The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 5

Carrying ten bottles was difficult. Moving the punch bowl seems harder. I make a quick mental estimate: 7.5 deciliters times ten equals 7.5 liters sloshing with each step, minus the sparkling wine spilled on the floor. Guess who's blocking the veranda door.

"Well move, then!"

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

"Umm... could you open it for me?"

In this awkward moment, she rushes forward 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 swings toward her. "Listen. I need your help. It's important. Be here when I return."

She opens her mouth and inhales.

"Please."

"I'll be here."

The cool evening breeze hits me the moment I step onto the deck, where a new danger zone of much older women awaits. I don't know why I'm doing this, but an ancient spirit is speaking and another will has taken control. Something obscure. Something pagan. Our shared performance has become reality, for 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 procession they gained access to another kind of power. In procession, dance, and masquerade: No God, but the gods. That's why I now kneel before Randgrid, forehead to the ground, the still-fizzing bowl held out in my outstretched hands.

"O mighty goddess! Your command has been fulfilled. I've braved your handmaidens' many snares and brought you this offering of honey's sweet brew."

"How charming, and I can imagine my girls were challenging. I'll accept your offering—on one condition."

"Anything you wish, great fairy godmother and dangerous stewardess."

"Kiss my foot."

I quickly turn my head toward my mother, knowing my mouth hangs open and eyes are wide.

"This is what happens when you invite tyranny in," she says with a finger-swipe. "You declared yourself her servant, now you must see it through."

Words are one thing—phrases I like to spout as playful banter without deeper meaning—and gestures another, sometimes made for attention and reactions. But this... is true submission through humiliation.

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

"Teehee! And now the other foot."

The next liberated foot wiggles forth. Trembling, I bestow it my lips' touch.

"Properly!"

I kiss fervently. The shame is dizzying, making me collapse powerless at her feet. In this state, I eventually perceive something sweeping forcefully through my hair and understand what opportunity she's seized.

"Only honey-blond and ethereally light elven hair is worthy of drying my feet upon!"

"Good thing you've caught yourself a real elf then!" says Iselin.

Their mocking laughter continues awhile. Randgrid rises, regal, her gaze burning. One foot stands upon a coil of hair. The other plants at my nape, pressing down hard.

"Shall there be rebellion?"

"N-no."

"Shall there?"

"No."

She bends down. Fingers greedily stroke into place through hair, yanking my head back. Lips find their way to my ear. The perfume scent from her cleavage is right there, making my cheeks flush with heat I didn't know they possessed.

"I know your kind. I know what you need. And I'll do things to you beyond your wildest dreams!"

My head rocks back and forth. Fingers close around my throat without squeezing. It means nothing. I'm helpless. All resistance left my body somewhere at the start of this uncanny process.

"Now, say thank you!"

"Th-thank you."

"Accepted. Remember this when fetching our honourable glasses. If you think I'm intense now, just wait until the god-drink drives me to tonight's madness!"

I'm released, somewhat like startled game let loose. And like a captive animal, it takes me time to comprehend my freed state—that I can run.

Fortunately, Berit is there, just as she said she would be. It should be said that she is a little taken aback by the way I grab hold of her.

"You must help me, or I'll get ass-reamed big time!"

She steps back. "Oh?" My arms are stroked reassuringly. “Calm down. Let’s talk about it."

"I'm their cupbearer," I say, nodding toward the garden deck. "Problem is, I don't know who to serve first."

Berit raises a fiery eyebrow.

"They take it seriously. Already acting like Bronze Age queens."

"I saw what they did to you."

No helping it—I blush.

"You were complicit. Otherwise it wouldn't have happened."

"That we can discuss later. Will you help me or not?"

"So I can't join in serving, so we both do it at the same time?"

"No. I'm the cupbearer, and I think they demand it be a man. Besides, they'd see right through what we're trying to do."

She blinks several times, and it's in this way I understand she's a truly intelligent person.

"Well, we can do it by age. Who's the oldest among them?" An inquiring look meets me. "How old is your mother?"

"I... I don't know."

"Seriously?"

"I'm weak on factual details. Besides, it wasn't long ago she picked me up. I simply 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 attend to mundane details from the outer world when the gods are speaking."

"Oh...?"

"Details are for idiots."

"Now we're back to convoluted nonsense again. If you want to talk to a girl—no, to people at all—you'd better keep yourself grounded."

"Sorry. Maybe I'm just an airhead."

My self-loathing shows. But each time it happens, a combative instinct rises, 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 mother."

"I think it would be different with a real mother."

"You're probably right. "But now we must think, and think fast!"

I summon a holographic 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 hurry there, to a set of shelves against the wall. Some of the volumes appear to be novels by their thickness—books largely unread these days. But some bindings are long and narrow, placed high against the paneling. We yank them out and see that many are marked with years. Together we flip through. Details are excluded. Here we seek only the essential answer to the question posed: Which of these women holds the highest rank? I won't deny it pains me to see family photos of my mother and what I assume are smiling relatives, for in all of them I'm conspicuously absent. I stand there as nothing but a gaping void.

We flip, flip, and toss albums aside onto the floor. No time for more. The omnipresent and ever-present fairies have noticed something brewing and approach us with gaping mouths and eyes that soon spark with possibilities and insolence. It's Berit who finds the crucial clue. College. Texas. I walked my feet off in Texas. Iselin attended college in Texas. Then we find the rows of photos from the university. There it emerges—their first meeting point and friendship's foundation. Both appear in a large full-length photograph, still recognizable yet in youth's attire. Tight skirts. Arms entwined. Hair more radiant, their smiling faces absurdly small and compressed compared to what they've become.

