“So it is possible for us to return home? We sail to this island, and find the cave, and climb down a ladder?”
“Well, yes,” said the frigate bird. “That is, you could go to the material world, but you wouldn’t likely arrive at your home. The other end of the well shifts about. Sometimes you end up one place, and sometimes another, and then again a dozen more. One never knows.”
“But it is the world we lived in before we came here?”
“Oh yes, it is the same.”
“And so, it is beneath us? The spirit world is hollow?”
“It is this way,” said the frigate bird. “The material world is inside a hollow log of great immensity, and this log has drifted through the ocean of time for a thousand times a thousand years. The spirit world was on the outside of the log, only now it is swallowed up inside the belly of the Kiamah, and us with it. And the Kiamah sits atop that hollow log like a lizard basking in the sun.”
“And this umbilicus, it passes through the belly of the beast, and through the log to the world below?”
“It does,” said the frigate bird.
“And by this means you travel back and forth from the one world to the other?”
“By this means and others. There are passageways that bring one to the roof of the world, and from there one can see all that is, laid out below. And from my perches in the roof of the world I see what was and what will be through my spyglass.”
“You see the future with that?” She pointed at the spyglass tucked into his belt.
“In a manner of speaking. The future is not a thing to be seen, because it does not yet exist. What can be seen are the swirling mists of possibility. Oft times I fly into those mists. They have no more substance than a cloud, but there are visions floating in them, of things that might be, of wonders not yet dreamt of, and of horrors that may yet happen. One hears things that might be said, and the noise of battles that might be fought, and songs that have not yet been written.”
The woman pondered all this. Just beyond the edge of the present, it seemed, the land of the living was becoming what it was. The spirit world was all she knew, but the land of the living called to her. She wanted to go home, even though home was not a place she could remember.
“So,” the woman said, “if we survive the crow and his army of crows, you could take us to this Isla del Ombiglio, and we could go home?”
“It is possible,” said the frigate bird. “I cannot promise. All I know is that our destiny, for the moment, lies here, on the Isle of the Dead.”
There is no way out but through, thought the woman. Just then they heard the goddess return, her wings fluttering, and the sound of the fisherman’s feet hitting the ground as he slid off her back.
“May the gods preserve us,” said Cariña to the frigate bird.
Dewi Sri poked her head through the curtain of moss.
“We’ll do our best,” said she. She stepped in, and the fisherman behind her. And behind them, arriving as if by a signal that only birds can see, came the pelican and the cormorant. Our little band of heroes nestled together in the mossy confines of Dewi’s nest, their faces lit by candlelight.
“Now,” said the goddess, “let us put our heads together, and plot our way forward.”
§
Dewi Sri stood, hidden, in the shallow cave just below the peak of the highest mountain of the Isle of the Dead. The congress of crows was behind her, finishing their search of the forest. Luck was with her, for though the crows had found her nest in the hollow cedar tree, Lord Crow flew up and down their line, hectoring them to find, kiaw, find, kiaw, find their quarry, and so they were too rushed to dig through the many layers of moss beneath which she had hidden with her companions.
’Twas the frigate bird who had a pirate’s knowledge of how to spring a surprise attack upon their foe. At Dewi’s side was a linen bag full of soot that he had brought from the material world. Below her was the inlet, and at the twin pinnacles at the mouth were the pelican, the fisherman, and his beloved, hard at work on the task they had been given.
Would the fisherman and Cariña stay when the battle began? She had done what she could to gain their loyalty. Perhaps their failed escape had been useful, showing them that they had no real choice but to stay and help defeat the crow.
They were so outnumbered. The crow was mad with power, and she needed everyone working together if they were to prevail.
She was an unlikely general, with nothing in the way of battle experience of her own. All she had ever done was to bring forth abundance into the world. She patted her belly, which was starting to swell with the child she carried. They must drive the crow off his throne, so that his offspring might rule in his place. It was her own story reprised, only now it was she who was cast in the role of the father-killer, and it was not a role she relished.
