Songs of the Dead

by Derrick Jensen

  Jack thinks this is what separates humans from animals, or one of the things: this intense restlessness, this need to always conquer always-new and always-larger peaks. If you aren’t ever-striving, ever-building, ever-progressing, you’re nothing more than an animal.

  The hunt is always better than the kill. He remembers that the first time he’d killed someone had been—like the first time he’d had sex—deeply disappointing. His first thoughts in each case had been the identical question: this is what all the fuss is about? The best part is the leadup, and also what this leadup and consummation makes clear about his own power. In the case of sex: this is what you’ll let me do to you. In the case of killing: this is what I can do to you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  Kristine is cuffed to the table in Jack’s basement. She is naked. She is shaking from fright. He’d picked her up, hit her, drugged her, brought her here.

  She doesn’t want this. When she’d said she wanted to die, she didn’t mean this way. She realizes now she’d meant it metaphorically. She wants parts of herself to die. She wants her awful memories to die. She wants her self-destructive impulses to die. She wants her addictions to die.

  But she does not want to die. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

  Jack—he’d told her his name—is talking. He has been talking ever since she came to, stopping only to hit her when she screamed. She isn’t screaming anymore. She’s feeling the pain in her head and not wanting to die. Jack is talking. As he talks he paces alongside the table.

  He says, “You’re shaking. That’s because you’re scared, and that’s because you’re a coward. I am not shaking. I am not a coward. You think I’m going to rape you. You think that’s why you’re naked. You think I want sex. You want me to want sex. But I don’t want sex. Sex is not the point. Sex is never the point. You think the point is pleasure. The point is never pleasure. The point is power. The point is always power. Not just with me. With everyone.”

  She’s shaking even more.

  He continues, “I long ago realized that sex is all about power. This shouldn’t be surprising since relationships are all about power. And this shouldn’t be surprising since life itself is all about power. Life boils down to one simple consideration: Who does what to whom. And key to all of this is to always—always—be the doer.”

  Kristine begins to sob. She does not want him to hit her. She does not want him to kill her. She says, “Please. . . .”

  Jack seems to ignore her. He says, “That’s one reason I’m a scientist.” He stops, looks through her, asks, “Did you ever wonder why we spend so much time and energy and money trying to make life in a laboratory when there’s so much life everywhere?”

  “Please,” she says.

  He slams his open hand on the table. “Did you?”

  She doesn’t know what to say. “No,” she says.

  “Of course you didn’t. But I did. That’s why I’m me and you’re you. That’s why I’m here and you’re there. That’s why I do and you are done to. You see that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she says, because that is the answer that will not make him hit her.

  He takes a deep breath, again begins to pace. He says, “People say we do scientific research to make the world a better place or for progress or for knowledge or for all these other reasons. Some people say we do it for prestige or to make money for our employers. But we know those are just excuses, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  He says, “No, you don’t know. I know. You don’t.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I’m going to tell you why we do it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “Do you “Yes.”

  “Power. Science is all about power. Everything is all about power. We do it because we can. Because we are doers. There is us and there is them. We do. They don’t. And if you are not a doer your life is nothing. You are there to be used. You are there to be used. Everyone is there to be used. That’s it. Do you get it?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ll make it simple, for your simple mind. What you create, what comes out of here . . .” He jabs at her pubis. “. . . is nothing. It’s just what animals do. It doesn’t count. It doesn’t come from here.” He points at his own head. “It doesn’t last. It’s not immutable. It’s not eternal. It dies. Now do you get it?”

  She doesn’t know which way she should answer.

  He continues, “Because death is a problem. Death is a big problem. It is the biggest problem of all. Because it happens to everyone. Death is the great equalizer, the great doer. Animals die. We should not. Because we are not animals. We cannot be animals. Do you see why death is a problem? Even you must see why death is a problem. Do you?”

  Kristine is quietly crying. She says, “I want you to tell me.”

  “Of course you do.” He taps lightly on the table, thinks, says, “Death is the only thing we cannot control. You cannot control anything. Animals cannot control anything. We can. I can. You are on this table. You are crying because I allow it. If I wanted you to stop crying, you would stop crying.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I control everything. You live. You die. I choose. You don’t control me. I control you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” He stops, then continues, thoughtfully, “Of course there’s God. God controls me. I don’t control God. But I am aligned with God. Do you see? So that is not control because I decide what to do, and it is what God would decide, too. So God decides, and I decide, and it is the same. God doesn’t need to control me. I am still a doer, just as God is. I do to you. I do to animals. I do to knowledge. I do. I am a subject. You are an object. Animals are objects. Everything in the world is an object. I am a subject. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then there is death.”

  “Yes.”

