The Naked Bull
Twenty-two

Betrayal is not unlike the dense bark of the olive tree: Rough, thick, with the aroma of the Mediterranean sunset. Gethsemane awaits. “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.”

Elliott recognized the place the moment he entered, overwhelmed by the scents of his early years: Old dust, old candle wax, old people. This reminiscence inspired a warmth he had not known since forever, chasing away the dismal gloom he had been consumed with only moments before. There were several rows of pews, and an aisle stretched out before him, leading to a dais with a large cross above, the Christ hung from it, frozen in the throes of unending passion. The setting complete, he proceeded.

Here was the very church his Madre had brought him, with his brothers and sisters, Sunday after Sunday when he was young. Every detail was precise, from the low burning tapers to the small arched stained-glass windows. The fourteen stations of Calvary in bas-relief hung at eye level symmetrically spaced around the walls. There were few kneeling figures here and there, an old woman on prayer bones murmuring softly, rosaries wound loosely around wrinkled, quivering fingers.

And then there was Christ, though perhaps only too genuine; for the figure moved, tugged against, ever so faintly, the wedges of iron, spikes that pinioned him to the cross. Elliott felt at once drawn and repulsed by the movement that animated his savior. His first instinct was to run; though his feet no longer obeyed, instead inching step by ominous step closer, ever nearer. His eyes refused to turn, the blood and sweat moving now, oozing in rivulets along the lines of bones laid bare as butchers best; sinew raw and exposed in the crimson candlelight.

Elliott felt the pain and suffering of the Nazarene; the sound of a hammer, or mallet, striking steel in wood, arose in the distance. He heard the sound of a scourge flailing through the air to rip flesh and muscle from bone. And the cries, the terrible cries, not of the victim, in constant prayer and sheer defiance of his Roman torturers and Pharisee accusers. No, these were the cries of the watchers, begging mercy. Even some Pharisees turned away, unable to stomach the cruelty they alone had demanded.

His lord appeared as though he were trying to raise his head, covered as it was with matted hair, a crown of thorns that pierced the thin flesh of his precious skull. Yet he had not the strength. He blew gutlessly through tears and blood from his parched lips in order that he may speak.

“My son. What is in the water that you fear most?”

Elliott stood, confused by the simple question.

“My son,” he uttered again.

Divine madness. Elliott was repulsed by the scene and yet could not pull his eyes away. How many times had he gazed upon the body of Christ, wood or ceramic, or in paintings by the score? But to see this flesh and…the blood! Sticky, the droplets pooling here and there, only to overwhelm and run again to the next shallow depression. And on the floor, at the base of the tree of the cross, a porcelain cup, a grail, caught many of these errant drops, others dribbled on the floor and were lost.

Above his head a papyrus, a document which Elliott had read a thousand times, in languages he did not understand, though knew from rote. It was Pilot’s last comment on the subject of this man, and a smite at the wailing Pharisees who bade him commit this final atrocity to a man he did not believe warranted such heinous defilement. Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic, and Latin, none of which he read, all named the man. The King of the Jews asked again, this time with his eyes only. A beckoning no sane man be he Jew or Gentile could refuse.

Elliott could no longer be still.

“I would go home, Sinor.”

The icon gazed steadily at him. Elliott held the gaze but for a moment, then cast down his eyes. One cannot gaze at the sun for long.

“Home?” the vision of Christ Jesus lowered his head, closing his eyes, “Oh, but to go home.”

“Sinor,” plead Elliott, stepping closer now, “Are you not home now, at the right hand of God?”

The bloody head swung slowly side to side. It wasn’t so.

“My son, and if you returned to your home to find the gate barred, the doors locked, no response to your pitiful pleas from within, what then?” said the living icon, his breath rasping through a twisted throat. He flexed just then, forcing blood and clear fluid from his copious wounds.

Again, Elliott flinched, reduced to tears at the mere suggestion of such a heinous thought. And the cross-bearer continued.

“And I say again, my son, what is in the sea that you fear?”

Elliott’s shoulders sagged as he said what he had refused to say, even to allow himself to believe.

“The end of all things, my lord. The end of hope, pain, then death,” he said, memories amounting as more surfaced. The icon began to talk again, yet he paid little attention so deep was he in his own recapitulation. In the altered light of this dark illumination, things said, glances. There was no end.

