The Naked Bull

The visibility on the bottom was impressive, the depth realistic. Vashon was amazed by the size of some of the lingcod and was getting ready to take aim at one that he figured had to be five feet in length. He could already envision it on a spit at the Banshee, Whidbey brushing home churned butter on it as it turned sizzling above the coals. Then he detected some mischief in the pattern of shadows on the submerged landscape. He looked up through the distance. From where he kneeled with his speargun shouldered it looked as if several boats had joined theirs and were now circling.

Something was not right, he must surface. Returning to the anchor line, he began his ascent. At about halfway he stopped and groaned into his regulator.

“Are you serious? Orca…now?” he thought, “And they think Bryn Mawr’s boat is a whale or what?” If this indeed be the case, he knew their only chance was to get to shallow water, so the blackfish had no depth to sound. He continued up the rope. Although mistaken identity could be a problem, he knew it was extremely rare for these intelligent beasts to attack a human or a boat for that matter. This logic, however, was of little comfort when one was in the water with several of the giants acting like sharks in a feeding frenzy.

Bryn Mawr knew she had to make a decision fast. If they left, Vashon might very well die. If they waited, they would certainly all be killed. Put in that perspective, and as the captain, she had no other choice.

“Get ready to pull oars…we are going, now!” and grabbed the anchor line.

“Fuck that puta!” Yelled Elliott. He was scared shitless but wasn’t leaving his friend to die. “We wait for Vashon.” Bryn Mawr held her course, “Man your damn oar or prepare to die!” and glared at him as she pulled up the rope.

Elliott wanted to yell, to scream obscenities. Of a sudden, he was back in the water, half-mile off Point Dume, waiting for death. Knowing he had nothing else to do but obey, he did as he was commanded. He would kill her later, he promised himself, but for now, he would row.

Bryn Mawr pulled, cursing the position she was in, the decision she had been forced to make. She had begun to admire the man Vashon. But that’s the way it always was, she thought bitterly. She had written him off as the blackfish harassed the boat more aggressively. A heavy knock to the side nearly sent her overboard. She regained her footing and pulled once again and looking down was amazed by what she saw. A gloved hand gripped the rope, and as she pulled, eyes wide, and arm and then a face mask. She screamed.

“Vashon!”

Elliott jumped up, the other turned to see two hands grip the edge of the wall. Elliott hooped and hollered as Vashon spit his regulator out of his mouth and, looking up into Bryn Mawr’s wide eyes, grinned wide.

“Goin’ my way?”

Bryn Mawr reached down grabbing his arm roughly, in no mood for his antics.

“Vashon! Get your ass up in here, now!”

Elliott’s eyes teared as he grabbed for the tank pulling it into the boat and out of the way. Vashon kicked up and over the wall with some help from the two. Once inside he pulled off his hood and quickly assessed their situation. Bryn Mawr finished hauling in the anchor and, dropping it in the keel, grabbed her oar and sat down. All but Vashon began rowing out to sea toward Mukilteo. Vashon shook his head.

“No!” he ordered “Turn this thing around and head toward the island!”

“Fuck that, ese!” yelled Elliott “You see that pinche brujo over there? Yeah, the one who’s trying to kill us?”

Vashon looked towards the island and saw the shaman dancing and chanting loudly.

“We can deal with him later. We need to get to shallow water fast or these bastards are gonna splinter this boat!”

Bryn Mawr didn’t care much for his plan either but knew he was right. Vashon shot her a look: it’s your call woman, what’s it gonna be? She stood then and, lifting her oar, carried it aft to use as a rudder. There was no time for everyone to change positions.

“Keep rowing, all of you! I’m turning us around,” and with this, they all put their backs to it, facing her. As the whaleboat began to turn, Bryn Mawr lost her balance again and was about to get a new footing when one of the bludgeoning beasts hit the boat hard amidships. The crew lurched to one side as she toppled instantly over the side and into the churning water. Vashon grabbed his fins and pulled them on, knowing he would get nowhere in the water without them.

