“Too true,” said the frigate bird. “But as to the matter at hand, they will have with them a cask of ale saved from the fire.”
“How fortuitous,” said the cormorant. “I look forward to furthering my study of the matter.”
“Diligence is the mother of the fortuitous,” said the frigate bird. “I simply made sure I was in the right place at the right time.”
“One cask?” said the woman. “We’ll want more than one cask. What about the next night, and the next?”
“For that we shall need the good offices of the pelican,” said the frigate bird.
“The pelican?” said the woman, “how so?” She smiled at her friend and went on. “The pelican is many things, but she is no brewer.”
“I see it,” said the cormorant, peering over the tops of his spectacles. “She shall vuln herself, and a drop of her blood will make the ale in the cask last all night.”
“Oh,” said the pelican, “will that work?”
“Sit non dubium,” said the cormorant. “You’re a goddess. Do you know, I spoke to a woman one night, a priestess in one of those obscure messiah cults that keep springing up in the material world? She said that a messiah turned water into wine at a wedding when they ran out.”
“In Cana?” said the fisherman. “I’ve been there. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a messiah in Cana.”
“I’m happy to try,” said the pelican. “I hope I don’t disappoint you all.”
“Perish the thought,” said the frigate bird. “I’m sure this will work.”
“What is it about the desert and messiahs?” said the fisherman.
“It’s the heat,” said the frigate bird. “It toasts the conarium like a bagel.”
“Bagel?” said the woman.
“A kind of heavy bun,” said the frigate bird, “with a hole in the middle.”
“Conarium?” said the fisherman.
“Third eye,” said the frigate bird, pointing to his brow.
“The source of visions, in some philosophies,” said the cormorant. “The Cartesians think it’s where the soul resides.”
“Did you hear the one about Descartes?” said the frigate bird.
“Descartes?” said the cormorant. “Cogito, ergo sum—that Descartes?”
“Just so,” said the frigate bird. “Seems Descartes walks into an inn, and he sits down and asks for a meal. The innkeeper asks him if he’d like wine with his meal. ‘I think not,’ says Descartes. And then poof, he disappears.”
The cormorant chuckled, although the rest of the company, having never heard of Descartes, were left scratching their heads. The fisherman asked his beloved if she wouldn’t like to go down to the water, and so they left the three birds at the fire. Hand in hand they walked, each enjoying the touch of the other. The low steady cadence of the Kiamah’s heart throbbed above them.
“What is this beast they speak of?” said the woman.
“The Kiamah? He is, they tell me, the devourer of all things. They suspect the crow is in league with him.”
“The sound of his heart is ever in my dreams,” said the woman, and she shuddered. “And some nights the beast pursues me, a great serpent with a fearsome, slavering mouth.”
The fisherman put his arms round her, and they held each other close. He stroked her hair, as one comforts a child whose sleep is troubled, and the woman, though she was comforted, shivered in his arms.
“Be not afraid, my beloved,” said the fisherman. “I will let no harm come to you.” He meant what he said, although he knew that there were forces at play here far more powerful than his own weedy strength. All his life he had kept steely-eyed death at bay with his wits, a stout heart, and luck. He still had his wits, and his heart was as stout as ever, but there was no way to foresee when luck might betray them.
There were clouds building out to sea, and the fisherman smelled rain coming on the freshening breeze. “We have shelter from the storm,” said he, “and the company of friends, and whatever fate brings us, we shall face it together.”
“So we shall,” said the woman. “So we shall.”
They walked on down the beach. There was something low to the ground moving about in the orange glow cast by the mound of embers that was the pyre. “That’s strange,” said the fisherman. He took note once again of the boon of being able to see so well in the dark. “Do you see that?” he said, pointing.
“There, by the pyre?”
“Those are birds,” said the fisherman. “Crows, if I’m not mistaken.”
“If they are crows,” said the woman, “they are uncommonly small.”
“Yes, crows,” said the fisherman. “That is their customary size in the land of the living.”
