The Naked Bull

The passage of time slowed and then stopped; there was no event to herald the cessation that the dead no doubt experience when the face on the wall is finally unmasked

From where I’m sitting

I can see three hands upon the wall

One moves fast, one moves slow,

One hardly moves at all.

If I watch them very close

They seem to stand quite still

When I take my eyes away

They take my days at will

And so the days passed, though the procession became less and less discernible. Vashon went through his motions, wondering at the rhyme or reason, or the purpose of the tribe. He had forced himself to set aside his belligerent bias for the entire endeavor, for it was putting off character: Elliott looked to him for strength, as he himself needed to be beyond reproach in mannerism, in as much as this be an achievable goal in such an emotionally arid desert.

That is not to say there was no buried treasure: Whidbey was, as always, worth a joke and a pint. He could wax philosophical at the pull of a tap. Vashon believed him the man behind the curtain yet discovered but left it, as all things Mukilteo, for another day.

Sumner became another strike: He sought Vashon of an evening, after the days’ drudgery, to share time and tide, and a meter of brine. Vashon expected him, at each encounter, to enquire as to any chance sightings of the elusive mermaid. The old man rarely if ever did, which only added to his most pleasant bewilderment. Vashon began to study the man, his genuine eyes, his wizened sense of irony, and to genuinely enjoy their conversations, which became deep and most worthy, reminiscent of those with his father in better days.

Yet it was the Salish itself that ultimately became his true saving grace. Had he not been in some proximity to saltwater, had not been allowed the embrace of the deep as had been the case on many a work camp, he certainly would have found the current hardships impossible to endure.

The hunters rarely tired of the oddity of the strange waterdog (Vashon had been deemed early on) and the eccentricity of his equipment and methods, or his peasant laborer, faithful but cowardly (for he never set foot in the deep his master so obviously cherished.) Bryn Mawr followed Vashon constantly with her steel gaze. Redmond made noise, admonishing his men constantly to forget the intruder. Vashon knew this for the amateur theatrics that it was, the small notoriety giving him some measure of standing amongst the general population.

The mornings of the hunt were broken by chores and busywork. While the huntsman made reparations to boats and gear; there was wrestling and games of such on the sand, shouts and hearty laughter as though family. Vashon and Elliott worked on the van’s mechanical issues or offered their skills as carpenters and masons to the upkeep of the village. Roofs in need of patching, doors ajar, windows with no seal.

Strange. They had meant to avoid this; now their skills gave then a status they could not hope for. The tools at hand were antiquated at best, sealing and lubricating near impossible; they did what they could and in so doing felt more and more accepted by the general population, save the madman Redmond and his cronies. Vashon had a football and a frisbee he and Elliott tossed waiting, watching for the others to join. Some gestured and hinted at approach. Their leaders warned them off; the clan held the borders.

There were barking dogs and sketchy cats. Vashon fashioned a makeshift slingshot with which to injure his favorite seagulls. His aim was dead eye, though the tough buggers took the pelting with humor, cawing an easily translated “do your worst.”

Vashon grew ever intrigued by the lass Anacortes: The diminutive waif hovered about as an impeccable seahorse in an ocean current, fluttering here and there without tread nor sound, to be there and gone oft without word or reply. In the Banshee, she would flicker between the ruffians as a ghost, unheard and unseen, serving food and drink before want or need. Outside she would appear from nowhere with a bucket of water, refusing to supply brine while the men were working. Whidbey silenced Vashon’s complaints explaining there was no access to hospital; a meager drunken fall from a ladder could be catastrophic.

“Hush your noise you! Mend the walls for Christ’s sake and be done with it!”

And injury did occur. Homespun remedies such as herbs, poultices, needle and thread, administered by the few indigenous peoples who produced and mended clothing and other necessities, leatherwork and such, and cleaned and helped prepare food. Most important: This quiet and simple minority gathered and fermented the kelp and berries to make the brine and a form of blackberry spirit. Brine made a handy disinfectant as well as a sedative. They habituated yurts away from the cabins and were treated as untouchable serfs, had little or no contact with the clans unless needed. Vashon witnessed them taking out their own canoes from time to time, heading to the island across the Salish. Yet they always returned, with bundles and baskets, items needed to perform their task. Whidbey merely stated they were a fixture, came with the place as it were.

More half-answers.

