The Naked Bull
Twenty-five

The Devil once spoke to Christ as a pimp

“All this power will I give thee.”

And yet, of the Prince of the Power of the Air, Baudelaire was only half right: There was no need of a ruse on the Devil’s part, for he never was to begin with. One might say, to twist his words, the greatest trick the church ever pulled was to convince the world such a demon ever did exist.

Lucifer has never known a mirror; Earth, wind, fire; a Pope’s wet dream, this fleshed out Good and Evil. Catch as catch can, pin that moniker on the chest of your most wretched nightmares, it will only scurry away, as a cockroach, behind the toilet of the midnight’s bathroom light.

For God’s sake (sic) let the bastard be! The great scapegoat, the Old Man tapping his feet, that brick red grin we loathe and desire, that Mephistopheles. That anthropomorphic caricature, that lie told by the almighty robe to instill fear of retribution for disobedience in the illiterate and easily shaken, with curled horns and viperous tails and, yes, that tastiest of all punishments, fire.

Enough I say! The gargoyle is made of stone. Ugliness dances on its furrowed brow; rain passes through it, anus to gaping maw deliberate, unprovoked. Carried out by a performer, flesh and blood that is, through some mischievous justification of reason, devoid of delusions of morality.

Once again, we return to the riddle of Epicurus: ‘Whence cometh evil?’

And my answer, my dear reader

“And you, and I?”

Redmond tasted blood. Beyond that death most foul. It teased him, drove him.

Whidbey stood, defiant.

“What is this, Redmond! Had enough of yer noise I have!”

The beast started across the floor, lackeys in his wake until they stood toe to toe before Whidbey. Vashon looked to Bryn Mawr, who returned his glance and nothing more.

Redmond stood before Whidbey, red-faced, spit flew from his rancid mouth as he spoke.

“I saw you pull my barb from the girl. Saw you on the beach. Where is she?”

“You’ll get nothing from me, you pissant! Be off then, you and your rabble.”

Redmond’s eye’s exploded as he struck Whidbey hard in the face, knocking him to the floor where bright red blood splattered on the wood planks. He stepped forward, reaching for the handle of his knife, but pulled his marlinspike instead, intending this death ugly. Not to look the fool, he raised the iron intending to drive it through the man’s skull, twisting his body into a stance to sink it deep.

“Redmond!” yelled Bryn Mawr.

The madman yanked his head sideways, infuriated by the interruption.

“Stay away from this bitch! This is my kill,” he said without looking up. She stepped forward, taking him by the shoulder and turning him roughly to face her.

“Leave it, man! The witch wants the girl and her hunter. This one has his use. Unless you want to cook our food and serve our brine.”

Redmond looked at her with bile in his eyes.

“You’ll be doin’ that and more soon enough, whore!”

As he did, he raised his fist and slammed it down against the side of Whidbey’s head, knocking him unconscious to the floor. Then he looked at the Bryn Mawr.

“Keep out of my way, bitch. I’ll cut your tits off.”

Bryn Mawr stood her ground, staring the man down

“You will try,” she said. Redmond growled, motioning toward the room to the others.

Vashon watched, outnumbered. He knew the danger of the situation, knew death wasn’t two steps away. There was a time to fight and a time to stand down. And so he stood, biding his time. He heard the girl moan first, then became insolent as the men handled her roughly.

“Leave off, asshole!” he heard, “I can walk,” and she appeared at the doorway, appraising the room. The look on her face was rebellious, her pain and hate bred poison.

Redmond spoke in his rabid tooth.

“You’ll be coming with us then,” he yelled, “On your feet, on your knees, matters not to me,” he said and waited for his reply. Vashon looked down at Whidbey, then at the girl squirming against her captors and began walking after her. Then Redmond barked at Bryn Mawr.

“Keep your barb to his back woman. If he so much as scratches his ass, kill him.”

“I’m not your bitch, asshole,” she said, though she put her spear to his back just the same.

