The Naked Bull

There exists above us a hole in the sky known as the dark side of the moon. This anomaly occurs as the Moon rotates on its axis at the same rate that it orbits the Earth, exposing the same face to us any time. In Spanish, it is known as ‘El lado oscuro de la luna,’ suggesting it not dark so much as obscured. It is a place, a persona, which the moon chooses not to share. We never see the far side, the other personalities that must there exist, though impossible to know while earthbound.

Elliott contemplated this as the black crow spread its wings across Mukilteo, some of the darkest nights he would ever know. Now, barely clinging to his perch on the sleek fur of a barstool, the world danced by as the ethereal affairs of the Banshee revolved around him. He thought of Vashon, with a bitter taste in his mouth not inspired by the brackish taste of the brine.

To him, Vashon had but one face he would ever expose. You might as well reach out and twist ’round the moon for a glimpse of the far side as attempt contact with Vashon’s other faces, which must exist, though rotating forever away.

This brooding moment passed, as always; he wrapped himself instead in his shroud of the dream of home. He was satisfied then with nothing more than to maintain his equilibrium and watch Whidbey pour foam and wipe wet rings from his bar, which he considered, in his inebriated state, an art of the highest degree. Perhaps he should consider this livelihood an option? Indeed, he could do worse.

Elliott observed how Whidbey could pick up the string of a conversation, at any point therein, and readily converse as though involved from the onset, and did this not again remind him of the great mermaid Hunter?

Jesus Christo!

Elliott shook his head to dislodge the bastard which produced a distinct sloshing sound (or did he imagine it?) his tongue loosened now he made a sad attempt at the same rich wordage which, unfortunately, quickly deteriorated into a train wreck of epic proportion.

He looked around again at Redmond, constantly looking for trouble; at Bryn Mawr, thoughtful and silent. Then, noticing some returning his interest with distaste, he looked down into his drink, and just beyond, he took an amused interest in a small insect swimming around in the puddle left on the bar by the wet bottom of his stein. He considered its chances as (to his mind anyway) it appeared to display this desperate look as if it might actually comprehend the potential hazards of its current dilemma.

Whidbey stood within earshot.

“Hey, patrón, should I dive in and save him?”

Whidbey, being a veteran barman, had been waiting for Elliott’s train to derail for some time and so played along, somewhat humored at first, peering down with mock interest

“Naw! ’e would just follow you ’round and make ya mis’rable.”

“So maybe I should kill it quick, put it out of its misery?”

Whidbey frowned “Naw, the mad bugger’s soul would do the same.”

“Dios mio!” exclaimed Elliott, this talk was good, “How do we even know he has one? And for that matter, do you…do I?”

Whidbey was done.

“You’re pissed lad. Leave off.”

But Elliott was not done

“Amigo,” he stammered, eyes at half-mast “if it doesn’t own a soul, then why does it fight to live?” Elliott, convinced his thoughts bathed in the deep end of the tub, gave the man a pleading gesture.

Whidbey struck the bar with his fist lifting and dropping all that was set there “cause he knows we’re watching, see. Observation alters the actions of the observed, yes? Or perhaps I don’t give a rat’s ass. What do you think? Inquirin’ minds want to know,” he said, wiping off the bar, insect and all with his tattered bar towel.

Elliott was offended by the unexpected display.

“Damn, patrón,” cried Elliott. “You get some bad news today or what?”

Whidbey moved on to less heady subjects with the other drinkers. Elliott, convinced the conversation there had somehow dried up, slid sideways from his roost to make his way much as a severely listing ship in a tempest with no rudder towards a most inviting chair, just there, in the corner.

From his new position, he again surveyed the room. Most were involved in their own drunken rows; others glared at the stranger ominously. He stared back, inviting any to take act or comment. Elliott’s glazed eye moved.

The musicians played their sad songs, full of angst and melancholy, though at times lively, worthy of a light foot.

And where was the barmaid, Anacortes? Ah yes! She was moving about, spritely in her thin elk skin, her padding feet never making a sound. He guessed, as he admired her, she had been with Vashon most of the day and was now about her busy work. But just how far had the arrogant pissant progressed? She seemed preoccupied if not distant yet displayed none of the symptoms of having just been bedded by the man himself. To begin with, she had no shit-eating grin nor giddy foolishness of the recently sexed, which, in and of itself, spoke volumes.

The crew called for dance, which she was known to accommodate. Though this night, her sparrow’s feet were tight to the floor. No, she had more the look of disenchantment, perhaps sent packing by the unfeeling bastard. Painful, yes. But surely not incurable.

And so, having convinced himself that she was now officially ‘unworthy of a god and available to all lesser creation,’ did his level best to sit up straight and attain the demeanor of the understanding ear, the sympathetic shoulder. Patiently biding his time, he waited until the moth circled closer to the flame.

“Anacortes, mija,” he smiled toothily, all hearts and roses, “You are fine, mujer.”

The woman wiped at his table and under his mug in quick jerks and too much elbow grease, causing the pedestal to creak. There was no smile, as she hid behind her long black hair swaying across her face

“Is that the best you can do? Even your friend didn’t try that one.”

