The Naked Bull

Elliott had no idea where he was going and did not care. The recent conflict, at once cruel and nonsensical, though a performance late the curtain call. Walking south at a decent clip sobered him up sufficiently to consider his only option: Get as far away from that evil place as fast as feet might fly. Get back to south Cali and his barrio. Maybe his homegirl would still be there waiting for him. Maybe someone left the light on for him. He could smell his mother’s kitchen now. Nothing else mattered.

Get home, man. Just get home. He had been away far too long. He had seen enough of the world to last him the rest of his life. Home. Home amigo. Mi Corazon. This is what he held dearest in his heart. This gave him hope and a reason to keep moving and not look back. Then he heard the voice.

“Elliott.”

He knew what he thought he had heard, but it made no sense. Not in that loco place. He ignored it and kept walking. It couldn’t have been for him, and he didn’t care if it was. There was no one in that place he wanted anything from but the keys to the gate. It came again

“Elliott.”

He stood still. Strange. The voice had no gender, did not emanate from any particular direction. It was all around him, inside him. He watched for a time north, the fog had not yet rolled in, though the blackness was complete. He heard his name again and turned south, nothing, no one.

Elliott heard then a strange sound, not exactly alien to him, though one he did not expect in that place. It was a church bell, almost familiar. He looked back toward the east and the gathering of dilapidated cabins. In one the door was ajar, he recognized this as the place where he had left Vashon but a few nights earlier. He felt no urge to investigate, merely watching, standing quite still. Then two things happened, almost as one, that altered his thinking. He began to recognize another sound, along with the chiming of the bell, equally as familiar: It was the call of the red-winged blackbird, which had been one of his most solemn memories from his childhood, playing in the fields and jungles of Culiacan, running barefoot with his brothers and sisters. The other occurrence was an almost overwhelming desire to sleep. He began to justify this, the day had been long, and he had had much to drink. Sleep just then became unavoidable. Elliott felt as if he could lay down there in the sand and, lulled by the soft rolling of the waves, spend the night. The voice came again.

“Elliott,” he seemed to recognize it that time, it may have emanated from the open doorway.

He began, he knew not why, in that direction. He couldn’t keep his eyes open; his legs felt as lead. It would take a monumental effort if only to reach the steps, the threshold, just to reach the door, but this was his task, it was the only purpose of any importance to him.

He dragged his aching body across the sand to the base of the steps that led to the door, the light. The light that was beckoning him, warm and safe, as if the porch light of a faraway home, a family. And then the tolling of the bell, calling him, calling the faithful. And the voice in his head.

“Yes, my son. Have faith. Enter freely and of your own accord, for you have surely found your home.”