The Garden of Light and Darkness - Part 9

I am a natural hunter. Where others stomp about, I move in perfect silence by innate instinct. Many are those I've startled by suddenly appearing in a room, especially females. Not because I wished to cause them unease, but because they didn't hear me. This is because I carry much of Norway's original hunter-gatherer genes. All the signs are there. Recessive traits, so I've turned inward and returned as blue-eyed light. A foretaste of silence, of streams and forests. A way to approach females that isn't social, but primal. I can barter for their favors with nuts, or simply seize them.

Kajsa sits with her slender back turned, on her melancholy swing. Her colors barely push back the darkness. The night, in turn, lends her figure a dreamlike quality. The insect wings almost entirely still now. Yes, why shouldn't she appear this way? She is, after all, my dream.

Soundless steps bring me ever closer. My breathing too is silent, but I can see hers. Her senses cannot perceive me, and her instincts deny her that. All girls secretly wish to be caught. Every moment I expect her to suddenly turn and look at me with a face contorted in fear, yet she remains peaceful, and it doesn't happen. Vines and white flowers twist around the ropes. Then, at the very last moment, as the swing's edge moves slowly toward impact, I lean forward and wrap my arms around her, pressing my face against creamy cheek and honey-gold hair.

"Hey."

There's surprise, but her body doesn't flinch as one might expect. Either she's unlearned fear, or it's me she doesn't fear. This makes me proud.

The neighboring swing stands empty. That's just as well. I'd hate to have sent anyone to their grave, though I'd do it if necessary.

"Will you push me?"

I want to be face-to-face, so I position myself in front. Place my hands on small shoulders and send her out into the night. She comes smiling back. Back and forth she sails this way. She pushes her feet toward me like an arrow, but carefully spreads them before we collide.

"Why are you a virgin?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"But you're handsome. Very handsome."

"Thanks. Maybe most girls don't like me."

"Why not?"

I have to think.

"I'm an intuitive, not a sensing type. I'm not interested in the external world or in status. I'm actually completely indifferent to it."

"Yet you seem to like girls now."

The swing creaks and whooshes. The rhythm has increased considerably, powered by my muscles. I try to push Kajsa and what she's saying away, but the message keeps coming back to me.

"There's more. I have a feminine core energy, while at the same time not caring about rules. This means girls see me as a competitor, not a partner. And as a crazy woman to boot. Such women must be disciplined or driven away. Have you heard of Cassandra?"

"Do I know her?"

"You know me. I'm Cassandra. I'm condemned to tell things no one believes."

The motion is wild now. Kajsa nearly lifts off, almost at a sharp angle at the top of her arc. The motion of a swing can simulate sex. This is what I’d do with her. She spreads wide to avoid hitting me with her feet. I catch glimpses straight into her panties.

"You seem masculine enough to me," she gasps. "Just like other boys I've known. You speak aggressively, swing your body and shoulders about, and … look at me with lust in your eyes."

"There you have it." I groan in time with the motion. "That's Cassandra's curse. Even you don't believe me."

"Maybe all of this is just a figment of your imagination. Maybe you intellectualized yourself out of the world. At any rate, you seem to have lost touch with the ground … LIKE ME!"

At the peak of an upswing, her small hands let go of the ropes, and she flies up into the air, the pale pink plastic wings flapping wildly behind her. So they really are capable of fairy flight after all. It wouldn't have occurred to me to move aside. Instead, lightning-fast instinct takes over, and I come up and catch her in mid-flight. For a moment, she hangs there in my outstretched arms. Her feet dangle against me, and as I pull her closer, my fingers settle against her neck, caressing it. She wraps her arms around my shoulders as I shift to hold her firmly around the waist, my cheek pressed against her small stomach. She breathes calmly beneath the fabric. Not the slightest trace of dismay. If only I could stay pressed against her like this forever.

Kajsa is lowered down to solid ground from that unseen element, that which is nearest and dearest to me. She is completely calm while I tremble and gasp for breath. Her blue eyes regard me thoughtfully. Blue against blue. Sea against sea. As it should be. Sea does not belong with the desert. Desert does not belong with the sea.

I want to kiss her and she's noticed, because I keep leaning closer with gasping lips. Instead, she places her hands assertively on my chest.

"We need to talk."

