Asa Larsson - The Black Path

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the black path
First published in Sweden as Svart stig A Delta Trade Paperback / August 2008

Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc. New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Larsson, Asa, 1966
[Svart stig. English]

eISBN: 978-0-440-33798-0
1. Delargy, Marlaine. II. Title.
PT9877.22.A78S8313 2008
839.73'8dc22 2007018323

Rebecka Martinsson saw her dead friend lying there on the gravel in Poikkijrvi. And the world shattered. And they had to hold on to her to stop her walking into the river.

Reason for contact: Patient admitted to Kiruna hospital with facial injuries after a fall & trauma to head. On admission found to be in acute state of psychosis. Surgical treatment of facial injuries necessary; patient therefore sedated. On waking, clear psychotic symptoms still present. Decision made to section patient under 3 LPT. Transferred to psychiatric clinic at St. Grans hospital, Stockholmsecure unit. Preliminary diagnosis: psychosis UNS. Treatment: Risperdal mix 8 mg/day plus Sobril 50 mg/day.

This is the last time.
Behold, he comes with the clouds, and every eye shall see him. This is the final hour.
This is the time of the fiery steed. She who comes with the long

And here! They seize me by the arms! They will not listen! Stubbornly they refuse to turn their eyes to the heavens, opening up before them.

And he paws the ground with his sharp hooves. He kicks earth out of his way.
There came a huge earthquake, and the earth turned as black as ink, and the whole of the moon was the color of blood.
And I remained behind. Many of us were left behind. We fall to our knees before our journey into the darkness, and we empty our bowels through fear. On the way to the lake burning with fire and sulfur, and this is the second death. Only a few minutes remain. We must grab hold of whatever we can. Hold fast to what is closest to us.
I can hear the voice of the seven storms. At last the words are clear.
It says. The time. Is up.
But no one here will listen!

Patient responsive, answers when spoken to, able to give an account of events which triggered depressive psychosis. Displays vital signs of depression: weight loss, listlessness, disturbed sleep pattern, waking early. High risk of suicide. ECT treatments to continue. Cipramil in tablet form 40 mg/day.

One of the nurses (I have nurses, imagine that) is called Johan. Or is it Jonas? Jonny? He takes me out for a walk. Im not allowed out on my own. We dont go far. It still makes me incredibly tired. Perhaps he notices as were walking back. He doesnt show it, though. Keeps talking the whole time. Thats good, it means I dont have to bother.

Hes talking about Muhammad Alis title fight against George Foreman in 1974 in Zaire.
He took so much punishment! Leaned against the ropes and just let Foreman keep hitting him. Foreman, well, he was cruel. Were talking heavyweights here, and most people have probably forgotten, but people were worried about Ali before the match. Thought Foreman might actually kill him. And then Ali just stood there like a bloody... stone! And took the punishment for seven rounds. Completely psyched Foreman out. In the seventh he leaned against Foremans shoulder and whispered, Is that all you got, George? And it was! Then in the eighth, Foreman could hardly keep his guard up any longer, and then the opening came. Ali just went: bam! (he made a right hook in the air). Foreman goes down like a pine tree! Crrrash!
I walk in silence. Notice that the trees are starting to smell of autumn. And hes talking Rumble in the Jungle. I am the greatest. Thrilla in Manila.
Or he talks about the Second World War (is he supposed to do that with me, I wonder quietly to myself, arent I sensitive, sort of fragile, what would the consultant say?).
The Japanese, now theyre real warriors. You know, when their fighter pilots ran out of juice in the middle of the Pacific, if there was an American aircraft carrier within range they flew straight into it. Pow! Or they did an elegant belly landing on the surface of the water, just to show what incredibly skillful fliers they were. Then when they were sitting there having survived, they jumped in the water and stabbed themselves. Wouldnt let themselves be taken alive by the enemy. Same thing when they were fighting at Guadalcanal. They jumped off the cliffs like lemmings when they realized they were beaten. The Americans were standing there with their megaphones telling them to give themselves up.
When we get back to the ward Im suddenly afraid that hell ask me if I enjoyed the walk. If I liked it? If Id like to do it again tomorrow?
I cant manage to answer yes or that would be nice. It feels like it did when I was little. When some of the older ladies in the village bought you an ice cream or a drink. They always had to ask: Was that nice? Despite the fact that they could see. You were sitting there devouring it, in silent bliss. But you had to give them something. Pay the price. Yes, and preferably thank you from the little girl, the poor little soul with the crazy mother. I have nothing to give now. Not even a squeak. If he asks me Ill have to say no. Although it was so good to breathe the air. The ward smells of medication sweated out through every pore, smoke, dirt, hospital, the cleaning fluid they use on the vinyl floor.
But he doesnt ask. Takes me for a stroll the following day too.

Patient has responded well to treatment. Suicide risk no longer regarded as likely. For the past two weeks has been nursed according to HSL. Low, but not seriously depressed. Transfer to residence in Kurravaara, village outside Kiruna, where patient grew up. To keep in contact with clinic in Kiruna. Continued medication Cipramil 40 mg/day.

The consultant asks me how Im feeling. I reply: fine. He looks at me in silence. Almost smiling. Knowing. He can keep quiet for as long as it takes. Hes an expert at it. Silences dont provoke him. In the end I say: not too bad. Thats the right answer. He nods.
Im not allowed to stay here. Ive taken up a place for long enough. There are women who need it more than me. The kind who set fire to their hair. Who come onto the ward and swallow pieces of broken mirror in the toilets, and have to be rushed into the emergency department all the time. I can talk, answer questions, get up in the mornings and brush my teeth.