The Naked Bull
Thirty

The meat of a mermaid is pearl white on the hoof, Cherub rose under the knife and turns a tantalizing shade of emerald seagrass when touched by fire. Thickly layered, it turns well on the spit, to dance on the tongue with lemon and tequila

It was indeed an altar, as Bryn Mawr had suggested, an amphitheater of epic proportions. Rows of weathered planks hung in lengths creating several levels of benches for an audience of some number, at angles creating a crescent curved inward toward the main deck, or stage, as it were, where the actors now congregated. Yet there was no audience, no ravenous crowd waiting for their hungry senses to be provoked. The seats once filled to capacity with the ticket-buying mass sat vacant, unoccupied, for it was off-season, there was no one to cheer or laugh or cry. And yet, the show must go on.

On the main stage, off-set, a large circle of rocks created a fire pit which was then ablaze, a hunger whet by the promise of babbling fat dripping from sizzling flesh. A platform of rough-hewn planks, the ravenous dragon of the pyre crackled and roared with a rabid tooth. There were piles of black locust faggots with which a keeper kept the hungry beast fed. Above the fire, licked by the flames, a large spit hovered, dreaming of meat.

The troupe of actors all waited and watched, awaiting their prompts. The main spotlight was now searching for the heroine, the star of the epic.

In the center of the platform, a large round opening gaped, a chain penetrated the depths below, taught. The other end reached the underside of the landing above, rounded a huge pully and returned, at an angle, to a large wheeled mechanism on the deck, with handles, manned on two sides, for cranking the winch.

The walkways were vacant, no one was allowed on or near the platform, save those that maintained the fire, manned the winch or guarded the entrance. Some had arrived in their whaleboats which now rose and fell, tied off as they were to the piers.

Bryn Mawr stood, silent and strong, though thoughtful now. There was a look in her face of defiance. This, of course, was her way at all times. But now, where a calm strength, a wariness pervaded her demeanor, she gripped her spear tight, as though waiting for any or no reason to use it. Her muscles, wrapped tight, flexed and undulated beneath her burnished mahogany skin.

Marion and Seneca stood beside her, also holding spears, awaiting what would come. The casual observer might take them as entourage, mere oarsman. He would be wrong. For they were their own people, make no mistake. They walked their own path, and in this act, the path was that of their captain. And that captain was Bryn Mawr.

Another group, that of Redmond’s crew, formed yet another gang that stood waiting, murmuring amongst themselves, bored already with the nonsense, as children forced to church on Sunday. Their needs were simple and in approximately this order: Something to eat, something to drink, something to fuck, something to kill. This, all this opera, this waiting and watching, irritated their simple minds, for they were sailors, and sailors weren’t consigned to pirate ships for their character. And so, they fidgeted and chuckled, wise-cracked and cursed, waiting for their leader to cut them free. This leader was Redmond, who stood watching the witch, not trusting her motives, or his place in them. She had knocked him down more than once, and he was not used to this treatment by a woman, which he considered only useful for rape and disdainful abuse, to be kicked and beaten, set to task with blood on their broken mouths. He was convinced he would be cut out of the bargain, not get his fair share, and was ready to make any trouble necessary to forestall that end.

But he feared her, as he, in fact, feared all women, and most men.

The bully quivers at his own reflection.

Issaquah stood apart. Alone, save Sumner. Some wondered her shadow? Or she, his? For was he not an entity unto himself? Sumner was a peculiarity, not feared, not particularly admired. Ever present when she was about. At times he hovered about the Banshee, eager for talk, talking much though saying little. And there he was, the Grand Wazoo.

The order was given, the subtle wave of the witch’s hand, to crank the winch, the chain began to move with a deep clanking sound as the cogs of the ancient apparatus cackled once again.

All eyes were upon the water which glowed greyish green in the light. All expected to see next the black-green metal bars of the holding cage emerge from the surface. What they saw instead was a neoprene gloved hand, holding tight the chain, becoming an arm then a masked head, then Vashon, the great mermaid hunter. He stood on top of the cage as it emerged, flippers hanging from his other hand, looking around at the people, the balance of the denizens of Mukilteo, and wondered which might be with him, and which against.

When Bryn Mawr saw him the corners of her broad mouth moved perceptibly, her eyelids, normally at half-mast, widened by the merest degree, in what might have been perceived, had anyone been observing her at that moment, as a smallish grin. An event rare on her eternally glacial facade.

All looked then to the witch for some reaction. But there was none, outwardly, her face painted black and white gothic for the occasion did not move; showed no emotion and merely observed, as was her want. The weathered face of the gargoyle surrenders nothing.

When the top of the cage reached the level of the platform Vashon stepped off, the offsetting of weight causing the cage to sway slightly as it continued to rise. Dropping his fins and mask he pulled his hood over and off his head then ditching his tank he looked back into the cage which was by this time suspended at eye level, dripping wet salt from moss and barnacles. A single form lay motionless on the bottom.

All eyes watched as the stone figure of the lady became suddenly animated and moved forward toward the man slowly, Sumner shuffling along behind, as if on a leash. When she was but a few steps from him she came to a halt, and then addressed him.