I'm confused, but I suppose I'll have to oblige. So I retrieve the cup I'd set aside between some roots and take my place on the swing beside her. It's interesting to turn Kajsa confidently in the ropes and watch her girly eyes light up at the gesture. From there I hand her the brimming honey drink, just as some ancient instinct had me plan.

"Randgrid's boss-cunt can't be everywhere."

Kajsa accepts my Tor's cup and sips, first thoughtfully, then more deeply. Now she drinks of both my tears and blood. Tears are the purest of human fluids, but don't satisfy the gods—only certain gullible airheads at social services. Only through blood can blood live. Now all that's missing is fire. Well, I'm right beside her, burning so fiercely I fear the night might catch flame.

"Nothing here is as it seems," she says after a honeyed sip. "I'm forbidden to say anything, but I can tell you this: You're in mortal danger. A test has been initiated, and the choices you make will be decisive. I need you to promise. You must be brave."

A test? Yes, I understand Randgrid is evaluating me. Mortal danger seems an exaggeration. Kajsa is naturally afraid of the boss-cunt's authority. After all, she's the one who'll bear the consequences when they return to the orphanage.

"It'll be easy," I say, baring sharp canines in a smile. "I'm always brave."

Suddenly I am seized, a girl’s arm wrapped tightly around my neck. The Thor’s Cup topples onto the grass. Our lips find each other across the swings. Dawn is far off, but the world explodes in radiant warmth and dizzying waves of heat. We gasp and kiss as though this is what breathing truly means. And I understand: Yes, it is. My entire life I have walked around like the living dead, never breathing against another. Now I have Kajsa’s lips, her mouth, her love, and I won’t let go. My hands search feverishly across her slender body. I want to take in everything at once. She clings on tightly, leaving me little freedom to move.

"Oh," breathes Kajsa, baring her white neck. My mouth finds its way there, taking in the scent and taste of her bare, soft skin—one of the body’s most vulnerable places made accessible. "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

It’s at the height of Kajsa’s pleasure that the interruption comes in the form of a voice:

"WELL WELL!"

Immediately my gaze hardens, even at a girl’s neck, and I slowly extricate myself from the intimate place I’ve been to turn toward the interruption. No need to guess. There stands Berit, hands on her hips, like some confrontational Pippi Longstocking. Slightly behind her stands Line, observing the confrontation about to unfold. Yes, because the time has come for the final confrontation, and here I don't intend to yield. Kajsa and I exchange glances, and she nods. That’s all I need to know. I rise to meet tonight’s nemesis. If I win here, I’ve defeated them all.

True to my restless nature, I circle the opposition. Measuring with my eyes, shifting my feet in an uneven rhythm. I know almost nothing about feints and lunges the way a kickboxer would, but people know next to nothing about me either, and it’s about keeping a psychological edge. Surprisingly many are unsettled by the unknown and the unpredictable—the places where vipers and I thrive. Perhaps a bit of a stretch to use such an approach against a girl. Then again, Berit likely possesses a man’s soul. Who, if not her, is trapped in the wrong body? She should have been a Celtic warrior, and whether life proved short or long, she would have been happier where iron falls and blood, preferably Roman, sprays between the walls. Already I feel the pull of a species-will and know she’s sensed it too.

My theatrics doesn't have the desired effect. Berit turns, tracking me with her eyes. More—there's amusement in her gaze. Not only is she tough, she's fearless and treats everything as entertainment. When I grasp what a formidable opponent I'm facing, fear takes root. Has she already seen through me? I position myself before Kajsa to shield her. Must prevent her being dragged off by her friends before I've had my say. Berit's amusement seems to grow. My play 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 me. Probably because I'm no warrior but an illusionist. Then I understand. I can win by yielding. The full moon has risen tonight after all, and with it I can render her helpless.

"Look, I get you're jealous. Maybe we can resolve this for all parties?"

Immediately fury flashes, and I retreat into Kajsa. Everything I do backfires. The threat of violence became entertainment. The invitation to my favor was taken as mockery.

I raise my hands defensively in front of my face. "Before you break my nose, hear me out."

"I'm listening."

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

A little way off, I hear Line snort pointedly. A sign I'm right.

"I think you’re pretty. Very attractive. Line too. Honestly, I’d take all three of you if I could, but that probably hasn’t been possible for the last thousand years, and I suppose you’d freak out."

"No, you don't say...!" says Line.

At least, Berit’s eyes are searching. Investigating. It dawns on me that this is how she’s always looked at me.

