The Garden of Light and Darkness - part 7

The blue eyes regard me thoughtfully. Blue against blue. Sea against sea. As it should be. The sea doesn’t belong in the desert. The desert doesn’t belong in the sea.

I want to kiss her, and she’s noticed, because I keep drawing closer with gasping lips. Instead, she places her hands firmly on my chest.

“We need to talk.”

I’m confused but suppose I’ll comply. So I retrieve the cup I set down among some root outcroppings and find a spot on the swing beside her. It’s intriguing to authoritatively turn her in the ropes and see her girlish eyes light up at the gesture. From there, I hand her the brimming honey-drink, as some ancient instinct has also prompted me to plan.

“Randgrid’s bossy cunt can’t be everywhere.”

Kajsa accepts my Thor-cup and sips, first thoughtfully, then a bit deeper. Now she drinks of both my tears and my blood. Tears are the purest of human fluids, but they don’t satisfy the gods, only certain gullible fools at the welfare office. Only through blood does blood live. Now all that’s missing is fire. Well, I’m right beside her, burning so fiercely I’m afraid the night might catch fire.

“There’s nothing here as it seems,” she says after a smack of honey. “I’m forbidden to say anything, but I can tell you this: You’re in grave danger. A test has been set in motion, and the choices you make will be decisive. I want you to promise. You must be brave.”

A test? Sure, I get that Randgrid is evaluating me. Grave danger is probably an exaggeration. Kajsa is naturally afraid of the bossy cunt’s authority. After all, she’s the one who’ll bear the consequences when they return to the orphanage.

“Piece of cake,” I say, flashing sharp canines in a smile. “I’m always brave.”

Suddenly, I’m seized, my neck gripped by a girl’s arm. The Thor-cup topples and hits the grass. Our lips find each other over the swings. It’s a long time until sunrise, but the world explodes in radiant heat and dizzying waves of warmth. We gasp and kiss as if this is what breathing truly is. And I understand: Yes, it is. All my life, I’ve wandered as the living dead, not breathing against another’s lips. Now I have Kajsa’s lips. Her mouth. Her love, and I won’t let go. My hands frantically explore her entire body. I want to take in everything at once. She clings to me, restricting my full freedom of movement.

“Oh,” Kajsa moans, baring her white throat. I find my way down to it, taking in the scent and taste of soft, vulnerable skin, one of the body’s most delicate places made accessible. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

It’s at this peak of Kajsa’s blissful moment that the interruption comes in the form of a voice:

“Well, well, well!”

My gaze hardens instantly, even against a girl’s neck, and I slowly pull back from the intimate place I’ve been, turning toward the source of the interruption. Not hard to guess. There stands Berit, hands on hips, like some confrontational Pippi Longstocking. A bit farther back stands Line, observing the showdown about to unfold. Yes, because the time has come for a final confrontation, and I have no intention of backing down. Kajsa and I exchange glances, and she nods. That’s all I need to know. I rise to face this night’s Nemesis. If I win here, I’ve defeated them all.

In line with my restless nature, I circle my opponent. I measure her with my eyes, moving my feet in an uneven rhythm. I know next to nothing about feints and lunges like a kickboxer, but people know almost nothing about me either, and it’s about maintaining a psychological edge. Surprisingly many are thrown off by the unknown and unpredictable, the places where I and the viper thrive. Maybe it’s a bit far-fetched to use such tactics against a girl. On the other hand, Berit probably possesses a man’s soul. Who, if not her, is trapped in the wrong body? She should’ve been a Celtic warrior, and whether her life was short or long, she’d have been happier in places where iron falls and blood, preferably Roman, splatters between walls. Already, I can feel the pull of a primal will, and I know she’s felt it too.

My performance doesn’t have the desired effect. Berit turns and follows me with her eyes. More than that, there’s amusement in her gaze. Not only is she tough, she’s fearless and takes it all as entertainment. When I realize what a formidable opponent I’m dealing with, fear takes root. Could she already have seen through me? I position myself in front of Kajsa to shield her. I have to prevent her from being dragged away by her friends without me getting a word in. Berit’s amusement seems to grow. My game has been turned against me.

“You can’t just take her.”

“I can do whatever I want, whenever I want.”

My inner warrior has failed. Probably because I’m not a warrior but an illusionist. But then I understand. I can win by yielding. The moon has risen full tonight, and with it, I can render her helpless.

“Look, I get that you’re jealous. Maybe we can sort this out for all parties?”

Instantly, a flash of anger appears, and I stumble back into Kajsa. Absolutely everything I do has the opposite effect. The threat of violence turned into amusement. The offer of my favor was taken as mockery.

I raise my hands defensively in front of my face. “Before you smash my nose, hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“You must be attracted to me, otherwise you wouldn’t get so worked up.”

From a distance, I can hear Line snort demonstratively. It’s a sign I’m right.

“I think you’re a pretty girl. Very attractive. Line too. To be honest, I’d take all three of you if I could, but that kind of thing hasn’t been possible for the last thousand years, and you’d probably lose it.”

“No, you don’t say!” Line says.

Berit’s eyes are scrutinizing, at the very least. Probing. It dawns on me that this is how she’s always looked at me.

“Since I’m not allowed to make that choice, I choose Kajsa. You’re all equally pretty, but she needs me the most. I almost feel like she’s a kind of sister, except, uh, I want to fuck her.”

“Wow, elegant! Listen to Mr. Eloquent here!” Line says.

I grab Kajsa by the waist and swing her to my side.

“She likes me. You like me. I get that you’re trying to protect her. My intentions are sincere, and I won’t take advantage of her. Now you have to accept that I’m in.”

“Are you done?” Berit asks.

“Yeah, I’m done.”

Berit takes a breath. “All of this is wrong, and only a man could come up with something so idiotic. I’m not jealous.”

“Neither am I,” Line says. “You know nothing about love. We’re not trying to protect Kajsa. She can handle herself just fine. You know nothing about who she is, who we are.”

“I don’t care about all that,” I say, tightening my grip on Kajsa. I wonder where her blue eyes are directed and what they’re communicating. After all, it’s her fate being decided here. “We’re together now. You have nothing and can’t stop me.”

Berit smiles broadly. An orange prompt to accept a shared screen appears in front of one eye. I blink yes. Immediately, the hologram generator projects a monitor cube beside us.

The camera pans through rooms. Loud conversations and the occasional roar can be heard everywhere.

“This is SYNDICATE’s headquarters, with Frans Lynglimt as our great leader. As you can hear, it’s a party.”

The 3D image swirls over pictures on the wall, some windows, and glides through a door, and we’re in the living room. Among some burly guys, there I sit, wearing what I prefer: beige pants and shirt.

“New guy. His name’s Øyvind. But you call yourself… Lysalv?”

My figure is sipping from a beer can.

“That’s right, fatty.”

The 3D image zooms in on my face, which looks slightly annoyed.

“They say you can talk a good game. Now we want a speech.”

Some of the drunk people sprawled on chairs and sofas catch the last bit and take it as a cue.

“SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!”