The procession walked outside, where it had begun to rain. The crust of the sand was dark on the surface but lighter and dry beneath as their footsteps revealed the rain had only just begun. Vashon guessed they were heading toward the cabin where he had watched Shiatoru die. He began to assemble a puzzle in his head, having most of the pieces, he believed. It was now time to discover the design for which the picture had gone missing. With words, he tested the spear at his back.

“Bryn Mawr,” he began, over his shoulder, though he kept his eyes on the girl. There came no reply, though he knew she heard him. And thus, continued.

“If the forest were on fire, where would you run?” he waited then, for this would be telling.

“Into the sea, no doubt,” the reserved timbre of her voice worth note.

“No doubt,” parroted Vashon in the same tone “…as would anyone, as people and creatures have done since the beginning of time,” he paused to let her think, then continued

“Anyone, of course, who didn’t know that sharks can taste smoke, as well as blood.”

“You speak nonsense,” she said

“You spend enough time with them.”

“Speak your peace then.”

Vashon walked close behind Anacortes, fresh blood on her elkskin.

Focus, man.

“Only that, when there is smoke on the water and in the sky, which is as blue for them as it is for us, and that sky turns red, the blood and flesh will be in the shallow water.”

Bryn Mawr considered this

“That is indeed evil, even for a shark,”

Vashon countered.

“Are you suggesting sharks are not evil?”

“No,” she said, “I am saying that is much thought for a fish.”

Vashon turned and looked at her hard in the face, “Much thought…or a little instinct?”

Bryn Mawr looked into Vashon’s eyes until, guessing his point made, he turned as they grew silent and walked for some time.

They now came to a halt before the cabin. Redmond rapped on the door and then turned, surveying the bounty he was about to deliver, savoring the thought of his coming rewards.

The door cracked, exposing Sumner wondering face. He did not pause but, seeing the hunters, and their prisoners as if waiting for them, pulled the door open wide and stood well out of the way. The procession moved inside. Vashon made note that the window, which had been smashed the last time he had seen it, was now intact, the glass faded with moss rimmed the panes.

Inside he was met with yet another discovery. The interior was now a throne room, replete with carpets and area rugs of deep magenta and gold. Both sides of the hall were lined with fluted columns at the bases of which were supported by large gargoyles. At the far end of the hall sat Issaquah in a large throne of black leather, blackfish fur hung from the high back and drooled from the arms, their demise a testament to the witch’s distaste of the creatures.

They had all stopped just inside the door, awaiting an invitation from the prisoner they then feared. Issaquah reclined, an eternity carved in stone, her face a tabula rasa awaiting some inspiration. Sumner stood to one side, forever the kindly gentleman, beckoning them forward. Redmond now grabbed Anacortes hard by the scruff of her neck, his prize, and shoved her roughly forward. Vashon needed no prodding, Bryn Mawr gave none as he followed up the hall.

When they had approached within several feet of the raised platform where the witch sat, Sumner raised a hand in a faint gesture, and they stopped.

Close enough.

The silence made their breathing obvious; the wary ear might well speak of hearts beating loud within inflated chests. There was nothing more than this as they all looked to the lady in the chair, her attention adrift. Preoccupied instead with a mosquito that had landed on her arm, a large beast, not of a Crane fly’s stature but a true Vampire nonetheless, it appeared to all to have the capacity for a keg of precious blood.

Vashon found himself in a sudden quandary: If the beast drank her immortal blood, would it live centuries as well?

Issaquah admired the creature, seemingly entranced, as evidenced by the quick grin, the squinted eye. She raised her arm so that the bloodsucker was at a level between her eyes and those that watched. The insect buried its hollow dagger deep in her bare olive skin and began to suck in obscene jerks, its translucent grey gut sac coloring with the tepid magenta.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Issaquah moved her other hand into position, a finger and thumb on both sides of the wound, and began to squeeze blood into the insatiate beast. The doomed insect, nose pinched in place by the swollen flesh, began to fill as a bota, tugging its head hard to remove its pernicious appendage. Finally, having failed in this, its engorged stomach burst, blood splat all over the witch’s arm, dripping down both sides and onto her leg. Her focus shifted just then to Vashon, who gave an audible sigh, unimpressed by the woman’s theatrics.

