The Naked Bull

The sea churned with dorsal fins, turning in wide circles, thrashing the violent water. In the middle of the vortex, Elliott’s head and shoulders were visible, watching the spiraling sharks as they weaved ever closer. Vashon could see from outside the perimeter of the feeding frenzy, looking in at his friend, that he was smiling serenely, the look on his face utterly sublime.

“Elliott!” he yelled “Come on, man! Get out of there! Swim, man!”

“Vashon, look!” Elliott yelled back, laughing now, “I’m not afraid anymore, look! I’m in open water!”

Vashon watched in horror as the sharks neared his friend who laughed and splashed the water in his jubilation, inciting the beasts all the more as they fell on him, grinding the water to crimson foam.

Vashon woke with a start, disoriented in the darkness. It took some time to remember where he had fallen asleep as he tried to sit up then felt a weight on his chest holding him back. Anacortes woke as well, and they both waited, wiping the sleep from their eyes. There was light, and they looked upon each other for the first time since they had been forced into the crawlspace.

The trap door had been opened, though they neither heard nor saw anyone, allowing a shaft of light to illuminate their shallow prison. The girl turned to him and searched his eyes for answers. Vashon saw this and smiled; his confidence was instantly contagious. A voice came through the opening

“Mister Vashon, are you there?”

It was Sumner.

Vashon put his hand to the side of her head. She fell against him again and held him tight. He feared the worst then, that she would not let him go, or what might be worse, a declaration of love, to which he would be clueless as to how to respond.

“Vashon?”

“I’m right here, girl.”

“Don’t let her kill me.”

“Don’t be afraid, Ana. I will not leave you.”

Anacortes grabbed his wrist roughly and pulled him to her face, her teeth bared.

“I never said I was afraid of dying. Do you not understand?” she dug deep within Vashon’s eyes for some comprehension.

“No. I say this,” and she pushed away so she could see his face in the meager light.

“I know I am going to die. Of this I have no doubt,” Vashon began to speak, but she put her fingers hard to his mouth.

“I have watched her kill everyone I have ever loved, save Whidbey, and, perhaps him as well,” she searched his eyes.

“And?” he prompted, now suddenly wanting to hear it.

“And…you. I am tired of hiding, of pretending, of living in constant fear. I am no longer afraid. But if I can deny the witch one simple pleasure, it would all be worth it. And if you were to do it instead, I do not think it would be so terrible. Do you understand?”

He knew he could never kill her, not in a thousand years. He knew also that he might not have a choice. His answer was honest.

“I will do what I have to, Ana,” and stroked her cheek, feeling the moisture there he had nor noticed before. She fell against him again, for a moment, then as quickly released him and crawled off, the strength in her voice ringing in his ears.

Vashon rolled away and crawled the few feet to the opening, then stood, stretching painfully from the cramped position he had slept in, then climbed out.

Sumner stood there, hunched over, cringing, which was his norm, though Vashon noticed he was fretting more than usual. He wanted to say something, impart some bit of information, as was as always afraid.

“Mister Vashon” he began, looking more to the floor and side to side as if checking for.

“Talk to me, Sumner,” said Vashon, impatient now. He had come to feel some pity for this poor creature, in some constant state of fear, anxiety. He attempted to calm the man, get some coherent words from him.

“What is it, Sumner? Take it easy. Where is everyone?”

The old man looked at him then, a look of guilt, remorse on his worried face. The rain fell outside; the wind drove waves, larger than normal. Vashon, always conscious of the ocean’s state of flux, knew the tide would be coming in. He thought of Anacortes under their feet, that for the moment she was safe, though how long that might hold was not worth a wager.

“I am sorry, sir. I should never have asked you here,” said Sumner, “You, or your…friend.”

“Elliott?” shouted Vashon, “What about Elliott, have you seen him?” he took Sumner by the shoulders, looked him hard in the face. Sumner tried at first to look away again and then met his gaze.

