The Naked Bull

Memory is both a blessing and a curse: If one did not remember, there would be no years; if one could only forget, little need for tears.

Abandoned, alone. Shipwrecked, Vashon staggered back to Mukilteo, much as those original castaways must have, some three centuries before.

Tripping over a useless hunk of metal, he cursed at the Gods of the tide until he recognized the piece of hell: Redmond’s barb. Taking it for the trouble he walked out and away from the darkness.

A ghost town has, at the very least, ghosts. Mukilteo, at that moment, was a dying man’s last breath: Dry, empty, final: In no urgent need of reply.

Meager few wisps escaped the soot-covered chimneys, fires untended, beds cold and damp. The natives, those original peoples considered domestics that had forever milled about, always about their tasks, were no more. The skiffs and whaleboats lay misty on the sand, sweating fog. Vashon could not right this. Then again, what was right? There was no breath of wind, the smell of salted ash hung thick in the foreboding stillness.

If there were anyone alive, they would be at the longhouse of the Banshee. As he crossed the distance, his wary eyes shot side to side, the sense of impending doom rolled over him in waves feeling exposed in the open range until finally, putting his shoulder to the heavy door, he stepped inside. He breathed deep that he had made it that far. There were steins and food half-eaten on the tables; benches and tables askew, but no one to be seen. Whatever had taken place, he had missed. But Whidbey, and Anacortes? They would surely not have, if the option were given, left the place in such a fashion.

He turned to leave then halted, for there seemed some refuge there, though he knew in his heart this was but a mirage. He straightened his spine as he placed a hand on the door to head back into the hungry wasteland and then turned, of a sudden, his keen ear detecting a breath, a whisper.

“Vashon,” he heard, a labored gasp. He hurried then through the place trying to follow, then found, Whidbey on the floor, his face and mouth bloody. He was holding his arm with his hand.

Vashon ran to him, dropping to one knee. He had been beaten, his face a patchwork of colors, blood dripped thick and drying from lacerations deep in his brow. The Englishman was conscious, only just. His eyes rolled slowly from side to side, trying to focus, at once coming to rest on Vashon as he reached out to touch him as though he was not sure of what he saw.

“Vashon,” he whispered through dry, swollen lips, spitting blood and saliva. Vashon grabbed his shoulder and righted him.

“Right here, old man. Take your time now, speak to me,” he said, looking the man hard in the eyes. Whidbey struggled to form words.

“Took me Ana, they did. Tried to stop them. They’ve gone to put her in the cage, feed her to the witch,” the tears began, then “Me Ana Vashon, me little girl! I tried to stop them,” he said, staring into Vashon’s eyes, searching for some sign, some hope.

“You just hold on,” he grabbed a fur from a chair, rolled it up, and placed it under Whidbey’s head. Then he left him there as he went behind the bar to pump some water, then took it back to him. Pouring a little on his lips, held him up so he could drink. Whidbey choked.

“Easy friend, there’s time enough.”

Whidbey swallowed as he gasped.

“There is no time, mate. Be a good lad then, go and save me Ana, I’m beggin’ ya.”

Looking around the room, Vashon remembered then Redmond’s spear, a strength for the old man if nothing else. Gripping this, he put the shaft in Whidbey’s clutching hand, then said these words.

“I am going, friend. No promises. If things go south, save yourself. Your Ana would expect no less. Do you hear me?”

Whidbey spit blood.

“Go then, man…do your worst!”

Vashon left him there. Running to his van, he pulled open the back doors, exposing his waiting gear. The van still held a scent of Elliott, something he had grown accustomed to, had time and again wrinkled his nose to. Something familiar was already missed. His movements then were tight, and with a purpose, an urgency he could not remember; he had a reason to exist, and it had nothing to do with him. He would set things aright or die in the attempt. Somehow this single-mindedness, this acting on the dire circumstance of the moment felt good, felt more alive, if that were possible, for Vashon had never been anything if not alive.

He pulled on his wet suit and secured a regulator to a tank, checking the pressure as he worked from instinct, there was no thought, nothing to remember, for it was all as breathing for him. Out of habit, he strapped on his sharpest knife to the inside of his right lower leg and, not sure why, took his spear gun as well. He turned towards the water; the tide was high, the Salish astir. This was good. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice his bubbles in the bustle of the edgy water.

There was no one in sight though the platform from which the cage was suspended was hidden from his perspective. His only hope was that he was not too late, that he could cover the distance with enough air left to free her, if she were indeed in the cage, if the cage was still underwater. Vashon became dizzy with the odds against him, he repeated over and over his standard mantra,

‘No one gets that lucky.’

And other issues: Vashon had a habit at times, such as this, when all seemed lost; when the only plan was no plan at all: When failure was the only logical outcome. And that was to move forward and have faith the end would resolve itself in an ending that left him, if not victorious, at least in one piece. When the sand and rocks of the bottom faded in the distance, he left the surface and followed, kicking slow and long toward a dubious fate.

On the platform above, below the ceiling of ancient wood, a group of mercenary hunters outside of time, beyond all reality, stood assembled. Issaquah was once again faced with the mystery of the mermaid’s gift: If she was in human form, does the magic still hold? She savored the thought of a mermaid awaiting death, licked her beautiful lips as she imagined her prize, now submerged in the saltwater that even then worked its own magic on her before she was killed, boned, and cleaned, made presentable, then laid before her.

