The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 4

Cleanup has begun. In the shrub branches I find torn pink fabric strips. A pair of white panties lies in the grass—a reminder that children's worlds harbor savagery rivaling adults'. I gather these along with scattered toys while teenage girls clatter about the kitchen in busy traffic. Eventually I'm instructed to collect all colorful plastic plates and cups used for cake and juice, loading them into the dishwasher on quick wash with low heat.

"It's just sugar and drool. We can handle that much," says my mother. She pauses. "Has someone hit you?"

She seizes me, turning my head side to side for inspection.

"Girl problems, that's all."

The truth is I don't trust her love—natural after she abandoned me the first time. At most, I trust she'll behave correctly. Did she just notice this now, or has she spoken with her formidable friend and uses it as pretext to demonstrate so-called care?

"Yes, you could say that. Who?"

"Firetop." Only one fits that description here, so she understands.

I give her the full story, omitting details about nudity... and my interest in Kajsa. Berit challenged my origins, and I didn't take it well. Violence ensued.

"Well, that explains a lot. Did you know your aunt was redheaded and once knocked your father unconscious with a single blow over an insult?"

"That sounds... insane."

"Doesn't it? You probably got off lighter than he did, so that's an improvement for the bloodline."

I'd like that story explained in detail when we're alone and have more time.

"She tested you, and it was an exam you failed spectacularly. Here's some advice, son. Always be non-reactive with women. Works on all of them." Suddenly she flicks my nose. "Except me. Because I'm your mother."

"I've gathered that much by now," I say, rubbing my nose, still slightly shocked by the unexpected move.

"Who knows? Maybe you'll get more chances with your aunt's heir. At least no one can deny you've made her pulses race."

New chances for new blows, undoubtedly.

I sweep the children's cutlery from the row of joined garden tables, clattering it into the dishwasher before starting the cycle. A gigantic glass punch bowl—which must have held dozens of liters of juice today—has been left on the table per instructions. Outside, facing my mother, Randgrid stretches out her arms.

"Oh daaaaaamn, girl! I do believe it's time for some adult juice!"

"We've earned it a hundred times over!" says Iselin.

When I manage to interject, I ask if I can have some too.

"I'm a liberal mother."

"Nonsense! You're a libertine mother."

"Huuuush!"

They've descended into their own brand of wildness—perhaps even psychosis—now that they can release the energy silently accumulated all day. I'm far too slow to grasp what's happening or guard myself sufficiently. Unwittingly, I've wandered near Randgrid's Viking-queen seat. Suddenly she seizes me, forcing me down onto the reindeer hide mat. Before I comprehend what's occurring, she plants her backside on my head with full weight.

"Ow... what the... OWW!"

"Keep quiet or it'll only get worse!"

The pain is excruciating—I'm completely pinned, barely able to breathe.

"I'm now establishing the hierarchy."

"Yes, what's the hierarchy?" I hear Iselin ask.

I stop struggling once I realize escape is impossible and no one—not even my closest—will defend me. Instead, I merely endure. The smell of animal hide and Randgrid’s heavy buttocks overwhelm and paralyze all senses. Meanwhile, they chant some sort of rhyme.

"Woman stands above man, the adult above child and elder-who-has-become-child. None can do all, but all can do much. Big child helps small child, youth helps both. Doubly subjugated is the young man before woman."

Randgrid rocks her rear to the rhythm, pressing down extra hard at the end. "Well?"

All I manage is a half-strangled scream.

"Have you anything to say in your defense?"

"H-h-help."

Just as abruptly, her weight lifts, and a mighty smack on my rear sends me sprawling onto the terrace—left lying there confused and red-eared. They laugh at me together for a while.

"That was an old witch's verse from Bjørgvin, 1323. Welcome to the real world," she says.

"Command him now," says my mother.

"Rise."

I stand, watching warily as Randgrid raises her magic wand. The light in the crystal glows white.

"As mighty fairy godmother, and in the name of all fairies and the world web's name, I command thee...!" She glances at Iselin. "Yes, what do I command?"

"You command him the recipe."

"Yes! The recipe! I wouldn't mind something young and fresh."

Randgrid inhales solemnly.

"Honey brew it shall be. Half this"—she nods toward the punch bowl—"filled to the brim." The wand bobs with each word, emitting tiny Hiroshima detonations from within while flashing. "The other half shall be a good brand of sparkling wine. Then slice nine limes and one cucumber, adding them to the brew. Stir it well, and bring the brew before my feet."

"Yes, mighty fairy godmother," I say with a bow.

"Wash the bowl clean first," says my mother. "First with hot water, then cold, and dry it. You shall also bring venerable glasses for each of us."

"I understand."

"Bring a cup for yourself too. I am, after all, libertine."

"Giiiirl!" Randgrid squeals.

I hurry away before anything truly wrong happens. After some distance, I remember I need the punch bowl and make a wide circle back to retrieve it.

The dishwasher still glows, I notice as I leave the bowl in the kitchen. Like all quality products, it operates in complete silence. In the large living room, I approach the massive locked cabinet, trailed the entire time by curious eyes. Their curiosity doesn't lessen when a colored dot in my field of vision confirms my eyes have been scanned, and the liquor cabinet slides silently apart in multiple sections, revealing its formidable assortment inside, organized in dedicated sections. Wine. Dark spirits. Vodka. Specialty drinks. Liqueurs and mixers. Each has its designated place.

"This is neither for little girls nor slightly bigger ones," I say with my back turned. "If I find even a single drop missing, I'll ensure there's hell to pay like you've never experienced before."

