The Naked Bull
Three

Oh, dear reader! Might you not follow the Shaman’s watering eye?

For at the southernmost border of the land of Mukilteo, the magnificent wall loomed, its very foundation rising from the bowels of the Earth. An impossible structure, its pilings hewed from mammoth trees that could never have existed in this world. It had stood since before time; none save the ghosts of its creator could begin to imagine it how or why.

It was said that at high noon on a clear day, one could see no light from the far side, so wide was the ceiling of the edifice. The relic extended far into the Salish sea, worshipped and feared by the original peoples for centuries. It was forbidden since time immemorial to enter inside its columns, for it was believed a demon dwelt there known as the Summoner who puffed a constant pipe, the smoke on a calm day espied wafting from the depths of the maze.

As the legend spoke, he had fallen from grace with the Great Spirit and sought a worthy emissary to carry his pleas of forgiveness above.

Then came the white-skinned animal, and the Summoner, tiring of the meager catch of his hermit’s existence, grew bold.

And might the reader not hear them now?

It was there amongst the soulless wretches, too deaf, dumb, and blind to fear a subtle wraith that the Summoner took up camp. Humored by the endless march of stinking humanity, foul of breath, rotten of foot he begged them come, each and every one an unwitting participant in his grand scheme. Oh, and did he not whisper in their hungry ears?

“Claim your sanctuary here at this most sacred of sand, (for you will rot on the ’morrow as the sandworm licks clean your bones…did I stutter?), he chuckled, as he promised sheltered land so well nestled between the swollen, dripping breasts of tree encrusted mountains. And oh, the taste! Sweet promises of gold and cunt, oh, but the mind does play tricks in the fog.

“Was that not a mermaid in the mist? Oh! That clever bitch! After her, I say!”

Oh, and let them come! Allow them passage to this sliver of beach, make it your home while you’re about it, this shock of sand, this sleeping crescent moon. And did the indigenous hear the cries of their father’s ghosts, as the tree-killing ogres built dwellings there and then moved on, only to be replaced by a new crop, same sound, different face, religion, language: one could seriously get lost in the clamor of fidgeting babel. The structures rebuilt time and again, to become an extension of Mukilteo itself, a part of the landscape.

The Summoner then watched as his minions abused his great altar, his massive home of old. There they moored their vessels and fished the many platforms, fucked their woman in the utter darkness, and hung their criminals from the pilings at low tide.

Yet beyond this, he was the Summoner and continued his vigil for a mortal to speak on his behalf, a go-between of sorts, to bridge the gulf between him and his Creator, the Great Sky Father.

The requirements for such an individual were, at the onset, quite simple: An honest soul, one who had acquired a lifetime of experience, who might understand his plight by way of their own difficult road. One who might stand before the almighty and do more than quiver. The strength of the soul then became a prerequisite.

As time went on, however, and the old man spent more time in the company of men, he added to the list, subsequently pushing his goal further away. The Summoner became a prisoner of his own requisites.

They came and went, a frenzy of humanity only to fade to years of silence. The old man smiled at these tides, twixt the din and the hush. For, while the examples of humanity he encountered existed solely for their own ends, beat their barrel chests and stomped their leather feet to their insignificant drums, he conducted his trials in secret, none the wiser.

For to truly grasp a man’s intent, one must remain unaware he is being judged, the verdict only then indisputable:

Anubis weighed the hearts of the oblivious.

And still, the impossible monument stood guarding the south, while a short distance to the north a ridge of cliffs nudged westward to meet the Salish Sea, forming a natural wall impassable except by water, completing the half-moon veiled in a timeless fog and eternal grey drizzle.

The sky cried.

And then another hush, as the world grew, preferring the populations far to the south, the logging camp of Duwamps growing into a city. For many years the Summoner and his Mukilteo sat alone, peering across the Salish toward Tschakolecy Island, save the ghosts and demons who roamed the quiet place, keeping him odd company. The cabins sat still; a boneyard of bleached whaleboats lay dormant, haunted by birds and rats, a daguerreotype of life whispered and forgotten.

And then they came.

And with what keen melodrama!

The dying crew of a dying ship: Corsairs and captives, separated from their armada, ravaged in a violent storm, driven far off their charts. Their vessel, which had been taking on water for weeks, was sinking fast with all crew above decks, as they had drifted with the currents to an inland sea where they came finally to gaze in awe at a mystery, the great wooden God itself.

Their broken and failing vessel carried them, as though drawn by the very mouth of Hades himself, to the foot of the behemoth and gasped its dying breath,

“I end here.”

The crew, seeing land a few hundred yards off, took to their longboats and rowed away, leaving their home in stunned silence, carrying only their rusting steel, their rotting garments, their threadbare souls.

They arrived at the shore, then turned as one, looking back, as the last fragments of the only life they had known disappeared beneath the unforgiving waves.

