The Naked Bull
Four

And the sky asked the sea

“What have you done with our ship of proud fools?”

And the sea answered

“The ship? Here in my keep,” she sighed.

“The fools? There in your hall, teasing me with their noise.”

The sky sent a wind to calm her

“Patience, my love. For they will one day return.”

The better part of history has eluded the reed and papyrus. Self-serving despots have decimated much of what has been written for you and I to glean some pattern of our past, with which to plot our course ahead. Mukilteo did exist; had existed for centuries, though you will find no recorded history. Only the bones of those who lived and died there, and the relics in which they spent their days.

Yet the sea and sky forget nothing; the Akashic tongue they share tells us of The Hall of Banshees, where the fates of all touched the merciless tarot.

Given the name for its earliest proprietrix, (or so whisper the waves), Lady Laurelhurst. A brawling leather-clad woman known to be away with the fairies before noon most days; the Devil thereafter. She wore her thick main in a single long red braid with a tufted end that was said to sweep the floors clean as she walked the hall and a deep-throated belly laugh that shook the heavy beams above her. She had the Banshee’s habit of growing gloomy and tearful to the point of howling whenever death was at the door.

(I mention this merely in passing, to render homage not so much to an original matriarch of Mukilteo, but to her obstinate ghost which was said to possess all who took up her bar towel, their off moods more often than not portending some poor bastards imminent peril.)

The Banshee itself, a longhouse of sorts (or potlach house in the native tongue), was situated at the midriff of Mukilteo’s tight-fitting waterfront. A stout two-story structure, reminiscent of Hrothgar’s great mead-hall ‘Heorot’ in Beowulf’s epic, where the hunters, trappers, opportunists ad nauseam of the Salish would gather to eat, plot the minute details of future misadventure, and spew extravagant exaggeration fueled by brine, an intoxicating beverage made of fermented kelp.

Oral history at best, the references meager and unverifiable. The past as seen through a ghost’s rose-colored glasses. Then they came, by fate or intent, with the impact of a mountain-sized meteor descended on the Yucatan peninsula.

And other issues: The elusive mermaid, (yet untouched by pelvic claspers, no less), was but a jest, a jocular salutation, (e.g., “Best be getting this merfest o’er the waves, ay?”)

And yet, the chore remained the task at hand.

And were they reminded, time and again, in ways that spanned subtle to humiliating, of their onus?

Attend.

On this random night, our enduring host Sumner sat across from the puss faced Shiatoru a bit too close to the ravenous crowd for coincidence. The Japanese expatriate lounged, knees akimbo, arrogantly sipping his brine.

The old man enjoyed the animated hypocrisy of the conversation from a vantage beneath his well-spindled hat, nibbling at his Meerschaum pipe, struggling valiantly to maintain some semblance of seriosity. And did he not play the sad old soul to a tee? Feigning perpetual anxiety, an ax waiting for the ax to fall, his form was diminutive, in fact, wraith-like. (Though had he not carried himself hunched over in an introverted bundle he might have achieved a worthy height.) Fretting to himself constantly as he walked, shuffling his feet in short jerks as if scraping dog shit off one’s boot were actually a thing. His face ever downcast, his eyes fixed on some unknown but undoubtedly fateful destination. One might suggest the man was never indeed here, nor entirely there.

But that is, of course, the Devil’s favorite trick.

Is it not?

Sudden eruptions of obscenities and brawling: The white noise of the drunken huntsman served well to drown out the bombastic silence of Shiatoru, to Sumner but a worm in a nutshell who considered himself the cock of all he surveyed. What fools these mortals be! He savored with another puff. (And, to be honest, what could possibly be more tragically entertaining, more exquisitely scrumptious, than a worm drowning in a puddle of his own blood?)

Sumner delighted in the thought.

At length, the dike of silence could hold back the verbal deluge no longer, and Shiatoru, having used up his crop of cultivated facial expressions much too early in the evening, crested the bank with a bothered sigh.

“Let us speak then of ships and mermaids.”

Sumner suffered the flatulence with an air of pity, which the other unwittingly mistook for fear. He spoke for the violent tribe, all were quite aware, wanting none of their once prisoners, Shiatoru the mouthpiece, nor their resident hermit, the dark and nameless woman who had become, over the untold years, quite the recluse. He was an ass, a pariah who one or all would have gladly strapped to a pier with knotty hemp at low tide only to watch him drown, slowly.

