The Garden of Light and Darkness - part 5

A feeling of well-being and deep peace washes over me. The warmth of the divine drink dulls my senses to the world’s pain, and after the outburst, I’ve found calm. I catch myself closing my eyes and smiling. My female companion speaks casually. The kids must be exhausted, so hopefully, we’ll be left alone by the little night owls. Every now and then, a curious face pops up. The girls are probably wondering what we’re up to. Curiosity is a sign of intelligence, and I can appreciate that. I notice I’m growing fonder of their wild bunch, a boundless love swelling from my body and reaching out. A reverence for all that lives. A will toward goodness. I’d give each of them everything if I could. There are two Vedic virtues: universal love and non-reactivity. That’s what I want to be. That’s where I’m headed.

“Is it Øyvind or Light Elf I should call you?”

It’s Randgrid addressing me. A jolt of joy shoots through my body. Imagine, she wants to talk. To me.

“Tonight, you can call me Light Elf, but on a regular day, Øyvind works just fine.”

“Alright. And what does Mr. Light Elf do with his days?”

“The only things I do are write and train.” A pause and a swig from the mug. “And drink.”

“He’s got a strict regimen when it comes to diet,” my mother chimes in.

“Discipline. Exercise. Oblivion. Interesting.”

“I do it to shed myself. What about you, fairy godmother?”

“Where you write, I read. When I’m not caught up in my professional life or certain other… purposes.”

I ask her who her favorite author is, to get a better sense of what I’m dealing with.

“My heart beats for Kjell Askildsen. I’d marry him if it were up to me.”

Never heard of him. She explains he’s an old Norwegian author, active before the war broke out between the USA and China. Known for his sparse, sober short stories, aiming for the big themes in life.

“He sounds like my polar opposite.”

“How so?”

“The only genres I haven’t touched are short stories and formal verse. For the latter, I don’t have the head, and for the former… well, my soul is pagan. I’m fundamentally opulent and sensual. In art, I’m a bit of a savage, and I like doing things without any reason. So I’m wordy, chaotic, and I despise life’s big questions. A moth or a shrew makes more sense. Can I recite a verse?”

She pauses, then suddenly says, “Go!”

Shocked by this feminine encouragement, I pull something from memory: “It's true. Chaos is the only thing I care about. I'm a servant of chaos. The endless wheeling colors. The tumbling of stars. May it be so that my life can be born again. Through chaos's sweet storm.”

The ending hits hard. The words have torn something open in me. I hide my face in my hands and cry. The mug between my legs drips. The two women glance at each other, and my mother stands up. She cradles my head, kissing it, rocking me back and forth.

“We’re dealing with someone very sensitive here,” she says. “My little Lord Byron.”

More kisses rain down on me, but they come far too late. Time and its contents can’t be reclaimed by any army.

“I guess this means Randgrid won’t marry me,” I say, smiling weakly.

“Oh, that’s not ruled out!” The courted, though it happened pathetically, leans back in her seat. “So you’re saying my taste means I have a Christian soul?”

“No, for God’s sake, sorry, I mean Lord Odin. I’d never insult you like that.”

“But it’s a logical conclusion from what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“You could like this Askild for reasons other than Christian drivel.”

Randgrid puts her hand under her chin, and for the first time, I see a real big smile spread across her face.

“Maybe so.”

My mother’s about to pat me and rub my nose when one of the little fairies shows up. This one’s dressed in a pink gown, sporting delicate fabric wings and a butterfly-like mask over her eyes. She looks a bit confused staring down at me, but then she turns to Randgrid, who raises her dragon-shaped glass to her lips.

“Can we have some too?”

“Hmm. Let me think. No.”

“But he gets to! That’s unfair!”

“You girls are minors and in my care. It’s completely out of the question for me, your guardian, to give you a single drop. Even if you grew a butterfly snout on that little face of yours!”

“Ha-ha. So funny. We know he’s a minor too. So it’s still unfair. Maybe we should report it as gender discrimination.”

“Report denied from the highest authority. Our bright friend is in Iselin’s care. That means she decides what he can and can’t do.” At the mention of her name, my mother rises from the embrace and heads back to her seat, giving my hair a final ruffle. “You girls are in my care, and that means I decide for you. Got it?”

“This is stupid. You’re having fun, and we get nothing. Un-fair!”

“Want me to whack you on the head with my magic wand?”

“No!”

“Then get out of here!”

The pink fairy takes off running. In this other world, the threat of a magic wand must be one of the scariest things around. That, and having your wings confiscated.

“Tough luck, you little fool!” I call out as she scurries away. The pink fairy turns while running, eyes closed, sticking out her tongue as boldly as possible. That’s one way to put it. We privileged ones keep drinking. Randgrid and Iselin pick up their conversation. It’s hard for me to follow, structured by some kind of female logic I just don’t get. How did they figure out my age? I haven’t seen them quiz Iselin about it, and Randgrid would’ve had reason to keep quiet, now that I’m drinking. And since I’ve got access to money—real money—I’ve used some of it to scrub myself from the internet. All my past mistakes have to go. I remember the ad I saw:

You know the feeling. You’ve just brewed your first morning coffee. And then… The person strolls around in a bathrobe with a smug grin, holding a steaming mug, and opens the front door. There stands a crazed figure raising a gun. “I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” The smile vanishes, and the frame freezes. This could’ve been avoided. No more jealous exes. No more political enemies, no more patients fresh off the psych ward. All you need is a call to FJERNMEG.no. We erase all traces from the internet, ethernet, darknet, and undernet. Don’t worry. We handle the legal stuff. The image returns to the man with his raised coffee mug. He takes the first sip. A satisfied “Ah!” In the background, a hysterical scream and a gunshot. The ad ends with the sound of a body hitting the floor.

