The Naked Bull

As time evolved, the Greeks named the days after the sun, moon and the five planets evident to them. The Gods Ares, Hermes, Zeus, Aphrodite, and Cronus, were nodded to herein, thus the ‘Theon Hemera’ or “days of the Gods.” The Romans favored their gods Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn. The Germanic tribes mostly substituted similar gods for the Roman deities, Tiu, Woden, Thor, Freya, though they did not attempt to spurn Saturn.

This, all this, makes for a decent timepiece, yet was lost to Mukilteo and her Matriarchy. No names of days remembered; no months of the year exalted. Each day was as much the one before as the next. Yesterday and today, still tomorrow were relevant, merely as reference points of what was recent, what is, what might soon be. The dullest conversation would cease to exist without the abstractions or the meter of the tenses of time.

Vashon wanted to curse the witch Issaquah for her spell of forgetting while knowing all too well, being an honest bastard, oft times to a brutal degree, that he had sought and lived this endless summer, this same said timeless existence. Had he not found and now besmirched his Shangri La?

Outside the gate, the Grecian wheel turned.

His ward for a day Anacortes clung close, wide-eyed; he touched a gentle finger to her chin, which produced a confused look as she closed her mouth. He could see she had never experienced anything like this: the figurines, kites, hats and street musicians, the myriad bodies.

And him.

She asked a thousand questions at once, not waiting for the answer to the last to begin her next.

They came to an art shop with paintings on the walls and figurines on the shelves. She was fascinated by the porcelain orcas and sea otters, octopus and crab.

“They all look so real,” she said, more breath than voice. The two happened upon a shelf of mermaids, not uncommon in such proximity to the sea. She gazed at these in silence for a time and then asked, “Do these people hunt mers as well?”

“I doubt it,” Vashon huffed at the joke she brought with them from the beach. They moved along, then came to a used book shop and peered in.

“Those are books. You wouldn’t be interested” he said

“I can read,” stated Anacortes proudly, not to be outdone, “Whidbey is teaching me.”

Vashon was intrigued by this.

“Oh Yeah? What have you read?” he enquired, half expecting Doctor Seuss.

“Right now, we are reading someone called ‘Tolstoy’ about a woman with a name like mine.”

“Anna Karenina, no doubt.”

Anacortes nodded, remembering the title.

“And another book about a big white whale and a mean old man called ‘Ahab’” she said.

Vashon was again impressed.

“Moby Dick. Damn, that’s heavy stuff.”

“It’s all Whidbey has. He brought them with him,” she said.

“You like ol’ Whidbey too, huh? I met him in Spain years ago. Kind’a freaked me out, seeing him here.”

He had been wanting to broach the subject but had held his tongue.

“He is kind. Not like the rest.”

“Yeah. We had always looked forward to seeing him. Then last fiesta he vanished. Guess we know where he went, yes?”

People were eyeing the two; Anacortes was stunning in her frilly elk skin cut above her knees and moccasin boots, though he doubted she knew it, having just discovered a mirror. His insatiable ego devoured the attention. That’s right; she’s with me.

They moved along to a candy store that had a sampling table as they walked in. Anacortes breathed deep the sweet air. Vashon watched her as she enjoyed the aroma and they shared a knowing smile.

“Look at those rabbits,” she said, pointing at chocolate bunnies wrapped in multi-color foil.

“Looks like someone’s trying to get a jump on Easter,” he said

“Easter?”

“Yeah. It has something to do with God, or his son, actually,”

“God?” she asked, “I have read the word in Whidbey’s books, though I never understood it,”

“You’re not alone,” Vashon said, searching her eyes for any hint of understanding of the irony, yet there was nothing there. He realized suddenly how precious this being was, with no concept of a deity. There were no words, save perhaps for John Lennon ‘Imagine there’s no heaven, no hell below us, above us only sky.’ He lost his tongue just then. He was taken back to the few times he had broached the subject with Poulsbo, who knew the names but little more, caring even less. Their parents had been religious, but for different reasons, which forever caused more harm than good. Oh, but is this not the once and forever description of our Lord?