Vashon then commented on how quickly the inhabitants healed.

“Amazing these witch doctors, aye mate?” grinned old Whidbey.

Nothing and nothing more.

There was, of course, the issue of personal hygiene. Oh, but the reader believed I had forgotten the scent of the body raw: Buena Suerte! Though none of the tribe could be considered said fragrant, Redmond reeked particularly godawful. Even at some distance, and depending on the wind, Elliott would let loose his guts at a mere whiff of this ripe and nasty pig.

There were no showers or baths per se; there were a few small streams that descended from the higher elevations behind the encampment, winding their way to the sea, populated by the myriad birds. Most washed themselves and their clothing in these, with the exception of the stubborn ogre until his men refused to sit at the same table as Anacortes would refuse to serve him. Then, and only then, he would grudgingly, and with much obscene tongue work, toss himself, clothes and all, into the surf, cussing a storm.

Vashon, ever the observer, witnessed in these days the wave-like undulation of the body of the serpent. But where was its head? The commonwealth had a function, indeed, did function in fact. And yet even the most primitive autonomous collective had some form of self-government. There had been some reference to ‘The Lady’ and ‘Her Man.’ He had yet to encounter these phantasmal overlords (so far as he knew). So who indeed ran the show? More time than tide.

Then came the day when the rules of engagement changed. A hunting day like any other: the boats man prepared their crafts, barbs, and netting. Vashon was gearing up when Elliott stilled his banter of a sudden, causing Vashon to take heed. The ever silent and brooding Bryn Mawr approached, breaking all unspoken rules of etiquette, coming dangerously close to an unprovoked encounter.

“Like I said, cabron,” Elliott said as jabbed his mate who was bent over in the opposite direction. “You finally wore her down, si?” Vashon stood up straight, most interested in what might occur. The woman offered no salutation, marched up and stated her business in a single breath.

“I lost a man in the night.”

Vashon cocked his head, “Lost?”

She grew impatient, her voice rising.

“You can row?”

Vashon didn’t care much for her tone.

“Don’t know,” he said with no little sarcasm, “Hey Elly, can we row?”

“Oh, Si patrón. She needs your oar.”

Vashon ignored this nonsense, though did give an offering

“Mind if we bring the gear, maybe sneak over the side for a while a little further out? Save me a swim.”

“Bring it and come. We leave now” and walked away toward her boat. The two admired her aft side as she walked.

“Damn, ese, that’s some shit.”

Vashon gave him a shove.

“Vamos.”

But he kept an eye on her muscular ass. He had not been with a woman since Spain and, well, any port in a storm.

Redmond and his crew were already beyond the surf. Vashon wore his dive suit; carried a tank and a gear bag. When they got to the whaleboats, there were two others, a man called Seneca and a woman, Marion. The man appeared European, perhaps Italian, smoking a hand tied. The girl might have been Polynesian, from one of the south pacific islands. Bryn Mawr was a mystery. Vashon surmised the name Welsh, though her heritage was no doubt African. He had guessed by then that few used their given names.

Vashon knew mercenaries when he saw them.

The two placed the tank and bag aft then looked to Bryn Mawr for orders. She wore tight leather with low cut booties, easy footing in the keel of the boat. She sported a large knife in a leather sheath from a thick belt and only released her spear to move rope or anchor. They all pushed the craft into the sea and jumped in; Bryn Mawr took the bow, then motioned for Vashon to follow. Elliott and Marion took of the next two spots with Seneca aft. The oars were long, though once dipped, plied easily enough. Bryn Mawr watched as the two least experienced got the gist of maneuver -then it was a long row out toward Tschakolecy island.

Vashon looked back toward the huge monolith that jutted into the Salish like a bridge to nowhere. He decided to attempt conversation, tiring of the useless silence.

“Bryn Mawr,” he called behind him toward the bow, sounding the name for depth, “What monster ship ties up to that pier?” When there was no immediate answer, he turned his head around. Bryn Mawr was watching him. Nothing new.

“That is no pier for ships,” she replied then nothing. Vashon gave her a look, a spur. She continued, annoyed at the bother.

“It is an alter” she added at the look.

“An altar…you say?” he said, a list of questions presented themselves, “And the cage there, below?”

“Enough talk,” she commanded.

Elliott grinned wide. Vashon, the big man, told by a bitch.

Oh, but the day does turn!

