The Naked Bull

A ghost will follow the living for whatever time they are earthbound. New to the event, they would have no other cause. As Vashon turned to watch Whidbey disappear under the grand altar, Poulsbo’s ghost walked out from the darkness, passing quite close as he approached his brother, to stand before him.

Vashon had a revelation just then, something important, certainly noteworthy: Sumner had truly given him, perhaps them, a gift, as he had said. For he remembered Issaquah constantly glancing over his shoulder, an irritating tidbit, he thought mere rudeness of indifference. Had she been gazing at Poulsbo the whole time with her witch’s eyes?

And Sumner’s gift: Might it not be that now Poulsbo was brought round to where they might face each other, to unknown ends yes, but a mercy no less?

And Poulsbo. Had he spoken words from his ethereal mouth? No. In the boneyard, they had simply gazed across the sand at each other, a kind of getting to know each other, in these new settings. Then Poulsbo had turned and disappeared, leaving Vashon alone in the dark to ponder eternity and the ramifications therein.

Now his ghost, the expression on his specter’s face, seemed to have some message to convey. Slowly, with what appeared great effort, Poulsbo raised an arm and pointed out toward the sea. What…what are you trying to say? Mouthed Vashon, as if whispering to his brother’s ghost.

Then it hit him: Redmond! Vashon turned suddenly to see Redmond and his gibbering lackeys bearing down on them. And although they had gotten away with their search for the wounded mermaid, the Huns would beach soon. Vashon felt an urgency as he turned back to give his brother a nod of appreciation, but he was gone, vanished as quickly as he had come. Somehow Vashon knew he would return; the aftertaste in his heart made him smile, if for only a moment.

Under the altar, he found Whidbey kneeling beside the girl, touching her face. She opened her eyes and recognizing him, tried to get up. He attempted a smile, failing miserably

“Ana, me girl, who has done this to you?”

Anacortes pushed at him with what little strength she had

“I have much work to do.”

He pushed the hair from her face.

“Not jus’ now, me darlin’. Give it a rest.”

Whidbey pulled Vashon’s clothes from her, exposing her Piscean body, and handed them to him. Vashon took them, staring mutely at the surreal scene. The old man noticed Anacortes’ fish bucket in the shallows and directed Vashon to fill it and pour the cool saltwater over her drying scales, which he did, his movements sluggish, as in a dream. She visibly relaxed then, and Vashon wondered why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Then Whidbey, pulling off his jacket, laid it over her and knelt by her side.

Vashon pulled his wet trousers on and dropped to his knees in front of her, looking to him for any hope, any prayer.

“Hold her, gently now, mate,” Whidbey said as he nudged her shoulder toward Vashon to inspect the damage done by the spear. Vashon held her, holding her head on his knee, her face with one hand, her ribs with another. He didn’t have to see the wound. Her short gasping breaths, the look on the man’s face, spoke of blood and pain.

Whidbey dug in his pocket and produced a pocket knife. Opening it Vashon could see that the blade was razor sharp. He looked at the girl as he spoke to them both.

“It is not deep, thank ye Gods; the barb is hooked beneath her skin. I’ll need to…” he paused, choosing his words “pull it out” but Anacortes would have none of it.

“Jus’ do it, old man. I’m no fuckin’ whelp,” she said. Whidbey shook his head.

“You stow that talk now, girl! Sound as a huntsman well in his brine,” he said.

Vashon was adamant.

“Whidbey, we got company. We can’t be here, get it?” Whidbey ignored this as he picked up a small piece of kelp stock from the water and held it before her face. She looked at Vashon, who nodded with a smile, then took it in her mouth. Then, before he could worry or waver, he sliced on either side of the gaff’s head. He winced as his girl bit down hard; her eyes squeezed tight. Vashon held her as Whidbey then grabbed the shaft and gave it a quick tug. Anacortes screamed through clenched teeth as the spear pulled loose, then went limp, unconscious.

Whidbey held the tip before his eyes, at the precious blood that dripped from it.

“Redmond” he growled, his lips curled, baring teeth as he hurled the weapon away to rattle useless against the rocks

Vashon watched the fire dance on the old man’s face as he lifted his coat just enough, exposing a young woman’s human legs, then looked to Vashon, who stared, having witnessed the sorcery himself.

“Carry her, will you good sir?” he said, “I’ll be a bit shaky just now.”

Vashon, still holding her, lifted her seemingly weightless body, and walked out into the open air. There was no time; there was no day by name, none of it mattered. A mystery had unfolded, revealing a thousand questions. Whidbey followed close behind, twisting Redmond’s neck in his white-knuckled fists, as they traveled solemnly back toward the longhouse.

