The Naked Bull

Ghosts half-remembered, half-imagined. Die and be done with it, I say. But you, you straggle and annoy. This business of haunting, this mosaic of gibbering skulls, to what end? The dead still live in dreams. Oh, haunting skull, will you be there at the end of days to guide me through the mischief with your hollow eyes, your patent grin? Poulsbo’s ghost grew silent, a shadow caught once again in the light of day.

Vashon became aware by degrees, each suggesting something was not as it should be. An indifferent far wall came into focus as his first thought was of Elliott. Was he sleeping sound somewhere near? Or was he still waiting in the street? This, the life of vagabonds: My precious dog keeps me. And I, he.

But there was more: Shadows of things sitting on windowsills; books, statuary, a Queen Anna mirror. Had he not wandered this maze before? He believed himself asleep in his van, the Fiesta replete with dubious versions of reality. Then came painful bones on unrelenting hardwood, his inner compass proved him face down. Had he passed out in the gutter? It would certainly not be the first time. But where were the passersby? The sound of feet shuffling and voices chattering? Hard the silence, harder still the floor.

When he finally neared the surface of the dream, the world was a different place. Vashon was lying on his stomach, his clothes lost, his hands bound behind his back. Attempting to turn his face from left to right, he heard a tap emanate from some impediment on either side. With some effort, he pulled his aching head back in hopes of some view forward.

And there he found a gargoyle: the woman Issaquah, lounging most casually in a comfortable chair, her knees pulled up sleek to her chest, she now wore dark leggings and a loose white blouse. Her long onyx mane woven into a utilitarian braid, she looked ready to serve breakfast, or paint oil on canvas. Above her to the left was the familiar mantle with its smoldering fireplace. There were some items amiss. He knew this, for he had studied its contents quite carefully the night before. The strap on horns, ears, tail were all gone. Vashon formed a most diabolical theory as to why he couldn’t move his head. Might she have gone so far as to strap them on him, her idea of morning sex?

The answer came in the form of a man, striding valiantly into view, the sight of whom would have been laugh-worthy had his situation not been so dire. He appeared of some oriental extraction, Japanese perhaps, fully decked out in the ceremonial outfit of the corrida, the traje de luces, the ‘suit of lights,’ Vashon knew so well, and a montera, the traditional folk hat. Over one arm was draped the red cape of bullfighters, his opposite hand gripped the sword used to deliver the killing blow, the estoque. The entire scene might have been comical had he been watching from a safe distance. The man approached and, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, urged him most impetuously to stand, which he accommodated with bared teeth, his legs still weak. He stepped back away from Vashon and began to mock him in a loud voice, as though addressing the huge crowd of the arena.

“Here we have a pig, dressed up like a bull. Have you ever seen anything so pathetic?” he asked the invisible crowd, then glanced at Issaquah as if she might supply an answer to his insanity. She looked on in silence, an air of irritation, or perhaps indifference, she remained an unbiased spectator through the entire theatre.

“What would you suggest I do with this imposter, eh?”

Vashon ventured a meager jest, though at that moment more truth than poetry.

“Not that you asked but you might consider letting me go” The lunatic displayed mock confusion

“What? What is this now? The pig that would be a bull speaks?” He looked around with an actor’s pout, “Well then,” he looked again toward Issaquah “Might you be so kind, my dear, to introduce me to your pig? I do so enjoy the sound of my name on your tongue.”

Issaquah looked up, bothered

“I am not your dear, and I will have your tongue if do not keep it in its place,” then, addressing Vashon “This is Shiatoru, a sorry but inevitable little man, or, perhaps I should I say, accomplice. You may kill him. He has become quite tiresome, actually.”

Surreal to abstract, Vashon knew he was down the rabbit hole, and deep.

“Yeah, whatever…not sure what kind of sadomasochistic fetish bondage shit you people are into, but I really should be going.”

Shiatoru frowned “But then you would be free to roam the city. Pamplona has strict ordinances concerning pigs in their streets.”

Vashon felt ridiculous and small standing there, naked, horns strapped to his head, tail strapped around his hips, tickling his bare ass. His jaws clinched as the muscles in his body tightened in preparation for what was to come. Being threatened by a fairy with boots was one thing; being humiliated in front of a woman seriously pissed him off.

The Japanese torero continued his nonsensical rant.

“But I would like to see for myself just what this creature is. And so, being of a sound mind,”

(Vashon and Issaquah shared a snort at this)

“I will make him a deal,” Shiatoru looked his captive in the eye, still speaking to the arena, which consisted of (in the real world) Issaquah and himself.

