induced by an unspoken collective involuntary decision to sleep. They didn’t attempt to combat the seductive force or resist its nocturnal magnetism.
The afternoon guardian sun shone down upon them, warmly anointing the Vulnerable Vixens for their compassion and fortitude. They slept in anguish as hypnotic dreams flung them to and fro in the opalescent shell of a half moon. In designated time, they would become whatever manifestations they were destined to become.
A metamorphosis had begun. Presently, they were bound together by circumstance and the rotational laws of the planet they shared. But later, they might part with the severity of surgically separated conjoined triplets: hideously unified one moment; optimistically individualized the next. Death to one, two or all three of them might tragically summarize the pursuit of genius and perfection, wisdom and success.
When the day’s deeds ended, the Farmer came upon his bewitching daughters, still tranquilized by their unintended aversion to travesty. Having deciphered the telltale signs of their escapade, he shook his head in casual disbelief. With a custodial call for supper, the Farmer’s parental disruption awoke the Sleeping Nymphs.
They groggily scrambled to their feet with the eagerness and haste of newborn gazelles indelibly inscribed to flee. And flee they did, to their castle in the attic.
The arduous rush up the stairs, two at a time, was hampered predictably by their impaired co-ordination and generalized weakness from sickness and lack of replenishment. Without a moment’s hesitation, all three invalids fell into their common bed and escaped under the covers.
Their dolls were still there, where they left them, unfettered by the afternoon’s crying of the bulls. In the darkness, under the covers, the self appointed Surgeons delicately removed the sticky taped paper penises from their dolls.
The cosmetic male genitalia that frequently embellished the dolls’ plastic bodies became an embarrassing wad of tissue paper stuffed under a pillow, to be reckoned with later.
The Infirmed Juveniles waited a short while for their Mother to arrive at their bedside.
She had an uncanny sense for recognizing trouble, so when she appeared like an apparition in the dusk, she asked, “Would you like some soup and bread?”
The girls hadn’t prayed for this peaceful offering, but they desperately hoped someone would come to their aid and pamper them until morning, when they fully expected to feel normal again.
But the normal state of existence they had once been familiar with, would never be theirs again.
They would never again share a common desire to witness theatrical tragedies at the barn, their fantasized and highly regarded Great Theatre of Dionysus.
Moreover, they would never again want to be boys.
Accordingly, they would never again refuse to help their Mother with the dishes, or any other domestic chores when asked.
Their gainful knowledge would be attained through ingesting material from reference books in the library, academic textbooks at school and advancing media technologies.
Their journey into femininity would be characterized by harsh internal pain, secretly shared with the moon on sleepless nights. By Nature’s inquisition, the morning sun would find them in bed crying, with their menstrual blood soaked sheets beneath them.
Eventually, the Pubescent Darlings would blossom. As enigmatic young women, they would flaunt their vibrant inclinations, discover their orgasmic entitlements and explore their potential genius with exhilarating effort.
Collectively, the girls would represent centuries of critical genetic mass. Individually, they would illuminate a faint glow from within their personal sacred interspatial galaxies to the degrees in which their diaphanous wings would permit.
Causes Wendy McNally Supports
Cancer Support; Sick Kids