I grin. Suddenly, I spring up and do a few dance steps on the floor. The erratic behavior immediately grabs everyone’s attention. They sense something’s up. Meanwhile, I tilt my head back and chug the beer.

“Say we get to shoot a nigger. Please,” says a guy in an armchair.

The beer can crushes with a crunch. I whirl around and throw, and the crumpled can hits the guy square in the forehead with a bang. His head snaps back in surprise. He starts to get up, but someone behind him places a hand on his shoulder. It’s Lynglimt himself, a middle-aged man with tanned skin and white, curly hair.

“No nigger-killing here, because we all have our favorite nigger. You’ve got to think more sophisticated than that!” My figure lets out a howl and spins. “Let it be known everywhere. We have a hidden enemy, one that seeks to destroy us at every turn. Luckily, I’m a genius and know it all.”

“Hear, hear!” shouts party leader Lynglimt.

“The big capital is our enemy. Without them, we wouldn’t be plagued with sand niggers, beach niggers, and rape niggers, because no one but us has the right to our homeland. And why did the capitalists bring them in? To destroy ethnic cohesion and create a rootless slave class without distinction. In US, friends,” I say, raising my index finger… A murmur runs through the crowd. “In us lives a fierce instinct for freedom, something no other people have, and those capitalist swine know it!”

“Down with the swine!” someone shouts.

“Kill them!” another yells.

I stretch out my arms, spin around, and smile.

“All the evils that have befallen us the last hundred years. The mass invasion of rape hordes, trying to race-mix us and take over our sacred homeland. The sterilization vaccines from the globalists. The poisoning of food with methane inhibitors and insect powder. The constant undermining. The fag agenda. It’s the merchant caste in the form of capitalists behind it all. Because they’re ONLY capable of understanding the world in material terms, devoid of sun, light, spirit, and spirituality. Devoid of beauty and the sacred, which only the sensitive eye can perceive.”

“Uh, but what do we do?” asks the guy I hit with the beer can.

“Simple, my friends. I am Lysalv, and I command you to kill them. Kill a business owner today. Shoot a lawyer. Beat a policeman or doctor to death. They’re all traitors and deserve only a bullet, which is honestly too good for them. The doctor has sterilized children. Those in the administration support an evil system. And a capitalist is always our enemy!”

“KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM!” the crowd chants with clenched fists. I try to say more several times but have to give up. Finally, they quiet down enough for me to continue.

“And when we’ve finally gunned down the swine, we can set things right. Women will know their place again and marry at fifteen. As for all the sand niggers, beach niggers, Asians, Mongols, retards, and all the Sami and gypsy scum, we’ll finally be free to slaughter them along with the subversive Jew swine. Because our sacred homeland must not be defiled. It must be free! It must be ours!”

“OURS! OURS! OURS!”

“Always pure!” I declare. “Always sacred. For the ARYAN RACE descended from Atlantis. From here to eternity! Only in us lives the GOD-BLOOD!”

“YEAH! LYSALV!” the crowd cheers. Suddenly, I’m stormed by a mob of men, furniture toppling, and the floor rumbling. They grab me and toss me rhythmically into the air. My figure is clearly uncomfortable. In the background, Lynglimt stands, thoughtfully touching his head. The AI-controlled camera pans to the man filming. In full 3D, he sends me and the girls watching a knowing smile.

“Torbjørn Berntsen here. And that was Lysalv. Cool guy. Heart in the right place, maybe a bit bloodthirsty.”

The monitor cube collapses. Only the darkness of night remains.

“No, no, no,” I groan. “You can’t do this.”

“I can, and I will,” Berit says.

“Where… where did you get that clip? Do you know him?”

“She fucked him,” Line says.

Berit spins around and points a finger directly at her friend’s mouth.

“Shut the fuck up.”

A jolt of pain shoots through my body. I wanted to own them all, even if it’s impossible. The primal will has taken a hit. The reaction is intense anger.

“I’ll kill that traitor swine for this.”

“You’ll do nothing. Either you stay away from Kajsa, or I go to the police and the media with your little speech.”

“Do you stand by all this?” Line asks. Her eyes are wide. She can hardly comprehend someone breaking every societal taboo at once.

“Of course I do, you stupid mare.” I turn to Berit. “This will completely ruin my life. Do you want me to beg?”

I’m trying every way out now, but I’m like an insect trapped in a lamp, unable to find the way. Berit just smiles knowingly.

I remember the last time I dealt with the police. I had made a podcast about Dumézil’s trifunctional theory. A friend warned me they were asking questions, so I was prepared when they stormed the shared room at the youth home and seized my data device. My writings I had buried in the woods, and they never found them. But for over half a year, there were constant calls from packed conference rooms. The policemen were always friendly, and that’s when you know danger’s afoot. “Hey, Øyvind. How’s it going, Øyvind? We just want to talk, Øyvind.” If I refused to talk, the calls kept coming, and I was even visited by cops in the morning and at night. If I explained myself, everything was used against me in the worst way. “I don’t understand this,” one of them said about my explanations. “I can’t be sure there’s not something psychological behind it. But I know a nice doctor, Øyvind. You can talk to him, Øyvind.” After the doctor’s visit, which was short and formal, I was detained and taken to a madhouse. I spent eight days there, refused any medication, barely ate, and listened to lunatics howling at the walls before they let me out. The video calls stopped. Usually, they rig the equipment as some form of revenge, but I got my device back and threw it out without trying to open it. I knew full well it was stuffed with self-replicating viruses and surveillance programs.

That was for a podcast on an academic topic. This is much worse. No payment service, not even my mother’s lawyers, could protect me. My name will be blackened forever. I’ll be jailed as a terrorist or institutionalized and forcibly medicated until my genius is extinguished. They won’t let me out until they’ve destroyed me. Recently, a kid expressed in conversation that he liked listening to classical music. That led to informants getting his house stormed with armored vehicles and flashbangs, and his parents were put in irons. Legal protection no longer exists, and it’s impossible to have an opinion in public, least of all about what I believe in, which, strictly speaking, is the extermination of all capitalist swine and foreign elements.

“What if… what if I wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze hard,” I say, closing my fingers around Berit’s neck. She makes no attempt to move or push my grip away.

“Do it. Then we can add attempted murder to everything else. Nice job. Your speech gets published either way.”

My hands fall, and I clutch my face.

“I hope you understand,” her voice trembles triumphantly, “that the only reason girls like you is because you’re wealthy. Kajsa only let you think you had a chance. Like I said: You’re nothing special.”

“Oh, Lord Satan! You’re such a fucking little bitch.”

I grab Kajsa’s shoulders and turn her toward me. For some strange reason, she’s been left out of the conversation, even though she’s the very object of this conflict. It’s too late. I seek eye contact but don’t get it. At some point, I’ve already lost her.

“Listen,” I say. “I’ll sort this out somehow, and then I’ll find you. You can count on that.”

“That’s just something you say,” Kajsa whispers.

“You’ll have to settle for being Virgin Øyvind for a while longer,” Line says. “But maybe in five years, you’ll get a handjob from a toothless, worn-out whore.”

