The Garden of Light and Darkness - part 3

*Sparkling water is often understood as champagne in Norway

The cleanup is underway. In the branches of the bushes, I find some torn pink fabric strips. In the grass lies a white pair of underwear. It’s a reminder that the children’s world is marked by a savagery at least as great as that of adults. I manage to clear away all this, along with some toys scattered around, while the clattering and banging from the kitchen signals the teenage girls shuttling back and forth. Eventually, I’m told to bring in all the colorful plastic plates and cups used for cake and juice and put them in the dishwasher on a quick wash with low heat.

“It’s just sugar and drool. We can handle that,” says my mother. She pauses. “Has someone hit you?”

She grabs me and turns my head from side to side, inspecting me closely.

“Just girl problems.”

The truth is, I don’t trust her love, which is only natural after she abandoned me the first time. At best, I trust she’ll act properly. Did she just figure this out, or has she been talking to her formidable friend and is using it as an excuse to show her so-called care?

“Yeah, you could say that. Who?”

“Redhead.” There’s only one around here, so she knows who I mean.

I give her the whole story, except for the details about nudity... and my interest in Kajsa. Berit challenged my lineage, and I didn’t take it well. That was enough for a violent clash.

“Well, that explains a lot. Did you know your aunt was a redhead and knocked your father out cold over an insult with a single punch?”

“That sounds… crazy.”

“Doesn’t it? You probably got off easier than he did, so that’s progress in the family.”

I’d love to hear that story in detail when we’re alone and have more time.

“She tested you, and you failed spectacularly. Here’s some advice, son. Always stay non-reactive with women. It works on everyone.” Suddenly, she flicks me on the tip of my nose. “Except me. Because I’m your mother.”

“I’ve figured that much out,” I say, rubbing my nose, still a bit shocked by the sudden move.

“Who knows. Maybe you’ll get more chances with your aunt’s successor. No one can doubt you’ve got her blood boiling.”

More chances for more punches, no doubt.

I sweep the children’s cutlery off the row of garden tables that have been put together, toss it clattering into the dishwasher, and start it. A giant glass punch bowl, which probably held dozens of liters of juice today, I’ve been told to leave on the table. Outside, Randgrid stretches her arms toward my mother.

“No way, girl! I think it’s high time for some adult juice!”

“We’ve earned it a hundred times over!” says Iselin.

When I can get a word in, I ask if I can have some too.

“I’m a liberal mother.”

“Nonsense! You’re a libertine mother.”

“Shush!”

They’ve descended into their own form of savagery or even psychosis, now that they can release the energy they’ve quietly built up all day, and I’m too slow to grasp what’s happening and guard myself properly. Unwittingly, I’ve come too close to Randgrid’s Viking queen throne. Suddenly, she grabs me and presses my head down onto the reindeer hide surface. Before I realize what’s happening, she plants her backside on my head, sitting with her full weight.

“Ow… what is… OW!”

“Be quiet, or it’ll only get worse!”

It hurts terribly; I’m completely pinned and can barely breathe.

“I’m establishing the pecking order.”

“Yeah, what’s the pecking order?” I hear Iselin say.

I stop struggling when I realize I can’t escape and that no one, not even my closest family, will defend me. Instead, I try to endure what’s happening. The smell of animal hide and Randgrid’s heavy presence overwhelms and numbs all my senses. Meanwhile, they recite a kind of chant.

“The woman is above the man, the adult above the child, and the elder, who has become a child again. No one can do everything, but everyone can do much. The big child helps the little child, the youth helps both. Doubly subordinate is the young man before a woman.”

Randgrid rocks her backside to the rhythm of the words, pressing extra hard at the end. “Right?”

I manage only a half-choked scream.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“H-Help.”

Her backside lifts just as quickly, and a hefty slap on my rear sends me sprawling onto the floor, where I lie confused and warm-eared. They laugh at me together for a while.

“That was an old witch’s verse from Bjørgvin in 1323. Welcome to the real world,” she says.

“Command him now,” says my mother.

“Get up.”

I stand, eyeing with concern as Randgrid raises her magic wand. The light inside it begins to glow white.

“As mighty fairy godmother, and in the name of all fairies and the world’s weave, I command you…!” She glances at Iselin. “Yeah, what do I command?”

“You command him to make the recipe.”

“Yes! The recipe!”

“It shall be honey brew. Half of it in the bowl to its brim,” she says, nodding toward the punch bowl. The wand bobs up and down with each word, emitting tiny Hiroshima-like detonations from within as it glimmers. “The other half shall be sparkling water of good quality. Then cut nine limes and one cucumber and add them to the brew. Stir well and bring the brew to my feet.”

“Yes, mighty fairy godmother,” I say with a bow.

“Wash the bowl thoroughly first,” says my mother. “First with hot water, then cold, and dry it. Also, bring honorable glasses for each of us.”

“Very well.”

“And bring a cup for yourself too. I’m libertine, after all.”

“Giiiirl!” squeals Randgrid.

I hurry off before something truly bad happens. After some distance, I remember I need the punch bowl and make a wide circle to retrieve it.

The dishwasher is still glowing, I notice as I leave the bowl in the kitchen. Like all quality appliances, it’s completely silent. In the large living room, I head to the grand, closed cabinet, all while being watched by curious faces. Their curiosity only grows when a flash of light confirms my eyes have been scanned, and the bar cabinet silently slides open in sections, revealing the impressive assortment inside, each in its own compartment: wine, dark spirits, vodka, specialty drinks, liqueurs, and mixers, all neatly arranged.

