Anita Wins Swedish Derby - Anita vinner Svenskt Derby
Svensk text på slutet

To deepen your understanding of these themes, explore my reflections on traditions and societal critique through this link, which complements the essay's exploration of pink skies.

https://www.konst.se/jorgen-thornberg

It begins with a picture of a horse that nobody could properly explainhalf a horse, to be exact.

Or rather, with the growing suspicion that modern civilisation despite satellites, bureaucracy, televised sports, and European Union regulations remained dangerously vulnerable to mythology under sufficiently beautiful summer weather.

On the twelfth of July, beneath an impossibly blue Scandinavian sky above the Swedish Derby in Malmö, something entered the racecourse that should not have existed outside ancient Greek pottery, half-forgotten Homeric fragments, and drunken university discussions held long after midnight. Yet thousands of perfectly sober spectators would later insist they had seen it with their own eyes: a gigantic brown centaur moving among Europes finest thoroughbreds with the calm dignity of an old aristocrat arriving slightly late for dinner.

Naturally, by the following morning, most people had already begun explaining the whole thing away.

That is humanity's way of dealing with true miracles.

The television broadcasts somehow looked less impossible than the event itself had felt. Newspaper photographs appeared oddly blurred or distorted, while witnesses immediately began to disagree about what they had actually seen. Some insisted Chiron had merely been an unusually large horse; others dismissed the entire affair as a publicity stunt, advanced animatronics, Swedish performance art, or mass psychological hysteria caused by gambling, champagne, and excessive Scandinavian summer sunlight.

However, the present horses never changed their account of events.

"The Horse From Nowhere

They say it never happened.
Or happened incorrectly.
Or happened after too much champagne
beneath abnormal Scandinavian sunlight.

Some blamed the heat.
Some blamed betting.
One psychiatrist blamed collective hysteria
triggered by horses, wealth, and emotional instability.
A Brussels official blamed the media.
The media blamed the weather.
The weather blamed absolutely nobody.

Yet thousands still remembered
the strange brown horse from Koltur
that seemed too large for ordinary biology
and too calm for ordinary racing.

Bookmakers laughed at the odds.
Gamblers laughed at the horse.
The horse, meanwhile, won the Derby
and disappeared before tax authorities could ask questions.

By Monday morning, reality had mostly recovered.

Television footage looked less convincing.
Photographs blurred mysteriously.
Witnesses contradicted one another.
One man insisted the creature had been mechanical.
Another swore it was Swedish performance art.
A third claimed it was clearly Danish,
which many considered the least believable explanation of all.

Only the horses refused to change their story.

They had recognised Chiron immediately.

Animals rarely waste time
arguing with miracles."
Malmö, May 2026

Anita Wins Swedish Derby

Chapter I Roads Instead of Eternity

The red Triumph TR3A moved through the Scanian summer evening like a surviving fragment from another century. Its polished bodywork reflected wheat fields, distant church towers, and long streaks of pale Nordic sunset, while a warm wind swept through the open cockpit, carrying the scents of saltwater, wild roses, petrol, and freshly cut grass. The engine emitted a faintly uneven mechanical growl peculiar to elderly British sports cars a sound that somehow survived even interstellar travel through wormholes.

The Triumph itself had travelled farther than any other automobile in human history, from Anita's star, Trevi, in the constellation Centaurus, through the hidden fourth geometry of the universe, across interstellar darkness, and finally onto the roads of southern Sweden. Yet despite all this, it still occasionally rattled at lower speeds, which only made Marcello Mastroianni love it more.

"You know," he said, leaning back in the passenger seat under the evening sky, "there are probably more advanced ways to cross galaxies than an English sports car from the 1950s."

"Yes," Anita replied calmly, behind enormous sunglasses. "But none of them are this beautiful."

Marcello nodded immediately.

"A scientifically flawless argument."

The road curved along the sea. The Öresund glittered silver-blue beneath the fading sun as sailboats drifted silently towards the horizon like ghosts from another century. Far away, Denmark floated in the evening haze, almost like another world entirely.

They drove for several minutes without speaking. Sometimes the engine itself seemed enough.

The previous visit to Malmö and Malmö Opera still lingered in both of them Strauss, chandeliers, champagne, velvet staircases, Marilyn Monroe laughing beneath golden lights, and Thalia explaining humanity with the patient amusement of a goddess who had observed civilisation for over two thousand years. Tonight, however, felt entirely different. Less theatrical. More earthly. Roads rather than eternity.

Marcello loosened his silk scarf slightly as the Triumph swept past the sunburnt fields beneath the enormous Scandinavian sky.

"I still cannot believe Malmö has such an enormous opera house," he declared.

"We discussed this last time."

"Yes, but I remain emotionally unprepared."

Anita laughed softly.

The warm wind tangled her blonde hair around the silk scarf as Malmö slowly approached through the evening haze and scattered lights. Cafés still overflowed with people enjoying the endless northern summer evening. Cyclists drifted silently along distant roads. Far away, gulls moved across the harbour sky.

Marcello looked more carefully at Anita.

"You are planning something."

"Possibly."

"That word has never once led to anything reassuring."

She smiled faintly but said nothing at first. Instead, she pointed briefly upwards towards the deepening southern sky, where the first stars had begun to appear.

"You know Centaurus?"

"The constellation?"

"Yes, but more specifically, the hybrid creature."

Marcello nodded.

"The centaur. Half man, half horse. Greek mythology's solution to excessive wine consumption."

"You know my star lies there."

"Trevi," Marcello said. "Of course! Admittedly, I'm 102 but not senile. Am I going to be hurt?"

Anita paused theatrically before continuing.

"In Centaurus lies Alpha Centauri, the nearest stellar system to Earth. And somewhere there" She smiled softly. "Home to me and to Chiron."

Marcello glanced at her.

"You miss it sometimes." He did not comment on Chiron, probably because he either did not perceive it or did not know who it was.

"I miss many things sometimes."

The Triumph passed a roadside café where elderly Scanian couples sat, eating ice cream beneath striped parasols, while children chased one another through the warm evening light. Ordinary human life continued peacefully by the roadside, completely unaware that two Time-travellers from another star system were driving through Skåne, discussing mythology and eternity.

Marcello stretched comfortably in the passenger seat.

"And tonight? What exactly do you miss tonight?"

Anita pointed ahead.

Far beyond the trees lay the grounds of Swedish Derby.

"Horses."

Marcello blinked.

"Horses?"

"I always loved them."

"That part I know. You preferred horses to most directors."

"They behaved better."

Unfortunately, this was difficult to dispute.

She continued quietly:

"When Universal signed me in Hollywood, they forced me to take endless lessons. Acting. Dancing. Fencing. Riding."

"And naturally, you ignored all instructions."

"Of course."

"What did you do instead?"

"I escaped into the hills and rode horses."

Marcello laughed softly.

"That sounds exactly like you."

