The Naked Bull
Twenty-seven

The sand raced toward the south. The minions of the Salish sea bed driven by the winds of change ran, some escaping gravity by a most timely gift of air then flew, save for those caught by the pile of skin and blood and bones that lie in their path for no other reason than to create a hole in the air.

An impediment to a multitude of over-zealous grains of sand on their frenzied way; having been at some point in the past a mountain, then a river bed, then a dune, then a beach, now running headlong toward the impossible dream of the mountain top.

Those that lingered becoming salt pillars to the North as forfeit ladders to those behind, romantics no less! Reaching the summit of the obstacle, covered it with a thin crust that shot over with hopes of reaching beyond. But without sufficient energy to escape the eddy that was to the South of the body and so fell at once and began to pile on the far side.

The mass migration continued until some untold number had given up their quest to allow those that followed to pass over or around, without resistance. Vashon’s body now lay in a cocoon of insignificant martyrs that would be remembered only by a young traveler who took the blanket gratefully, believing his days at an end.

‘Oh devil, oh witch, hell-bent for leather, for pities sake follow me not beyond closed eyes.’

Yet this secret treaty held not. Vashon, basking in his eternity, his private sepulcher, became aware of a presence, heard, felt, not seen but tangible, malevolent, just there in the basement of his soul where he dwindled. The sheer terror of this produced a want to move, to run, to escape. To be paralyzed! So then, there is a reckoning beyond death.

Oh, pesky demons! Send your most ferocious beasts of hell to dispatch me but allow me at least to stand or flee, run or fight! To be bitten, gnawed at piecemeal without some heroic struggle beyond all hope like the stunned victims of so many in nature who are stung or bitten or bled to the point of paralysis and then nibbled upon while quite aware? And what these fiends will do to anything dead or alive and cast up on the beach.

Reduced now to this, Vashon thought again of his Mother, bedridden, the constant, unrelenting pain; the hell to be bitten and chewed by some diabolical cancer! Death, please, waived the victim as the disease, bent most ardent on gnawing flesh and bone. Perhaps one might pry open an artery in his leg or neck just enough to let out the blood that would allow him to lose consciousness and eloquently excuse himself from the banquet before the feast.

How industrious these shadows! Ground scraped away, excavated, and carted away. Most cautious these demons now, might not his awareness keep them at bay? Were they perhaps digging, not from above to remove his shroud of sand, but from his bed below? He was just beginning to consider the reality of such thoughts when the ground fell away beneath him, a sprinkle, then a steady flow, not unlike grains through the narrow neck of the hourglass. Time sifted down, with him in tow as Vashon fell. And falling, surrendered to that sensation of the hell bound.

There was illumination then as if having been in a darkened theatre for some time awaiting the curtain, which then slowly rose to produce a stage setting, a harvester of eyes. The faint sweet salt breeze, nothing really, that teased an errant lock of Vashon’s hair. A blue sky he had not known since his fateful outing with Anacortes struck him as surreal, loosening by degrees the death grip on his heart.

Vashon found himself squatting in the hollow of a smallish dugout canoe. Peering over the side, momentarily losing his balance, for down was the night sky, replete with stars and planets. He looked towards what he believed was the horizon for bearings, to be greeted by a barren landscape, devoid of trees, save one long dead, gnarled and bleached as an old man’s dream.

Before him was the tanned leather coat and long white hair of a stranger, plying an oar most thoughtfully. Almost too much so, as he managed each stroke as a significant, considering each dip of the oar. Turning his face down toward the sky water each time he dipped his paddle, Vashon watched the stars swirl about, only to resume their original positions once more. His face now in profile, Vashon witnessed his diligent exacting profile; this man was entirely about his task.

The old man began to speak to Vashon in a rare native tongue, the dialect he had never heard, and yet somehow understood.

“To row efficiently, one must keep the arms straight, a deliberate movement, long deep strokes, just so,” the old man exaggerated a few more strokes, “The oar must have good purchase on the water. Your knees well-spaced, as a woman experiencing her man (he chuckled here) balanced and leaning into each stroke.”

The old man paused and rowed. After a time, he took up the talk again.

“We have met, you and I,” he said simply

Vashon thought then of what he spoke. Then it came to him. Idiot! How could he have forgotten?

A picture, a memory of a scene, appeared to Vashon of the Shaman on the beach who had summoned the blackfish. His face must have grown indignant just then, for the old man rolled his eyes, offering a guilty shrug.

“You must forgive me, and my theatrics, but your boat was from the other side and I, well, I wanted to wave my cock at the dark-skinned woman,” he said with a sheepish grin.

“Bryn Mawr?”

“She is some woman, no? Does she speak well of me?”

Vashon wondered at the meaning of all this.

“We don’t talk much.”

“This intrigues me. Have you by chance peeked under her skins?” his eyes twinkled.

