The Naked Bull

When you are up to your ass in alligators, it’s easy to forget you came to hunt mermaids. Vashon and Elliott followed Sumner, both marveling at his version of locomotion, his ability to propel himself consistently without deviation with such a crouched, shuffling gate. He seemed at any moment to keel over or topple headlong and yet somehow held his course and remained afloat.

Bryn Mawr, Redmond, and the other huntsman fell in behind. Elliott chattered with the old man about planes and cargo ships as Vashon kept a wary eye to their backsides and the several pernicious blades, wielded by a mob of questionable intent. Each time Vashon glanced behind him he found Bryn Mawr’s large black eyes there watching him. Elliott felt compelled to give his assessment

“Amigo…I think the negrita likes you.”

Vashon brushed him off. He had a bad feeling about the place and knew the further in they burrowed, the harder it would be to back out. Sumner led them up thick, rough-hewn wooden steps to the entrance of what appeared a longhouse of sorts, and most certainly of a distant age. The walls were constructed of large logs stacked one above the other, cabin style.

Vashon slowed, putting the back of an arm across Elliott’s chest. The procession stopped

“What is this place?” he asked the old man

Sumner addressed him. Yet another steppingstone with this man.

“Oh, this is the Hall of Banshees,” he said with some pride “A mead hall, no more. It is our gathering place. You must be hungry, and thirsty, yes?” Vashon had no taste for the prospect of being cornered in a room with the bad spirited barbs. He nodded with a frown to continue. Sumner had some trouble with the large door, due to its sheer weight. Bryn Mawr stepped up and, pushing him aside, opened the door herself, then looked back to Vashon to follow.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the bright ambient cloud glow outside, for although it was perhaps midday, there was no sun, just a ceiling of misty gray cover. Vashon knew this to be standard for Seattle and had expected no less.

The inside of the longhouse was a mountain man’s paradise: Several large tables with large benches and chairs, all of the same rough wood, though well used, smooth and practically comfortable looking. There were skins and furs draped over most. There were several large stone fireplaces with large furs strewn on the floors before them.

There was music, of a sort. A man and a woman sat near the fire, one strummed what might have been a lute, the other nibbled panpipes. The general effect was not reckless but nostalgic, not lost to Vashon, being a connoisseur of the music of the world. It dulled the impact of their rude welcome.

In the center of the immense room was a round fire pit made of stone, a series of metal struts supported spits for cooking large sides of meat. There were candle chandeliers spread around, suspended by heavy chain link. The walls produced several varieties of horns and antlers, tusks and well-toothed jaws.

The bar was long with many stools, also padded with thick furs. Vashon noticed a young woman carrying chopped wood to one of the fires wearing soft leather or suede, her feet padded silently in shin-length moccasins. Once she added these to the pile, she turned and looked toward them, her eyes fixed on the new arrivals. When all were inside, the huntsman spent no time choosing their seats and yelling orders at the barmen, who Vashon and Elliott instantly recognized. Thick head of steel-grey hair, big-toothed English grin, large blue laughing eyes. It was none other than Whidbey who noticed the two and began to howl and pound the bar with his fists.

“Jesus son of Mary!” he yelled, “There be a God after all!” Forgetting the rest, the two walked in his direction. Vashon was beside himself.

“Damn it to fuck Whidbey! Ain’t you about a sight for sore eyes!” The other came around from behind the bar and threw his large arms around Vashon, slapping him heavily on the back and giving him a bear hug that would suffocate most. The room observed the antics, not understanding the behavior. Whidbey then grabbed Elliott and repeated his hearty welcome.

Then a harsh voice intruded. It was Redmond.

“You can suck his cock later, barkeep. Send your wench ’round with brine, and be quick about it,” The three men turned toward him. Whidbey spoke.

“Stow your noise, Redmond! You’ll get yours soon enough,” then called his help “Anacortes! The huntsmen are thirsty, and we have welcome guests as well,” and turning back to the two, put a hand on each of their shoulders and pushed them towards the bar stools. The barmaid appeared and began pouring brine from one of the large kegs as Whidbey tended to his friends personally. Vashon couldn’t wait

“Whidbey, you sonofabitch!” he said, “What the hell is this place and what the hell are we doing here?” Whidbey looked up from the stein he was pouring. He looked first at Vashon, then at Sumner who had pulled up a bench beside them.

“All in good time, mate. All in good time,” he dismissed, then set the frothing vessels before the two, then started on a third and fourth, one for Sumner, one for he. Vashon and Elliott grabbed at them greedily, ready to dull the recently acquired rough edges. Whidbey put up a hand.

“Fair warning, friends. You’ve never had this, so take heed: It’s got enough salt to pickle a whale and strong enough to beach her as well,” he said with a mindful glance to each. Vashon scoffed. Elliott didn’t care.

