The Naked Bull

It was late afternoon, near evening. A stiff breeze blew in from the Olympic mountains skimming hoarfrost off the whitecaps of the Salish. It would be misleading to suggest the sun was going down, for in the shadowland of Mukilteo night and day are not divided by twilight so much as an ambiguous sense of obscurity and gradual decline.

Vashon and Elliott had been north that day, spotting the layout for dive sites and, more importantly, alternate avenues of exodus, the coveted back door of the clever and alive. Few words passed between them as a sense of unraveling dulled their tongues, neither knowing what might be said, if anything. As they meandered back towards the Banshee, the inevitable last stop, they passed a large cabin, Black locust smoke billowing from the chimney. Vashon noticed just then the front window had been smashed, from the inside out, as shards of glass lay strewn on the wide deck. Burnt orange firelight echoed off the jagged remnants, along with animated voices, one of which held the unmistakable tremble of Sumner’s. Vashon stopped as Elliott turned to him to see the matter, looking at the foreboding place with disinterest. Best a pint and a pillow.

Vashon, by contrast, and of a sudden, had decided to intrude: Time to worry more slivers to the surface of Mukilteo’s thick skin. A knock on the door might catch the old man in a compromising position with a player he had not yet encountered.

“You head on. Line me up with a brine and I’ll meet you there,” he said. Elliott looked at the place and then at his friend.

“You sure ’migo?” he asked, preferring to stick close in that dark place.

“Promise I’ll keep my dick in my pants, Dad,” said Vashon, with his mischievous wink and a nod, then Elliott walked away.

Vashon headed up the steps, the voices growing louder. The window must have been recently broken, he observed as he skirted around the pieces to avoid the crackling step. He might have stood there listening, though the gist of the talk, having no context, was unintelligible.

Thrice he knocked.

The voices ceased, followed by those patent shuffling steps. Sumner, Vashon smiled. A latch was lifted, the door swung open, and, speak of the devil, Sumner peeked inquisitive. Recognizing his friend of new and no immediate danger, he addressed the man.

“Mr. Vashon, well, well! This is a pleasant surprise,” his smile genuine, Vashon noted, his eyes welcoming; as if he had been expected, or at the very least, hoped for. Vashon reached out and laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder in greeting. Their eyes shared a knowing as mischief intruded.

“Allow the poor man in, Sumner. Forgot your manners?” came a voice from inside. Vashon couldn’t place the demanding tone, but he was sure he had heard the voice before. Sumner stepped back taking the door with him, allowing, no, begging the man enter. Then guiding with a solemn face, waved Vashon into the room. Vashon had seen that look one too many times: a blade was soon to drop. He walked in wearily, watching Sumner’s eyes, knowing the tell would come from there, while acutely aware of his peripheral. He took a step, and then another when Sumner shifted his glance, Vashon followed.

What he beheld there stopped his heart, and his forward momentum. For there, in a small cabin in Mukilteo, was the exact replica of the room in Pamplona where he had first met Issaquah and danced with the clown, Shiatoru. It was the same in every detail, from De Sade’s sex toys above the fireplace to the books and statuettes on the wall. Even the glass of brandy he had left untouched on the tray was there, in exactly the position he had left it.

The fire danced and twirled beneath the sturdy mantel, the orange glow leaving much of the room in shadow. There were two high backed chairs facing each other in some proximity to the hearth, one was empty, no doubt recently vacated by Sumner, in the other sat the imp, Shiatoru: Cocky, face long and self-obsessed, a testament to a long and labored life of questionable ethic. This face knew good from evil but did not use morality as a determining factor.

Beside him on a small low side table sat a decanter of brown liquid, a tumbler of which he held in a hand which rested on an arm of his chair.

Vashon was transported in an instant to that other time and place where he fought this beast for his life, naked, bound and bloody. His legs began to move toward the man of their own volition as his breaths came in gasps, his heart battering the inside of his swollen chest.

He was now outside himself, above looking down, observing himself as he clenched his fists, feeling revenge close at hand, imagining how he would twist his neck slow and feel the bones bend taut before snapping loudly as they splintered. He had but one intent: This dog must die, most violently, and now!

Shiatoru sat placid, as though oblivious to his impending doom. Vashon now hovered over the man; had no concern for his lack of fear and was poised to commence his onslaught when Sumner darted before him, nearly absorbing the first salvo full in his suddenly gnarled face.

“Please! Mister Vashon, what is all this? Are you mad?” he said, the palm of his wrinkled hand on Vashon’s inflated rib cage. Yet he protested too much; this was an act, and, realizing this, Vashon put a respectful but severe hand to his shoulder. Sumner fell back to a safe distance with no ado to observe and interfere no more.

Vashon was now entangled in his single-minded effort bent on one most deserving victim. Now there was nothing left but to chew the mouthful of red meat he could already feel between his teeth, swallow the blood he could near taste.