The cormorant was working his way up to her, flying from branch to branch, staying hidden. Dewi Sri stepped out of the shallow cave and climbed to the mountain peak above it so she might peer eastward at the other end of the island. The crows in their multitudes were a dark line slowly sweeping forward. They would be done before the sun set in the east. Lord Crow would gather them at the inlet to harangue them again, of that she was certain, so fond he was of the sound of his own voice. The hour of battle was drawing nigh. Death, she reminded herself, was a necessary part of the cycle, and many would die before the night was through.
Now the cormorant flew to her side from a treetop below.
“I have been practicing,” said he. He passed a wing in front of himself and stood before her.
She looked him up and down. He was every inch the warrior she had hoped for. His fierce gaze was unnerving, even though she knew him to be an ally. Yet he trembled, and she put her hands together in prayer and hummed, that his fears might be stilled.
“It is not courage that makes a hero,” said she. “It is his service to a cause greater than himself.” The trembling in his body calmed.
“You can do this at any size you choose?” she asked.
“I can be very, very large,” he said.
“Excellent,” she said. “You are formidable beyond measure.” She led the cormorant back to the cave, and there she picked up the linen bag. “Help me get ready,” she said. “We’ll hide here until the sun is low enough for our purpose.”
Though his trembling had stilled, the cormorant was still unsettled, for no matter what his size, he was still only a gentle scholar within.
§
The congress of crows was gathered on either side of the inlet enduring yet another berating from King Crow, who was perched on his throne. Their enemies were here, yet they had searched the Isle of the Dead from west to east, and found no one. They were bungling blunderers, they were bumptious fools, they must be blind, deaf, and stupid to have missed their quarry.
Against the sun setting to the east, from the top of the highest mountain on the Isle of the Dead, came a great horned owl, an owl of immense stature, gliding on his silent wings.
“Hoo, hoo, hoo,” he called, and this was a sound that sent terror into the hearts of all crows. Back in the land of the living, owls snatched them out of the air in midflight, or plucked them still sleeping from their roosts. Owls drove them from their nests and stole their eggs, only to drop them to the ground so they could eat the tender unborn simps inside. Their taloned claws were formidable, their hooked beaks were cruel.
Far back in the throng of crows, a ruckus broke out. A chorus of crows cawed a warning, ka-woo-oo, ka-woo-oo, ka-woo-oo. They were no longer paying any heed to their king, for the great horned owl was their mortal enemy. The ruckus spread, wings flapping, crows rising to the air, fleeing the flying menace. The great horned owl grew ever larger as he approached, and the congress of crows was sore afraid. He was as big as a wolf, then as big as a tiger, then as big as a sphinx.
“Ko! Ko! Ko!” thundered King Crow, rallying his troops. “Mob him! Peck him! Drive him away!”
Crows rose by the thousands in a great flock, their ear-piercing clamor of kiaws deafening. They flew at the owl, cawing, beating their wings at him. Onward the owl came on his silent wings, flying straight at the center of the mob. “Hoo-hooo,” he called, “hoo-hooo,” his feathered feet with their terrible hooked talons spread and slicing a swath through the mass of black bodies, severing wings from shoulders and heads from necks, snatching dozens of crows from the air and crushing them. The center of the mob gave way, and when they tried to close around him from the flanks, nipping and pecking, the owl flapped his wings and rose, swatting them aside, and though hundreds of crows pursued him, he circled around and flew into the mob again. They swarmed around him like hornets bent on stinging him to death, and they drew some blood, but the owl gave them no quarter. His amber eyes with their huge black pupils were savage, and his cruel curved beak ripped crows from the sky and tore them asunder. Loose black feathers and sudden mists of blood filled the air. The falling dead bodies pelted the waters below like giant black hailstones.
