The Naked Bull

Vashon did not stir as she spoke to him in a strange, soft tongue. Her cooing was tender and mournful as though she were speaking to a great love long lost and, perhaps, utterly abandoned by. Vashon indulged in the surrender in her voice, knowing full well the moment would pass, her eccentric mood as fleeting as the light that played now and again on his heavy eyelids. She began to coo softly, and whisper

“Oh, my husband, my husband! The light of my eyes has become dark! Do you not remember how you stretched forth your arm under my head, and I enjoyed your strength, and you vowed to me that you would never forsake my love?”

Vashon only breathed in and out, content in the knowledge that for that day, there was no more. Let the squabbling Gods quarrel the obstinate devils for the hearts of others. His day’s work was done, his sword oiled and sheathed, his shield hung outside his door.

He felt her hands on him then and knew she had done with her ruse, her attempts at his mercy. Be she, devil or witch, she was the first woman, who was once and never again to be ignored. For she knew a man could close his eyes, shut his ears, lay quite still, feigning sleep. Yet there is a serpent in the tree that she commands, with snake dance tongue and spiders touch.

Issaquah pressed against him, her naked body as soft as the fur he lay on, and in an instant, his clothes fell away as she slithered atop him, he felt her firm breast on his ribs, her warm moist crotch on his thigh and then her legs spread to either side, her face at his throat, tonguing, lapping at him in long slow strokes, leaving snail tracks of saliva, then to his chin, his ear, he heard her hot elevated breath, she was eager, oh, how she would not be denied; oh, how he wouldn’t dream of stopping her, hard, polished oak he was, his hands running slowly up and down her sides, over her ass, which rose and fell as she rubbed herself against him.

Oh, sweet muse, do tell of days with a woman unlike any, Vashon touched her cunt as she took his hand to hold it there between heaven and hell. There in the blood on his fingers, she licks at it, then offers it to him, taunting him with the crimson ambrosia, he looks at her, it was a dare, he knew, one which he would take readily.

And why not? He licked at her sticky fingers, and she came unraveled, crazed, moving her quickly forward and, straddling his face, put her bleeding cunt to his mouth. He took her ass in both hands to hold her writhing hips in place so he could lap at her vagina, drinking her menses, until there was no more to be had. The woman slid back down him then, leaving tawny lines the length of Vashon’s abdomen.

Issaquah took Vashon by the throat and for an instant he thought to call out, feeling her intention murderous though she looked instead at him, her mind spinning some web, some plot contrived long ago, and now determined for fruition.

She moved forward over him: Vashon reached between them and touched her cunt, hot and wet, then grabbing his cock, guided it inside her, feeling her stomach muscles flex, her back arch. She gasped, then grabbed and held onto his arms, his shoulders, and rode him, her hair fluttering and tickling his face and chest as she danced above him. She thought all the while, if only Adam had been such a man, had been secure enough in his manhood to grant her this one request, demand, that she be allowed to dominate him as he dominated her. For was she not his equal?

Oh, what paths would humanity have followed then? What use of God’s had a man and woman on equal footing, back to back, against the savage creation? Nothing could have resisted such a force.

She fought him, grinding, bucking drooling and grunting as she neared an orgasm of such violence, she threatened to destroy Vashon. But he met her rampage with his own and then he rose up and grabbed her by her hair close to the back of her head and spun her around, so she was then beneath him. She growled and screamed her dismay, her displeasure of this subservient position, being forced and held beneath a man.

She looked at him with hate, with fury as she tried to wriggle out from beneath him as he held her pinned down and began anew to drive himself in and out of her in strong thrusts. She stopped fighting him then and, accepting that he was her man, let him conquer her, allowed this blasphemy that had at one time an eternity ago cost her an Eden, a mate, a God.

But now, in that instant of dominance and submission, Vashon was her man, and, with her climax now building inside her, threatening complete annihilation, he was, yes, say it, yell it between clenched teeth, her God, yes, her God!

Vashon felt Issaquah’s sweating body shutter, and with the realization that the battle was won, allowed himself finally to release as well, a groan rising from deep within his gut, quite with a life of its own, as he ejected his semen inside her in never-ending streams, long and primal until it stopped, they stopped, he was still inside her as his neck muscles relaxed and his head lowered until it rested on her chest, her heavy breathing subsiding with each exhale.

He opened his eyes then and looked into hers. A look of astonishment prevailed her beautiful features. He had not believed this emotion possible on that face, but he saw then something never before witnessed, and this amazed him, as he did something he never thought he might do. Vashon put his mouth slowly to hers and kissed her, slowly and tenderly, as lovers do, after the passion, the fire, when the ashes are stirred by the winds of aftermath, and all that remains is the question of motive. And in that instant, they both agreed, in complete silence and with no words, that their motives were at least honest, though the purpose was yet to make itself known. Leave that now for another day.