“Beneath the altar, good sir. He is there,” was all he would say. There was a dark tone of regret to his voice that Vashon could not stomach.

“What is he doing there, Sumner? Talk to me, man, is he hurt? Hiding?”

The old man dropped his head and would say no more. Vashon let go of him and walked quickly back to the crawler port. Dropping to his knees, he called to Anacortes. She waited not far from the entrance.

“Ana, come on, girl, we gotta go” he reached down, took her waiting hands, and pulled her up and out. When she noticed Sumner, she froze, then stared from her vantage point behind Vashon.

“It’s alright, Ana, he’s not a bad man,” he told her. Sumner looked at the two. He heard her name, the same as Whidbey had called her, and knew she had no name for him, and never would.

“I am sorry, sir. Tired, tired I am. We will speak again, yes?”

There was nothing more to be said. Vashon took Anacortes by the hand and led her out the door. Outside he searched for Redmond or any of his men. The beach was vacant in the pouring rain. The two ran toward the pier. When they got close Anacortes hesitated, pulling on his arm.

“We must not go there, Vashon. It is a bad place. She is there.”

“Ana, the old man said Elliott is in there. I have to find him.”

Reluctantly she began moving with him again, and soon, they stood just outside the maze of pilings and the darkness within. They stopped as Vashon listened and looked for any sign of his partner. He looked back at the girl who stood frozen, wide-eyed. He knew she would be of no use to him in there.

“Ana, you wait here now. I’m going to find Elliott, and then we’ll go back for Whidbey. You with me girl?”

She nodded but refused to let go of his hand.

“Ana, I have to find him, yes?” he said hard to her face. She was soaked from the heavy rain, as was he. She reluctantly let go of him, finally, and turning away from her, started inside.

The tide was indeed coming in, he observed. But it was not so high yet that there was not enough exposed sand and rock to explore. The meager light penetrated but a few rows deep under the great ceiling above. The wind and the waves roared and echoed in against the enormous legs of the monolith as he put his hands to his face and yelled, then listened, knowing his voice lost in the confused din.

Moving on then, his eyes darting here and there for any sign, Vashon yelled again, taking a deep breath and bellowing with all his strength. He waited, then heard something, his own echo he believed at first, but then as he stood stock-still, it came again. It was Elliott, of this, he was sure. He turned around to signal Anacortes, her small figure standing where he had left her. He waved his arm over his head, but she did not react, unable to see him in the darkness. There was no one else on the beach that he could see and so, believing her safe for the moment, turned and headed in the direction of the echo.

The rain pelted as if warning him away from something he must not see. Fighting the blast, he called out again for some bearing, some direction when he heard in short order the reply, though it sounded as though it was coming from further out, in deeper water. This would not be good unless Elliott was tied off in a boat, which he did not see. So he kept moving parallel to the incoming waves, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything that he could race toward once caught sight of.

Rounding yet another set, he saw something far out in the darkness, nothing perhaps, he peered into the darkness. There, against a dense backdrop of mussels and mossy timber, was what appeared to be long black hair covering the face of a man, his arms held up over his head. He yelled again and was then stood breathless as he saw the large white teeth of Elliott’s mouth shine like a beacon as he yelled back. Vashon didn’t think as he ran towards the man into deeper and deeper water until his forward advance began to slow. When he was up to his chest, he kicked off the bottom and started swimming. He did not feel the icy water as he fought the waves to get to his friend, who was now calling to him.

Just then, he heard another sound, this time from behind him: A scream, loud and long. Then his name called in terror. It was Anacortes; of this, there was no doubt. Vashon stopped swimming and turned around, but he could see nothing, so far out was he under the monument. Then another scream, obscenities from a girl’s mouth, Anacortes fighting for her life as Elliott called to him yet again. He looked back toward Elliott, who he could make out clearly now. He appeared to be secured to the piling somehow, and quite unable to free himself. Only a few moments before his chest and shirt were visible, now the rising water covered all but his neck, and his arms held up over his head.