At that moment, I’m on the verge of spinning around and making her toothless with my fist. I close my eyes. Berit grabs her friend and leads Kajsa away, barking some harsh words in her blonde friend’s ear. I watch them as they leave. At the entrance to the small wooded grove, Kajsa is handed over to Line, and Berit returns.

“I know you think I’m the biggest cunt ever,” she says. “But it’s true. Kajsa can defend herself and has been through far worse, but I don’t want her getting too attached to you.”

“No, you’ve made sure of that…”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

“But it’s probably already too late.”

Empty swings are soon the only company I have, as they always have been. The demon that haunts my life has triumphed again. There was hope, and hope was crushed with a spiked club. But I can’t become a rationalist mummy who stops hoping. I can’t become like everyone else in this damned world.

The full-moon night is soft and beautiful, studded with stars, and that makes my anguish greater, as I wish it to be. If I must fall and lose, let it be in ecstatic suffering! Let me weep and rage! Norwegians are a sniveling rationalist people, denying themselves any emotion unless it’s socially approved or within a narrow rational framework, and that’s their great flaw. No wonder they have wounds on their souls, and that the goddess Psyche has fled, replaced by a Jew god. That’s not me. That’s not how I’ll be. I refuse to deny myself anything, I whom the world has denied so much. Why should I? I have no intention of negotiating my emotions or letting my despair be defined just to fit into some weakling’s categorical scheme so he can feel safe within some self-referential system, which is the definition of madness. Reason, I curse it. Rationality, I abandon it. Purpose? I’ve never had any of that.

That’s why I’ve stumbled blindly into the vegetation, why I climb among the branches, to find peace, to individuate. Down with all damned collectives, including this one. I am me, not you. My feelings and thoughts don’t match theirs. I was far too noble for that. Why do you think gold must stay hidden, even among the gravel? My heart has plunged too many times, until it floated in the void, until it began to fly, and now, sitting on a branch, I lift my head and take the first breath of freedom. I’ve left all other people behind and am myself, finally. Liberated, like a bird fallen from the nest, through sorrow.

At the top of the treetop, I spot two fairies looking down at me in wonder from the disc of the full moon. Their eyes are slanted and elven, their faces short and catlike, a bit like Natalie Dormer when she was young, or creatures shielded by the mystique of primordial times, as we all should be to remain indefinable. Some bark falls because they grip so tightly.

“This is our world! You can’t be here! Get down! Get down!”

Their silhouettes begin to crawl toward me, upside down and faces first. They reach out and search, their insect wings forming threatening shapes, childlike hands extended. They seem to crawl straight out of the moon. I don’t answer but try to avoid them, because I want this to be my world too. So I swing around the trunk, while the fairies follow, their slanted eyes searching and glowing with desire. Their small noses sniffing after me in the night. Finally, when a new set of branches runs out and they get too close, I make a leap and land crackling in a new treetop.

“He’s in the branches! He’s in the branches!”

There are more fairies. They’re everywhere. Their faces peer out from every tree trunk. They come from below and above. Camouflaged with leaves or cloaked in stars. Along the forest floor, a driven hunt unfolds with rustling, bare feet. But one thing they haven’t accounted for is how strong I am and how this is the domain my race was born into. New leaps, some blind into the night’s darkness. Hands and feet always find a grip around a trunk, or my arms swing me along a set of branches. I evade and avoid, escape and elude, so the hunt lasts long. I can hear their calling cries, feel their desire, and I am swift in the night. Now I gain speed, racing up tree trunks to the highest crowns to reach the moon. Sometimes, grasping hands nearly catch me. There’s no doubt in my heart that they’ll throw me down if they get the chance. From other treetops, they spy, and the trunk I’m on is encircled by a creeping congregation moving upward in a rising, winged spiral. At the last moment, I hurl myself into the night again. I find a grip, which slips, and I fall into a branch that snaps, until a lower branch I can finally cling to, somewhat dazed, because in my flight I’ve performed a mad tumble. It’s too late. Someone from the ground has grabbed me, and more join in.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll let go!”

So I release my hold and land in a circle of catlike winged beings, growing in number as the branch-dwellers descend amid crackling and snapping twigs and swirling clouds of leaves.

“You’re ours! You’re ours!” the chorus sings. “We’ve caught ourselves a man, and with him we can do as we please!”

Impudent hands grasp, and I realize they’re trying to force me to the ground. I’ll have none of that. So I push back and swat their hands away. They don’t relent.

What my little friends forget is that they have neither fangs, claws, nor horns, and I am a man. They have no real weapons to wield, while I have will, muscle, and the vigor of youth. So I tear myself free and burst out of the circle.

“That’s against the rules!” complains an especially aggressive fairy.

“And what kind of rules are those?” I ask, catching her outstretched, searching hands. I use her momentum against her, pull her to me, and bend her forward. I flip up her ball gown to reveal a rounded backside behind pink panties and deliver a few solid smacks with my palm. It’s satisfying to feel the impacts ripple through soft skin. She lets out a girlish squeal and gains the aid of her conspirators, who rush to free her from my barbaric embrace. They still don’t give up, and the circle around me isn’t broken, only widened. They keep attacking and lunging, swaying their hips away each time I try to land a smack on their backsides. The assaults come from every direction, and I have a hell of a time defending myself. Their hands search and snatch. Some try to bite when my fingers get too close.

“It’s the rule! It’s the rule! You’re ours now! Surrender or face the consequences!”

“I don’t care about any rules! You’re not strong enough to win!”

“Then you’re a fool! A fool, we say! Don’t you see that all are bound to a leash?”

“I don’t see that!”

The problem with too wide a loop and a circle that’s been scared and driven off is that there can be an opening, and I’m an expert at exploiting such gaps. I spot my chance where they haven’t covered, feint, and run in that direction. They let out frustrated shrieks as they realize I’m slipping away. Nor are they fast enough to catch me. Slightly too wide hips ensure that, the handicap of the female sex, borne by their childbearing power.

“It’ll only get worse now!” the collective cries. “For the debt must be paid! We caught you, and thus we own you, and the debt must be paid!”

“Good luck collecting it!” I groan, jogging. As I pass the swings on my way out of the grove, I see two fairies curled around my toppled Thor-cup, their faces together, taking turns licking its contents. Tongues and lips play over the forbidden honey-brew. Already, I can see them growing and nourishing, transforming into something else in the night’s gloom. Hastily, I grab the cup as I pass, catching their furious glares as I leave the place. A certainty dwells in me. This won’t be forgiven, and there will be consequences, but I don’t know what or when.

Returning to the community’s center, I find the seats empty. Only a lone fairy remains. The lass with colorful ribbons in her hair, who at one point had her head nestled in the fairy godmother’s lap. Kneeling, she now gazes longingly at the mead bowl, with only the ever-present fireflies keeping her company. They, too, have grasped the importance of the divine drink. Well, you’d have to be a rationalist not to get it. Or like the average Norwegian… Those who gave away their country because someone told them to.

