The Cruel Stars of the Night

Twenty-one

Mirabelle was not an ordinary mare. Everyone who saw her jump realized this. The combination of unruffled calm combined with the explosiveness at the obstacles, which never ceased to amaze Carl-Henrik Palmblad, made her one of the most promising three-year-olds that he had ever seen on the track.

When Ellinor rode her he was sometimes worried. Mirabelle was so powerful in her approach and takeoff that Ellinor seemed at the mercy of powers that she had no hope of controlling. But it always went well. It was as if the mare considered her movements so precisely, in the closest coordination with the rider’s qualities, that he never really had to fear that his grandchild would come to any harm.

Mirabelle was very strong and tireless, with a competitive spirit that promised a great deal for the future. Carl-Henrik Palmblad’s greatest source of joy was perhaps not Mirabelle herself but the fact that Ellinor spent so much time in the stables. She came more frequently, and those times he wasn’t able to give her a ride she took the bus from the city. Of course it was the jumping that attracted her and above all the fact that Mirabelle had become her best friend, as she put it, but it had also meant that the two of them, grandfather and grandchild, grew closer.

Ellinor was his darling. He would never have thought that contact with her would mean so much. His time as a father, when Magnus and Ann-Charlotte were young, appeared in hindsight as one big haze. He could not recall many times during their childhood when they actually did things together, but now every day that Ellinor came to the stables was a celebration.

They talked about all manner of things. He was able to take part in her everyday dreams, the conflicts with her parents-where Carl-Henrik almost always took her side-and how things were at school. When she started seeing a boy he was the one who heard about it before anyone else. And when it ended, he was the one who had to comfort her.

Ellinor had a knack with horses. Ann-Charlotte, her mother, had also done a lot of riding but without the same burning interest and conviction.Now she would ride occasionally when she came out to the stables, mostly to get away from Folke, Ellinor’s father, who was the one who paid for everything. He had bought the farm, paid for the fences and renovation of the stables. However, Carl-Henrik was the one who had bought Mirabelle, and he was grateful for that. Even if Folke got tired of sponsoring his daughter’s and father-in-law’s thing for horses, Mirabelle was there and Carl-Henrik was never going to let her go.

Sometimes he imagined that his son-in-law was jealous of him because he had the best contact with Ellinor. But other times he didn’t think Folke cared much for either his wife or his daughter.

He had felt something in his back as he dragged out the hard-pressed bales of hay. He had enjoyed an inactive lifestyle and he had to pay for that now. His joints were stiff and despite many years of riding he was not particularly strong. On the other hand Lindberg, who helped out every other day, was just as broken down, and he had been physically active his whole life: orienteering, the Vasa race, and swimming in Vansbro.

He decided to do the exercises that his chiropractor had recommended, and he laid down on his back on the floor. The movements were difficult at first but after a few minutes the stiffness started to give way and it felt much better.

It was strange to see the room from below. Lying on the floor changed the objects in the room and distorted the perspective. Once Lindberg had found him lying here and the old engineer had looked completely different. Not only because of the surprised expression on his face but also because of the altered proportions. Lindberg, who normally looked very timid, made an almost demonic impression. The highly ordinary nose appeared enormous; the mouth, which normally had a little smile, looked frighteningly cavernous; and the eyebrows stood out like black brushes on a wild animal, as Lindberg gaped at him on the floor.

Palmblad bent his knees and pressed them up against his stomach, rested, and then repeated the maneuver. He felt his spine crackle and his lower back relax.

Suddenly he heard the door at one end open. It gave off a characteristic creak. Palmblad sat up. If it was Lindberg he didn’t want to be found on the floor again. It was a bit like being caught with your pants down; he didn’t want to appear to Lindberg as an old weakling.

But it was strange. Lindberg had very established habits and never came in on Mondays. Carl-Henrik Palmblad stood up, brushed off his backside, and cracked the door. The corridor down the middle of the stables was still and deserted. No one was to be seen. He craned his neck. The door at the end of the stables was closed. One of the horses neighed. Another kicked a stall door so it rattled.

I was mistaken, he thought and went back into the room and picked up a bridle. The fact was that he was worried about his hearing. Many times he didn’t hear what Ellinor had said and had to ask her to repeat herself, but what was even more serious was that he heard things, voices and foreign sounds, that no one else perceived. He could be completely alone and still hear someone speaking. In the evenings he had a buzzing sound in his ears.

“Tinnitus,” Ann-Charlotte said when he complained of it, “it’s all the opera arias that have ruined your ears.”

He smiled to himself when he thought of his daughter. She had inherited his determined manner and his predilection for categorical statements. Now he had been tempered somewhat, and expressing himself so harshly and self-confidently no longer appealed to him. If his body had become stiffer, then his mind had softened in his old age. And that was among others thanks to Mirabelle, and Ellinor, of course.

He smiled even broader when he thought of his grandchild. She was coming out after school. He would muck out the stalls and take out some of the horses, but he wasn’t going to ride them. He would go home for a few hours and then be back in time for her arrival. Maybe he could pick her up on the way?

He walked out into the central corridor and was again hit by the feeling that he wasn’t alone. There had been a “visitor” about six months ago, someone who had broken in late one evening. It had frightened Ellinor but Palmblad had reassured her with the fact that it was probably just some teenagers out having a good time. Nothing had been stolen but some of the equipment had been thrown around and the stall doors had been covered in meaningless graffiti.

But burglars in the middle of the afternoon? Palmblad walked silently down the corridor, pushed on a storage room door, and peeked in. The smell of apples wafted out and he remembered that Ellinor had brought in a couple of boxes of winter fruit.

The break room was empty, just like the room where they stored the saddles, and this eased his mind somewhat.

Then he heard a scraping sound, as if a stall door was being opened. I’m hearing things, Palmblad thought. It’s the horses moving around. Get a grip on yourself, he told himself and walked over to Mirabelle’s stall. She neighed. Justus, an ungovernable stallion on the other side of the corridor, answered. Carl-Henrik Palmblad said something soothing, opened the stall door, stepped in next to Mirabelle, and patted her on the side.

Carl-Henrik died with a smile on his lips. The last thing he felt was warmth, a burning sensation down his back that radiated down to his legs. He fell headlong. Mirabelle had to receive his body and she shied away, neighed anxiously, circling the box but managing-as horses do- to avoid stepping on a prone human.

Justus became all the more nervous and egged on the other horses. The whole stall seemed to vibrate with restless hoofs. The nervousness only died down a good while after the stable door had creaked and shut again.

Mirabelle tossed her head and looked down at her caretaker. He was lying curled up with his right arm stretched out and the hand clenched around a few stalks of hay. The horse walked carefully around the box. She knew that something was wrong, Her nostrils widened, the muscles under the shiny skin vibrated, and she poked Palmblad’s lifeless body tentatively with her muzzle.

Ellinor Niis walked into the stables at a quarter past four. She let out a whistle as she usually did, a shrill signal intended as greeting: I’m here. It was as much directed at the horses as her grandfather.

Mirabelle neighed. Otherwise silence reigned.