She looked then deep into his face with a devilish grin, knowing the point had been made all the same.

“Ah, my love, you have brought me a gift,” she said. Redmond shoved Anacortes forward.

“Yes, my Lady, she has been among us all the while,” he said with heartless flair. Issaquah looked on him with disgust

“Do not address me fool! I was speaking to Vashon,” she said. Redmond’s face wilted, as he looked to her and then Vashon, who he would have killed just then if had had only a chance. Anacortes wiggled free of his now limp grasp and looked to Vashon as well.

“You know this bitch?” she said, fire in her eyes. Vashon looked at the witch, then the girl, speechless. Issaquah squinted at Anacortes with hideous intent.

“That would be witch to you, girl! And you will show respect” and gave Redmond a look, giving him some small chance at redemption. He shoved her again hard, a well-placed boot to the back of her calf, her head snapped back as her legs gave way and she fell hard to the floor. Vashon stepped forward and reached for her arm but she pushed his hand away as she stood on her own, the look of fire on her face, she continued her defiance.

“Oh, do forgive,” said the girl, “A witch, huh? Damn!” she gave mock interest, “So you really have teeth in your cunt?”

Vashon, caught off guard by the spine of her sarcasm, allowed but a small amusement to escape his nostrils. Issaquah’s face twisted for a moment in a wicked sneer, her eyes moving across the faces for any contempt. Then, squinting her eyes at the girl as the wretched bats spun in her head, turned her face toward Vashon with an evil grimace and said with measured intent.

“Well, my dear, if you really must know the intricate details of my body, perhaps you should ask your friend here, the great mermaid hunter.”

The girl looked to Vashon, who looked to Issaquah. Time to do business.

“Well lady, witch, whatever,” he began “Seems you found your mermaid. What happens to your hunters now?” a sad attempt to turn the tide, yet better than none.

The others waited, a question that had no doubt crossed their minds more than once. To get paid, to go home. Yes, this subject required some resolution. The witch saw this in their faces, their searching glances, and so spoke to still the apprehension.

“All will be paid in kind; all will be allowed to follow their own paths.”

This spurred Redmond to speak.

“After you share the catch with us, of course, my lady,” he said.

“Of course,” she said, though there was little sincerity to be had. Then, pushing all this nonsense aside, gave her orders then.

“Throw them in the crawlspace beneath me. We go now to prepare the altar, and the cage”

The trap door closed above, there were footsteps, and a door slammed shut, then cold, damp silence. The darkness was complete, Vashon felt the dirt floor, reached out for walls but they were out of his reach.

“Ana,” he said. Nothing. “Ana, talk to me girl.”

A sound came then as if she were shifting her weight, sitting up from lying where she had fallen. Her voice was as a phantom, disembodied, distant.

“You kissed her?”

Time for truth.

“Yes”

“And then?”

Exhale.

“Yes”

He thought to say more, all of the standards, how it meant nothing, it was merely a fuck, and what of it?

“Why do you go down there?” she asked. The question fathomed Vashon; of all things to ask just then.

“Down there?”

“Yes. Down there, in the sea.”

Vashon was suddenly grateful for the darkness, the look on his face, no doubt comical. Understanding her meaning then he chewed on it for some time. He had been asked this question a thousand times by those ignorant of the deep, the saltwater, the perfect disguise. Encounters with beasts, are there really all those sharks out there? He had his catalog of humorous responses to be sure, laugh lines all.

He thought then of Elliott and his bull-shit lines for another purpose, for not going into the sea. Vashon knew it was fear. Elliott knew that Vashon despised fear and was well aware of his little secret. The jokes, the drink, the woman, and the next beach. Keep running, keep one step ahead, and you will never have to say it for what it really is.

But now he sat in the dark with a woman from that world, with nowhere to run, nor hide. She would not laugh at his line, nor shrug it off. This one would stand her ground and not let him pass until he answered, both her and himself. He could not see her, but he could feel her eyes on him, watching, waiting. Did she know the answer already? Did he?

“Ana”

“Yes”

“You were born in the water?”

“I do not remember being born. But I remember the sea before I knew land.”