Yet Sumner chose his words with measure and patience, knowing the Lady yet had use for his tongue.

“The crew is painfully aware of their tasks. The mermaid, however, remains elusive,” he said.

He spoke as if casting his diviner’s bones to clatter on the table before them that the idiot at the far end might grasp for himself the meaning. And as the words did rattle and hum between Shiatoru’s smallish ears, Sumner puffed and puffed again, allowing the dullard to catch his drift.

“Then this is where you and your peasants stand?” he said finally, irritated as he fluffed his long black hair, which could not decide if it were gray or black. His eyebrows pursed as he considered physical violence, then shook it off, for the moment.

“My good sir,” Sumner cleared his throat, “that your issue is of grave importance you have made apparent yet again. Your very presence commands respect, and my ears attend to your every word,” then quickly washed the flattering bilge from his mouth with a long pull, the wet end of his pipe wore bite marks. He enjoyed his smoke, his pit of burnt orange mushroom coals undying smolder. He reminisced of naked pagan dancers, undulating by the light of the new moon.

Shiatoru sat twitching impatiently in his dark attire, eighteenth-century Silk Road chic, as his knuckled fingers gripped the armrests of his seat he considered the sycophant’s tongue work.

“Your constant boot licking, my good man,” he scruffed his meager chin, “is no more than hand sex to buy time which I am not selling” he drank, the effect of his libation rearing its salty noggin.

“There is no shortage of time in Mukilteo,” reminded the old man.

“True,” he winced, “patience, on the other hand, is another issue.”

(Pause for effect)

“However, be that as it may, my good man, your service to our lady, as well as your miscreants, is at least worthy, that is, according to her, anyway. And as much as I detest such frivolous banter, she has demanded I have patience.”

Sumner smiled at the sad use of mock détente.

“She truly is the crux of the biscuit, is she not?”

His clever eyes never blinked, which left the latter with a feeling of unease. He could never decide if he was being made sport of and would gladly end the old goat’s days due to nothing more than the lack of etiquette he showed in his references to her. He refused to share his Mistress’s attention with anyone, much less this codger.

Sumner drew deep, exhaled slow, tar staining his beard at the corners of his mouth. Seeking some gesture of goodwill (as well as a possible out to the silliness) he reached across to the others stein, lifted it and sloshed hollow, a sign of need, and another was delivered again.

And again, from his purse.

A young girl circled them solemnly, her eyes averted out of fear, sans respect, in utter silence. She smacked of an oriental taste, not unlike Shiatoru; her hair was polished obsidian, replete with veins of umber, her eyes slanted emeralds. Shiatoru glanced across the room with an indignant huff, refusing to acknowledge the peon. Sumner’s charity was tainted with an exaggerated enchantment.

“Thank you, Anacortes,” he offered, “My, but you are looking lovely this evening,” he said, something more than courtesy, bordering quizzical, in his attention. He reached out and touched her small hand as she reached for the vessel shifting his prying face in front of hers in an attempt at eye contact, inhaling her essence.

The girl shuddered ever so slightly, bent slightly at the knees, and nodded her head once, then vanished with her tray.

Shiatoru leaned forward, of a sudden, reaching across the dead zone between the two and backhanded Sumner most painfully across the face, the violence of which drew the attention of the room.

“Oh, stop masturbating over that whore will you! Your constant drooling disgusts me,” he bellowed. Sumner’s wily grin faded to a rusty grimace, and there it was again, that patient malice as the clown’s face slipped, if but for an instant, then just as quickly reappeared.

“Yes, indeed. Well, sire,” he glanced about the room with a look allowing all was well, wiped the mischief away, then reciprocated, “All that I suggest is that the subject might be weighed for its relevance,” he said, allowing his plea to reverberate in the air between them. Shiatoru clenched his jaws.

“And I say you protest too much!” he bawled.

Sumner grinned as he picked at his facial hair, one of his patent and well-learned acts. There was one particularly long nostril hair he had been attempting to eradicate all evening for no other reason than to irritate the bastard, enjoying to no end as his constant toying drove him to near madness.

Shiatoru was near his breaking point, a state he forever bordered upon.