Elliott smiled. Damn! He thought. Vashon must have given her both boots at once.

“Yeah, pues, about my friend. See, mija, we aren’t much on the same page.”

Anacortes scoffed “Much?” and stood up straight, pushing back her hair, revealing a face ready for any plateful he was serving.

“Yeah, I mean, we travel together sure but…that guy’s got issues, tu sabe?”

Anacortes was well used to dealing with such sloppy advances from the huntsman; Whidbey had taught her well. But as she was about to turn tail and move on, something caught her off balance; she lingered. All afternoon she had been blaming herself for what had happened, or not happened, between her and Vashon. Yet maybe, just maybe, the great mermaid hunter wasn’t worth all the fuss. Maybe he just decided she wasn’t good enough for the likes of him. She saw how the other woman looked at him and how he reacted to their swooning. Well, maybe she wasn’t, so what? To hell with him. Maybe she would take up with this lush if for no other reason than to teach the great man a lesson in humility.

“It must get lonely,” she said. She had never seen a clown’s face though she knew how to wear one, “Travelling with a heartless man like that,” stepping a bit closer. Elliott sensed the change and stood. It took a moment to regain his sea legs; he reached toward her shoulder to right himself.

“Can you walk?” she asked, a theatrical concern in her voice.

“Si amor, with a little help,” he wrapped his arm around her. The soft suede of her shoulders felt particularly appealing, her scent a drug. The others in the room took heed wearily. Though most treated her as a servant, she was their servant; They didn’t care at all for the stranger touching Anacortes like that. Even Redmond, her worst abuser, growled. Whidbey saw this and took exception as well but did not interfere. He knew Anacortes could hold her own with a drunk and if anything, she would help the poor bastard find his bed to sleep it off. The rest noted his turning, and the two were allowed to walk out the door.

The heavy door closed behind them, leaving them to the dark. Elliott leaned dead weight on Anacortes’ diminutive shoulders as they made their way across the sand to the van where she hoped Vashon would be inside so he could get an eyeful that she would no doubt play to the hilt. Elliott was praying he was not asleep inside, and they would have time, though a whiskey dick might prove another issue.

Elliott fell against the van and pulled at the sliding door handle. Inside were the tanks and dive gear bags, and a nest Vashon had been using for sleep. No Vashon. Elliott gave silent thanks while Anacortes cursed at the sky and prepared to return to her work.

“Hey, where are you going, amor?” Elliott complained as he lay on his back.

“Gotta get back. You get some sleep” turning away Elliott sat up “Hey, come in here for a while, take a break” She thought on this. Maybe not a bad idea. Sooner or later, Vashon would have to show up. She knew he spent his nights there. So, she climbed in, leaving the door wide open. She didn’t want Vashon to think Elliott was with someone else and walk away. Elliott had scrambled to his knees.

“Hey…Anacortes…why don’t you…take your clothes off?” he said, trying to catch his breath. Everything in his condition was a long-winded effort.

“Why would I do that?” she said, then thought again. What if Vashon found them together like that? Would he not be angry? The thought tantalized. She had never been with a man naked, was completely oblivious to the context or suggestion the scenario implied (save what she had imagined from Whidbey’s books.) And so, as it was dark and, knowing Elliott couldn’t see past his nose, she pulled her elk skin up and over her head, revealing her naked body to the cool night.

And what Elliott saw: Firm smallish breasts bejeweled with dark brown tiger’s eyes. And her ass, two handfuls of white silk flesh. He couldn’t make out much more in the dark. And so, unzipping his pants, he got them and his shorts down as far as his knees then fell over backward, his erection slapping him on his stomach. Anacortes opened her mouth, aghast at the sight of it. Then she pointed, almost touching his dork in the confined space.

“What is that?”

Elliott looked down to see if anything was wrong with his manhood. He looked back at Anacortes’ face enjoying her reaction to his manhood, which he had always been quite proud of.

“That?” he said, “Mija, that is for you.”

Anacortes was confused. She had many times seen the animals of the forest connect their bodies with such, though had never equated this to anything people might do.

“What are you supposed to do with it?”

She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the bloated flesh that seemed to have a life of its own.

“That, mi amor, I intend to wiggle between your legs” and reached out to grab her arm and wrestle her down. She wriggled away, “What the fuck for?” she exclaimed much to his dismay.

“Amor, you have never done this before?” exasperated Elliott was quickly sobering up enough to realize that his luck was diminishing by the second. He actually might be dealing with a virgin, something he had never done, although horror stories abound. Anacortes was pushing herself away.

“I have no idea what you are saying, but I am sure I have never had one of those…things wiggled between my legs” Elliott relaxed a little and tried a different approach.

“Look, mija, where I come from it is called making love,” he said. This, of course, all nonsense to her.

“Making love?” Anacortes was now in the open doorway

“Where I come from, it’s called harpooning!” she cried as she jumped out the door and into the cool night air bare naked. After taking a few light steps she called back over her shoulder, remembering Moby Dick just then.