A revelation, thought Vashon, equating the two to be the cause of much blood and humiliation, all his, in Spain. That encounter he would never forget if he lived a thousand years. He then lunged forward, shoving an open palm against the man’s throat pinning his bobbling head to the back of his chair. The glass flew from his hand, crashing on the hardwood, that he might grab and wrench free from the madman’s arm and strong hand, fingers threatening to claw every conduit of blood and breath from his clucking gullet. Vashon raised a gnarled fist to bludgeon the wretch until his unrecognizable face dripped and dribbled lifeless.

Then it all changed.

Vashon suddenly lost volition as he watched Shiatoru’s face in horror, once contorted, mouth agape, tongue extended purple dripping saliva, eyes bulging out of their red-rimmed sockets, began to evolve, to morph into another, at first a blur, then taking form, becoming familiar, becoming…no, it could not be…Poulsbo? No! What vision of hell is this? Vashon lowered his fist and loosened his grip only a little, not willing to believe the specter of his little brother as he looked up at him then, pleading, attempting to talk. His words came labored, forced through a twisted larynx.

“Vashon!” he wrenched from his throat. “Vashon, Mom says I can come with you…can I? Please?” and smiled as if waiting for approval, acceptance into his older brother’s fold.

Vashon began to shake his head slowly side to side, his mouth moving, uttering nonsense “Poulsbo?” he cried “No. Not you. You are not real!” There was no reason, no sense. The tears began to burn his eyes, to tickle his cheeks. He pried himself away from the phantasm and turned to Sumner to search his eyes for any glimpse of humanity, to beg him to make it stop, to end the madness. Sumner only watched, a sense of sadness on his face, an empathy genuine, though intervention never the option.

There was nothing left for him to do, the wind leaving his sails to slack and hang worthless, setting him finally adrift. Vashon released his grip, unable to take his eyes from his brother’s face. Backing up he stood and stared as it began to change again, blurring first, then becoming Shiatoru who, without a thought, turned to the small table beside him were the decanter of brandy sat, poured some in another tumbler there, sat back and casually nibbled the crystal rim.

Vashon’s head hung numb; his ears rung hollow. He felt puked out, worthless, and sought the door and escape, humiliation be damned.

Oh, how the web does stay one.

The spider moved, the sound of dry leaves tickling a brittle grave.

The sound came again from the shadows, a voice, a whisper that, even in its hushed manner, demanded an audience. Vashon paused, suddenly gaining some semblance. How could he have forgotten? There was another player in this theater of the absurd whose entrance to the stage was now prompted. He looked around; the room was dark, where the sight could not penetrate.

There came then a creak as if from an old chair someone had just risen from. Then, from behind and above the bitch Shiatoru, a partial face appeared, one side exposed to the glow of the fire, reminiscent of a profile from a second story Pamplona window.

Vashon found then some grasp. He had grappled with this witch once and survived intact. If this is her party, then he would rise to the occasion, and attend.

And was it not indeed the woman, Issaquah? Her face held the same deadpan expression that had haunted his dreams since Spain.

Vashon found again his sea legs. There were no words he thought to speak, no action he contemplated. Let her speak, let her dance, for this road I have been down. He barely acknowledged Issaquah, out of barren reproach, as she entered the distance between himself and the other man and approached the fire without a sound, as though the very wood of the floor bowed before her every step.

He thought then this was the same necromancer he had witnessed on the altar on their hard-lived return from Tschakolecy Island, bound in dark and wicked shroud. Now the temptress wore a wisp, skin clinging mesh and netting. Did her peerless body not tempt any man beyond endurance?

Think you not.

And was Vashon not a man? It was all before him, as if he had returned to Pamplona, cut and bleeding, in the web of two lunatic arachnids. Sumner arrived at the other chair, not producing or offering another, began to bend at knee in order that he might retake his resting place. His leisure was short lived as Shiatoru, irritated of a sudden by the old man’s presence, suggested otherwise.

“Don’t get comfortable, old sod. We have use of that chair” he said, still addressing Vashon.

“I don’t have any pertinent…” he began to protest; the witch settled the debate with a glance. Sumner stood and shuffled across the room, vanishing inside a shadow. Shiatoru motioned with his drink toward the vacancy and then sipped and exhaled long. Vashon sat down lightly, his back never touching the chair back.

The two eyed each other most pernicious.

“I would offer you a brandy, my love, but that would not be your style,” he said, mocking Issaquah, who, though would not deign to acknowledge the jealously, smirked just a taste.

Vashon suppressed a sudden urge to attack them both: The man for his mocking pretense, the woman for, well, playing him the fool. This sudden malevolence disturbed him; it did not turn well in his empty stomach. But this was their game, and it was them that played the white chessman.