“I have the privilege. You don’t,” I say, dipping the silver goblet right into the bowl and tilting my head back with a satisfied groan as the drink sweetens my mouth. More! More of everything! That’s my creed. Deny me nothing, allow me all, the hallmark of the great life.

“That means I have everything to gain, and you have everything to lose,” the fairy says.

“Fair point. The thralls speak, it’s a thrall’s tongue.”

“You have no tongue at all for what’s to come.”

A little contrarian, that one. Of course I have a tongue. I am Oratores, of those who speak, not a priest but a skald. Did you know that Christian priests and Celtic bards were mortal enemies at one point, vying for the same resources and the king’s favor? The priests won, and with that, the world grew poorer. It reminds me I should kill a priest someday. Well, I’ve already assaulted one. As a child, I made a snowball explode across the parish priest’s face during his daily walk. A stellar hit. That was for the old bards! Warriors and poets in one, as it should be, the Viking ideal.

Now I recall a text I once wrote:

The Reason You Believe in God™

Simple… Because you’re a tense control freak…

You’re one of those who wants to control others

Which means you think linearly

You demand rules and barriers and categories, you insist everything be safely placed in a box

You feel threatened by others’ ability to do exactly as they please

It drives you mad to see others break your imagined rules… and of course, every single time, you end up frustrated. When, yet again, you realize you can’t make rules for the rest of us

You’re a follower…

…And that’s not a compliment

You’re not a freethinker

You’re not the creative type

You prefer dogs over cats

I bet you HATE cats…

And if you found a woman to have sex with your pathetic ass (highly unlikely), she’d change her mind. You’d force your rule scheme on her too

Sure enough…

You’re uncool

And uncool people believe in God

But hell, was I talking about myself here? Every bit of writing is a confession. If I’ve confessed to myself, I must do penance to myself, and then grant myself forgiveness. It’s time to get some pussy. Woman represents the only forgiveness to be found, namely the ultimate affirmation. Everything else is meaningless, except for tits, hips, thighs, and a bouncy ass… and endless, just endless pussy. Yes, yes, misanthrope!

Suddenly, I’m embraced from behind. It’s Iselin. At the same time, Randgrid brushes a twig from her hair.

“Missed us?” they ask.

Not really.

“Intensely,” I reply.

The fairy is told to fetch a hairbrush and vanishes quickly. What do they need that for in the middle of the night? And of course, they couldn’t get it themselves while they were away.

The ladies take their seats.

“Give me a poem,” Randgrid says.

“Again? You demand a lot.”

“A poet must perform under pressure. What if a queen demanded it and had you beheaded if you failed?”

“Honestly, we’re not living in a fantasy novel.”

“Like now,” she says, smiling.

“Another mistake you make, son, is waiting for the ideal,” Iselin says. “Abandon the notion of the perfect moment, because the ideal doesn’t exist.”

Pressure. Pressure from all sides. So I suppose I’ll comply. After swallowing honey thoughtfully, I dig into my memory.

“It’ll have to be in English this time. I call the poem The Goblin Poem.”

I know a thing or two about performance. So I won’t recite sitting cross-legged. As I rise, I feel the planks unsteady beneath my feet. Suddenly, I jump as high as I can, spinning all the way around on the descent. The planks hit with a thud. My feet land exactly where they were.

In shadows I lurk, with a mischievous grin,

Small and sly, causing trouble within.

My ears are pointed, my eyes gleam at night,

In tales of old, I’m a trickster’s delight.

I bow. First to Iselin, then to Randgrid. The ladies clap. Afterward, I see Randgrid sit in thought, hand under her chin.

“Indeed. I like it.”

“Thanks, fairy godmother. That means a lot.”

“As your reward, you’ll hear a secret.”

“Your favor is utterly overwhelming, goddess.”

“What you don’t know is that tonight, I am the wolf, and you, you are a lamb.”

Her eyes regard me with intensity. Suddenly, she snaps her jaws, making me flinch.

“I’m going to sink my teeth into you, little one. Because you’ve already provoked me more than you think.”

“Don’t scare the children,” Iselin says.

Good heavens, how amusing they are.

Eventually, the ribbon-fairy returns and hands Randgrid the requested hairbrush. She curtsies politely, as expected. Randgrid pulls the girl to her and begins rummaging under her ballet gown. Pink underwear is brutally yanked down and tossed onto the platform. The queen in purple garb authoritatively pats her lap.

“Take your place.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” the fairy protests. “Didn’t touch the bowl, as you said. Haven’t stolen from them, as you also said.”

“Have you heard of preemptive war?” Randgrid says. “A country is flattened because they might try something.”

“But I…”

“You can consider this a form of preemptive war.”

The girl’s eyes dart, and even with her hands obediently folded in her lap, she can’t help casting glances toward escape.

“Run, would you? Do you have any idea how much I’d punish you then?”

Without options, surrender is the only choice when you stand in the world without weapons. The fairy climbs onto the fairy godmother’s lap and holds tensely to her thigh as her gown flies up in swirling clouds of finery. I become a startled witness as Randgrid delivers formidable discipline to her dainty little backside. The hairbrush’s smacks are relentless and very, very hard.

“Ow! Oh! Ow!” the fairy moans. Randgrid doesn’t relent. The backside in her custody soon turns very red, warmed under the rhythm of the rod.

I glance at my mother. Not sure what to think. Iselin watches the event with amusement in her eyes. I suppose I’ll relax and allow myself the same.

The tempo slows slightly. The blows grow harder. The fairy clenches and releases around the thigh she holds, likely unwittingly signaling to her disciplinarian how she reacts to each intimate impact. Randgrid finishes with a resounding smack. The fairy is released and stands trembling.

“Say thank you.”

The fairy curtsies gracefully, her long eyelashes lowered in submission.

“Thank you.”

“Put your panties back on, girl.”

The fairy busies herself with dressing, I was about to say to a more decent state, but it’s obvious decency vanished long ago.

“Tell the others the call has gone out.”

“Yes, great mother.”

Running steps through the grass carry the fairy from our midst.

It doesn’t take long. In the distance, enticing calls and tones sound. A fierce rustling and rising hum bring the fairies to us one by one. Before Randgrid, they press their small foreheads to the platform. In neat rows, they offer the same submission, wings and backsides pointing skyward, all alike. It’s somewhat strange to see Berit, warrior spirit or not, among them in this way. I’m almost too absorbed in this overwhelming spectacle to think of anything else.

Their queen and fairy godmother gazes with lowered eyelids at all the night’s little insects gathered before her. She raises her nose proudly.

“Lysalv. Fetch the children’s cups from the dishwasher. Put them in a cloth and bring them here. The night is reaching its peak.”

You could say I have a defiant nature. Maybe. Instinct tells me when not to argue, and it’s on their command that I hurry off. I find the colorful cups behind the cover, long since cooled, and let them tumble into a large cloth. I return like Espen Askeladd, with the sack over my shoulder. I know what the cups are for. The fairies have seated themselves obediently around the bowl, and at Randgrid’s pointing finger, I pour out the cups before them, clattering into a small pile.