From his hiding place atop one of the pinnacles, the fisherman waited until all eyes were on the great horned owl, and then he shot a bolt from a crossbow to the other pinnacle. His beloved sprang from her hiding place on the other pinnacle as soon as she heard the bolt clatter to a landing. The bolt trailed a line, and she grabbed the line and began pulling. The pelican joined her, wearing her old woman shape, and together they pulled, while the fisherman, on his side, played out a net. The women hauled hard on the line, and the net stretched from one pinnacle to the other, and from the tops of the rocks all the way to the water below. They clambered down, and tied off the net at the bottom corners with rope. Then the fisherman and the woman climbed back up, and the pelican flew off to join Dewi.
“Hoo-hooo,” the owl cried again, and now the crows, the sand and water below strewn with their fellows, began to fall back, their crow hearts filled with fear. One by one, and then many by many, the crows turned away and fled. King Crow called to them, commanding them to stay and face the enemy. They did not. Thousands upon thousands took flight, all of them crying their fear cry, “Kulp, kulp, kulp.”
“Ko! Ko! Ko!” thundered King Crow, slowing the mob in its flight, rallying them for one last attack. Thus encouraged, the crows turned and faced the great horned owl. But from a hiding place in the forest came the frigate bird and his dark companion, the two of them black and blacker, flying on silent wings, the goddess covered in soot and wearing a crow mask. Behind them was the pelican, a length of cord in her bill. They swooped in from behind King Crow, unnoticed in the confusion of the great horned owl’s attack, and the frigate bird crashed into the crow and beat at him with his wings. Just behind the frigate bird, the goddess flew in with the sooty linen bag the frigate bird had brought her. She dropped the bag over King Crow’s head and held it there like a hangman’s hood, her feet planted in the sand, the frigate bird thrashing at the crow’s legs, trying to bring him down, the crow twisting and flapping to break himself free, unable to rise with the goddess holding him by the hood. Now the pelican landed and swiftly passed a wing in front of herself, and in her Cariña shape she wrapped the cord round the bag, binding it to the crow. Thus blinded, King Crow cried out to his fellows, his voice muffled by the bag, but his frightened fellows, fleeing the owl, were deaf to his cries.
King Crow tried to reach the cord with his claws, and when he could not do so he passed his wingtip in front of his face to take on his man shape. But with his head hooded, his magic did not work. The goddess and the pelican wrapped his wings tight to his body with more cord, and thus was the crow subdued.
Now, as the sun was just setting, the goddess flew swiftly upward, until she was above the pandemonium of crows. They wheeled and turned in every direction, leaderless and confused. “Ko, ko, ko,” the goddess thundered, “follow me.” Crows by tens of thousands answered her call, breaking off from their attack on the owl. She flew westward, low over the inlet, leading them straight for the gap between the twin pinnacles of rock. The sun was at her back, and ahead of her, atop the twin pinnacles, the fisherman and the woman lay in wait. They held warrior’s shields in front of themselves, the shields polished to the brightest of shines. Beams of light from the setting sun hit their shields and bounced back, blinding the crows in flight. Their mob split in two, some flying above the blinding beams, and some below. At the last moment the goddess rose enough to skim herself over the top of the net. The crows behind her followed, and while many skimmed over the top of the net with her, thousands more flew straight into it.
The net turned black with their bodies and bulged seaward as more and more crows piled in behind their fellows, a great flapping mass of crows trapped together. The fisherman and Cariña waited atop the pinnacles until the net could hold no more, and then they cut the line at either end. The net collapsed, dragging the multitude to the water, where they sank, and drowned.
§
Dewi Sri flew out over the Sea of Bones, and all the remaining congress of crows, chased by the great horned owl, followed the goddess, whom they took to be their king. She cawed and cawed, urging them forward, until her throat was raw with the rasp of speaking the crowish tongue. Onward they flew as night fell, and the thump of the Kiamah’s heart filled their ears. They flew, and flew, and flew out to sea for many farsakhs, the goddess leading them away from any landfall on any island, the great horned owl ever behind them, harrying stragglers, and snatching the weak out of the air with his claws. And in that darkest hour before the dawn, exhausted crows began to fall into the sea.