The city lights of Malmö now shimmered faintly across the windscreen as the Triumph rolled on through the warm Scandinavian dusk. Anita's voice grew quieter.

"You know why I loved animals?"

"Because they never lied?"

She glanced at him.

"Yes."

For several moments, only the engine spoke.

Then Anita smiled differently.

"Marcello"

"Yes?"

I have decided to win Svenskt Derby.

Marcello nodded absentmindedly.

A wonderful idea.

He paused briefly.

What exactly is Svenskt Derby?

Anita looked mildly offended.

The greatest horse race in Sweden.

Ah.

The Scandinavian aristocracy pretending not to gamble too heavily while drinking champagne in summer suits.

That sounds far more interesting already.

It takes place at Swedish Derby in Malmö in a couple of days. Thoroughbreds. Wealthy owners. Enormous hats. Nervous bookmakers. Elderly men discussing bloodlines as if they were medieval dynasties.

Marcello smiled faintly.

So essentially opera with horses.

More or less.

And you intend to enter?

Yes.

With a centaur.

Silence.

The Triumph continued beneath the pale evening sky, while nearby a train moved slowly through the outskirts of Malmö.
Marcello slowly removed his sunglasses.

"With what?"

"A centaur."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

Marcello leaned back dramatically against the leather seat.

"Madonna"

Anita's expression became almost dreamlike.

"There are three possibilities. Chiron. Nessus. Or Eurytion."

Marcello stared ahead at the road as though ordinary reality might still be salvageable.

"The wise one. The evil one. And the violent one. I have heard."

"Correct."

"And you are selecting among them for horse racing in Malmö."

"Yes."

"I survived Fellini, the Roman paparazzi, Hollywood producers, and existential Italian cinema, as well as taking an ice bath in the Trevi Fountain." He lit a cigarette despite modern civilisation's strong disapproval of such behaviour. "None of it prepared me for mythical horse racing in Sweden."

Anita laughed quietly.

The closer they came to Jägersro, the more the citys character began to shift. Malmös cafés, cycle lanes, and summer terraces gradually gave way to something older and more rugged broad training fields, stable roads, wooden fences, floodlights, and the unmistakable scent of horses drifting through the warm evening air. Even before the racecourse itself came into view, the atmosphere had changed completely.

The red Triumph entered Malmö just as evening deepened into blue Nordic twilight. Reflections shimmered across wet pavement from an earlier rainfall while cafés and harbour lights glowed softly throughout the city. Then, far beyond the distant trees near Jägersro, in a meadow, something moved briefly through the dusk.

Not entirely horse.

Not entirely human.

Marcello saw it only for a second.

But the sound that followed was unmistakable.

Hoofbeats.

Chapter II The Centaur at Jägersro

Marcello lowered his cigarette slightly and inhaled.

Horses.

Yes, Anita said softly. You can smell them long before you see them.

The red Triumph TR3A rolled slowly past darkening paddocks, where silhouettes of thoroughbreds moved calmly beneath the Scandinavian twilight. Stable lights glowed warmly behind rows of trees, while occasional figures crossed between the buildings, carrying tack, buckets, or folded blankets over one shoulder. Nearby came the distant metallic clink of a stable gate closing.

Unlike Italy, the light still lingered in the sky despite the late hour. Northern summer evenings refused to yield entirely to darkness.

Marcello glanced towards the enormous grounds ahead.

So the Swedish Derby will happen here.

In two days.

And you have already entered?

Of course.

With official paperwork?

Anita gave him a look over her sunglasses.

Marcello, I survived the Hollywood contracts of the 1950s. Compared with that, Swedish horse-racing bureaucracy is kindergarten.

That was difficult to refute.

The Triumph slowed further as they approached one of the outer training roads near the stables. Ahead of them, two young jockeys guided nervous thoroughbreds at a slow canter under the floodlights, while a trainer shouted instructions in heavily accented English. Farther away, another horse suddenly neighed sharply into the evening air. A huge one!

Marcello watched the activity around them with growing fascination.

There is something oddly aristocratic about horse racing.

It comes from old cavalry culture, Anita replied. Wealth, breeding, discipline, gambling, war, vanity, beauty, instinct. Its one of the last sports that still pretends Europe is ruled by dukes.

And is it?

No, Anita said calmly. Now its run by accountants.

Marcello laughed softly.

The Triumph rolled on between fences and darkening fields as the warm scent of hay drifted through the open cockpit. Then Anita suddenly fell quiet.

Hes adapting well.

Marcello glanced at her.

Who?

Chiron.

The name settled oddly in the air between them.

Not theatrical now.

Not metaphorical.

Real.

Marcello looked ahead through the windscreen.

You actually brought him here.

Yes. He came on his own hoofs, so to speak," she said, giggling.

And nobody noticed?

Oh, people noticed something.

Anita smiled faintly.

Yesterday morning, three stable boys near Limhamn thought they saw an enormous, shimmering brown horse standing in the sea mist. One of them swore it had shoulders like a man.

Marcello slowly removed his sunglasses.

And?

The others told him to stop drinking too many energy drinks.

That seems reasonable.

The road curved past another large training field. Several horses moved across it in the fading light, while floodlamps cast long shadows across the grass. At first, Marcello noticed nothing unusual.

Then he saw it.

Far beyond the ordinary thoroughbreds, near the outer fence line where the field disappeared into trees, something moved with a rhythm unlike the others.

Not rider and horse.

One body.

Tall.

Powerful.

Too fluid to separate into human and animal.

Marcello narrowed his eyes instinctively.

The figure crossed the field for only a few seconds before vanishing behind darkness and drifting mist rising from the ground.

The Triumph continued slowly forward.

Neither of them spoke immediately.

Finally, Marcello exhaled carefully.

That, he said quietly, was not a jockey.

No.

The distant sound of hoofbeats rolled softly across the evening fields.

Not frantic.

Not violent.

Controlled.

Almost musical.

Marcello stared ahead through the windscreen.

Madonna

Anitas expression softened completely now.

He dislikes crowds, she said quietly. That is why we train late.

Marcello turned toward her slowly.

Vi? Vem är tränaren?

Han själv. Half trainer, half horse.

Aha. You speak about him the way people speak about old friends.

We have known each other since I arrived in the constellation. His star is not many light-years away from mine."

The last light of evening lingered pale blue above the racecourse as the floodlights blazed across the training grounds. Nearby, ordinary racehorses shifted nervously in their stables.

Yet strangely, none of them sounded frightened. If anything, the whole area had grown calmer.

Marcello noticed it immediately.

The horses know hes here.

Yes.

And they are not afraid.

No.

Anita smiled faintly towards the darkening fields.

Animals understand Chiron far better than humans do.

Chapter III Chiron Beneath the Floodlights

The training grounds had grown quieter by the time Anita finally turned the Triumph onto a narrow gravel road behind the outer stables. Most of the evening riders had already disappeared. Only a few floodlit tracks still glowed against the blue Scandinavian night, while the last of the stable workers moved like shadows between the buildings.