“Then, this is where you and your peasants stand?” Irritated, his eyebrows twitched as he considered more physical violence, then shook it off yet again.

“Well then, I must advise the Lady of our little impasse. No such thing as luck in Mukilteo this night, would you not agree, my old friend?” he said, his mocking tone more proof still of treachery. He decided quite of a sudden that he was fatigued and, having business quite early, suggested it time to come to terms and retire.

“But my dear Lord Shiatoru,” Sumner complained, never tiring of the façade, “The moon is still in the sky, the fledglings are not yet done with their dance. Surely you are not that old and tired.”

Shiatoru raised and pointed his inquisitor’s gnarled finger.

“Our Lady will not be denied, do you hear?” His voice booming across the room.

No more whispers.

“A mermaid, damn you! A bajin,” he yelled. The hall ground to a halt, irritated at the petulant frenzy, “All of you! Or you will rot here with no ship while I drink brine from your empty skulls!”

Sumner indulged the man, forever the cat-faced spider.

“If such exists, then you will have your mermaid, she will have her virgin, and in good time, my Lord. We would not risk the pleasure of our evenings together on such a pittance.”

Shiatoru smiled with his mouth but not his eyes as he cast a vicious glance across the room that landed finally on Sumner, then stormed off into the night, shaking off the multitude of daggers in his back.

Sumner sat back in his chair, puffing away in deep thought. Then, abandoning at length the anonymity of the corner, he made way through the lot to the bar, feeling eyes upon which he met, each to his own, with a reassuring glance. These were his souls, come hell or high water, the Banshee was no place for the furrowed brow. He discovered a most convenient vacant stool and so perched himself there while considering his situation.

Behind the bar, Anacortes filled salt-crusted flagons with brew as the barkeep Whidbey tended to his slack-jawed audience, serving up self-medication. He approached the man in silence. Sumner looked at the skin of Whidbey’s stocky forearms, thick white hair hiding no tattoo’s, no bands on his wrists, no rings on his stout fingers. A deep, but simple man, thought Sumner.

“Tell me, good Whidbey, I have heard tell you are a man of the world,” he said. Whidbey wiped at the bar with a damp and dirty towel. He looked toward Anacortes, who was picking up a large platter of sausages and drinks. He whispered something to her as she passed the doctor could not hear. The girl seemed warmed by it and produced a flicker of a smile that disappeared instantly when she noticed Sumner’s gaze.

When Whidbey turned back, Sumner was again faced with the white hair of his chest, where a cross might find a home. And yet there was none, his shirt open by two or three buttons. Sumner was humored, considering the man’s beliefs. He was indeed an oddity, even in Mukilteo.

“I’ve made me rounds,” said Whidbey

“Are you Jew or Gentile?” asked Sumner, a twist played on his lips.

“Barman, by your leave. Kinda like a Pastor in the trenches. I serve all faiths alike.”

Sumner enjoyed this.

“If that be so, serve me now. Where might I find a mermaid, one that has not yet been fileted?”

“You askin’ me?”

“I would ask your ambivalent God himself for the pittance of a hint” Sumner eyed Whidbey “But then, you haven’t been so long in our company. Could it be you do not believe that such exist?”

Whidbey refilled another’s stein and returned.

“Can’t say as I’ve ever seen one meself, guv’nor. Then again, I’ve never seen one of these bigfeet’s wander about these parts neither. Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, the Lady fancies one, yes?”

“Well said. Do go on.”

“Well, friend, I was jus’ thinkin’ it may not be a mermaid you should be lookin’ for.”

Sumner was taken aback. “Don’t be naïve, man. We need to supply our Lady with a virgin mermaid or there will be…hell to pay, to coin a phrase,” he said as he spindled his hat for effect, trying to appear concerned.

“Well,” continued Whidbey, “what I meant to say was, I once knew of a great mermaid hunter in Spain.”

“A mermaid hunter? In Spain? The hell you say.”

“That be his moniker. He and his crew that is. It seemed a bit odd to me at the time as well. I only saw them during Fiesta, Sanfermines it was, and I could fill ten lifetimes retelling the tales I heard there.”

Sumner pondered this. Bring an outsider here to Mukilteo? The crew would no doubt consider this a boot to the balls, would they not? How long could such hope to exist, tossed to these crocodiles?