By the thousands they fell, their black bodies landing on the waves, their wings too tired to flap, their feet thrashing but gaining no purchase in the water. And so they sank beneath the surface, their necks stretched long and their black beaks gasping for air but filling with lethal water, as one by one and many by many the multitude of crows drowned. The goddess watched this great slaughter, finding some small comfort in the fact that she had done nothing violent to bring it about, save bag the head of the crow, yet even so her heart was heavy with her part in it. The drowned crows floated to the surface like a great slick of death, their lifeless bodies jostling and clumping together on the swells, and though they had been out to kill her, she still pitied them as she flew over their countless corpses. And so she did not see the great horned owl pass his own exhausted wing in front of his face, and become the cormorant again. She did not see the cormorant’s wings give up their struggle for flight, nor his senseless body falling into the sea.
Dewi Sri threw off her crow mask and let it fall from her hands. She circled back to meet her friend, but she could not find him. She flew and flew, back and forth above the empty sea, searching dark sky and darker waves for her companion, but she found him not. She called for him, her voice hoarse and her throat sore, but no answer came. Her eyes were filled with tears as the sun began to rise in the west, and it was through those tears that she saw, at long last, the cormorant, that gentle scholar, his pelagic body floating flat on the waves.
She scooped his dead body from the sea, and slung it as tenderly as she could over her shoulder, and she flew back with it to the Isle of the Dead.
BOOK THREE:
THE KIAMAH AWAKES
The Kiamah beast raised up his head. It had been a long time since he had been this wakeful. There were strange stirrings within him, tiny tremblings and queasy little hiccups, as if the flora and fauna he had swallowed were in revolt, and bent on puking themselves free. His belly was bilious and sour and full of the colic. His bowels were costive, his sphincter obstipated. There was a ringing in his ears. His throat was thick with phlegm.
He hacked and hawked, trying to clear his throat. He could not.
His sphincter was at the base of his tail, many farzhooms{9} away from his head, and he struggled to open it so that his foul winds might escape. It was more work than he cared for. His fetid bowels had been bellybound ever since he swallowed the Isle of the Dead. He pushed and
pushed, and when he was not pushing, he barked and coughed, but nothing within him fell loose. He gave up.
Tired of the struggle, the Kiamah brought his tail round, running it up the length of his body to his face. The beast had never known a mother, and the only comfort he knew was that of his own touch. He licked the end of his tail with his tongue, and found that pacifying, so he drew the tip into his mouth and sucked on it, something he had never thought to do before. Thus soothed, he managed a belch, and his queasy guts settled themselves.
After a time a whiff of something crept up his throat, drawn there by the restive winds eddying within him, all the way from the crow’s tunnel behind the waterfall. A fresh smell, a smell of rainbows and wind, of plowed earth and hearth fires, of brine and manure. It made him hungry, and for more than a mere basket of treats.
For a hundred times a hundred years he had lain here, riding a hollow log drifting through the Sea of Time, his belly full, his mind drowsy, so drowsy. No more. He was awake now. He was made to swallow all in his path. He must grow larger. He opened his great jaws. He turned his head sideways, and he took a bite. His teeth could find little purchase on the smooth surface of the log, and they slid along until they caught on an old knot. He bit down, hard. His mouth filled with wood, cracking and splintering between his teeth. He chewed and chewed, his molars grinding, the power of his jaws unstoppable.
He swallowed. He knew the log to be hollow. He knew the material world was inside it, waiting to fill his belly. He had only to eat his way through the surface, and then he would swallow the entire world.
The Kiamah was awake.
§
Dewi Sri sat on one end of the log in front of the fisherman’s fire, the cormorant cradled in her arms, not sobbing, not wailing nor gnashing her teeth, but weeping silently in the morning light. She had led the brave cormorant to his last breath, but not before he turned the tide of battle in their favor. Behind her the beach was strewn with dead crows, and beyond the sand dead crows floated on the waters of the inlet.
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 34