What bugged me most was a blog post and a reaction video, though I made plenty of enemies back when I was active. The blog post went like this: Light Elf: Fascist, racist, or Nazi? A thorough analysis of his ideology, by Faktaopplysningen.no in collaboration with the state broadcaster. The reaction video was a montage of clips from my speeches at the worst possible moments, AI-edited. Every involuntary grimace, every hesitant pause, every bad or unlucky phrase, and anything that could be misconstrued was exploited to the max. The commentator concluded: He’s sick. He’s SIIIICK!

It’s weird. Most people would get pretty sweaty balls if they started getting phone calls, digital letters from lawyers, even video messages set in a packed conference room with experts. If that’s not enough, the threat of a civil lawsuit that could bankrupt you for life looms on the horizon, and all you need to do to escape is take down your content. Everyone, even the lunatics, chooses to pull their stuff. I’m scrubbed. I’m free. Soon, I’ll be forgotten by the denizens of Kali Yuga. With that, my new life has begun. All thanks to my mother and her generosity and wealth. Without her, I’d be nothing. A despised outcast on minimum wage in some hellhole. Instead, I’m sitting in this garden, and I don’t know who I love most here—Randgrid, one of the girls, or maybe just the possibilities for my own emotions’ sake. Well, not my mother, anyway. The gulf between us will always be there, and she knows it. That said, I still appreciate her money and the salvation it represents. It came, not from a man, but a woman. I appreciate her strength.

The girls eventually drift to the garden and out into the wistful evening air. Every nook and cranny of the house has probably been explored by nosy noses, curious eyes, and probing fingers. Now they chase each other with shrill squeals, following flapping fabric wings and flowing hair with outstretched hands or spraying water from water guns. Some even take to the rows of apple trees. They hoist themselves up by their arms, and once high enough, swing their legs over the branches to roll into place, just like I used to climb. So it’s not just boys who do this. It’s a work of introspective sensuality just to watch them and have their play and chaos around me. So this is how the Roman emperors felt. Not just them—an elite in a conquered, enslaved world. A primal memory of a golden age awakens. This is how we were always meant to live. A father in wealth watching his daughters, a brother watching his sisters, or a suitor and his bride. Life can be good, and honestly, I don’t think I can rise much higher. This is me, young. This is me with all my potential, which will eventually be bent inward by the iron shackles of choice and chance. A golden age is always new and free from conditions. Rivers of honey and fields of grain growing on their own. This is me, right here, with everything I desire in life.

By the way, the ladies are having a laughing fit more intense than usual. Well, they’re pretty deep in the honey now. Again and again, they dip their glasses into the bowl, bringing them up brimming. Luckily, I don’t have to serve them. I’m not that much of a servant, and I’ve taken a few refills myself to keep up.

“What’s so funny?” I ask as their giggles climb to new heights. An orange stripe appears before one eye, showing a brief text exchange:

Randgrid Nøtterøy:

Moving soon?

Birger Nøtterøy:

Am I?

The orange stripe vanishes. Randgrid’s a driven woman, they say. She gets things done and helps everyone in and out of her circle. The downside is she comes off a bit autocratic. This time, her nephew was the victim. She thought he was moving and offered to help, and he was ready to up and relocate on the spot.

“That’s gotta be the least manly moment in world history!” I blurt out. The ladies more or less agree, and I laugh with them, overwhelmed by the thought. First, I hide my face, then the shaking running through my body makes me tip my head back. Well, it can’t have been easy for him. Probably easy to fall into a trap like that with her.

“Least manly…! Ha ha ha!”

One of the fairies pops into view. White-clad, with white wings and a pair of goat horns on her head. She’s pumping up a water gun to the max. The nozzle aims at me point-blank. Just as I’m about to say something, a cascade of water explodes over my face. I’m too stunned to defend myself and fall back laughing. The fairy relentlessly follows, pumping to keep the stream going until the tank’s empty. She’s got some killer instincts, staring at me now with the gun raised.

“Didn’t think I needed a bath, but…” I gasp, still on my back. “Was there anything else?”

“It’s the age of Aquarius, and I’m the Capricorn heralding my distant kin,” she says, marching off.

“Alright then,” I mumble, taking another swig once I’m upright. Must be some New Age talk. Weird, since women don’t usually get into that stuff until they’re older. Someone’s been influencing her. Doesn’t surprise me one bit that Iselin and Randgrid didn’t lift a finger to defend me. They chuckle at my soaking for a bit, then carry on with their conversation as I keep drinking and refilling my glass.

The buzz is getting heavy, but my head’s got plenty of levels for haze and drunkenness, and my stomach’s got chambers for hunger. I’m a Viking hero, after all, and the horniest bastard alive, open to any sensation. After a while, I feel sharp nails digging into my arm. When I lift my bleary eyes, a face is right up against mine. She’s still got faint claw marks on her face. It’s the one Kajsa was fighting with over a soap bubble. Line, her name is, I dig out of a foggy memory. Her voice comes in a hissing whisper as I, dripping wet, lift a strand of hair from my ear.

“Don’t tell the others. You have to come.”

I stumble to my feet, legs numb from being crossed so long, and follow her. The ladies don’t seem to notice. A worry’s already taking root. It could be serious. I haven’t seen Kajsa or Berit out among their winged sisters.