There were a dozen or so of them, and they were pecking away at a length of stick that lay on the sand. They stood and watched, the fisherman and his beloved, and took note of how purposeful the crows were. They pecked not at random, but as if they had a task to perform. Bits of wood lay scattered about them, and there was a pattern of scales carved down one face of the stick. As if on a signal that only birds can see, the crows lined up on one side, and they turned the stick with their beaks.
“That’s one of the bedposts,” said the woman. The crows resumed their pecking, muttering “kwurk, kwurk, kwurk” to one another as they worked.
The crow landed in front of them, having flown down from his perch above the pyre. “Good evening,” he said, and he passed a wing in front of himself and took on his man shape. “A lovely evening for a stroll.” He stalked back and forth in front of them as he spoke. “We see you’ve met Our band of helpmates. We have summoned them here to speed on the task of carving Our marriage bed.”
“Marriage?” said the woman. “You have made a proposal to the goddess?”
“A figure of speech,” said the crow. “Although, now that you mention it, a king such as Ourself is in need of a proper queen.”
The woman could not help but notice the shine and the shape of the crow’s beak. He was indeed a handsome fellow, broad in the shoulders and well muscled in the arms and legs. Though she was growing fond of the fisherman, there were other, darker urges within her, urges the goddess had awakened, urges that she had not the will to put back to sleep. The crow was the King of the Dead, and powerful in ways the fisherman was not. A king might have both a queen and a consort, and she rather fancied the idea of being his fancy.
The fisherman, wary as he always was in the presence of the crow, bowed before him. “By your leave,” he said, “we shall continue our stroll.”
“Stroll on,” said the crow, who, as the fisherman’s head was bowed, took the opportunity to wink at the woman, who lowered her eyes, but allowed him the slightest of smiles. “By all means, continue.”
The crow watched them as they walked on toward the stream at the back of the inlet. He took note of the woman’s backside, which was shapely beneath her sarong, and of the saucy way her haunches swung from side to side. Part of her mating dance, no doubt, and he put his hands on his hips and bumped his loins at her in reply.
“Kiaww!” said the crow. “I can hardly wait.”
§
The goddess flew in, as she did most mornings, from the eastward sky, and she landed on the beach in front of the crow, who had his congress of crows assembled before him. The crows startled, flapping their black wings and uttering a chorus of caws, and then settled themselves again on the ground. There was a drizzle of rain falling, something between a mist and a shower, and droplets were sprinkled on her coif like jewels.
“Darling,” said she, offering her cheek for a nuzzle, “I see we have company.”
The crow, who had been telling himself he would remain aloof from the goddess this morning, found his resolve melting like guano in the rain when she stood close to him. He nuzzled his beak alongside her cheek, and the teasing touch of her hands on his back made him flush with desire. Her bare breasts were full against his chest. This was maddening, this push and pull of love, this turn
ing and twisting of his soul, this doubling back of his will. She was a sorceress, and a tease, yet still she owned his heart. But he was King Crow, and he had a few tricks of his own.
“Yes, my lotus blossom,” said the crow, “Let me continue, and by nightfall, they will have finished all four of the bedposts.”
“Oh, happy day,” said the goddess. The congress of crows was arranged in a semicircle around them, and they beheld their master with an attention so fierce as to border on rapture. “Wherever did you find them?”
“Aw,” said the crow, “I have my ways.”
“Clever fellow.” She took his hands in hers, and caressed them, pleased that the crow was proving himself a worthy adversary, for his cleverness made her loins warm. But alarmed as well, for these crows were evidence that he had breached the boundary between the material world and the spirit. It was one thing for the frigate bird to send things across on the canoe of the dead, and something else again for the crow, who was in league with the Kiamah, to have ruptured the barrier.
“Your own kind,” said the goddess. “They are, no doubt, a great comfort.”
“You know me well,” said the crow.
She must hasten the course of events, but in a way that did not arouse the crow’s suspicions. She let go his hands, and stepped back. “Please,” she said, “do go on.”