Vashon rolled to her side and they lay there, both deep in their own thoughts. Issaquah got up and walked to the corner, blood on her skin around her buttocks and thighs, and, taking the pitcher, poured water into the basin and wet a towel and washed herself. The, rinsing the towel, tool it to Vashon and began to clean the blood from his, face and throat, then his abdomen and crotch. She began to speak as she worked

“You are now like me, my Naked Bull, your life now has no clock. For how long I do not know. Time, perhaps, to find another Grail. And maybe, time for your brother Poulsbo to roll around again.”

Vashon frowned.

“But will I know him, or he, me?”

“I remember you,” she said and looked at him “Tell me I am not familiar to you.”

Vashon thought.

“There is something there, a taste, a wisp of a memory, in the peripheral, the corner of my mind’s eye. Each and every time I turn to look at it, it vanishes, as smoke in the wind.”

“Keep at it, trick it, tease it out. It will come to you in time. And now you have a little more. Yes, you will know him. Be patient with him; for the memories of our previous lives are dormant, as hibernating beasts they must be allowed to wake of their own, and feed in their slumber. But do not be hasty, nor hope for too much. You may find his remembrance of you will not be what you seek; no tear-stained reunion. For do you know how he beheld you in life? Were you that hero, that perfect big brother you thought you saw in his eyes while he was alive? Or were you seeing what you wanted to see?”

Vashon wondered.

Then she added, as an afterthought.

“Tell my tribe of castaways they are free to roam as they please. I would only ask that they keep secret from the world our precious hideaway, our hole in the wall, our Mukilteo. And return perhaps from time to time, to keep this place alive. For I have seen far too many wonders fade into the sands of time, forgotten, lost forever.”

Vashon thought on this. He had lost his sleep and his thoughts then turned to the people, the world that awaited him outside. He climbed to his knees and pulled on his clothes. Issaquah rose and walked to the large mirror and hesitated, caught by the vision of the great beauty she was not ashamed of, nor pretended to be. She reached and took her robe and pulled it over her arms as she walked to the opening in the tent wall, then turned and looked back at Vashon who stood watching, entranced. She had the same bewildered look on her face. Then she smiled and almost embarrassed smile, as though to say she would have to consider all that had transpired between them.

“Take this day, my Naked Bull, for you have done well and earned your rest. There is much to be done, tomorrow your journey begins anew,” and then added, “I will meet you there.” Then she turned and disappeared into the desert oasis outside.

Vashon turned and saw the door in the wall where he had entered and walked toward it, opened and walked outside. Sumner sat in a rough-hewn chair on the deck, Bryn Mawr stood waiting. Both looked at him with questioning eyes. Vashon addressed Sumner first with a look, and a nod. Which, by the look on the old man’s face, sufficed.

Sumner stood and bowed, then looked at Vashon. There it was again, that cleverness behind the dullard’s mask, he was caricatured as a dupe and a dullard, but exposed to the attentive eye another nature as a pursed brow beneath a clown’s paint. The question lingered.

Vashon then turned to Bryn Mawr who faced him.

“We leave with the tide,” he said, an obvious maritime reference, though a worthy point of reference between an ancient buccaneer and a young submariner.

“I will wake you,” she said.

The three walked to the Banshee in silence.

As they walked through the heavy door of the Banshee Bryn Mawr stepped before Vashon. She was his keeper now and searched to see what malice. The tribe sat with bent head.

Yesterday they had a reason to exist. Not much, really. But some excuse to drag their ruddy asses out the cot, yes?

And now Redmond dead. Now Bryn Mawr held sway? Now what?

They kept their faces in their drink. What else was there? Stinking brine, for Christ’s sake What else was there?

Sumner wandered over to the corner table that had once been his meeting place with Shiatoru and sat in his old chair, looking across at the empty seat once occupied by the bitch.

Vashon stood for a moment, taking in the scene, when Bryn Mawr stepped in front of him, perhaps deciding then was as good a time as any to speak to her crew.

They watched and waited. Bryn Mawr was a woman of deliberate action, and few words. When she did speak, she was heard.

“We are what is left of the crew of a pirate ship. Soldiers of fortune. For lifetimes we have hidden here in this sanctuary as the world has turned. This man has liberated us. We are free to rejoin the world of the living for whatever time we have left. He will leave Mukilteo tomorrow. I have been given the task of traveling with him, to guard his back, to someday return here to Mukilteo.