Then nothing. No storm, no captain, no Armada, no reason to raise a soggy boot.

Turn away.

Just turn away.

And then there was the curious monument, reminding them with a frosty finger in the ass.

“The gates of Hell have been sealed shut. And you are indeed on the wrong side.”

Starving and cold, some sick with fever or some other pestilence of the voyage. They surveyed their bleak circumstances. Though these were strong men and women, used to the hardships of the sea and the life of the outlaw, some cursed and kicked at the muddy sand, some even cried or mouthed prayers to heaven they had never had a taste for.

But even to the most devout atheist, when faced with the devil, the existence of God becomes a distinct possibility.

Some sought to blame, for when all is lost, there is always vengeance. They accused their captain of drunken negligence, but this was of no use; you cannot hang a dead man. They pointed to each other, calling each by names they knew by face and ass; had fought and died and fucked and cried to sleep, spitting obscenities, hurling accusations and threats until their mouths dried up with nothing to part their cracked lips.

And then the prisoners. And what of them? There were those that had questioned the purpose of bringing them aboard. A female of some looking, an oriental man and two oddlings, a man and woman perhaps, strange to the glance. Silent they were the lot. No time for quaint introductions just then you see. It seemed a storm upon them.

And what of the woman? A Witch, some whispered. The memory fails, did they not appear, oh, but yes: Captured indeed (for are we not Pirates?) It was her, they; brought this fate most egregious down upon us. The more they spoke, the more wood they piled on the pyre, the fire took and grew quickly the demon who summoned storm clouds as retribution for her mistreatment. She must burn! She will burn! And will we not eat their blackened flesh?

Oh, the taste does wet the blade of hunger!

Oh, yes, we took them before the storm. And did their quiet speak ill, silent dark evil bilge! And where might the demons be off to?

After them!

And then a frenzied search began in earnest, arguing the two could not possibly have gotten far, this one or that recalled tossing the two of them, arms bound, into the longboat. The others had jumped ship, seen bobbing in the water, then submerged and forgotten.

Ah! Their footsteps in the sand! The lynch mob fell over each other to follow, with evil intent, bloodlust, up to where the beach crested. And then they stopped, for they both were, not running or hiding, just standing, backs to the lynch mob, still as the salt pillar of Lot’s wife, peering into a fog bank which, when observed proper, revealed the dwellings that had stood silent for so very long.

The lot considered themselves fortunate for this, if nothing more, a respite from the rain that had bleached their skins deathly white. They fell about the floors of the cabins and slept the sleep of the fever dream, where they were taunted by demons until their screaming stomachs awakened them as one when they were compelled to search for anything to stem the growing hunger driven insanity.

As they stumbled about, half-dead zombies, ready to eat each other, some noticed a wisp of smoke coming from one of the dwellings they had not yet explored.

Looking toward the smoke, dreaming of the fire, teasing their tortured brains with the impossible dream of food, they fell upon the door as one, kicked it open and fell inside.

There, in a chair before a small fire, sat an old man, wrinkled face glowing orange as he gazed into the hot coals, smoke drizzling from a meerschaum pipe from which he tugged upon with furled lips. As he sat there in his patent frock coat and well-worn leather footings.

He did not seem to notice them, did not turn as they approached. The sheer oddity of the surreal scene gave the shivering crew pause. They watched in stunned amazement.

Then he spoke, his voice a balm to their parched ears

“Throw another log on the fire, would you be so kind? I’m afraid I have not tended it well.”

They glanced amongst themselves for bravery, for a superstitious tribe they were; their travels had taught them well to beware Greeks bearing gifts, the trial of the Witch was still in session. At length, a bosun’s mate, name of Seneca, urged forward by the others, plucked a small dry log from a pile beside the hearth, placed it on the coals. He turned and looked into the face of the man. He was indeed aged, though he seemed to have an air of compassion. Seneca looked back toward his people who raised their chins toward the woodpile, prompting him to place another, and then another log on the fire.

“That will do, for now,” said the old man “Your friends may enjoy my little fire as well. Each must choose for himself, of course.”

There seemed an ominous tenor to his hospitality, but none were about to question, as they moved slowly around the chair and the man, slowly raising their hands to be warmed, as they had not been in ages. Seneca seemed fascinated by the old man and his keen eyes, alight with mischievous youth. It was he who among them spoke first.

“Have you a name?” he asked, simply, to which the old man replied, “Many,” he grinned. “For now Sumner will suffice,” the old man replied. “Forgive me, you must be hungry. There is dry meat on the table, don’t be shy. Please, do help yourselves.”

They turned quick and beheld, beyond all hope, what appeared dried flesh of various creatures, and flew toward it en masse, falling upon the carrion as raptors of the desert, tearing swallowing unchewed mouthfuls. Their shriveled stomachs, unable to withstand the onslaught, regurgitated at first, then could not stand the insatiable onslaught; some doubling over to disgorge, regurgitate swollen guts violently on the floor, only to begin anew until not a scrap remained, the table licked clean.