King Crow twittered and rattled at his fellow crows, urging them to complete the task of carving the scales on the remaining bedposts before the day was out. He bade them to carve well and truly the scales of the snakes, with the same care with which they would build a nest for their own young. For what they were building for their king, he told them, was also a nest, a nest for love.
“Kwurk,” said he. “Kwurk, kwurk, kwurk,” a magical word in the speech of King Crow, a word that made artisans of the crows, artisans who worked together. Then he knelt, and he took a pair of chisels from his tool belt and held them in his palms. With his upturned palms before his face he blew a breath of air across them at the assembled crows, passing, as he had done the day before, the skill of a master carver from his hands to their beaks. Thus did he spread the boon the goddess had given him, and turn it to his own purpose.
The goddess waited for him to finish, and watched as the crows hopped along the sand to the nearest bedpost, and set themselves to the task at hand. Or perhaps, thought the goddess, smiling, we should call it the task at beak. They pecked away, slicing off slivers of wood and tossing them over their shoulders, rattling and cawing in low throaty voices to one another as they worked, Aww, aw-aw, kaw-ka-kaw-kaw-aww.
The goddess stood behind the crow, looking over his shoulder and nuzzling his neck feathers with her chin. “Clever, clever crow,” she whispered, her breath hot. The crow shivered, and goose bumps rose all along his well-muscled arms. She ran her fingertips lightly across his shoulder blades, her wing feathers teasing him with the barest touch, and again he shivered, and moaned a low “awwwww” of delight. The bedposts would be done by sunset, and she would be his tonight.
Now the goddess wrapped her wings round the crow and caressed his chest, her breasts pressing up against his back. She took note of his q’hram, growing stiff beneath his loincloth, and she said, “You have pleased me well, my lord. Soon shall we enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
The crow, overcome with the thrill of her touch, could only moan “awwww” in reply.
“No doubt you’ve already milled the rails and slats,” she cooed.
“Awww?” said the crow. He had done no such thing, nor, having never built a bed before, had he given any thought to what else, beyond bedposts, the building of a bed might require.
“Yes, darling, a bed requires a frame,” she said, her voice full of the promise of delights to come once the bed was built. “But, silly me, you know that, of course.”
“Awww, yes,” said the crow. “Of course.”
“The fisherman,” said the goddess, “is quite the carpenter, I’ve noticed.”
“Yes,” said the crow. “So have I noticed as well.”
“No doubt you have enlisted his aid in this endeavor,” said the goddess.
“Yes, my sweeting,” said the crow, “I have.”
“Then I will leave you to it,” said the goddess. “Adieu, my lord,” she said, stepping back.
“Awww,” said the crow, forlorn in the absence of her touch. He turned, hoping to embrace her, but her wings were already raised, and she flapped them and rose, pausing only to smile at him and blow him a kiss.
The crow watched her fly away, his beak wet with drizzled rain, his back now cold where she had been pressed up against him. She grew smaller and smaller, and he grew angry and angrier in her sudden absence. He undid the tool belt that was slung across his hips, wrenching the belt free from its buckle, and he threw it at her diminishing form, though it fell well short of hitting her, and dropped into the waters of the inlet. “Wench,” he said, spitting the word out like contagion-fouled sputum. “Fobbing, tickle-brained tart.” The feathers on the back of his head raised themselves in revolt against the fickle cruelty of love. “Oh brazen-faced, ruttish, wanton harlot,” said he, “you plague me.”
His congress of crows was at his feet, whittling away, and he took some solace in this. They were his loyal vassals, and they would help him no matter what he asked of them. He got down on his hands and knees, and he joined in the comfort of their crow conversation. The crows chuttered and cawed with him while they carved the scales into the bedpost with their beaks, and he chuttered back, growing calmer, and the feathers on the back of his head lay flat again.
“That goddess is no match for me,” he told the crows. “I will eat her love for dinner. And for dessert, kiaww, I will avenge my honor.”They cawed their accord with him, and the crow stood. He’d best go see that whore’s turd of a fisherman, and see if he couldn’t trick him into helping with the bed.
