She turned and faced the Kiamah beast. The Kiamah was never fully asleep, and he lay before her now in a lizardly state of twilight, with his lurid green eyes half-open. She passed a wing in front of her face, and she took on her woman shape. Not the old crone shape that her friends knew her by, with its pendulous breasts hanging low on her jiggly belly, but a more luscious shape, like that of the goddess, and Cariña. For she had taken note of how the fisherman watched her friends, and how there were times when their flesh claimed his eyes, and would not let him look away. And that the women sometimes knew they were being watched in that way, and it made them pull their shoulders back, and sway their hips a little bit more when they walked. She wanted that. She wanted his eyes stuck on her.
And so she practiced, when she came to visit the beast, standing in front of his enormous, drowsy face, drawing her arms up her sides and raising them in the air, swaying her hips side to side and turning a slow circle. Here, in this dance, she shaped herself anew, from the inside out, as a woman who might yet draw forth the attentions of a mate, someone who was hers alone. Perhaps even the Kiamah beast might be swept away with desire for her, although what that might look like she could hardly imagine.
She crept now, as she had done before, up the beast’s snout to one of his enormous languid eyes, and stood before it on a fold of his crinkled flesh. The shiny wet surface of the Kiamah’s eye was a mirror, and here she could see herself as others might. She passed a hand in front of her face, shifting her shape, and when she looked again her hips were not quite so wide. Again she passed her hand in front of her face, and now the curve of her cheek bones was more comely, and her nose a bit less of a beak. She raised her arms, and swayed her hips, and turned herself round, moving to the rhythm of her own heartbeat. She looked over her shoulder at her backside, reflected in the beast’s eye, and she rocked her hips back and forth, ta-tah ta-tah ta-tah ta-tah, and yes, this was very fetching, this mating dance her hips knew all on their own. Ta-tah ta-tah ta-tah ta-tah, and now, all on their own, her nipples grew hard, and her nether parts moist. Her hand wanted to stray toward her loins, although she felt this to be her hand’s bidding and not her own.
It was then that the beast blinked. The pelican turned to face him, and she drew her shoulders back, the better to show off her breasts.
“Mmm-hmfff,” said the beast. “Is that you, Pelican?”
“Yes, my pet,” said the pelican, “and I’ve brought you your treats. Are you hungry today?”
“I am ever hungry,” said the beast. “Are they in their usual spot?”
“They are,” said the pelican. She sang the song the crow had taught her to make the treats grow to a size worthy of the Kiamah beast’s great maw, and the beast listened, as any creature might listen to a mother’s lullaby.
When the pelican finished her song, the Kiamah’s tongue pulled in between his lips with a swift, lizardly slurp. His lips closed, and his great jaws began to chew, rising up and down and making the pelican’s perch unsteady. The pelican passed a hand in front of her face and took on her pelican shape, and she flew to the tip of the beast’s tail. There she stood before him as a woman again, rocking her hips and turning in a slow circle. The beast finished his treat, and his tongue slithered out from between his fangs and licked his lips.
“What news from the Isle of the Dead?” said the Kiamah. “Is that fool crow still besotted with love?”
“He is, lambkin,” said the pelican, who had only recently begun asking the newly dead what words they used to talk to their lovers. “Some say there may be a wedding in the offing.”
“A wedding, you say? What a thing. Has there ever been a wedding on the Isle of the Dead?”
“Never,” said the pelican. She raised her arms, her hands moving as if she were pulling the beast to her with the tethers of love, but the beast was ruminating, and had no eyes for her.
“Tell me, O Pelican, do they sing my praises on the isle? Do they warm themselves with the heat of my sacred pyre? Do they thank me for keeping the spirit world safe within my belly?”
The pelican considered. It would be unkind to answer the Kiamah’s questions with too much of the truth. He wanted to be loved, as did all creatures, and so it was with love that she lied to him in answer.