Do as you will but remember always: We were once a strong and indomitable crew, that sailed the seven seas as one, sharing in the bounty. Remember as you travel, we are brothers and sisters who once swore a blood oath as strong then as now. I choose this place, Mukilteo, as our meeting place, our sanctuary, our home. Do not forget this place.”

The small crowd stood, slowly at first then as one, a solemn bunch, resolve. Seneca posed a question then, one on everyone’s mind. For though they had all had a hand in their demise, their self-imposed exile, they had also become as prisoners to the witch and were forbidden to travel, for many years then, by the witch and under penalty of death, a sentence many had paid.

“And what of the Lady? What has she to say of us?” he asked, bringing a murmur from the crowd. Vashon stepped forward then and addressed them, reiterating what Issaquah had said, and then stood silent allowing the wheels to turn in the minds of those, on subjects that had been forbidden dreams for so very, very long. They seemed at a loss, as well they should be, so he offered them some hope for their unknown future.

“I am a traveler as you all once were. The world has changed for you, as even in my time I have watched it turn. What was once a dune is now a beach. I think you will find that, beyond their toys, the hearts of men have not changed. Do you not see this in me?” there was some confusion amongst the crew, their eyes sparkled at the prospect of new adventures. They glanced amongst themselves, recipients of a new freedom, then salted again as one, she who had always been strong; he who liberated them.

Vashon watched, realizing then he was being saluted as well, accepted then as one of them, a brother in spirit and blood.

And then he saw Anacortes, who looked at him forlorn, a question in her bewildered gaze. He gazed back at her, hoping that some passing God might grant him words. But there were none. He only watched as she turned then to her father, Whidbey, for some chance, some hope that he might intervene, remedy the aching in her heart. But he only looked at her, the same forlorn look in his eyes, wishing also that he had something to say. The girl sat down her tray, and they both watched as the room chanted and sang, and she walked through the back door and disappeared.

Vashon knew to follow her just then would be a mistake. Anacortes would take to the water as she always did whenever strong emotions came upon her, be they happy, sad, or in this case, heartbroken. Steins of brine were shoved in their hands and food was pushed before them. Vashon let them embrace him, his new family, and soon had a warm glow and a full stomach.

At length, he broke from them, weary and thoughtful, his thoughts then only for his mermaid, his Ana. He left the Banshee and trudged across the sand to his van, his ship.

As he slid the old side door open, he felt eyes upon him. Someone in the water watched him, someone precious, someone wounded by him. It seemed his lot, to hurt people, though it was never his intention. This last justification gave him no solace, for if he had learned anything at all it was that once one decides to intrude in another life, intentions be damned, sooner or later, and again and again, there will be pain, suffering.

Is this not the definition of love? Pain? Torment? Even if for nothing other than the certainty that sooner or later, by death or fork in the road, we must all part ways.

And will the road rejoin? The wheel of life tosses us together again in some reincarnated version of our old selves.

Perhaps.

Vashon walked to the water’s edge, making himself silently available. There was nothing to say, so he said nothing. Yet she was there, and they shared the moment. Then he turned, having said goodnight in his heart, though not yet goodbye, and went back to his vehicle, his ship, his magic carpet. He had no idea what time it was, nor the day or date. He rested his heavy head, finally, and slept the dreamless sleep of the confessed heart.

The next morning Vashon sat at the bar early, eating some potatoes Whidbey had prepared, declining the offer of fish. Whidbey was shaking his head, muttering. How could a sea hunter have no taste for fish? Vashon had tried, in vain, to explain it was not the fish but the time of day. This was an exercise in futility, not so much that he did not understand, but more that he really didn’t care. Anacortes had not been in her bed that morning, nor was she there now, preparing for the day with him, as she always had. And he knew why.

“Ya chased off me help, ya did. Won’t get nothin’ done today.” he said, more in jest than not, for they both worried for their Anacortes together, of this they were quite aware. Vashon changed the subject.

“You sticken’ around here?” he asked, shoving a rather large chunk of potato in his mouth. Whidbey stopped busying and looked up.

“I’ll stay with me Ana. You ever comin’ back?”

“I’ll stick with my friends, old man. And I will be back.”

This answer seemed to please Whidbey, who then picked up his towel anew and redoubled his efforts with newfound energy.

“Should be a good Fiesta this year,” Vashon said, finishing his plate.

“Too many people, too much noise. San Fermin’s is for the young.”

“I’ll give them your respects,” said Vashon as he stood.

“You do that, mate. You just do that.”

Vashon turned and left. No long goodbyes, no farewell at all. He knew they would meet again, soon enough.