"Umm... are you threatening us, or?"

"Of course not. I'm merely stating facts."

"Do you really think we're afraid... of you?"

"I don't care if you're afraid—only that you're punished. And if I'm not enough, perhaps Randgrid will have something to say."

Inwardly, I grit my teeth. I've appealed to another's authority, not my own. That alone makes me appear weak. Instead, I focus on the inventory. Honey brew—they must mean mead, so I find five large bottles of Danish make and place them on the counter. Pure honey and alcohol. Viking as it gets. The suckling mead. Suttung’s suckling. Sparkling wine, they said as well. I know nothing beyond champagne. So I gather five bottles of that too, making a significant dent in the reserves, extensive though they may be. Ideally, I'd make two trips, but I can't with these fairy-formed bandits nearby, so I cradle all ten bottles at once. The bar cabinet glides shut silently on its own, and I turn around with my haul—only to be confronted by the hologram of an old-fashioned microphone. The girls have obviously tapped into the house's internet line. Where they got the password eludes me.

"Do you feel violent? Are you unstable? Have you had any acute suicidal thoughts recently?"

"Constantly. Always. Not lately."

"Anything to say before the trial? We're reporting you for very serious death threats."

"Good luck with that."

I push past, mentally cataloging what I've seen. Six of them, including the green fairy who blew fairy dust in my face earlier, and a particularly confrontational fairy in a yellow dress. Something's given them a taste for it—they're not backing down. The yellow fairy approaches with the glowing microphone hovering ahead of her.

"Are you deeply insecure about your penis? What's your relationship with your mother like? Do you know you seem unstable in social settings?"

I have to laugh—she's fishing now. Yet I know a single moment of hesitation or uncertainty will lead to the breach they've found being stormed with full feminine force, exploited to the utmost.

"Why do you wear your hair like a girl, anyway?"

"Because that's how I like it."

"Are you homosexual?"

"I don't think so."

"Why do you talk so academically? Think you're better than us? Overcompensating?"

"There's a logical possibility that I am."

Finally, I set the bottles down with a groan and begin cleaning the children's drool bowl. Rinse first with hot water. Scrub. Rinse with cold. Dry. Meanwhile, my pursuers settle on the kitchen island behind me, swinging their legs rhythmically and commenting on my every action through song.

"Ooooh, careful now! He's soooo clumsy! Might break the bowl in a thousaaaaand pieces!" they sing in their cheekiest tones.

The yellow one leaves her chirping flock and swings past my shoulder with her entire torso now that the bowl is dried, while I stand juggling two bottles of mead at a time.

"Are you sure you're doing everything right? Do you need help?"

"Only if I need to dip your butt in the bowl to improve the flavor."

"Are you going to rape me?"

The hologram microphone appears and moves toward my face.

"No."

The wire hood on the first champagne bottle comes loose as I shake it like my life depends on it. The cork's about to pop. A sudden impulse makes me aim the neck at my yellow tormentor's belly. She pales and backs away. At the last second, I redirect the bottle. The explosion sends the projectile whizzing past her face. Foaming liquid hits the floor as she spins with a shriek and hides behind the kitchen island.

"You're a psychopath! People lose eyes for less!"

"If you want a taste, you can always lick it off the floor," I smirk.

I turn to pour champagne into the honey pool. The singing behind me has stopped. I grab and shake another bottle, this time clearing the entire counter. With frantic commotion, they scatter in all directions—ducking beneath the countertop moments before the cork whizzes overhead. It's comical watching five worried faces peek over the edge, fingers gripping the counter. They only dare rise to their little noses.

Now I'm the one who's gotten a taste for it. When the next pop-ready bottle is primed, I appear on their side, sending them into headlong retreat. One girl—the one with the many colorful headbands—is too slow to escape and takes the projectile right in the rear.

"Ow!" she complains.

I chase them like this for a while, mostly seeing just bobbing and waving wings in their panicked flight, stopping only to pour out the contents into the bowl. I would have preferred hitting the silver crown of the most prominent girl, but I simply don't dare shoot that close to her face. It's too risky. One must quit while the game is still fun. Eventually, I run out of the only alpha card I held, and the girls reclaim their perch on the counter. Their chiming words have taken a new turn—at least now they're no longer criticizing my actions.

"He is an idiot," they sing with the beat, swinging their legs. "For he knows not where he is, nor who we are, and which power we serve!"

Nine limes are sliced and a cucumber reduced with a cheese slicer. All goes into the bowl, floating in the bubbling golden drink. With a large ladle, I begin stirring as if I were a troll mother over her cauldron. The swirling vortex forming is almost hypnotic—it looks like liquid gold.

"Twelve in number we are. Add our consort, and we are thirteen. A great number for the Great Fey Order!"

It's a strange song to stand and listen to.

"The hour of destiny shall reach its height, and after, never shall he be the same again. No, not the same! The weave shall change. Where there were tears, joy shall come. Where joy now dwells, all shall turn to tears. Who can say what good it is!"

"You've bothered me long enough," I say. In the corner, I spot a carpet beater and seize it.

"What will you do! What will you do!" they sing. "How come you get a beating from everyone you meet?"

The carpet beater slams demonstratively onto the kitchen counter—then suddenly shatters between my hands, pieces flying everywhere. The songbirds vanish amid a shrieking cry of joy, and in the trail of chirping laughter they leave behind—carried on light and chaotic footsteps—I can only conclude that they must have decided to migrate elsewhere, with their impudent beaks and strange songs.