“Then…” he began and was cut off

“Man your oar, if man you be,” she ordered and turned back to the Salish before them.

Vashon scrutinized her profile.

Quiet desperation.

Row. Shit. It just keeps getting better, yes? Though now in close proximity, perhaps a bridge was being erected from which he may, through gentle persistence, gain some window into the lives of these bizarre mariners. He thought it might be humorous to sing a few rounds of ‘row your boat’ but he had lost his humor and decided instead to dwell on the man that had disappeared in the night. Had he come finally to the same foregone conclusion? If so, there must be a taste of such turning in the others. He monitored these seamen for signs of cracks. They did not seem naïve or simple in any way; in fact, quite the contrary, they appeared supremely cognizant of their plight.

Then there was Whidbey. He seemed content enough, but what was he doing there? He wouldn’t (or couldn’t) give sober reply. Yet there was something else about his old friend, something he felt could feel but not define. Traces of questions he could hardly articulate, a dubious eye, an errant phrase, there and gone as mirages on the sea.

And so he rowed. He thought then of Poulsbo and what he would think of Mukilteo. He would no doubt have laughed at these strange relic’s obsession with the renowned fish-woman.

They rowed on for a time, then Bryn Mawr gave the order to stop. Vashon turned and realized they were mid-channel between the mainland and the island.

“Why are we stopping here?” he grunted.

“Don’t be daft,” said the captain.

“What’s the depth?” Vashon inquired.

“Beyond my anchor line. We drift.”

Vashon looked at Elliott who from experience had predicted this confrontation.

“Let’s get closer to land, toward the island. I cannot dive in these depths.”

“You are afraid, waterdog?” Bryn Mawr tugged.

“Names Vashon. You afraid of the island, little girl?”

The woman did not care for these words; her thick lips snarled as her eyes squeezed daggers.

“You know nothing, dog called Vashon,” Bryn Mawr growled. Then followed an impasse. The boat drifted, the wind on the water teased them in the heavy silence. Marion and Seneca waited, disoriented. No one had ever questioned their leader before. Elliott sat watching, knowing only too well his stubborn friend.

Vashon refused to spar with a woman standing from a sitting position. He stood then, gaining his sea legs quickly. The two looked long at each other, neither backing down. Then Vashon spoke in his disarming tone which Elliott knew from experience few could ignore

“C’mon woman, it’s a good day to die. Let’s move on, yes?”

Bryn Mawr looked at the man. It was a challenge, obviously against her better judgment yet she motioned to the others to strike up their oars and continue. Vashon sat back down and began to row as well. He did not look at Elliott who he knew was looking at him. He respected the woman; this was not a conquest to be lost on sideways glances.

Then the island: The shoreline was a thin strand of rock and gravel. The tree line was not far from the water, perhaps a hundred yards. The beach was stacked high with logs and driftwood, rocks and dry kelp. Vashon asked the name of the place. The distance from Mukilteo appeared to have a positive effect on everyone. Elliott had struck up a conversation with Marion and Seneca. There was an audible difference in Bryn Mawr’s voice as she not only answered Vashon’s question but expanded on it. A lighthearted air consumed the boat.

“Tschakolecy Island” she began “A few tribes live there, though they are rarely seen on these shores, the shores facing Mukilteo” she paused then.

“And why might that be?” asked Vashon.

“They fear us. To them, Mukilteo is an evil place. Many years ago, most of the hunters, such as we, were natives from around the Salish and here. Few returned, those that did told tales of demons, strange sightings, and the witch.”

“The witch?”

“The one who hired you…and your man.”

“Mermaids and witches. You wanna share some of your mushrooms?” said Vashon, more for Elliott than anyone.

She was silent. Vashon looked into her eyes as she returned the look. It was as though she wanted to say more but wasn’t sure if she trusted him. For the first time, he actually discerned an emotion on her face. She wanted him to be authentic, trustworthy, an ally in a bad place. Vashon could feel her reaching inside him for any glimmer of hope. And just as quickly as he realized this, the curtain closed, and the lights dimmed. Bryn Mawr noticed this and reacted in kind. Vashon kicked himself for ever searching the depths. For whenever they were just in sight, he immediately surfaced, every time.

“So what do you do out here?” he said at length.

“Same as you, dog.”

“Mermaids. Right.”

“We hunt for food as well. Mostly just get away from Mukilteo for the day.”

