The Garden of Light and Darkness - part 1

The large garden gate hums and rattles, and it seems to have been doing so for a while. I walk over to the old fashioned console and press a button.

“Hello?”

“Well, open it already!” a bright voice calls out.

Another button is pressed, and the two large doors swing open silently. No philosophers in the world, not even God’s so-called omnipotence, could have prepared me for the sight that parades in. Past me streams an endless throng of little girls, decked out in every glaring color variation and then some, in the form of airy ballet dresses. On their backs are plastic wings, some transparent, some colored, bouncing and hopping with each of their dance steps. Behind them strides an older woman with far more dignity. Her dress is the deepest purple, and she too has wings. They rise and unfold like something alive, driven by some unseen mechanism. No cheap Chinese junk. The wing surface reflects the entire color spectrum in an algorithm impossible to predict. By her hand, she leads two little girls so small they strictly speaking need to be guided, or their stumbling feet would get nowhere, winged little fairies or not. Behind the goddess of dignity trails a line of teenage girls. They, too, have adorned themselves with more advanced wings and, for that matter, a more sophisticated color combination in their attire. They pass by tripping along, and I can’t help but once more be struck dumb by the bounce of youthful breasts. Three times I’ve lost my breath. The streaming chaos. The goddess’s dignity. And firm teenage breasts hidden behind a thin layer of clothing, just that.

In the garden, they set about arranging themselves as only women can. With an efficiency from some unknown method, everything seems to happen at once. Tables are decked. Cloths are laid out. After the tables are decked, of course, not any of the girls. Fruit platters are brought out. There are punch bowls with vast amounts of juice. Well, it’s needed, for these kids are running themselves ragged. A girl in green suddenly comes up to me. She holds up her flat hand and blows with all her might, so a cloud of glitter dust hits me square in the face.

“You’re bewitched!” she declares and vanishes.

No doubt about that.

I don’t know any of these people, and the involvement of little kids makes things even more dubious, simply because of the accusations that could be thrown around. If you invite men straight from the city, you never know what they might do. Suddenly they’re arguing, suddenly they’re riled up, and before you know it, you’re knocked down by a broken bottle. What women might do, I’m even less sure of. Maybe they steal things here and there. So I’ve made sure to hide my writings in a place they’d never find, unless they were from the terror unit with advanced search equipment. Whatever else they might take, I frankly don’t care. Now, at any rate, both house and garden are filled with complete strangers, and a completely insane racket of kids to boot.

My suspicions are soon confirmed when I’m unexpectedly caught alone in the kitchen. They’re not what they claim to be. Kind nursery aunts? An orphanage? To hell with all that.

It’s a redheaded teenager who’s now cornered me, having hoisted herself onto the kitchen counter after a quick glance behind her. She looks exactly like a young Nicola Roberts, pointed canines included. A diva from the pop band Girls Aloud, popular about sixty years ago, but unknown today unless someone shares my exquisite taste and sense of refinement regarding beauty and the feminine.

“Want to see some pussy?” says Nicola Roberts. She opens the hollow of her dress by parting her thighs and quickly pulls a thin thong aside to reveal a completely smooth, hairless sex.

I make sure to look down for a noticeable time, partly to reassure her, partly to take in and memorize every detail, including the small bumps on one side of the bulging, tight lips.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? Is that all you have to say?”

“For the moment.”

“You’re Iselin’s son, aren’t you?”

“I’m the one held in her iron grip, yes.”

“I must say… I thought the offspring of such a prominent person would seem impressive, but you’re not. Blood lies, as it sometimes does.”

“Well, damn you too, you little mare.”

Her thighs snap shut at the speed of light, sending a small gust of air my way. Miss Redhead, and for that matter Spreadlegs, leaves the kitchen in quick steps.

When I stumble out into the garden, the madness has downright exploded out there. If you can run, you can dance, and that’s what’s happening, in two large concentric circles, the children in one, the older girls in the other. It has to be that way, or some of the kids would risk being trampled by someone too heavy for them to handle. The goddess watches it all from a slightly elevated pavilion. Two girls kneel at each of her sides, and she makes sure to caress their hair, one fastened with countless hairpins, the other adorned with a small silver crown. Iselin sits facing them, on her own little chair. So I wade in their direction, doing my best to slalom through all the passing children’s heads, which now all seem to be at balls height and threaten to crash right into my crotch at any moment. It’s happened before, and it hurt. When I reach the pavilion, it’s interesting to note the music from the hidden area speakers. It’s a kind of ambient sound I hear. With magical tones and the sound of sprinkling glitter dust.

“Good day,” says Iselin.

“Good day.”

My mother opens her hand and swings it out toward the visitors.

“This is my good friend Randgrid. We’ve known each other for many years. As you can see, she surrounds herself with young girls, as part of her aesthetic resignation. This is a cosplay event. You could say she’s their fairy godmother.”

I immediately go to the strange woman to take her waiting hand. I kiss it long and then let it press against my forehead.

