The Naked Bull

The Shaman Alki awoke with an erection and a sneaking suspicion that little Lord Fauntleroy had escaped him during the night, leaving the old healer with a bothersome itch he couldn’t quite reach with his free hand: The Night Owl had visited him once again.

Isolated for eternity in the grayscale of an Ansel Adams morning, to be sure, one does not regard oneself as Shaman; it simply does not work that way. It is an honor bestowed, a reverence, a calling for which one either accepts or ignores, no shame, no glory, just an acknowledgment of angels and devils and the meaning of a grey sky morning.

And then there was Fauntleroy, the innocent young lad who wore the garment of the unwitting charm against the night demon, sleeping at the foot of his bed as oft as his mother would allow, (for what mother does not listen for the sound of a young sons sleeping breath?) Yet the subtle talisman only worked if Fauntleroy would but remain on his side of the door until dawn crested the far Cascades.

Old bones that bitched and moaned; disrespectful sandpipers that scurried and scavenged the low tide wasteland. Pale shiver feet, toenails desperately in need, threadbare blanket, brutal age distracted for a time by merciful sleep. For a long while, Alki divined the counsel of the bird’s nonsense, respecting the sinister midget’s audacity as he searched the well-worn floorboards for some thread of his dream of the black-skinned woman from the other side. Her arresting silence, her melancholy stare, her teasing breasts that defied gravity. With a sigh, he urged himself, spurred on by his purpose, his raison d’etre, to stand and reluctantly lean into yet another day on this plane.

Later, the fog would burn off. The taste of owl sex would not. Alki knocked hopeful at the door of Fauntleroy’s home to find the boy’s mother boiling water for coffee, which he dearly loved, his mouth watering at the promise of an offer. It was an unnecessary observance of etiquette, this knocking, in the small village on Tschakolecy island doors were rarely locked, hung perpetually open to all, as family, especially this holy man. His knock was more to allow little Fauntleroy time to hide, as he would be afraid the old man would be upset with him for not staying the entire night.

“Sorry to bother, Willow,” he called before entering, “but I seem to have misplaced my little guard in the night,” he said,

“You haven’t by chance come across him, have you?”

He called her Willow, though that was not her name. As a young girl, she had always carried a willow branch she plucked from a stream or a pond, would pet the soft tufts as she sat silently in deep thought for hours. Her large black eyes revealed a depth the shaman recognized at a very early age, as the eyes of a seer. And though she never pursued the holy life Alki would often seek her counsel and kept Fauntleroy close, for his lineage reflected the same.

A shaman must have his apprentice, after all.

“I haven’t seen anyone all morning,” she said, “The coffee is almost ready if you would like some,” knowing he would not refuse.

“Perhaps, I should check your bed for evil spirits. They come in all shapes and sizes, you know,” Alki offered as he anticipated the warmth of the cup.

“Óh, would you?” she said, a little louder than necessary “I have noticed the blankets moving all by themselves lately.”

Alki made heavy noises as he walked toward the bedroom door. Peering inside, he saw the lump of a small body hidden beneath the covers.

“I will need a broom to beat the bed, to chase away the demon,” be said aloud. The covers twitched and then lay still. Alki walked to the back of the house and, finding a broom there, returned to the room where he proceeded to beat the bed with heavy strokes, missing by inches the body hiding there, which shrieked and, sliding out from under, ran past the shaman toward the safety of his mother’s apron.

“It’s not my fault!” cried Fauntleroy. “He snores..and his farts stink!”

Alki replaced the broom where he had found it and shuffled to the kitchen table where he sat. Fauntleroy’s mother placed a cup of coffee before him, then set a cutting board with a loaf of sweet bread on it. She picked up her knife and touched it to the top, suggesting a half-inch slice, then glanced at the old man who raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. She moved the blade over a bit and sliced a larger piece. Alki enjoyed the breakfast as he watched Fauntleroy eat his bread with milk.