The engine of the red Triumph TR3A finally fell silent. For several seconds, neither of them moved.

Then Anita took off her sunglasses.

Were here.

Marcello looked around uneasily.

This, he said carefully, feels exactly like the beginning of a Greek tragedy.

Thats because the Greeks invented civilisation.

No, Marcello replied. The Greeks invented complicated consequences.

Anita laughed softly, then stepped out onto the gravel.

The evening air felt cooler now. Nearby came the muted sounds of horses shifting in their stables, occasional hoofbeats on wood, the soft clink of metal harnesses, and somewhere farther away the low hum of Malmö traffic drifting across the darkness.

Marcello remained seated for a moment longer in the Triumph.

Are you certain this creature is friendly?

He dislikes the word creature.

That was not an answer.

He is more civilised than most of the producers I worked with in Hollywood.

Marcello sighed heavily, then climbed reluctantly out of the car.

"Maybe he doesn't like Italians."

"Don't worry. It's only assholes he can't stand, and they're everywhere. Also in Sweden." Anita smiled teasingly.

The floodlights illuminated drifting bands of mist over the training fields beyond the fences. The grass shimmered a faint silver-blue beneath the Nordic night, while dark trees moved softly in the sea wind, farther towards Limhamn.

Anita began walking calmly along the outer fence line, with Marcello several steps behind.

You know, he muttered, if newspapers photograph me trampled to death by mythological livestock, I shall never forgive you.

Youll become legendary. But don't forget that no one can trample someone already dead."

That is usually what people say shortly before disaster.

Ahead of them, the training field opened into a broad expanse of grass, bordered by low white rails. For a while, there was nothing but drifting mist and the distant stable lights glowing through the darkness.

Then the horses in the nearby stables suddenly grew still.

Not frightened.

Attentive.

The atmosphere changed almost imperceptibly.

Marcello noticed it immediately.

Even the wind seemed quieter.

Anita stopped walking.

For several seconds, she said nothing at all.

Then:

Chiron.

The name drifted softly through the night air.

At first, Marcello saw nothing.

Only night-mist drifting low across the field under the floodlights.

Then a large, dark shape slowly emerged from the far end of the training grounds.

Not dramatically.

Not monstrously.

Calmly.

The figure moved at a measured pace across the grass as the mist curled around powerful brown flanks that gleamed faintly in the light like polished mahogany. As the shape drew closer, its proportions gradually became impossible for the human mind to arrange into anything ordinary.

Horse.

Man and trainer.

All simultaneously.

The shoulders rose higher than any jockeys. The torso above them was unmistakably human, broad and athletic beneath dark bronze skin and long black hair, gently stirred by the wind. Yet below the waist, there was no separation at all only the immense, muscular body of a stallion, moving with controlled elegance across the field.

Marcello stared in silence. He had only seen centaurs in pictures and at the Forum in the ruined city of Pompeii.

The centaur stopped several metres away.

Golden-brown eyes regarded them calmly, neither aggressive nor theatrical. If anything, Chiron looked faintly amused.

For a long moment, nobody spoke.

Then the centaur inclined his head politely to Marcello.

So, he said in flawless Italian, you are the nervous one.

Marcello blinked.

That, he murmured, is an unsettling opening sentence.

Chiron smiled slightly.

His voice was deeper than Marcello expected. Not booming, not supernatural. Calm, resonant, and strangely civilised.

I apologise, the centaur said. Anita warned me that humans prefer gradual introductions.

Marcello slowly took the cigarette from his mouth.

You speak Italian.

I spent several years near Florence during the Renaissance, and it seemed practical to learn the language.

That, Marcello replied weakly, is somehow even more disturbing.

Anita burst into laughter.

The tension eased slightly.

Chiron stepped closer into the floodlights, and Marcello finally understood why the ordinary horses had grown calm rather than frightened. There was immense physical power in the centaurs body, certainly, but no chaos. Every movement was marked by extraordinary control, as though strength and restraint had reached an ancient agreement long ago.

The horses in the nearby stables shifted again.

Listening.

Chiron glanced toward them briefly.

They are fine animals, he said quietly. Fast, nervous. Perhaps overbred, but magnificent.

Marcello still looked as if he were unable to decide whether he was witnessing mythology, insanity, or an unusually elegant nervous breakdown.

You truly intend to run in Svenskt Derby?

Yes.

Why?

For the first time, Chirons expression shifted slightly.

Not sadness exactly.

Memory.

Because your species still remembers beauty in movement, he said softly. Even now. And, of course, because Anita asked me.

The floodlights hummed softly above the empty training grounds as mist drifted low across the grass around them.

Marcello stared at the centaur for several seconds longer.

Then finally:

Madonna

Chiron tilted his head slightly.

You keep saying that.

Marcello nodded slowly.

Yes, he admitted. Because nothing else seems adequate any more.

Chapter IV Rumours Before the Derby

By the following morning, rumours had already begun to spread through Swedish Derby like cigarette smoke through an old casino.

At first, the stories sounded harmless enough.

An unusually large brown horse was said to have been seen training late at night near the outer tracks. Several stable workers claimed it moved differently from ordinary thoroughbreds. One elderly groom swore the animal had crossed almost the entire training field without seeming to touch the ground.

Nobody took that seriously.

Jägersro had always attracted eccentric personalities. Horse racing naturally drew gamblers, aristocrats, alcoholics, romantics, nervous millionaires, retired cavalry officers, failed actors, bookmakers with mysterious cash flows, and people who claimed to understand horse psychology despite barely understanding themselves.

Under such conditions, reality occasionally grew flexible. Alternative truths lingered.

By lunchtime, the rumours had grown stranger.

A Danish jockey claimed the mysterious horse had calmed three nervous stallions simply by entering the track. A trainer from Hamburg insisted the animals stride length was physically impossible. Another person swore the creature had spoken Italian near the stables shortly before dawn.

That part, everyone blamed on aquavit.

Meanwhile, Anita Ekberg sat entirely unbothered beneath a striped parasol outside a small café near Limhamn, sipping coffee as Marcello smoked beside her, his existential concern mounting.

You realise, he said carefully, that half of Malmö now believes you are either insane or a genius.

Those are usually the same people.

Marcello nodded reluctantly.

That is true.

The red Triumph TR3A stood parked nearby in the morning sun, looking deeply pleased with itself by the harbour road. A few passers-by had already recognised Anita, though most younger Swedes remained uncertain whether they were looking at a legendary film star, an unusually glamorous grandmother, or somebodys eccentric Italian aunt. Nevertheless, she was well preserved. For young men, a wet dream, even though she had unknowingly reached the respectable age of 95, without a wrinkle.

Time-travellers often benefited from humanitys fading historical memory.

Marcello exhaled smoke thoughtfully.

