The Naked Bull
Twenty-one

Vashon was not a man easily shaken; he feared not man nor beast. Life was a run to catch up with the sun; death a lover with open arms and open legs. He took readily what came. His bane another’s demise. He could keep himself alive, or not.

Such is life. He could save another, or not. This last bit of poetry, though inevitable, was quite unacceptable to him.

And so, it was, as he rowed alone into the dark, Vashon was afraid. Not for himself, but for a young woman chased into the icy water by a drunken man, he had brought into her existence. And if she too perished, if she died simply because he lived, how many souls must one cart along down this bloody path?

Pulling at the oars with no destination, no plot nor plan. Vashon called to Anacortes as darkness stood its ground, summoning the fog as a worthy ally; a massive force that first devoured the islands to the west, then the dull glow of the moon obscured by clouds, surrounding him on all sides with its overwhelming presence. Vashon felt his breath grow labored as he inhaled the thick salt ether. He had always prided himself on his ability to stay calm, hold reason tantamount to survival in the midst of chaos. Now he had leaped headfirst into a black cauldron with no light, no compass, no water for thirst on the sea. He tried to persuade himself there had not been time. But that was an excuse and excuses are for the dead. The inevitable shroud finally devoured the few lights of Mukilteo and then his isolation was complete, tangible in the silence. The surface of the Salish calm, pensive. No wind nor crow, even the squalid seagull would be company in this vaporous sepulcher. As he knew not his heading, he found and dropped the smallish anchor off the bow to hold him until the hopeful glow of morning opened the thick curtain, and he could once again search, beyond all hope, for the girl he knew could not be alive.

He felt the line slack as the weight hit bottom (about twenty fathoms, he reckoned) and then grew taught as the meager current tugged against it. He tied off on a cleat and sat down.

The diver’s mind began to wander: What had transpired between him and Elliott. Had he gone for good? Yes, he was supremely perturbed at his companion, but he had grown accustomed to his company, a fact that didn’t sit well with him, not in the least. Whenever he got used to someone, they weren’t around for long. He realized he was more tired than he had anticipated and, aware it would be some time before he could pull anchor and continue his miserable search, he shifted from bench to keel and attempted a somewhat lounging position.

From this vantage, Vashon could not see over the side of the skiff. No matter as there was nothing to see in the oppressive darkness, so he listened. A splash, a whimper, any sign of life. There was nothing, no signs of anything alive. He began to doze, at first struggling to remain awake, and then accepting the inevitable, the curtain fell, the tomb sealed.

His drowsing thoughts began in some strange middle ground; he fought to work his way back, in that way, leaving myself a safe beach to work toward and not away from. He remembered that in heaven, as in hell, present and future occur all in the same twist. If this be truth, then he just may be already dead, tricked by the trickster, the witch, and the mermaid. No matter, for he now saw beyond closed eyes and chose a scene from the picture, a starting point where there was none, and begin his long journey toward shore, lying quite still in the dark water.

Vashon opened his dreaming eyes, squinting into the bright luminescence of what he believed was sun illuminated fog. This would be the brightness before it burnt off; he had a while yet to sleep. Yet there was something else there. He opened his eyes again to see himself sitting across a city street on the concrete steps of a brick and mortar church. A dog lay by his side, sleeping. He did not know how he knew it was he for the man did not share any of his features though he appeared the way Vashon felt just then: ugly, alone, utterly useless. He felt a tear for an instant but the itinerant specter across the street, with an almost imperceptible shake of his mangy head and purse of his furrowed brow suggested

“It will do you no good.”

“This cannot be,” he mused. “For I am moored off a land I should have stayed well away from. A strange place with ways I do not understand. I have heard tell that hell is a place where there is no possibility of reason. Hell? Perhaps. For all my sins, am I exactly where I deserve to be?”

His image put a gnarled finger to his parched lips “Shhhh…it won’t be that easy,”

Vashon reached for his bottle and eyed the contents. Yellow, like tequila, but foaming, and warm to the touch. He brought the open end to his nose and quickly tossed it away in disgust. It was urine, fresh piss! The liquid spilled out to be immediately absorbed by the gutter filth.

He began to examine the edifice. Large and austere: Cold masonry, dry, edgy steps. Reminiscent of the border wall tower of Mukilteo: No windows, painted glass or alcoves, it seemed to epitomize religion: self-important, sanctimonious, feigning piety in its mock grandeur...a lie of the highest magnitude. And like the mansion of obese pilings an ancient mystery to be used as those who held sway saw fit.

