The Garden of Light and Darkness - part 4

It was hard to carry ten bottles. Moving the punch bowl seems even harder. I make a quick estimate in my head. 7.5 deciliters times ten equals 7.5 liters sloshing around down there with every step, minus the soda that spilled on the floor. Guess who’s standing in the way at the veranda door.

“Move, will you!”

A mix of surprise and anger flashes in Berit’s eyes. She steps aside.

“Uh… could you open the door for me?”

In this awkward moment, she hurries over and swings the veranda door open to the evening air outside.

“Thanks,” I say as I pass. But then I stop. The massive punch bowl is turned in her direction. “Listen. I need your help. It’s important. Be here when I come back.”

She opens her mouth and takes a breath.

“Please.”

“I’ll be here.”

The cool evening breeze hits me right after, and I step out onto the deck where a new danger zone awaits, filled with far more mature women. I don’t know why I do it, but an ancient spirit speaks, and another will takes over. Something dark. Something pagan. Our shared performance has become reality, because in our costumes and roles lies the truth: the outer is the same as the inner. The Catholics knew it. The Nazis knew it. Through processions, they tapped into another power. In procession, dance, and masquerade: no God, but gods. That’s why I now kneel before Randgrid, forehead to the ground, the still-fizzing bowl held out in extended hands.

“Oh mighty goddess! Your command has been fulfilled. I have braved the many snares of your maidens and brought you this offering in the form of honey’s sweet brew.”

“So charming, and I can imagine my girls are challenging. I will accept your offering on one condition.”

“Anything you desire, great fairy godmother and perilous stewardess.”

“Kiss my foot.”

I quickly turn my head toward my mother, and I know my mouth is agape, my eyes wide.

“That’s what happens when you invite tyranny in,” she says, gesturing with her finger. “You declared yourself her servant, and now you must see it through.”

Words are one thing—I love to spout them off playfully, without them necessarily meaning much. Gestures are another, which I sometimes use to get attention and reactions. But this… this is real submission through humiliation.

Randgrid slips off her medieval shoe and eagerly extends her bare foot. So I crawl forward on all fours and grasp her ankle. I press my lips to the top of her foot and kiss.

“Hi hi! And now the other foot.”

The next freed foot is wiggled forward. Trembling, I touch my lips to it.

“Properly!”

I kiss fervently. The shame is dizzying, making me collapse, powerless at her feet. In this state, I gradually notice something sweeping vigorously through my hair, and I realize what she’s taking the opportunity to do.

“Only honey-blond, ethereal elf-hair is good enough to dry my feet with!”

“Then it’s good you’ve caught yourself a real elf!” says Iselin.

Their laughter continues for a while, and it’s mocking. Randgrid rises, towering over me, her gaze burning. One foot rests on a coil of my hair. The other is placed at the base of my neck, pressing hard.

“Is there going to be any rebellion?”

“N-no.”

“Is there?”

“No.”

She bends down. Her fingers greedily stroke through my hair, pulling my head back. Her lips find their way to my ear. The scent of perfume from her cleavage is right there, making my cheeks flush with a warmth I didn’t know they could hold.

“I know your kind. I know what you need. And I will do things to you that you’ve never dreamed of!”

My head is rocked back and forth. Her fingers close around my throat, but without squeezing. It doesn’t matter. I’m helpless. All resistance drained from my body somewhere at the start of this otherworldly process.

“Now, say thank you!”

“T-t-thank you.”

“Accepted. You can think about this when you go fetch our honorable glasses. If you think I’m a lot now, just wait until the divine drink drives me to the madness of the night!”

I’m released, like a frightened animal set free. And like a creature that’s been in captivity, it takes me a moment to understand my freedom and that I can run.

Fortunately, Berit is there, as she said she would be. It must be said that she’s a bit startled by the way I grab her.

“You have to help me, or I’ll be utterly ruined!”

She takes a step back. “Oh?”

My arms are reassuringly stroked. “Calm down. Let’s talk about it.”

“I’m their cupbearer,” I say, nodding toward the deck. “The problem is, I don’t know who I should serve first.”

Berit raises a fiery eyebrow.

“They might take it seriously. They’re already acting like queens from the Bronze Age.”

“I saw what they did to you.”

There’s no helping it. I blush.

“You went along with it. Otherwise, that wouldn’t have happened.”