“Do not despair, Elliott, for are we not alike? Did I not beg for understanding? I knew not death, for death was but a dream: pain, torment. Do not speak of these, my son, for you have nothing to compare. For some method to the madness of this creation and the clay puppets he manipulates with his empty promises?” he said, his words resounding on the stucco walls as Elliott sank lower and lower into his miserable desolation.

Lifting himself up now on ankles nailed to either side of the tree from which he hung, the figure of Jesus spoke his bitter truth.

“And your God, what had he to offer? Not but faith. And how did my master reply, after all my pleas?” his question pure rhetoric “I stood one last time and faced your Almighty God.

“What need have I of faith?” I spit with bare teeth “For I own something far more formidable and most appropriate to the task at hand” he said, unflinching, persistent in his bitter defiance.

“And what, my finest General, might that be?” asked your God in his pompous indifference.

Elliott stood, entranced.

“I have teeth, my Lord. I have teeth!” I screamed in defiance of the divine bastard! Oh, and was your God listening now? I should think so!”

Elliott blinked the tears once rendered from his eyes; what is this now? The crucified figured continued.

“Then, taking this statement as a threat (which, in truth, it was) he cast my followers of a like mind and I into the abyss to grovel in pitiful blindness, not unlike you, here in this evil place,” he stated and paused, his bloody chest of matted hair heaving.

Elliott was brought about by this and began finally to piece together fragments of what he had heard. Then he came to his second realization: This could not be his savior. This creature had poured poison in his ears, had led him astray yet again. He stood then, wiping useless tears from his cheeks, vexed beyond all reason.

“You are not he!” he whispered as he stood, more to himself than the icon.

A grim smile spread across the bloody face.

“And did I suggest that I was? I merely ask that you consider my side of the argument.

“Satan…you are The Man himself!” said Elliott, backing away.

“I have been known as such,” he said, his eyes fire, peeling back his lips, revealing sharp fangs.

“Do not fear me, Christian, for I am not the enemy of whom you have been commonly warned.”

Elliott found his legs and, in so doing, began to back away.

The man on the cross, aware of his fading audience, attempted yet another tack, yet more germane to his goal.

“My son, Elliott. We are indeed the same, for we seek our home. I am in search of a messenger. I believe Vashon to be that man. And he needs your company. Please, do not abandon him. Do not abandon me, I implore you. For alone, he will wander aimless, and quite possibly, away from his path, which is yours, and mine.”

Elliott had no words, could not possibly understand this insane request. The words ‘no, no, never’ clung to his tongue like rats on a river log. He turned and ran, searching for the door, an exodus from the rings of hell as grim howling echoed in his ears, the old mission bell tolling a foul note, hurting his head, tormenting him. He slapped his palms to either side of his head to blot out the erratic din. His own voice rising then, a cry, a howl from the depths of his soul to drown out the screaming chaos. He, at last, found the door and fled from the evil place and into the night.

Elliott was well beyond the cabin and far down the dark beach, the tolling of the bell a mere memory. The Salish lapped smallish waves to his right, then he knew he was heading south, and it mattered not how long he had to walk or how cold the way became it was enough to be heading homeward.

He began to ponder what he had heard. Yes, it had been a demon. But he knew from his time in church that demons mingle truth with lies to confuse. And if he but set his mind to it, he could then discern that which was real from all the rest.

A feeling of content then came over him as his mind, now alert and sober, had something profound to ponder, chew on, to work out.

There came a sound, familiar yet surreal in the oppressive dark of that night. As he continued on it became more real, closer, as if somewhere in the shallow surf underfoot, reminding him of a baby crying. He followed the sound and found exactly that, a small child, maybe a day or two old wrapped in an old cloth. The scene was all wrong.

As the baby looked upon him, it stopped its sobbing. Looking around a bit, for anyone, parents perhaps. Who would leave a helpless child like this? He picked up the child and, looking around some more, decided to take it to the first dwelling he found.

After walking awhile, Elliott noticed the child had not made a sound since he had picked it up. He stopped walking and looked down at the child in his arms, the wrapping covering its face. He pulled this back. The baby, who could not have been a week if a day, turned its face to him and cried

“Papa, I have teeth!”

