The Naked Bull
Thirty-one

Dear reader, allow me a moment:

What I have learned of religion and myth, beginning with my Father and his library, which is now mine and where I sit now, at midnight, penning this tale. Religion is a necessary evil, mythology a much necessary good.

Can we not at the very least agree on this?

Let me be clear. Had I the knowledge to prove, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was no heaven above, no hell below, I would not. A thousand times no! Mankind needs its hope to be more than nothing, and the hope of blame when not. And mythology, that aggrandized version of the past, our soul’s version of rose-colored glasses.

And so, we keep our Gods, our Devils, our myths. To hope, to blame, to explain that for which there is no explanation.

Listening to my father’s books that whisper in the dark, I tell my tales, more truth than poetry, and aspire to myth. And until I have discovered something to replace these, with truths that assuage the human heart, my stories will remain nothing more, and nothing less.

For this is the artist’s unbearable task.

The assault came early as it did every morning, the crows and seagulls dropping mussels and clams on the roof of the van. Vashon had laid waiting for the first salvo as Anacortes slept, breathing lightly, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem. This amazed Vashon, although he enjoyed the chance to admire her as she lay beside him. The sound of the dropping shells, along with the screeches and cries, no longer grated on his ears, and sounded more and more to him as a herald, that a new day was upon them, yet another chance at redemption. He realized he would miss them if the incessant tricksters ceased to molest him.

He looked up from the floor through the windows at the sky that had been blue for the past week. The perpetual gloom, that heavy sense of guilt had blown out and away with welcome wind of change hurled from the very slopes of the Olympics which, or so he was told, had not ever been visible from that sad and fateful vantage.

The same wind, and feeling of change, had reminded Vashon that it was near time. Time to get back to his road, his journey, his endless summer. Then he looked back at his mermaid, his treasure from his beloved the sea, and a feeling came over him, one he was unaccustomed to, that felt at once terrible and wonderful, that he would soon have to say goodbye. But not yet.

Not just yet.

He touched her cheek, soft and full, her beautiful slanted eyes peeking open, a sleepy smile spread warmly across her face, as if still in the memory of a pleasant dream.

“Hey,” he said, more breath than voice

“Hey,” she echoed, turning her face to him, begging a kiss, which he was happy to supply.

“You better get home, girl, before your father knows your gone, or he will have my hide,” he said. Anacortes sat up quickly, the covers falling down around her.

“Yours?” she said, now wide awake “Mine!” she rummaged for her elk skin and, while Vashon got to his knees and slid open the side door, pulled them on hastily and leaped out into the cool morning salt air. She started away then, turning back, wrapped her arm around his waiting neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. Vashon watched in wonder as she scampered off toward the Banshee, hair tossing wildly from side to side, her bare feet barely touching the ground.

This had been their routine for several days. Thus far, his skin had remained intact. When she was out of sight, Vashon looked out across the beckoning Salish sea toward Tschakolecy Island and thought of Alki, and his plan to visit him before he left. Yet another task for later. For then, he instinctually reached for his cooler, then, remember with no small regret he was out of beer, had been for a long while, reached for his suit.

Vashon had taken up the pastime of exploring the hull of the old pirate ship sunken off the end of the Great Wall, which Vashon had come to know it as, since it sealed off Mukilteo from the rest of the world to the south. He wondered why people did not flock to this place, once obscured by clouds, now seemingly exposed to the masses.

He had added this to his list of questions he had wanted to put before Issaquah if he ever saw her again. She had not shown her face since that day; no one spoke of her, though all wondered in murmurs of her mood, and her scheme.

Anacortes would often meet him there and explore with him. She knew the ghost ship well, having played there as a child, it had become her treehouse, and she knew every corner, every hold. She told Vashon of how she would still go there to be alone, to reminisce of lost family. She kept her things there, tokens of a mermaid’s life. She showed Vashon many items she had found there and, with her help and permission, Vashon brought back artifacts daily from the ship: Belongings, mementos, to the ever-waiting hands of the surviving crew, who held them in high esteem, beginning to wait by the shore for their return each day. They were more than grateful for these efforts, at times quite speechless, in fact beyond words, at the memories they restored, and the occurrence of the strange secretion their eyes produced. For pirates (as everyone knows), never cry.

On one occasion, after returning with a game bag full of treasures, the crew was going through the items, spilled out on the rocks, and came upon a necklace of teeth or claws, with a large red stone, possibly a ruby, of great beauty, which none would touch. Vashon inquired as to the owner. They all answered, in unison, “Bryn Mawr”.

She had never attended these scavenging parties and never asked about the findings. Vashon took the necklace and set off to find her, which he did, on the north beach, staring up at the sky.

They had spoken little. Yet no one had ever claimed they did not know what she wanted or what she meant. Though she spoke few words, what little she did say conveyed her intent precisely.