The others were too busy watching the scene unfold before their eyes to notice Vashon leap over the side behind them. He kicked towards her as one of the mad giants had a bead on her and had already begun his death charge. She saw Vashon and started toward him just as she was hit, a glancing blow, the fact of which saved her life, but enough to knock her unconscious. She sank beneath the surface before Vashon could get to her. He had not had time to put on his weight belt or mask. The buoyancy of his quarter-inch neoprene, together with the blinding salt water, made it impossible for him to dive. His only chance was to reach down and pray.

The others held their breath, there was nothing they could do but watch as Vashon swung his arm around wildly until, finally, he felt her long dreadlocks floating above her sinking body. He grabbed a handful and pulled her slowly back to the surface. The orcas positioned for another run. Elliott, Marion and Seneca all stood, their oars at the ready. As the beasts neared, they jabbed, beat and screamed to drive them back as Vashon reached an arm around the woman and kicked back towards them. Elliott kept pummeling the backs and fins as the others pulled first Bryn Mawr and then Vashon into the boat. The orcas continued their assault as the shaman continued to urge them on.

Vashon looked at the unconscious woman and then towards the island and devised a hasty second plan.

“Get us back to Mukilteo!” he yelled. The others did not question; now in survival mode, no one had any words to question his command. Then Vashon did something that utterly confused all: He raised his hand up high and started waving at the shaman in a wide-sweeping movement. Elliott was confused by this.

“Vaz,” he called out, “What the hell cabron, that freak is trying to kill us!”

Vashon kept at it.

“Not so sure, Elly. Maybe he just wants us gone” he said

“So what’s the plan?” asked Marion.

“Just smile and wave, little lady, just smile and wave.”

They watched, and rowed, as the shaman first stopped chanting, then dropped his arms to his sides and was still. The blackfish grew calm, still circling, though no longer attacking the whaleboat. When the shaman turned and walked toward the tree line they turned away as well and headed, as one, back toward the north. Vashon stopped waving and knelt beside Bryn Mawr who was breathing, though still unconscious. He rolled up a leather coat and placed it under her head. Then he sat down and picked up his oar.

The danger had passed as quickly as it had begun. It took a bit longer for their pounding hearts to slow. Seneca reached down for his waterskin, drank deep and passed it along. None had realized how dry their mouths were until the water hit their parched tongues. Then they rowed in silence, all reliving the events of the morning. There would be stories told at the Banshee that night. The great pier, or what Bryn Mawr had dubbed an altar, loomed larger as they approached. A dark figure stood watching them from the end. Seneca spoke in a low voice.

“It is the witch. Keep your eyes down.”

Elliott wanted to see but had learned his lesson about witches that day and looked away as he rowed. Only Vashon watched her as they passed. He would not be stared down by anyone. He could not see her face as her dark robes and prominent hood hid her body and face as they fluttered in the wind. Her body turned, tracking their progress toward shore where Redmond and his crew stood in wait. None offered assistance, none spoke.

They landed, finally, the four jumped into the shallows and pulled the whaleboat ashore. Vashon and Elliott jumped back in and gently lifted Bryn Mawr up and out. Marion and Seneca led them to her lodge where they laid her first on a fur rug before the fireplace.

Vashon looked up at the two men who understood and left the room. Marion stayed and helped Vashon remove her wet leather trappings. No wonder she sunk so fast, he thought. Not the best ocean wear. As more skin was exposed, he couldn’t help but be impressed by her beauty, her long thick mane of black and auburn dreadlocks, worried they were to an impeccable array. Each thick tress an animated serpent emanating from a skull so perfectly etched in stone as Michelangelo wept.

He had always seen her heavily clad, her garments tight, yes, exquisitely exposed flesh. He had seen more than his share of nudity; it was no shock to him. But he forever admired the subtleties of each body, the texture of skin, the firmness and contour of each station of the anatomy. This woman was a perfect specimen. From her firm, near-perfect breasts, her erect nipples, her well-muscled abdomen and the tight curls of her pubic hair.

