The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 2

It's time to be fed. Clearly, the colorful gathering finds it remarkable to see me carry the massive cauldrons, so I remain under constant scrutiny. My mother and I have been working since morning, filling the steel containers with chopped potatoes, carrots, and rutabaga so tough no knife could handle it. Only with a meat cleaver and saw did I manage to deal with those stubborn roots. Water poured over, the whole lot boiled, and the water drained. Then we added a forest of chopped leeks, and finally, the masterpiece—a broth filled with mutton and small meatballs. It must simmer, not boil, as the name suggests, for a long time so the rich broth can absorb all the nourishment. Sodd, a dish that has existed in Norway since Viking times, which the Trønders forced the Christian king to eat—prepared from sacrificial animals.

The outdoor banquet area consists of four long tables arranged in a cross. Above, wires crisscross between branches, hung with antique light bulbs in various colors—a kind of statement or retro fashion phenomenon. No need for them now in broad daylight. The girls have been busy hanging paper angels in the woven framework above, holding hands and cut from the same piece of paper. Upon closer inspection, they're not angels but fairies, colored and adorned with smiley faces by countless childish hands in primitive imitations of those present. Other figures are there too, including a man with antlers sitting cross-legged. The cauldrons slam down on the tables in turn. Each holds ten liters of steaming hot sodd, and I must make three trips in total. Thirty liters, then, divided among around fifty guests, accompanied by platters of Norwegian flatbread. How much do children even eat? Who knows if it will be enough? Ginger ale is mandatory for all, no matter what anyone prefers. There will be no deviations here—traditions, or tastes, must be upheld. We are Vikings, after all. I busy myself carrying armfuls of soda bottles up from the cold room while the gathering takes their seats. In some incredible display of discipline, the children wait to eat until I arrive. The only seat left is beside my mother at the head of the table, and annoyingly, the nearest cauldron and ladle are far away. I must stand with my plate and lean over some little ones to secure my first portion. Fizzy liquid in the glass. I feel compelled to say something and rise. As the only man, it's not hard to command attention in this company.

"Eat and be merry! Sodd is magical food, and all who eat it will become very strong!"

All according to the enchanted imagination of children. The thing is, it's my imagination too. I'm just a little child myself, with slightly more advanced tools at my disposal—that's all.

"So you're saying you've never eaten sodd before?" says one of the girls. It's the brunette, the quarrelsome one who fought with Kajsa. Scattered giggles ring out from all sides. Tch! Irritated, I find my seat to start eating. Spices, salt, vegetables, meat, and ginger. The deep plate is soon emptied, and I rise to get more. This happens several times. By the third round, it triggers the collective's protective instincts.

"Ugh! He's just so selfish, I swear!" exclaims a fairy loudly enough for all to hear.

"Now you must eat a little less, Øyvind," says my mother. "The most important thing is that the children get full, no? When they're done, you can take for yourself of the leftovers, if there are any."

"Yes, Mother."

Better to receive a direct order than face public humiliation, so I have no problem restraining myself.

"My son has a voracious appetite," says Iselin. "We have to haul an entire barn's worth of livestock weekly to feed the troll, and still, it's never enough."

"Is he going to eat us?" asks one of the little ones. The mention of troll was enough to plant that idea.

"Yes, he'll probably eat one or two children before the day is done."

A collective "Ooooh!" rises from the gathering of children.

"Most escape, and there are plenty of children. One must keep the population in check, after all."

"I won't be eaten!" declares one of the little girls. This makes me abruptly rise, and I approach the tiny thing with drooling mouth and chattering teeth. She lets out a shriek and ducks under the table, and the long stretch of time she spends down there shows how seriously the threat was taken.

The chatter revolves around everything and nothing as children and youths dig in with merry appetites. They debate whether the soup is truly magical. Consensus agrees it is, but then the question becomes exactly how magical, and whether those who eat it will wake up as giants the next day? I suppose that's what they call growing up. How many horses and cows do I eat weekly? And how many children?And how many worlds can Randgrid's magic wand actually conjure? I know the answer. The number is endless, for a magical world has been conjured at this very moment for each and every one of them. Randgrid herself observes everything from the center of the cross, keeping watch over all proceedings with Argus-eyed vigilance. Any hint of discord is nipped in the bud. Even stricter is the suggestion of exclusion or ostracism. In such cases, she ensures everyone's attention is directed there and remains fixed until the void of loneliness is filled. When plates and glasses are emptied, and little bellies satisfied, longing gazes turn toward the fairy godmother in purple, and at last, she grants them permission to resume the day's play. The moment this happens, the smallest heads vanish.