Not as a random chance encounter on a beach somewhere in time, to be hacked and sawed at, gnarled and mauled to pieces, but to be served in a delicate fashion by gentleman servants, white-gloved with backs straight, eyes averted from respect and position, on shining china with cutlery placed just so. The killing itself would be great theater, a series of acts meant for entertainment, hors d’oeuvres and cocktails at six, dinner and dancing to follow.

Redmond stood impatient, not understanding why the pomp and circumstance, why not just get on with it? Bryn Mawr stood silent with the others. The ritual was but a dream to all, for their days did fade in the constant mist. Things had somehow changed, all felt pensive, for Shiatoru was now dead with many others. Some remembered, others distant strangers, all once dramatis personae in a theater known by only a few, hanging from the pilings, along with the newcomer, Vashon’s late companion.

All knew the ante that was on the table; all had a hand in the stakes. Yet the game had grown tedious, gone out of fashion, become a weight that not all were content to carry another step. Issaquah looked to each, her minions, her once captors, now a devout tribe of worshipers, or so she believed: She weighed their hearts against her feathers. The balance spoke of a shifting tide, a changing wind.

Yet she knew the hearts of men were easily turned; this may indeed bode askew of her designs. Time, as always, would be the inquisitors condemning silence, Caesar’s thumb, Pilot’s washed hands.

And there hung the chain; there waited the killing floor.

Vashon knew he was somewhere near his destination, though caution might have kept him further north than he had cared to be. He turned to the south, knowing that at some point, he must hit the wall of pilings. A large grey shape came into view in the distance at a depth of about a hundred feet. It was a ship, sitting on the bottom, listing to port. An old masted sailing vessel, its masts broken, though still jutting from amidships. This, he believed, was the pirate ship that had brought a savage crew and their prisoners to Mukilteo. So, the witch’s tale had been genuine. He had never really questioned her integrity. Although evil, deceptive, intent on her own single-minded ends, she was no liar. Oh, how he would love to explore this shipwreck, this monument to a fantastical history. Another time, perhaps.

His depth gauge told him he had indeed overshot the great beast. He would have to turn left again and head east toward shore, which he did. Then he realized (much to his relief) that he had not gone much further. Vashon smiled, approaching now from the seaside. For he knew this was something not even an observant bastard might anticipate.

The face of the underwater structure now rose before him, an Atlantean cathedral, awesome to the eye. Vashon kicked inside, slowing his physical movement to a minimum, slowing his breaths, reducing the flow of bubbles as much as possible. The paltry light faded, Vashon switched on his flashlight, making sure to keep it aimed no further than horizontal, so as not to flash errant signals to the surface.

Then there was the cage, resting as before on the submerged rock shelf, the chain taught above it. There was the shape of a small body there; they had not yet taken her, Vashon exhaled a small sigh of relief. There yet may be time.

He approached the cage and shone the light on Anacortes who turned to see him, wide-eyed. She swam toward the side he approached; Vashon saw her for the first time as a mermaid in her natural element. This was truly amazing, spectacular in fact, he thought, in awe as he was.

When he had first seen her on the beach, was first faced with the truth of her existence, she was wounded, her body limp; flaccid. Now her body, the human part, shown pearl white, glowing with a light that seemed to radiate independently of any reflection from afar. But her fish half was what most impressed upon the diver. He had initially witnessed a myriad of rainbow scales, but now there were indeed apparent patterns, he likened them to tiger stripes, spinning around her, originating at the mid-point of her spine, and tapering forward, not touching, but terminating in forked tongues from her belly to where her tail began. On both sides of her, where knees might exist, two smaller fins fanned out and moved as did her tail, with the ability to move independently. Her magnificent mane of dark hair flowed out around her, exposing then hiding her precious face that waited, confident that for her lover would free her, that there would be some sane resolution to all of this madness.

Vashon had to shake his eyes clear of her to check his air gauge. Five hundred pounds. Textbooks dictated end dive now. He had not practiced this rule in many years. Putting up a hand to signal for Ana to hold tight, he swam to the port, the hatch of the cage, which was secured as before. Vashon grabbed it and pulled, yanked at it, looked for some mechanism or release, though he could detect none. He then inspected the hinges for some hope, yet there was none. In desperation, he grabbed at the door and pulled, shook it with all his might, placing his knees against the rounded surface of the prison for leverage, yet there was no give, no slack. The gate, and hope, was sealed shut.

Then two events took place that caused his racing heart to freeze. His air supply ran out, as evidenced by the short tugs his lungs took for any last drops, and the chain that secured the cage to the beam above began to move, drawing the holding cell, and its prisoner toward the surface.

Vashon was left with pitiful few moments to make the decision he had dreaded since leaving Anacortes alone on the beach. And yet the inevitable moment had come, there was no more time, and the choice was no longer his to ponder. And so, pushing away from the opening, he once again met Anacortes at the side and looked into her eyes. He put his gloved hands over her bare fingers that gripped the bars. She gazed at him for a moment; he waited for her answer, her thoughts, which came in the form of a simple nod, and a small smile, a recognition of what was inevitable, what must be done.

Vashon reached down the inside of his leg and pulled his knife. Reaching through the cage he took Anacortes around the shoulder and pulled her toward him, holding her tight against the corroded wall, he put his blade between the bars, against her bare chest, then paused, looking into her eyes. She looked at him but for a moment, then, touching his cutting hand, closed her eyes tight. Vashon inhaled the last half breath of air from his tank and, with shaking hand, began his bitter task.