Against the fiery display of clouds came the crow, a black silhouette high above. “Ko, ko, ko,” the crow thundered, his voice shaking the very air. “Ko, ko, ko.” The crow word made the fisherman swivel his head like a vole looking for a bolt hole. There was danger here, and he’d best escape.
“What sorcery is this?” the fisherman said, his ears ringing.
“Stand fast,” the frigate bird said. “He is as unsure of the outcome here as we are.”
The cormorant, though but a scholar, puffed out his breast and stood fast. Only the tremble of his tail feathers betrayed his fear.
The fisherman stood, the crow dropping closer. He thought of asking the frigate bird for his pistola, but something within him said no, let fate unspool its thread. Now just above their heads, the crow beat his wings against the air to slow himself, the feathers on the trailing edge spread like so many fingers. His crow’s feet touched down on the sand, and without pause he began to strut back and forth. He had a long narrow basket on his back, held there by a woven strap across his breast.
“Ko, ko, ko,” the crow thundered again. “Behold the King of the Dead.”
“Oh, shut up,” the frigate bird said. “Nobody likes a show-off.”
The crow stopped in mid-strut to look up at the frigate bird, surprised, it seemed, that anyone dared to resist him. “Mind yourself,” he said, “I’m not here to be liked.” But he spoke without his magical thunder, already taken down a peg because the frigate bird refused to be bullied. This was a game the fisherman had played before, and the best tactic was to engage. He stood so the fire was between himself and the crow, and he spread his arms wide.
“Where is my beloved?” he said, his voice seeming to come from the fire itself, “for as you see, I have kept my end of the bargain.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” the crow said, “I have found her. Not an easy task,” he said, his voice oily and slick. “So many just like her, they’re thick as maggots on a beached whale.”
The fisherman threw a piece of wood on the fire, and sparks exploded upward. “Where is she?” he said.
The crow stepped round the fire toward the fisherman, who circled the same way, to keep the fire between them.
“Afraid I’ll pluck your eye out again?” the crow said. “You needn’t be, I’ve already dined this evening,” and the crow laughed, “aw aw aw aw aw.”
“By the gods,” the fisherman said, “if you’ve eaten my beloved’s soul, I swear it will be the last meal you ever take.”
“Oh no,” the crow said. “She’s right here, in my basket, safe as a mother’s embrace. Once I’ve made a bargain, I’m quite strict about keeping my word.”
“Then hand her over,” the fisherman said. “The fire is yours.”
“Yes, well, you’re right about that,” the crow said. At this the frigate bird, the pelican, and the cormorant all leaned in. The fisherman too, for they all felt it coming. “Yes,” the crow said, “the fire’s mine, for I have done what I promised.”
“Speak plainly,” the fisherman said. “Hand over my beloved, that was your promise.”
“No,” the crow said, “I promised to dig her up, and I have done so. I never promised to hand her over, and as I’ve said, I am a stickler about keeping my word. It would dishonor me to do otherwise.”
“Auk! You brigand!” the cormorant said. “You scurrilous scoundrel.” The cormorant hopped off his log, spread his wings wide, and stretched his neck up as tall as it would go. He opened his capacious bill, curled his wet tongue gluttonously, and said, “I’ll swallow you whole.”
The crow puffed up his chest feathers and cawed at the orange sky. “You’ll choke to death long before you get past my feet,” the crow said. He turned his back on the cormorant in a show of contempt, and he raised his tail and let a gobbet of guano fall on the sand. The cormorant flapped his wings murderously at the crow, ready to leap on him.
“Steady,” the pelican said. “Let’s not get carried away here.”
“Shite bird,” the cormorant said. He gawped his bill rudely at the crow’s back, scooped up some hot coals from the fire, and tossed them at the crow, but they fell to the ground, harmless. The crow turned round to face him again, raised his foot to his beak, and brushed away a speck of ash.
“Sorry,” the crow said. “Were you speaking to me?” The cormorant flapped his wide wings, his bill opening and closing as if he were ready to eat this crow, but he did not attack.
The frigate bird drew forth his pistola with his bill, and tucked it into his wingpit, aimed at the crow. Then he cocked it, again with his bill, and he said, “What is it you want, crow?”
The crow gave the pistola a sharp-eyed glance, but he showed no fear. “Oh, nothing,” the crow said. “I’ll just take my fire and go.”
The fisherman studied the crow through the flames. The frigate bird was right, the crow wanted something more, or else why was he standing there? Although how he could take the fire anywhere was a bit of a mystery. Still, he was a god, and he must have his ways.
“So soon?” the fisherman said. He raised what would have been an eyebrow, if he still had eyebrows, at the cormorant, and pointed at the log behind him with a sideways nod of his head. The cormorant folded his wings and returned to his perch, next to the pelican. He seemed content, for the moment at least, to let the fisherman handle his own affairs, although he continued to open his bill from time to time, as if to remind the crow how good he was at swallowing things whole.