Shiatoru didn’t stir, a smug grin on his brandied mouth, he was humored by Vashon’s confusion. Issaquah was a scavenger bird, a seagull. Vashon sneered his insolence. The witch approved.

“Yes, Vashon, my Naked Bull, it is I. You haven’t forgotten your Issaquah, have you?”

Vashon manned the helm of his chair, placing bits and pieces at odd angles to make them fit, to somehow explain the anomaly. He looked from the clown Shiatoru to the woman and back again, they both stared, enjoying his confusion. He loathed the belittling reek emanating from the two, the insidious enjoyment they derived from his predicament.

“I forgot nothing, bitch,” he said

She cooed, teasing.

“That would be witch if you don’t mind, my love.”

Issaquah slithered provocatively towards him and ran her fingers over his face with an evil tenderness which warmed Vashon. The woman’s demeanor had changed, as if once possessed, then suddenly exorcised, and now unruffled, began to address Vashon in a most businesslike fashion.

“Well, Vashon, how are you and your companion getting on in our little haven?” she said. Then there was Shiatoru, that dumbass drolling swagger. It was right there, mingled with a bad taste. Vashon was tiring of the charade. The faghot mouthed his tumbler then swallowed, pooching out his lips, adding to the conversation his mouthful of swill, as if anyone gave a rat’s ass.

“And the hunt? Are we getting any results for our little investment?” he said. Issaquah looked at him just then, as though she had forgotten his presence, and was irritated by a lesser actor stealing her thunder. Vashon saw this for what it was, a weakness, a chink in their armor, and began the joust.

Vashon found his spine.

“You wanna talk about the hunt, asshole? Let’s talk about the hunt. Mermaids? Are you fucking kidding me, asshole? Look at me asshole, fucking mermaids?” Vashon gripped the arms of the chair; suddenly glad he hadn’t gone to the Banshee first. A hint of brine would have long since launched him from his seat. As it was, he remained in a sitting position, if only for the moment. Shiatoru interjected, stuttering now.

“Mermaids? Yes, well, quite to the crux as our…man, Sumner often quips. Your title suggests you have some experience with these creatures, yes?” he said, continuing to play the calm eye of the storm. Issaquah grew visibly impatient, something Vashon found odd, though potentially useful.

“My title?” said Vashon, pushing the gambit, “Are you high? “That title was a joke, asshole. Mermaids are a joke, asshole. Now you’re a joke and, while we’re at it, your bitch here is a joke. Are you getting any of this, asshole?” he said.

Shiatoru said nothing, looking towards the witch for some retort, which she gave. Issaquah was tiring of him, that was obvious. She began to prod Vashon.

“Oh, now that really is unfair,” she touted, turning from her man. “A moment ago, you wanted to kill him, my love. What has happened to your fire? Has the taste of blood left your tongue dry?”

Vashon refused to acknowledge her. She saw this and began to tease him, with evil intent running her fingers through the Shiatoru’s hair. The witch put her open mouth on his, her tongue preceding this oral sex. Yet this was a distraction: She placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place, then, glancing over her shoulder, mouth still attached, at Vashon with an evil twist to her mouth, she placed the sharp nails of her rigid talons just beneath his sternum and dug deep, the muscles of his abdomen flexing as if in preparation of a punch, ripping through flesh and muscle. Shiatoru’s eyes bulged in surprise, his mouth forming a question, attempting, no doubt, to appear calm in his trust of the creature that was even then searching deep within his ribs for the source of his life there.

At last she halted, confident she had reached her destination, and, with a few violent tugs, yanked the stubborn crimson handful from his tortured gut while simultaneously yanking his tongue out of his throat from the root with her vicious teeth.

Issaquah stood there, the bloody gore dripping from her hand, her mouth, her eyes wide with the pleasure of the obscene act. He looked at her, a question forming on his face. The stump of the man’s disconnected aorta now before his eyes, he tried to speak in a few short gasps. And then, blood spewing from ravaged arteries, his face dropped into the mess, his chin now bobbing on his vacant chest, as he died hard, refusing to accept the inevitable until he was left with no choice, as a dying dog chasing his tail.

Issaquah spit out the bloody meat, which bounced on his quivering knees then made a tiny but exciting splat on the wood of the floor. Vashon wondered how the wood might taste to his lonely tongue.

“Odd,” she said as she held the organ up before her face. “I had thought him heartless,” then dropped the gore into the dead man’s lap with a splash. Vashon watched as the witch licked her fingers slowly, her eyes at half-mast, watching him for storm sign with each taste. But none appeared, Vashon the epitome of the voyeur. She took hold of her breast with her bloodied hands and began to knead them, smearing the blood over their thin covering.

