A meditation on the drowning of John Bishop

Preludes to Nothing 

Ah, I'll have to tell you about James Bruce another day, 1776. Because they have found John Bishop's body. It was in this morning's nets when the boats came back.

It will not be interesting to you, I think, for me to tell you who he was. Just believe me, please, that one of us had to kill him. In a just world, he should have feared both God and the law, but such was his power that he feared neither. So last week, on the night before you and I met, I waited for him to become drunk. And then I had him notice me.

But I am no Scheherazade. I have not even one night to offer God, let alone a thousand and one. Our Lord Himself even, brave and dedicated to His duty as He was, sacrificed less than did Scheherazade, such was her love. And I too, have sacrificed less.

And yet, I am proud of myself. Because I did not do nothing. But by doing something, I have sacrificed myself, in other ways. Twice now, I have had to kill a man. And from this I will never recover.

***

I was too young, 1776, the first time. That one damaged me. That time, I was acting from instinct. This one will damage me too, I know that, but less. Because I am older now - nineteen going on twenty - and I have read many books, by now. And my books have taught me how to think my actions through both before and afterwards. And because of this, afterwards, this time, so far at least, a more formal feeling has come. This time, I have not cried even once. For that at least, I am grateful.

***

I thought of his children, 1776, once he had stopped struggling. And then in the dim light and and up through the water stared up at me his last. And I thought of him, too. Ah, it is a more difficult thing to do, this thing I have done, than it is to forgive a man.

***

That is all for today, my dear journal. I really can't think of anything more to say and God knows you don't care about the weather.

Scheherazade and the sultan by the Iranian painter Sani ol molk (1849-1856).

 
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Author's note.

The following poem is by Emily Dickinson. I have a vague sense of what it's about (she has lost someone she loves?). And if I'm right, then it does not apply perfectly well to our hero Jack. Because Jack has not lost someone she loves. Nevertheless! It is from this poem that I got that "formal feeling" idea, for the feeling Jack had, after her latest murder, so let's have it.

 After great pain, a formal feeling comes –

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

The Feet, mechanical, go round –

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –