The Garden of Light and Darkness - part 2

A while later, I’m lucky enough to get Kajsa alone. I can enjoy stimulation and chaos, but sometimes it’s nice to escape what’s turned into a roaring pandemonium. Especially when it involves kids’ screams that cut straight into my skull and their caregivers’ endless focus on safety and repetition. Variety is the spice of life. Otherwise, you’re a living mummy, stuck in a crypt where nothing happens, or a child constantly overridden by someone else’s will, even if it’s for your own good.

I show her some of the cool stuff I do: generating multimedia in holographic 3D, paired with booming synth music from the ‘80s. I tell her about the basics of writing. Specificity is key. You can say, “A penis enters your asshole.” Nobody cares. But say, “A wrinkled penis with a big wart on the left vein enters your asshole,” and people get engaged because they can feel it. Writing lets you do things to people. I love torturing my readers as much as I can.

She laughs at this, thankfully. Some people are oddly sensitive and don’t like how I talk. It strikes me that she might have been abused, so I probably shouldn’t have said it like that. But if she’s upset or angry, she doesn’t show it.

“I’d write about people rolling down a big cliff,” she says, sitting beside me on the big canopy bed. My room is as large as many living rooms. Not just that—I have lots of such rooms.

“Specificity, please.”

She blinks, a bit puzzled. Her answer comes slowly. “Head over heels, smashing every bone in their bodies.”

I get that it’s what she really wants. The question is who, and what she’d do to someone she cares about, because we all have those. Sure, she has Randgrid, but that’s not exactly an equal relationship. Friendship requires balance.

With that in mind, I tell her that the ancient film Barry Lyndon is my favorite, and I want her to watch it with me because I think she’ll like it. The director’s name is something like Stang Kube or some crap.

“Really?” she says.

“Absolutely,” I say, lifting her blonde hair and letting it fall. Oddly, she doesn’t flinch at physical contact, but I’m not heartless enough to just grope her breasts outright. Women are like this: it’s all about actions. Consequences come later, but amplified compared to men. A guy might punch you in the nose if he’s mad, and I’d get off easy. People tend to get worked up about me one way or another.

“The film shows that even with tragedy and loss, beauty still exists. Because you can still be brave and noble.”

“I don’t believe that.”

No, she doesn’t. There’s work to be done here. A task I’d love to start. More than that, I want to finish it. But first, I need to know more.

“So, why are you running around with a kiddie parade and weaklings like that?”

So I get the whole story. She and almost all the girls are from a local orphanage, a place filled with simple characters with curly gray hair, a cigarette pack in one hand, the other deep in their pocket, cap tilted. Only one, the redhead, has an actual family—she’s Randgrid’s niece from a complicated home. I try to hide my interest in one of her friends, a particularly bold one, but I catch her name: Berit. I store it in my formidable memory, where information is filed like a nonlinear quantum archive. Inside that archive, electrodes start glowing because Kajsa suddenly gets talkative. She tells me how Randgrid, who works at a girls’ school for the wealthy, often organizes combined activities for the older girls too, though she’s just a substitute for them. Randgrid is tough. She’s protected them from unwanted advances by staff and others. She has strict rules but is fair and generous. Bit by bit, she’s built a protective ring of trust and understanding for the girls she cares so much about. It’s almost become a religion.

I blink to take it all in. Randgrid is an official figure, but she does a lot unofficially.

“You know, I grew up in an orphanage too.”

“But you have your mom.”

“Well, not back then.”

“What was it like?”

“I mostly learned to not give a damn.”

Something tells me I’m not great at talking to girls.

“You don’t seem impressed by our displayed wealth. Why not?”

“What do you mean?”

Ugh, I talk like the books I read or my inner fantasies. “That we’re rich.”

“Randgrid is just as rich. Richer, even. And she’s so kind to us.”

“I’d like to try being just as kind, but only to you.”

“That’s impossible. You can’t outdo her. This is forbidden to say, but I’m part of something called Sk…”

Our conversation, unnoticed by her perhaps but not by me, has led her down, and I follow, so I seize the chance and steal a kiss. I used to look down on the working class. That was before I realized I was one of them. The middle class are traitors and homos. The upper class are traitors and degenerates. You could shoot them in the head and still not do the world enough justice when the last bullet’s spent.

My advance isn’t reciprocated. Her red lips meet mine, but her eyes stare blankly, resignedly at the ceiling. What am I doing wrong? I don’t get it. So I place a hand on her cheek. I may understand little of this, but I try. I’ve given it my all, like I have my whole life. Mostly, I got strikes and kicks, no matter what I did or tried. Now it’s like women are doing the same, just differently. Homo.

“If I’ve offended you without realizing, it was never my intent,” I say. “In time, I’ll find you and take you away. I may be a brutal bastard who respects nothing, but that’s exactly why it’s my task.”

Her tears flow again, just like they did amidst the gorilla pack—I mean, the kid pack. Everything I do seems to have the opposite effect of what I intend. No wonder not giving a damn is my core value. It has to be, because right now, my heart feels like it’s spilling out of my chest. I can’t cry with her. That would make it worse for the crying gold I’ve caught.

