“Because its wheels are squeaking.”
Grandmother was finding it difficult to breathe. The wind drew reluctantly through the trees, but neither of them heard it.
“And what comes after the wagon?”
“After the wagon there’s a man beating a drum.”
“Why can’t I hear the drum?” panted Grandmother.
“He’s beating it softly,” answered the boy. “Because it’s dark out.”
Now a long moment passed. Frightened and cold, the boy thought: “Maybe … maybe she’ll never go back inside. And if she never goes back inside then she’ll never notice the boot is missing.” Grandmother shivered. If there was anyone in the world who wasn’t deaf, then they would have heard Grandmother’s bones rattling in her body like a rickety old cart. But in this world there were only the deaf. And out on the road, the endless procession dragged past in the thickening darkness.
Grandmother whispered, “And what comes after the drum?”
“After the drum,” said the boy, “… there are two horses.”
“Why don’t I hear them?” complained Grandmother.
“Their hooves are padded,” replied the boy. “Because it’s dark out.”
He could feel the evil growing within him like a tree of stone.
“And after the horses?”
“After the horses there is someone crying.”
And in that instant a bird cried out from the hedge. The boy heard nothing, but Grandmother heard it. She said, “I hear, I hear. I’m freezing. Let’s go in.”
And she hurried in to lock the door against the evil. But when she looked for the boy he wasn’t there. He realized now that everything was lost, and so he shouted back as he rushed down into the garden:
“I just want to get my ball!”
There was no ball there. There was nothing there. But he quickly threw himself down below a tree, and he began to pray out loud.
“Dear God, please fix the boot. Dear, dear God, please let me hear again.”
But God did not hear his prayers. Instead God allowed the quiet to spread itself out over the boy like a giant black wing.
And yet the creek was there. It flowed steadily on the other side of the road, throwing itself from stone to stone with an anxious whisper. He had to go there and listen. So he shot up and rushed to the gate. But he never made it through the gate, because a man was coming down the road.
The man came forward in the darkness. And clearly, things were not altogether right with him. First of all, he walked so strangely, staggering from ditch to ditch. And even though he walked forward most of the time, sometimes he would step back, too. And then, of course, he sounded funny. One moment he’d quarrel with someone who wasn’t even there, and then the next second he’d sing a snatch from a tune. Then, once he’d finished singing, he’d begin to quarrel all over again. With a pounding heart the boy followed the man’s peculiar wandering from behind the hedge. He followed him as far as he could, until the man disappeared into the night and could no longer be heard.
Be heard? Yes, the boy had heard him. But he was only a person, and people can always be heard, because they’re there. The boy needed to hear something that wasn’t there. But he couldn’t. So because of this, and because he was cold, he sneaked back inside.
As he slipped into the kitchen Grandmother was standing just outside the bedroom door. And the moment he saw her face, he knew. It was sunken in, as if someone had dug into it with a spade. And her eyes clung to him, rigid and huge. He knew now that she had learned everything. Suddenly, before he could stop himself, he yelled out to her.
“Grandmother! There’s a man lying in the road!”
Fascinated by his own lie, he watched her come towards him, trembling and weak. Her mouth moved a few times, but no words came out. As if in a dream, he watched her poor shivering arms reach out for her sweater on the hook. A moment later they were outside again in the dark. They made their way through the mute garden each trembling. Hand in hand, they stepped out onto the black road. It was cold and quiet and above them a haze of stars was wavering in the sky. All at once, Grandmother stopped by the hedge and whispered:
“Where?”
“Not here,” said the boy in a low voice. “Farther down.”
They walked along in the shadow of the hedge, and it protected them. But then the hedge ended, and Grandmother stopped. She would not go any further. Nor did the boy dare to — but he had to. Step by step he forced himself out into the black unknown. Just a little ways off, he stopped on the side of the road and bent over.
“Here!” he cried softly to Grandmother.
She would not come closer, but he heard her call out:
“How does he look?”
The boy looked down into the gravel. He grasped a couple of small stones in his hand and answered:
“He’s tall. He’s awfully big. And there’s a hat over his face.”
“Take away the hat,” said Grandmother.
The boy lifted his hand from the road.
“Is he breathing?” asked Grandmother.
The boy turned his head and lowered his ear to the gravel. With tearless eyes he stared out into the depths of night, desperate and lost. It was quiet all over the world. Some black trees stood out on the meadow, like darkness over darkness. It seemed as though they were walking towards him. He closed his eyes and lowered his ear even more. And then, just then, a very remarkable thing happened. A warm stream of air rushed into the boy’s ear. From the gravel below rose the calm, steady breath of a sleeper.
“Grandmother!” he shouted, excitedly. “He’s sleeping! He’s just sleeping!”
From the end of the hedge came a deep sigh.
“Wake him up,” said Grandmother. “He can’t lay out in the cold like this.”
The boy shook his empty hand in the air. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his ear. From the gravel came a grunt and a hoarse whisper.
“What’s he saying?” asked Grandmother.
“He says to go inside. He says he’s not sleeping, just resting. He’ll move on in a minute.”
With a quick leap the boy was back beside the hedge. He found Grandmother’s hand tucked inside the sweater, and taking it, he led her back along the safe black shadow. Suddenly the wind picked up from out of the darkness, and all of the branches began to sway, their leaves rustling. On the other side of the road was the creek, holding the stones awake with its whispers. And in reply, the forest of clouds above them let out a strong, calm murmur.
“Grandmother,” said the boy. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. He wasn’t dead.”
And with his hand he could feel how she stopped shaking altogether. They walked through the garden. The grass rustled. An apple fell. And each of them heard it.
“Grandmother,” whispered the boy. “One of Grandfather’s boots is broken.”
And Grandmother said, “Oh, honey, that doesn’t matter. We can fix it.”
So in silence they continued on to the bright, quiet house, and to a new and good night.
The Surprise
There are some people who never do anything to be loved and yet still are. And then there are those who do everything to be loved, but never are. The very poor, it could be said, often find it hard to be loved. When Håkan’s mother had been a widow for five years, her father-in-law turned seventy. They were invited to his birthday celebration in the form of a short, curt letter some eight lines long; it read:
Of course you’re free to come if you want to, Elsa, but you got to bring your own bedding ’cause its cold in the back room. Besides, some people’s probably gonna have to sleep in the hallway. You ain’t the only ones coming. There’s the bank clerk and the store manager Mr. Jonsson. Both of them’s been invited and they’ll probably sleep in the living room. If you can come up a day ahead of time, then that would be nice. We’ll need some help with the cleaning and the tables and the cooking.