  He leans down close, says, “Can I tell you a secret?” Before she can answer he continues, “Of course I can. I decide. You don’t. But I’m going to tell you a secret. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He stands straight, paces, makes distance before he says, “I have a fear. I can tell you this because you are a coward. I am not a coward. I have a fear. It is that I am afraid of death. My own. Not yours. I can control yours. Of course. I am not afraid of that. But I cannot control my own. I don’t know what will happen when I die. God says there is a heaven where we live forever, but God told me that is a lie. God lies to people so they will believe Him, believe in Him. Otherwise they wouldn’t. But I believe God, I know God, I am aligned with God, even though I know there will be no heaven. But I don’t know what will happen when I die. And you are going to tell me. You will tell me what you see on the other side.”

  “Please,” she says. She is shaking. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I’m a doer,” he says. “You are done to.”

  Kristine asks, “Why are you doing this?”

  “I told you. Because I can.”

  “Why me?”

  “You were there.”

  Kristine is still alive. Jack is going through her clothing. He finds a scrap of paper in her front pants pocket. He unfolds it, reads. He asks, “Who are these people?”

  She doesn’t know who he’s talking about.

  He shows her the paper, asks, “Did you know Nika?”

  “We were friends.”

  “Who are they to Nika?”

  It starts to occur to her why she hasn’t seen her friend. She asks, “Did you kill her?”

  “I cut out her uterus.”

  Kristine catches a sob, asks, “Why?”

  “Because she wasn’t a doer.”

  He asks again, “Who are these people?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He hits her. “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing.”

  He hits her again. “You told them everything.”


  “There was nothing to tell. How could I?”

  “What do they know?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Kristine is dead. Her body is in the river. Jack derived no pleasure from any of this. He didn’t even bother to ask her what she saw as she died. He wishes he would never have found that piece of paper. He can’t get those people out of his head. It cannot be a coincidence that they had contact with two of these women. How many more do they know about? They must know something. But what?

  twenty six

  the voice of god

  I’m up late writing, and when I come to bed, Allison is longsince asleep. I remove my clothes and put them on the floor in one corner, then briefly flash the overhead lights so I can find my nightshirt. In the dark I put it on. I slip into bed. Allison doesn’t stir. I whisper her name to see if she’s awake enough to chat or make love, and she doesn’t respond. We both have standing invitations that if the other wants to make love they can wake us up, but we almost never pursue that. There’s always plenty of time when we’re both awake.

  I’m tired, but as so often happens the moment I lie down the muse begins to speak to me. She gives me words and sentences and images. This night she begins by telling me to listen to Nika. I don’t know what that means, in part because I don’t remember Nika saying anything. I keep picturing her reaching out. I keep feeling our fingers touch.

  And then the images shift as I start to drift. I see the demons and I hear the stamping of their feet. I hear the director say in a hissing voice, “Choose.”

  I am asleep now, and I am dreaming. I am dreaming of the attempts to assassinate Hitler, and I am dreaming of the miracles that kept Hitler alive. In this dream I am wondering how we can possibly defeat the force that made—and makes—these miracles. I am wondering what miracles can possibly overmatch these.

  I am dreaming of Stauffenberg’s ring. And I am dreaming of rivers full of salmon, skies full of birds, forests and deserts and rivers and lakes and oceans full of lives. And then I am dreaming of my cat who died, the cat who made it back home from the vet’s. She comes up to me. I tell her I thought she was dead, and she crooks her tail at me. I pick her up and she purrs and purrs. I see Nika. She reaches out her hand.

  I see hall after hall filled with beautiful pieces of art. I see someone pulling them down, tearing them into pieces. I ask why. The person turns to me and says, “Because I can.”

  I see people operating machines. I see these machines pulling down forests. I see them erecting dams. I see them killing oceans. I see them sterilizing everything they touch. I look at these people. I don’t even ask, and still they say, “Because we can.”

  And then I hear the voice of God. The voice says, “You cannot win. Don’t even try.”

  And then I see Stauffenberg’s ring. I see Nika. She is reaching out.

  I see salmon going away. I see salamanders going away. I see swordfish going away. I see songbirds going away. I see apes and wolves and bison going away.

  And then I see tiny salmon darting back into this world, smelling the waters, sensing if it is yet safe to come home. I see that lone ivory-billed woodpecker doing the same. I see passenger pigeons, wood bison, great auks. They all do the same. They are all waiting till it is safe to return. I see them all hiding. I see them all wanting to come home. And I know that if we—all of us, from seahorses to rivers to humans to muses to demons—do not stop this wétiko culture—if the God of stasis wins—they will never get to come home. And neither will we.

  And I hear again the voice of God, saying, “You cannot win. Do not try.”

  And I see Stauffenberg’s ring. And I hear the stamping of feet. And I see Nika. I hear her voice. She says, “Listen.” I hear a hissing voice say, “Choose.”

  And I hear the voice of God telling me to turn back.

