The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 6

A sense of well-being and deep peace comes 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 repeatedly closing my eyes and smiling. My feminine company chats idly. The youngsters must be exhausted, so hopefully, we'll be left undisturbed by any little night owls. Occasionally, a curious face appears. The girls must wonder what we're up to. Curiosity is a sign of intelligence, after all, and I can appreciate that. I notice myself growing fonder of their mad troop by the minute—an all-encompassing love swelling from my body outward. A reverence for all that lives. A will toward kindness. I'd give each of them everything if I could. Two Vedic virtues: universal love and non-reactivity. That is what I shall be. That is where I'm headed.

"Should I call you Øyvind or Light Elf?"

It's Randgrid who addresses me. A jolt of joy runs through my body. To think she wants to speak. With me.

"Tonight you may call me Light Elf, but on an ordinary day, Øyvind works best."

"I see. And what does Mr. Light Elf occupy his days with?"

"The only things I do are write and train." A pause and a sip from the cup. "And drink."

"He maintains a strict regimen when it comes to diet," says my mother.

"Nurturing. Exercise. Oblivion. Interesting."

"I do it to cast off. What about you, Madam Fairy Godmother?"

"Where you write, I read. When I'm not engaged in my professional life or certain other... purposes."

I ask who her favorite author is, the better to gauge what I'm dealing with.

"My heart beats for Kjell Askildsen. Would have married him if it were within my power."

I've never heard of him. She explains he's an old Norwegian author who worked before the outbreak of war between the U.S. and China. Known for his sparse, austere short stories, tackling life's big themes.

"He sounds like my polar opposite."

"How so?"

"The only genres I've never dabbled in are short stories and formal verse. For the latter, I lack the head; for the former... well, my soul is pagan. I am fundamentally opulent and sensual. In art, I'm something of a savage—I like doing things without reasons behind them. So I'm verbose, chaotic, and despise life's big questions. A moth or a shrew has more meaning.""May I recite a verse?"

She pauses and suddenly says: "Go!"

Startled by this feminine encouragement, I retrieve something I wrote 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 weighs heavy. The words have torn something open within me, granting one of those sudden insights. I bury my face in my hands and weep, understanding for the first time how helpless I am. My own order could not be imposed, so I had to give my unconditional devotion to chaos. I shall never master anything, remaining dependent on illusions, lies, and a love that never comes. Tears drip into the goblet between my legs. The two women exchange glances, and my mother rises. She cradles my head, kisses it, and rocks me back and forth.

"We're dealing with someone highly sensitive here," she says. "My little Lord Byron."

New kisses rain upon me, but they come far too late. Time and its contents cannot be reclaimed by any army.

"I suppose this means Randgrid won't marry me," I say with a pale smile.

"Oh, that's not necessarily out of the question!" The courted one—however pathetically it occurred—leans back in her seat. "So you think someone with my tastes has a Christian soul?"

"No, good god—pardon me, I mean Lord Odin. I would never insult you so grievously."

"But isn't that the logical conclusion of what you're saying?"

"Perhaps you have other reasons for liking this Askild besides Christian weakness."

Randgrid rests her hand beneath her chin, and for the first time, I see a truly broad smile spread across her face.

"Perhaps so."

My mother is giving me a few gentle pats and little rubs on the nose when one of the little fairies appears. This one is dressed in a pink gown with delicate fabric wings, her eyes covered by a butterfly-like mask. She looks down at me with a puzzled expression before turning to Randgrid, who raises her dragon 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 under my supervision. It is absolutely out of the question for me, as your guardian, to give you even a single drop. Yes, even if you were to sprout a butterfly proboscis on that little face of yours!"

"Ha-ha. So funny. We know he's a minor too. So it's still unfair. Maybe this should be reported as gender discrimination."

"Report denied by highest authority. Our luminous friend here is under Iselin's guardianship. That means she decides what he may or may not do." At the mention of her name, my mother rises from our embrace and returns to her seat, giving my hair a final tousle. "You girls are under my guardianship, which means with you, I'm the one who decides. Do I make myself understood?"

"This is stupid. You're all cozy while we get nothing. Un-fairy-fair!"

"Shall I bonk you on the head with the magic wand?"

"No!"

"Then scram!"

The pink fairy takes off running. Here in this other world, the threat of the magic wand must rank among the most dangerous things there are. That, and having one's wings confiscated.

"Too bad for you, silly!" I call after her as she retreats. The pink fairy turns mid-escape and, with eyes closed, sticks out her tongue in the boldest possible manner. Well, I suppose that's one way to say it. We privileged ones continue drinking. Randgrid and Iselin resume their conversation. For me, it's hard to follow, structured as it is with a kind of feminine logic I simply don't comprehend. How did they learn my age? I haven't seen them interrogate Iselin about it, and Randgrid would have reason to keep quiet, now that I'm drinking. And since I have access to money—real money—I've used some of it to scrub myself from the internet. Gone must be all past missteps. I recall the ad I saw:

You know the feeling. You've just brewed your first coffee of the morning. And then...The person struts about in a morning robe wearing a contented expression, holding the steaming cup before them as they open the front door. There stands a deranged individual raising a gun. "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" The smile vanishes, and the snapshot freezes. This situation could have been avoided. No more jealous exes. No more political opponents, and no patients freshly escaped from mental institutions. All you need is a request to REMOVEME.no. We erase all traces from the internet, ethernet, darknet, and undernet. Don't worry. We'll handle the legalities. The image returns to the man holding his coffee cup. He takes the first sip, smacking a satisfied "Ah!" In the background, a hysterical scream and a gunshot ring out. The ad ends with the sound of a body hitting the floor.