“Drink, my maids, drink. Life is good, I am generous. All is well.”

At my feet, the fairies throw themselves at the children’s cups with greedy, outstretched hands. Soon, they’ve all gathered around the sweet bowl, dipping and raising their cups, lifting them to hungry girlish mouths. The glances they shoot me are rather venomous. They must have waited too long. I sit and observe the madness from a distance. The fervor around the bowl is so great that the girls occasionally push each other aside. Peace is nowhere to be found. Soon, a voice pulls me to my feet.

“Lysalv. You’ve performed a jester’s act for us, your superiors, and it wasn’t half bad. Now I want you to do the same for the girls. Come here.”

I approach Randgrid’s commanding hands and am seized by a belt loop.

“You’ll use everything you have and hold nothing back. All your strength and all you can do. Do it, and you’ll please me.”

“Very well, goddess of the night. You, chastiser of every backside, especially the young.”

“Exactly,” Randgrid smiles. She turns me around and smacks my rear. “Now, to work.”

So I wander among the girls, lifting their small chins. Streams of honey run around their mouths. Even their noses are marked by the brew.

“Look at me. Finish drinking for a while and look at me.”

I don’t hesitate to approach Berit and Kajsa in the same way. Both receive the same instruction. It’s not just my authority at work, of course. Soon, every little fairy has her face raised expectantly toward me from her kneeling position.

I haven’t prepared anything, know nothing. I lift my gaze to an unseen sky and find only madness. This madness speaks back. I see him now, this Øy… Øy…stein? from another time. Our lives are linked. Our power is the same. Across the ages, we influence each other.

“The poem is called Show the Night in Leaping Color-Garb,” I declare. “And that’s what I’ll do. You girls don’t know I’m a gymnast, and…” I glance behind me. Must ensure there’s space. Then it happens. I let out a wild howl and throw myself backward in a somersault. For a moment, the night spins, and my feet slam down, as sure as before. “To live without purpose, to dance without reason or even a ground to stand on. Free from frost-rime, nigger-rhythm, lament-verse, and the beast’s snuffling rationalism. That’s my existence, and you know colors are my lifeblood,” I chant, whirling as if in a circle of enemies all aiming to thrust their blades into me. My hair whips after. “By chance was the trap set, and the chance was plainly not. The gods took him and left me drinking all his heirloom silver.” The girls gape at me. I decide to turn the situation, forming a triangle with arms and scalp, and stand on my head. Noses, eyes, and mouths shift position. “Neither ticking cause nor resounding effect. Without cursed birth or blessed end. That’s Nero’s pagan world, for the constitution was always there and thus cannot be lost.” My strength lifts my scalp from the platform, and I begin to walk on my arms. “I am light uncreated, wandering perilous over the waters. Cutting through mountains, cast back by all void.” I roll into a ball and come tumbling into the flock. Some girls struggle to move aside. They look at me with incredulous eyes. So I get to my feet and seize them. I hurl the girls around me in a running dash. Some fall groaning in my footsteps. “The colors we see and the immorality we experience are both most stimulating. Colors are always immoral. Like a color, I cannot hide. Feeling colors. Colors that see.” I let out an ecstatic cry of joy and throw myself upside down in the air. I land on one arm. Strength holds me up. My legs spread for balance. My hair hangs loose and free, as it should for a man. A new push, and I stand on the other arm. “What you see is what I lack. Flying forever, because I fall.” As if to underscore the words, my strength suddenly fails, and I fall flat on my face amid my own laughter. From there, lying like a predator, I leap up, break out of the circle of girls, and run to Randgrid and the cube watching darkly in the night. I seize the magic staff she’s placed by her seat and raise it overhead with both hands. “Lift me, my wand. Until the vault collapses and time reverses, I’ll dance this dance. Spinning us a whirl of veils crackling in sparks and with stars.” Within the crystal, light begins to glimmer and dance. It’s the sound of a great Hiroshima detonation, and light explodes around us. I point the staff at Randgrid and fall to my knee. With that, my poem ends.

Only after a long while is the wand taken from my hand.

“That was… good. I’ve never seen anything like it, nor have the girls. We thank you!”

From my kneeling position, I hear resounding applause from a world still reeling.

“Damn,” I groan. “Damn.”

“I’m proud of you, Øyvind,” Iselin says.

I don’t need to look at the girls to know they see me differently now and always will. Who gave me this? Odin and the man I met in the night. Stein, was it? No, I can’t recall.

“What can we understand philosophically from this?” Iselin asks.

Staggering, I walk to the bowl and fill the Thor-cup. I send the gaggle of girls crawling away with what soon become thunderous steps. I wipe my mouth before speaking.

“Well, I’ll tell you. Male emotion and male irrationality are the strongest force in the world. That’s why Plato had to destroy it. He killed the man before he killed the woman. After Plato, no one has truly been a man… except me, of course.”

“How did you become so strong?” a girl asks, wondering. She’s too young to hide her feminine nature.

“A god gave it to me.”

At night, the gate stands wide… to many things. The girls drink and lick their cups with every dip into the vat. For them, it’s a rotation of movement, from kneeling at the drinking place to kneeling at Randgrid’s feet. Crawling, they go, their small, plump hands raised searchingly in the night, the most tactile of all activities. Some even crawl over me. I’m toppled by a cluster of fairies who simply use their body weight to do it. Something unsettling happens. A girl holds my head in her lap while others press my face and force my mouth open. Swift as a flycatcher, one girl grabs my tongue and pulls it out. The circle of eyes watches intently. Soon after, I’m released and abandoned. That was some inexplicable behavior.

Randgrid observes them all, slowly turning her face from side to side in affirmation of the community.

“Now, my children, I’ll tell you a story. I want you to listen, and listen well. Lysalv has given you entertainment. I won’t do the same. I’m afraid my gown might fly up.”

“Is that so bad?” I say.

“A lady must preserve her dignity,” she says. “Afterward, you’ll be questioned about the story. Are you ready?”

“We’re ready, we are,” the girls say, gathering in a tighter circle. Randgrid’s story begins.

This happened to my brother Olav. He entered a barn where he found a cellar hatch. He opened it and saw an unfathomable depth. He was so scared he closed it and piled junk and planks over it so no one would find it. One of his friends, named Bjørn, came in and noticed how anxious he was. Bjørn started searching and tossed the planks aside. He opened the hatch and told my brother to climb down. Olav refused. Bjørn then said he’d throw him into the hole. Things got worse when another friend, Varg, arrived. Bjørn threatened to get Varg fired from his job if he didn’t help. Varg began grabbing his friend, trying to pin his arms behind his back. A third man, a big brute named Gaute, joined the situation and immediately went for my brother, who was now fighting for his life. With hard blows and kicks, he tried to force Olav toward the hole. My brother defended himself, injuring his fingers with all the punches he threw. Finally, he grabbed Bjørn and said that if he had to go down the hole, he’d take Bjørn with him. Bjørn pulled a knife and aimed it at his friend’s heart. At that moment, everyone froze, and they stopped. My brother staggered out of the building, found a bench to sit on, and there he wept. No friendships were broken, but he never went back there.