  I awaken to the sound of the dogs barking. At first I try to ignore them. They don’t stop. I try to wait them out, but they sound serious. I get up, walk across the darkened room, through the living room to the entry. Only then do I turn on a light. It’s bright. The dogs are still barking. I wonder if there’s a bear out there. I turn on the porch light, open the door. Nothing. I don’t even see the dogs. But I can tell from the sound that they’re very close.

  I step outside, then around the corner and into the dark. The dogs are barking furiously. I hear the quick sound of three running footsteps on gravel, and in the dark make out the figure of a man. I raise my arms in front of me, but I am too late. I see an upraised arm, and the last thing I see is it beginning its descent.

  I am falling and my hands are tied behind my back and the man walks into the house holding something in his hand. I get up, but I am falling, and my hands are tied behind my back. I follow him into the house but I can’t find my gun and I can’t even find a knife and he hits Allison too and ties her and carries her out, but my hands are tied and I am falling and I never do seem to hit the ground.

  Someone is knocking on the door and I wish somebody would answer it because I can’t get up. The knocking is in the rhythm of a heartbeat, and I am trying to sleep and I am trying to wake up and I can’t answer the door because someone has tied my hands and my feet, and I’m not wearing any clothes.

  I wake up. My heart is pounding in my head. Each pulse brings new pain. Metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles bind me to a table. The edge of the table comes to my lower thighs. My knees are bent. I open my eyes, see a man sitting on a chair staring at me. He looks in his late forties, with short brown hair going gray. Behind him are concrete walls: we’re probably in a basement. The man looks across me to my left. I turn my head, see Allison cuffed naked to a chair. The chair is chained to a support post. Allison’s chin rests on her chest. I can’t tell if she’s breathing. I look back at the man.

  He says, “She’s not dead. You go first.”

  Silence.

  The man says, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this isn’t really happening. You’re thinking that this all seems like some movie that you can get up and turn off anytime you want.”

  He’s right.

  “It’s not, though. This is the beginning of the rest of your miserable life. Everything you had before is gone forever. Just last night you ate your little dinner, just last night you pet your little dogs, just last night you pet your little woman, just last night you did your little routine before bed, and now it’s all gone. Forever. Your body knows this. That’s why you’re shaking uncontrollably, like a woman, like a frightened animal.”

  I will myself to stop shaking, but that does no good.

  He says, “Your body knows that your life is over, that now you belong to me. Your mind just hasn’t caught up yet.”

  Silence.

  He says, “And I know what you’re thinking now. You’re wishing you would have let the dogs keep barking, or that you would have brought a flashlight and a gun out with you. You’re wishing you would have got the jump on me instead of me getting the jump on you. You’re wishing you could have done one little thing different, and that one little thing would have made all the difference. But you didn’t, and it didn’t.”

  I still don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say, and even if I did I’m not sure I could speak.

  He says, “I’m impressed. You didn’t rattle the cuffs. You obviously know when you’re beaten. And you didn’t scream. Had you done that I would have made you stop.”

  He stops, takes a deep breath, then suddenly asks, “What do you know about Nika?”

  Finally I speak, my voice trembling less than I would have thought. “I saw you hit her, by the Pullman Highway.”

  “Where were you?”

  “There.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He thinks a moment, nods, then asks, “What were you going to do about it?”

  I see no reason to lie. “I was going to stop you from doing it aga
in.”

  “You didn’t exactly succeed, did you?”

  I don’t say anything.

  He asks, “And what do you know about Kristine?”

  I don’t know who he’s talking about. I ask, “How many women have you killed?”

  He seems genuinely pleased. He says, “Thank you for asking. No one has ever asked before, and I would be eager to show you my collection. You will be the first besides me to see it.” He stands, reaches into the right front pocket of his pants, pulls out a key ring and a piece of paper. He tosses the paper on the table, says, “By the way, that’s how I found you. Pretty stupid to put your name and phone number where I could find it. And even more stupid to be in the phone book. Why didn’t you just walk up to me and ask to be cuffed?”

  He searches his key ring, finds what he’s looking for, walks to a cabinet on the far side of the room, unlocks and opens it.

  I strain to look. There are probably fifteen jars on two shelves. He brings a jar to the table. It contains a pinkish-white cylindrical organ in some liquid.

  He says, “Nika’s uterus. Part of her sperm receptacle. She doesn’t need it anymore. Allison’s will be there soon.”

  He holds it close for me to see, like a trophy, then takes it back to the cabinet, which he shuts and locks. He returns to the table, says, “Don’t look at me that way. This is nothing special. Go to any hospital in the country and you’ll see these get incinerated with all the other medical trash. What’s my paltry fifteen compared to seven hundred thousand per year? And doctors get paid for it. I should, too, for getting rid of these nasty, bleeding things.”