§
Dewi Sri found the frigate bird some several farsakhs out to sea, returning from Isla del Ombiglio, one of his haunts. She told him the news, that crows had arrived from the material world.
“They do his bidding, these crows?” said the frigate bird.
“They do,” said the goddess.
“Troubling news,” said the frigate bird, “given what the Turropsi have told me.”
“You have seen them,” said the goddess. “And what do they tell you?”
“War is coming. We are to prepare ourselves,” said the frigate bird.
“War with whom?” said the goddess. “The Kiamah beast? The crow?”
“The crow, methinks, though they were miserly with details, as is their custom,” said the frigate bird. “If the crow has breached the barrier between here and there, there’s no telling what trouble he might brew.”
They flew in tandem, through the misty tops of rain clouds, both of them aware of the delicate threads of fate being woven around them.
“Events are overtaking us,” said the frigate bird. “We must act swiftly. The crow remains intent on finishing the bed?”
“He does,” said the goddess.
“What would you have me do?”
“The crow will soon approach the fisherman, seeking his aid in finishing the bed frame. See to the negotiations, lest their mutual enmity erupt in violence.”
“You may rely on me, my love.”
The serenity of the goddess’s smile gave way, for just a moment, to something more akin to affection. He was only one of many admirers, but he was intrepid, and had a brave heart. She brushed his wingtip with hers, that feathery touch some small token of her esteem. The frigate bird’s throat pouch swelled red in return.
“And something else,” the goddess said. “I have bed linens, and a mattress, in my palace. I need them brought to the Isle of the Dead. The crow is suspicious of me, but if I produce these things, I will gain back a portion of his trust, and that will serve our plot.”
“Leave it to me,” said the frigate bird. “I know just the thing.”
Fate was leading her she knew not where. She must be willing, lest she be hauled into an uncertain future like so much drayage. There would be pleasure, and there would be pain. She must not cling, and neither should she flee, but death awaited them all if she failed.
§
It was the fisherman and the woman’s habit to retire to their bed once the newly dead had made their way to the pyre. Some nights they made love before they slept, and some nights they simply spooned each other as they passed into slumber. Their days fell into a new rhythm, a few hours sleep until dawn, gardening and brewing and carpentering in the mornings, a siesta in the afternoon, a few chores and a meal as the sun set, and then a nap after supper. For an hour or so before midnight they readied the alehouse, and then they welcomed the newly dead, and served them all a mug of ale, and the evening’s revels would begin.
The sun was nearing its zenith on one such day, with a light rain falling, and the fisherman watched as his beloved and the pelican headed down the beach to the stream, buckets in hand, to fetch water. A batch of barleycorns had been in their cement trench for three days, and they were on the verge of sprouting, and so must be kept moist. His task for the rest of the day was to smooth planks for shelves to accommodate the mugs that kept arriving on the canoe of the dead. His sawhorses were set up beneath the eave that ran the length of the house, where he had rigged a tarp to provide some extra shade while he worked. He was just beginning to plane the first plank when he heard a thump from above, as if something had landed on the roof.
“Hallo,” said a familiar voice, and when he stepped back a few paces, he saw the frigate bird perched on the ridge of the roof, with his spyglass and his pistola stuck into his belt.
“Hallo, Frigate Bird,” said the fisherman. Rain fell lightly on his upturned face, and he shaded his eyes from it with his hand. “What news? Have you come from the sea?”
They talked of the winds and the weather, ever a subject of interest to both fisherman and bird, and he was pleased to learn that fair skies approached from the west. The fisherman lodged his latest complaint about the crow, who, just the night past, in the early hours before the sun rose and the crow settled on the cormorant’s shoulders to sleep, had dropped another gobbet of guano on their fire, very nearly putting it out. He had awoken to this mess, and he was vexed by it. He had shoveled the guano onto their guano pile so that his beloved would not be vexed by it as well, though he spoke to her when she awoke of his ire for the crow.
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 23