“We can discuss that later. Will you help me or not?”

“So I can’t join in the serving, so we both do it at the same time?”

“No. I’m the cupbearer, and I think they expect it to be a man. Besides, they’d see right through what we’re trying to do.”

She blinks a few times, and that’s how I know she’s a truly intelligent person.

“Well, we can go by age. Who’s the oldest?” Her probing gaze meets mine. “How old is your mother?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m bad with facts. Besides, it hasn’t been long since she picked me up. I just haven’t thought about it.”

“If I had a mother, I’d know how old she was and when she was born.”

“My mind is often preoccupied, and I can’t deal with the minutiae of the outside world when the gods are speaking.”

“Oh, really?”

“Details are for idiots.”

“Now we’re back to your fancy talk. If you want to talk to a girl—no, to people in general—you’d better stay grounded.”

“Sorry. Maybe I’m just an airhead.”

My self-deprecation shows. But every time it happens, a defiant instinct kicks in, and my gaze sharpens.

“Do you know how old Randgrid is?”

“No.”

“She’s the closest thing you have to a mother figure, if you don’t have a real mother.”

“I think it would be different with a real mother.”

“You’re probably right. But now we need to think, and think fast!”

I conjure up a holo-keyboard. A few quick searches yield nothing. Like all sensible people, they’ve scrubbed themselves from the internet.

“Do you have any photo albums?”

“Yes. In the living room.”

We both hurry there, to a set of shelves against the walls. Some of it is thick novels, which hardly anyone reads anymore. But some of the binders are long and narrow, standing upright against the wall. We pull them out and see that many have years written on them. Together, we flip through. Details are ignored. We’re only looking for the essentials to answer the question at hand: Which of these women has the highest rank? I won’t deny it—it’s painful for me to see family photos of my mother and what I assume are smiling relatives, because in all of them, I’m absent. I stand there only as a gaping void.

We flip, flip, and toss albums onto the floor. There’s no time for anything else. The ever-present, ever-watchful fairies notice something’s going on and come to us with gaping mouths and eyes that soon gleam with mischief and boldness. It’s Berit who finds a good clue. College. Texas. I walked my feet off in Texas. Iselin went to college in Texas. And after that, we find rows from the university. There it is. Their first meeting point and the foundation of their friendship. They both appear in a full-length photo, still themselves, but in youthful guise. Tight skirts. Arms around each other. Their hair shinier, their smiling faces absurdly small and compact compared to now.

Standing here with my new trainee, Randgrid. Most have been useless, but this one seems promising. I think there’s a chance things will get done. Important things. My will is indisputable. Iselin Skjærvold.

After this revealing text and full-profile picture, more follow. They’re in each other’s apartments. They’re drunk. They’re together in official settings again. So it’s true. Iselin, my mother, is Randgrid’s superior, and since she once was, she always will be. Especially to them. A power dynamic established is a power dynamic eternal. Berit looks at me with a knowing glance.

“You’re a gem!” I say and kiss her right on the forehead. “Ask anything of me, and I’ll give it.”

“Alright, handsome.”

I pass the other winged fairies on my way to the kitchen, because all girls here are winged.

“Help her put the albums back. Properly. Do it, and I’ll owe you a big favor.”

They look at me with wide eyes, and as I point to the mess left on the floor, they start fixing it. Jesus must have been a great light-wizard, because he said it: Ask, and you shall receive. That was the secret all along. All I got was what I asked for.

In the kitchen, I find the most prominent glass cabinet. At the top are two crystal wine glasses with dragon figurines. Nothing could be more perfect. On the shelf below, I find a silver cup with mythological images of the god Thor, smiting a serpent and such. That one’s for me. With these in hand, I head out to where the power is gathered, in its full might in the sanctuary of the garden.

Out there, between the two queens, I slowly lower the first dragon glass into the pool, watching it fizz as if the liquid itself acknowledges what I’m doing, and raise the sparkling golden prize above my head with both hands. The declamatory comes easily to me, perhaps because I’m some kind of troubadour type, and with my chin raised, I note that their full attention is mine. More than that, every movement I make is closely observed. Now the power rests in my hands. By submitting, I channeled my will through the world’s weave into real position and influence that matters.