“Yes, thanks to you and your blackfish.”

“No!” he spouted, “Well, perhaps. Oh, how I would give my best canoe for a whiff of her musk.”

The old man grinned eagerly.

“I am Alki. Chinook, if you care,” he said, “Now questions, Yes?”

Vashon was still taking in all he had heard.

“Where are we?”

Vashon struggled to move as if buried in sand. Frustrated then, the voice guided.

“You are not in your body, my friend. Do not fear, for it is safe in a shroud of sand. My little friends are keeping watch over you. Your being is here with me. How do you feel?”

Vashon contemplated this, his answer a resignation.

“Alone.”

Alki became suddenly impatient.

“You surrender too easily! Geesh, I had hoped you a man.”

Vashon remembered Bryn Mawr’s frigid welcome when they first arrived on the shore of Mukilteo. Now, as then, he shrugged it off.

“So, I’m dreaming, is that it?”

“Do not make little of this art,” snapped Alki, “In this dream, there are consequences.”

“No rest for the wicked” muttered Vashon.

“I have been watching you, waiting in fact for this moment.”

Vashon remembered then, becoming heartsick.

“Elliott. Tell me I did not just watch him die. Tell me that was all a dream as well.”

The dry wind sifted through the strokes of the oar. There was no other sound. The ambient light of the diffused sky cast no shadows.

“Your friend died a warrior’s death. Mourn for him, then leave him be. His worries are done. You, my friend, have only begun.”

“My worries? Are you serious?”

“Grab your cock, white man! To witness death is the task of the living. Get over it, for we are traveling to visit some of your acquaintances. I would be doing you a great disservice if I did not suggest you muster your spine.”

Vashon, having just been called a coward, meant to complain. He glanced instead down toward the sky they glided through, the unobtrusive dip, the stirring of the heavy roux of water and salt and stars of the skillful oarsman in synchronized motion as if a pot of well-contemplated stew. All bodies of water have their own personalities, look, feel specific to the land. The Salish was cold; the taste more of wood than sand. Dark to look at, greyish green, though beneath the surface clear, well lit. A sub-culture of life hidden, though never hiding. It takes a seasoned diver to know these things. This was the Salish sea reflected on a warm summer night, a wonder to behold. If this was not heaven or hell, then perhaps it was indeed a most tasty dream.

They approached a shore arid and windblown, bleak to the eye, where a conversation between the Night Owl and The Prince of the Power of the Air continued. Vashon, able to hear quite clearly, tried his best at the gist of the issue. He recognized the creature sitting, or more aptly, squatting on the ground as some obscene version of the man he knew as Sumner. His ears, now pointed, jutted from the sides of his barren cranium. Smallish bat-like wings adorned his back while a serpentine tail darted hither and yon through the dust of its own volition.

Sumner seemed quite content, his demeanor giddy in fact as he held a large knuckled hand before his mouth, seemingly to suppress a toothy, fanged grin that was a source of irritation to the owl perched above him.

“Oh, get over yourself, will you! He’s not in your clutch just yet.”

Sumner removed the hand from his mouth long enough to retort.

“He is tilting, no?”

“Tilting towards escape, if that is what you mean. You should have saved his Aztec companion when you had the chance.”

The Imp was about his game.

“My apologies, mum. But savior is not one of my better guises,” he bustled, quite proud of his retort.

The owl clucked.

“I should say not! I witnessed your ‘Jesus on the cross’ act in the church. A bit over the top even for you, would you not agree?”

“Tried to tone it down, did I!” argued the wraith, “Caught up in the part, you see. I did try to save him, but he had no sense of humor.”

“Hah!” hooted the Owl “You’re God will have no sense of humor if he caught that piece of ham acting.”

Sumner winced.

“A ham, me? You’re the one to talk! Sitting on a goat, really? Begging him to repeat words a most devout atheist would choke upon?”

The Night Owl rustled her wings, refusing to comment. Sumner, having the stage, went on.

“…and as much as I enjoyed Shiatoru’s long bloody kiss goodnight you really must put a muzzle on that Redmond of yours. If he ruins my plans there will be hell to pay.”

“Redmond is not your problem! He has his merits, that stinky little man. He has kept our little oasis a secret low these many years, has he not?”

Just then the bickering ceased as they addressed the approach of two presences they had not noticed, having been too engrossed in their own squabbles. The Night Owl, recognizing the two, gave a cursory view of this abrupt if not unexpected turn of events. It is not easy to sneak up on a demon; let alone two.

Standing before them, Vashon wondered at the apparition. Alki stood to his left and slightly behind, observing.

The Night Owl took up her dead-pan voice once more.

“Oh, look. The horny witch doctor from across the sea has brought your savior to play. It appears they’ve kissed and made up, yes? How quaint.”