That was a peculiar story. I find myself in a dreamlike state. All the girls have listened with open mouths, and their mouths remain open. I glance at my mother, as I sometimes do, and see her sitting with closed eyes.

“Now, girls. Why did Bjørn want my brother in that hole?”

“To explore, but he was afraid to do it himself!”

“To torment and harass him!”

“Because he was bored!”

“Maybe, maybe… What do the philosophers say?”

“This is clearly a case of the Will to Power at work,” my mother says. “He wanted power over your brother, and power over his friends, and by making them do something they wouldn’t normally do, he showed that power even more. And the others obeyed.”

That talk again. I’m not so sure. Can the whole world, all past and every future, be defined by a single principle?

“What about you, Lysalv?”

“My mother’s wrong because she focuses on that fool Olav. It was never about him or any relationship between those present. No. It was about the hole.”

“Explain.”

“The hole had some pull because it was unknown. No one knew what was down there. Bjørn wanted to explore it and find out, but he didn’t dare do it himself. That showed his cowardice. The first explanation is always the best. Your girls were right in what they said, and I agree with them.”

“So interesting that we reach opposite conclusions,” my mother says. “Power or cowardice.”

“It depends on where we direct our attention,” I say. “The man or the hole.”

“But in one thing you’re wrong, son. Because if Bjørn had succeeded in getting Olav to climb down the hole, the hole’s secrets would’ve been revealed. So he wasn’t cowardly but showed his power. The factor is still power, even if we focus on the hole.”

“If someone tries to put us in a hole, we just kill them!” the fairies sing merrily. “Because no one can stand against our swarm and insect horde, and least of all our blood-dripping wingbeats!”

Randgrid smiles approvingly at that.

“Maybe Olav was the coward,” I say. “Because he wouldn’t explore the hole, nor would he break ties with his friends, even when they betrayed him so.”

“You’ve hesitated a lot, Lysalv,” Randgrid says. “As a man is, so he sees.”

“I agree with my son’s thought here,” Iselin says. “He was truly cowardly and should’ve broken all friendships.”

“Mother and son agree! Well, you’re cut from the same cloth, ice-cold at heart.”

“What’s the answer! What’s the answer!” the fairies sing. “Tell us, great mother!”

“The answer is that there is no answer, in this question or any. But the world will keep questioning you, and then you shall give your interpretation, which is your own and comes from you.”

I like that answer best. Self-will and the open possibility. Though my mother operates with cold logic, as her mathematical mind must, I prefer my and the girls’ interpretation, a dish served toward adventure, not clinging so much to human relations. Interesting that Randgrid thinks I’m cold at heart. I can admit my mother is, but what has she seen in me?

Silence at the bowl, save for smacks and girlish licking. Let me confess another thing. I’ve never known a moment’s peace, and my core feeling is only grinding disharmony. Alcohol is one of the few things that helps. More, drinking opens gates in my mind that linger long after the buzz fades. A milky-white film around my brain, making me open my mouth, foam, think of death, only with desire. So I must secure a few last cups before the sweet bowl is drained. Keep the buzz going, the only time I feel peace. The ladies have the same intent, though they likely have their own reasons, their own suffering to ponder. So we stride past the gathered girl-flock and raise the last brimming goblets. The fairy creatures briefly lift their faces toward us but recognize the hierarchy. What can I say? The world must have doubled when you see double. Soon, the fairies are reduced to dipping their faces into the bowl and just licking.

“Such greedy insects,” Randgrid says. “With long, curling proboscises and shrieking stomachs. Lysalv!”

I spring to my feet like a soldier, unfortunately somewhat wobbly.

“Ensure my girls lack for nothing.”

“Aye, provider of bounty and woe!” I declare, striking my chest and bowing.

“Three bottles of mead left, wasn’t it?” Iselin asks.

“Yes.”

Her memory is truly formidable. But then, she’s the mathematical genius.

“But no champagne. Oh well. I have some Cava standing. Two bottles. You can add that. It still needs to sparkle a bit. Fetch all other white and rosé wines, except Liebfraumilch. From now on, the drink must be lighter if the girls are to be served tonight.”

“Why not the Liebfraumilch?”

“Because it’s unnatural for a woman to be a virgin past a certain age.”

“We should have a goddess of sex, not a virgin,” Randgrid adds.

“Giiiirls!”

The grown women burst into another giggling fit.

“I serve ever willingly, but none can serve beyond their ability. Who’ll be my porter?”

“I can.”

It’s Berit, of course. I drain the Thor-cup and go. She follows with one of the girls in tow.

Inside the living room, the liquor cabinet slides open at my scanned gaze.

“Nice to be rich, isn’t it?” Berit says.

“Yeah.”

We rummage through each relevant section. I find the mead. The girls sift through the white wine section. I have to tell them to steer clear of the Liebfraumilch brand. The gods must not be offended tonight. The haul stacks up on the counter. We prepare to carry, the three of us.

“You’re strong like that, yet you’re scared of girls. Incredible,” Berit says.

“You’re incredible.”

“Of course you’re bitter when I did a 360 and came up behind you.”

A lightning bolt of pain tears through my brain. Those are my phrases, taught to that Torbjørn she fucked. Truth can be a weapon, and now I strike back. I’m tired of all this dodging.

“He got that phrase from me. You have shit taste in men. Could’ve chosen someone actually intelligent, like me.”

She steps back. The gears in her treacherous brain haven’t yet processed what I said.

“You know, I’ve known plenty of psychos and lunatics, but you lot take the cake. Never seen behavior like this. You’d think you belonged to a cult.”

“We’re not…”

“Now pick up the bottles and get moving. Let’s get this night over with. Then we’ll see who draws the longest straw.”

I turn with arms full, leaving the two girls staring.

“Someone’s already drawn the straw for you,” I hear Berit whisper. It’s one of those vague hints women use to sow doubt in men, so I decide to ignore it.

As cup-bearer, the act itself is my responsibility. It’s an odd feeling to be watched by all as I pour bottle after bottle into the bowl. To the brim, and still some bottles remain. Mostly white wine now. I had nothing to stir with and don’t even get to think about it before the bowl is stormed by countless fairies. They lay their faces to the rim and slurp, a circle of soft, small heads. My job here is done, and I turn to leave. I notice my cup is empty. Soon, not long now, the sorrows will return. I’ve had more to think about lately.

It’s through a fog of intoxication and melancholy that I see change coming, like a new still from an optician, forever altering my perspective. The girls sway around or lie sprawled on the platform, with the carefree abandon only alcohol’s numbness can grant, when my mother grabs the silver-crowned fairy by the arm and pulls her into place by her seat.

“Well, what a stately lass.”

The silver-adorned looks down, but long fingers lift her chin, and serpent eyes seek the gaze of a bird.

“There’s a limit to how shy you can be with me.”

Iselin places a kiss on the girl’s mouth. She must have touched quicksilver, for the lip-touch is instantly returned with a flurry of furious kisses. Iselin lifts her neck, letting the girl reach it.