Vashon knew that if he turned back toward shore now, Elliott had no chance. Anacortes was in dire straits though perhaps, there might be time for both, and so, with little choice in the matter, he swam through frigid waves toward an unjust crucifixion.

As he swam, he began to consider all of the scenarios that might have put Elliott in this predicament. Had Redmond and his men bound him here? He swam past the dead, hung at about the same height as his friend, left to drown at high tide. He became enraged as he envisioned several cruel deaths he would inflict upon Redmond and anyone else who played any part in this cruelty. At first, he felt some gratuity that they had not bound him facing the open sea as someone had done the rest as he might not have been visible. But then, as his mind worked on this singularity, he realized with bitter sobriety, that they had no doubt done this in order to intensify the poor bastard’s horror, facing all those that had gone before, and promising the same wretched death.

“Elliott!” he called to his friend, “What the hell, man,” but as he looked towards the man again, seeing him but a few yards away, something was not right. His eyes were at half-mast, as though semi-conscious. And the eeriest detail of all was…he was smiling! His response only confirmed Vashon’s thoughts that he must be delirious

“Vashon!” he called out “Look, man! I’m in the water again, cabron! I’m not afraid anymore!” he made no eye contact as Vashon neared. He must have been in the cold water some time and was now suffering hypothermia. Vashon had seen this many a time, even experienced it himself. He would need to get his friend to the shore and warm, fast.

He reached Elliott and began to examine him, holding on to him as he bobbed up and down in the surging waves. The water was now past his chin, and he had to tilt his friend’s head back so he wouldn’t inhale the salt water. There he saw Elliott had been beaten, his face cut, his eyes swollen near shut. He looked up and for the first time and was shocked to discover that a single spike had been driven through both wrists, just below the palms, holding them one over the other above him. The wound itself was black; the blood was gone from his hands, his arms.

“Elliott, stay with me man, gonna get you outta here.”

“Don’t worry, amigo, I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Glad to hear it pal, but we gotta get you down.”

Vashon reached below the surface fell how else he might be secured. There he felt several coils of thick hemp entwining his midriff and thighs. He searched no further. The water was rising, his friend would soon be submerged.

A sensation came over him then he had not felt since he had held his brother Poulsbo’s arm as he shook on his death bed. Utter helplessness, the absence of any and all hope. He looked around wildly for anyone, a boat perhaps, any sign of a benevolent God. But they were alone, utterly.

The water was now almost covering Elliott’s eyes. Vashon put a hand to his chest, he was not breathing. He took a breath and put his mouth to Elliott’s blowing hard. He felt most of it on his cheek as it escaped through his nostrils. He had been holding his friend by the shoulders with both hands to hold himself in place against the onslaught of the incoming tide but now released one hand to put over his nose. He went under again and, blowing hard into his mouth, hand on his chest rising.

Vashon opened his eyes in the burning salt. Saw the once perfect brown skin of his friend’s cheeks, chin, forehead; saw his beautiful black mane tussled in the surf as a thick bed of dark seagrass.

Now near hysterical, not knowing to what end he labored, attempted several more breaths. Then, winded and distraught, he reached down and took hold of Elliott’s throat, which bore no heartbeat, no hope. His friend was dead. The reality of this finality devastated him, and he screamed, loud and guttural, a piteous howl that sent the swallows from their mud lodgings above. He was taken aback in a déjà vu for had he not heard this at an earlier time when he had discovered the underwater cage? Enough. The tears came in spasms then as he pushed away from the pier, and Elliott, and began the long cold swim toward shore.

When he reached the shallows, his feet touched the ground, though even the buoyant saltwater could not keep his flaccid legs beneath him. He crawled on hands and knees to the rim of the structure to survey the beach for any sign of the girl. But Anacortes was gone, without a trace.