"Since I'm not allowed that choice, I pick Kajsa. You're equally pretty, but she needs me the most. I almost feel she's like a sister, except, uh, I want to fuck her."

"Wow, smooth! Listen to Mr. Eloquent here!" says Line.

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

"She likes me. You like me. I understand you're trying to protect her. My intentions are sincere, and I won't take advantage. Now you have to accept that I’ve been let in."

"Are you done?" asks Berit.

"Yes, I'm done."

Berit draws breath. "All of this is wrong, and only a man could come up with something so idiotic. I'm not jealous."

"Neither am I," says Line.

"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 any of that," I say, tightening my grip on Kajsa. I wonder where those blue eyes are fixed and what they're communicating. After all, it’s her fate that’s about to be decided. "We're together now. You have nothing and can't stop me."

Berit grins widely. An orange request stripe for shared-screen access appears over one eye. I blink yes. Instantly the hologenerator projects a monitor cube beside us.

The camera feed drifts through the rooms. Everywhere, loud conversations and occasional shouts can be heard.

"The SYNDICATE headquarters here, with Frans Flashbolt as our great leader. As you can hear, it's a party."

The 3D recording swirls over pictures on the wall, some windows, then slides through a door into the living room. I’m sitting among several burly men. Wearing my preferred outfit—beige pants and shirt.

"New guy. His name's Øyvind. But you call yourself... Light Elf?"

My figure lounges, sipping from a beer can.

"That's right, fatty."

The 3D image zooms in on my face, which appears mildly irritated.

"They say you can speak for yourself. Now we want a speech."

Some of the drunk people scattered on chairs and sofas pick up on the last remark and take it as a kind of trigger word.

"SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!"

I grin. Suddenly I spring up and do a few dance steps across the floor. The erratic behaviour immediately grabs everyone’s attention. They can tell something’s about to go down. 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 crunches as I crush it. Abruptly I spin and throw—the crumpled can smacks the rascal square in the forehead with a sharp crack. His head jerks back in surprise. He starts to get up, but someone standing behind him places a hand on his shoulder. It's Flashbolt himself, a middle-aged man with sun-darkened skin and white, curly hair.

"There will be no nigger-killing here, because we’ve all got our favourite nigger. You’ve got to think more sophisticated than that!" My figure lets out a howl and spins. "Let it be known far and wide. We have a hidden enemy, one who seeks to destroy us at every crossroads. Fortunately, I'm a genius and know all about it."

"Hear! Hear!" shouts party leader Flashbolt.

"Big capital is our enemy. Without them, we wouldn't be plagued by 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 dwells a fierce instinct for freedom, something no other people possess, and those capitalist swine know it!"

"Down with the swine!" shouts one.

"Kill them!" shouts another.

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

"All evils that have befallen us these past hundred years. Mass immigration from rape hordes trying to race-mix us and seize our sacred homeland. Sterilization vaccines from the globalists. Poisoning our food with methane inhibitors and insect powder. The constant undermining. The faggotry. It's the merchant caste—the capitalists—behind it all. Because they're ONLY capable of understanding the world in material terms—without sun, light, spirit and spirituality. Without beauty and the sacred, perceived only by the sensitive eye."

"Uh, so what do we do?" asks the guy I hit with the beer can.

"Simple, my friends. I am Light Elf, and I command you to kill them. Kill a business owner today. Shoot a lawyer. Beat a policeman and a doctor to death. They're all traitors and deserve only a bullet—which is frankly too good for the vermin. The doctor has sterilized small children. Those working in the administration support an evil system. And a capitalist is always our enemy!

"KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM!" chants the crowd with clenched fists. I try to say something several times but have to give up. Only when they’ve finally quieted down enough can I continue my speech.

"And when we've finally gunned down the swine, we'll set things right. Women will once again know their place and marry at the age of 15. As for all the sand-niggers, beach-niggers, Asians, Mongols, the mongos, and every Sami and gypsy bastard—we'll finally be free to cut them down along with the subversive Jewish swine. Because our sacred homeland must not be defiled. It must be free! It must be ours!"

"OURS! OURS! OURS!"

"Forever pure!" I declare. "Forever sacred. For the ARYAN RACE descended from Atlantis. From here to eternity! Only in us flows the BLOOD OF GODS!"