Vashon looked up to see a large owl, white face and pepper-salt wings, gripping a dead branch with her massive feathered talons. He knew the voice only too well, for it was Issaquah herself. He turned his attention then to the imp before him who looked up and into eyes that begged explanation; windows to a soul he had sought for lost millennia. Sumner placed his clawed fingers upon the hot sand and pushed himself up into a standing position, knees bent, back curled as if having sat on the ground for an eternity.

His eyes ever on Vashon, he then gathered his strength and, flexing his legs, straightened his spine with mighty and painful crackling, stood finally straight, only slightly shorter than Vashon. Flapping the dust off his wings once or twice, he relaxed with a heavy sigh, only to take up his patent grin.

Extending a ready hand then as if to shake, Vashon looked at it and then toward Alki who returned the glance gravely.

“Consequences, my friend.”

Sumner glanced at the Shaman and, with no hostility, allowed his hand to fall.

“Vashon, my young hero, might we have a word, you and I?”

“Sure, Sumner. When you tell me why I am here,” he said in mock gracious, then righted himself, “And why I just watched my friend die. And why my brother’s ghost now follows me.”

The smile faded, the whitish teeth abated, save the tips of his two diminutive fangs that refused to be hidden by thinnish lips. Vashon looked deep into his intelligent eyes and, finding there a soul worthy of effort, gave audience. Sumner then spoke.

“We are both artists, you and I, my friend. Yes?” he said with a genuine face “I only want you to be quiet for a little while and listen. Please. I see you fading, and I cannot have this. For I need you to stay. I need you to listen and have patience with a devil, for there is little to be found in heaven or hell. Do not fade, do not look away I beg you, lest all be lost”

The Night Owl grew impatient.

“You can fuck him later, Old Nick! Get on with it.”

Vashon grew irritated at the interruption.

“Leave the man be for Christ’s sake, woman!”

Issaquah would not be still.

“Man? Woman? Christ?” she balked. “Oh, my Naked Bull, you really are behind in the times. Allow me to properly introduce: Vashon, meet Satan. Satan, meet Vashon.”

Vashon glared at the glorious raptor as one of his most reviled seagulls. Issaquah savored what she had invoked in silence.

“Yes, Vashon the great mermaid hunter,” said Sumner “it is I, the Summoner; the Devil himself.”

Vashon thought to be repulsed but did not recoil, instead, leaning in closer, reaching a hand, a finger to touch this reviled deity. Alki then spoke up again.

“Vashon!” and shook his silver mane.

He lowered his hand but remained close.

“What do you want of me old man?”

Sumner hung his whisper, to make the better sweep.

“What do you want, mermaid hunter?”

The two stood toe to toe in the sands of time, neither giving quarter.

The Shaman Alki watched.

Issaquah, the Night Owl, waited.

Vashon tossed his hat in the ring then, for nothing to lose. Might just as well be done with it.

“Poulsbo.”

“Yes…and?”

“To square with the house; my house.”

Sumner tilted his head, pushing a pointed ear.

“Square? With who, pray tell?”

The diver felt a tug at his chest.

“My Father, if that is possible.”

Sumner stepped back, stunned. The Night Owl peered down upon them.

“Then perhaps you are indeed the one I have sought after all.”

“The one?” asked Vashon. How many had there been?

“Hunter, you have a message to convey to your Father, yes?”

The diver paused, for he wasn’t sure those words would be his. If he had gotten his present company straight, he was talking to the Devil. From Alki’s warnings, he reasoned that everything said, every word, or touch for that matter, was part some grandiose reckoning of which he knew not the consequences. And yet he knew somehow that he had entered yet another arena. Naked again, this time with only his wit, his wisdom (for whatever that was worth) and an old Shaman with a totem pole in his leathers.

A question quite off the wall compelled Vashon to step aside from the subject at hand and perhaps gather more of the gist.

“Sumner, who was the last?”

“Last?” the Devil shook his head.

“The Barmen, dumbass!” said Issaquah.

“Oh, Yes of course. Have you never wondered at Whidbey, and his presence in Mukilteo?”

Vashon chewed on this. Whidbey had told him part of his story, up to his reason for exploring Tschakolecy Island. His tale had been interrupted by the mob.

“Obviously, he said no,” said Vashon, “But why? I’m guessing you promised him something.”

“Perhaps. My gifts are subtle, though worthy, most would say,” said the Devil, wetting his lips with a decidedly forked tongue, “His reasons were his own. You might ask him. If still he lives.”

This bit of happenstance infuriated Vashon.

“Anything happens to him you and your bird will find me most difficult to deal with.”

Satan looked up at the Night Owl.

I warned you about Redmond.

Vashon looked toward Alki. They both turned to go.

“Vashon” called Sumner after them as they mounted the canoe, “My hero! My messenger! You are wiser than the Vatican. Do not be led by foolish rules of ancient date. Do not blame me for all that is evil!”