The problem, he said, is that the horse-racing world takes itself very seriously.

He is not a horse.

You understand my point.

Anita smiled faintly over her coffee cup.

Yes.

When serious people encounter mythology, they usually react badly.

Nearby, gulls circled above the harbour as the summer wind moved softly through the outdoor tables. Malmö itself seemed calm, almost sleepy, beneath the pale Scandinavian sunlight. Yet beneath that calm, something restless had already begun to spread through the city.

Expectation.

Journalists had begun arriving in Malmö. Photographers lingered outside the racecourse, while players slipped around the stables in search of safe tips. Among the outsiders, there was not a trace of the Icelandic horse. Rumour had it that he was on a small farm outside Limhamn.

Bookmakers complained about impossible betting rumours involving a non-registered participant known only as The Centaur.

One British tabloid had already published the headline:

MYSTERY LA DOLCE VITA LOOK-ALIKE ENTERS GIANT HORSE IN SWEDISH DERBY

Marcello looked genuinely exhausted.

I miss ordinary scandals.

Anita laughed.

Across the street, an elderly man walking a dachshund suddenly stopped and stared openly at them.

Then at the Triumph.

Then back to Anita.

Finally, he approached carefully.

Excuse me, he said in Swedish. Are you Anita Ekberg?

Anita lowered her sunglasses slightly.

Sometimes.

The old man smiled warmly.

I saw La Dolce Vita in Malmö in 1961, but I thought she passed away ten years ago. You look like she did when we were both young. Congratulations!"

Thank you very much. It's not every day you get such nice compliments," Anita said, looking reproachfully at Marcello.

Marcello sighed quietly beside her.

Madonna eternity never survives cinema.

The old man looked confused.

Then, before Anita could answer, something unexpected happened.

The dachshund suddenly became completely still.

Not frightened.

Listening.

Its ears rose sharply toward the distant direction of Jägersro.

A few seconds later, the cafés outdoor horses, tethered beside a tourist carriage farther down the street, also lifted their heads.

The entire street seemed to pause almost imperceptibly.

Marcello noticed it immediately.

So help me God

Far away, carried faintly across the summer wind from the direction of the racecourse, came the distant sound of hoofbeats.

Slow.

Controlled.

Almost musical.

The dachshund quietly sat down.

The old man frowned toward the horizon.

What strange weather, he murmured.

But Anita already knew.

Chiron was training.

Chapter IV Rumours Before the Derby

By the following morning, rumours had already begun drifting through Swedish Derby like cigarette smoke through an old casino.

At first, the stories sounded harmless enough.

An unusually large brown thoroughbred was said to have been exercising late at night near the outer training fields. Several stable workers claimed the horse moved differently from ordinary racers. One elderly groom insisted the horses stride length seemed wrong somehow, though he struggled to explain precisely what he meant.

Nobody took it seriously.

Jägersro had always attracted eccentrics. Horse racing naturally drew gamblers, aristocrats, alcoholics, romantics, nervous millionaires, retired cavalry officers, failed actors, bookmakers with mysterious cash flows, and men who claimed to understand horse psychology despite barely understanding themselves.

Under such conditions, reality occasionally became flexible.

Still, something genuinely peculiar had already occurred.

Very late the previous evening, after most of the official registrations had already closed, a new participant had suddenly appeared in the Derby records, almost as if the name had always been there.

CHIRON.

Nobody could later explain exactly when the registration had been approved.

Or by whom?

Yet when officials checked the paperwork the following morning, everything appeared perfectly correct: Vaccination records, ownership documents, transport permits, track history, breeding information and international registration numbers.

Even stranger, older records now seemed to confirm that Chiron had quietly competed for years in obscure North Atlantic races few people had ever heard of.

The horse was officially listed as originating from Koltur.

That detail alone caused considerable amusement across the Scandinavian racing world.

Most journalists had never heard of Koltur and struggled to find it on maps. What they eventually discovered was even less reassuring. Koltur was an isolated, almost uninhabited island in the Faroe archipelago, with barely one or two permanent residents. No ordinary ferry travelled there. Access was generally by helicopter from Tórshavn or by private boat across the difficult Atlantic waters.

Marcello nearly dropped his cigarette in laughter when he read Anitas copies of the official registration documents over breakfast by the harbour.

Koltur?

Anita calmly stirred her coffee.

Its very peaceful.

There are more sheep than humans.

Yes.

And this is apparently where Swedens newest Derby contender has been hiding?

Anita smiled faintly over her sunglasses.

Chiron dislikes crowds.

The official racing notes further explained that Chiron was supposedly descended from a highly unusual Faroese bloodline linked to isolated local racing traditions involving imported Icelandic horses and the endangered Faroese horse breed, a small, remarkably hardy animal barely 120 centimetres tall. Normal galloping horses range from 155 to 165 centimetres; the brown giant some claimed to have seen was over two metres. Since that was impossible, no one took the figure seriously. It is known that there is a lot of partying before, during and after a derby. There is always a reason.

This only made the entire thing even funnier.

One Danish trainer laughed so hard during morning exercises that he nearly spilt coffee onto his racing silks.

A giant Derby horse from the Faroe Islands? he snorted. What next? Camel racing in Greenland?

Several owners quietly assumed the mysterious late entry was due to an obscure European Union inclusion policy benefiting remote cultural minorities.

Naturally, Brussels is somehow involved, muttered one elderly breeder darkly.

Nobody questioned the paperwork too carefully because the records themselves appeared strangely ordinary. Chirons name could now be found everywhere:
old race listings, shipping manifests, veterinary documents, even blurred photographs from obscure North Atlantic racing events that nobody clearly remembered attending.

The effect was deeply unsettling without appearing overtly supernatural. Reality itself seemed to have quietly adjusted around the centaurs existence. Human memory did the rest. People assumed they had overlooked him before.

Meanwhile, the bookmakers dismissed Chiron as a joke outsider and set absurdly high odds.

Nobody at Jägersro took the mysterious Faroese horse seriously.

At best, they expected an oversized provincial racer, an eccentric publicity stunt, or a wealthy foreign enthusiast with questionable judgment.

Certainly not a mythological hybrid from the constellation Centaurus.

That part remained hidden.

For now.

Meanwhile, Anita and Marcello sat beneath a striped parasol near Limhamn, while the red Triumph TR3A gleamed softly beside the harbour road in the pale Scandinavian sunlight.

Marcello folded the racing form slowly.

You manipulated reality itself.

Only slightly.

You inserted a centaur into the international horse-racing bureaucracy.

Anita shrugged elegantly.

You would be surprised by how little people actually read official documents.

Marcello stared toward the sea for several seconds.

Then finally:

Madonna

Nearby, two carriage horses suddenly lifted their heads at the same time.

Far away across Malmö came the faint rhythm of measured hoofbeats carried on the summer wind.

Training continued.