Vashon realized he was brooding as Ana squeezed his hand. He shook off the age-old debate.

“Those are Easter bunnies, and these are Easter egg baskets,” he said and picked one up. There was only one small purple egg left down deep in the curled imitation grass.

“Here, last one. Try it,” he offered the sweet to her. She reached in and plucked out the egg.

“I am to eat it?” she said.

“Yeah, it’s the last one. May be good luck. Unwrap it first” he said.

She peeled away the thin colored foil with her nimble fingers, exposing the chocolate which she placed in her mouth. Vashon watched as it rolled one her tongue then bulged in her smallish cheek before the inevitable crunch! Her face expressed instantly the new taste she was enjoying

“Mmmmm…that is good!” she said.

“Don’t make a habit of them, rot your teeth outta your head.”

“Fuck that, I want another!” Vashon looked up at her “Whoa Ana, where did you learn to talk like that?” he said

“The Banshee,” she stated simply.

“Yeah,” he said, considering the atmosphere and inhabitants she spent her days with. “Looks like they’re all outta eggs” he searched the table.

“Here, try these. Different shape, same idea.”

Anacortes read the words on the candy.

“What is ‘chocolate kiss’” she asked. Vashon contrived a hasty plot.

“Well, we both put one in our mouths, and then we kiss,” he said. The girl pursed her brow.

“On our mouths?” she asked looking up at Vashon

“That’s the idea. But if you’re not cool with it” he shrugged, suggesting experience lost. Anacortes snatched for one.

“No, I wanna try.”

Vashon picked one up as well, they allowed but seconds for the chocolate to melt before moving in and lightly touching sugar-coated lips. When she did not pull away, he put his hand behind her neck over her soft wavy hair and opened his mouth, opening hers as well, as he kissed her again, this time quite passionately. She did not resist him. They pulled away slowly, his eyes open, her eyes shut. Vashon realized they were standing still in a mass of moving humanity and, taking her hand, joined the flow.

The smell of raw sea beast was getting stronger; he noticed Anacortes sniffing the air as well. They walked alone together in the crowd of many. As they approached the seafood market, her eyes became wide at the site of pile after pile of neatly stacked dead sea creatures, their dark vacant eyes begging some sympathy.

“So, this is where they all go.”

“They go?” he asked, wondering at her meaning

“The water was full of them yesterday. And yet today, well, an empty bucket,” she held it aloft.

Vashon had no words. In his years diving the oceans of the Earth, he had witnessed the same. He shook it off feeling a sudden pang of hunger in the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah, well, still looks tasty, yes?” The two began to select for their bucket, Oysters and rockfish, clams. They came to a large bin of octopus where the girl lingered. Reaching out a finger, Anacortes touch one lightly on the head.

“How sad. I know these friends.”

Vashon wanted to ask but knew. He also had a great love for these intelligent beings.

“Looks like we’ve got a bucket full” and paid for what they had.

The crowd grew tighter as they pushed on. Anacortes did her best to keep close but got separated from him from time to time, and this made her angry. She grabbed his hand and held it tight. Vashon looked at her and, realizing this was too much, led her back toward the entrance and the van. Once inside and alone with the doors closed, he realized her breaths were labored and her face was down, her eyes closed tightly

“You alright?”

“Please…I can’t breathe. Please take me back now.”

Vashon sought the quickest route to the van then drove them back to the dive shop, leaving her alone as he loaded the tanks, though he kept a wary eye on her. He imagined her sensory overload and beat himself for subjecting her to so much so soon. Why hadn’t he thought?

This self-criticism lasted until, on the way back, he tried to speak to her again, and again she said nothing. This made him bitter, and then she dulled. Don’t get close, man, don’t let them in. There is only one person you are responsible for, and that is Vashon. They drove in silence down the dirt road. He stopped long before they reached the gate.