As if in answer to a question unspoken, a priest appeared from beyond the peripheral to step gingerly up the steps at first, ignoring the vagabond and the dog. But when he was just beyond, close enough to the door for a coward’s quick escape, he turned and spoke in a harsh tone that he and the wretched mongrel were to get off the property at once or he would call the police. The image of Vashon paid no heed, not even acknowledging the existence of the holy man. He just stared at Vashon with the slightest upturn at the encrusted corner of his mouth agape.

Vashon then noticed something he had missed earlier. His reflection was holding a piece of dogeared cardboard with handwritten black marker writing. It was difficult to read from the distance, as though he were looking through a fogged window. Yet he made out through the mist

“A witch will sit and plan your death

And maybe it will be

Or perhaps not, if you but first

Can get you to the sea”

Vashon could make no sense of this amateur wordplay, peering at himself in the face for some answer. No change, the same mocking grin, the same unsympathetic squint in his red-rimmed eyes. Then he looked at the cardboard sign again, for it had changed.

“You need not be a witch to float

You need not tread the sea with boat

You must not drink the brine by name

To salt your plate is not the same?”

More incoherent nonsense. He felt the urge to move but found himself held in the grip of a sleep paralysis he was unable to pry himself free of. The wretched image began to stir, putting his hands wrapped in tatters on the cold step and pushed himself, after a couple of meager attempts, up to what might be considered a standing position for his spine was gnarled, his knees buckling under his ill-fed weight. He reached inside his grease-stained jacket and produced a wrinkled brown paper bag and worried with the business end for some time, his atrophied fingers refusing the task. Finally, the contents accessible, he put the open end to his gaping maw and drank deep. Instantly Vashon tasted warm urine in his mouth and tried to spit it out. As if the phantom heard his thoughts.

“Patience, my friend, your day’s work are far from done.”

With a final sideways glance, he turned and began to shuffle down the sidewalk away from the dog, which refused to stir, fading slowly from sight of the mock sanctuary for the destitute. He had made his decision and set into motion his version of that day.

Again, the scene shifted, and Vashon was sitting on the steps of the church beside the dog where his doppelganger had only just resided. He watched as the dwindling silhouette faded into the distance, never looking back, not once. He glanced back across the street and saw only the shards of his empty bottle.

Vashon looked down at the dog lying by his side. He was cautious as he knew from experience that these feral street hyenas could be downright unfriendly when perturbed and ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ was more truth than poetry.

“Hey guy,” he murmured, edging his hand closer, seeing his fingers now wrapped in tatters, the nails caked and broken, shaking uncontrollably.

Nothing.

It was a large dog, fur matted, calico fur, mongrel skin scratched bare in the infested patches it could reach. He inspected its thin neck for a collar, a tag which he soon discovered below its slack chin. Vashon then noticed at length, a morbid tidbit, most telling, for the dog’s obvious rib cage was not rising and falling in a staccato rhythm indicating breath. He maneuvered around to face of the poor beast and saw finally its cloudy gray eyes, frozen at half-mast, his mouth agape, his tongue protruding in mid pant.

Dead.

Whatever had animated this cadaver had flown, leaving a dog-shaped mannequin sans puppeteer. Had the other version of Vashon been aware of this? Or did he at that very moment believe his silent companion two steps behind him? And if so might he not be so wrong? Might not the essence of what was once the dog, his spirit, his ghost, be continuing the only existence it had known ever known and not be aware it was no longer alive?

But those eyes; those windows Vashon would in his ignorance consider lifeless basing such rhetoric on the condition of the rest of the body. But look at those eyes! What could possibly change? No light had gone out, no cartoon exes to signify it had perished.

Vashon reached for the tag and, turning it over, read the name, the beautiful and hideous name.

‘POULSBO’

“Hey!” a voice intruded, a priest appeared, shattering the silence, shaking him from his grim discovery. His face a whiter shade of pale, his gnarled finger a wrist or ankle’s nail, “I told you people to keep away from here!” He said with anger and disgust, “What is that dog doing there?” the man of any God or none spat hatefully.

Vashon did not look up as he replied.

“He came here to die,” he said as he turned away, “I guess that makes him yours.”

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