It was sometime later that Whidbey and Vashon had taken up opposite positions across from each other at a bench table at the far end of the Banshee. Most of the hunters were still out, Whidbey had told the few that were there to serve themselves, the help was under the weather that day. They had put Anacortes in her cot, then called outside to the native people who came in an instant to dress her wound and work their healers magic, herbs, salves; they took some pain from her and made her to sleep. They then sat down around their rugs on the floor and chanted low, the prayers of the gentiles suffice, even in Godless places.

Vashon and Whidbey gazed at their steins, the foam dissipated, untouched. Each time one would think to lift the brine to drink he lost all volition and sank back into listless contemplation. Vashon murmured a quandary, feeling the floor beneath the table for a lost morsel.

“Anacortes. Your girl?”

Whidbey looked Vashon in the eye, seemingly vexed, ver to maintain the façade that had kept her, and he, alive these many years. But soon as it had come up, the wind then fell off his sails; he found himself dead in the water, with not even a current to call his direction.

“Aye, mate. Me little girl. Me daughter”

Vashon moved slow, though there was a piece of the picture needed placing.

“And her mother?”

Whidbey drank, “A mermaid, friend. And a woman as well. Found her in these very waters I did. Found her, and fell in deep, I did.”

Whidbey struggled to force his mouth to move, the air to rise through his vocal cords, the effort near tangible. He did not know where he was heading, only that the inevitable tempest was upon them. And so, with honest intent, Whidbey chose a random port to sail towards, in hopes to weather the coming storm.

“The Lady, Issaquah. She has told ya her tale?”

“How they all got here? Yes. She told you as well?”

“Oh, we have ’ad our fireside conversations. She told ya of the Ningyo that got away?”

“She didn’t say exactly, though now, looking back, she probably believed this”

“Well, lad, I believe them to be my lover’s family of old.”

Vashon slowly tried to make these pieces fit, but there remained gaps.

“But how did you arrive at this hidden corner of the Earth in the first place? I was raised not far from here, and it took me half a lifetime and a Devil’s roadmap to find it”

Whidbey sat up a bit then, this conversation he deemed most worthy, necessary.

“Aye lad, I must ask ya then, as a seasoned traveler who has seen his share of this world, do ya yet believe in magic?” he asked. Not a question that beckoned a hasty reply from any thinking man. Vashon contemplated, then gave his measured response

“Magic is a relative term; a light bulb to a caveman would be as magic, yes?”

“You speak the obvious. ’Ope we both agree we are neither dealing with light bulbs nor cavemen, here in Mukilteo.”

“I have witnessed some things I admit I don’t yet understand. But I do believe we exist in a universe of laws. Rocks roll downhill, fire is hot, two plus two equals four. These are carved in stone. We either exist in a universe of laws where the term ‘magic’ simply describes something we can’t yet comprehend, or we live in a realm of magic where there are no laws, and anything is possible. You can’t have it both ways.”

The Englishman smiled.

“Cheers, lad! Well said indeed! Now that you have convinced me that ya understood me question, let us continue” he said and allowed both time for a long draught, then pressed on.

“I was not always a bartender,” he said simply, as if to solve a riddle of some dubious past.

Vashon found this ironic.

“It would appear no one is what they seem.”

“Indeed,” said Whidbey, having found his thread

“Did I ever mention I come from British Hong Kong?” he said. Vashon shook his head, a small chuckle escaping, more anticipation than humor. His conversations with Whidbey had always reminded him of his father, a bittersweet reminiscence.

“Oh Yeah? Never guessed”

“Well, ya haven’t heard the half of it, mate,” he said. “Ol’ Whidbey here was once a bonafide anthropologist!” he stated with no little pride. Vashon tried to picture it, producing a quizzical twist to his face.

“That be the truth of it, lad. My speciality was myths and legends. Traveled all ‘round this world over lake and rivers, caves and mountains, chasen’ every tattooed dick shaken’ shaman, sorcerer, brujo, devil or witch I could shoot with a camera and recorder, smilin’ pretty for any tale or custom, rite or ritual I could document for posterity” he paused for a breath and a drink.

“So that’s how you ended up here?” pressed Vashon.

“Patience, friend. I’ll be comin’ ’round to that soon enough.”

“Sorry,” said Vashon.

“No worries, lad,” he smiled warmly “First things first.”

Vashon raised his mug, “Do go on, please.”

The old man wet his tongue and began anew.

“Well, that all be well and good. I had made a decent name for me self, surviving my travails unscathed (for the most part) and enjoyed my notoriety. But, as the hourglass turned, the mountains got steeper, the ground I slept on colder. I began to dream of a soft chair at a warm desk with a bottle of Glenlivet in the side drawer, savvy?”

“Sounds comfy” mused Vashon.