Issaquah rolled her eyes.

“If he tells me that he is indeed a pig, I will give him a pig’s merciful death…Hah! Puerco de Pamplona for all!” he raised his sword

“However, if he insists he is a bull, well then, he must fight for his wretched life, as in the corrida!” then assumed the stance of the matador, holding out his red muleta to one side, and waited. Shiatoru, Vashon was convinced, sought blood, and would hesitate only a moment before proceeding with his murderous intent. And so, not being the pleading type and by then supremely pissed off, opted to give answer by the only means available to him at that time.

Insanity begets insanity: Vashon was a master of theatrics if nothing else. To illustrate, he lowered his head, praying to any Gods listening that his formidable weapons were strapped on tight, and with no further ado, charged the lunatic. Shiatoru, immersed in his alternate reality, dodged him with but a slight feint easily enough. He then flourished his red cape and spanked Vashon on the bare ass with his sword as he fell past him, almost ending up headfirst in the smoldering bed of coals. Righting himself quickly, he charged again, hoping to catch the imbecile off guard. It seemed a dance to the man and he twisted and turned out of each successive lunge, each time the madman sliced at him with his sword, crisscrossing him with red lines on his back and chest until, worn out from the exertion, Vashon stood facing the maniac, breathing heavily, his bare flesh gleaming with blood and sweat.

Then, as he stood facing Shiatoru, fearing for the first time he might not survive the day, it came, the sound he had known and reveled in for years: The rocket that announced to all that the bulls had been let loose on the Corrida and the run had begun. Shiatoru heard this as well, turning to hear with a puzzled face.

This mischief could not continue, Vashon knew, as he stood one final time, contemplating the imp with the sword. Knowing then that this might very well his final act, he once again crouched low. Shiatoru taunted.

“And now you die” he grinned ugly.

Vashon shook his head slowly, looking the other in the eye’s with murderous intent.

“Not today, asshole. Not by you,” he growled low, more to himself than his torturer. Shiatoru’s eyes grew wide as he assumed the killing stance, the final act of the play.

“Die Pig!” he screamed as he lunged at Vashon for the kill. Vashon lowered his head one final time and ran full force at the man. Issaquah sat up, now entertained by the spectacle that promised a finale of epic proportion.

Vashon, though craving the man’s violent death with a vengeance, sought freedom above all else. And so, at the very last second before impact, he threw himself to the left and out the front window smashing the glass into a million shards as he plummeted toward the small green patch of grass he had considered only the night before worthless, now praying it might deaden the impact of his fall. He crashed to the ground in a heap, missing the wrought iron fence by inches, the small knives of glass cutting and tearing at his already bloodied body. Stunned and astonished he was still alive he did not linger, believing the madman close on his heels, he got first to his knees and took a quick survey of the damage, breathing deep the fresh air and freedom of the street.

Believing he was near the end of his trouble, he stood, then bent quickly to step through his bound hands so they were then before him. Hearing malevolent silence from the jagged opening behind him, he ran off down the street. But he had in his haste to remain alive forgotten the rocket, and with it, the event that it portended. The road to safety, if not well examined, may just as easily lead to the slaughterhouse.

And so in a momentary lapse of judgment, Vashon fled toward the promise of sanctuary in the wrong direction, and with a wide-eyed “HOLY SHIT!” realized he had run bound, naked, and bleeding, headlong toward the raging bulls. He skidded barefoot on the worn stones of the ageless street, spinning around and nearly falling, his bindings throwing off his balance as the runners in their white clothes and red sashes ran past him, eyeing him confused, running and yelling in fear and ecstasy of the infuriated beasts all around them.

The reaction of the drunken and mesmerized crowd was that of stunned amazement. The Fiesta De San Fermin, although a serious and respected ritual for the participants, is at the same time a Fiesta, a spectacle, a circus. By the time the Naked Bull was loosed on the people, they had been drinking and feasting for days with little sleep. Their clothes were dirty and ragged, covered with the filth of the city. There were clowns and others dressed as mock Matadors with over-sized shoes and gourds stuck in their pants to accentuate their manhood.

The women were dressed or undressed, their sticky mouths agog as they received him as one might expect, at the very least as a most prolific Pena, at best a Matador who took his job much too seriously. Most could not believe their eyes as they cheered the apparition, pouring water and wine on him from the alcoves and balconies of the colorfully painted buildings above.