“How come you never gave any warnings in Spain?” said Vashon.

“Oh, I did mate, I did,” said Whidbey “You jus’ never listen”

Elliott snorted, “Heard that, patrón.”

The two put mugs to mouths and drank deep. The entire hall held its collective breath as they awaited the inevitable. No one survived their first draught of brine.

No one.

Whidbey, then from experience, stepped to one side and waited. Sumner leaned wearily away. The two took long draughts. Then their eyes bulged, as did their cheeks, followed by a violent eruption that spewed brine from their mouths that reached the back wall. Both choked and gagged as the room burst into heavy bouts of laughter. Bryn Mawr grinned, only Redmond remained still, but would not miss the chance.

“Best bring the whelp’s some warm milk, and a bib!” The room shook with laughter yet again.

“Damn cabron!” cried Elliott.

“What in the hell is that?” choked Vashon.

“That be brine, good sir,” said Whidbey, failing to hide a chuckle of his own “Best sip at first, lads,” and took to wiping up the mess. Vashon looked around the room. This wasn’t his first rodeo, and although he was well aware, they were being sized up, he would not be labeled so soon. He picked up his mug and, prepared this time, drank deep. It was indeed strong and god awful salty, but he kept it down and turned his face to the crowd in mock delight. Elliott took the bait and did the same. This seemed to satisfy all in the room that the two were at least genuine and they all returned to their drink. Bryn Mawr appeared thoughtful while Redmond snarled mean.

Vashon looked around the place, at the other hunters, at the barmaid, then at the barman quite seriously

“Alright, Whidbey, we’re here. Now, why?”

Whidbey shuffled items here and there, dabbed at this and that with his bar towel, he pulled from his shoulder. He did not look at the two as he spoke.

“Well, it was comin’ upon San Fermin, see. And you always been lookin’ for work after Fiesta, yes? Sumner was askin’ about sea hunters, and I thought of me blokes, that’s about the size of it.”

Vashon gave a dubious glance toward Elliott.

“So, you sent ol’ Sumner halfway around the world to collect a couple of road bums he’s never seen before and dump a pile of cash on the table.”

“Not a bad little nest egg, aye?” said Whidbey.

“Moneys fine, friend. And we do appreciate the work. And it is damn good to see you again. Missed you sorely at Fiesta. Just seems a bit much is all” said Vashon, then came finally to what they were both dancing around.

“Oh yeah, one more thing. What’s up with all the mermaid shit?”

Whidbey looked up. The girl who had been carrying wood appeared behind the bar. Vashon and Elliott eyed her.

“Oh, Ana me dear. These be my friends from the old country. The Spanish lookin’ gent is Elliott” Elliott smiled and nodded to her. “Truth be told he be full-blooded Mexican. But don’t hold that against him,” he said with a toothy smile, “and this be Vashon. He come from the sea he did. Jus’ sprouted legs one day and got to walkin’” The girl pursed her brow as though there may have been a tinge of truth to his jest. Whidbey continued with his introduction.

“Friends, this be Anacortes. She does most of the work about the place. Wonderful little helper she is” The girl looked at the two and nodded, though she seemed most fascinated with Vashon. Elliott shook his head. He knew that look. Anacortes took a bar towel and turned to go.

“Nice meeting you, Anacortes,” called Vashon after her. She turned and looked at him and was gone. Vashon looked back toward Whidbey.

“You get married, old man?” he asked, “Always knew you liked the young ones.”

“No, no. She be a fine helper, nothing more,” as he grabbed their steins and topped them off. There was space of silence, then Vashon picked up the thread.

“Soooo, Mermaids?”

Whidbey appeared bothered. He looked toward the hunters. Perhaps he should ask if they needed anything. But Anacortes was walking around the floor just then robbing him of the easy exit. He was compelled to speak.

“Oh, nothing really. Ya see, the lady of the house, she fancies there are mermaids about. And you all are to gather her one.”

He waited for a reaction then added, almost apologetically, as though it were a trifle ridiculous.

“A virgin mermaid.”

Elliott choked a laugh, “Virgencita? What the…?”

Vashon shook his head.

“I hear they have places for people like that.”

Whidbey tried to pick up the pieces.

“Oh, she’s tame enough. Ya know, rich and bored. And if she wants to spend her money on a lark, what be the bother?”

“And when do we get to meet this rather eccentric recluse?”

“Oh, we don’t see much of her. Her and her man.”

“Her man?”

“Japanese bloke. Worthless as tits on a pig.”