“That be the ticket, mate. And it bloody well was, if I’d only had the stomach for it.”

“The best-laid plans…” offered Vashon.

“…of mice and men,” said Whidbey “precisely. After a time, my office became a dungeon, my chair an iron maiden. Began to sleep on the floor, even ate bugs off the sill if only for a taste of the camel’s back, my knees in the dugout, the smell of unwashed bodies huddled together for warmth. The other professors thought I’d lost my bloody mind, trying to put me off the lunacy. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, man, after all you’ve seen. Enjoy the academic life, go have a pint, cheers’ and all that rot. The walls closed in. I was well on me way to jumpin’ out the bloody window when a knock came at me door.”

“Fate?” asked Vashon.

“Of a fashion, mate, of a fashion,” said Whidbey as he finished his brine, got up grabbing both mugs and walked to the bar, occasionally stopping to stretch his legs and scratch his back. On his way back, he stuck his head through the curtain to check in on their precious ward. He watched as the fur covering her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Vashon gave him a look of concern as he sat down.

“She be sleepin’ easy, mate. Sound as night. So, where’d I leave off?”

“Fate came a-knockin’.”

“Oh, yes, quite right. Well, a Chinaman (who’s name escapes me) brought some artifacts to the institute to ‘donate’ them, or so he said. Now, mind ya, people often brought items, of some value (they ’oped); a few quid or better for their trinkets,”

“And your institute would buy them?”

“If the items were of value, yes.”

“And these were?”

“Yes, they were. Quite! Exquisite, truth be told. Intricately carved ivory. Illegal as hell on the black market. Ivory was a bane, and well so. But this bloke wasn’t lookin’ to turn a profit, and that was only the first of many mysteries connected with the items. He was quite in a dither about the whole business. Couldn’t get rid of them, or should I say away from them, fast enough and wouldn’t accept a bloody farthing,” said Whidbey, gazing into the space between the two as if watching a theater he had paid to see more than once.

“What were they?” asked Vashon. Whidbey appeared at first not to hear, the past spinning in his memory. Then he heaved to.

“Mermaids. The most precious little carvings you’d ever seen. I picked one up and was instantly bedazzled. Began thinking of how they might look on the mantel back ’ome. I looked up to ask the Chinaman where they might have come from, but he had vanished. Sod off with without so much as a ‘by your leave’. So, I was left with the treasures and a mystery.”

He had them in this small wooden box, see, a worthless crate really. He said he had found with his great uncle’s things when he died. He wouldn’t touch the bloody things, did not want to look upon them, and even stood back when I opened the lid.”

“Superstition” offered Vashon.

“Perhaps,” said Whidbey, “Don’t be so hasty to judge, lad. I wouldn’t have had a job if it weren’t for superstition.”

“Well said,” he agreed.

“Then came the second oddity: Inside the box, with the figurines, as they were, were some old folded papers and a small book of notes, all written in Mandarin.

Vashon prodded, “And these papers?”

Whidbey was again in another time, another place.

They sat for a while, sipping their brine, a few more huntsman entering.

“They’ll all be back soon,” said Whidbey finally, “Murderous heathens the lot”. He did not try to hide his disdain; nor his worry of what would transpire at that time.

“Don’t forget, friend, I’m one of those murderous heathens,” said Vashon. Whidbey reached across the table and grabbed his arm.

“Present company aside, dear friend,” he said, “By the by, where has that mate of yours got off to? Haven’t seen him since yesterday. Sleepin’ it off, I’ll wager. Legless he was, pissed! Me Ana had to shoulder him out the bloody door. We could use him now.”

Vashon frowned. That was a barb he would have to pull himself.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll check in on him later. And the mystery?”

“Oh, yes. Well, me Mandarin being what it was, I had my man translate the documents and the little book for me. Guessed it might be a diary of sorts, at best, a record of time n tide. But then, as I began to read the translations, the third mystery unfolded before me.”

“Now, before you start thinkin’ I’m off my trolley, any anthropologist worth his salt is first a detective. The documents themselves referred mostly to the shipment of the remains of a family member, from the United States to China. This was common practice back before the turn of the century, by treaty. The body of said deceased would be buried for perhaps, a year, ’til the body had decomposed, then dug up and shipped back to their family in the homeland. I’m guessing the contents of my little box of treasures returned with the old bones in just this fashion.”

“The book began much as I had figured, goings on this day and that. Most reference was to Seattle ‘round about 1878, more or less. Dates, names, anecdotes and the lot, I soon got the gist and, Bob’s your uncle, your ol’ Whidbey was back in the saddle, cheers!” his eyes twinkled, but for an instant, then the smile ran from his face.