“Don’t be ridiculous, my good man. The poor bastard wouldn’t last a fortnight.”

“True enough. But this lad is not your average man.”

Sumner turned to the room and addressed the crowd.

“Huntsmen, attend!” he called out to them. The voices dimmed as the drunken faces turned, “Are you off over the waves on the morrow?”

The gathering, indulged as they were is pastimes, each to his own, turned just then as one, none the friendly lot by any definition. Whidbey considered the wisdom of the disturbance. Sumner acted without care and expected some retort.

One stood, Bryn Mawr: A tall, dark-skinned woman, her black dreadlocks held fast behind her head, exposing large eyes and still larger ivory mouth. Her ebony skin shined like the night rippling on a moonless sea. She spoke for the men for she never allowed the brine to dull her senses, which were forever on the alert. Twice the man of any present and, for the most part, acknowledged as such.

They respected her, for she could hold her own amongst the best and had proved it on many an occasion. She had a wide stance; her well-muscled body seemed ever ready for combat. She spoke in a deep strong voice; her words did not need repeating.

“We are not children to be sent to sleep while the elders discuss our fates,” she said. There were nods all around.

Anacortes stood close behind Whidbey. He felt her trembling and knew this heated talk frightened her. He reached behind and took her hand. She calmed at his touch.

“My good Bryn Mawr,” he began, “To suggest that fool and I share a bed paints a picture that a barrel of brine could not wash away.”

The room exploded in laughter; the kind that eased the tensions felt only a moment before. Sumner seized the opportunity to tread the momentary calm.

“I have a proposal for you to consider. Our good barman Whidbey here was reciting just now a tale of a sea hunter he knew in Spain,” he said and allowed time to digest “Perhaps we might invite him to assist in our campaign.”

This brought no small mutterings.

“Hunter, you say?” inquired Bryn Mawr “What sort of hunter?”

Time to roll the bones once again thought Sumner. The words became stuck in his throat, taking two more puffs to dislodge.

“A mermaid hunter; a great mermaid hunter, if the tale be true,” he looked at the faces, at their mute disbelief of what they were hearing. An ear-shattering din of laughter erupted at the obvious joke. Bryn Mawr appeared as if she, they all, were being made sport of. This did not sit well. Before she could protest, Redmond stood then, barely able to get his sea legs beneath him, from his own table amongst his own. Drunk and loud he gave his measure.

“A witch and her pimp, and, oh, do forgive, our Cold Ethyl here,” he waved his mug toward Bryn Mawr, “And now you want to bring us a real live mermaid hunter, eh?” he swayed dangerously twixt port and starboard as his men cheered him on, then added “Send us your man, will ya’ then? We still have a few pilings left beneath the pier,” he finished, falling back to his seat as his pack of dogs toasted his drunken oration.

Bryn Mawr sat as well, enough said, though she never took her skeptical eyes off the old man who had only recently suggested such nonsense. Sumner turned back to Whidbey.

“You know as well as anyone it is forbidden to leave Mukilteo. One of the requirements you signed to with your own blood when you were granted sanctuary.”

“None of my never mind, guv’nor, but you yourself have been allowed, or so says the wind, when your lady, or her man, are in need of someone or something.”

Sumner raised a finger to his lips.

“Where did you hear such nonsense?”

“There are no secrets in the mead hall. Especially if you are the barman,” he grinned “If the stakes are as high as they appear to be, your lady might jump at the idea.”

“Our lady, good friend,” he corrected. “We all bask in her happiness. Or quiver in her wrath,” observing the other’s reaction.

Sumner thought then. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Be that as it may, on the off chance she was to make an exception and allow someone to travel beyond the border of our land, might I inquire as to the whereabouts of this great mermaid hunter?”

Whidbey thought for a moment. He had a stake of his own in this; the success or failure may well depend on his next well-chosen words.

“Well, friend, if he is still a creature of habit, and still alive, you might just find him at the Fiesta De San Fermin.”

Sumner found himself intrigued, “And just where might this fiesta take place?”

Whidbey felt the hook set.

“Pamplona, Guv’nor. Spain, early July.”

Sumner nibbled his pipe as he pondered.

The Messenger?

The barman’s tale was but the slightest wisp of smoke from a pinched candlewick. And yet, more than he had had but a moment before.

“What did you say this great mermaid hunter’s name was?”

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