The Naked Bull

As the monkish crows teased dead souls from the sand and Seagulls masturbated in plain view with feathered hands, Vashon pondered before the maze Bryn Mawr dubbed an altar. An odd description he mused, for he saw no Gods there, Pagan nor Christian, only wood and wrought iron spikes and the hollow silence of the grave. How many proud giants gave up the ghost so he could stand wondering, brooding and thirsty, humming an ode of Pink Floyd.

And what this now, no light from the far side? Yet another neat trick, as if this gargantuan barrier reef swallowed all that approached: a man, a bird, the very light of day.

Dismissing the aberration, he began inside the enchanted forest, and once past the first set of pilings was suddenly enamored by an ethereal glow illuminating the cathedral labyrinth.

Low tide soon: Earth and moon’s slow and clever dance. Many of the near pilings were exposed to the sand, thick rings of tragically black mussels hung at the high tide line. No sight of the Salish existed when viewed from the sand and rock of the shore, for although the vast pilings stood several meters apart, the sheer number, staggered as they were, created an impenetrable infinite regression. Vashon took but a passing interest at first; his mind on more personal details: The girl and their ill-fated tryst, Elliott and his burgeoning defiance; and indeed, Mukilteo itself. He had found himself increasingly disenchanted with the whole idea; another stint swinging a hammer at any run-of-the-mill Jobsite became ever more appealing.

This stray thought soon became a decision which he would suggest, no, insist, to Elliott would be the best course. He found himself suddenly relieved if not delighted in the damp basement of the Altar. If Elliott did not concur, he could find his way back to California and his life there. Yes, this was indeed the ticket. He had always fared better alone. No one to worry about, no one to debate his decisions.

Having come to this conclusion, he shook off the drudgery of the contemplation and turned his attention to the question of the origin and utility of the monumental dock.

It was ancient; of this, there was no question. In modern times it may have been useful to ocean liners or naval vessels, though he saw none in these waters. And there would have been none at the time of its creation. And the size of the pilings! At least four feet in diameter. And the length, figuring the were sunk at least as far below as above, must have been at near sixty feet. From what impossible trees were they hewn? Even at that point in history, he doubted if the equipment necessary to place such behemoths existed. And yet, here they stood.

As the tide grew scant, he moved closer to rows nearest the shore. Below what had been the waterline were thick clusters of mussels which were uniform accept were there seemed to be thick salt wearied robe wrapped around several times for no apparent reason. The waning tide exposed the floor of the man-made cavern, which by now had turned to crushed white shell and small worn pea gravel. Vashon worked his way out now ankle deep in the cold water, once again the young boy in his mother’s black and white polaroid’s, eager to explore beyond.

He was now three or four rows out approaching the piling closest to him. He had his head down, looking through the liquid salt at whatever was beneath the surface. He had always loved tide pools; he could gaze into their universe of life for hours. Poulsbo had recklessly disturbed his meditations wanting to know what he was looking at. He would point out an anemone spread open wide awaiting sustenance. His little brother would ask what would happen if he touched it. Nothing, the older brother, would lie, enticing him to do so. Poulsbo would stick his trusting finger in the center, and the creature would jerk instantly shut, scaring the bejesus out of him, causing Vashon to laugh, and Poulsbo to run back to mother and father screaming bloody murder. Shit. Looks like I’m in for it again.

At the base of that piling, he noticed white bits that didn’t look like shell. He reached his hand through the frigid water and picked up a few of these. Bones. These were pieces of bone, though he was unable to identify whether man or beast. He began to follow the piling slowly up to see two sets of what appeared to be the ribs jutting out from the clustering mussels. His eyes moved further. The rib cage became preceded the grimacing face of a skull. The hair on his arms stood out straight as he looked into the hollow eyes. Vashon then realized the reason for the rope. It had bound the poor wretch there until he was dead, perhaps drowned by the high tide.

Yet there was more. For the first time, he looked back in the direction he had come, towards shore and could now see the pilings from the opposite view. There he witnessed a grizzly view: On several were the skeletons of once human beings, hanging in various levels of disarray. Some had been there longer than others, as evidenced by the amount of encrustation. Many were only partial, skulls and other bones not secured by rope or mollusk lay in piles around the base of the hideous racks.

Then his eyes fell upon one poor soul that had no doubt died of recent, his grotesque features exaggerated by days of high tides and salt air. Native he was, still distinct, long black hair and strong of build. Prominent nose and cheekbones, black eyes still gazing fog under lids half-mast. He had once been a handsome man. Family, a wife? Might this indeed be Bryn Mawr’s lost oarsman?

Vashon stared in horror, attempting to make some sense out of his grim discovery. Who were they? Why had they been put to death in this fashion? What possible crime? There must be law; this cannot be allowed. Suddenly he needed to be away from that place, away from Mukilteo and its insanity. He began to trudge through the knee-deep water toward the shallow end where he could acquire dry ground and escape the oppressive dungeon of the dead. His eyes cast down as not to trip over sunken debris; he didn’t notice until on dry ground the shadowy figure observing his ascent until finally, he raised his beleaguered face he raised his beleaguered face where disbelief and anger met, announcing themselves formidably.