The canoe moved away from the shore, indifferent to the rearview mirror, leaving the Prince of the Power of the Air and the Night Owl to squabble in the sands of time.

Vashon could not be still.

“Alki, the witch. Tell me what you know.”

The Shaman laughed, “You know more than I. Have you not rubbed bellies with this creature?”

“That is not what I meant. What does she want?”

“You weary me, white man. What does she want? To rub bellies. Does this confound you?”

“So, she just wants to fuck?”

“More or less.”

“And the more?”

Alki rowed, proud and perfect.

“She wants to live. And on this plane, this pallet of flesh and blood. And for that she needs the mermaid,” Alki glanced over his shoulder, “Your mermaid.”

This hit Vashon. The list of those left behind grew like an infinite regression. Mirrors facing mirrors with him in the middle.

“Alki, you know more than you say. Does she die?”

“We all die. This is a mercy.”

“Damn you, Shaman! Does she die today?”

Alki was unmoved by this, believing himself far beyond empathy.

Or was he.

“Perhaps. Or one possible future, if you choose to turn away.”

This paradox silenced Vashon, who was suddenly unable to reckon any perspective of time. Before. After. During. Each had its own implications. Each equally nonsensical. He was once and forever the survivalist; what had any of this to do with him?

He didn’t like the way Alki said ’turn away.’ It fell upon his ears as ’run away.’ Maybe just his ego, but he never ran away from anything. Ever. Nothing. He would leave Mukilteo because there was nothing for him there. Nothing but a lost friend. A lost love. A witch, a devil, a ghost. There was the world waiting. He had no need to travel to Yakama, his Father be damned.

Let sleeping dogs lie. This was not running away, for if given half a chance, what fool wouldn’t scale the walls of hell? Enough. He motioned then to Alki for them to move on. Alki gave no resistance as Vashon found himself once again in the dugout, in the wake of this most eccentric old man and with a sigh, glad of it.

Alki gave one final breath.

“I once dreamed of being a hero, you know. I would rise above the evil that cursed my people and smash it on the rocks below” he pulled hard at his oar, accentuating the gist of his reverence, “Save my people. Oh, I dreamed, how they would worship me. Bring me wine and food, the young women would trip over each other just to lick the sweat from my chestnuts,” another chuckle.

He left then an inviting silence which Vashon picked up on.

“Me,” he said, “I have no such appetites.”

Alki frowned.

“For a white man, you are a lousy liar” and left it there. He had never kicked a dead horse and was far too old to start now.

Vashon looked around. They were now in a forest, away from the water and the dugout. The wind was slight, the smell of pine overwhelming, the sun warm on his face.

“Alki, there is some point to all this, yes?”

The old man spoke, almost as an afterthought.

“My young friend, I must leave you now to follow your own path. But I must ask you, have you ever wondered what holds the sky and the sea apart?”

Vashon had dirt in his mouth for this nonsense. Then he swallowed, for, having swum face up a thousand times between the two, had wondered on just such philosophies. At one point he had even chanced upon the answer, which he imparted now.

“They are reflections of each other. To touch the mirror is to see nothing. To gaze the mirror from afar, everything.”

The Shaman was impressed.

“Vashon, at least you are honest. Even if your honesty is ignorance. You must one day learn the temper of the laugh. The line between mocking and irony.”

“And Issaquah? What am I to do, kill her?”

Alki doubled over, near choking on this hoot.

“Kill…her? How…and why?”

This left the traveler again at a loss.

“Because she is wicked evil, a menace. Tell me I am wrong.”

Alki sobered. “And you want her, yes? She gives you wood, not cedar but oak, yes?”

Vashon was beyond this sex talk.

“But what of her crimes?”

“Crimes? What crimes? Mere perspectives. What is so difficult to understand? She wants more life, white man, as do we all. Only she is different. She has found a way.”

The old man stopped and waited, breathing deeply from his laughter. Vashon could not stop.

“And Poulsbo, and Elliott?”

Alki looked then at the man with hope.

“Oh, you will run across them again. In fact, I insist on it!” and laughed some more.

“But you must not destroy this witch. For she is the balance. Her, and her Summoner.”

Alki paused then, then thought well as he handed Vashon a clue.

“You might slow her, this demon, this woman. You need only her name to hold her tail.”

“Issaquah?”

Alki chuckled.

“No,” he smiled at the memory, “We gave her that name three centuries past. For we always knew when she was near, as the birds screeched and flew away. She is the night owl, is she not?”

Refusing to commit, yet wanting the truth just the same, Vashon demanded this time.

“Where did you learn all this?”

The Shaman smiled at the memory.

“Why, from my fathers of old. And from my many sittings ’round the fire with your old friend, Whidbey.”

Vashon set this aside, for he had many questions for his old friend. Another time.

“Alki,” he insisted, “her name.”

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