The Alehouse at the End of the World

by Stevan Allred

  The cormorant swam over to him again. “How do you catch them?” he said.

  “I use a hook and a line,” the fisherman said, “or sometimes a net.”

  “Ah, yes,” the cormorant said. “I’ve read of such things.” Sunlight was once again glancing off his spectacles, and the fisherman noticed a curious thing. Not only were the spectacles still perched on the bird’s bill, but they appeared to be dry. The bewitchery of this place revealed itself in the smallest details. Sorcerers all, these birds.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a net or a hook around here.”

  “I fear not,” the cormorant said. He paddled toward shore, and the fisherman followed. “Perhaps you might fashion one yourself?”

  The fisherman nodded. “I might, given a supply of strong cord.” It would take him the better part of a day, even if he had the material. “There are no tradesmen here, though, no chandlery, no store of such goods?”

  “None whatsoever,” the cormorant said. He stood on the wet sand and spread his wings to the sun, drying them.

  “As I thought,” the fisherman said. “Might you be able to conjure such a thing?”

  “Conjure, sir?” the cormorant said. His turquoise eyes grew larger and rounder. “You mistake me for someone I am not, for I am no conjurer, nor ever have been. I am a scholar, and a barrister, and lately, the crow wishes me to know, an advisor to the king.” He rattled his wings, turning this way and that, his feathers shiny in the sun. “What you might do is strip some bark off one of the cedar trees. The bark of the cedar tree is woven into many useful things, many useful things indeed.”

  The pelican waddled down from the driftwood fire and joined them. “Hallo, good fellows,” he cooed, “what say ye to a swim?”

  The cormorant folded his wings, and turned to face his companions. “I was about to tell our guest here about all the useful things one can make from cedar bark. Baskets, of course, and hats, and all manner of clothing, and mats, to name but a few. And cord, which may be of particular interest to our guest, since he would like to go fishing.”

  “Ahh, fishing,” the pelican said. “A pleasant way to pass the time.”

  “As to hooks,” the cormorant said, “One can be fashioned from hemlock, which can be found in the forest, or better yet, there are yew trees here, Taxus brefifolia. The wood is hard to work but worth the effort, or so have I read.”

  “Perhaps you could show me the proper tree,” the fisherman said. He was only being polite, for he knew well what a yew tree looked like. He was growing ever more hungry, and the thought of spending a day fashioning the tools of his trade made his stomach growl again.

  “Oh my,” said the pelican. “Such a noise.” He lay his bill against his chest, and his yellow eyes blinked their curious sideways blink. “Are you hungry?” he said to the fisherman.

  “Famished,” the fisherman said.

  “Why are you wasting time speaking of nets and hooks?” the pelican said. “Catch the poor fellow a fish, for pity’s sake.”

  The cormorant looked askance at the pelican. “Dat homini pisces ciba illum diem. Docet piscibus in ciba illum diebus,” said he.

  “Good heavens,” said the pelican, “must you show off by speaking Latin at a time like this?”

  “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day,” the cormorant said, his spectacles shining in the sunlight. “Teach him how to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.”

  “I know how to fish,” the fisherman said.

  “He’s hungry, you big dodo,” the pelican said. “The man can’t weave himself a net when he’s dying of hunger.”

  The fisherman fixed a hungry eye on the cormorant. He let his face become pitiable, and he pulled his belly in slowly until it became a hollow. The cormorant might be a deity, and a sorcerer, but the pelican was trying to shame him, and he thought it best to follow the pelican’s lead. But the cormorant turned away, spreading his wings again in the sun.

  “It’s no good insulting me,” he said. “I’m merely taking the scholarly approach, offering my knowledge, and asking for nothing in return.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” the pelican said. “I’ll do it myself.”

  The pelican flew out over the inlet, skimming along a few feet above the water, until, quick as a shot from a pistola, he turned sideways in the air and dove straight down into the water. When he came back up a fish could be seen struggling inside his ample bill. He flew back to the fisherman, and he opened up his bill to reveal a fine fish.