This is my signal to scrape the bottom of every cauldron in search of more. I manage to scrounge up another half portion. The brunette, the blonde, and the redhead stick together, I notice. The fight between Kajsa and Line is clearly well and truly over. Miss Redhead must have told them something, for now their attention shifts toward me in an unsettling way. Oh well, they'll find I'm not so easily rattled. Soon the children's eternal day resumes with games, dances, and songs. Pat-a-cake and Bridge, Bridge, Broad. The activities are orchestrated by the older girls, punctuated by distant shrieks from some chased little imp.

Sometime later, I'm fortunate enough to get Kajsa alone. I enjoy stimulation and chaos, but sometimes it's nice to escape what has become a roaring pandemonium—especially when it involves shrill squeals that pierce straight through my skull and their caretakers' endless focus on safety and repetition. Variety is the spice of everything. Without it, you're either a mummy in life's crypt, where little happens, or a child forever governed by another's will—though I suppose that's fine, if you are a child.

I show her some of the cool things I work on. Holographic 3D multimedia generation paired with thundering '80s synth music. I explain the fundamentals of writing—specificity is key. You could say: 'A penis enters your asshole.' No one cares. But if you say: 'A wrinkled penis with a large wart on the left vein enters your asshole,' then people engage because they can, quite literally, feel it. So through writing, you can actually do things to people. I like to torture my readers as much as possible.

Luckily, she laughs at this. Some people are oddly sensitive and dislike how I speak. Another thought strikes me—she might have suffered abuse, so perhaps I shouldn't have phrased it that way. But if she's upset or angry with me, she doesn't show it.

"I'd write about people rolling down a big cliff," she says, having settled beside me in the massive canopy bed. My room is as large as many lounges. Not just that. I have many such lounges—I mean rooms.

"Specificity, please."

She blinks, puzzled. The answer comes late. "Headfirst and sprawling, until every bone in their body shatters."

I understand this is what she truly desires. The question is—against whom? And what would she do to someone she has a positive relationship with? For we all have those, surely. Fine, she has Randgrid, but theirs isn't exactly an equal footing. Friendship requires balance.

With this in mind, I tell her the ancient film Barry Lyndon is my favorite and that I want her to watch it with me because I think she'd like it. The director's name is something like Stanley Cube-rick or some crap.

"Do you really think so?"

"Absolutely," I say, lifting a strand of her blonde hair and letting it fall. Oddly, she doesn't flinch at physical contact, but I won't be callous enough to just grope her breasts outright. Women are like that—actions have consequences. The consequences come a bit later, but then in a far more intensified form than with a man. He might just punch you in the nose if he's angry, and in my case, that's getting off easy. People tend to get worked up about me, one way or another.

"The film shows that even with tragedy and loss in the end, beauty still exists. Because one can still be brave and noble."

"I don't believe that."

No, of course not. Here lies work to be done. But it's a task I'd gladly begin. More than that—I want to finish it. To do so, I'll need to learn more.

"Uh, so why are you hanging around with a kiddie crew and sentimentality like that?"

So I get the whole story. She and nearly all the girls belong to a local orphanage. A place marked by low-class characters with curly gray hair, cigarette packs in one hand, the other shoved deep into pockets, caps tilted sideways. Only one of them—Miss Redhead—has an actual family, being the child of Randgrid's uncle from a somewhat complicated home. I try to conceal my interest in details about one of her friends, a free-spirited one as such, but at least I catch the name: Berit. I file it away in my formidable memory, where information is stored like a nonlinear quantum archive. Deep within those records, electrodes now glow and flicker because Kajsa suddenly grows talkative, telling me how Randgrid—who works at an affluent primary school for girls—often arranges joint activities even for the much older girls, though to them she's just a substitute teacher of sorts. Randgrid is tough. She's protected them from unwanted advances by both staff and outsiders. She has strict rules but is fair, and exceedingly generous. Bit by bit, she's built a protective circle of trust and understanding around the girls she holds so dear. It's practically become an entire religion.

I blink, taking all this in. Randgrid is an official figure, yet she certainly operates unofficially too.

"You know, I grew up in an orphanage too."

"But you have your mother."

"Well, not back then."

"What was it like there?"

"Mostly, I learned not to give a fuck about anything."

Something tells me I'm not particularly good at talking to girls.

"You don't seem impressed by our displayed opulence. Why is that?"

"What do you mean?"

Ugh, I sound like the books I read or the fantasies I rehearse in my head. "That we're wealthy."

"Randgrid is in a way just as rich. Actually richer than you, with all the confidence she has. And she's so good to us."

"I'd like to try being just as good, but only to you."

"That's impossible. You can't outdo her. I'm not supposed to say this, but I'm part of something called Sk..."