Standing here with my new trainee. Randgrid, she's called. Most have been incompetent, but this one shows promise. Now believe things may get done. Important things. My will is undisputed. Iselin Skjærvold.

After this revealing caption and full-profile photo follow others. They're at each other's apartments. They're drunk. And they're back together in official settings. So it's true. Iselin, my mother, is Randgrid's superior, and having once been so, she'll always remain so—especially to them. An established power dynamic is an eternal one. Berit looks at me with a telling look.

"You're a gem!" I say, kissing her squarely on the head. "Demand anything of me, and I'll give it."

"Alright, handsome."

I pass the other winged fairies en route to the kitchen, for every girl here bears wings.

"Help her put the albums back. Properly. Do this, and I'll owe you a great favor."

They watch me with wide eyes, and even as I gesture toward the mess left on the floor, they begin fixing it. Jesus must've been a great light-magician, for he said something similar: Ask, and you shall receive. So that was the secret all along. All I got was what I asked for.

"So much fuss over something we already knew," says one of the fairies. She reminds me of one of Jung's female patients with nervous disorders, who supposedly knew everything—a clear sign of mental illness and that sort of folly.

In the kitchen, I find the most prominent glass cabinet. At the top are two crystal goblets with dragon figurines. Nothing could be more perfect. On the shelf below lies a silver cup with mythological engravings of the god Thor hammering a serpent and such shit. That one's for me. With these in hand, I make my way to where those in authority have gathered, secure in their power, in the sanctuary that is the garden.

Out there between the two queens, I slowly lower the first dragon-goblet into the pool, observing how the liquid froths as if acknowledging my act, then raise the sparkling prize overhead with both hands. Declamation comes easily to me—perhaps because I'm something of a troubadour type—and with my lifted chin, I note their full attention is mine. More than that, every movement I make is scrutinized closely. Now the power rests in my hands. By submitting, I've channeled my will through the world's weave into genuine position and influence that matters.

"This first cup goes to the strongest and mightiest woman in this land. Her beauty is incomparable, her wisdom undisputed. Men tremble where she sets her foot. Enemies flee where she casts her gaze. In her dwell the virtues of the hawk given woman's 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! Supreme among men!"

With that, I stride to my mother's seat, kneel, and hand her the goblet. Our hands clasp together for a while. It's easy to see emotions passing through her eyes—so many that it's hard to register them all before arriving at the interpretation I always reach afterward. First surprise, then pride and satisfaction. Once the hunger for power has passed, I understand more: that she's grateful to me.

"Well done, son," she says. "Perhaps it's time to increase your monthly allowance."

I march back to the pagan bowl and fetch the second cup. The dragon-goblet is submerged and raised with solemnity, and I peer into the golden-foaming madness within to draw strength for my words. I spoke of power. Now I must speak of something else, for no woman likes being compared to another.

"And so to her closest and dearest friend, who has stood by her side through many years. Two decades it's been!" I swallow. "Mythic is her garb. Mysterious the hue of purple. Yet deeper still are the landscapes dwelling within her breast. She is fairy godmother to twelve handmaidens." I recall the verse of songbirds. "Add her, and they are thirteen—a mighty and perilous number. Yet fearsome as she is, where her foot softly treads and where she raises her wand, sparkling with glints, dust, and stars, it is for the wise to know this: He who fears not the depths, who flees not the folds of purple, shall find rest beneath the mighty tree within her—sprung forth and part of the world-tree—and he... he shall receive of her gifts. Endless they are, welcome, comforting, and rich!"

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

"RANDGRID! You Valkyrie! You Fairy Godmother, sovereign even over my fate. Receive then your prize!"

Swiftly and with haste, I approach the seat of the Second Queen. There I kneel and present the dragon-goblet. Our hands meet and clasp. Her cow-brown eyes glisten in my sight.

"You impress! Know this: every word you uttered shall come to pass. More than you think. Stronger than you think. I like a man fearless in the face of woman's nature."

"Yes, goddess," I say, bowing my head.

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

"To 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 frightened them so! I don't know, nor do I care. It's not as if one must know everything. So I tilt my head back and drain the cup in one gulp, just as Thor would have done. Then I refill the cup, again and again

"I feel like dancing! I feel like a poem!"

My body grows restless. Already I'm beginning to hop and bounce by the bowl. So this is my brand of madness. Finally, I can unleash the forces within me.

"A POEM!"" cries both women.

"Your will be done on earth, but not in heaven, for it does not exist!"

So I begin to dance, leap, and spin in full madness around the cauldron of both the Troll Mother and Fairy Godmother. The words that have come over me are an old English poem I have committed to memory.

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 care not if I offend the gods. Dionysus is cool enough to handle that. It's also true that I can drink endlessly. At the poem's conclusion, I let out a howl, flip around, and catch my weight on my arms—and believe me, they've grown strong these days. Then I stand on my head and strut about on my hands. Carefully now, I don't want to shatter the bowl and let all delight vanish between the planks. I tip back and sit as contentedly as only an asylum inmate can be. From there, I grab the cup firmly.

"Bravo, jester and wordsmith! You entertain!"

Randgrid flings something toward me in a wide arc that lands in the cup, splashing its contents into my face. When the shock passes, I see a silver coin lying at the bottom. Engraved in the metal are the contours of a temple and runic script: ᛊᚲᛁᚱᛁᛜᛊᛊᚨᛚ Strange business. I laugh. While emptying the cup, I shake off the golden drops and slip the coin into my shirt pocket.