  “Take this,” he said. The fisherman reached in and pulled out the fish, still alive, and he waded back to shore, where he gave the fish a quick and merciful rap on the head against a rock. Perhaps the pelican was one of those rare deities who were helpful, and therefore worthy of a man’s prayers.

  “I am once again in your debt,” the fisherman said. He took the fish back to his fire, and he found that with the cuttlefish beak he could gut the thing. It was a clumsy operation that made him long for his knife, but the beak was better than nothing. The birds watched him as he built himself a cooking rack out of green alder branches lashed together with sea grass. He spitted the fish and hung it above the fire to cook.

  “Tell me something,” the fisherman said. “What is this business about the canoe?”

  “Ahh,” the pelican said. “It is this way. The canoe arrives at midnight, filled with the just dead. They are led ashore, and the crow harvests their souls. The souls burrow into the sand, where they become clams.”

  “And what do they do inside their clamshells?” the fisherman asked.

  “They dream,” the pelican said. “They dream whatever heaven they desire, and they are happy.”

  “Forever?” the fisherman asked.

  “Oh no,” the pelican said. “No, they slowly make their way to the other side of the inlet, crawling along through the sand. Takes quite a long time, I’m told. They’re not in a hurry, and their sense of direction is poor. But eventually, they turn up on the other side. And there they are dug up, and the canoe takes them back to the material world, where they are reborn.”

  “Dug up?” the fisherman said. “By whom?”

  “The canoe is paddled by two fish eagles, a he and a she. They dig up the clams, and they paddle away with them in the dawn.”

  “And what course do they follow?” the fisherman said. “Out to sea?”

  “Yes,” the pelican said, “to the far shore, where they release the souls within the clams for rebirth, and gather the newly dead.”

  “The dead come there from the land of the living?”

  “They do.”

  So there it was, a way back home. He must cross the sea, and follow the trail of the dead back to the living. He would collect the soul of his beloved at sunset, and they would see what fate held for them, but the fisherman was beginning to think they might do well to get as far away from this place as they possibly could.

  His coals were hot, and well banked, but the fish was going to take some time to cook, so the fisherman lay back and closed his eyes. He had a sailor’s habit of falling asleep quickly, and he was gone in a few breaths.

  The cormorant sidled over to the pelican. “I know he’s our guest, and deserving of our hospitality,” the cormorant said, “but he can’t stay here. The crow will never allow it.”

  “It’s not the crow I’m worried about,” the pelican said. “The Kiamah beast will wake up at sunset, and he will be angry. We’d best watch each other’s backs, or we’ll end up like Raven.”

  Both birds shuddered, their feathers rattling with fear. The frigate bird called out to them. “Cousins,” he said, “do not despair. This fisherman may be exactly who we need to restore this land to its proper order.”

  The cormorant and the pelican flew up to treetop perches next to the frigate bird.

  “What do you mean?” the cormorant said.

  “It is no accident that he has arrived now,” the frigate bird said, “so soon after Raven’s disappearance. T
he threads of fate are weaving themselves into a new pattern. We must buck up, and be a part of the change that is afoot.”

  “I miss Raven,” the pelican said. “The crow is a savage, and cruel. He frightens me. He ate a soul today, and that is a crime for which we may all be punished.”

  “Do not be ruled by your fears,” said the frigate bird. “You must stand up to the crow when the opportunity arises.”

  “Though I am but a scholar, I shall do so,” said the cormorant.

  “You’re braver than I,” said the pelican.

  The cormorant stretched out his long neck at this praise from the pelican, and jabbed his bill at the sky. “Where is Raven?” he said. “The crow said Raven was banished, but to whence?”

  “I don’t believe that tale of banishment,” said the frigate bird. “I think the crow killed him.”

  “Then ubi est corpus?” said the cormorant. “Where is the body?”

  “Methinks the crow fed him to the Kiamah,” said the frigate bird.

  “Shhhh,” the pelican said. “Don’t say that. The beast might hear us.”

  “The Kiamah?” the frigate bird said. “He’s asleep.”

  “He may have spies,” the pelican said.

  “Spies?” the frigate bird said. “There’s nobody here but us.”

  They all looked at one another, their eyes gimlets boring in like surgeons trepanning each other’s skulls.

  “I am no spy,” said the cormorant.