“Ah,” she moans. “Ah.”

My dulled gaze drifts to Randgrid. She merely watches the scene as my mother throws her head back in the bliss of sapphic love. Once, I drank from Mimir’s well. The lightning of insight strikes, and I’ve understood everything.

A sex cult. The girls and Randgrid must belong to a sex cult. My mother is associated with them, if not a member herself. Back when the state spent money on people like me, I was in a philosophy group. There, I befriended a black-clad figure. His spirituality ended when he swallowed a purple pill, but his insights endure. A friend named Sarah suddenly slapped my hand away and said awful things. The black-clad told me to consider: Is what she says true? Is it not true? My eyelashes flutter as I take in his understanding, and I can explain how I know without knowing how.

Randgrid got Kajsa to drop to her knees instantly with a snap of her fingers. What kind of authority does it take to do that with a teenage girl? Not just Kajsa. The girls obey her in everything. Berit showed me her pussy on a moment’s notice. Even if you were a rock star, how common is that? The girl-flock calls themselves part of a great fairy order. Twelve in number, with Randgrid as their leader. They said I didn’t know where I was and warned of consequences. Kajsa begged me to be brave, saying I’m in mortal danger. Berit confirmed it all and said the choice has already been made for me.

My mother moans loudly. A breast bared by stroking girlish hands.

Who made the choice? Randgrid. She’s their trusted figure. More than that, their guardian. She allows open sexual acts right in front of her. That means her care is a facade, and she uses her position to exploit the orphans. She’s my enemy. Since my mother’s in on it, she’s my enemy too.

Iselin suddenly grabs the girl by the hair, pulling her head back. It’s the silver-crowned’s turn to receive sapphic, wet-stroking attention.

My mother has presented herself as a libertine, and I know she’s a psychopath. The choices she’s made are proof enough. Besides, I can see it in her eyes. Light blue eyes are cold, yes, but hers hold an ice age, an absence. Maybe it’s in me too? I don’t know. I’m not yet eighteen. By then, she could revoke her parenthood. She hasn’t said it, but I know it all the same. If I resist too much now, I’ll lose everything. I’ll have to live in a twelve-square-meter flat on state support for the rest of my life, knowing I had all the world’s wealth and met the girls…

Ball gowns don’t offer much resistance, nor do girls. The gown’s shoulder straps are now pulled down, baring the stately girl’s breasts. Why her? She’s the most impressive, the worthiest, with a long chin and model-like features. Pert strawberries are wetly enveloped by a lady’s mouth.

How bad can it be? Are the girls forced, do they suffer abuse? Don’t they want this themselves? Clearly, they need parenthood, and got sex as a bonus. I can too, if I play along, and I’ll keep my position and luxury. Why are Kajsa and Berit so scared for me? It’s a test for cult admission. Randgrid likes me and will let me pass, I know that. And afterward… I can have endless pussy.

Is there a difference between drives and conscience? Yes, in this one thing. Conscience is the retardation of drives in the cowardly, weak, and sick. Conscience can also be the beginning of drives, the threshold you stand on to break free, and I’m young, I’m new, and the night vast and mighty. Never will I shrink back when a world beyond desires is offered. I’ve made this choice my whole life. Though I don’t understand it, I’ll always choose power and might and night. My light demands it.

The girl moans loudly. My mother’s hand is in her gown’s crotch. My head turns away at a call.

“Oh, Lysalv,” Randgrid says, knowingly tapping the hairbrush by her side. “Come here a bit.”

Full of dread, I seek refuge with my mother. I might as well have spared myself. Her eyes are glazed under the girl’s attention, who has now bared both womanly breasts and has one in her mouth.

“You can’t let her do that to me. Not in front of the girls. It’ll humiliate me completely.”

Iselin wraps her arm around the girl’s head, as if to secure the insistent devotion she’s receiving.

“Can you talk to her yourself?”

“Sure.”

“Then get away from me!”

Iselin lifts her foot and lashes out. I barely step aside from the kick. I don’t think. I speak, as my insults toward women have always been.

“You fucking whore.”

Iselin pushes the girl away. Now two bare-breasted women look at me. One wondering and very young, the other with a serpent’s face.

“Say that to me one more time.”

“I…”

“Try.”

I turn and walk toward Randgrid. Better an uncertain fate than the devil that’s certain. She’s been waiting for me, more or less. As I enter her personal space, she snaps her jaws, and I leap back. The pull is magnetic. I approach cautiously again and must retreat from searching teeth. On the third try, she finds my belt loop and pulls me to her.

“I was about to say I don’t bite, but that’d be a lie.”

“Listen. I can’t let you spank me. You know, personal dignity.”

“We don’t do anything you don’t want, do we?” she says, calmly unbuttoning my shirt one by one. Suddenly, I gasp as something wet and cool hits just above my navel. It’s peculiar to have her brown hair, belonging to a much older person, move confidently along my torso. When she reaches between my chest, my arms clamp together on instinct. I squeeze her tightly, letting out an involuntary moan. She stays still against my chest for a while.

“Virgin squeal already? How exciting!” she says, emerging. She smiles amid the brown spots on her face. Her fingers head to a far more intimate place. She’s already undone my belt loop, and my pants are abruptly pulled down. On their descent, something hits her square in the face, making her cry out in surprise. She quickly regains composure and elegantly wraps her fingers around my penis.

“Sorry.”

“An ethnic Norwegian boy never apologizes for his body or what he feels.”

With lowered eyelids, she regards the throbbing head with amusement. She presses her nose right against it and blows. The cool stream of air makes me fear I’ll lose it right then. Randgrid tugs at me thoughtfully for a while. In the background, the fairies have begun their own dance. They take each other’s hands and spin, unconcerned by the sight of what we’re doing.

Youth is the season of love,

Love is thus our duty,

She alone who uses it,

Deserves her beauty well.

Let us be merry,

Now while we can,

Beauty is a flower, in decay despised.

Youth is the season of love,

Love is thus our duty.

Let us drink and play today,

Ours is not tomorrow.

Love with youth flies swiftly away,

Old age is but sorrow.

Dance and sing,

Time is on wings,

Life never knows spring’s return.

Let us drink and play today,

Ours is not tomorrow.

They dance and spin with colorful ribbons in their hair. They grant themselves eternal life through the moment. Forget Jesus. He’s for weaklings and perverse desert-dwellers. You might as well live on a landfill clinging to those beliefs.

“Now we’ll write a bit,” Randgrid says. “Do you know how?”

I open my mouth to answer. I don’t get the chance, as she lifts my penis to her mouth and kisses. The wetness sends a lightning bolt permanently lodged in my root. She presses her head to my forehead.

“What’s the first letter of your name?”

“It’s… it’s L.”

She draws a large ‘L’ from my forehead down with her own saliva, ending at my chin, where my head slips free and swings aside.

“You take the next letters,” she says, kissing my penis again.

So I write. Between each letter, I receive a kiss. YSALV. Across her face, the drawing goes in moisture. Y is a stroke over the nose first, and I must lift my head to finish. S slithers snakelike. A begins and ends at the mouth’s corners, with a stroke across under the eyes. A new L, this time by me. A triumphant V is marked from brow to brow in a sharp angle.