Elliott watched in horror as the creature opened its mouth to display its fangs, its eyes turning to hideous red orbs. He dropped the demonic imp back to the surf from whence it came where it began its appalling groans again, croaking with each sob “Elly! Elly!”

Elliott ran, his mind dislodged, his movements clumsy and reckless, for he knew now that the evil had followed him, was following him, that his only chance was to get free of that wicked place. He continued more or less south until, after what seemed an eternity, he came at last to the altar, the place of skulls, the southern boundary of Mukilteo. He had never penetrated this catacomb though he knew it was his only chance to get beyond that land.

He turned himself to the north and saw nothing but dark and fear. Vashon was there, somewhere in that hell. Would he find the girl? Would she be alive? Elliott beat himself for his rancid day, for his wanton disregard. Yes, he was to blame. Best be off and away, no longer needed here, the Devil be damned.

He gave a final thought to return, to find his friend, to convince him to leave together. Then he remembered the demon on his tail and decided it best to first achieve some distance, some safety. Then, in the light of day, he could think clearly; make a plan. This, to him, was sound counsel. Elliott set his intention and proceeded into the night shadow.

The darkness was absolute, the silence deafening. The sound of the small waves had ceased, stymied he figured, by row after row of the huge legs of the giant. He walked slowly, his hands out before him, each step a leap of faith.

A dim light appeared before him, from far above, white light, as from a single star, and he rejoiced as he believed he had reached the other side and freedom. A smile felt strange to his face, to his heart, seeming forever since it had occurred.

Elliott had been looking up, for the source of the white emanation, when he followed it to its conclusion on the sand and rocks before him. And there, quite motionless, was the figure of a woman, wearing a dark robe, a hood covering her head, and sitting astride a large goat. The goat had horns and seemed to be watching him most intently.

Elliott stood frozen with fear, waiting for the next diabolical occurrence. The woman raised a bare arm and beckoned him to come closer. When he did not obey, she spoke.

“You found me,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I am going home,” he said, quite determined.

“Come closer. I will not harm you.”

Elliott stepped closer to her, glancing at the goat that stared malevolently at him, its furry brow heavily pursed. The woman reached out and touched his cheek. There was a flash, a spasm, and Elliott was back in the water, off Malibu, swimming once again toward shore, afraid, waiting for death in whatever form it might take.

“What do you fear most, Elliott, death, or the pain of dying?” came the woman’s voice from behind and below

“I am afraid I will never see my home again, my family,” he said and felt the tightness in his throat, the pang in his gut. The tears would come then.

“I can show you the way home, Elliott” the voice promised him, “Take you there, if you so wish.”

“Yes,” he said without thinking, “Por favor,”

He felt the grip behind his neck, felt himself being hauled toward shore, and home. Home.

Then the light faded, and he was once again beneath the pier, in the vague glow, the woman sitting perched on the goat as before. Again, she extended her bare arm; it seemed beautiful to him, an act of mercy, it would guide him, he knew.

“Take my hand, Elliott,” she commanded, and he did.

“Now, you must repeat,” she began. “You must say, of your own will, “Without God or Saint Mary.”

Elliott felt repelled and tried to pull his hand away. The woman held it in a tight grip.

“I cannot say these things,” he argued. She raised her voice, now insistent.

“You will! Do you seek my help or not? Do not toy with me little man!” she said, tightening her now painful grip, her nails digging at his skin.

“I want to go home, and nothing more. But I will not say this.”

“No?” she said, as if for the last time.

“No” said Elliott, resolutely. The woman released his hand

“Then be gone. Mind you the dark, for it has teeth,” she said. Then she and the goat began to spin, faster and faster, round and round, becoming a blur to finally disappear completely.

And Elliott was left alone, yet again. He began to move again slowly through the darkness, his thoughts on some light at the end, some hope once beyond the void.

Then came the footsteps, boots on wet gravel. Then an odor accosted Elliott’s nose, which he knew only too well. Redmond was near, and his men. Of this, there was no doubt. His words followed his foul stench; his putrid breath gave words to stagnate air.

“And where be your captain now?”

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