  “Nor am I,” said the pelican.

  “Nor I, neither,” said the frigate bird.

  “Suspicion clouds the mind,” the cormorant said.

  “Trust me,” the pelican said, “you can’t trust anyone anymore.”

  “If we don’t hang together,” the frigate bird said, “we shall surely hang separately.”

  The three birds, on a cue that only birds can see, began swiveling their heads, looking in all directions. Even the frigate bird was wary, despite his brave talk, and the pelican, frightened by their conversation, let loose a large gobbet of guano, and, thus lightened, flew off.

  “Scared shite-less, that one is,” the frigate bird said.

  The cormorant clucked in agreement. “Things were better here before Raven disappeared.”

  “Amen to that,” the frigate bird said.

  §

  Dewi Sri, Divine Regent of Bali Dwipa, the land of peace, sat in meditation in the temple of her ancestors. It was here she came for guidance when she was in the midst of tribulation. For many nights her sleep had been troubled by ominous dreams, and though she went about her duties with her usual calm, her spirit was troubled.

  She spent her days sending her spirit to the rice rituals, which were constant, and varied, and far too numerous for her to attend all of them in person. Though no one in the land of the living knew this, she kept herself informed of all that mattered by listening to the whispers of the fireflies that lit up the rice paddies each evening. It was from this knowledge that she chose when to manifest herself in person, rewarding those tempeks and those subaks who were exceptionally devoted to her, and who did the most careful work on their irrigation ditches and in the paddies themselves. Thus did everyone in the land of the living hope to earn the blessing of a personal visit from the Rice Mother.

  On many an evening Dewi Sri hosted feasts in her palace, with music from the gamelan players, and costumed dancers reenacting the legends of her ancestors, the gods. She sat at the head of these festivities, clothed in silk and songket, her smile serene. But within her there was another nature, a nature that craved the touch of others. She was the Rice Mother, true enough, but she was also a fertility goddess, and she loved to couple. She had her choice of lovers, male and female alike, and made full use of that choice. And there were other evenings when she was alone, and it was on these evenings that she sat in solitude, seeking the center point of all that was, and all that should be.

  Now, before her, the statues of her ancestors stood with nothing but serenity on their stone faces. Dewi Sri sat in full lotus, with her hands clasped in the ushra mudra, her fingers interlaced, her left thumb encircled by her right thumb and forefinger. Before she could hear the voices of her ancestors, she must find the balance point within, at the center of the eleven directions. In the land of peace, she must find her own peace. But peace eluded her, and the longer she sat, the further away it was. She could not stop herself from feeling the mudra as the coupling of her left thumb with the fleshly circle of her right thumb and forefinger.

  She had been too long at the work of being the Rice Mother, for the rice paddies proliferated, and her people grew more numerous, and she returned their devotion with her devotion. But it was time to balance her second chakra with the thrust of a hard q’hram into her quiver. Or with the oft-practiced touch of one of her courtesans, who knew her quiver well.

  So much for meditation. She stood and spread her wings, flapping them gently as she walked out of the temple. She took flight, returning to her quarters in the highest part of her palace, and there she retired to the canopied bed in her lanai. She struck a clear urgent note on the gamelan gong that summoned her handmaiden.

  “Bring me rose oil and ylang-ylang and lavender,” she told her handmaiden. “Then summon Ni Tut Sulastri and I Tjok Putra.”

  “Both of them, my lady?”

  Again she slid her left thumb through the fleshly circle of her right thumb and forefinger. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “Yes, both. The elder shall instruct the younger in the arts of love.”

  Thus would she find the balance point within, by releasing the pent-up need. She was, after all, a fertility goddess.

  §

  The fisherman woke from his catnap and checked his fish, which was not quite ready. He turned the spit, and he shaded his eyes with his hand. The frigate bird flew off his perch, his long narrow wings spread wide, and swooped out over the inlet. There he caught an updraft, and spiraled upward, his forked tail marking a black V in the sky. They were all glide, the frigate birds, rarely flapping their wings, as graceful as a ship under full sail. They flew many leagues from shore, father out than any other sea bird, and they were a sailor’s first sign that land lay beyond the horizon. All his days as a sailor he had held them in high regard, despite their reputations as brigands who harassed boobies and other birds, stealing their food.