“You do have a flair for the dramatic, my Naked Bull,” she said, an amused, if not impressed expression, “I would have thought you halfway to Tangiers by now.”

He kicked at his air tank. It rang hollow.

“Ran out of air,” he said, then shrugged.

The rise and fall of the water was felt in the silence that ensued, as Vashon, for a time, merely looked into her dark eyes. There was a strength in the pause, the peace he portrayed, the speechless wordplay resounded throughout the palisade. Then, of a sudden, as if cued by some unseen director, Vashon gave his response to the question unspoken.

“I was hired to hunt you a mermaid, lady” and turned, glancing at the figure in the cage.

“There she is. That makes me square with the house.”

Issaquah looked passed him at the unmoving creature.

“Indeed?” she said, “Allow me to decide that,” and motioned for her to be removed. Redmond, in turn, directed his men toward the cage. They surrounded the swaying prison and, grabbing hold, heaved it horizontally as slack was given to the chain suspending it. At length they had it over the sturdy surface of the platform where it was lowered, logs were then placed on all sides to keep it from rolling as two men attempted to open the door Vashon had only recently fought with. They had no more success than he and looked to Redmond for some direction.

They all looked toward the witch, who glanced casually at the port; the lock opened, the chain fell away clanging heavily on the cage floor, and the door fell inward, and open. One man climbed in the cage, eyed Anacortes for a moment, then grabbed and lifted her to two others waiting outside, who, taking her roughly pulled her through the port, then tossed her roughly to the deck, the carcass of the days catch.

Issaquah watched for Vashon’s reaction. Not impressed by the vulgar display, he refused to show emotion, as he knew this would bring pleasure to many, the witch in particular.

The men stood back and were still; the heavy silence returned as this act was concluded and the next awaited. The scene was now set for the Issaquah to play her roll, which she began by pulling a stiletto from her sleeve and moving closer to the victim. The straight blade of the weapon, Vashon observed, was not intended as cutlery, not meant to cut or slice, instead to penetrate a body quickly and easily, in a violent thrust, to kill.

She kneeled beside the body that had come to rest after the rough handling, on its side, facing away. Taking her by the shoulder, she pulled to roll it over while simultaneously raising the dagger high over her head, her loose sleeve falling down to gather at her shoulder, exposing her smooth olive skin, for which this act was meant to maintain. As Anacortes rolled onto her back, the wet ringlets of her long raven hair obscured her face and chest completely. Issaquah reached down and pulled it back, exposing her throat and breasts, then froze, her mouth agape. Her dark eyes grew wide as her hand recoiled, fingers splayed as if the fend off the attack of some hideous beast. For there, carved deep in the silent mermaid’s chest, was a name.

Her name.

The witch fell back, screeching loudly as an owl, finding her footing, taking several steps back toward Redmond, who watched in horror, his face confused.

Vashon looked on as Anacortes opened her eyes, the night owl’s screams seeming to awaken her from her semi-conscious state. She moved her arms then, wiping her long hair from her face, then propping herself up on her elbows. She looked around as if confused as to her surroundings or the faces that peopled it. When she saw Vashon, her look inquired as to the score. Vashon gave her a slight nod, which seemed in her mind to say

‘We’re alive, at least, for now.’

And this was enough.

Issaquah noticed the silent wordplay; her recent shock became enraged malice.

“What is this treachery? What have you done?” she blasted at Vashon, who merely stood, savoring her marked confusion darkly as her face churned, while his eased, now nearing complacency. For the maneuver thus far was only an aperitif, as evidenced by the witch’s pursed brow as she once again beheld her catch, and the mermaid’s subtle fins, and the various spots, as those of a leopard, she discovered there. She became indignant at the blatant plot.

“Well, my little whore, been busy, have we?” she uttered between clenched teeth, unhinged by the obvious conspiracy. Anacortes tilted her head and then, with a most defiant air, gave measured response.

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

Vashon listened, unable to suppress an amused snort. Issaquah looked to him then for some explanation, the truth of the uncanny romance unfolding in her tangled mind. Nothing had surprised her in a thousand years, and yet now this mere mortal scandal flew beyond her reason.

Vashon stood his ground. There was nothing to say, so nothing was said. He did, however, offer a most guilty shrug.

Having been scorned, struck twice, Issaquah regained her composure and, stiffening her back and jutting her chin, raised up in all her demonic glory.

Hell hath no fury

“Don’t look so smug, my love,” she said, her voice shaking with rage, “You have won nothing.”

She turned to her henchmen and pointed with a quivering finger her order.

“Redmond!” she shrieked. The man jumped into action as if a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth.

“About fucking time!” he snarled; a grimace spread thick across his ruddy face. Pulling his long knife from its sheath, he took a few long strides toward Anacortes and raised the weapon as he was an arms-length away and then stopped, suddenly unable to proceed. He raised his eyes from his intended victim and stared in blank confusion at the space just before him. He then jerked and grunted as his arms flew back, and his chest heaved forward, looking down just in time to see the tip of a spear, his very own, emerge dripping thick blood, dragging bits of tendrils with it. Whidbey now stood close behind him, having emerged suddenly from behind Redmond’s men, in a wide stance, his clenched teeth flashed his effort as he yanked at the weapon as though a gaff, dangling the poor bastard from the end.