“They do, duckie, they do,” said she. “They are grateful for all you do, and have done.”
“Good,” said the beast, “for I have sacrificed the nimble body with which I was born. When I was newly hatched I was swift, and flew about doing as I pleased. Now my belly is so big, all I can do is lie here.”
“Oh, greedy-guts,” said the pelican, rather pleased with herself for having invented this new endearment. “What a lot you’ve given up for the good of all. You miss flying, then?”
“I do,” said the beast. “My wings have grown weak, and cannot lift me.” The Kiamah tried to raise his wings off his back, but his leathery pinions merely twitched. “Remember me swooping in from the sea, swallowing everything before me? I was feared by all, and respected, and none would stand against me.”
The pelican shuddered, and her cheeks flushed with shame, remembering her faintheartedness the night she’d seen the beast devour the moon. She missed the moon, which rose no more because the beast had chewed it to bits. All that was left was the moon’s shine, which coated the inside of the Kiamah’s belly and gave off a faint glow at night. She had cowered at the bottom of the inlet, and warned no one, and that was the moment when the Old Gods might have banded together and defeated the beast, before he grew too large and powerful. Now it was too late, the Old Gods all devoured, and the blame was hers. She was no longer dancing, and when she spoke again her voice was muted.
“You are still,” said the pelican, “feared by all.”
The beast ran his long tongue round his lips, and then he snapped his jaws shut. “Of course I am,” said he. “I am the greatest beast that has ever lived, and I can swallow anything.” His gaze grew fierce, a threat to all that was in the stare of his lurid green eyes, and the pelican fell back, afraid. But then his eyelids lowered slowly, the conaria doing their work, and his perpetual drowsiness overtook him.
“Farewell,” said the pelican, who was now more than ready to take her leave. She took on her pelican shape again, and with it her shame, and she flew into the mouth of the beast, and down his throat.
§
Deep in the forest, near the far end of the Isle of the Dead, Dewi Sri sat in lotus position in the hollowed trunk of an ancient cedar tree, the inside lit by a single large candle. The night outside was dark. She followed her breath, only her breath, in, out, in, out, letting her thoughts rise up, letting them go. They were butterflies, her thoughts, delicate, transient things, their lives but a moment in time.
Or so she told herself. In truth, she found no peace in her meditation, and her thoughts stumbled from one worry to the next, not at all like butterflies. Though she had the seduction of the crow well in hand, he was suspicious of her, and possessed of a quicksilver temper. She must handle him with cunning, lest he loose his savagery on her, or the others, whom she now felt to be in her charge. Most especially Cariña, whom she had nursed back to life, and coupled with, and helped to reunite with the lover she could not remember. But they were to be sacrificed, these lovers, a prospect she abhorred. Was she to do this herself? She could not bear the thought, any more than she could give them up to the savagery of the crow.
Surely there must be another way.
This much she understood: to atone for the misdeeds of her family she must mate with the crow, and bear his child. Soon enough she would consummate with him. Yet the way forward beyond that simple act of lust was not at all clear. Somehow, if the Turropsi were to be believed, out of these events the Kiamah beast would be prevented from devouring all that was good.
Thus was her mind filled with the little-death of fear, so that it would not settle.
The crow thought she flew home every night, but it was here she came. She liked
this rough camp she had made for herself, such a change from the silk and songket of her palace. The mossy bed she slept on smelled of the earth, and the cedar tree towered above her older and wiser than she was, for the tree, with its perfect stillness, was closer to nirvana. In this she found humility, and in that humility she sought balance, but balance was elusive. More moss hung across the opening into the tree trunk, which faced west, and when the sun rose it filled the hollowed trunk with light. From darkness to light, that was where she was bound.
So much depended on what she did here. On what they all did.
Someone approached. She heard the whispery sound of wings gliding through the air. She opened her eyes. She had known this moment might come, and she welcomed it.