Chapter V Derby Day

Derby Day arrived beneath a sky so intensely blue that even seasoned Malmö society began to speak about the weather with religious gratitude.

By early afternoon, Swedish Derby had transformed into its annual theatre of money, vanity, champagne, and controlled panic. Elegant women in oversized summer hats drifted across the lawns beside bookmakers in rolled-up sleeves and retired businesspeople pretending not to gamble too emotionally. Television crews moved between the paddock and the champagne tents, searching desperately for colour, scandal, or at least somebody mildly overdressed.

They found all three immediately.

The red Triumph TR3A rolled slowly through the inner grounds shortly after three oclock, drawing almost as much attention as the arriving racehorses. Sunlight flashed across its polished bodywork as Marcello sat beside Anita, wearing cream linen, dark sunglasses, and the expression of a man increasingly suspecting he had accidentally wandered into a Scandinavian mythological crisis. Today, she was the one driving. Imagine!

Several spectators turned discreetly as the car passed, not because they recognised Anita exactly, but because she resembled someone impossiblea memory.

A face from old cinema screens.

People stared briefly, frowned slightly, then quietly corrected reality in their own minds.

An actress, perhaps.

A wealthy eccentric with a skilled plastic surgeon.

Someones astonishingly glamorous aunt. Human beings preferred explanations that allowed lunch to proceed normally.

Marcello lit another cigarette as they rolled slowly past the paddock.

I would like to point out, he said carefully, that none of this seems medically advisable.

You worry too much. A Time-traveller cannot fall ill.

I am Italian. Anxiety is our principal cultural export. Then I thought of all the other poor people."

Ahead of them, the Derby crowd thickened around the parade ring. Horses moved in controlled circles in the sunlight while trainers, owners, and jockeys performed the ancient pre-race ritual of pretending to stay calm.

Bookmakers shouted odds to the crowd. Chiron was called out to offer 1000 to 1. No one believed in a horse from the Faroe Islands. Only an optimistic idiot would risk his money on a yoke from an island with sheep and a single horse.

Champagne glasses glittered.

A brass band played something energetic yet entirely unnecessary.

And everywhere, people were talking quietly about the same thing.

Chiron.

Not fearfully.

Amused.

The mysterious Faroese outsider had become the afternoon's fashionable joke, though no one had yet seen the horse.

Marcello overheard fragments as they passed through the crowd.

Koltur? Isnt that basically just sheep and fog?

I heard the horse is enormous.

They probably measured it after drinking aquavit.

Apparently, Brussels insisted that they allow minority entries now.

Typical EU nonsense.

Laughter drifted warmly through the summer air.

Nobody sounded remotely worried.

That was the extraordinary thing.

Even now, reality continued protecting itself.

Because nobody had seen Chiron properly yet.

Only fragments such as a silhouette, a rumour about an oddly large horse, vague photographs, nervous stable gossip, or we talk of impossible paperwork,

The human mind still refused to connect the pieces.

Then Anita parked the Triumph beside the inner stable road and slowly removed her sunglasses.

Its time.

Marcello did not move.

No.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

Marcello exhaled heavily.

I would like history to record that I opposed all of this.

Anita smiled faintly and stepped from the car.

The atmosphere changed almost immediately.

Not dramatically.

Subtly.

Nearby horses began lifting their heads one by one.

Stable dogs grew quiet.

Even the wind across the racecourse seemed briefly to hesitate.

Far beyond the paddock, hidden behind the stables, came the slow, measured rhythm of approaching hoofbeats.

Not hurried.

Not nervous.

Perfectly controlled.

The sound steadily drew closer across the sunlit grounds.

Conversation around the parade ring gradually weakened.

Then weakened further.

Bookmakers stopped speaking mid-sentence.

One television cameraman slowly lowered his equipment without understanding why.

The hoofbeats continued.

Marcello remained beside the Triumph, staring toward the stable entrance with growing existential exhaustion.

Madonna he whispered.

Just arrived at the piazza next to the large glazed building, Anita found one of the illegal bookmakers operating discreetly beyond the official betting stands. Time-travellers possessed an unusual sensitivity to certain types of people. Predators. Swindlers. Men who fed on desperation. Anita recognised the smell immediately.

On her way into the racecourse, she had passed a worn-looking man sitting near the entrance, a cardboard sign resting on his knees:

FORMER GAMBLING ADDICT. NEED FOOD FOR MY FAMILY.

Most visitors had avoided looking directly at him.

Anita had not. There were many worn-out former homeless people among the stars, and it was not a good start to eternity. It is not that the soul travels empty-handed, because somehow the life above continues, and to the rich shall be given, as they say. Conversely, the same was true for poor people, but in reverse.

Now she stood before the bookmaker in the summer sunlight, with the noise of Derby Day drifting around them.

Youre taking bets on the Faroese horse? she asked calmly.

The bookmaker smiled slyly.

Of course. How much does the lady fancy losing?

Ten thousand kronor.

The smile briefly disappeared.

Officially, Chiron stood at 1,000-to-1 odds. If the horse won and he lost, it meant his ruin, but ten thousand was always ten thousand, not least if it were as easily earned as this.

Technically, unknown horses occasionally win races. Technically, miracles occasionally occur. But a gigantic outsider from a nearly uninhabited island near the Faroe Islands seemed about as likely to win Svenskt Derby as the moon falling into Malmö harbour.

The bookmaker hesitated for only a second before greed overcame caution.

No problem, he said smoothly.

He greedily accepted Anitas ten crisp banknotes without realising that time-travellers printed their own currency physically perfect in every detail and impossible to distinguish from earthly money.

Anita heard him grunt in satisfaction as she turned away.

Then she walked calmly back towards the poor man near the entrance.

Youre finished with gambling, she said softly, placing the betting receipt into the paper cup beside him. I know that. But this is different. I already paid for the mistake.

The man stared at her uncertainly.

Its a safe bet, Anita continued. When the race is over, remember to check the result.

He nodded awkwardly, perhaps unaware of which horses were racing inside. That chapter of his life had already collapsed long ago.

Then Anita walked back towards the paddock.

The bookmaker still stood exactly where she had left him standing. Still smiling.

And then Chiron emerged into daylight.

Chapter VI The Horse From Koltur

At first, nobody understood what they were witnessing.

The figure emerging from behind the stables was taken for a horse. An unusually large one, perhaps, but Derby Day always attracted exaggeration, nervousness, alcohol, and unstable perspectives. Sunlight shimmered across the paddock rails as television cameras slowly turned towards the approaching hoofbeats.

The bookmakers frowned.

Several journalists stood up instinctively.

A champagne glass slipped from someones hand and shattered softly on the gravel.

Still, the human mind continued to fight desperately for normality.

A costume, someone muttered.

Publicity.

Some kind of parade act.

Film promotion?

The figure moved closer, and reality slowly began to lose the argument.