“Better climb in back, princess, we’re almost there,” he warned without feeling as he released her from her seat belt. She climbed in the back under the covers. They approached the thickly overgrown wall, and Vashon observed this time as the barrier faded to nothing, leaving only the guard and his shack. He began to pull forward, the guard eyeing him as he stepped aside. Driving to a spot far from the housing so none could see he got out and opened the rear doors

“Ana?” his dry voice called. He wanted her back, where he found her where he could leave her to her own devices and chalk the day up to yet another example of just why he should leave the innocent well alone. The covers moved aside slowly, and she looked towards him for some assurance that the coast was clear. He gave no smile, just a nod, she grabbed her bucket, climbed out, and stood there, face down.

“I am sorry Vashon, I feel better now,” and looked up into his stone face for some sign she was forgiven for whatever she might have done wrong. Vashon saw Poulsbo and another innocent soul.

“You best get back. Whidbey will be worried” she set down her heavy bucket.

“Can I have one more chocolate kiss” and tried her best, most hopeful smile.

“All outta kisses, girl. You get along now” her smile ran away.

“I thought, I…” she searched his eyes, but they were cold. she realized her behavior had thrown water on a small fire as she ran her fingers through the ashes to salvage any heat. Vashon would not hold her gaze, rubbing the back of his neck as he fidgeted, “You best get that fish out of the sun before it starts to reek, you hear?” and turned.

“Vashon, are we not friends?” she pouted. He didn’t look at her.

“You don’t want to be my friend, girl. Just get yourself hurt” and fiddled with the gear inside the van door. This had been a mistake, and she found it suddenly hard to breathe or think of what more to say. Finally, she dropped the bucket, which hit a rock and fell over, dumping out some of its contents then hurried away. Vashon looked down at a rockfish that had ended up on the sand, at its blank accusing stare.

“What are you lookin’ at?” slamming the door shut he grabbed the handle of the bucket and shoved the sea creatures back in, thinking he might follow her and say, and say, say nothing. He saw the seagulls eyeing it, wanting the dead gifts, circling closer and closer, landing and eyeballing his intent.

“Don’t think so, asshole” He swung the catch of the day in a wide arc and released them in the direction of the surf from whence they had come and watched it splash, bob once, twice, then sink. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he marched off toward the shelter of the great altar.

Elliott stared at the plate; he had been served without the advent of a menu. He was reminded of Tulum in Quintana Roo, where you ate whatever was caught that day. This morning’s catch: potatoes and fish. On one side of his plate sat a rough-edged brownish cloth that could easily have been cut from a burlap sack his potatoes had no doubt been stored in. Folded in this, he found a fork of sorts, three thick tines of dark iron mounted in a rough-hewn wooden handle. The knife was a formidable weapon: Cut from the same slab of iron, it looked ridiculous as an eating utensil. The dive knife Vashon wore was as a pocketknife by comparison.

There were others at a nearby table, sitting on benches, eating noisily, like ravenous dogs. They smacked their chops as they gnawed, drink dribbling down their thick stubbled chins. Redmond was among them; Elliott felt his red eyes on the back of his neck. Ignoring this, he remained alert.

He dreamed of a burrito or taco de carne asada and his mother’s salsa verde. This made him think of home and how long it had been since the last time he had been there. And the stuff they drank, brine, seriously? Sure, it numbed the brain but was god awful bitter on the tongue. Had Vashon left any beer in the cooler? He doubted it and kicked himself for not thinking to have him pick some up while he was out. He should have known, that had always been their ritual. But Elliott knew when a woman was tossed in the mix, the rituals were one up’d by animal magnetism.

Whidbey stood behind the bar watching him. He saw the look on the man’s face and, being an expatriate for many years himself, now a denizen of Mukilteo, felt his pain.

“You’ll get used to it, friend. We all do sooner or later” and topped off his mug.

“I don’t plan on being around that long. A few more days and this muchacho’s headed south” as he forked a potato and shoved it in his mouth.

“Good luck with that, my friend,” said the barmen.

Elliott looked up at him

“Oh yeah? And what’s stoppin’ me” poking at the fish. Whidbey was preoccupied with another diner. When he returned to stand in front of Elliott, he continued.