As he walked out and the Banshee closed behind him he wondered why Bryn Mawr had not been chompin’ at the bit to be off, as was her way. The reason became evident soon enough, as he saw her sitting on the remnants of a dead tree down the beach, and beside her was his mermaid. They appeared to be talking. The thought occurred to him then that he had never seen them together.

He walked toward the van, keeping a watchful eye on them. They both turned then and, seeing him, Bryn Mawr stood and met him there. Her orders were simple.

“Go to her.”

Vashon reached inside his van for something and then walked to where Anacortes was still sitting. He though to sit down beside her, but instead, she stood and faced him.

“I made her promise not to kiss you.”

Vashon wanted to laugh, but she seemed absolutely serious.

“Bet that was tough,” he said, “And you?”

She looked at him “And me?” she asked

Vashon held out his hand. In his palm were two chocolate kisses. Anacortes smiled as she took one and they both put one in their mouths. Bryn Mawr watched from a distance, trying to understand the ritual. Then Vashon moved closer and, taking her face in his hands, kissed her long on the mouth, the most wonderful kiss he had ever had.

Bryn Mawr winced.

“Nasty”

They held each other for a long while, Vashon running his fingers up and down her back, feeling her long soft hair. Finally, he pulled away. This hurt and he felt a tug in his throat, water building in the bottoms of his eyes.

“Your Dad’s looking for you. Says you’re late for work.”

She wiped the tears from his eyes with a trembling finger.

“I will miss you, Vashon, great mermaid hunter.”

“I will miss you, Anacortes, my mermaid.”

They walked together hand in hand back toward the van. When they reached the point where Bryn Mawr stood, Anacortes let go and, not stopping, kept walking toward the Banshee and never looked back.

Not once.

Vashon wiped at his eyes and looked at Bryn Mawr, who was watching him, a strange look on her face.

“Yeah?” he said “What?”

Bryn Mawr attempted her best version of a smile. It wasn’t much, but Vashon appreciated the effort. Her attempt at humor was sad as well.

“You will let me know when you’re ready for a real chocolate kiss.”

This floored Vashon. Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

They got in the van, and he started the engine then drove to the briar gate where the guard stood.

“Be back before sundown” he said, his samurai face shining.

The wall vanished and they drove through and down the gravel road beside the train tracks.

“Where to first?” asked Bryn Mawr.

“Gotta go see an old man who lives in a beautiful little town called Yakama. You’ll love it. Trust me” he said and waited for her next question, of which he was confident there would be many

“Does he drink anything besides brine?”

“Oh yeah,” he said “Worse.”

“What could be worse than brine?” she asked, looking around at the scenes unfolding before her, a mere taste of what was to come.

Vashon frowned

“Scotch”

Epilogue

Midnight at the Banshee

It was late, the lights dimmed, the taps dry. All had wandered off to their cabins and fires. Anacortes was fast asleep; Whidbey had hung his bar towel for the night.

In a darkened corner, the Night Owl sat across from the Prince of the Power of the Air, watching him nurse his brine.

“Sure you won’t have one, my dear? Might relax your brow,” he said with a quick grin. The witch squinted.

“You know I loathe salt, old friend,” she said.

“Reminiscent of sulfur; to my taste, that is,” he said, pulling at his glowing Meerschaum pipe. The Night Owl was not listening.

“And so he has gone, your little messenger; he and that turncoat Africana,” she brooded; Sumner waxed optimistic

“He will return. You assured that future when you failed to destroy his little plaything.”

She hissed, leaning forward with a pointed finger

“I failed nothing!” she exploded, “If I had wanted her dead her bones and whore spotted tail would be laying on the bottom of the Salish; our stomachs full,” then fell back, spent.

Sumner enjoyed her tantrum perhaps a bit too much.

“Pot calling kettle black, my dear?”

The Night Owl squinted venom; the Prince moved on quickly.

“She is quite a treasure, is she not? He has won her, and he will return.”

The witch stood and walked slowly toward the door.

The Prince called after her.

“You will look in on him from time to time, yes?

This was, of course, a foregone conclusion, yet he wanted it known he was not oblivious to her design. As the heavy door swung open before her, Issaquah turned.

“I have at least as much invested in him as you, old friend,” and with this turned and flew off into the night sky.

The old Summoner sipped his brine and puffed smoke rings in a darkened corner of the ancient longhouse of the Banshee near midnight; a rhyme tickling his impish grin.

A witch will sit and plan your death

And maybe it will be

Or perhaps not, if but first

You get you to the sea

Mark R. Stevens lives and writes in Yakama Washington

with his wife Xochilt Rubio Molina Stevens