The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 10

The night of the full moon is soft and beautiful, studded with stars, and my anguish is all the greater for it, just as I wish it to be. If I must fall and fail, let it be in ecstatic suffering! Let me weep and rage! Norwegians are a people of petty rationalism, denying themselves every emotion unless it is socially sanctioned or falls within narrow rational bounds—and that is their great failing. No wonder their souls are scarred, and the goddess Psyche has fled, supplanted by a Jewish god. I am not like that. Nor will I ever be. I deny myself nothing—me, whom the world has denied so much. Why should I? I refuse to negotiate my emotions or have my despair defined merely to fit some weakling's neat little system of categories, so that he can feel safe within some self-referential system—the very definition of madness. Reason? I curse it. Rationality? I abandon it. Purpose? Never had one to begin with.

So I've wandered blindly into the undergrowth, and so I climb among the branches—for peace, to individuate. Down with all damned collectives, this one too. I am me and not you. My thoughts and feelings don't match theirs. For that, I was far too noble. Why do you think gold must remain hidden among gravel? My heart has plummeted too many times—until it floated in the void, until it began to fly—and now, perched on a branch, I lift my head and breathe freedom's first breath. I've left all other people behind and am finally myself. Liberated, like a bird fallen from the nest, through sorrow.

High in the treetop, I spot two fairies watching me in wonder from the full moon's disk. Their eyes are slanted and elfin, faces short and feline—somewhat like a young Natalie Dormer, or creatures veiled by primordial mystery, as we all should be to remain undefinable. Bits of bark fall as they grip so tightly.

"This is our world! You can't be here! Get down! Get down!"

Their silhouettes begin crawling toward me, upside-down and faces-first. They stretch forward, probing—insect wings forming threatening shapes, childlike hands reaching out. They seem to crawl straight out of the moon itself. I don't answer but try to evade them, because I want this world to be mine too. So I swing around the trunk while the fairies pursue me, their slanted eyes searching and gleaming with desire, their little noses twitching in the night. At last, when no more branches appear and the fairies draw too close, I leap—and find myself, amid a crackling of branches, in another treetop.

"He's in the branches! He's in the branches!"

There are more fairies. They're everywhere. Their faces peer out from every tree trunk. They come from below and above—camouflaged by leaves or shrouded in stars. Across the forest floor, a frantic hunt unfolds amid the rustling of bare feet. But there's one thing they haven't accounted for: just how strong I am, and how this is the domain my race was born into. New leaps—some taken blindly into the night. My hands and feet always find purchase on a trunk, or my arms swing me along a network of branches. I dodge and weave, slip away and keep clear, so the chase goes on. I hear their calls, sense their ravenous hunger, and I am swift in the night. Now I pick up speed, racing up the tree trunks towards the highest crowns to reach the moon. Sometimes, grasping hands barely miss me. My heart holds no doubt—they'd throw me down given the chance. From other treetops, eyes are watching, and the trunk I'm perched on becomes encircled by a creeping congregation ascending in a swirling, winged spiral. At the last moment, I hurl myself into the night again. Find a hold—which slips—and I crash into a branch, which snaps, into a lower branch I can finally clutch, somewhat dazed from the reckless acrobatics of my escape. Too late. Someone from below has seized me, and more are coming.

"Alright! Alright! I'll let go!"

So I release my grip and land in a circle of the catlike winged ones, whose numbers keep growing as the branch-dwellers descend amid the crackle and snap of falling twigs and swirling leaf clouds.

"You're ours! You're ours!" the chorus sings. "We've caught ourselves a man, and with him we can do as we please!"

Bold hands grab at me, and I realize they're trying to force me to the ground. I won't have it. So I push back and bat their hands away. They don't relent.

What my little friends forget is that they possess neither fangs, claws, nor horns—and that I'm a man. They don't have much in the way of weapons to use, whereas I have will and muscle and youth's vigor. So I tear free and leap out of their circle.

"This breaks the rules!" complains one particularly aggressive fairy.

"And what rules would those be?" I ask, as I catch the outstretched hands. Using the momentum of the attack, I pull the little one towards me and bend her forward. I flip up her ball gown, revealing a rounded butt in blue panties, and give her several hearty smacks with my open hand. It's satisfying to feel the impacts reverberate through soft flesh. She lets out a girlish shriek, bringing her co-conspirators rushing to her aid. They come storming in and free her from my barbaric embrace. Undeterred, they keep coming—the circle around me isn't broken, just widened. Attacking relentlessly, they lunge and swing their hips clear whenever I try to swat their rumps. Assaults come from all directions, keeping me busy fending them off. Hands probe and snatch at me. Some even bite at my fingers when they stray too close.

"It's the rule! The rule! You're ours now! Submit or face the consequences!"

"I don't care about rules! You're not strong enough to win!"

"Then you're a fool! A fool, we say! Can't you see we're all bound by a cord!"

"I see no such thing!"

The problem with too loose a loop—and a ring that's been driven and frightened away—is that there might be an opening, and exploiting these is my specialty. I spot an opportunity where they've left a gap, feint, then dash for it. Frustrated shrieks erupt as they realize I'm getting away. Nor are they fleet enough to catch me. Their overly broad hips see to that—the handicap of womanhood, borne of their childbearing power.

"Now it'll only get worse!" the collective shouts. "For the debt must be paid! We caught you, so we own you, and the debt must be paid!"

"Good luck collecting!" I pant mid-jog. Exiting the grove, I pass the swings. There, two fairies have crawled up to my overturned Thor's Cup, faces pressed together as they take turns lapping up its contents. Tongues and lips play over the forbidden honey brew. Already I see them growing, nourished—becoming something else in night's murk. Swiftly I snatch the cup in passing, glimpsing their furious faces as I leave. Certainty dwells within me: This won't be forgiven. Repercussions will follow—though I know not what or when.