The rain had stopped as Vashon crawled up onto the sand, the wind blowing now, north to south, carrying Elliott’s ghost away, toward home. He thought then to stand and make it as far as the Banshee. And what would he find there? Redmond and his savages, Sumner and the witch? He needed time to think, to gather his strength, to regroup. He considered his van, how sweet that would be to get in the captain’s chair and drive outta this godforsaken hell. Just forget it all and drive. But that would be the first place they would look, and in his current state, they would make quick work of him.

Vashon rallied then, intent on surviving, if only long enough to avenge Elliott, take one or two of the bastards with him. This gave him some strength, and he stood, swaying yes, but able to walk. The only sanctuary he could consider lay in a completely reckless plan: Re-enter the pier and walk as far as he could. Perhaps he could reach the other side. And what then? He did not know, but it was a plan, something to motivate him forward, to keep him from dropping to his knees again and waiting for the inevitable.

He entered the darkness again, which engulfed him completely as he penetrated deeper and deeper inside the wooden cathedral. After a time, his only true sense of direction lay in the sound of the diminishing waves to his right, and the echo of the same, echoing off the low rafters to the left. He knew if he kept these buoys in place, he would be heading south, though what obstacles stood in his path, he could not guess.

After some time and many stumbles, he detected a glow up ahead in the distance. He moved more rapidly now, able to see the terrain ahead of him, skirting rocks and sandpits that might have dropped him. He could then make out a small sandbar, a meager stretch of beach beyond the edifice. A few rows in, he came to a halt. Who or what might be waiting, guarding this hidden terrain, might prove a danger. Slowly he approached, surveying the area. On the far extreme of the landing was a tall rock jetty. The boulders that made up this wall were huge and he wondered how they had been moved and from where.

Back up the beach, he found the graveyard of old whaleboats in differing stages of disrepair, none seaworthy; no escape there. The shards of useless fishing nets blew in the wind, rotten and unraveled. Meager few seagulls clutched about eyeing him from the bleached rails.

Good luck, he grimaced, remembering his friend’s words with a tremor in his chest. Had he reached the southern border of Mukilteo finally? Could it be possible that freedom, absolution was a mere climb over the stony breakwater? Would he leave it all behind, take his losses, leaving Whidbey to his dismal fate? He hadn’t been able to save Poulsbo or Elliott, what made him believe he could save Anacortes? How many ghosts had he taken in tow before he learned he was no savior? That he couldn’t save the world, much less himself?

His head began to swim, lulled by the wind and the waves and the silence, oh, if not for the precious silence. Vashon dropped to his knees then, for he refused, perhaps for the first time in his life, to choose a course forward. A sudden wind dropped him on his side roughly, to then roll to his back, the scent of the arid wooden skeletons around him, tattered fishnets rustling as winter leaves over forgotten graves.

Vashon began to question all the faces and names no longer part of the scenery. Some he believed were only memories he chanced across in dreams, others ghosts he envisioned while awake.

He sensed then a presence, eyes on his back. He realized then that it was Poulsbo’s ghost, came to accuse, to cast judgment on his worthless brother. But Vashon refused to turn, look at that unyielding face of the sanctimonious specter, now rid of flesh and perhaps even empathy. Or had he lost this even before his dying breath? Perhaps he and Elliott now viewed him in a different, with ethereal eyes that saw only an insect for what it was.

Yes, he said to the ghost. Look at me. But I will ignore you just now. I have my own death to speak to just now. Then we will be on par, in the same light. Then we will talk.

And the shadow ignored then faded. Vashon tried in vain to find the impetus to get up.

He knew he had to move; to keep moving.

But not just then.

He would start in the middle and work his way back, in that way, leaving himself a safe beach to work toward and not away from. He had heard somewhere that in heaven, as in hell, time was non-lineal: past, present, and future occurred simultaneously. If this were so, then he was indeed dead. He would then look beyond closed eyes and choose a scene from the picture, a starting point where there were none, and began the long journey toward that distant shore.