Vashon wasn’t buying any of it, but as the brine hit the bone, the conversation digressed to more mundane matters. Elliott brought up the tale of the Naked Bull. Whidbey damn near cried that he had missed it, though Vashon held his tongue as to the circumstance. Even when well in his drink, he kept a wary eye, and ear, to the huntsman. And they, he. A fact he did not miss. But for the presence of Whidbey, he would already be devising an escape plan.

Late in the evening, Elliott accepted a loft above. Vashon chose to stay with his home, the van. His sleep was troubled.

Before the sun, Vashon donned his gear as he did almost every other day and headed out. He hadn’t been in water that cold for some time and felt a bit stiff in a full quarter-inch suit. But the visibility was good enough, not too much surf, so his entrance was light work. He couldn’t get it out of his head just what in the hell he was supposed to be doing.

He had mentioned this to Elliott, who didn’t seem to care. It was good money, after all. So, what’s the problem? He asked Whidbey how he had ended up there. All he got was a meager ‘came across the place years ago’ and left it at that. Sumner was a complete loss, answering questions with questions ‘Is there a problem? Is there anything that you need?’

Vashon and Elliott didn’t have what could be considered a working relationship with the other hunters. At times Elliott would mention that he had crossed a few words with a few of the friendlier ones while he was out. But most avoided Vashon like some pariah though his style of ‘hunting’ was of much interest, if only from afar.

The others, Bryn Mawr and Redmond, for the most part, packed spears or harpoons and hunted in two teams from whaleboats propelled by oarsmen. This antiquated form of hunting amused both Vashon and Elliott to no end. But as none were talking, it was difficult to discover any logic to this primitive tradition.

They surmised it was some sort of role-playing, like medieval jousts, or western roundups, in full regalia. There were two crews: One led by Redmond, a bombastic bunch that bitched about everything from the way each other smelled to who sat where on the boat. Bryn Mawr led the other, a much-reserved group that kept their heads down and worked as one. They headed out each morning at about the same time, though in different directions. Early each afternoon they would return, pull the whaleboats ashore, and deliver the catch of the day to be dealt with accordingly.

Vashon noticed some oddities that were not so easily written off. He had been an underwater hunter for many years. There were licenses and permits to be secured. Also, the game they were bringing in, he was certain, was illegal. Besides the fish and turtles, they would occasionally bring in seal and otter among other sea mammals that were skinned and eaten, their pelts dried and tanned by natives and others, the two main hunters not taking part in any of the daily chores, as was the case with Vashon and Elliott, and nobody asked. The scene was primeval; the modern world did not seem to exist nor take notice of the aberration that was Mukilteo, nor its inhabitants.

There appeared, however, some rhyme and reason to the daily routine. Everyone seemed to know the role they played and performed their tasks without much discussion. There was indeed an order, however rudimentary, to the place. He saw no game wardens or any policing of any kind. No one had come since they arrived, and no one ever left. The overgrown gate they had passed through remained closed tight, guarded by the same feudal shogun they had first encountered.

Vashon decided to preserve his air, which he knew to be getting thin and swam the surface a few hundred yards to the huge pier they had seen upon their arrival. It was much larger than he had ever seen in waters such as these. The pilings were massive, the underneath at least forty feet above the water at high tide. He approached one of the legs of the monstrosity, which was covered with mussels increasing its circumference by half again. He pulled off several large clusters of these letting them drop to the bottom. They would attract crab he could take back to offer the kitchen; he had spied the boatman’s floats and decided on a simple rivalry, who could get the largest of the tasty crustaceans. His advantage? Pick and choose.

Putting his regulator in his mouth, he expelled the air from his vest, releasing him from the tether of the surface from which he dangled.

Down, down he fell, following the path of the mighty column. The clarity of the water gave him hope of discovery; the glow from the floor of the sea spoke of a thick carpet of crushed shell of the purest white, bringing to mind his brother’s prophetic words.

Salt Sound at tides slack

Salt pillars if turned a ’back

Black crow, some ’maids will tell

If down be heaven

Where then be hell?

Poulsbo had always been a fan of mythological creatures. Gargoyles were his favorite though he had also been a fan of beautiful sea creatures. When he was quite young, he got his first fish tank. All kids do, Vashon had thought. The fish would die, as did all lizards and turtles and hamsters and cats and dogs, and by then, you move on to people who you try to keep and feed and try to tame and hold and make your own. Then they too die. And what do you keep in your cage then?

But his fish did not die, or if it did, it was quickly replaced. Freshwater became tropical water became saltwater. Elaborate tanks with currents and clownfish popping in and out of stinging anemones and filtration systems and living coral and hours and hours of upkeep. His tanks were a wonder to behold, and still, he had never set foot in the ocean.