“You talk so much. You talk so weird,” she sobs.

“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 and that no, I’m not angry as we leave the scene. There, we’re confronted by Berit. Has she been watching us the whole time?

“Have you fucked?”

“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 way. I’m not putting up with that. She’s just a girl. So I grab her narrow shoulders and shove her against the wall, so hard she briefly lifts off the floor.

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

“Let me go, you pig! She’s my friend, not yours. You just met her!”

“She’s her own person and doesn’t answer to anyone, least of all a little witch like you!”

A witch, yeah. I can believe that. Here I am, confronting a ballerina in fairy wings.

“You think so? Let me go!”

Her little fist swings up and hits me square on the nose. For a moment, I feel nothing, but it’s 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 pain hits, and when it does, I reel back with a grimace, bending over with my hands to my face.

“OWWW!”

“Berit, calm down!” says Kajsa. In a blood-tinged haze, I see the fury turn to her friend to respond, and that’s the opening I need to avoid another pagan assault. In a full sprint, I tackle her, grab her wrists, and press my body against hers, pinning her arms above her head. I make sure my face gets close to hers, slowly, from multiple angles.

“Listen, you little thing. You’re lucky, because I never lay a hand on women. Never!”

To punctuate my words, I open my mouth and spit blood all over her face. She closes her glaring eyes for just a moment, then opens them again as I circle and rub my nose against her now-bloody face.

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove it.”

She looks up at her pinned wrists. Slowly, I loosen my grip. Her fingers splay and stroke my skin in the meantime. Then I let go and lean back. It doesn’t surprise me one bit when my face is thrown to the side in the next moment. Both her fists swing with authority, sending my head from side to side. I make sure to stand upright, close my eyes, and keep my fists down. Some of her blows nearly make me black out.

“Berit!”

It’s Kajsa, throwing herself at her, now holding the fury’s right arm desperately with both hands.

“That’s enough. Can’t you see he’s crying?”

Berit narrows her eyes. “I don’t see it.”

“Not on the outside.”

Kajsa places a hand on each of our backs, and with a desperate strength she doesn’t really have, she pushes us into a nearby bathroom.

“You didn’t break your nose. I know these things,” says Berit, wiping herself with a towel.

“Thanks for the offer.”

I see the humor in having two girls in fairy costumes fussing over me after they’ve beaten me up. Humor is the only thing that makes humans divine. They make me sit, stand, and sit again while they tend to me in every imaginable way. And some unimaginable ones, too, because sometimes I get firm breasts pressed against the back of my head or a cheek. It burns more than the wounds. With the makeup these teens always seem to have handy, even if stranded at the North Pole, they cover the worst marks. Since they’re so close, they can perfectly read every expression, every reaction, and what I try to hide. I know all too well they’re capable of it.

“There. It’s barely noticeable now,” says Berit, applying the final strokes. She lowers the makeup brush and looks at me expectantly.

“Thanks,” I say, placing a hand on her chest and pushing her firmly away from the exit as I leave their care. It’s like she always has to block my way.

Outside, the first parents have arrived. The children are grouped into smaller clusters, while Randgrid and Iselin move among them, giving instructions. The youngest and those with the longest wait are set to draw at a table. Meanwhile, their fairy-clad overseers keep track using a unitless app. The little ones handed over to their digitally verified guardians are checked off, and those whose pickups aren’t confirmed are put on a red-code list, which steadily shrinks through relentless calls to every available number and, in some cases, social media harassment. Search parties are launched for a few missing kids. One little girl has fallen asleep under a bush, her plastic wings sticking up as the only clue, and she’s duly dragged out by her ankle. The girls storm the house in a veritable commando raid to find a small group playing hide-and-seek.

“You’re amazing. An entire cosplay event organized practically single-handedly. The kids are thrilled and will have memories for life. How do you do it?”

It’s one of the mothers addressing Randgrid, holding a ten-year-old and a five-year-old by each hand.

“Oh, the world bows to a firm female hand. Besides, I’ve had great help from Iselin and my girls. The secret is delegating responsibility by age. The medium-sized ones look after the little ones, and we big ones look after everyone.”

“I’ll remember that,” says the admiring mother, heading off. The ranks of the winged ones thin out, and afternoon turns to early evening. An alcoholic artist dad, with messy hair sticking out in all directions, is one of the last to arrive. He’s full of apologies, as bad men often are. The final parade of winged ones is now leaving through our fortress gate. Let there be no doubt—it’s a fortress gate. In these times, you can’t settle for less.

“Some of the fairies want to magic away an elf,” says a passing girl to her mother, “and some want to give him their fairy dust!”

“I sincerely hope not,” says the mother.

The garden door closes silently behind them. All that remains is a digital display flashing confirmations in a sequence of colors, then the colors fall silent too.