From the dark night a dark, avian shape came gliding in from the west, flapping its wings to slow its flight. Feet on the ground, it walked up and stuck its bill through the curtain of moss.
“So,” said Dewi Sri, “you’ve found me.”
“Yes,” said the frigate bird. His red throat pouch swelled at the sight of her. A crooked grin spread across the face of the goddess.
“Is that a scarf around your neck?” said she, “or are you just glad to see me?”
The frigate bird thrust his throat pouch at her and shook it from side to side. “Do you have plans?” he said, grinning back at her, “for the rest of the evening?”
“I do now,” said the goddess. She unfolded her legs, and she lay back on her bed. “Come,” she said, “join me.”
The frigate bird nestled in next to her. “Shall I blow out the candle?” he asked.
“Leave it on,” said she. “It brings out the sheen in your feathers.”
She put her hand on his head and drew him closer. He nuzzled his throat pouch along the curve of her shoulder and neck, and she gave herself up to the shudder of pleasure that came from his caress.
Let the crow wait. And the Kiamah beast, let him wait. She needed this. She needed it now.
§
Some few nights later, as the sun set in the east, the frigate bird appeared at the fisherman’s house. The fisherman had his arm round Cariña’s waist as they sat in front of their fire, their bellies full of roasted fish and vegetables, their heads leaned into each other’s so that they had only to turn them to bring their lips together in a kiss.
“It is time,” said the frigate bird, “to sample the ale.”
“Zounds!” said the fisherman. “It’s good to be alive!” His beloved smiled at this, and he sprang up with the vigor of a man a fraction of his age, and offered her his hand, pulling her swiftly to her feet. Now that his beloved was back in his arms he awoke each morning to a world scrubbed fresh, and full of possibility. Everything he needed was here. The work of each day was to make for themselves a better life, and in the evenings they had food in plenty, and well cooked. They had a fine kettle, and salt, harvested from the waters of the inlet. They had friends in the pelican, the cormorant, and the frigate bird, and time to enjoy an idle conversation, to sing songs as the shadows lengthened into night. They had each other’s bodies with which to make the pleasures of the flesh.
And now they would have ale. The cask was in a kind of rough cellar they had dug in a back corner of their house to keep it cool, covered by some planks, and beneath those, a thick layer of moss. The fisherman made quick work of uncovering it, and he dropped into the cellar and raised the cask in his burly arms, setting it gently on the dirt floor of their home. He carried it out to the fire, and the three of them stood around it, mugs in hand, or in the frigate bird’s case, a hollow reed for a straw at the ready, tucked into his belt.
“There is an ancient incantation,” said the frigate bird, “a hymn to Ninkasi, the Sumerian goddess of brewing. Why don’t we sing this hymn all together? Then we’ll open our cask, and let the ale come.” The frigate bird began, in his high raspy tenor, and the other two fell in with him as he went along.
You’re the one who bakes the steamy bappir
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains
Ninkasi bakes the bappir in the big oven
Puts in order the piles of grain
You’re the one who soaks the malt in the jar
Mixing in a pit the bappir and date honey
Ninkasi soaks the roasted malt in the jar
Mixing in a pit the bappir and date honey
They sang those verses through a few times, and then the frigate bird held up a wing. “I’ll teach you the whole thing later,” he said. “The hymn has the whole recipe in it, a very useful thing. But for now, let us pull the bung and pour our first taste.”
The fisherman tapped on the sides of the bung with a wooden mallet, loosening it until he could pull it out of the bunghole. A heavenly fragrance rose from the cask, a smell at once lemony and honeyed, bitter and ambrosiac, earthy and divine. The frigate bird took the reed from his belt and stuck it through the bunghole, sucked some ale up through it, closed his eyes, swished the ale around on his palate, frowned, and swallowed. The fisherman and his beloved waited, their breath held, their chests trembling.
The frigate bird opened his eyes slowly, and a long grin spread from one side of his bill to the other. “This ale,” he said, “is fit for the gods.”
