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ArtistA serene landscape with a calm river flowing gently through a green valley. In the distance, there's a figure standing on the riverbank, surrounded by a group of people, all with smiles on their faces. The figure, representing Joking Jesus, has a warm and mischievous expression, holding a loaf of bread in one hand and gesturing with the other as if telling a humorous tale. The scene exudes a sense of joy and camaraderie, capturing the essence of the ballad's lighthearted spirit.
The Baptists were down by the still creek, stamping their feet in the pale morning cold, trying to talk themselves into the water. Steam rose from their mouths like small, uncertain prayers. The creek looked calm but not welcoming, the way a truth looks before you decide whether to believe it.
They spoke of burial and return—of entering the tomb and coming back lighter, rinsed, revised. Someone adjusted their robe. Someone else stared at the water as if it might blink first. The symbolism was heavy, but the water was heavier.
I wondered if anyone noticed the fish. Not the literal ones—though they were there, flickering like commas—but the older fish, the idea of fish. The great slippery god that once rose from rivers wearing wisdom like scales. Oannes. Adapa. Half-man, half-suggestion, surfacing to teach people how to count days and build walls before slipping back under.
The creek held that memory without comment.
Names drifted the way sounds do when they’ve lived too long: Oannes becoming Jonas, Jonas becoming John, John becoming something you could shout across a field. In Swedish it sounded even closer—Jonasse—like a name that forgot where it came from but kept the shape of its mouth.
John the Baptist stood there in echo, ankle-deep in history, baptizing people who wanted a clean beginning but didn’t ask what they were stepping into. The fish-god didn’t mind. Gods are patient when they’ve already been renamed.
On the far bank, a few people waited under the trees, wrapped in shawls and mild doubt. A dog slept. A woman watched the water as if it were thinking about her.
When the first person finally stepped in, the creek accepted them without ceremony. No thunder, no announcement. Just cold water, a sharp breath, and the brief illusion that something ancient had noticed and nodded.
Then the water went back to being water.