“I do appreciate you and Vashon coming. I enjoy the familiar company. Though truth be told I never thought you would.”

Elliott looked up at the man.

“Why did you tell that pinche loco old man about us? What are you doing all the way over here, you get tired of Spain?”

“Sanctuary,” said Whidbey simply “You ever read Dante?”

“No, man. You sure you ain’t got any meat back there?” sneering at the fish on his plate.

“According to Dante, there are three gates to heaven: Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso. Try the fish. It’s lingcod.”

Elliott shook his head “Pinche pescado for breakfast? Man, that’s just wrong” and then added.

“Listen. I saw your pigs back there. Listen, man, it’s easy. You kill one and cut off his feet and toss them in a pot of water. Let that boil for a while. Then, cut out the stomach and chop it into big chunks and toss it in.”

“Menudo then?”

“That’s the shit, cabron.”

“I’ll give it a think,” said Whidbey “Now, about Dante.”

Elliott shook his head wanting none of it.

“I’m Catholic, amigo. When it’s time for Paradiso, I’m walkin’ right through the front door.”

Whidbey leaned on an elbow.

“Well, that be it then. For if Catholic ya be, you must’a seen the sign above the entrance” he waited.

Elliott frowned. “There was no sign.”

“Sure there is, friend. Says right there, big as my teeth, ‘Abandon hope, ye who enter here’”

There was a loud outburst of laughter just then, followed by an exaggerated choking sound. There were three at the table; there was one sound. Elliott looked toward the three. Redmond wiped his beard and shook his head, noticing he had gotten the attention that was his intent. He spoke toward his mate’s words meant for Elliott.

“I must admit lads I have given the church a wide berth of late. Remind me…does the good lord allow heathens in heaven?”

The other two chuckled in their plates. There would be entertainment with their meal that day. Whidbey knew Redmond for what he was. He saw the muscles in Elliott’s arms bristle and thought it wise to toss some water on the smoldering fire.

“Leave it be, friend,” he spoke in a lulling tone, “He’s just rattlin’ your cage.”

Elliott looked at Whidbey then his plate. Redmond would not be ignored.

“Perhaps even a pagan can crawl in, on his captain’s boot heels that is.”

Elliott grinned, shaking his head.

Redmond grew tired of his futile attempts. He rose from the table and strode towards the bar as his men watched slack-jawed. Elliott winced at the foul stench as the ogre hovered just behind him.

“And where be your captain then?” he demanded, his face red.

“I ain’t got no captain, pig, and now I ain’t got no appetite,” said Elliott, pushing his plate away. Redmond grabbed his shoulder roughly “What’s that you call me?” and spun the man around to face him.

In an instant, Elliott had his eating knife, which he had been gripping since the noise began, up under Redmond’s greasy beard. The two men eyed each other.

“You know, pendejo,” Elliott said calmly “en mi barrio, you grab a man like that you bleed.”

Just then, a voice came from the open doorway. It was Bryn Mawr.

“Redmond!” she called across the room. Redmond’s men jerked around, surprised by the intrusion. Those at the bar were locked in their own private struggle. The woman spoke then.

“Leave that be, man. Get your men to the boats. We have work to do” and waited. Elliott grinned.

“Best be after your captains boot heels, ese rojo,” and allowing the man to lift his chin slowly off the blade, take a step backward, turned slowly back to the bar.

Redmond, a tree struck by lightning, spun around and, striding past his men bellowed.

“Get up, you dogs! Get to the boats!” and the three of them went past Bryn Mawr, who stood looking across the bar at Elliott, who returned her glance. There was an unspoken truce, then she turned as well and left the longhouse.

Elliott turned back to his meal, eyed it for a moment, then pushed the plate away again. Then, grabbing his stein, lifted it to his mouth and drank deep. Whidbey wiped here and there with his bar towel.

“Best give that tosser a dodge, lad. He’ll marlin spike ya for shits an’ grins, he will,” he stated, then let it alone.

An oppressive mood descended over Elliott as he contemplated his next encounter with the mad dog or any other opposition to his journey home.