“Now you own me.”

She squeezes her hands around my backside, stroking it gently and consolingly.

An ancient instinct kicks in, and I authoritatively tap my penis against Randgrid’s forehead. That’s why kings carry scepters. I look for opportunities. Would it be possible to slip it into her mouth in one go? Will she let me?

The answer comes, but not as I expected.

“You know, the alphabet is a Semitic invention and thus invalid. You’d need runes for the bond to be magical. So…” Swift as a hunting dragonfly, she grabs my neck. There’s no resistance in my body. “I own you.” Mercilessly, I’m pressed down into her gown-clad lap. My penis vanishes somewhere between her thighs, enveloped in soft fabric.

“I am the steward of victory on the battlefield!” she says, raising the hairbrush like a weapon. The humiliation of the position is only heightened by my backside raised above the rest of my body.

It ends brutally. Far more brutally than what she did to the ribbon-fairy, and worse than any parent has done to a child, unless it was pure hatred. What this is, I don’t know, but the brush swings with full force. The impacts resound against my backside, making my skin vibrate in pain. I moan, protest, and scream, to no effect other than perhaps intensifying the blows. I end up like the ribbon-fairy, clinging to Randgrid’s thigh. It hurts so much I forget the spectators and the ever-present humiliation. The storm of what aren’t maidenly smacks but fairy godmother’s smacks rises to a raging crescendo. The pain escalates until it’s unbearable… and releases. I open my mouth and scream… in the strongest climax I’ve ever had. It goes on and on as I rock and shoot what I have within her clamped thighs. Randgrid notices and pauses to turn to the audience and laugh. As I slump down, hanging exhausted on my face, she ends the session with a few more showers of chastising blows. The thrashing reaches its logical end at my end, as an especially violent strike snaps the hairbrush’s handle, sending it flying into the night.

“Get up. Say thank you.”

She throws me off like a horse would its rider. I land on a battered backside and barely manage to stand.

“T-t-thank you.”

Only now do I realize I must cover myself. My pants are down there somewhere, so I pull them up. My shirt is open, flapping around my chest.

Randgrid rises before the watching crowd and lifts the fold of her purple gown for all to see, where I’ve left so much semen it looks like someone smashed ten eggs there with a fist.

“Tonight’s first tribute! A badge of honor!”

The applause roars like at a stage performance.

“And…” Randgrid turns. At her backside, it’s clear the same semen has soaked through at least two layers of fabric. “Both front and back. I’ll keep this all night, as a reminder!”

The applause continues. I must look. Among the applauding are my mother, Kajsa, and Berit. All are participants. All are part of the same madness. What about me? Not only am I part of the madness. I was the highlight.

“You wanted this, Lysalv,” Randgrid says, winking. “And they’d laugh themselves silly at the station if you filed a report.”

“Case dismissed,” Berit says in a mock policeman’s voice.

“On the grounds of evidence,” Line says. “Namely, his ass high in the air!”

The hysteria and girlish laughter roll on for a long time, there in the garden, the place between light and dark, where chaos has marched in and now reigns, dangerous, alluring, and grand. A thought has taken root, because it’s true, and will follow me my whole life, eventually with the force of action: The best sex is a public affair.

The world moves on, but not for me. Everything spins, turns, and lurches. I try to pull myself together several times, maybe drink a bit more. It just won’t do. My strength ran out long ago, and my life lies open, so a razor-sharp pain pierces through. So I rise and stagger toward Randgrid, nearly blind.

“The young buck’s reloaded already, huh? I haven’t necessarily said there’ll be a round two,” Randgrid says, sternly admonishing from her seat.

“He wants it in number two,” a fairy says.

“You’ll have to settle for w… Oh!”

I throw myself into her headfirst. After the initial shock, she receives me, wraps her arms lovingly around me, and makes room for me on the seat.

“Well, look at that. You could use being put in your place sometimes.”

I sink through endless soft, purple gown fabric and rest against her chest. There, I lie trembling. I’d have lain in her lap, but I’ve soiled it.

“There, there,” she says, stroking my hair maternally and interlacing our fingers. “I said I’d catch myself an elf. Didn’t even need a net.”

“They’re easy to catch. Hard to hold,” Iselin says.

“That’s why I prefer my men in cages,” Randgrid says.

“Are you with a gorilla? Well, you’ve always had bad taste in men.”

“Don’t talk like that about your son.”

For the second time, she’s defended me. When was the last time someone did that? I have friends who’ve fought for me. Clubbed down heads that deserved it, but that’s a brutal love only found between men. No one’s ever defended me with words. Kajsa probably thinks I’m faithless with how I carry on, sexually and with my affection, but I can’t help what’s happened. It’s not like I planned all this. I’ve been helpless against the older woman’s power. Maybe Kajsa even knew this would happen? What was she so afraid of?

Iselin keeps herself occupied, more or less. The ribbon-fairy has been caught at some point, and together with the silver-crowned, they approach my mother’s breasts from either side. The other fairies have calmed and watch the spectacle kneeling. The bowl is nearly drained, and one of them pours the leftover bottles’ contents clunking into it. The bottle had a cork. How did she open it without tools? We’re resourceful here, indeed. The answer comes as she grabs the next bottle. She simply pushes the cork down with a small stick. That way, they gain access to more drink without drawing too much attention.

Randgrid’s fingers move to my hair. From my haven of care, I see my mother get her two willing maids to rise and lean forward, hands on knees. With the fairies so positioned, she sends their finery swirling through the air, pulls down their panties, and pushes their backsides together with an audible smack. Iselin’s head vanishes somewhere rearward, among her rear-guard.

“Ah,” the silver-crowned moans, dutiful and dignified.

“Ah! Ah! Oooh!” the ribbon-fairy chimes, almost panicked. She’s clearly not used to the kind of close contact where a grown woman has her face in her backside. Then I understand. My mother’s using her fingers.

The god who walks through my life speaks. It’s a voice not my own. One of the best things in life is sticking your nose in a young girl’s backside. Stein, is that you? Øy? Øy? No, I don’t know. I’ve met two gods. Odin and him. Both protected me from the vaccines.

“Girls, look at me,” Randgrid says, making a simple hand gesture. At once, all the kneeling fairies’ faces turn toward her. The engaged fairies are too preoccupied to notice.

“Sure they’re not underage?”

Underage, yes. It’s been lowered once or twice since Norway lost the border war to Russia.

“I didn’t know you were such a boring cunt,” Iselin says.

“I’m not. But I need my maids tonight. All of them.”

“Oh, you can spare one or three. Nothing stops me when I taste young pussy.”

Iselin is about to dive back to the young girls’ rears but is stopped at the last moment.

“No.”

“Tell me, are you trying to provoke me? Don’t awaken my wrath.”

The forward-leaning fairies now look imploringly at Randgrid. All the other fairies still have their faces turned toward her, like a military order of Mithras soldiers, except they’re all girls.