“Then, do you remember taking your first breath of air, away from the water?”

“Oh yes,” she said. Vashon could not see but knew she was smiling. “How could I ever forget? And every time since is like the first time.”

“Yes. That’s how it was, is, for me. Although I do not breathe the water, as do you, the sensation of being underwater and breathing is…intoxicating, addictive.”

“Yes! Yes, exactly!”

“At my father’s house, where I grew up, in a place not so far from here called Yakama, there is an old book of black and white photos. In it, I am always in the water, face down with a mask and a snorkel, holding my breath. Used to dream of being a scuba diver. Finally got tired of holding my breath.”

Anacortes laughed most genuine.

“As did I, when at first I came ashore. My mother…” she stopped.

“Yes?”

“I am here. Sorry”

“Take your time, girl. We’re not going anywhere, just yet.”

In the dark, they both acknowledged the end of that sentence. Anacortes kept up the deceptive mood.

“My mother would tease me, told me to just breathe in the air as we sat together in the shallow water. After I had accomplished this, she taught me how to change.”

“To change?”

“To walk.”

“Oh, yeah. Neat trick.”

Vashon moved toward her voice and, finding her, took her hand.

“Hey,” he said, now sitting beside her. She reached out to him as well, touching his face, his hair.

“You OK, girl?”

“Where is Elliott?”

Vashon had been thinking of that since things went south

“If I know Elly, he’s halfway to Los Angeles by now.”

“You will miss him, yes?”

“I will see him again.”

They sat for a time and listened. They heard what might have been thunder, and heavy rain on the ground outside.

They were sitting close, their bodies touching, her hand in his. He thought just then to touch her, touch her hair, some simple wordless feeling. Then he felt her hand on his face, the tips of her fingers, running slowly over his closed eyelids, his nose, cheeks, to linger on his lips. She was exploring him, getting to know another in terms of darkness and other senses rarely used. She moved to his jaw and then, with gentle persistence, urged his face down toward hers, he felt her breath and smelled saltwater again. His lips touched lightly on hers, at first, then they opened their mouths and kissed, the hungry kiss of lovers, bent on devouring, the sensation of chewing, swallowing any taste, any drop of fluid, her small velvet tongue in his mouth, his meeting it, circling and sliding

Vashon moved his arm behind Anacortes and firmly maneuvered her in front of him, sitting on his lap now, faces still locked in never-ending mouth work he had no intention of ending. He could feel her bare legs beneath her soft elk skin, her hips beginning to move on him. He reached for her smallish, piquant breasts. She reacted instantly, arching her back in this new sensation, this immediate abandon.

His mind wandered, as it always did, at times of arousal. But this time was different. Yes, he was taken away, but the images differed; for there before his closed eyes, which was ironic in itself, for why close eyes in the dark? He let this pass, his first vision of the girl, working her craft in the depths of the Banshee. Then their time in the market, their first kiss. Finding her alive in the water and his discovery of her true self. Then he saw her abused by Redmond. Then, coming full circle, he found her grinding against him and was, for an instant, dismayed.

“Ana, girl, what are you up to now?” a stupid question really, or perhaps not; for was he not asking her permission for what he had wanted all along? If she heard him, stopped there and then, there would be no crime, no punishment. But she did not stop, instead putting her firm palm over his mouth. Shut up and kiss me, you fool! She was saying or rather demanding.

And this he did. Again and again, her mouth hot and salivating, running down his chin and throat. Vashon had the hem of her elk skin now in the grip of his hands, working it ever further until he felt her bare crotch on his jeans made tight by stone the likes of which he had never known.

He moved his hands to unbuckle his belt when he felt a hand on his chest. Wait, no, let me.

Anacortes moved back enough to give her working room. Then, with deft hands in total blindness, she took apart the man’s covering. Vashon pushed his pants down as he felt the cold damp ancient earth on his bare ass. Anacortes touched him then, and he twitched which frightened her, then she gave a small giggle.

“It is alive!” she said and touched it again, wrapping her fingers around it, feeling the warmth, the size, the pulsing of the veins on its surface.

