IN THE Millennium Trilogy, Lisbeth Salander marks her body with tattoos as a reminder of all those who have hurt her and on whom she wishes to take revenge. In my case, such people are etched into my memory.
Several weeks after Stieg’s passing, I still couldn’t manage to find words, even in my thoughts, to express the rage I felt toward this death that was so unfair—and toward those who, directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously, had helped it along.
Stieg and I had dreamed about changing the world, become actively involved in our causes, sacrificed so much for our battles—and now I was left with a sense of tremendous failure.
I thought back over all those years of frustration that had wounded the man of my life, years during which some people had refused to recognize his abilities, his immense store of knowledge, and his worth. Time after time I’d watched his disappointment at not having been accepted as a journalist at TT, his pain over so many hopes that were dashed and all those promises he’d believed in only to see them broken in the end. I relived his anguish, discouragement, and his constant fear, after he’d left TT, that Expo would go under in spite of all his efforts every month to find funding for it. I remembered him coming home so late in the evenings, worn out, sleeping more and more badly, fitfully. I recalled a terrible period when too much stress brought on a painful, chronic gum inflammation, for which a doctor had prescribed very strong medications. Feeling pressured from all directions, Stieg talked to me about his problems, of course, seeking advice, but he had to make all of his own decisions. Overwhelmed by this horrible flood of black memories, I was in despair. I could not cope with it.
Then, sensing that I might find a way to grapple with my depression, I turned to mythology for a violent, raw, unflinching way to express all this, something that would measure up to my suffering. We had many books on the subject, and I found what I was looking for in the Elder Edda—a collection of poems in Old Norse, the ancestor of the modern Scandinavian languages—and in particular in the Hávamál (Sayings of the High One or The Words of the Most-High). I realized that my catharsis would pass through the writing of a nið (pronounced nee), a traditional curse, which I would recite during a magic ceremony.
I set the date: December 31.
In Scandinavian mythology, the nið, written in Skaldic poetry (perhaps the most complex verse form ever created in the West), is a kind of taunting curse hurled at one’s enemies. It was read or carved in the runic alphabet on a stake of hazelwood known as “the staff of infamy,” which was driven into the ground. A horse was sacrificed and its head stuck on top of the stake, turned toward the poet’s mortal enemy. Although its origins are lost to time, this rite crops up even until about the tenth century in the Icelandic sagas. And in the 1980s, Icelanders are said to have used it against the occupants of the NATO military base at the Keflavik International Airport, built by the United States during World War II. Iceland joined NATO in 1949, and Americans returned there in force in 1951. They must have been nonplussed to wake up one morning and find the grinning, blood-streaked head of a horse stuck on a stake, its mane blowing in the wind! They didn’t leave until 2006, but if the ceremony really did take place, I’m sure it did some good—at least for those who carried it out.
On December 31, 2004, Britt and I took a walk along the Montelius cliff path, toward Slussen (the Lock), which connects Gamla Stan with Södermalm. Before returning to the apartment on the small island of Reimersholm, just west of Södermalm, we bought wine and a leg of lamb. For more than a hundred years, a distillery on Reimersholm has produced spirits to make aquavit, the most popular Swedish drink. Aquavit is essentially vodka flavored with spices and berries, and today “Reimersholm” has become the generic name for the eighteen or so varieties of aquavit. When Mikael Blomqvist drinks Reimersholm aquavit in the trilogy, Stieg is of course toasting “our” little island.
While the garlic-and-cinnamon-studded leg of lamb was cooking, I went off alone to finish my nið. I was nervous, because I needed to get it done in time—but I wanted it to be perfect, too. To help me out, Britt had called one of her friends, an Icelandic scholar, to ask her if there were any precise rules for the writing of a nið. After a moment of silence at the other end of the phone, her friend had asked, “You really mean nið, in the sense of an insulting rant?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay, you’re in luck. My family’s here, I’ll ask them.”
When she came back to the phone she told Britt that as far as they all knew, there were no particular rules about the rhyme scheme or number of syllables. On the other hand, she pointed out, there was a distinct obligation to limit the curse to the time it took for the foe to change his attitude and actions and formally recognize his faults.
Relieved, I was able to get to work, and made sure that I cursed Stieg’s enemies only until they realized what they had done.
The nið was ready at eight that evening, just before the guests arrived, the last of whom didn’t show up until ten and in evening dress, having slipped away from a fancy New Year’s Eve party. Half an hour later, we left the apartment and headed west to the farthest spit of Reimersholm, which juts out into Lake Mälaren. The temperature hadn’t gone below zero, so it wasn’t very cold and the lake hadn’t frozen over. There was hardly any snow, and wherever New Year’s Eve parties were in full swing, windows shone brightly in the dark night. At the end of the island, I leaned back against a wooden barrier, with my back to the water. Behind me, on the other shore of the lake, were Eleanor’s house and the dock where I used to tie up the communal rowboat I borrowed whenever I went over to see her. In front of me stood the tree under which Stieg and I had often sat at night with a thermos of hot coffee, and the hill where we used to picnic in the summer. Happy memories were streaming by … it was a peaceful moment, moving and serene.