Vashon approached her slowly and then stopped and waited, respecting her solitude, to be acknowledged. He knew she was aware of his presence; she seemed to be finishing a thought, or a prayer. She turned then and looked at him, and what he saw surprised Vashon. For there, on her cheek, an errant tear worked its way down her cheek. It was thick, seemingly in no hurry to abandon her handsome face. Vashon thought of atrophied dormant tear ducts, then forced to service by some long-hidden emotion.

Yet there was more, something he had never in their short time together noticed or expected, a vulnerability perhaps, no weakness, simply an opening of an aspect she kept at all times tightly shut. And she allowed Vashon to see this, no, she displayed it to him for her own purpose. And once acknowledged by he, the door as quickly shut, the tear brushed away with the flick of a leopards paw, then she turned fully to him. Vashon took the last few steps closing the distance between them.

Suddenly he was at a loss for words, quite unlike him. Instead, he looked down at the necklace and, holding it up for her to see, offered it to her. He realized of a sudden he had not thought out what her reaction might be, for he could have no possible idea, had not thought to ask, what it was, or what it meant to her.

Bryn Mawr looked at the gift for a moment then, taking it from him, put it over her head and around her neck, as if she had worn it only the night before, and having taken it off to sleep, replaced it, as her clothes.

It had not touched her skin in more than three hundred years. Then she looked back toward the sky. What was she thinking, thought Vashon, what might be going on inside her mystery? She felt his thoughts.

“The sun,” she said, “On my face. It has been…”

Her voice trailed off, her wonder obvious. Vashon could only imagine. Words came to him then, something he had been meaning to say.

“I need to make a trip across to Tschakolecy before I leave. Was hoping you might come along.”

“What is your business there?” she asked.

“There is someone I would like to visit. And he is most anxious to meet you.”

Bryn Mawr looked at him, her eyes squinted, a question danced there though she would not ask, patience the mark of the near immortal.

“We leave at first light.”

Vashon was well accustomed to the rigors of the morning. A trek across uneven rock and sand carrying perhaps eighty pounds of steel tank and lead weight belt were his daily habit. Then a swim to deep water, an hour below, then the return trip. One was always heavier, or so it seemed, after a dive, there is little gravity below, though it awaits most pernicious on the surface. This, all this was what it was for him.

And then there was the prospect of rowing the eight miles to Tschakolecy Island he and Bryn Mawr had barely survived once before. He reminded himself it was his idea, stretched his arms and back, and marched to the boat landing. When he got there a pleasant reprieve awaited. For there, a small group had already moved the whaleboat to the water’s edge and were waiting, holding the hemp securing the bow. Marion and Seneca were there, as were two more from Redmond’s crew, eyeing him as he approached with eager faces. Bryn Mawr stood in her patent stance, spear in hand, long blade hanging from her wide leather belt, as though she had guarded the boat all night. She noticed the question immediately in his eyes as he looked at her.

“They will not let us go alone, or labor the oars.”

Vashon was relieved, though dubious, as his project required a note of privacy. She must have read this as well

“They will stay with the boat. Beyond that, we travel alone.”

“How convenient,” said Vashon.

“Not really. We have seen you row,” she said. Vashon searched for the humor in her look, and her crews, a shared laugh perhaps. It was not to be.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he murmured under his breath as he climbed in and chose a bench, anticipating a long and quiet trip, as he had never known these people much for conversation, except amongst themselves. They had, for the most of his tenure in Mukilteo, left him well alone, not sure how they were supposed to be among the strangers. Yet they had seemed to warm up to him, since the conflict, and arguable victory over the witch who they respected and feared. Even Redmond’s men, minus the overbearing presence of the ogre, were jovial and even respectfully friendly, although he would forever remain a mystery to them.

Vashon was used to this and understood. As his lifestyle of constant motion allowed little time for ‘getting to know you’, it was his way, his personality, to talk to people as if he had known them forever. This, at first, caught the pirates unawares, and they were unsure how to react. But, as Vashon’s vibrant energy was contagious and quite unavoidable, they all, save Bryn Mawr, who remained watchful and aloof, became more and more animated, even joining in conversation and making inquiries as to the world at large, of which they knew little or nothing.

They listened in awe as Vashon answered and explained, adding items of relevance to pertinent notes to their hungry ears. He had become a teacher of sorts, and they, his students in a new world, which these time travelers were destined to explore.

Anacortes swam circles around the boat, and would then speed ahead and disappear, only to appear suddenly, breaching the surface, slapping her tail loudly.

When they got close enough to the island to see the tree line, there was smoke coming from a fire at the same point as that where the sorcerer had been conducting the war dance that had summoned and incited the blackfish. Bryn Mawr’s eyes scoured the horizon for sign of malice, though none appeared. Vashon directed them to land directly on that sight. They all looked to their captain, Bryn Mawr, who responded with a single nod, and it was done.