Vashon had never owned an aquarium. He would put on his dive mask and put his face up to the glass wall of the tank, pretending he was a scuba diver. From his earliest days, it was the canals winding through the orchards of Yakama, then the rivers that fed the canals, then the lakes that drank the rivers only to send them on to his ultimate destination, the sea.

He realized he had been kneeling on the bottom in silent contemplation for some time. He squeezed a puff into his BC and, once neutrally buoyant and hovering about three feet off the bottom; he kicked toward the interior of the monument.

There was crab everywhere, Dungeness mostly, and of more than legal size. He would fill his bag on the way back, best not to drag a heavy game bag while exploring. There were great schools of pile perch above eying him wearily. Large ratfish, their large mammalian eyes blinking at him like deer in the forest, had no fear and promised a small bite if accosted. Clusters of white anemones sprouted from the column bases adding to the ethereal aura. Occasionally Vashon floated over downed pilings, the though then striking him of the potential of being crushed by one should it fall.

As he struck further in the immense size of the structure, bore true as the light diminished by degrees until, finally, he found himself in utter darkness. He grabbed the flashlight that dangled from his wrist and switched it on, producing a dense beam of illumination hitherto unknown in that eerie place. Scales of fish reflected in the beam; legged creatures scampered from the sudden exposure. After a time, Vashon noticed the sea life diminished with the fading light. It was now jet black all around him, the bottom was now smooth sand and silt, barren of life. The desolate landscape began to produce tells, uncertain shapes in the shadows that mimicked human form. Vashon ran a gloved hand lightly over a series of ridges exposing what was in stark reality a rib cage. He ran his hand slowly up the sternum to where a skull of some sort must follow have been, and surely enough, a face appeared, grimacing, black sunken eye sockets staring at him in mute protest of a death long forgotten.

There was a movement, a presence just outside the ring of light. Vashon flashed the light around. He knew from experience that had it been a shark, or even a seal, he would have seen it. Shark do not hide behind pilings. He knew something was there, not given to phantoms of the mind or hallucinations. He was nowhere near deep enough for the cerebral games of nitrogen narcosis, even if he were, he was used to the symptoms and enjoyed the feel of it. He checked his gauge; there was still time, so he pressed on, determined to discover the phantom. There were more burial mounds along the way, a thousand years of salt dust to keep them warm, lost souls beneath the thick blanket of silt. Another movement, up ahead this time, though it could not be. Any motion in this dark place would obscure everything in an instant silt out, a confused cloud of suspended particles. Vashon was able to avoid this by slow, steady movements learned in underwater caves and caverns. Yet the mat remained intact; there could not have been anything physically alive there.

A ghost, perhaps.

Vashon knew ghosts existed, and although he had never seen one, he had indeed felt many. To him, they were as memories, feelings, the taste of a life that is left after the physical falls away. Nothing diabolical, to be feared. Simply the smell of perfume in an empty closet.

He rounded yet another column. It had almost become a game, as if he was being led on a chase, by someone or something that wanted to be followed, or perhaps reveal some ominous truth. His light then hit on something large and symmetrical. As he approached, he realized it was a cage, a barred metal cage, resting on a large slab of stone. The relic was old, the metal corroded orange brown. There was a door or hatch, shaped not unlike the cage itself, offset toward the top, secured by a metal ring. Vashon kicked up and over the top. A mossy chain hung through the water from above and connected to a central ring where four short lengths secured it to halfway down its rounded sides.

Vashon began his way up the chain in an effort to discover what machination of the artifact it might lead. His ears began to murmur as the pressure from the depths was released, the saltwater fizzing around him as he surfaced under a platform a few meters above his head. It was a deck of some sort situated far below the ceiling of the main structure that had a large roughly round opening in its center; it appeared as a port for the cage below to be hoisted through. The chain attached to the top of the cage ran through the opening to a large ring above, then back down to a wheel or spindle with handles, a man-powered winch mounted to the decking. This was all positioned toward the ocean side of the pier, and there were plank catwalks that led back toward the interior into the distance and then out of sight, inevitably reaching to the beach at the far end.

A sound came then from the bowels of the structure, a troubled voice it seemed, beginning as no more than a vibration, Vashon pulled his mask down around his neck and his thick hood back exposing his ears. The sound became an eerie bay, a deep-throated protest. The chain he was clinging to in the gently rolling water began shaking violently as though a mighty beast at the other end were tethered and fighting against it for freedom. Vashon let go, swimming quickly toward the nearest piling and turned to watch from a distance, not knowing what might be in the water beneath him. As soon as it had begun, the shaking subsided, the chain fell still. There followed another grown then, deep and mournful that howled throughout the cavernous hulk. The sound crescendoed then abated, then echoed into the distance, and was gone. Vashon rose and fell with the water as all become quiet, save the ringing in his ears, and the pounding in his chest.