“This first cup goes to the strongest and mightiest woman in this land. Her beauty is unmatched, and her wisdom indisputable. Men tremble where she sets her foot. Enemies flee where she casts her gaze. In her dwell the virtues of the hawk in female form!”

I present the raised cup. First toward Randgrid, then I abruptly turn in the opposite direction.

“ISELIN! Accept this libation and tribute. First among women! Highest among men!”

With that, I stride to my mother’s seat, kneel, and hand her the goblet. Our hands clasp together for a moment. It’s easy to see the emotions passing through her eyes, so many that it’s hard to register them all for the interpretation I always do afterward. First surprise, then pride and satisfaction. After the hunger for power passes, I understand more. That she’s grateful to me.

“Well done, son,” she says. “Maybe it’s time to increase your monthly allowance.”

I march back to the heathen bowl and retrieve the second cup. The dragon glass is lowered and raised solemnly, and I gaze into the golden, frothing madness within to find strength for my words. I spoke of power. Now I must speak of something else, for no woman likes to be compared to another.

“So to her closest and dearest friend, who has stood by her side through many years. Two decades it has been!” I swallow. “Mythical is her attire. Mysterious is the color of purple. But even deeper are the landscapes that dwell deep within her chest. She is the Fairy Godmother to twelve maidens in number.” I recall the verse for the songbirds. “Add her, and they are thirteen, a mighty and dangerous number. But as dangerous as she is, where her foot is softly placed, and where she raises her wand, sparkling with glints, dust, and stars, let the wise know this: He who does not fear the depths, he who does not flee the folds of purple, shall rest under the mighty tree within her, sprung and part of the world-tree, and he… he shall receive her gifts. Endless they are, cherished, comforting, and rich!”

I turn in every direction. Satisfied with the words, and the gods who gave them to me must be too. And if they’re satisfied, I’m satisfied. Such is my love, for only love courses through my body in this world.

“RANDGRID! You Valkyrie! You Fairy Godmother, ruling over my fate as well. Receive your prize!”

Swiftly and eagerly, I reach the second queen’s seat. There I kneel and hand her the dragon goblet. Our hands meet and clasp. Her brown cow-eyes are glistening, I see.

“You impress! Know this: every word you uttered will come true. More than you think. Stronger than you think. I like a man who’s fearless in the face of womanhood.”

“Yes, goddess,” I say and bow my head.

Now Suttung’s mead awaits me too. I deserve a prize, I think. The silver cup depicting hammering Thor is lowered and raised.

“To the Light Elf! He shines! Yes, he shines there in Skiringssal!”

For some strange reason, the women around me seem to startle, but it lasts only a moment. What scared them so? I don’t know, and I don’t care. It’s not like you’re supposed to know everything. So I tilt my head back and drain the cup in one gulp, just as Thor would have done. Then I fill it again, and again.

“I feel like dancing. I feel like a poem!”

My body grows restless. I’m already hopping and bouncing by the bowl. So this is my kind of madness. Finally, I can let the forces within me run free.

“A POEM!” both women shout.

“Let your will be done on earth, but not in heaven, for it doesn’t exist!”

So I begin to dance, leap, and spin in full wildness around the cauldron of Trollmother and Fairy Godmother both. The words above me are an old English poem I’ve memorized:

Bacchus must now his power resign—

I am the only God of Wine!

It is not fit the wretch should be

In competition set with me,

Who can drink ten times more than he.

Make a new world, ye powers divine!

Stock’d with nothing else but Wine:

Let Wine its only product be,

Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea—

And let that Wine be all for me!

I don’t care if I offend the gods. Dionysus is cool enough to handle it. It’s true, too, that I can drink endlessly. At the poem’s conclusion, I let out a howl, flip around, and catch my fall on my arms—and trust me, they’ve gotten strong lately. So I do a handstand and strut around on my hands. Carefully now, I don’t want to break the bowl and let all the merriment spill between the planks. I flip back and sit contentedly, as only an asylum inmate could. From there, I grab the cup.

“Bravo, jester and wordsmith! You entertain!”

Randgrid tosses something at me, which arcs widely and lands in my cup, splashing the contents onto my face. Once the shock passes, I see it’s a silver coin at the bottom. Etched in the metal are the outlines of a temple and runic script: ᛋᛣᛁᚱᛁᛝᛋᛋᚪᛚ. Strange stuff. I laugh.