Vashon savored a tantalizing duality within him: One version toyed the apparent reaction to stand, feign disgust and contempt, storm from the room with perhaps the stock slammed door thrown in for effect. This, he felt, would be nothing less than a childish tantrum, the melodrama laughable. The other version observed, no, enjoyed the spectacle to no end. He could not pull his eyes from the woman and her death ritual. For had she not done precisely what he had intended but a moment before? Had he not, truth be told, dreamt of ever since his escapade in Spain? Something dormant, lurking beneath the stairs in the basement of his soul now stirred, awakened from its drowse to don horns yet again on his angel’s grimy face.

It did not take a witch to decipher his thoughts; she smiled her grim approval.

Still staring at Vashon, she called out.

“Sumner!” The man, who had been waiting at the keyhole, appeared of a sudden with bated breath in wait of his orders

“Do have your men remove the evening slop, would you? I’ve done with it.”

Sumner grinned wicked, a grateful act he would indulge with vigor.

Issaquah turned from the scene then, impatient to continue with her guest. She put a hand on the mantle and leaned over the fire, her eyes seeing something there deep in the coals. Vashon watched, his gut pulled tight in his heightened state of awareness that prevailed as the limp body of his once enemy was taken, by the arms and legs, still in his sitting position. His head fell back again to an inhuman extent, no longer fettered by anatomy intact, exposing the red velvet threads of a torn mannequin. The lifeless pompadour was then carried away and out the door, without question or remark, which was closed quietly behind them. There was only the movement before him, then the still of the room after rolled in, a dense suspended mist.

“Oh, but I sense you are torn. You are, of course, a rational man, even in the face of the irrational.”

Vashon sat, savoring the quiet, alone again with this magnificent creature. He had begun to relax, now that the brunt of the storm had passed, that the arc of the scene had been reached and surpassed. But Issaquah was unrelenting, refusing to allow the exposed nerve a moments air, adding instead yet another pinch of salt.

“His ghost follows you still, Vashon.”

“That is my business,” he said, instantly regretting the pathetic and gratuitous statement.

“And witches, and mermaids?” she said, turning away from the fire towards him, her flawless body aglow, the crimson blood of her white blouse having an arousing effect on him.

She refused to let his brother sleep.

“Shall I describe him for you?”

The man did not want to hear, suppressed the urge to put his hands to his ears, to close his eyes tight and hum white muting noise inside his head. But his mouth began to make white noise instead in an attempt to drown out the incessant onslaught.

“What the hell would you do with a fucking mermaid?” he said, searching for something, anything to derail the juggernaut racing toward him. Issaquah reached for a poker that hung in a wrought iron rack on the hearth, a sound of metal on metal, and began jabbing at the fire, ignoring his banter.

“He is your height, perhaps a bit taller. His hair is reddish-blond, though thinning. He is quite proud of the hair he allows to grow thick on his face.”

Stop. Please just stop.

“His right arm is deformed, from birth. Your mother drank for him in utero. He is incapable of twisting it, this has troubled him deeply, while he was alive. It follows one in death, you know. Though you pitied him for it, the sight of it disgusted you.”

“What would you do…” he stammered.

“Is this not a picture of your brother, Poulsbo?” she allowed the name to hover in the air like an ungainly bat, flickering here and there with no intention of escape. Vashon made more noise.

“…if you had a mermaid right here…”

“Is it fear, my love?”

“…in front of you, right now?”

She looked at him, a ravenous beast again, now holding the glowing tip of the iron dangerously close to his face. Her voice now tight, the timbre rising quickly. She left Poulsbo reluctantly and addressed the mermaid with annoyed malcontent.

“I would savor the slow and wicked kill! Oh, I would drink her blood and chew her innards! Gnaw the meat off her bones, then suck at the marrow! As I have done before, as I shall do again!”

She paused just then, Vashon grateful for the respite, be it short-lived. Her chest heaved, her eyes wide but vacant, as though seeing another place, another time, past or future, but not there and not then. When she finally returned her voice had changed again, now more thoughtful, now again the earthbound woman.

“No, my love. My Naked Bull. We must not begin like this,” she said, as she returned to the fire again. She picked up a small log from the pile and placed it slowly, in an exaggerated display, on the pyre, the flames licking at her hand. Her lips parted ever so slightly as she enjoyed the pain, salved by the touch of Vashon’s steady eyes upon her.

“As I remember we began in Spain,” he said.

“Vashon,” she said, dismissing the words.

“Why are you here? Why am I here? mermaids, really?”

“Vashon.”

“For God’s sake, woman, witch, what do you want from me?”

“God’s sake?” Issaquah tilted her head, “Yes, precisely!”

Vashon buried his face in his hands.

“You’ve lost me, woman.”

Issaquah waited the space of a breath, then another. She had guided him down through the nine rings of hell to crawl out the bottom in tatters, bewildered, to face the mountain of Purgatory.

“Lost? Indeed yes,” she smiled “…and lost is where we shall begin”