Redmond looked to his lady for some aid, some assistance. She merely watched, disgusted at the continued thwarting of her plans. Then, finding no alms in her look, glanced at Vashon. Whidbey gave one final turn of the screw for good measure and let go with a shout.

“Found yer harpoon, did ya then?” he said, the gritted teeth, the hate his face displayed gave Vashon pause.

Redmond touched the tip as if to perhaps remove it, perhaps recognizing the tip he had sharpened to excess a thousand times.

He had no strength, no one moved to help him as his legs gave as he fell hard on his face, dead before his face hit the deck.

Issaquah looked on with disdain for the man she had never had time for, though she endured his presence. He would not be missed.

She looked then to her other general, Bryn Mawr, who, having foreseen this inevitable predicament, had some time ago decided on her path, which Vashon awaited with trepidation. Redmond had died an idiot; he might as easily have tripped over his bootstrap and broke his neck in the fall. Bryn Mawr was a sober and powerful leader. She would prove a most formidable enemy, or ally, that the others would follow, be it for good or evil.

She did not look to Vashon; she knew the eyes of the Gods were upon her; knew they waited for her words.

And thus she spoke.

“Lady Issaquah, we have been in your service for a hundred years, and a hundred more. You are a powerful witch who has given us lives that span far beyond that of mortal man. For this glimpse of immortality, we are indeed grateful,” she began. This recognition impressed Issaquah after her recent thrashing, she raised her chin and assumed her full stature, once more the master of the ceremony.

Vashon dimmed; without Bryn Mawr, he was done.

The witch glowed, now resplendent in his confusion. Bryn Mawr looked at him, a wave of melancholy cresting over her.

“Lifetimes, yes, Vashon. And, yes, Vashon, I have eaten the flesh of the Ningyo,” she stated, then waited for him to catch up. But he wanted it all, the whole truth.

“Yes,” he said, “But this does not make you evil.”

Issaquah could not be silent as Bryn Mawr hovered.

“They all are, my love. They are all guilty of the very crime you hold in the balance of your precious morality. Don’t judge too harshly, for that is nothing to them. They are indeed pirates all, rapists, murderers, thieves. Redmond may very well have been the best among them. At least he was honest; no delusions of morality,” she said, not hiding her exuberance.

Vashon looked slowly from face to face of all the eyes that were on him now, transforming each and all in this new light, a tribe of ancient miscreants from a ghost ship resting beneath their feet on the bottom of the Salish sea. Living out lifetimes marooned in a mythical land called Mukilteo, led by a demon in the body of a woman. And now he, like it or not, was as much a part of it as any.

“Think of it, my love: To live for ages. Time enough to savor every beach in every land. Every woman, every wine. A truly endless summer. The time has come to face your ghost. No more wit of time and tide. What would you do if a mermaid were right here in front of you?”

The man looked down at Anacortes, her fish body now becoming legs again. Whidbey looked at Vashon, there was no worry on his face, no concern. Any bartender worth his tap has the clairvoyance to see into the hearts of men, and he knew the heart of this man.

“You already know how I roll,” said Vashon as he bent down and sheathed his knife. Issaquah turned from him and back toward Bryn Mawr, her last hope of a trump card. But this was not to be. Bryn Mawr stood strong.

“No, Lady Issaquah, we will not do this for you. Anacortes is one of us. She will not die this day.”

Issaquah chanced a sideways glance toward her precious Ningyo, now a living talisman, and, seeing her hair now had fallen across her chest, concealing the bloody inscription, gazed at her in wonder for a moment only, then turned and left the platform. Vashon noticed Sumner was looking at him in an odd way, seemingly confused by all he had witnessed. Then, with a small shake of his head and a smile, he shuffled off after his mistress. All watched as they vanished within the bowels of the ziggurat.

Vashon knelt beside Anacortes and, peeling off his neoprene jacket, helped the naked girl on with it, they both then stood. He looked at the letters he had carved in her chest and touched at them lightly, looking at her with a painful eye.

“Hope I didn’t hurt you too bad.”

She gazed up at him

“You could not hurt me, Vashon,” she said, then looking down, “What is it?”

“Magic, I think. Should keep you out of trouble for a while.”

“I like trouble. It walks with you.”

Vashon nodded to Whidbey, who returned the gesture, then walked to Bryn Mawr, who stood, waiting. They took stock of each other, then Vashon spoke.

“What now?”

She did not pause; there was no thinking about it.

“There is much to be done, Vashon. We will go to the base of the hill and dig graves. At low tide, we will take down the dead and lay them there.”

Vashon thought of Elliott and the bitter task he had ahead. She seemed to read this.

“You’ve lost a good friend, Vashon. Redmond has paid for that treachery. I will make a place for Elliott there.”

“That will be my work,” he said, then added “Let’s get to it.”

Bryn Mawr nodded and signaled the rest to move. None questioned her, none dallied. She gave orders that Redmond’s body be carried back to shore with them, and the procession moved as one with intent, and a new purpose.

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