When they neared the shore, Vashon leaned over the side where Anacortes waited. She reached up and, threatening to pull him in, kissed him instead.

“You wait here, Ana,” he told her “We won’t be long.”

Vashon and Bryn Mawr approached the old man who sat beside the fire. He had a stick and was manipulating several crustaceans, oysters, muscles, and a Dungeness crab on the flat rocks closest to the heat. Vashon recognized the man and spoke when they were near. He seemed unaffected by their presence, almost as though he were awaiting them, which became suddenly evident as he looked up, a smile on his thoughtful face.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Sorry. Can’t seem to find any good oarsman,” said Vashon, eyeing Bryn Mawr. There was a hint of humor in her look; a shard calved from the glacier.

There was, for an instant only, a moment in which Vashon was struck by the incongruity of the moment, for he had never met this man in the flesh, and the two instances in which he had encountered him were both abstractions of reason. A near-death experience, an out-of-body experience, both shamanic inspired, he concluded, and now having met the man, expecting them as he was, both tests from some cosmic playbook he had not been given to for study.

Being accustomed to the avant-garde Vashon would not labor the point, rolling instead with the moment, as if it were just another walk on the beach. This ability to embrace the short version had, in their short time together, impressed Bryn Mawr, and allowed her, at first, to suffer his presence.

It would come to endear her to the man.

“Please, sit, I am famished,” said Alki. “Oh, Vashon, do an old man a favor and fetch some rosemary from just down the beach. There is a bush not half a mile south, near a stand of cedars. You can’t miss it.”

Bryn Mawr sat down, laying her spear behind her and unsheathe her long blade, sat it in the sand before her. Vashon saluted his compliance and started off down the beach.

Really? Getting me out of the way? For what? Images of Alki making his move on the woman produced a series of chuckles. In retrospect he appreciated the reprieve. He hadn’t realized until he was sent away how much he had been dreading all of the possible ways his impromptu outing might go awry. Would Alki be there, or even a real person? Friend or foe? Sorcery, magic, the supernatural were all becoming daily events in his life.

He had no issue with this, accepted it readily, though they had been, at best, unpredictable, oft times downright dangerous. He was used to danger, the road less traveled, though he also enjoyed a modicum of what might be considered control of his destiny (though he was well aware this was the ego talking). Adding magic did not help the survivability equation; it would be not unlike using a Ouija board for a road map.

Vashon picked up a small piece of light wood, cedar, he smelled it as he walked on, allowing his mind to consider what he knew, and what he didn’t, and where today and tomorrow might lead him. Then he came back to a hard reality he had been avoiding again: Time to rejoin the road already in progress, time to say goodbye to his mermaid, to his Anacortes. What would he say? “I’ll be back”? He had not used that phrase in a thousand years. There were many clouds on his horizon. This one seemed to bode darker than the rest.

And then there was Issaquah.

An hour had passed when Vashon wandered back to the fire, and the two waiting there. He fought off a sense of foreboding about what had transpired as it was out of his control and therefore not worth a worry. The two were silent, both staring at the fire as though not a single word had passed between them.

Vashon handed Alki the piece of wood.

“What is this?” he asked.

“The cedar you asked for.”

“I asked for rosemary.”

“Damn. My bad.”

“No bother,” the old man said with a smile “It is all settled.”

“Settled?” said Vashon.

“The woman will accompany you.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on leaving her here with you.”

Bryn Mawr stood, picked up long knife and, sheathing it bent for her spear.

“I am going with you, Vashon. We leave Mukilteo together.”

Vashon was left dumb. How on earth did these two come to that conclusion?

“Should I have a say in this decision?” he asked, more rhetoric than not. The old man laughed.

“When you can tell the difference between rosemary and cedar, I will ask your opinion.”

Vashon noted the finality in his voice and decided the argument would be a waste of time. Besides, they had eaten all the shellfish and he was getting hungry. Alki walked to him and, putting a hand on his shoulder, looked at him with a serious eye.

“You have a long path ahead, my young friend. Many chores. It is most important you stay alive. This woman will be a good companion. She will, how do you say, ‘have your back.’”

“I think I’ve got the staying alive thing down pretty tight,” said Vashon, contemplating an extended road-trip with a spear-carrying, knife-wielding female who didn’t particularly care for him and has the conversational skills of a marble statue.

“I do not share your optimism. She goes where you go. I will visit you from time to time. In your dreams, of course. Try not to go to sleep drunk every night. I can’t understand a word when you mumble, and you won’t remember our little…chats.”

Vashon realized there would be no arguing with the man. And any further explanation would be as vague as all that had transpired thus far.