“Why don’t you get away for good?”

Her face went deadpan.

“Get in if you are going.”

Vashon called to Elliott, who was still talking to the others, to hand him his gear.

“Ever been down before?” he asked Bryn Mawr.

He eyed his gear.

“No.”

It was not the first time he had introduced someone to scuba, but quite possibly the most significant.

“Check this out. This is what it’s like breathing underwater.”

She said nothing, just looked at the gear. Elliott twisted the knob on the tank, the hoses sprung to life with the air pressure. Vashon dipped his back up air supply in the water and handed it to the woman. Then he grabbed his regulator and showed her how to place it in her mouth, which she did, and both took a few breaths. Bryn Mawr jerked her head back at first, not used to the sensation. Then, after a few more breaths she removed it.

“This is indeed strange. How long do you stay under the water?”

“An hour, maybe less.”

Bryn Mawr was impressed.

“We will wait,” she said.

“Don’t spear me. I’m no mermaid, and no virgin.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” she said as she handed it back and watched as he spit into his mask, rubbed it around, then pulled on his fins.

“Your man does not follow you in the water?” she looked at Elliott. Vashon didn’t bother. Fear had to answer for itself. But today would not be the day, as Elliott served up the same stale beer.

“Nah, mujer. Mermaids scare me,” he said and sat back down with Marion and Seneca who were eagerly waiting to see Vashon jump in the water. Vashon looked at Bryn Mawr and gave a small shrug. Then he pushed himself up so he was sitting on the side of the boat and, putting his hand over his face, fell backward and disappeared beneath the waves.

As he had no idea of the depth (Bryn Mawr did no sounding for him with the anchor) he followed the anchor line down. The current was light, the visibility was excellent. He stopped at about thirty feet and, clearing his ears again, looked around. He could make out the bottom in the distance, there was yet a way to go. He looked up and saw the silhouette of the whaleboat above and thought of what might be going on up there. The women Bryn Mawr was less than friendly. Elliott had a serious stick up his ass. And although Elly was a tough street fighter Vashon had never seen him hit a woman, bitch or not. If it came to blows, he might take a dip after all. He purged his mask, checked his gauges, and continued down the line.

On the surface, there wasn’t any immediate drama. Marion and Elliott made small talk. Seneca listened and chimed in occasionally as he sharpened his barb with wet stone. Bryn Mawr was watching something of interest taking place on the island, just at the tree line. A wisp of smoke had first alerted her, then a single figure, with a large mask and black feather cape, appeared to be dancing and fanning the fire with his wide arm coverings.

The others grew quiet as they followed her line of sight to the spectacle.

“Hey mujer, what the hell is that?”

Bryn Mawr ignored him. She was looking around at the beach, the trees, the sky, the water. Seneca did the same, his face troubled. Marion spoke then.

“We have seen him before. He is a shaman of one of the island tribes. He will summon his spirit allies.”

The three continued their vigil. Elliott was having none of it.

“So, what’s the pinche brujo gonna do, make rain on us?”

No response. Then the silence was shattered.

“Blackfish!” yelled Bryn Mawr and pointed to the north where a pod of massive black and white beasts plowed the water towards them, their dorsal fins standing high, cutting the water like giant machetes, their sharp tail fins driving them at an obscene speed. Seneca yelled

“Pull anchor! We have to get away!”

Elliott jumped to his feet.

“Fuck that, bitch!” he cried “Vashon’s still down there!”

Bryn Mawr was calm but intense as she eyed him.

“Go and warn him then!”

Elliott could not keep still and stood “No,” he said, turning this way and that for an exit that wasn’t there. Bryn Mawr yelled at him.

“Sit down, man! If they hit us, you go in the water!”

Elliott reluctantly sit back down and yelled in frustration.

“Mother fuck!”

The pod was on them at once and instantly began circling and trying the walls of the vessel with their noses. The three seasoned hunters had hoped they would continue on as was their norm but there was no such luck. Above the sound of thrashing and churning water, they began to hear the loud chanting of the shaman who had left his small fire and was then standing near the water line directing the malicious activity. Elliott was truly scared. His voice was shaking as he yelled.

“Somebody tell that pinche brujo to stop!”

Bryn Mawr heard his fear and, disgusted by it, swatted him across his back with a rope.

“Keep your head, damn you!”