Chiron stepped into the sunlight with calm, measured elegance, his immense brown body gleaming like polished mahogany beneath the blue Scandinavian sky. His black mane drifted softly in the summer wind, while each hoofbeat struck the ground with impossible rhythm.

Not heavy.

Not violent.

Perfect.

The silence spreading through the parade ring now felt almost tangible.

At first, people still tried to break down the proportions into something understandable: a horse, a rider, an illusion, and a camera angle.

But the closer Chiron came, the more impossible that became.

There was no rider.

No saddle.

No separation.

Only one living being.

Horse.

Man.

And something older than both.

Marcello slowly removed his sunglasses.

Madonna he whispered.

Conversations around the paddock collapsed entirely.

One elderly bookmaker sat down abruptly, his eyes fixed on the centaur.

A German television reporter quietly crossed himself.

A Danish trainer removed his hat as though instinctively greeting nobility.

And yet the strangest reaction came not from the humans.

But from the horses.

The thoroughbreds nearest the paddock rails grew completely still as Chiron approached. Nervous stallions who had moments earlier been fighting their handlers now relaxed visibly. Ears turned towards him. Heads lowered slightly.

No panic.

No terror.

Recognition.

The entire racecourse seemed to feel it.

Something ancient had entered among them.

Anita stood waiting by the paddock entrance in a pale cream riding outfit that shimmered softly in the sunlight. For a moment, she looked less like an actress and more like a forgotten goddess from an earlier civilisation.

Chiron stopped before her.

The crowd remained utterly silent.

Then the centaur bowed his head slightly.

Not theatrically.

Respectfully.

Anita placed one hand gently against the dark bronze skin of his shoulder.

My dear Chiron, she said softly.

Several nearby journalists visibly held their breath.

Because hearing someone calmly address a centaur by name somehow made the impossible even more impossible.

Marcello watched the surrounding faces with growing fascination. People were no longer laughing. The human brain had finally crossed the line where denial could no longer function fully.

Yet even now, civilisation attempts to rescue itself.

A British journalist spoke first.

Well, he said weakly, thats certainly not from the Faroe Islands.

Nervous laughter rippled briefly across the crowd.

Then immediately died again.

Because Chiron had turned his head toward the speaker.

And smiled faintly.

Not like an animal.

Like a man who understood the joke.

High above the racecourse, the brass band had stopped playing entirely.

Only the wind moved now across Jägersro.

And the soft, controlled breathing of the centaur from Centaurus.

Chapter VII The Start

For several long seconds after Chiron entered the paddock, nobody at Swedish Derby seemed able to speak.

The crowd stood suspended between civilisation and myth.

Television cameras kept rolling automatically because cameramen no longer trusted their own judgment enough to stop filming. Champagne glasses remained frozen halfway to peoples mouths. Even the bookmakers seemed spiritually exhausted.

Only the horses behaved normally. That was perhaps the strangest of all.

The thoroughbreds accepted Chiron almost immediately. Nervous stallions that had spent the afternoon fighting the reins and handlers now stood calmer than before. One grey English racer even gently stretched its neck towards the centaur as he passed, as though greeting an older relative.

Chiron acknowledged the horse with a slight inclination of his head.

Marcello stared in disbelief.

The horses understand him.

Yes, Anita replied quietly. Animals recognise balance when they see it.

Farther along the paddock rail, however, the human species continued to struggle heroically against reality.

A Swedish television presenter smiled into her microphone with catastrophic professionalism.

Well ladies and gentlemen we appear to have She hesitated visibly. An unusually international participant this year.

Behind her, a photographer whispered:

Jesus Christ

No, muttered another journalist beside him. Wrong mythology.

The brass band still had not resumed playing, and several jockeys openly crossed themselves.

One elderly British horse-owner removed his glasses, cleaned them carefully, then put them back on with the quiet desperation of a man trying to repair existence through optics alone.

Meanwhile, Anita behaved as though entering a centaur in a Scandinavian Derby were a routine summer event.

She walked calmly beside Chiron towards the mounting enclosure as sunlight shimmered across the pale cream fabric of her riding clothes. Her blonde hair drifted softly in the wind beneath the impossible blue July sky.

Marcello followed them several metres behind, weighed down by profound emotional exhaustion.

You know, he muttered weakly, there are moments when immortality itself starts to feel medically unsafe.

Nobody answered.

Ahead of them, the Derby officials had gathered in visible panic beside the weighing station. Three stewards argued furiously, clutching paperwork whose usefulness was now deeply questionable.

But where exactly is the jockey? demanded one official.

Anita pointed calmly upward.

There.

The man looked at Chiron.

Then at Anita.

Then at Chiron again.

Several seconds passed.

Finally:

I dont believe the regulations apply to this situation.

No, Anita agreed. Thats why its interesting.

The official opened his mouth to continue arguing.

Then stopped.

Because technically speaking, the paperwork was flawless.

The horse existed.

The registration existed.

The ownership existed.

The veterinary clearances existed.

The bloodline records existed.

Reality itself had already signed the documents.

Around them, the crowd followed slowly as Chiron approached the track entrance. Thousands of spectators now filled the grandstands beneath fluttering summer flags, while television helicopters circled above Jägersro like nervous mechanical birds.

The loudspeakers crackled uncertainly.

Ladies and gentlemen the announcer began, clearly fighting for psychological survival. We are ah preparing to start the Swedish Derby.

A long pause followed.

Then finally:

And making a highly unusual debut today the Faroese entry Chiron.

Scattered nervous applause broke out.

Some people laughed again now simply because the alternative felt too daunting.

Marcello looked toward Anita.

You planned this perfectly.

Of course.

And if he wins?

Anita smiled faintly.

He won long ago.

Beyond them, the starting gates lay beneath the blazing afternoon sun.

The other horses entered first, all muscular, beautiful, expensive, bred over generations of European racing aristocracy.

Then Chiron approached the gates.

And for one terrible second, everyone realised something simultaneously.

The starting stalls suddenly looked absurdly small.

Chapter VIII The Gates

For one dreadful moment, the entire Swedish racing establishment faced a practical problem no rulebook had anticipated.

The starting gates were built for horses, not for centaurs.

A silence of almost philosophical despair descended on the Derby officials.

One steward removed his cap and wiped his forehead. Another stared at the starting stalls, his expression that of a man suddenly reconsidering every career decision that had led him to this precise afternoon.

Marcello lit another cigarette.

I knew bureaucracy would eventually prove the true enemy.

Anita remained perfectly calm.

Chiron himself looked mildly embarrassed.

I apologise, he said politely. We did not take modern gate dimensions into account.

That, Marcello replied, may be the greatest understatement in sporting history.

Around them, spectators had now completely abandoned any attempt to behave normally. Thousands stood leaning forward beneath the summer sun, while television cameras zoomed obsessively towards the giant brown centaur standing beside the absurdly inadequate starting apparatus.

