The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 1

There is a persistent buzzing at the main garden gate—evidently it's been going on for some time. I walk over to the old-fashioned console and press a button.

"Hello?"

"Just open up already!" comes a bright voice.

Another button is pressed, and the two large doors swing open silently. No philosopher of this world, nor even God's so-called omnipotence, could have prepared me for the sight that floods in. An endless procession of little girls streams past, decked out gaudily in every conceivable color combination—and then some—in the form of airy ballet dresses. On their backs, they've affixed plastic wings—some transparent, others colored—that bounce and flutter with each dancing step. Behind them strides an older woman with far more dignity. Her gown is deepest purple, yet she too has wings. They rise and unfold as if alive, powered by some unseen mechanism. No cheap Chinese junk. The wing surfaces reflect the entire color spectrum in unpredictable algorithmic patterns. By the hand, she leads two girls so small they must strictly speaking be shepherded—otherwise, their toddling feet would get nowhere, no matter how winged these little fairies might be. Behind the goddess of dignity trails a retinue of teenage girls. They too have adorned themselves with more elaborate wings and, for that matter, more sophisticated color schemes in their attire. Tripping past they go, and I cannot help but be paralyzed once more by the bounce of voluptuous breasts. Three times I've lost my breath: the incoming chaos, the goddess's dignity, and the firm teenage breasts concealed behind mere wisps of fabric.

In the garden, they set about arranging themselves as only women can. With efficiency from some unknown method, everything appears to happen simultaneously. Tables are covered. Cloths are laid out—on the tables, of course, not the girls. Fruit platters appear. There are punch bowls brimming with juice. Well, it’s needed—these kids are about to run themselves ragged. A girl in green suddenly approaches me. She holds out a flat hand and blows with all her might, sending a cloud of glitter dust straight into my face.

"You're enchanted!" she declares and vanishes.

No doubt about that.

I know none of these people, and the involvement of small children makes things even more dubious—simply due to the accusations that could be flung 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 with a broken bottle. What women might get up to, I'm even less certain of. Maybe they'll steal things here and there. That's why I've taken care to hide my writings where they'll never find them—unless they're from the terrorism unit with advanced search equipment. What else they might take, I frankly couldn't care less. Right now, at any rate, both house and garden are filled with complete strangers to me—and, on top of it all, an absolutely insane racket of youthful shrieking.

My suspicions are soon confirmed as I unwittingly find myself cornered alone in the kitchen. They are not what they pretend to be. Kind nursery school aunties? An orphanage? To hell with all that.

It's a red-haired teenager who's now backed me into a corner after hoisting herself onto the kitchen counter with a quick glance behind her. She looks exactly like a young Nicola Roberts—sharp canine teeth included. A pop diva from Girls Aloud, a band popular some sixty years ago that no one remembers today unless they happen to share my exquisite taste and refined sensibility regarding beauty and femininity.

"Wanna see some pussy?" says Nicola Roberts. Spreading her thighs, she parts the void in her dress and swiftly tugs aside a thin thong to reveal a completely smooth, hairless sex.

I make sure to stare down for a noticeable length of time—partly to reassure her, partly to absorb and memorize every detail, including the tiny bumps on one side of those plump, taut lips.

"Interesting."

"Interesting? That's all you've got to say?"

"For now."

"You're Iselin's son, aren't you?"

"The one gripped in her iron fist, yes."

"I must say... I expected the offspring of such a prominent figure to be impressive, but you're not. Blood lies, as it sometimes does."

"Well, fuck 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, Miss Spread-Thighs—leaves the kitchen in quick strides.

By the time I stagger back into the garden, the madness out there has practically exploded. If you can run, you can dance, and that's precisely what's happening—in two large concentric circles, the children in one, the slightly older girls in the other. It must be this way, lest some of the little ones risk being trampled underfoot by those too heavy for them to bear. The goddess observes it all from a slightly elevated pavilion. On either side of her kneel two girls, and she makes sure to caress their hair—one adorned with countless hairpins, the other embellished 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 between all the passing children's heads, which now all seem to hover at crotch height, threatening at any moment to collide directly with my groin. It's happened before, and it hurt. When I reach the pavilion, I note with interest the music emanating from the hidden zone speakers. It's some kind of ambient soundscape—with magical chimes and the tinkling of drifting glitter dust.

"Good day," says Iselin.

"Good day."

My mother opens her hand and gestures toward the visitors.