Yet there were scars, many. On her abdomen and her legs. Some appeared war wounds, some ritual, some branding. Property, perhaps.

Marion brought a bucket of water, some cleaning rags as they washed the saltwater from her. They felt her bones as they worked, none seemed broken.

“We need to get a look at her back,” he said, “Careful.”

They slowly rolled her over. Marion groaned. There, from just below her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, her skin bruised maroon.

Vashon saw this as well but was amazed more by the continued scarring. Some of the scarification on her was ritualistic, no doubt. But much of this was abuse, punishment, torture. Her legs had been at one time burned. This woman had known much pain.

“It could just be bruising,” he calmed her, “but it might be internal bleeding. We need a doctor” he looked at Marion

“That will not happen,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean, she could die here.”

“It’s the law. No one comes, no one goes. If you get hurt, you get better, or you don’t,” she looked at him, her face solemn.

“You mean you live, or you die.”

“I just said that.”

Vashon shook his head in disgust. He handed his rag to Marion to rinse, and they continued their work. She glanced at Vashon from time to time, noticing the care he took, the genuine concern in his eyes. Had she detected the slightest hint of mischief or lewd intent there, she would have demanded he leave long before they had gotten that far. He had risked his life to save her and had ultimately saved them all. He was a man, yes, and as all men subject to questionable ends. Marion decided, for the moment, he was, at the very least, sincere.

Having done all they could for her, they lifted Bryn Mawr and laid her on her cot, then covered her with a thick fur. Vashon gazed at her for a moment then turned to Marion.

“Keep an eye on her. Let me know if there is any change.”

The woman looked up at him and smiled. Then Vashon walked out, closing the door behind him.

It was two days later when Vashon spoke offhand of visiting Bryn Mawr. They hadn’t seen her and questions about her revealed little other than she would return to the hunt soon. Elliott didn’t care for her. He was stuck on the idea that she would have left someone behind to save her own ass. Vashon knew this and tried his best to explain she had made a difficult, though correct, decision. Elliott didn’t want to hear. Vashon knew he could go alone but wanted this issue resolved. Elliott finally gave in, though he was still dubious.

“She ain’t your friend, cabron,” he had said, “She was gonna leave you to die.”

“And that would be a bad thing?” said Vashon.

“I know you, ese. You just want her to suck your dick and say, ‘thanks for saving my sorry ass’ all gooey chin, no?”

“No.”

They walked to Bryn Mawr’s door, which was ajar. Vashon knocked, Marion opened up and, seeing the two, stepped aside. Inside Bryn Mawr sat in a rough wooden chair, wrapped in animal skin. Her legs, arms, and shoulders were exposed, she hadn’t yet dressed. A large fur covered her. She was watching the fire that was reflected in her face, her dark shining skin. Vashon noticed as they came in, she was holding something in her hand, a figure of some import to her perhaps, and was gazing at it passively. She turned and saw the two and simply watched them as they entered, dropping the item at her side. She spoke first.

“I had expected Redmond, and flowers” The two smiled at this. A jest speaks volumes of one’s condition. Vashon gave Elliott an elbow.

“You still alive, Mujer?” said Elliott. She blew air out her nose.

“Take more than blackfish to kill this woman.”

There was a silence then. Bryn Mawr gave Marion a look, which prompted her to ask Elliott if he would help her outside. The two left. Vashon had been standing back but now took a step toward her.

“Redmond is at the Banshee, celebrating his promotion.”

Bryn Mawr’s large eyes returned to the fire.

“He won’t live that long,” she said. Vashon motioned to the empty chair on the opposite side of the hearth from where she sat. She raised her chin towards it, and he sat down.

“Glad to hear it,” he said.

Bryn Mawr did not look at him just then. Her mind, Vashon decided, was chewing on something. He prayed it wasn’t any grateful appreciation. Please, God, anything but that.