Then, when the fog of starvation had at long last abated, they looked again toward the old man called Sumner and found there, sitting beside him, their witch. And behind her, the riddling man. They gazed into the fire, an old couple, in the silence of familiarity.

The old man spoke once more.

“Please, you must be tired. Go and rest, the lot of you. For there is much to be done,” Sumner did not turn as he spoke. And sure enough, of a sudden, a drowse descended over the crew, as silently they shuffled from the cabin, the riddles that had only just before harried their minds, now unimportant, as they returned, entranced, to the beckoning cabins, with their alluring floors, and fell fast asleep.

And indeed, there was much to do, for as they all realized they were not going anywhere soon, they would be calling this place home for the foreseeable future. The days passed with no count. Routine was established, and as with any autonomous collective, codes of conduct, rules, or laws were instated. The witch that all had sought to execute, burn, eat, remained in her mute darkness with her constant shadow, the Japanese Shiatoru. They kept to their side of the fire, while the old salt Sumner spoke for them, to the castaways.

And so it remained thus.

Yet as the world did turn, Mukilteo stood still. Time slowed by degrees and then ceased to exist; each day as the next, or the one before. Most felt the enchantment as a dream one could not quite catch, nor for sure, awake from.

It had been decided after many unfortunate encounters with an inquisitive world in transition, that Mukilteo enact a standing law of no contact with the outside world, enforced by a severe Queen and her henchman: No one enters, no one leaves, without explicit permission, under penalty of death. Those most proficient with the sword were posted as a guard at the one gated entrance, hidden through sorcery and nature, the marriage of the two became Mukilteo’s coat of arms.

Pandora’s jar was sealed.

A clan of odd folk, a witch’s brew of Chinese, Japanese, white Europeans, black Africans, held intact by a crude but effective matriarchy, a witch by any other name. For she gave no name, even Shiatoru knew it not. The native tribes of the region began to call her Issaquah, for the sound the birds made whenever she was about, for when she wandered the forests, the birds would cry, as if an owl were present.

Shiatoru considered her his consort, as he considered Sumner a useless derelict. The woman allowed this vanity, as she allowed the crew to consider her yet a prisoner. No one had ever witnessed so much as a touch between them, and since arriving on the sands of Mukilteo, no one had raised hand nor voice against her. Her presence seemed magnified by the place, her silent dialogue with Sumner obvious.

Secluded in isolation in a place outside of time, they busied themselves with the upkeep of the encampment, hunting sea and land for food, blacksmithing, and woodcraft for the manufacture and repair of their arsenal of weapons. The martial arts were a daily regimen as if readying for battle, for ignorance breeds fear, and knowing nothing of the outside world, believed the Huns forever at their gate.

The leaders rose by means of survival tactics: Strength and courage mere prerequisites; endurance and wile the cup of the day. As with packs of wild dogs, the leaders were acknowledged with growls and eyes, though ultimately all chose for themselves: Beggarman, thief, artist. And some just mean. And so, here a stalemate existed, prodding two groups to emerge, one led by a brawny Norseman called Redmond, strong of back, evil of heart. The other by a strong and silent African woman, Bryn Mawr. Their followers cast their fates with one or the other by heart and soul, for once decided, their lives lay forfeit.

Each day a crew from each philosophy would put to sea for what was to them a ritual: The quest for the chimera, the white whale, the unlikely dream of the virgin mermaid.

This custom, set in motion by their benefactor, a contest of sorts, since time immemorial, was carried out by the hunter-warriors with tongue in cheek, an air of diligent humor. For though they were never given reason for the oddity of the task, they found it to be a worthwhile endeavor, and the two leaders led their crews by example, in the tradition of Ahab himself.

To this end, their lives maintained purpose and structure to an existence that would seem otherwise gratuitous, if not untenable.

The voices of the clan reverberated within the hall each evening as their whaleboats lie secured and drying on the beach. The days work, the single-minded custom that binds them all to this place, the hunt for the mermaid, is done for another day. Much bounty had been brought in: Seal, otter, Ling Cod, Cabazon, mussels from the pilings of the Great Altar, large Dungeness crab from pots baited early each morning.

And so they tarried, unaware of the march of days, the turning of a thousand pages. For a spell had been cast, by devil or witch, over their eyes, to keep them from straying. Their world vanished, as sand through the fingers of a blind man.

Then, as if by divine intervention, the securing of the virgin mermaid was added to the criteria for becoming the Summoner’s messenger.

This, of course, meant little to the Huntsman.

The Shaman Alki had been walking for some time with his eyes cast down, deep in thought. Now he raised his face, having arrived at the landing by the sea, to find his fledglings had turned over his canoes and were now climbing atop them, using his oars as swords they cracked against each other.

The old Healer sighed as he shook his long white hair. It would be yet another long day.

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