“Huzzah!” said the fisherman. He snatched up the cask and poured his beloved’s mug full. The head was pure velvet and an inch thick. His beloved tipped her mug into her mouth and took a long slow drink, giving herself a foamy mustache.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she said. “This is the best!”
The fisherman took the mug from her and drank his own first taste. The hops were agreeably bitter, and the ale creamy and smooth. The yeasty bubbles sparkled in his mouth and danced their way down his throat. He leaned in and licked the foam off his beloved’s lip, and then they gave each other a hoppy kiss while the frigate bird looked on.
“To die for,” said the fisherman, smiling at his beloved.
“As some of us have,” said the frigate bird, and they all laughed, and poured themselves another. They were soon merry, these three friends, these brewers, sitting around the fire that night, drinking the fruit of their own labor. The fisherman and his beloved had drunk nothing but the water from the stream for as long as they both had been on the Isle of the Dead, and while that water was sweet and clear and pure, there was something heavenly about the ale in their mugs, for it made them feel that all the toil of their days was for something more than mere living.
“Heavenly indeed,” said the frigate bird. He spread his wings and looked up at the sky, and he said, “This is proof that Ninkasi loves us and wants us to be happy.”
They all drank a toast to that sentiment, ignoring the fact that above them were no stars, and no moon, and no sky at all but the belly of the Kiamah beast, whose heartbeat was ever-present in the night, a low rhythm, and a constant reminder that the spirit world had been swallowed. It was possible, perhaps even necessary, to live like that, paying as little heed as they could to the unpleasant facts of their existence. And to brew ale, to embrace the joy that ale brought them, was as much an act of resistance as any they could muster at the moment.
To share that ale with others was more than an act of kindness. The canoe of the dead entered the inlet, and the dead and the fish eagles sang their song to the drumbeat of the Kiamah beast’s heart. The fisherman, the woman, and the frigate bird all stood as the canoe went by, and after a quick meeting of the eyes they refilled their mugs and set off down the beach.
The cormorant and the pelican were there, ready as ever to greet the newly dead. The crow strutted about in his human shape, a bedpost in his hand, which he carried on his shoulder like a cudgel. He was in a foul mood, and full of savage desires, and when he saw the frigate bird he called him over. “Kiaaw! You weasel-faced whipjack,” said he, “you whore’s bird, how dare you show your face here?” The crow brandished his bedpost in the frigate bird’s face, and the frigate bird was eyeball to eyeball with the two serpents carved ther
e.
“Whoa,” said the frigate bird. He took a step back, and raised his wings in mock surrender. “Be of good cheer, Cousin, I mean you no offense.”
“Your very presence on this isle is an aw-aw-offense to Us,” said the crow. “Be gone, and never shall you return, for We banish you and your tickle-tail from Our kingdom.”
The fisherman and his beloved joined them, and the fisherman, who was the happiest he had been in as long as he could remember, and who wanted no discord to spoil the mood of the evening, held up his mug and bowed his head.
“King Crow,” he said, “we have made in your honor a special libation, a drink fit for the gods, such as yourself, and we beg of you the favor of tasting our offering.”
“What’s this?” said the crow. “What have you done?”
“’Tis an ale,” said the woman, and she took the opportunity of the fisherman’s bowed head to brazenly look the crow up and down. The crow, for his part, stood straighter, his shoulders back to show off his handsome chest.
“Do tell,” said the crow. “An ale? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
The woman smiled at him, taking note of his broad shoulders and his well-formed thighs and the curve of his shiny black beak. He had an air of power about him that she found quite beguiling. “Then let me offer you a nipperkin, for it is a knock-down nappy ale, and you have no acquaintance with strong drink.” The woman took the reed from the frigate bird’s belt and offered the crow a sip from her mug.
The crow opened his beak, and drew in some ale. “Uff,” he said, “it’s bitter.”
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 21