Our conversation has subtly—perhaps unnoticed by her, but not by me—led us downward, and I follow, seizing the moment to steal a kiss. I used to look down on everyone from the working class. That was before I realized I was one of them. The middle class are traitors and faggots. The upper class are traitors and degenerates. You could shoot them all in the head and still not have done the world enough of a favor by the time the last bullet was spent.

My advance isn't returned. Her red lips meet mine, but her eyes just stare blankly, resigned, at the ceiling. What am I doing wrong? I don't get it. So I place my hand on her cheek. Maybe I understand little of all this, but I'm trying. I've actually given it my all, like I have my whole life. Mostly, it earned me punches and kicks, no matter what I did or attempted. Now it's as if the female sex does the same, just in a different way. Gay.

"If I've offended you without realizing, I never meant to," I say. "In time, I'll come find you and take you away. Maybe I'm a brutal bastard who respects nothing, but that's exactly why it's my job."

Her tears flow again, just like they did amid the gorilla troop—I mean, the children troop. Everything I do seems to have the opposite effect of what I intended. No wonder not giving a fuck is my core value. It has to be, because right now my heart is about to spill out of my chest. I can't cry with her. That would only make it worse for the weeping gold I've captured.

"You talk so much. You talk so weird," she hiccups.

"I can drop the academic tone if you want."

Her sobs rise toward me, louder than before.

At least I manage to calm her, assuring her of my good intentions—no, I'm not angry—as we leave the scene. There, we're confronted by Berit. Has she been watching us this whole time?

"Did you fuck?"

"I'll fuck your mouth if you don't shut up!"

"Are you impotent or what? Why haven't you fucked her?"

She stands there blocking the path. I won't tolerate that. She's just a girl. So I grab her narrow shoulders and shove her against the wall, hard enough that her feet leave the ground for a moment.

"What we do is our business. Stay out of it!"

"Let go of me, you pig! She's my friend, not yours. You just met her!"

"She's her own person and answers to no one, least of all a little witch like you!"

A witch, yes. I can vividly picture that. Here I stand confronting a ballerina in fairy wings.

"Oh you think so?! Let me go!"

The small fist swings up and hits me square on the nose. For a moment I feel nothing, but that's only because it's going to hurt like hell. I should've known better than to get physical with a redhead. My mouth fills with blood long before the reaction comes, and when it does I have to recoil with a pained grimace, bending over with hands to my face.

"OWWWW!"

"Berit, calm down!" says Kajsa. Through blood-dimmed haze I see the fury turn her gaze toward her friend to respond, and that's the opening I need to avoid another pagan assault. In full sprint I throw myself on top of her, grabbing both her wrists. With my body pressed hard against hers, I pin her arms firmly above her head. Then I bring my face close—slowly, approaching from different angles.

"Listen here, little one. You're lucky I never lay hands on females. Never!"

To emphasize my words, I open my mouth and spit blood all over her face. She closes her fiercely staring eyes just for a moment, then opens them again as I circle around and rub my nose against what has now become a bloody visage.

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove it."

She looks up at her pinned wrists. Slowly I loosen my grip. Her fingers spread and stroke expectantly against my skin in the meantime. Then I release and lean back. I’m not surprised in the slightest when the punch snaps my head to the side. Both her fists swing with authority, sending my head from one side to the other. I make sure to stand upright, close my eyes and keep my arms down. Some of the blows nearly make me black out.

"Berit!"

It's Kajsa who's thrown herself at the fury and now stands holding her right fist firmly with both hands.

"That's enough. Can't you see he's crying?"

Berit narrows her eyes. "I don't see that."

"Not on the outside."

Kajsa places a hand on each of our backs and with a desperate strength she doesn't truly possess, manages to shove us into a nearby bathroom.

"You haven't broken your nose. I know these things," says Berit while wiping herself off with a towel.

"Why thank you kindly."

Of course I can see the comedy in having two fairy-costumed girls tiptoeing around with exaggerated care after first having beaten me senseless. Humor is the only thing that justifies a human life. They make me sit, stand and sit again while tending to me in every conceivable way. Some inconceivable ones too, for occasionally I get firm breasts pressed against the back of my head along with a cheek. That burns more than the wounds. With the makeup such teenagers always seem to have on hand—even if stranded at the North Pole—they cover the worst marks. Since they have me at such close quarters, they're perfectly capable of reading every expression, every reaction and what I'm trying to hide. I know all too well they're fully capable of it.

"There. Now it's hardly visible," says Berit as she applies the finishing touches. She lowers the makeup brush and looks at me expectantly.

"Thanks," I say, placing my hand firmly on her chest and shoving Miss Boudica decisively away from the doorway as I leave that scene of caregiving. She always seems to be in the way.