“...and you’re gonna have to catch me first, Ahab!” and took off running toward the shore and the frigid water of the Salish. Elliott pulled his pants up as he scooted out after her, glad he still had his shoes on. He heard small padded feet on sand, then feet in the water and a splash, then nothing.

“Anacortes!” he shouted and then yelled louder.

“Anacortes, you pinche loco or what? That water is gonna freeze your tits off!”

The moon above the clouds added a distinctly gloss black texture to the surface of the water. He had lost sight of her in the darkness, and though he called her name again and again, louder and louder until his full voice became a screech, there was no sound except the lapping of small waves on rocks and wet sand.

He heard footsteps behind him, then spun around to see Vashon walking towards him, a strange look on his face as if he had seen a ghost.

Vashon had been walking up the beach deep in thought. He had wanted to find Elliott and tell him of his day, his decisions, his dark discovery beneath the altar, of Sumner and most of all, Poulsbo’s ghost. Now he was pulled back to reality by Elliott’s calling toward the sea and Anacortes.

“Elliott, what’s goin’ on? Where is Ana?”

Elliott felt like he had just been caught jacking off by his mother

“She..she’s…out there, man! She’s fucking out there!” and pointed out toward the cold dark sea. Vashon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“What do you mean ‘out there’? Who’s out there?”

He didn’t want to hear what he knew was coming.

“Anacortes, man. Whidbey’s girl. She just…just jumped in the fucking water, man.”

Vashon became hostile.

“Elliott, you drunken bitch! She wouldn’t just jump in the water. What did you do?”

Grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking him.

“I..I..we..we..”

Searching for the words, any words, what to say “I had her in the van and…”

Vashon was mouthing the words as the other spoke, trying to follow his madness.

“…and she took off her clothes and…”

Vashon was now gripping the material of Elliott’s shirt with his fists.

“You were gonna fuck her?” he yelled into Elliott’s face, “Anacortes? Talk to me, damn it! You were gonna fuck Ana?”

His face taught; his chest and stomach a brick wall. He pushed Elliott hard, causing him to lose balance and fall hard to the sand then turned toward the water.

“Ana!” he cried, “Anacortes, come back! You can’t stay out there, girl!”

He listened for any sound, and yet there was nothing. He panned the dark horizon but could see only ripples and reflected shards.

He turned back to Elliott who had regained his feet and was now rubbing his face with his hands.

“Dude, what the hell, man?”

Elliott looked up at him and set his jaw. Enough. Fuck this guy.

“Why not big man? Why not? You had your chance. So what, I’m not good enough? Not as good as the great Vashon?”

His face now filled with malice. No more ‘good ol’ Elliott.’ Now he would have his say. Now is where he chose his battle. Vashon was still on him.

“Not her man, not her. Don’t you get it? She’s not like that.”

“Not like what ese? Too good for your little Mexican? Is that what you’re telling me cabron?”

The muscles in his throat stood out, his face livid. He jabbed at his friend with his open hands, hitting him once, twice in the chest. Vashon knew they had no time for this.

“Look man, you’re drunk. I’m sorry, man. We gotta find the girl, like now!”

Elliott’s eyes grew large. He did not care what he said then. Just something ugly and mean to hit the other with: Something, anything to wound him, to break the skin, to make him bleed.

“What you say, cabron? What? You sorry, ese? Why don’t you tell Poulsbo, ese? Yeah, ese…go tell your little brother, huh?”

This hit Vashon like a bullet. He looked at his friend, not believing what he had just heard.

“Don’t say that, man. Don’t even go there…”

“Why not, cabron? You to good for him too?”

“Don’t man. Don’t…”

“I tell you something, cabron. Poulsbo was ten times the man you will ever be. You hear me, cabron?”

Vashon was lost. He saw his friend. He heard the words. But he could not put the two together. Words he might have thought a thousand times but never believed he could hear from another. And not from this man. Did he know what he was saying? Did he know the ghosts he had awoken? Then it happened. For no reason, with no thought, Vashon hit Elliott; punched him hard in the face. He didn’t mean to hurt the man, just to shut him up. To stop the words.

End the noise.

Elliott went down again, hard and fast this time holding his face. He looked back up from the ground, dazed, not believing what had just happened.

But it had happened.

He stood. Vashon had no words. Elliott brushed off the sand from his arms. But it had been a symbolic gesture as well. He was done. They were done. He looked into the eyes of his once friend one last time and then turning, walked away into the night.

Vashon stood there; his anger having flown away into the dark sky. What was left was less than nothing; that something wrong had been done, the fault his. Some severe and ugly evil; another transgression that could never be undone. Something had been broken that could never be mended. Now he was truly alone.

And then it came back to him as if he had completely forgotten. The girl, and the woman, Anacortes. If there was nothing else in his life just then he had to find her. Nothing made sense. Elliott was gone. Anacortes was gone. What were they doing there? Why had they come to this backward place? He saw the whaleboats pulled up on the dry sand and tied off. Most had nets and rope hanging from their sides. There was one there that might be small enough for him to launch on his own.

If there was time.

And a God.