What troubled me most was a blog post and a reaction video, though I made plenty of enemies during my active period. The blog post read: Light Elf: Fascist, Racist, or Nazi? An Exhaustive Analysis of His Ideology, Conducted by SETTLED.no in Collaboration with State Media. The reaction video compiled countless clips of my speeches at the worst possible moments, AI-edited. Every involuntary facial twitch, every hesitation, and of course every poorly or unfortunately phrased remark—anything that could be misinterpreted was exploited to the fullest. The commentator concluded: He's sick. He's SIIIIIIICK!

That's the strange thing. Most people get sweaty balls when they start receiving phone calls, emails from lawyers, or even video calls beamed into a conference room packed with experts. If that's not enough, the threat of a civil lawsuit that could indebt you for life looms on the horizon. And all you need to do to escape is take down the material you've posted. Everyone, even the insane, chooses to remove their content. I've been scrubbed clean. I was set free. Soon, I'll be forgotten by the denizens of the Kali Yuga. With that, my new life begins—all thanks to my mother and her goodwill and wealth. Without her, I'd be nothing. A hated outcast surviving on minimum wage in some hellhole. Instead, I am sitting in this garden, and I don't know whom I love most here—Randgrid, one of the girls, or perhaps simply the very possibility of choosing, for the sake of my own feelings. Well, not my mother, at least. The rift between us will always remain, and she knows it. That said, I do appreciate her money and the salvation it represented. It came not from a man—but from a woman. I admire her strength.

Gradually, the girls move out into the garden and into the reminiscent evening air. Every nook of the house has likely been thoroughly explored by cheeky noses, curious eyes, and probing fingers. Now they chase each other with shrill shrieks, following fluttering fabric wings and flowing hair with outstretched hands or splashes from water guns. Some even attempt to conquer the rows of apple trees. They haul themselves up by their arms, and once high enough, swing their thighs over the branches to roll into place—just the way I used to climb. So it's not just boys who do this. It's a work of introverted sensuality to watch them, to simply have their frolicking and play around you. So this is how the Roman emperors experienced it. Not just them—a chosen elite in a conquered and enslaved world. A primal memory of a golden age has been awakened. This is how we were always meant to live. A prosperous father observing his daughters, a brother watching his sisters, or a suitor and his bride. Life can be good, and to be honest, I doubt I'll rise much higher. Now is when I'm young. Now is when I have all my potential, which will eventually buckle inward under the iron braces of choice and chance. A golden age is always new and free from condition—rivers of honey, fields of grain growing untended. Now is when I'm precisely here, with everything I crave in life.

The ladies, by the way, are in the midst of a laughing fit more intense than usual. Well, they're properly on the honey brew now. Again and again, they dip their glasses into the bowl and raise them brimming full. Thankfully, I don’t have to do it for them. I’m not that much of a servant—though I’ve topped myself up a few times to keep pace.

"What's so funny?" I ask as their giggles escalate to new heights. An orange stripe flashes before one eye, displaying a brief text exchange:

Randgrid Nøtterøy:

Are you moving soon?

Birger Nøtterøy:

Am I?

The orange stripe vanishes. Randgrid, it's said, is a proactive woman. She gets things done and helps everyone within and beyond her circle. The shadow side is that she takes on a somewhat autocratic air. This time, her nephew was the victim. She thought he was moving and wanted to help—and he was ready to relocate immediately.

“That must be the least manly moment in world history!” I exclaim. The ladies agree, and I laugh with them, overwhelmed by the thought. First, I hide my face, then the shudder running through my body forces me to toss my head back. Well, it can’t have been easy for him. It's all too easy to fall into the trap where she's concerned, in a way that's far too revealing.

"Least manly...! Ha ha ha!"

One of the fairies has appeared in my field of vision. Dressed in white with white wings and bearing goat horns upon her head. She's pumping a water gun to maximum capacity. The nozzle is aimed directly at me at point-blank range. Just as I'm about to speak, a torrent of water explodes across my entire face. Too paralyzed to defend myself, I collapse backward laughing. The fairy pursues mercilessly, pumping continuously until the water tank is empty. She must truly have killer instincts, now watching me curiously with the gun still raised.

"Didn't think I needed a bath, but..." I gasp, still lying down. "Was there something else?"

"This is the Age of Aquarius, and I am the Capricorn who brings tidings of my distant kin," she declares before marching away.

"Right then," I mutter, taking another sip after hauling myself upright. Must be some New Age talk. Odd, since women usually don't start with that until they're much older. Someone must have influenced her. Not the least surprising—Iselin and Randgrid haven't lifted a finger to defend me. They chuckle at my drenching before resuming their conversation, while I continue drinking and refilling my glass.

The intoxication grows heavy, but my head has many layers for confusion and drunkenness, just as my stomach has many chambers for hunger. After all, I'm a Viking hero and the world's most licentious person, susceptible to any impression. Only after some time do I feel sharp nails digging into my arm. When I lift my bleary gaze, a face presses right up against mine. She still bears vague claw marks on her cheeks—this is the girl Kajsa fought with over a soap bubble. Line, I recall after dredging through hazy memory. Her voice comes in a hissing whisper, all while I with a splash lift a lock of hair from my ear.

"Don't tell the others. You have to come."

Painstakingly, I rise to feet that have been crossed so long they're thoroughly numb, and follow. The ladies don't seem to notice. Concern has already taken root. This could be serious. I haven't seen Kajsa or Berit outside among their winged sisters.