"This is my dear 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 was aware of the event. There's a reason I'm dressed in a medieval costume of light-colored linen. I immediately approach the peculiar woman to take her waiting hand. I kiss it lingeringly, then press it to my forehead.

"Hail to thee, most noble lady. My name is Øyvind, though at times 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 grant you, so long as it lies within my power."

"I must say, I do like it when young men are polite."

Her wings look almost comical now as they hang limp behind her. In appearance, she has a freckled face, large teeth, and a wide mouth, along with very large eyes—almost cow-like. Her hair is brown, as is common up north. This is a northerner. There's an extraordinary amount of movement in her face, I notice. It speaks to how she registers and takes things to heart.

"Yes, it would be rather unfortunate if it were the opposite," says my mother.

"Here's a witch's word: 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."

Randgrid lifts and sets down a large wand she had placed on a small round table.

"We shall see about that," she says. Then she captures the two girls' heads and presses them protectively into the depths of her embrace. No resistance is shown, yet I feel the weight of scrutiny in each girl's gaze.

Around us, the chaos has intensified, mainly because the older girls are nearby and stronger. The grass rustles with dancing, running, and leaping from bare feet alone. Then the inevitable happens—a blonde girl, having turned to blow some soap bubbles, isn't paying proper attention and collides with one of the other dancers. The result is her face planting straight into the grass, the tube of bubble soap rolling from her outstretched hands. She scrambles up to grab the device and shakes it accusingly.

"Look! There's almost nothing left!"

"There's some left," gasps the collision partner, the brunette.

"No, almost nothing!"

To demonstrate, Goldilocks turns the plastic tube upside down 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 can even consider intervening, they're at each other's throats. What the female sex lacks in strength, they make up for in malice when fighting—here, there's scratching and long locks being yanked with the force only ice-cold hatred can muster. Amid the chaos and tumult, the two girls are locked in a deadly dance.

"STOP!" Randgrid's voice thunders, and instantly the dance halts—the world stands utterly still. In this silent absence of movement, she rises by wrenching and pushing away the two heads in her lap. Commandingly, she strides over to the brunette.

"Did she hurt you, my dear child?"

"No, I'm tougher than that. She can barely even fight."

"That's not true! You're bleeding!"

Randgrid snaps her fingers, and Goldilocks immediately drops to her knees. There she sits with downcast eyes, brimming with anger that nevertheless keeps being drawn back toward the grass.

"Kajsa! I'll soon take your wings!"

"No! Sorry! Sorry!"

"Oh what a naughty girl you are, and how ugly you've spoken to your sister."

Goldilocks begins trembling, but her gaze remains lowered. We are all witnesses. Even the children have fallen silent. The force of collective will prevents any distraction or play.

"Now apologize to your sister with a kiss."

Randgrid looks toward the brunette and nods at her. The girl kneels before the one called Kajsa, trying to catch her downcast eyes.

"Sorry, Line, sorry. You're not a cunt, and I shouldn't have scratched you," Goldilocks says brightly. "It was my fault too."

"You were mad because our bubble soap spilled," replies Line.

"Yes, I was. Oh, I'm sorry."

"Kiss her," Randgrid commands.

Kajsa, still staring at the ground, lifts her head forward to place a light kiss on her opponent's lips. Strange 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 to meet Line's, then looks up. The two girls lean in, kissing as ruby droplets of blood from Line's scratched face adorn them both, their lips continuing to meet and quarrel.

When the brunette leaves her, Kajsa trembles anew. The slender body shakes, but the weeping remains silent.

"Children," says Randgrid, and with some hidden mechanism spreads her artificial wings wide, letting their shimmering glints manifest in the world with even greater intensity. "Kajsa has become very upset. Now you must comfort her."

In a clustered flock with clumsy little heads, the children approach—all girls. "Don't be sad, Kajsa," they say. "We love you very much." Some tug hopefully at her arm. From both sides, Goldilocks receives kisses from chubby cheeks and snotty noses. Gradually the silent weeping subsides. The children encircle and pluck at Kajsa for a long time until Randgrid parts them as she approaches. A hand shoots down hard, gripping the unhappy girl's jaw, forcing her gaze up to meet Randgrid's own.

"You are my daughter. My daughter. I could never harm you. I could never abandon you."

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

"Children, now we must play more quietly," says Randgrid. "Because Kajsa has been very upset."

I remain silent and stunned for a long time, knowing I've witnessed great forces. Part of me also wants to comfort her, yet I feel a deep hatred toward this unknown thing that made Kajsa so unhappy and now forces her to be here with me in this garden.