Vashon thought for but an instant of running to the officials who monitored the event at the roadside that he might engage to put an end to this madness. Then he thought better of it, in the instant he had to think, for he feared he would be arrested and carted off to jail to wallow in the piss and vomit of the poor foreigners who knew little of the customs, less of the rules of the Encierro and lesser still of the strength of the drinks of the Fiesta. He saw them from the corner of his eye and doubted they even gave a second glance, covered as he was in beer and wine, sticky pieces of fruit, confetti, sawdust, flour, anything that could be hurled or dropped.

He had been in the water, surrounded by sharks, Christ, were you not there, brother? Did we not scoop men crying from the salty broth? Had we not seen the backstreets of lands far and away, knives and guns, whiskey water brick wall moss, faces indifferent to the killing humanity what humanity as an unshared abstract concept kill them all and why not? There was only fate and instinct and luck and the ordeal. That fucking ordeal. Stay alive just stay alive just...but you died.

Stop. Stay alive.

Vashon ran and ran, save my ghost for another day, the bulls not two feet behind him, the clatter of their hoofs on the bricks and stones of the street, their snorted breath on his bare ass he felt the earth move beneath his bare feet from their sheer weight as he did his best to stay ahead of their shaved horns.

Vashon knew the Encierro well: At that point, he was traveling through a small stretch known as Mercaderes which leads to an extremely dangerous hairpin corner aptly named La Curva. The beasts almost had him there as he slammed into the far wall not able to turn barefoot on the slick stone. Still, he knew from experience his only chance was to keep moving. So he dodged quickly to the right waiting for an enormous horned head to pin him against the ancient brick and mortar then cast him high in the air to land mangled under their razor-sharp hooves and enormous weight. But the Gods were not done with him yet, not done by far. He heard, and felt, the loud bone-crunching thud from inches behind and the shrill scream of a man, appearing his age, who had jumped between him and the bulls with no thought for the consequence. Vashon glanced back to see him suffer the very fate he had envisioned for himself. He never knew if he had survived, though it seemed to him doubtful.

Then came the longest, most densely crowded stretch, the Estafeta. The precious time that poor fool had bought him was lost to the cackling idiots that now blocked his way. Everyone wanted to touch the ‘Naked Bull’ as he would be coined in the days that followed.

In that moment, he came as close as anyone to understanding what actually infuriates those mammoths. He, too, wanted to maim as many of the noisy drunken fools as he could and began to scream wildly to get the hell out of his way. Then he noticed them no longer looking at him but over my shoulder and beyond and laughed at the dark justice as the expression change to terror on their pathetic painted little faces. They stopped laughing all at once and turned to scatter like helpless, frightened sheep.

Vashon knew then without looking that the bulls were close behind, and being on the straightest run would gain speed quickly. But something had changed in him. He was no longer a man running from the bulls. He felt to his core that he was running with them and for the same reasons: to crush every living being that stood between them and some end to the madness as if they knew he was not the enemy. Some were close enough to gore him but ran along beside instead.

He thought of Elliott who would no doubt scoff, but he was not the only one who noticed it. The crowd that had laughed at a clown was now revering in stunned silence a true miracle. They ran as one up the street stomping and snorting and God help any who didn’t have the brains to get out of their way. He felt huge! The horns on his head were fastened tightly; he knew them for the formidable weapons they were. He felt the blood and sweat running down his body, reminding him that he was still alive. He felt his tail swing this way and that across his backside and almost believed for an instant he could swat a fly with it.

Vashon had the strength of a bull. No one stood in his way as he smelt the tile of the Estefata, the tall trees that lined the entrance of the Callejon as they came into view. The street slanted downward as they picked up speed and entered the tunnel leading to the bullring. Some runners sought the safety of the small dugouts to either side, some ran headlong ahead of them into the sunlight that was blinding after the darkness of the cavern.

Then, as one, they burst onto the sand of the Arena. The crowd went wild, for a moment only, then a hush as the dobledors began to herd the bulls into the pen. Vashon stood alone, facing the crowd. Was he a hero, or a mockery? He awaited the verdict. A young matador took notice, stood up straight and, adjusting his suit, began to walk across the sand in his direction. The murmuring crowd looked on until a single voice shouted, “Viva San Fermin!” followed by a deafening chant “Viva San Fermin! Viva San Fermin!

The man reached a point not a few feet away and eyed him and his condition. Only a fool questions a phantasm, and this matador was no fool. Seeing the bloodied man, his heaving chest, bound hands, he raised his sword to bring it within inches of his matted chest. Recognizing this as not a threat but an offering of freedom, Vashon raised his wrists to the blade and pulled hard, severing the bindings, freeing him finally. Then, with a slight bow, the young matador handed Vashon his own red muleta with which to cover himself. The crowd exploded into shouts and applause as Vashon returned the bow, and, removing the horns and tail, offered them to the man. The matador accepted these trophies with a sheepish grin and the two walked toward the stands.