“You wanna talk?” he asked. She breathed deep; her silence answered for her. Neither knew where to start. Both had things to say and until then, no one to say it to. Vashon could see she was still not entirely sure if she trusted him. Neither was he about her. But Vashon needed to know how the deck was stacked in that shadowy place. Anything, it did not matter. He laid down the first card.

“How long you been here?”

“I lost count of the days long ago.”

“Seems that way, huh?” he said, “Remember why you came?”

She thought.

“We are castaways, shipwreck rats.”

“Where is your ship?” said Vashon.

“Off the end of the altar, at the bottom” Vashon looked at her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. Bryn Mawr looked at the man

“I was leaving you to die.”

“I don’t die that easy.”

“No. I can see that” she said.

“You would make a good captain.”

She glared at him then.

“You play with me. You saved my life, and now you mock me.”

Vashon stood and stepped toward her, raising his voice. He was close enough to strike, and her ridiculous claim gave him good reason.

“A captain must first think of his ship, then his crew. Stop to save one and risk the ship and all hands. But you knew this.”

Bryn Mawr watched his eyes for any sign of treachery and finally found none there. They lingered for a time in silence. Then Vashon remembered something he had been wanting to ask her when they were out on the water. He returned to his seat.

“What would you do if you saw a mermaid?” he asked, “I mean, would you kill her, or take her to be killed by someone else?”

The woman smiled. Seeing this, Vashon caught a glimpse of a soul, and although he didn’t have much faith in redemption, he thought perhaps he could learn to like this person.

“In my time I have learned of many quests. Cities of gold, Grails of divine blood, fountains of youth,” she paused to think, then took up the thread “I have been on many ships, and in campaigns overland. The captains, the leaders, must always set a task before the men, the crew, to give them hope and purpose, a reason to stay on. You can beat them, threaten them with death and then kill some as examples. I have witnessed this. It works, for a time. But promise them gold, or woman, or life eternal, and they will gladly follow you through the gates of hell. Do you not see this?”

“And yet these leaders of men have their own agendas, yes?”

“Always.”

“And our witch, what is hers?”

Bryn Mawr chewed on this.

“I do not know. To know that would be to wake from the dream, to return to the light of day, the pain and the sorrow, with no promise of gold. Then the rope unravels, the men grow weary and fade.”

“As the man you lost in the night did?”

She looked at him.

“He was not one of us. He was from an island tribe. He had a wife and a child there and had come for some promise of work and money to take home to his family. But there is no going home, once here.”

This confused Vashon.

“But I have seen some leave and return, as I leave and return for air in my tanks. Who decides this?”

“She does. Those that are allowed to leave for a time are under her spell, as are we all.”

Vashon shook his head.

“I’m not under any spell.”

“How long have you been here, Vashon?” she asked him, a small grin to her lips.

“I don’t remem…” he looked at her then. She continued.

“Her magic is subtle. Each day becomes the same as the last, then you forget yourself. Now, there is only the hunt.”

With this, Vashon grew thoughtful.

“Bryn Mawr. Your scars,” he said, knowing he was testing his welcome, which her response confirmed.

“Those are for me,” and said no more.

He still had nothing, he thought, or perhaps he did. Bryn Mawr was talking in more than single words. Any ally was one more than he had had before. Bryn Mawr put her face in her hands. She was tired, worn. Enough he thought, for now. He stood and lightly touched her shoulder. This startled her and she looked toward his hand. She had no use for such gestures, a sad stranger to tenderness, though strangely this she allowed. She had killed men for much less.

Vashon walked toward the door, done with words.

“Vashon,” she called to him. Vashon winced (don’t say it…)

“Yeah?” he stopped but did not turn, ready for a hasty exit.

“How did I get naked?” she asked. Vashon drew a heavy breath and shrugged.

“Couldn’t say. Must have been Elliott,” he said as he touched the door.

Bryn Mawr regained her warrior’s demeanor.

“Then he is a dead man.”