“Sumner, damn you man! What the hell did you bring us into?” he spat, shocked and disoriented as he was, he did not stop as his impetus drove him to throttle words from the codger’s gullet there and then. As he stormed forward, his feet and legs numb from cold, he raised his fists to bludgeon the face he saw as the source of all his recent hardships, Sumner slowly raised a palm, his demeanor sedate, as Vashon felt his legs turn to seagrass beneath him. He fell quite painfully face down on the rocks and sand, where he lay unable to move at the old man’s feet.

Vashon lay motionless, listening to the sound of the Salish lapping gingerly at the sand in which he lay. He awaited the worst: Sumner was (he believed then) some lunatic serial killer, and this was his killing field. His next thoughts were of warning Elliott. Run friend, flee. Save yourself.

Then a voice came above the waves, not cruel or inhuman, but inviting, rich in fact.

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

Yet unable to move or utter a sound Vashon merely felt the affirmative and then, by degrees, the weight that held him prone, the garrote that sought to crush his throat abated. Somehow, he found his legs beneath him and so undulated to a sitting position in the shallow sea. Lifting his chin, he addressed Sumner, very much dubious to his intent. A million daggers provoked his tongue, the sheer weight of which left him at a loss for words. And so, he sat mute hoping the fiend had something of import to say.

And this he said.

“I must apologize for Pilate. Tiberius has been such a burden of late and criminals, well, these simply must not be suffered.”

Vashon swam through the lunacy.

“Sumner, look at me! Where in the hell are you?”

Sumner looked at Vashon and stated just then, matter of fact, “Golgotha, yes?” as if Vashon bore dementia, not he.

Vashon was having none of his gibberish.

“Mukilteo, yes?” said Vashon. “We are at Mukilteo, man! You brought me here. Brought us here, remember?” he said as calmly as his frayed nerves might allow. Sumner listened and then appeared somewhat confused. Then gathering his senses continued.

“Oh, damn it all to hell. I do get lost,” the old man concurred at last, “Must have been Redmond then. Takes his duties much too literally, I am afraid.”

This Vashon chewed on, then spit out.

“Redmond did this? Killed these people?”

The old man appeared frustrated, rubbing his grey stubbled chin.

“Vashon, I would have a word with you. Will you walk with me?”

Vashon wanted nothing more than to get to his feet, to be away from this place of death. Sumner stepped forward and offered a hand. Vashon paused, his old adage ‘never take the hand of an anxious man’ halted him. He looked into the old man’s eyes and saw there a sincerity and took then man’s offer of assistance. Then standing waited for the other’s direction. He had predicted they might walk back along the beach toward the Banshee. Yet Sumner motioned toward the opposite, further under the pier to the south, into the darkness. This unnerved Vashon, the reek of death, the steps that would lead seemingly nowhere. And yet he followed, his senses telling him there was some rhyme or reason to all this. And he dearly needed to know whatever truth might be waiting at the bottom of the rabbit hole.

The two walked along; the ethereal glow emanating from seemingly nowhere grew to a decent level allowing Vashon to monitor his footsteps. Sumner had grown silent as though waiting for Vashon to speak, or indeed, voice his brooding inquisitions. And this he did.

“Sumner”

“Yes, Vashon”

“Who are you?”

The old man flinched.

“Why, I am the Summoner, yes?”

Vashon stopped. A truth was in the works, and he could feel it, thick as blood in the heavy salt air around them. He struggled for a moment with his next line, not sure he wanted to read it, or simply claim ignorance.

“And who are you to me?”

The old man had walked on several steps, then turned, saying with a most sublime air.

“There is a ghost on your back, my friend,” he said

Vashon sweat anger

“You speak nonsense, old man. You brought me here, speak your peace. Now.”

“My peace, or yours?” Sumner smiled, genuinely

“Talk old man!” Vashon yelled with all his gut, “Don’t fuck with me!” Then a silence. Sumner allowed but a pittance, then spoke softly, a whisper in the torrent that was Vashon, a word, a name

“Poulsbo”

Vashon froze, bewildered, yet held his ground

“Oh yeah, nice. And what of it? A name heard in the tossing,” he spat and caved, his stomach in knots, his hands curled.

“Poulsbo,” Sumner repeated softly, “He rides you as a wraith. You know this. Let us speak now and cast aside these secret treaties, for we have much to accomplish yet, you and I.”

Vashon inhaled deep; the air was thick as if he were a hundred feet down in the middle of the night sitting on the bottom of the sea in the dark.

“Who are you old man?” he repeated, no answer enough.

Sumner was relentless.

“And if I were indeed Satan himself, I get the distinct feeling you would not run, my friend. No, you would not run, for I do know you, and you and I, my love, and you and I,” he said, convinced he still had an audience, licked his lips thoughtfully.

Vashon prepared himself for what might come, for he had seen death one too many times of recent not to know when it is knocking.