Yet human beings continued to try to rationalise the impossible.

A mechanical illusion, someone insisted weakly from the grandstand.

Animatronics.

Advanced Scandinavian theatre.

EU-funded performance art.

Danish probably.

Nearby, an elderly woman opened another bottle of champagne.

I dont care what it is, she declared. This is the best Derby since 1987.

Meanwhile, the ordinary racehorses stayed astonishingly calm.

One by one, they entered the stalls nervously yet obediently, muscles trembling beneath polished racing silks and million-euro bloodlines. Whenever Chiron moved nearby, the tension among them eased.

The horses trusted him instinctively. Humans did not. At least not yet.

Three officials were now arguing intensely near the rails.

Its impossible.

The regulations specify horses.

Well, technically

It is not technically anything!

But the paperwork

Dont mention the paperwork!

Marcello exhaled smoke thoughtfully.

The civilisation of Europe is collapsing at a starting gate.

It has survived worse, Anita replied.

Chiron lowered his head slightly towards the nearest official.

If it helps, he said calmly, I can start from behind the field.

The steward blinked several times.

A talking horse should not be this polite, he whispered faintly.

Centaur, Chiron corrected gently.

Yes, the steward replied weakly. That too.

Finally, after several minutes of mounting existential negotiations, a compromise was reached.

Chiron would start several lengths behind the ordinary field, from an open auxiliary lane beside the outer rail. Fair deal.

The loudspeakers crackled nervously throughout Jägersro.

Ladies and gentlemen the announcer began, sounding spiritually exhausted. Due to technical circumstances todays Derby will feature a modified starting procedure.

The crowd erupted into confused applause, nervous laughter, and delighted chaos.

Above the racecourse, television helicopters circled lower as journalists shouted frantically into their phones, trying to explain the impossible to editors who increasingly suspected mass alcohol poisoning in Sweden.

Marcello looked toward Anita.

You realise this will permanently damage international horse racing.

Yes.

And you seem oddly comfortable with that.

I spent years in Hollywood.

That was difficult to argue against.

At last, Anita stepped toward Chiron.

For a brief moment, the noise of the racecourse faded almost completely around them.

The centaur lowered himself slightly, not like a servant, but like an equal.

Anita placed one hand against his shoulder and mounted his broad back with smooth ease beneath the blazing Scandinavian sunlight.

A collective sound moved through the grandstands.

Not cheering.

Not fear.

Wonder.

Suddenly, the entire impossible image fell into place: the blonde woman resembling Anita Ekberg, the ancient centaur from Centaurus, the summer sky above Malmö, and the absurd dignity with which both behaved as if this had always been inevitable.

Marcello removed his sunglasses slowly.

Madonna

Far ahead, the other Derby horses pawed nervously in their stalls.

The starter raised the flag.

The world held its breath.

Chapter IX The Race

The flag dropped.

For a fraction of a second, nothing moved.

Then the starting gates exploded open in a violent eruption of muscle, dirt, noise, and instinct as Europes finest thoroughbreds launched themselves onto the track beneath the blazing July sky.

The crowd roared instantly.

Silks flashed red, blue, yellow, and emerald green as the horses thundered forward in a tightly packed wall of speed and nervous energy. Gravel sprayed through the air. Television helicopters swung wildly overhead, trying to keep formation with the charging field, while bookmakers shouted final odds into the chaos.

Several lengths behind them, Chiron began to run. Not explosively. Not theatrically. Almost quietly.

At first, the centaurs movement seemed strangely restrained, as though he were merely observing the others rhythm. Anita sat calmly on his back, without saddle or reins, her blonde hair streaming behind her in the warm Scandinavian wind, while the crowd struggled to make sense of what it was witnessing.

Marcello stood by the rail, clutching his cigarette in existential despair.

Madonna

The ordinary horses rounded the first turn beautifully, their jockeys crouched low, a testament to centuries of European breeding and training. Muscles rippled beneath polished skin as the packed grandstands screamed encouragement for favourites whose bloodlines stretched back into aristocratic racing history.

Then Chiron entered the curve.

And reality lost its balance entirely because the centaur did not run like a horse, nor like a man. He moved with something closer to music.

Each stride flowed into the next with impossible rhythm, as though gravity itself had quietly agreed to cooperate. His enormous brown body leaned through the turn with breathtaking elegance, while Anita remained perfectly balanced above him, not riding so much as moving with him.

The distance between Chiron and the field began to shrink almost immediately.

Gasps ripple visibly through the grandstands.

One British commentator removed his headset in mid-sentence.

My God A full-blooded atheist proclaimed this.

The horses ahead sensed him now. Not fearfully. Instinctively.

Several thoroughbreds seemed to lengthen their stride in response to his approach, as though some ancient, buried memory within the species recognised the giant brown centaur from another age of the world.

The pace increased dramatically.

The race transformed.

What had begun as ordinary competition suddenly became almost mythological: speed answering speed, rhythm answering rhythm, and beauty pursuing beauty beneath the impossible summer sky over Malmö.

Marcello stared helplessly as Chiron moved through the field.

Not violently.

Never aggressively.

The centaur found openings before they existed, flowing between horses with extraordinary precision as dirt and sunlight erupted around him in golden clouds.

Hes teaching them, Marcello whispered.

And somehow it was true.

The entire field now ran better near Chiron, faster, cleaner, more alive.

The spectators felt it instinctively, even if they could not articulate it. The Derby itself seemed transformed by his presence.

Ahead, the final stretch opened beneath a deafening roar from the grandstands. Thousands of people had now risen to their feet. Champagne glasses shook in trembling hands, while television cameras abandoned professionalism entirely in favour of panic and awe.

The favourites were fading.

One by one, Chiron overtook them.

A French stallion. An English champion. A German favourite, worth millions. All winners on the totalisator were left behind.

The giant brown centaur passed them all with terrible, beautiful calm.

Then, only the open track remained ahead.

The sound inside Jägersro became almost unbearable.

People screamed. Laughed. Prayed. Some stood frozen in shock beneath the Scandinavian sunlight, while Anita and Chiron surged down the final straight together as something escaped from humanitys oldest dreams.

Marcello no longer even smoked his cigarette.

It had quietly burned itself out between his fingers.

Madonna he whispered again.

Chiron then crossed the finish line.

Chapter X The Winner of Svenskt Derby

For several seconds after Chiron crossed the finish line, the entire racecourse fell silent.

Not disappointed.

Not confused.

Simply unable to process what had just occurred.

The giant brown centaur from Koltur had not only won the Swedish Derby. He had transformed it.

The ordinary thoroughbreds thundered across the line, several lengths behind him, magnificent yet exhausted beneath the blazing Scandinavian sun. Their jockeys looked less defeated than spiritually rearranged.

Then reality returned all at once.

The grandstands exploded.

People screamed, applauded, laughed hysterically, crossed themselves, hugged strangers, shouted into telephones, and, at the same time, tried to explain the impossible while pretending they had expected it all along.

