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Sorry.
We sit. I know something s coming. I don t know how I
know. I just do.
She starts to describe an argument with her sister. I don t
know what it s about. I m not listening.
I hear the sound of duct tape being removed from cloth. It s
a very soft sound, but it fills my head. I don t know how I know what
it is. I just do.
I look around. Nothing.
Allison is still talking about her sister. I m still not listening
to her.
Then I hear footfalls on the path from the truck. Two sets.
One slow. The other faster. I turn again.
Allison: Why do I waste my breath?
I m sorry.
Don t blame Deborah for you not listening. You re not lis-
tening to me now.
I
I hear a soft grunt as a man definitely a man exerts some
effort: pushes, pulls, lifts, or strikes. I look again at the path.
And you weren t listening when I was talking about the gal-
leries.
Allison. . . .
The thud of something hitting bone. A soft exhalation.
How would you feel if I got distracted when you tried to
read me your work?
A quick glimpse of a young woman, falling.
You re still not listening.
Songs of the Dead " 141
She hits the ground.
I say, Someone s dying.
Silence.
I say, Someone s being killed.
The woman lies unmoving. A man stands over her. He leans
down. Sticks a needle in her skin. The scene freezes, skips, backs up.
I see him walking behind her. I hear him softly say something. I can-
not make it out. He raises his arm. He holds a blackjack.
I stand, walk toward the spot.
Again the scene freezes. Again it skips, backs up. Some
things I can see clearly. Some I cannot. I see the woman. Young, long
blonde hair, pretty face, squarish jaw, small nose, tired eyes. Sorrow.
Tension. The man I do not see as well. But this time I hear him. Not
sentences. Just words. Clipped, lost, torn out of their context. His
voice. Vagina. Sheath. Kill. Intercourse. Intercourse. Sheath. Vagina.
Kill. I see the blackjack rise. Vagina. Sheath. That slight hesitation as
the arm finishes cocking. Intercourse. Kill.
It begins its descent, at first almost imperceptibly. I m stand-
ing by the path now. I try to step between, to block the blackjack
with my arm, with my body, but the whole scene explodes. The
blackjack moves faster than anything I ve ever seen. A pain shoots
from the back of my brain to the front. I see this woman this girl
standing with a boy on a moonlit country road. I see clouds behind
black silhouettes of trees. I hear her call her mother.
The scene freezes, skips, backs up. The blackjack rises, falls,
the pain shoots through my head. Again. Again. Again. I cannot
make it stop. A body falls. The blackjack rises, hesitates, explodes,
rises, hesitates, explodes. Vagina, sheath, kill, intercourse.
My face is flat against the ground.
The blackjack rises. Pain. It falls. Vagina. The girl and boy.
The moon. Mother. Pain.
The world goes black. Nothing.
I hear a man s voice, saying again and again, Nika.
142 " Derrick Jensen
Who was this woman?
I m sitting with Allison in a room in a police station, talking
to a cop. I m thinking about what I ve come to call the 90 percent
rule, which is that 90 percent of all people are incompetent. This is
as true for cops as it is for writers as it is for doctors as it is for kill-
ers as it is for auto mechanics as it is for psychotherapists as it is for
poker players as it is for politicians as it is for grave robbers. Some of
that incompetence is inherent no matter how much effort a person
makes (see me, for example, when I bet on sporting) and some of
the incompetence comes from people not caring about what they re
doing (see me, for example, when it comes to organic chemistry, car
repair, and cooking). In this cop s case I have my suspicions about the
former, but I can vouch for the latter. He doesn t give a shit about
me, about Nika, about his job, about anything other than the clock
on the wall to one side of the room.
I tell the cop again that I know only her name and what she
looks like. He s asked me four times. Not because he s searching for
an answer, but because he s not listening to mine. He looks again at
the clock. Ten minutes till shift change.
He asks, And when did she die?
I say again, I don t know that either. I m not even sure she s
dead. I don t think she was.
Did she moan?
I m starting to wonder if I m falling through time. He asked
me this before. I say, She was thinking about her mother, and about
a boy, and a moonlit night.
She told you this.
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