“Be ye so greeted, most honored lady. My name is Øyvind, but sometimes I prefer to call myself Light Elf. Know that I am your humble servant. You shall have all you desire, and all you ask for I shall give, as long as it is within my power.”

“I must say, I like it when young men are polite.”

The lady’s wings look almost comical now, hanging there almost limply. In appearance, she has a brown-flecked face, large teeth, and a wide mouth, plus very large eyes, almost like a cow’s. Her hair is brown, as it often is up north. This is a Northerner. There’s a lot of movement in her face, I see. It shows she’s registering and taking things in.

“Yes, it would be too bad if it were the opposite,” says my mother.

“Here’s a witch’s saying: There’s a cure for nearly every ailment.”

The two women chuckle together for a while.

“Why do you call yourself Light Elf?”

“Because everything I touch turns to light.”

Iselin lifts and sets down a huge magic wand she had placed on a small round table.

“We’ll see about that,” she says. Then she grabs the two girls’ heads at each of her sides and secretly presses them down into the depths of her lap. No resistance is shown, but I notice the gaze from each girl’s eyes.

Out there, the chaos has intensified, mainly because the older girls are near, and they’re stronger. The grass rustles with dance, leaps, and jumps from bare feet alone. Then what must happen happens: a blonde girl, turning to blow some soap bubbles, doesn’t pay attention, so she crashes into one of the other dancers. The result is her falling face-first into the grass, and the bubble wand rolls from her outstretched hands. She gets up to grab the device and shakes it accusingly.

“Look! There’s almost nothing left!”

“There’s some left,” gasps her collision partner, this one with brown hair.

“No, almost nothing!”

To demonstrate, Goldilocks turns the tube and pours out the last meager drops.

“Well, now there’s nothing.”

“This is your fault. You’re such a cunt!”

“It wasn’t just my fault.”

“Cunt-cunt-cunt!”

It’s absurd to watch, but before I know it, the two girls fly at each other. What the female sex lacks in strength, they make up for in malice when they fight, and here there’s both scratching and long locks pulled with the force only ice-cold hate can give. While the chaos and commotion go on, the two girls are locked in a deadly dance.

“STOP!” thunders Randgrid’s voice, and at once the dance stops, and the world stands dead still. In this silent absence of movement, she rises by yanking up and pushing away the two heads in her lap. Imperiously, she walks over to the brown-haired girl.

“Did she hurt you, my dear child?”

“No, I’m tougher than that. She can barely fight.”

“That’s not true! You’re bleeding!”

Randgrid snaps her fingers, and Goldilocks immediately falls to her knees. There she stays, gaze lowered, filled with an anger that still must be pulled down toward the grass.

“Kajsa! I’ll take your wings soon!”

“No! Sorry! Sorry!”

“Shame on what a naughty girl you are, and how ugly you’ve been with your mouth to your sister.”

Goldilocks begins to tremble, but she still looks down. We all bear witness. The children are silent too. The force of a collective will prevents any distraction or play.

“Now beg your sister’s forgiveness with a kiss.”

Randgrid looks toward the brown-haired girl, nodding to her. She kneels before the one called Kajsa and tries to catch her lowered gaze.

“Sorry, Line, sorry. You’re not a cunt, and I shouldn’t have scratched you,” Goldilocks speaks brightly. “It was my fault too.”

“You were mad because our bubble water spilled,” Line replies.

“Yes, I was, yes. Oh, sorry.”

“Kiss her,” Randgrid commands.

Kajsa, still looking down, lifts her head forward and places a light kiss on her counterpart’s lips. Odd that they should be sisters, by the way. I don’t see the family resemblance.

“That’s not good enough, and you know it.”

Kajsa raises her hands before her, met by Line’s, and then she looks up. The two girls lean forward, kiss, and as ruby-red drops of blood from Line’s scratched face adorn both, their lips still meet in a struggle.

When the brown-haired girl leaves her, Kajsa begins to tremble. Her slight body shakes, but the crying remains silent.

“Children,” says Randgrid, and by some unseen mechanism, she spreads her artificial wings—without manual manipulation or voice command—and lets the shimmering color glints come alive in the world, now with even greater force. “Kajsa has become very sad. Now you must comfort her.”

In a gathered flock of clumsy little heads, the children come forward in rows, all of them girls too. “You mustn’t be sad, Kajsa,” they say. “Because we love you very much.” Some of them tug hopefully at her arm. From both sides, chubby cheeks and snotty noses plant kisses on each side of her face. Little by little, the silent crying subsides. The children encircle and tug at her for a long time, until Randgrid parts them, coming forward. A hand shoots down hard and clamps around the jaw of the unhappy one, forcing her gaze up to her own.

“You are my daughter. My daughter. I can never harm you. I can never leave you.”

At once, the one called Kajsa shoots up and throws slender arms around the much older woman.

“Children, now we must play a little more calmly,” says Randgrid. “Because Kajsa has been very sad.”

I remain silent and speechless for a long time, because I know I’ve witnessed great forces. Part of me wants to comfort her too, yet I feel a deep hatred for this unknown thing that made her so unhappy, and that now makes her be here, with me, in this garden.