"YEEES! LIGHT ELF!" the crowd cheers. Suddenly I'm rushed by so many men that furniture topples and the floor rumbles. They grab me and start rhythmically tossing me up into the air. It’s clear that my figure is uncomfortable. In the background, Lynglimt stands thoughtfully rubbing his head. The AI-controlled camera pans to the man behind the filming. In full 3D he sends me and the girls who are watching a knowing smile.

"Torbjørn Berntsen here. And that was Light Elf. Cool guy. Heart in the right place, though maybe a bit bloodthirsty."

The monitor cube folds away. Only the darkness of night remains.

"No, no, no," I groan. "You just can’t do this."

"I both can and will," says Berit.

"Where... how did you get that clip? Do you know him?"

"She's fucked him," says Line.

Berit whirls and places a finger directly on her friend's mouth.

"Shuuut up."

A jolt of pain shoots through my body. I wanted to own them all, though it's impossible. The species-will has just received a rap on the nose. My response is white-hot rage.

"I'll kill that traitorous swine for this."

"You'll do no such thing. Either stay away from Kajsa, or I'll take your little speech to the police and media."

"Do you stand by all this?" asks Line. Her eyes are wide. She likely can't fathom someone breaking every social taboo at once.

"Of course I do, you utterly stupid mare." I turn to Berit. "This is going to completely ruin my life. Do you want me to beg?"

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

I remember the last time I had dealings with the police. I had made a podcast about Dumézil’s theory of trifunctionality. A friend warned me that they had been asking questions, so I was prepared when they stormed the dormitory at the youth home and seized my device. I had buried my writings in the woods—they never found them. But for more than six months, video calls kept coming from packed conference rooms. The police officers were always friendly, and that’s when you know you’re in danger. “Hi, Øyvind. How are you, Øyvind? We just want to talk, Øyvind.” If I refused to talk, the calls simply kept coming, and police officers also showed up at my door in the morning and even in the middle of the night. If I tried to explain myself, everything I said was interpreted in the worst possible light. “I’m not qualified to comment on that,” one of them said in response to my explanations. “I can’t rule out the possibility that there’s something psychological going on. But I know a nice doctor, Øyvind. You could talk to him, Øyvind.” After the brief, formal consultation, I was detained and taken to a madhouse. There I spent eight days—refusing to take any medication, barely eating, hearing madmen howl at the walls—before they let me out. The video calls stopped. They usually brick equipment as a form of retaliation, but I got my device back. I threw it away without even trying to access it. I knew very well that it was packed with self-replicating viruses and surveillance software.

That was for a podcast on an academic subject. This is much worse. No paid service, not even my mother's lawyers, could protect me. My name would be tarnished forever. I'd be jailed as a terrorist, or committed to an institution and forcibly medicated until they had snuffed out my genius. They wouldn't let me out until they had destroyed me. Recently, a young person said in conversation that he enjoyed listening to classical music. As a result, informants had his house raided using armored vehicles and stun grenades, and his parents were put in shackles. Legal protection no longer exists, and it is impossible to express an opinion publicly—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 put my hands around your neck and really squeezed," I say, closing my fingers around Berit's throat. She makes no attempt to move or break my grip.

"Go ahead. Then we can add attempted murder to everything else. Good job. Your speech gets published regardless."

My hands drop, and I cover my face.

"I hope you understand," her voice quivers triumphantly, "that the only reason girls like you is because you're wealthy. Kajsa just let you believe 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 excluded from this conversation, though she's the very object of contention. It's too late. I seek eye contact—in vain. I've already lost her.

"Listen," I say. "I'll fix this somehow, and then I'll find you. Count on that."

"You’re just saying that," Kajsa whispers.

"You'll have to settle for being Virgin-Øyvind a while longer," says Line. "Though maybe in five years you'll get a handjob from a toothless, well-fucked whore."

In that moment, I nearly whirl around and make her toothless with my fist. I close my eyes. Berit grabs Kajsa and leads her away, snapping a few harsh words into her blonde friend's ear. I watch them leave. At the edge of the small grove, Kajsa is handed over to Line, and Berit returns.

"I know you think I'm the biggest cunt who ever lived," she says. "But it's true. Kajsa can defend herself and has endured far worse—I just don't want her getting too attached to you."

"Yeah, you're making damn sure of that..."

"You're the one I'm trying to protect."

"From what?"

"But it's probably already too late."

Empty swings soon become my only company, as always. The demon haunting my life has triumphed again. There was hope, and hope was bludgeoned with a spiked club. But I can't become some rationalist mummy who stops hoping. I can't become like everyone else in this damned world.