  The sun was bright, the sand at his feet hot, and the sun was making its daily traverse across the sky. That gave him his bearings—the inlet opened to the sea eastward, and the mountains were to the west. His camp was on the south shore of the inlet. All good things to know.

  He walked down to the water, where the cormorant stood in the shallows, gazing at the fish swimming by. “It’s a fair wind,” he said, by way of making conversation with the bird.

  “Hmmm?” said the cormorant. “A fair wind? I suppose so. Fair enough for Cousin Pelican to hover above us.” The pelican was indeed above them, holding his place with his spread wings.

  “But aloft the tree tops sway,” said the fisherman, pointing. “The wind is aloft, and from the west.”

  “Hmmm?” the cormorant said, looking up now. “The west? No, no, you mean the east,” he said, pointing a wing at the treetops.

  “But the sun is moving westward,” said the fisherman, “toward the mountains.”

  “I beg to differ,” the cormorant said. “You’re quite mistaken. The sun rises in the west, and sets in the east. Always has.”

  “That’s right,” the pelican said. “Where you come from it’s all backward, rising in the east, setting in the west. It would make me giddy as a maple seed, I should think.”

  Giddy was precisely how the fisherman felt. East was west, and west was east, and if these bird-gods were to be believed, when the sun went down he would see that outside was inside, and the sun was the great beating heart of the Kiamah beast. His head buzzed like a beehive, and felt as if it might spin right off his neck. He put his hands on his head
, and was startled to feel no hair there. His naked scalp was as smooth as an apple, and his face was without stubble. Surely he had been here long enough for his whiskers to grow. He held his hands out in front of himself, and his arms had the faintest tinge of blue to them.

  Strange and stranger were the changes worked upon him by his sojourn in the whale’s belly. Still, some things never changed, and hunger was one of them. He walked back to his fire, where his fish was finally cooked. He laid the fish down on a flat rock, peeled back the skin, and put the first juicy tidbit in his mouth. He had nothing for seasoning, and no way to eat except with his hands, but here was another truth about hunger, something his beloved had told him once: hunger makes a banquet of the simplest meal.

  Each toothsome bite restored the fisherman’s spirits. His belly filled at last, he built his fire up until the flames were waist high, the crackling yellow flames a comfort to him as he waited for the crow to return. He sat on a driftwood log and kept himself still, unwilling to show his companions how his heart flapped like a loose sail, his blood running hot and cold by turns. The sun’s transit across the sky pained him with its slow pace, as if it were a ship becalmed on slack seas. There were clouds scattered across the sky, lit from below by the sun setting in the east, and that eastward motion, wrong as it was, only added to the icy upset coursing through the nerves in his belly. It was a strange brew of feelings, and it put him in mind of several things: the nardly thrill he felt when he stepped on shore knowing he would have a woman for the first time after months at sea, the tight-chested last moments before a pirate ship closed the gap on its merchant prey, the flat-eyed sorrow of a man just dead. The crow would come, bearing the soul of his beloved, and would honor their bargain, or by the gods he would throttle that cursèd bird, even if it meant his own life was forfeit.

  The cormorant and the pelican perched on a log across the fire from the fisherman, silent, waiting, their heads down, their bills resting on their breasts. The frigate bird had returned to his branch above. The bottom edge of the sun’s disc reached the tops of the mountains and began to disappear behind them. The pink bottoms of the clouds turned orange as if lit from within, and as the color changed, the fisherman found within himself some measure of calm. It was a calm he borrowed in part from his unruffled companions. He was swordless, and knifeless, with only the cuttlefish beak to defend himself, but he had his hands and his wits, and he had not reached the age he was by relying solely on the brute force of weaponry. He had the strength of a man who worked hard every day to survive, though he had thickened in the middle, as many an old stud does, long before he loses his desire to service the herd. He had seen many things in his sailor’s life, and tricksy though this crow might be, the fisherman had taken his measure, and would not be fooled again. Above all else, as in any battle of wits or strength, his best advantage was his willingness to die.