Elliott was waiting there when he arrived, shaking his head

“You were supposed to wait for me, cabron.”

Vashon shook his head wearily at his friend, smiled a little as he sighed long, took his offered shoulder for support, and allowed himself to be led away. The two walked back through the crowd; there were laying on of hands and whispered reverence to the reincarnation of San Fermin himself. Outside the arena Vashon bathed in a fountain, the enchanted onlookers refusing to allow him respite, demanding instead to help wash him, to clean his wounds. Elliott began to tire of the adoration, being pushed and shoved out of the way.

Finally, after many drinks and accolades, he decided finally enough was enough

“Hey, Jesus,” he said, his tone austere, “When you’re done being anointed we need to talk about work, and money.”

“Serious Elly, now?” said Vashon, enjoying the attention, choosing amongst the woman for which would help him forget the recent horrors that afternoon. Elliott was having none of it.

“Yeah ese, now,” he said with a note of finality. Vashon looked up at his partner and realized instantly there would be no dodging the issue this time. And so, with a wave of his hand and promise to catch up to them later he waved the woman away, stepped out of the fountain and motioned for Elliott to walk with him. They headed back through the crowds toward the van where Vashon could get some clothes as they began to discuss business. Elliott, having finally got his friend away from the adoring entourage, lightened some concern as he eyed the damage done to his friend.

“Damn cabron, what the hell did you get into?”

Vashon gave him a sheepish grin.

“Seems I found her.”

“The magnificent woman?”

“That would be her.”

“Damn cabron, does she have any sisters?” said Elliott, to which Vashon laughed. The mood now eased the two walked in silence for a while, then Elliott picked up the thread

“Met this crazy Viejo this morning.”

“Talk to me,” he said to ensure his friend that he had his ear.

“No, let me say this, he found me.”

Vashon was listening.

Listening.

This was not about money or work. It was about Elliott, though Vashon remained above the surface.

“Those old bastards are always eyein’ me in the stall.”

Elliott was adamant.

“No, cabron. This guy has money, and he says he wants to pay us, do you hear cabron, pay us.”

Vashon was reticent to lose the moment and thus regressed

“Alright, I’m listening. What’s he selling?”

“Listen, I know it sounds like bullshit, but this Viejo says he wants to pay us to…” Elliott stopped just then, not sure of his footing.

“Don’t make me wait for it Elly.”

Elliott turned to Vashon, cringing

“Hunt mermaids. And fuck you cabron, don’t even look at me like that.”

Vashon looked at him, like that.

“Elly, dude, this guy is picking up on some drippings he overheard…after some buggering, yes?”

Elliott stood his ground.

“No Vaz, this is work ese…money. We got none, how can you not get this?”

Vashon cringed at Elliott’s naivety. He was far too tired to fight, worn was he; time and tide. He spoke for the sound of it.

“Yeah, OK…so…where are these…mermaids,” buy time, find clothes, get bearings. Como siempre.

Elliott fidgeted.

“Some place called ‘Mukilteo’”

Vashon froze, his breath ceased

“What did you just say?”

Elliott found he had, for once, the man’s attention. And this was not a bad thing.

“Mukilteo, that’s what he said, ese. You know it?”

Vashon rubbed his ragged head

“Jesus, dude. Been a stretch since I heard that shit.”

“Yeah? So, where is it?”

“It’s not anywhere, as in no such place exists. Old Indian legend. Supposed to be some kind of gathering place or happy hunting ground or some such nonsense” Vashon rummaged through his clothes bag.

“So where is it supposed to be then?” asked Elliott, impatient

“Somewhere on the coast up north of Seattle. But it ain’t there. I’ve dove those waters for years. Never seen anything but fog. The guys pulling your chain,” Vashon eyed his face in the rearview mirror. Acceptable, he concluded.

Elliott shadowed him close, unrelenting.

“I could use some shore break, Vaz. Need to see home. Serious Vaz, we need to go talk to this guy” Eliott was now begging, “Por favor, man.”

Vashon eyed Elliott in the mirror and, getting the gist of his plea, turned to his friend. There was a moment of decision

“OK, Elly. I’m with you, man. I don’t much care for the story, but let’s go find your old man. If we’re lucky, he’s still there. And still buying.”

Elliott’s shoulders dropped then as he fell silent. He was never one to keep fighting after winning the battle.