“If you be Satan, then make it hurt; I deserve much worse than the claws of an old crow.”

The waves tickling the salted pilings echoed Sumner’s hearty laugh.

“Neigh Vashon, my young hero. Hold that tongue. You and I are not so different, you and I, yes? Do we not bleed tears for love lost? And by our self said evil deeds no less?” the old man reached out an imploring hand, stopped short the touch, the flesh, the skin that was so close. Vashon eyed the gesture. He had not noticed the saltwater that ran down his face, for all was salt, and hurt, and truth. He gave up the argument, finally. Time to move on.

“What do you want from me, Sumner?”

Sumner grew then by inches, standing up straight as if addressing Pontius Pilate himself.

“Well then, if you be asking, I require a person, such as yourself,” he said, quite to the point, then added to the pot, “And you, my friend, if you can but endure my arrogance, are in need of mine.”

The two continued on, slowly, with no particular destination, Vashon recalled a question he had held for some while, ever since he had found Issaquah and Shiatoru here, and Sumner in their company.

“So. You and the Issaquah. How’s about we start there,” he paused to assess Sumner’s face, then continued “When we met in Pamplona that morning after the run you knew I had been with her, of course,”

“Well, yes. Of course,” said Sumner.

“Didn’t care to mention?”

“Mister Vashon, your bedding my lady was the first act that so endeared you to me. You have absolutely no idea what a bitch she can be when not well-tended. And if I had brought our relationship to your attention, would it have helped my case in getting you here?”

Vashon had to agree.

“I would have walked away from the table there and then.”

Sumner smiled at the honesty.

“Precisely”

“So just who is it that wanted me here?”

“My lady was helping me find you, though her tactics are rather self-serving at times.”

“And Shiatoru?”

“Oh, that worm? A petty tyrant, nothing more,” he said and spat, glancing askew just then, “Oh, how I have fantasized of my lady eradicating that grubbing parasite in a most painful and bloody exchange.”

Vashon could not help but grin.

“Well, at least we can agree on that.”

“It is my sincere hope that in time we will agree on a great many things. To answer your question, it is I who have the greatest need, though my lady has her own reasons for your presence. I would that you take this up with her when you have the chance.”

Vashon considered their meetings thus far, questioned the sanity of more.

“Think I’ll keep my distance for now. Not quite sure how I feel about that woman.”

“Oh, don’t judge her too harshly. She does have her merit” then, thinking out loud, “Although finding the method in her madness would be a feat, even for such as I.”

They walked on. Vashon noticed light beginning to appear from the far side of the altar and wondered what they might discover there.

“I am in need of a courier of sorts. Let’s say a go-between, as it were”

Vashon followed his words well enough, though he sought more of the summary

“Between who and who?”

“Why, myself, and an old acquaintance I seem to have fallen from grace with.”

“Dangerous, this acquaintance?”

“Can be, depending on his mood. Also, quite gracious, if it tickles his fancy. Though these are aspects of him that shouldn’t concern you. You would simply be setting my plea before him with, I should hope, a small but genuine testimonial, should you be so kind, and after getting to know me a bit more in detail, of course.”

Vashon was intrigued, though confused

“Why me? Why not deliver the message yourself? Or have your lady or one of your hunters here? They seem strong enough.”

“Because, my friend, this task requires heart.”

They continued into the light at the other side. Vashon appeared haggard. The day had been long, this was not lost on the old man’s eyes.

“I believe we have spoken enough for now. You must have a thousand questions, though you must consider our conversation before we may continue. I will leave you with a small gift, a token for your time. And perhaps a glimpse of things to come.”

They had now reached the far side. There was a small beach there with several derelict fishing boats drying in the sun that now shined brightly on this opposite side from Mukilteo. The ever-present birds chased the wind and waves; there was a high rock jetty that blocked further view just beyond the beach.

Vashon turned to inquire of Sumner of what he was speaking. The old man had disappeared without a sound, swallowed as all things by the great beast. He turned back then to survey the scene and found there, not four paces before him, his brother Poulsbo.

There was a moment of shock, the reaction of a mind battered by a day of problematic ongoing. Of this, Vashon was accustomed. Standing now before his dead brother’s ghost was surely epic in his experience.

They stood facing each other, one in this world, one in another, far removed. Vashon wanted to run to Poulsbo, to tackle him, to roll in the sand laughing, wrestling, as they once had when both alive. Yet he stood stock still, eyes locked, for there was something there, something not right.

He realized just then the issue: He was looking for something there: Warmth, recognition, kinship, forgiveness? Something, anything. Any trait that might convince him this being was or at least had at one time been his little brother. And yet they watched each other, Poulsbo’s face looking, just looking. Vashon felt his eyes water, his heart grow tight.

Where to go. Where am I to go from here?

Something occurred to Vashon just then. Perhaps this was no more than a trick of the mind, instigated by the old man. No ill will, really. A picture of a lost brother, and no more. This thought hurt him, for he had so hoped, if for an instant, Poulsbo’s ghost was real and, maybe, could speak to him of small things.