The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 3

Outside, the first pairs of parents have arrived. The children are divided into smaller herds while Randgrid and Iselin move between them giving instructions. The youngest and those with the longest wait are set to drawing at a table. Meanwhile their fairy-formed subordinates maintain oversight through diligent use of a device-independent app. The little ones collected by their digitally verified guardians get checked off, while children without confirmed pickup get placed on a code red list that steadily shrinks through frequent calls to all available numbers, and in some cases via social media harassment. Search efforts are initiated for a few missing children. One little tot has fallen asleep under a bush, with only her plastic wings sticking up as a clue, and gets duly dragged out by the ankle. The girls storm the house in a veritable commando operation 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 have made memories for life. How do you do it?"

It's one of the mothers addressing Randgrid, holding a seven-year-old and a five-year-old close to her side.

"Oh, the world yields to the hand of a commanding woman. Besides, I've had excellent help from Iselin and my girls. The secret lies in distributing responsibility according to age. The middle-sized ones look after the small, and we big ones look after everyone."

"I'll remember that," says the admiring mother as she heads off. Gradually the ranks of the winged ones thin, and afternoon turns to early evening. An alcoholized artist-dad with wild hair sticking out in all directions is among the last to arrive. He's full of apologies, though—bad men usually are. Truth be told, the parent gathering has been a bit too well-dressed for my liking. The final procession of winged creatures now passes through our fortress gate. Make no mistake—it is a fortress gate. These days, one can't settle for less.

"Some of the fairies want to magic away an elf," says a passing little girl to her mother. "And some want to give him their fairy dust!"

"I sincerely hope not," replies the mother.

The garden door closes soundlessly behind them. All that remains is a digital display blinking confirmation in a sequence of colors—and then even the colors fall silent.

Was that a remnant of Norwegian trust society I just witnessed? For all these parents know, we could be a pedophile cult. No—the Norwegian trust society vanished about sixty years ago when mass immigration crushed every neighborhood and village, leaving only small ethnic pockets like this one that require constant effort to maintain. And even then, no one trusts anyone anymore. Fellow humans have become adversaries—a source of insecurity. Informants could be anywhere, ready to turn you over to an increasingly arbitrary police force or even psychiatry simply for holding unconventional views. Or there could be terrorists. Or those who'd steal the last blonde little girls. Randgrid. All of this is Randgrid’s doing.

She and Iselin, by the way, have found fur-clad seats for themselves up on the pavilion in the garden's center. When did they get there? They look almost like Viking queens. Before them stands a group of small subjects making an earnest appeal—Randgrid's nieces and their accompanying flock. They'll be staying overnight in the house.

"Can we sleep with our wings on, Auntie? Please!"

"Girls, we've discussed this. You can't stay in fairy costumes all the time."

"Let us do it, Auntie. Then we'll be good forever!" plead the little fairies, taking a few more steps toward their queen. The smallest of them skips even closer, making an appeal only blond curls and round blue eyes can deliver. "Please, Auntie."

To her credit, she holds out longer than I would have.

"Very well, then. But you must promi—"

"YAAAAAY!" cheers a united collective as they throw themselves into each other's arms.

In the distance I spot Kajsa. She sits alone on a swing, rocking thoughtfully back and forth. Since I have an interest in blondes of the somewhat older variety, I'm about to head her way when I realize a magic wand has sprouted between my legs.

"And where do you think you're going, mister? You're on bedtime duty. Best you learn some caregiving before you become a father yourself," says Randgrid, only slowly retracting the wand.

"That sounds like an excellent idea," says Iselin. "Here we tend to our emerging power!"

"Precisely and exactly!" Randgrid affirms.

The decision has come from the highest authority. I cast one longing glance toward Kajsa's ivy-framed swing but follow the procession of small heads and their guardian.

Handling children is worrying in many ways. I never know how much to instruct versus how much to physically move their little bodies. The whole process has a rhythm I've never truly mastered. Back in the day I tried sheepherding—it felt pretty much the same. Whether you approached the animals slowly or quickly depended entirely on the situation and exactly which pair of sheep you were dealing with. Though children are considerably more cunning than sheep.

"Don't tell Auntie I took from the candy bowl," whispers one of the smallest as she shares a piece of candy. We've ended up at the birthplace of all conspiracies.

Eventually the children brush their teeth, remove their wings, take off ballet skirts, put on nightgowns, and put the wings back on. Randgrid must repeat the same assurances over and over, even to the oldest. Yes, the lights 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 restarts the same process and bedtime ritual from scratch multiple times but seems possessed of endless patience. Each child gets their own room because, well... we're wealthy. The faint orange ceiling light would tell any adult the room is under total AI surveillance with a direct link, advising them to behave accordingly. The children are too young to recognize what the light signifies. They've been told it keeps monsters away—which is true.

Only the candy-sharing little girl remains—the one who pleaded so sweetly with her blue eyes, securing permission for herself and her coconspirators to now lie on their sheets with wings spread beneath them.

"What's his name?" she asks, pointing at me with a chubby child's hand.

"His name is Øyvind."

"Is he my uncle?"

"No, he's just a friend."

"But I want him to be my uncle."

"Then of course he is."

I approach the bed and take the little one's hand.

"Hi, Uncle Øyvind," she says before turning to Randgrid. "Auntie, why do we have to take our wings off anyway?"

"It only seems like you're taking them off."

"Does it?"

"Yes, because once wings have been worn, they can never be removed. They've just become invisible."

"Do you think I should always walk around with invisible wings, Auntie?"

"Yes, my child. I do think so."

"Auntie... why are you crying?"

"Because... I'm so happy you've gotten your wings."

I'm not emotional, but I am sensitive—and it’s me, more than anyone, who feels this scene of piercing pain most acutely, sensing it in my very body. Randgrid bends down, gathers the child in her arms, and begins sobbing loudly.

"Don't be sad, Auntie."

She smiles and covers the child's forehead with kisses. Eventually it's my turn.

"May your world always be made of gold, little one. As golden as the curls upon your head." I grow pensive and close my eyes. "And may you become the ancestral mother of the new race to come." I kiss the cool forehead. Together, Randgrid and I wipe away the child's 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 reaches far past my shoulders, and she grabs a handful. I don't resist—I have no will to oppose a woman of her age and rank—so I find my face tilted upward toward the ceiling.

"Are you part of an organization? Answer!"

"No."

Even the most formidable women possess intellect inferior to the one who bears Apollo's light, though now I wish to underestimate her no further.

"I arrived at all this myself. Read my way to it."

"Do you have weapons?"

"Just knives."

"You've fought at least," she says, noting my wounds. "Do the authorities know about you?"

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

"That was foolish of you."

She releases my hair and moves on.