And so he put his hand out to shake his in parting. Alki pushed it aside and wrapped his arms around Vashon, giving him a tight bear hug. He smelt of pine and smoke, Vashon observed, but what happened next stayed in his mind the whole way back. Alki moved his face up beside his and said something in his ear. Vashon tried to listen, to understand, but it was but a whisper, and in a language, he did not understand. Then Alki released him and turned with no further ado and walked back to the tree line and disappeared into the darkness beyond.

It was late afternoon when they returned to Mukilteo. Sumner was waiting for them on the beach.

“Mister Vashon,” he called out, “If I might have a moment.”

Anacortes walked out of the light surf and picked up her clothes she had left in a pile as the others pulled the whaleboat up onto the beach and secured it Vashon walked to where he waited, as Bryn Mawr followed. He felt her behind him. This will take some getting used to, he mused.

“Sumner,” he said in the way of greeting. He had never, since the first, been a great fan of the man. Not that he had done anything Vashon might put his finger on as a specific incident. There was something decidedly malevolent about the man, though he seemed innocuous enough, almost pleasant at times. Perhaps it was no more than his position as lapdog to a witch that caused Vashon to distrust him. His sunken eyes, his perpetually downturned mouth and bony cheeks created an unendearingly cadaverous effect that did not help his case. This one could quite possibly ignore, were he not the constant devil’s advocate, which brought him to his current business.

“It’s my lady, good sir. She is,” he paused, “not herself. I am concerned,” peering intently at Vashon, who was bothered suddenly and made no bones about it.

“Been a long day, Sumner. Need to go see what Whidbey’s got to offer.”

Sumner fidgeted, his face now quite severe. A commanding air came over the man, quite unlike his usual cringing self.

“I do understand, sir. But you know how she is,” he said, glancing toward her cabin as if to see if she was listening “when she is out of sorts. You must understand”

Vashon displayed his irritation by scratching the back of his head and wrinkling up his nose. He turned to Bryn Mawr

“I better go see what she wants. Catch up with you at the Banshee.”

“I come with you,” she said.

“Damn,” he said, “Alright Sumner, lead on.”

The three walked away as Anacortes stood watching. She did not go near the witch’s cabin, nor pass words with Sumner who, at times, still attempted flattery. These were bad people to her, and she wouldn’t pretend any different.

When they reached the cabin door, Vashon turned to Bryn Mawr.

“Wait here,” he said.

“We should remain together,” she said.

“I need to be alone with her. I promise to scream if she tries anything.”

“You wouldn’t have the chance,” she said, “I will wait here.”

Vashon nodded, in no mood to argue.

“You, too, Sumner,” he said.

Sumner watched Vashon as he pushed the door open, Vashon walked in wearily. As the door closed behind him, he was immediately assaulted with a barrage of sensory anomalies that tested his reason. He found himself in what appeared, in the meager light, a large tent. His eyes were drawn first to the only source of light, which was the entrance, which flapped in the dry wind he now felt on his face and arms.

The light that bled in from the gash coincided with the blasts of air, at times hard to breathe, so hot and arid it was. Mingled with the sound of the wind and rustling of dark fabric Vashon heard somewhere outside the sound of animals, camels, horses he assumed; confirmed by a strong scent of horse sweat and camel piss, that brought back memories of his the Red Sea, and his days and nights among the Bedouin tribes.

As Vashon’s eyes grew accustomed, he saw in one corner a small low table, a washbasin and a pitcher there; perhaps with water, some towels heaped nearby. Thick fur as carpets strewn about on the sand floor, they seemed to invite him to lie down, to rest, to sleep. Adding to this feeling of fatigue was a sense that he knew this place, that it might even have been, at some point, his home. The lulling sense grew, his body became heavy, beyond his ability to stay afoot, he laid down on the soft warm fur, the rich aroma of mesmerizing incense, sandalwood and frankincense, so comfortable.

He would close his eyes, just for a moment, and rest, no more than a few minutes, there were things to do, people were waiting, concerned about him. But not then, not just then. Close your eyes, he thought, there is time.

Then Vashon, in his drowse, heard a voice, not loud or soft, male nor female. And he had a conversation with the voice, and the words were as an echo, for had he not heard them a thousand times before?

“Where is your brother?” said the voice. And he said, “I do not know: am I my brother’s keeper?” The voice continued, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the soil.” Vashon knew these words the God of Abraham spoke to Cain.

Yet now he would not pay heed; would lay on his soft bed, his mind at peace, his heart sublime. All was a right, for the time being at least, for the wheel turns, and now at the top in soon at the bottom. Enjoy the moment, he thought, do not think toward the next battle, for evident it will be soon enough.

He felt his chest rise and fall; smelled the incense and listened to the lazing beasts outside.

Then he felt her at his side.

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