“This isn’t for little or slightly bigger girls,” I say with my back turned. “If I find even a single drop missing, I’ll make sure it’s as moonlit as you’ve never seen before.”

“Um… are you threatening us?”

“Of course not. I’m just stating facts.”

“Do you really think we’re scared… of you?”

“I don’t care if you’re scared, only that you’ll be punished. And if I’m not enough, maybe Randgrid will have a word.”

Inwardly, I’m already grinding my teeth as the words come out. I appealed to someone else’s authority, not my own. That alone makes me look weak. Instead, I focus on the goods. Honey brew, they said. That must mean mead, so I grab five large bottles of a Danish brand and place them on the counter. Pure honey and alcohol. Very Viking. Suttung’s mead. Sparkling water, they also said. I don’t know anything but champagne, so I grab five bottles of that too, making a big dent in the stock, no matter how extensive it is. I’d prefer to make two trips, but with the fairy bandits nearby, I take all ten bottles in my arms. The bar cabinet slides shut automatically, and I turn with my haul. There, I’m confronted by a holographic old-fashioned microphone. The girls have, of course, connected to the house’s internet. How they got the password, I have no idea.

“Do you feel violent? Are you unstable? Have you had any recent suicidal thoughts?”

“All the time. Always. Not lately.”

“Do you have anything to say before the trial? We’re reporting you for very serious death threats.”

“Good luck with that.”

I push past them, memorizing what I see. There are six of them, including the green fairy who blew fairy dust in my face earlier and an especially confrontational fairy in a yellow dress. Something has given them a taste for blood, and I know they won’t let up. The yellow fairy follows me with the glowing microphone hovering in front.

“Do you have major penis complexes? What’s your relationship with your mother? Did you know you come off as unstable around others?”

I have to laugh. She’s fishing now. But I know a single moment of hesitation or uncertainty will let them storm the breach they’ve found and exploit it fully.

“Why do you have hair like a girl, anyway?”

“Because I like it that way.”

“Are you gay?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why do you talk so academically? Are you full of yourself? Are you compensating?”

“It’s a logical possibility that I am.”

Finally, I set the bottles down with a groan and start cleaning the children’s punch bowl. Rinse with hot water first. Scrub. Rinse with cold water. Dry. Meanwhile, my pursuers take seats on the center counter behind me. They dangle their legs in rhythm and comment on my every action in the form of a song.

“Careful there! He’s so clumsy! The bowl might shatter into a thousand pieces!” their cheeky tune goes.

The yellow fairy abandons her singing perch among her chirping kin and swings past my shoulder with her whole body as the bowl is dried and I’m standing there pouring two bottles of mead at a time.

“Are you sure you’re doing it right? Need help?”

“Only if I need to dip your butt in the bowl to make it taste better.”

“Are you going to rape me?”

The holo-microphone moves toward my face.

“No.”

I loosen the wires on the first champagne bottle and shake it like my life depends on it. The cork is about to pop. A sudden impulse makes me aim the spout at the yellow fairy’s stomach. She pales and backs away. At the last moment, I shift the bottle aside. The pop sends the cork flying past her face. Splashing liquid hits the floor as she spins with a scream and hides behind the counter.

“You’re a psychopath! People have lost eyes over less!”

“If you want a taste, you can lick it off the floor,” I grin.

I turn to pour the champagne into the honey pool. The singing behind me has been silenced. I grab and shake another bottle. This time, I clear the whole counter. With a commotion, they scramble to get away, diving in all directions. They duck under the countertop as the pop whizzes just over their heads. It’s a comical sight to see five worried faces pop up on the other side, their fingers gripping the edge, daring only to show their little noses.

Now I’m the one with blood in my teeth. When the next bottle is ready to pop, I appear on their side and send them into a headlong flight. One girl, the one with the colorful hair clips, is too slow to escape and gets hit in the butt by the cork.

“Ow!” she complains.

I chase them like this for a while, mostly seeing flapping and fluttering wings in their flight, stopping only to pour the contents into the bowl. I’d love to hit the silver crown of the most prominent girl, but I don’t dare shoot that close to her face. It’s too risky. You have to stop while the game is good. Eventually, I run out of this one alpha card I had, and the girls reclaim their spots on the counter. Their singing takes a new turn. Now they’re not criticizing my actions, at least.

“He’s an idiot,” they sing in rhythm, swinging their legs. “For he doesn’t know where he is, nor who we are, nor what power we serve!”

Nine limes are sliced, and a cucumber is shaved with a cheese slicer. Everything goes into the bowl, floating in the fizzing golden drink. With a large ladle, I stir, like a troll mother over her cauldron. The swirling pool is almost hypnotizing. It looks like liquid gold.

“Twelve in number are we. Add our consort, and we are thirteen. A great number for the great fairy order!”

It’s a strange song to listen to.

“The hour of fate shall reach its peak, and after, he will never be the same. No, not the same! The weave will change. Where there were tears, joy will come. Where joy now is, all shall turn to tears. Who can say what good it brings!”

“You’ve plagued me long enough,” I say. In a corner, I spot a carpet beater and grab it.

“What will you do! What will you do!” they sing.

I slam the carpet beater demonstratively onto the counter. Suddenly, it breaks into pieces in my hands, parts flying everywhere. The songbirds vanish with a squealing cheer, and in the trail of chirping laughter they leave behind, with light and chaotic footsteps, I can only conclude they’ve decided to move elsewhere with their cheeky beaks and strange song.

The soundtrack of having a garden full of lolitas and colorful songbirds (the same)