Television commentators collapsed.

One Swedish broadcaster quietly took off his headphones.

Well, he whispered into the dead microphone. Theres no handbook for this.

Marcello stood frozen beside the rail, his linen jacket open, with the remains of an extinguished cigarette clutched between two fingers.

Madonna

He no longer seemed able to produce additional vocabulary.

Farther down, beside the unofficial betting area, however, a very different drama had already begun to unfold.

The illegal bookmaker who had accepted Anitas outrageous bet initially rejoiced with the crowd.

Then he saw the numbers again.

One thousand to one.

Ten thousand kronor.

His expression changed slowly, almost philosophically, as mathematics completed its silent execution.

Around him, several gamblers had already started comparing stories.

Wait

He took bets on Chiron.

The Faroese horse?

At a thousand to one.

People turned.

And then someone near the entrance pointed towards the former gambling addict, still sitting beside his cardboard sign and clutching Anitas betting receipt in trembling hands.

The crowd immediately understood.

The bookmaker understood, too.

Unfortunately for him, so did several very large men from Malmö.

Within seconds, the atmosphere around the betting stand changed completely.

You pay the man, said one heavyset dockworker calmly.

Yes, added another. Today.

The bookmaker attempted a nervous smile.

There may be certain technical complications

No, replied the dockworker softly. There may be technical pain.

Several nearby spectators nodded in complete democratic agreement.

Even Swedish society possessed limits.

Especially after champagne.

The former gambling addict looked utterly paralysed as strangers gently helped him to his feet while others surrounded the bookmaker with growing civic enthusiasm.

I I dont understand

But deep down, he understood enough.

His children would eat, and he could buy a house.

That was sufficient.

The bookmaker, meanwhile, spent the next several hours liquidating nearly everything he owned at the racecourse cash reserves, hidden betting accounts, emergency funds, and whatever dignity remained from a long career built on other peoples desperation. The crowd overseeing the operation proved surprisingly efficient. Expensive watches disappeared from his wrists. Keys to the three luxury cars in his garage changed hands before sunset. Someone even arrived with a lawyer.

The house, unfortunately for his creditors, had long since been registered in his wifes name a precaution that now proved wise for entirely different reasons. She promptly left him anyway.

Altogether, more than nine million kronor were secured for the astonished former gambling addict by the end of the evening.

Under intense public scrutiny, the money was finally transferred shortly before sunset.

The crowd applauded, and someone even cried.

As for the bookmaker himself, rumours later claimed he emigrated shortly afterwards, using the last fragments of his fortune. Some said Spain. Others claimed Cyprus. One persistent rumour insisted he opened a deeply unsuccessful cocktail bar near Alicante under an assumed name.

Nobody missed him anyway.

Meanwhile, far away across the racecourse, Anita still sat upon Chiron beneath the impossible blue Scandinavian sky. At the same time, photographers, journalists, and hysterical officials gathered around them in widening circles of disbelief.

For one brief shining moment, Malmö no longer seemed entirely bound to ordinary reality.

Chapter XI The Garland

And then, almost impossibly, Chiron vanished.

One moment, the great brown centaur still stood on the sunlit grass beyond the finish line, steam rising softly from his flanks as thousands of spectators screamed, applauded, or stared in mute disbelief beneath the blue Malmö sky.

The next moment, he was gone. Not dramatically. Not with thunder or celestial light. More quietly than that.

Several people claimed he had galloped towards the far end of the track, where sunlight shimmered over the grass. Taken a victory lap and gone up in smoke. Others insisted that a sudden veil of sea mist had drifted across the course despite the clear weather. One elderly jockey swore that Chiron had become harder and harder to focus on until the eye itself surrendered.

The horses noticed first. They lifted their heads towards the empty distance and stood perfectly still. Then even the humans began to realise that something extraordinary had occurred.

The winning track was empty. Only the hoofprints remained visible in the turf, and a few scattered laurel leaves moved softly in the warm summer wind.

Television crews rushed frantically across the infield, hunting for impossible camera angles. Officials argued beside the weighing station, their exhaustion hollow, as if abandoned by reality itself. Journalists shouted contradictory theories into microphones while bookmakers openly reconsidered their relationship with existence.

Marcello sat silently beside the red Triumph TR3A, smoking, with the expression of a man who had finally crossed beyond astonishment into philosophical surrender.

Madonna he whispered once more.

Since Chiron himself had vanished, Anita Ekberg officially listed as the owner of the Faroese Derby winner was obliged to receive the victory honours alone. She was registered as Kerstin Larsson. Anita was also known as Kerstin, and the surname was her mother's family name before she married.

And so, beneath the blazing Scandinavian late-afternoon sun, the woman who resembled Anita Ekberg stepped forward before the packed grandstands at the Swedish Derby. At the same time, photographers erupted around her like machine-gun fire.

The laurel wreath was placed around her shoulders.

Applause thundered through Jägersro.

For a strange moment, she looked less like a former actress than like a victorious empress from some forgotten Mediterranean civilisation, having accidentally wandered into modern Sweden.

The Derby officials, still visibly traumatised, handed over the official winners prize of 1.5 million kronor.

Anita accepted the cheque calmly, then immediately turned towards the microphones.

I would like the entire prize donated to Malmös homeless population, she announced, to be distributed by Skåne Stadsmission.

For several seconds, the audience remained stunned. Then the applause returned, even louder than before. Champagne glasses rose across the grandstands. Even hardened bookmakers clapped.

But Anita was not finished.

And, she continued casually, I would also like to add another million kronor.

Marcello closed his eyes briefly.

The journalists erupted into delighted chaos. Questions flew through the warm air.

From where?

Who exactly are you?

Was that really Anita Ekberg? Who is Kerstin Larsson? And where is the horse? It is easy to talk about the million-dollar question because there were no answers, no matter how you looked.

Anita merely smiled in the summer sunlight. After all, time-travellers printed their own money.

Perfectly.

The remaining days on Earth would therefore pose no serious financial difficulties for either her or Marcello. Human civilisation remained wonderfully vulnerable to advanced interstellar counterfeiting.

Beyond the racecourse, the late-afternoon light slowly softened over Malmö.

And somewhere beyond ordinary sight, beneath the southern stars near Centaurus, Chiron continued his eternal gallop through the dark between worlds.

Epilogue Roads After Mythology

Late that evening, long after the crowds had left Swedish Derby and the last glasses of champagne had been cleared away, the red Triumph TR3A rolled slowly once again through the Scanian night. The roads were almost empty now.

Malmö had grown quiet beneath the intense pink Nordic twilight, while the sea beyond Ribersborg reflected streaks of silver-blue light as the slowly emerging stars appeared. Summer never truly darkened this far north in July. The night merely softened the world.

Marcello sat low in the passenger seat, smoking in silence as warm wind drifted thro