One of the guests produced some large candles from his backpack and set them alight on top of the wooden barrier. Then, to my great surprise, he pulled out a torch that he lighted and held aloft. With this fire, the pagan ritual was in its element! All of our friends there knew as well as I did what this ceremony was for. Speaking slowly and very distinctly, I read the nið I had composed. And I succeeded at last in expressing what I felt.
I am reading a nið for Stieg
I am reading a nið for you who were against him
You who took his time, his knowledge, and his friendship
Giving nothing in return
Friends are duty-bound to be loyal lifelong to their friends
And to render gift for gift
Friends reply with mockery to the mockery of others
And to lies with lies
(Hávamál 42)
Friends are duty-bound to be loyal lifelong to their friends
And loyal as well to any friend of their friends
But no one should befriend
A friend’s enemy
(Hávamál 43)
This nið is for you:
Evil, sly, cowardly
You who think yourselves above others
You who lead them to misfortune and death
You the evil ones who wished to rob Stieg of life
You who plotted, spied, and stirred up prejudice
You above all, N. N.
You the sly
You who let Stieg work himself to pieces
For your own profit and your career alone
You above all, N. N.
You the cowardly
You who let Stieg fight your battles
While you raked in the salaries of your cushy jobs
You, too many to mention
All sorts of you
In suits, ties, and wingtips
This nið is for you
I hope
That the trickster Loki spellbinds your eyes
So you will see only enemies around you forevermore
And you will all cut one another down
That hammer-wielding Thor will shatter your strength
When you indulge in violence
Against the true soul-friends of Stieg
That Lord Odin and our three Fates—Urd, Skuld, Verdandi
Strike you with confusion
Sinking your careers and ill-gotten gains
That Freyr and Freyja—fertility, fruitfulness, and love
And light-bearing Baldr strip away your joy in life
Turning bread, beer, and desire
Into stones, muddy water, and dejection
That one-eyed Odin sends Hugin and Munin
Twin ravens of thought and memory
To peck open your minds so that good common sense
Can drive out your ignorance
To peck at your eyes
To make you see what you do
So you cannot remain blind forever
To peck at your hearts
Making what your meanness and stupidity have wrought
Haunt you with the same anxieties and terrors
That afflict your victims
Until you learn, see, and feel
Until you change
This nið will last and linger
I sacrifice this horse in Lake Mälaren
So that this nið may course upstream through fresh water
And downstream to the sea
To reach all the lands of the earth
And all evil, sly, and cowardly souls
And so that the horse I offer
May give renewed power to the nið
In the spring thaw, the summer rains,
The hail of autumn, and the winter snows
To pour down on you year in and out
To find you, wherever you may hide
N. N.? THESE initials don’t correspond to the real names of those for whom this nið is meant. There’s no point in trying to find out who they are. But they will recognize themselves. And so does everyone who contributed to Stieg’s deadly exhaustion.
A thousand years ago, at this stage of the ceremony, a horse was beheaded with a sword in sacrifice. To the Vikings of those days, this animal was sacred: their friend, companion, and the precious guarantor of their happiness and survival.
In 1987, at a job where I was a foreman and things were quite difficult to manage, a workman, a potter in his spare time, gave me one of his creations to thank me for my efforts with the team. It was two ceramic horses that had fused together in the heat of the kiln. I was particularly fond of this present, which to me symbolized absolute beauty, a job well done, recognition of my work, and the spirit of fraternity. With a sharp blow I separated the two animals, and turning toward the water, I threw one of them into this lake once sailed by Vikings.
In the silence that followed, we gazed for a long time at the place where the horse had vanished, relieved to have heard spoken aloud what we had all been thinking to ourselves. Then we hugged and kissed, vowing always to look after one another. In the darkness, I slipped off to our place to fetch some glasses and single malt Scotch. When I returned, I poured a small libation into the lake before serving my friends. Barley, from which this whisky is made, is also fed to horses, so I symbolically gave strength to my horse to speed him on his mission of revenge. And also assured, according to mythology, that the nið itself would be protected.
By now it was almost eleven thirty. In Sweden, fireworks go off everywhere at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and people pour out into the streets: it’s a wonderfully joyous moment. My friends and I had a drink together, and fifteen minutes later, right before crowds of revelers arrived, we went back to my apartment to continue our special evening. I brought the second horse home with me from the lake and will keep him, even though he cannot stand up anymore on his own.
I felt free and at peace. My ceremony was my therapy, just as The Millennium Trilogy was for Stieg. Now I could envisage going on living without him.