You, Jeremiah, were both kinsman and friend... Yet even from the
time we were children together, I did not understand you. In the
end I understood you least of all. And the hatred I thought I felt
for you has turned instead to dark and terrible self - loathing.
I alone am at fault for the strife besetting our family. The
temper over which I have never gained control was to blame. And
now it is your grave -- this mottled heap of new-turned earth --
which stares at me, accusing in its sterile finality, while
overhead, a breeze disturbs the trees. It evokes in ugly whispers
echoes of Josette's bitter cry.
"Murderer!"
Murderer? Can Barnabas Collins have taken the life of one he
held so dear? Jeremiah, kinsman, friend -- how were we brought to
this?
The village bell is tolling from high in its steepled tower;
one mournful note pealed forth upon another, till its ringing is as
one great voice. It ventures from the tiny village church to beat
against the very stones of Collinwood -- stones which enigmatically
turn it away. I once found comfort within those walls. Now I dare
not cross the threshold; I am no longer welcome there. So like
when we were children, Jeremiah--my impetuous rage has banished us
both. Except...
This is an exile from which you cannot return.
Moments ago, from the hillside nearby, I watched them bear
your casket from the house, through the stand of shedding oaks, to
this place. They laid it on a cloth-draped bier and gathered round
to read their prettv words: Aunt Abigail, Millicent, Daniel, Andre
and Natalie DuPres, the insufferable Reverend Trask... My mother
was there, and father, and... Josette. Josette in drab widow's
black, with Angelique, as always, by her side.
Cold wind made the trees chatter, a stark, ratchet sound
amidst the cemetery's sepulchral stillness. Strong and sea -
borne, that wind lanced through my being like needles of ice, an
unseen barrier that demanded I remain aloof -- kept distant by the
magnitude of my sin.
Thus I watched them, gathered round that scrolled and ornate
casket like alabaster statues, listening with stoic faces to
Trask's droning words.
"'cursed is the ground for thy sake... in sorrow shalt thou
eat of it all the days of thy life; thorns also and thistles shall
it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thee return
unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art,
and unto dust shalt thou return.'"
While he read, none but one of the statues dared incline its
head away. Angelique peered over the black-lace nimbus of
josette's veil and let her eyes meet mine. The gaze held long; she
seemingly unwilling to break it despite the others having noticed.
And her eyes, unfearing, spoke of things unfitting to this time and
place; of ardor and desire, and of nights in Martinique not long
ago when together, we had satisfied them both...
It was I who looked away, ashamed at thoughts so unseemly ,
and when I glanced again at their gathering, Angelique's head was
bowed beside Josette's. She feigned, for appearances, a reverence
to Trask's lofty prayer (for I knew, though I'd never asked what
faith she held, that she was no more of Trask's fanatical
persuasion than I... ) The prayer was a long and loud soliloquy of
Philistine proportions, and though the wind returned to snatch most
of his words away, some were carried back to me, most notably, a
quotation he had surely included for my benefit.
"'And the brother shall deliver up the brother unto
death...'"
I shuddered at those words, cruel and cutting and plainly
meant as accusation. In spite of Father's story, Trask was somehow
certain that the death of Jeremiah Collins had not been accidental.
When at last he had concluded, they began to file away,
trudging back up the muddy hill like battle-weary soldiers
returning from a fray. Though they passed quite near to where I
stood, each pretended not to see me, save the last of the line --
my father. He paused for the briefest of moments, but the glance
he afforded me in that short time was damning. I had never seen in
him such sorrow and pain and... loathing. The moment ended, he
turned his back to me and followed in the wake of the others.
The shadowed woods disgorged three spaded bond slaves then.
They laughed with one another and traded bawdy stories whilst
opening the grave. That done, they hefted and lowered the casket,
and covered it over with earth.
It is that same earth which now gazes back at me, expressive
of a certain contempt no human face could rival. It damns me as
surely as the look in Joshua Collins' eyes...
Did you know our duel would foster this, Jeremiah? Did you
hate me enough to foresee this horrid ostracism, and to fashion it
your own peculiar, posthumous revenge?
No.
That is not a thing your mind would have conceived. In fact,
I do not think you hated me at all, though you tried to make a
pretense of it. Why, I wonder? Why did you fail to return my anger
and jealousv measure for measure, offense for bitter offense? And
if you did not share my wrath, why did you accept the goading
challenge of the duel?
No fair contest of honor was this, but a mockery -- murder
cloaked in honor's garment, and -- was it true? -- executed with
your blessing.
Would that you could tell me it was not so! If from that
lightless plot of earth you may find some means to speak, please
tell me that you did not wish to die! For you have, if that is
true, made me the pawn of a horror you might have prevented. The
terrible moment when we faced one another might never have
occurred, and we should not have walked our fateful paces that day
in the wood.
A thousand times since then, I have seen your face as it was
when we turned toward one another. While unrelenting anger brought
my weapon to bear, your own remained at your side. Your eyes were
closed; your lips moving -- in what sort of prayer, I wonder? Were
you asking forgiveness, perhaps, for the thing you were about to
do?
That moment was an eternity.
You raised your pistol. We took aim. And then, as I closed
my grip upon the trigger, you did something which baffles me still,
and casts the doubts of which I speak. For a time, I doubted my
eyes, but they did not deceive me.
I saw it, Jeremiah. I saw your weapon move. The sunlight
struck its barrel as it turned, and in a moment two explosions had
shattered the morning. I heard Josette cry out, and then... Then
you were on the ground, a weeping Josette at your side.
Though confusion had rendered me dumb, so that I could find
no words to speak, one thought screamed louder in my mind than
Josette's grieving cries...
You turned your shot aside.
You knew I would not waver. You knew my aim was true --as
well you should: we learned to shoot as children, and from the
start I was the better marksman. Why, then? Why did you want to
die? To undo your wrong in taking Josette from me? To free her for
the marriage God intended her to have? If that was your purpose,
you have died for nothing, Jeremiah. You have not given Josette
back to me. You have only made her hate me. As you have made me
hate myself.
"And the brother shall deliver up the brother unto death..."
A meadowlark is singing in the oak trees above me. Once, I
would have welcomed the sound, but in this moment I do not: I
merely wonder why any living thing should have the right to be
pleasant just now.
Perhaps I shall remain a familial exile -- it is surely no
less than I deserve. I have made all those I love despise me. And
though you share my guilt, uncle, my burden would be made no
lighter by a revelation of the truth.
I will tell them nothing. Certainly that little I must owe
you.
Good-bye Jeremiah.
My brother.
Kinsman.
Friend...
Forgive me.