“And so, here we unfold the unfortunate tale of Xiyatu. Seems the family had packed up and went off to get rich on gold in California. It was a hard tale to swallow. You should read it when you’re havin’ a rainy day. Bring ya’ right ‘round, it will. By the time they got there, which was nothin’ short of a regular ‘trail of tears’ in itself, the gold was dryin’ up. So they headed north to Oregon, for a time, and then on to Washington where they worked logging, railroad or hops, whatever they could get. Things got worse as the Chinese got plentiful. Xiyatu and his people would work twice as long for half as much. The whiteys took a dislike to ’em and wanted the lot gone. Many were loaded, by force, onto trains or ships, or murdered outright, ran out by bloodthirsty mobs.”

“But this Xiyatu and his family decided to keep moving north and ended up, (wait for it), on none other than our friendly little island across the channel.”

“Tschakolecy,” said Vashon. Whidbey gave a big-toothed grin.

“Well! Very nice, eh? Been learnin’ the lay of the land have ya?” they toasted and drank, Whidbey continued.

“Well, here is where the story gets interesting. See, the majority over there at the time consisted of a few tribes of Indians, mostly sea and forest hunters. There were a few of us whiteys farmen’ but Chinese tenants in the 1880s and 1890s who had originally come to work on the railroads, these farmers were quite successful; however, most were forced off the island by racial prejudice, which turned violent at times.

But our little family, who had by then befriended the natives, refused to budge one more inch and were finally accepted by the natives as part of the tribe, who taught the men to hunt the forest and, more to our concern, the sea. They became quite useful with the net and harpoon.”

“Then Xiyatu gives mention to a couple of blokes that came a-callin’, after good sea hunters. Said they’d be paid handsome,”

Here Whidbey waited for Vashon to catch up.

“So, you’re telling me Mukilteo had been hiring mercenaries since way back, is that it?”

Whidbey frowned.

“Were it that simple, mate. Were it that simple. The book does name the two men. Any idea who that might be?” he said and waited.

“No idea” said Vashon.

“How’s Shiatoru, that is, and his fetch, the ubiquitous Mister Sumner,” he said, watching Vashon’s reaction.

“So, it’s an old family business, so what?”

“That would be right proper, wouldn’t it?” said Whidbey, turning his stein around slowly as he spoke.

“So, what are you saying?”

“What say we get back to the figurines.”

“The ivory mermaids.”

“Just so,” said Whidbey, taking a long pull and glancing around. He was watching for someone, and Vashon had a good idea who it was.

“Remember, if you will, me specialty,”

“Myths and legends.”

“Right as rain, ya’ be. So now that we have a box full of pieces, and no picture on the front to guide us, we will attempt to piece the puzzle together. But first, I asked me self a question “What mermaid myths might be told around the campfire on Tschakolecy Island.”

“And?”

“Not one. Not a single bloody tale. Which is strange. There are mermaid myths the world over. I found sasquatch, loch ness type creatures, huge bats, but not one bloody fish-woman.”

“So?”

“Use your brain, lad, it doesn’t take a genius. Native cultures paint pictures on caves, chisel huge rocks, make a million idols, but they are idols that reflect their beliefs, their myths. One would not expect to find mermaids carvings in a culture with no mermaid myths, savvy?”

“So maybe they were a gift from visitors. You said they had been all over hell and gone before they arrived here. Maybe they picked them up at the gas station on the way.”

“Except that he mentions getting them from the tribe shaman, as gifts of protection.”

“Protection from what?”

Whidbey stopped to drink long and breathe longer still. He wanted Vashon to work it out on his own, which he did, at last.

“You were gonna say witch, weren’t you?”

“You said it mate, not me.”

“But that’s what you’re dancing around, isn’t it?”

Whidbey let it hang in the air between them. The meat comes off the bone easier after it stews.

“Well, that was enough for me -I was hooked. Wanted, no, had to find the island, see if any trace of the tribe or Xiyatu’s family had survived. The institute, about ready to have me committed, would have none to do about it. But I was steadfast and, taking an early pension, buggered off to Seattle and headed north, same ways you all arrived and hired a boat to the island. The boatman was a local who hooked me up with his man over there who knew his way around. Was a bit tight-lipped about the indigenous people but after a few pints he warmed up well enough. Next thing we was off to find a lost tribe, and a shaman, name a’ Alki.”

Whidbey looked around again. Vashon didn’t like the look on his face.

“What is it, Whidbey? What’s got you so spooked?”

Just then the entrance door was kicked open by a heavy foot, and there stood Redmond, hands in fists like bludgeons, his contorted face searched the room, finally coming to rest on the two.

His bombastic shout shook the rafters

“Where is she, old fuck? And what have you done with my spear?”

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