“If a man farts, he is alive,” he said, “And I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do!” cried the boy, looking at his mother to believe him, then with a full mouth “…and loud!” then finished his food, still chewing his mouthful, jumped up, and ran out the back door. Willow smiled. Alki knew she would soon impart something more than the weather, and so gave her time to find words as he nibbled on his bread and drank his coffee.

“They were out there yesterday. I saw them, the sea ghosts,” she began, not looking up from the table.

“You have seen them before, my dear,” said Alki. It was a black cloud stuck in an otherwise blue sky they had lived with all their lives, as had their parents, and their parents before them.

“The spider on the wall is not a stranger,” she said, pulling apart a piece of bread, “Ever notice how you sometimes see the shadow it casts on the wall first?” occasionally placing a small piece in her mouth, where she chewed it slowly, then swallowed.

“You follow the shadow, to the web, to the spider. It always seems he has been watching you all the while, waiting for you to catch up.”

Alki considered this.

“You give them weight with your worry.”

“They have always been a part of the horizon, a bear in a distant clearing. When his father didn’t return,” Willow cast a glance toward the back door “I knew they had taken him; for I saw blood dripping from the bear’s mouth as it grinned at me, swallowing my heart, piece by piece” her voice trembled for an instant, then grew strong again.

“This I saw.”

Willow’s face was stone, a drop of water worked through a crevice in her eye.

“My man rowed out to that shore to make our lives better. He will not return. This, you know.”

The morning floated between them.

“And my little Lord Fauntleroy?”

Alki pushed his cup and plate away, done. It had happened before, the disappearances. It gnawed at him. Her pain, the tribe’s pain. His task.

“Thank you, my dear, for that wonderful breakfast. The day is moving; I must be about my rowing lessons.”

“And how is that going?” she asked a sudden smile. He would be critical. His stern humor would set her day aright.

“I fear they do not take me seriously and consider it an old man’s folly.”

“Doesn’t sound like children to me,” said Willow.

“You laugh,” he complained, “Rowing is an important skill. There are no more decent oarsman here.”

Willow walked the old man to the door then, turning, touched his arm.

“They are growing bold again. I could near make out the features, the evil of their grim expressions. It was as though the dead envied the living.”

Alki looked into the deep pools that were her eyes, seeing a young girl, wild black hair and dirty face, petting a willow branch.

“I must send my friends to remind them of their place.”

He left her there with his heart.

Alki walked toward the beach, considering his lessons for the morning. He might begin with the art of balance, an important skill on the sea. It would be well as he could teach this on the sand and only allow them to dip their oars in the water as a reward for having mastered it, or at least, listening, which was always an uphill battle. At times, when the students showed signs of waning attention (which was often), he would suggest a race, a motivation.

He would choose the biggest buffoon, the loudest whiner, to race him to the end of the jetty and back, perhaps a hundred yards. Then, manning their canoes, someone was chosen to start the race, and off they went. The loudmouth would begin pounding the water as he wobbled on unsteady knees as Alki sat serenely as his spirit helpers, the mighty Blackfish would propel him with their snouts and dorsal fins to the end and back, allowing for only a mere few dips of his oar.

Of course, all saw the creatures assisting their mentor, and would thus complain.

“That’s not fair! You had help!” for the Blackfish were larger than his canoe. But once back on shore, while under intense attack for his hedged win, he would glance out at the still water, his friends disappearing beneath the waves, and pretend to search for whatever they might be on about. All this he envisioned as he walked, and yet he found it difficult to hold these thoughts for any length of time, as Willow’s concerns worried him.

She had sight, something not to be taken lightly.

His great-grandfather’s legends of the strange people and their Great Altar across the Salish Sea to the East, had been dancing in his head much of late; it was time to take up his rattle and dance along.

He was well aware, with much trepidation, the Night Owl would kick up her heels in time with the haunting music as well.

And so, worn down finally by the inevitable, the Shaman Alki opened the gates of memory to the tales of his father’s fathers, and the place across the water, the place of gathering.

They, as he, had all traveled in their dreaming bodies to witness the spectacle.

The land known as Mukilteo.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form