Is this a remnant of the Norwegian trust society I’ve seen? For all these parents know, we could be a pedophile cult. No, the Norwegian trust society vanished about sixty years ago, when mass immigration destroyed every neighborhood and village, leaving only small ethnic enclaves you have to work to maintain, like this one. Even then, no one trusts anyone anymore. Fellow humans have become adversaries, a source of insecurity. Everywhere, there could be informants who’d turn you over to an increasingly arbitrary police or even the psych ward, just for having an unconventional opinion. Or terrorists, or someone out to steal the last blonde girls. Randgrid. This is Randgrid’s doing.

She and Iselin, by the way, have found their own fur-clad seats up in the pavilion in the middle of the garden. When did they get there? They look almost like Viking queens. Before them is a group of small subjects making an earnest plea, led by Randgrid’s niece and her posse. They are to sleep over at the house.

“Can we sleep with our wings on, Aunt? Please!”

“Girls, we’ve talked about this. You can’t be dressed as fairies all the time.”

“Let us, Aunt. Then we’ll be good forever!” say the little fairies, taking a few more pleading steps toward their queen. The smallest one comes even closer, giving the kind of appeal only blonde curls and big round blue eyes can deliver. “Please, Aunt.”

She holds out longer than I would have.

“Alright, fine. But you have to promise…”

“YAAAY!” cheers the collective, throwing themselves into each other’s arms.

In the distance, I see Kajsa. She’s sitting alone on a swing, swaying thoughtfully back and forth. Since I’m into blondes of the slightly older variety, I’m about to head her way when I realize a magic wand has sprouted between my legs.

“Where are you going, mister? You’re helping with bedtime. Best you learn some caregiving before you become a father,” says Randgrid. She slowly withdraws the wand.

“Sounds like a good idea,” says Iselin. “We’re responsible for our budding powerhouse here!”

“Exactly!” says Randgrid.

The decision has been made from on high. I look longingly toward Kajsa’s ivy-clad swing, but I follow the flock of little heads and their guardian.

It’s worrisome, in many ways, to handle kids. I don’t know how much to instruct or how much to physically move their little bodies. It all seems to have a rhythm I never quite master. Once, I tried herding sheep. It was similar. Whether you approached the animals slowly or quickly depended entirely on the situation and the specific pair of animals. Kids, though, are a lot more cunning than sheep.

“Don’t tell Aunt I took the lid off the candy bowl,” says one of the smallest, sharing a piece of candy with me. We’ve ended up at the origin of all conspiracies.

Eventually, the kids have brushed their teeth, taken off their ballet dresses, removed their wings, put on their nightgowns, and put their wings back on. Randgrid has to give the same assurances over and over, even to the older ones. Yes, the light will be off. Yes, the door can stay ajar if they want. No, they can’t come out unless it’s very important. No, there are no monsters about. She has to restart the same bedtime ritual multiple times but seems to have endless patience. Each child gets their own room because, well… we’re wealthy. A faint orange light in the ceiling would tell an adult the room is fully monitored with AI and a direct link, adjusting their behavior accordingly. The kids are too young to recognize what the light is. It keeps monsters away, they’ve been told, which is true.

Only the candy-sharing kid is left. She’s the one who pleaded so sweetly with her blue eyes, ensuring she and her co-conspirators can now lie on the sheets with their wings spread beneath them.

“What’s his name?” she says, pointing at me with a chubby little hand.

“His name is Øyvind.”

“Is he my uncle?”

“No, he’s just a friend.”

“But I want him to be my uncle.”

“Then he is, of course.”

I go to the bed and take the little one’s hand.

“Hi, Uncle Øyvind,” she says. Then she turns to Randgrid. “Aunt, why do we have to take off our wings, really?”

“It only seems like you take them off.”

“It does?”

“Yes, because once the wings have been on, they can never be taken off. They’ve just become invisible.”

“Do you think I should always walk around with invisible wings, Aunt?”

“Yes, my child. I do.”

“Aunt… why are you crying?”

“Because… I’m so happy you’ve got your wings.”

I’m not emotional, but I’m sensitive, and I’m the one who feels the scene’s piercing pain most of all, feeling it in my body. Randgrid bends down, takes the child in her arms, and sobs loudly now.

“Don’t be sad, Aunt.”

She smiles and showers the child’s forehead with kisses. Then it’s my turn.

“May your world always be made of gold, little one. As golden as the curls on your head.” I grow thoughtful and close my eyes. “And may you be the birthmother of the new race to come.” I kiss her cool forehead. Together, Randgrid and I wipe the kid clean of snot and tears. The door closes softly behind us.

“I recognize that kind of talk,” she says in the hallway.

“It’s just poetry.”

My hair is shoulder-length, and she grabs it. I don’t resist—I have no will to against a woman of her age and rank—so I feel my face lifted toward the ceiling.

“Are you part of an organization? Answer!”

“No.”

Even the most formidable women have a lesser intellect than one who carries Apollo’s light, but I don’t want to underestimate her anymore.

“I figured it all out myself. Read my way to it.”

“Do you have weapons?”

“Just knives.”

“Do the authorities know about you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I discussed this intellectually on a personal podcast.”

“That was stupid of you.”

She lets go of my hair and walks on.