Vashon groaned as he took her by the waist and pulled her again over him, feeling the warmth of her vagina touching down on him lightly, at first, and then more insistent, moving now on him with a passion, he put his hand around her neck an brought her mouth to his yet again.

There was no stopping now, hell be damned. No devils or witches or madmen, only this, this place in time, this precious moment spent between life and death.

He grabbed her ass then and lifted her. His next thought was to guide his cock, but this was not to be. Anacortes reached down and, taking his shaft again in her hand, found her place and sat down, ever slowly, working it slowly in her unfathomed depths, her breath coming in gasps,, though she would not stop.

Vashon let her take it as she would, not wanting to hurt her, though he knew it must. They began then to dance, up and down, slowly, ever so slowly as he pulled open the leather ties exposing her small breasts, her nipples erect, hard even. He mouthed these greedily as she bounced, her long hair dancing on his face and chest, her hands gripping his strong shoulders for leverage.

Far too soon, Vashon felt the first tugging’s of orgasm, something he was quite unaccustomed to. The majority of his sexual experience had been tantric: He rarely came inside his many lovers, genuine in an extended version of the experience, though preferring to finish himself later, in the privacy of his own hand.

With Anacortes, her unbridled libido impossible to restrain, though he pushed down on her thighs to slow her, Vashon knew he would lose the battle. Every muscle in his body flexed tight as he exploded inside her; this first and sudden infusion of warm fluid inside her caused Anacortes to catch her breath. Then slowly, as she felt her own body begin to shudder in spasms, lights flashed before her closed eyes, an experience she had never known, and would never forget.

There came then a moment of reckoning, of gentle touches and thoughtful kissing. Then Anacortes collapsed against Vashon’s chest; her breath subsiding as a calming surf, the set had passed, now the lull. His position had not been entirely comfortable, though considering the situation was acceptable, and now she was indeed fast asleep. He knew it had been two days at least since he, or she, had last slept. She would need to be alert if they were to attempt escape, so he remained quite still.

In the dark, the sound of the storm somewhere outside, a young woman fast asleep atop him, her soft hair tickling his nose, Vashon began his contemplation, a sober reckoning of the situation, supreme passivity, reckless abandon in stasis. Having faced his death time and again, he had little faith in the myth of the gallows; had always found the circling sharks a joke. Yet even he had a point where heart and your head, which throughout his life have been diametrically opposed, look to one another and ask, “What then am I to do?” But this was never a resignation, to this man, more mocking exuberance than mournful dirge.

This realization, a surrender to the ultimate, as it were or, as in his case, a ‘sobering of the wit’, a survival tactic that had brought him thus far, intact. For it struck him then and there that, although to the casual witness, he may indeed deserve to die a pig’s death for his sins, for his casual recklessness. After all, he was, yet again, in a stranger’s house, with a strange woman, in a strange land. Anacortes stirred. He wondered if she too could read his mind. Then, in this clarity of thought, having defined the parameters of his current plight, he began to look seriously for the first time at this being he knew only as Issaquah. And as he gazed once again down at her and wondered, quite of a sudden, why was he brought here? Surely not for this and this alone. Vashon began to question her motives. He noticed for the first time that she exuded no emotion. Was he indeed something special, someone needed, required for some unknown purpose? Or was he but one of many in a line that stretched backward to who knows when and would surely continue forward after he was wiped up and swept away. Let us then define her. A slut, maybe. A liar, perhaps. She must have been human at some point. And Sumner, was he the true ‘man behind the curtain’ and she, the witch, a decoy? Or bait? Was this all a well-contrived plot to get he, or someone like him, to their private arena?

And as he thought, in the short expanse of time that he had, as he sat there, feeling the girl breathing lightly against him, he knew he would not die there, that this was not his time, that Issaquah was no more worth dying for than any hand job he could give himself at the next moment in which he had a free hand.

No. He would not. Not that day and not in that crawlspace like a potbelly pig awaiting the butcher’s blade.

Then, having concluded his contemplation, and feeling all the better knowing that he had done all he could for the moment, heard the rain and felt Anacortes breathing, then fell fast asleep.

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