“It is my mistake,” the fisherman said. “I thought we had a clear bargain. But I see that the words of the bargain are important to you, as they should be. Is there not some way to arrange this so we both get what we want?”
The crow busied himself for a moment, rooting through the feathers on his chest in search of feather mites, the very picture of nonchalance.
“I see you’re quite a reasonable man,” he said. “My compliments to the mother who bore you. A lovely woman, I’m sure. She’s here, by the way. I ran across her when I was looking for your beloved.”
Aha, thought the fisherman. The crow didn’t know everything, for if he did, he would have known that the fisherman’s mother had been a courtesan who sold him to a gang of thieves when he was old enough to pick a pocket. From that misdeed the fisherman held a lifelong hatred of slavers and slavery, and he had long since lost all desire to ever see his mother again.
“We were speaking of my beloved,” the fisherman said, “and what I might offer you to complete our bargain.”
“An offer, you say? How th-aw-aw-oughtful of you. Let me think for a moment,” the crow said. He made a show of it, pacing back and forth on his stiff legs, his head bowed as if lost in thought.
He was a greedy knave, this crow, always after more for himself. The fisherman had encountered his type before. Customs officials looking for a bribe, toll keepers at the gate to a city, procurers standing at the doorway to the temple where the sacred whores lay waiting, they all wanted two things—money, and the feeling that they had bested their adversary. A man had two choices. Kill them, or give them what they wanted, and a clever man did not rush them through their moment of glory. It was best to reserve combat for only the most obstreperous cases. One never knew how many relatives a bribist had, but they were likely to come after the man who slew their meal ticket.
“There’s a rumor,” the crow said, his voice as well oiled as the flesh of a salmon’s cheek, “that you have in your possession some sort of magical glass with which to start a fire. Is that true?”
Hmm. So the crow knew about his magician’s glass. There must be spies about. He’d been alone when he started the fire, but the frigate bird had a spyglass, and he’d shown up soon after. Now that was a thing to consider when he had the time.
“You are remarkably well informed,” the fisherman said. “I have it right here,” he said, putting his hand on the pouch that held it.
“Might I see it?” the crow said.
“Why, of
course,” the fisherman said. “But I think it wise to speak of our bargain before I bring it out.”
“Aren’t you the clever one?” the crow said. “All right, let us be plain about the matter. I take the fire, because it is mine already. You give me the magic glass, and if I’m satisfied with it, I’ll give you the clam that contains your beloved’s soul.”
The pelican and the cormorant both clucked at this, but the fisherman needed no warning. “You’ll give me the clam with my beloved’s soul whether you like the glass or not,” the fisherman said. “I believe you already know that you’ll be satisfied with the glass.”
The crow regarded him through the smoke from the fire. This fisherman was a worthy adversary, someone who gave as good as he got. A worthy adversary, and a man who would keep things from getting dull around here, as they were wont to do. A good thing to know, for of all the things the crow detested, boredom was very near the top of the list.
By now the last of the sun was just disappearing behind the mountains, and the glorious display of color in the sky was fading. The crow raised his wings, and he passed one of them in front of himself, and now he had the body of a man, with arms and legs and hands, though he still had the head of a crow. The fisherman was astonished, as he was meant to be, but he kept his astonishment from his face. Best to stare this shapeshifter down.
The crow wore a breechclout woven from strips of cedar bark. The basket was still on his back. He took it off, and he pulled a clam out of it.
“Your beloved,” the crow said.
A great upwelling of feeling overtook the fisherman. He struggled to conceal this, too, and was grateful for the smoke and flames he stood behind, but the pelican knew what he was feeling, and cooed in sympathy. The fisherman took the pouch with the magician’s glass off his belt. “Your glass,” he said.
The crow and the fisherman met at the edge of the fire, and in a gesture as old as ransom, they handed clam and pouch to each other at the same moment. The fisherman held the clam tenderly in both hands, and he put it against his chest. The crow took the magician’s glass out of the pouch and looked through it, which made his black eye very large, and then he held it up to the fisherman’s face. “My, what an ugly nose,” he said, “it’s enormous.”
They stepped back from each other, and the crow said, “I believe that concludes our business together.” The crow held the open mouth of his basket over the fire, and with a gesture from his other hand, the fire flew into the basket, leaving behind only the blackened fire pit. The crow shouldered his basket and walked off toward the woods. He stopped for a moment when he had a little distance between them.
“Let me know,” he said, “if you want your dear mother’s soul. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”
“I shall,” the fisherman said. Not bloody likely, he thought, but this was no time to declare himself unnecessarily.
It was dark without the fire, but, just as had happened on the beach earlier that day, the fisherman found he could see well enough in the dark. He cupped his beloved’s clamshell in his hands, admiring the curve of the shell. He had traveled so far, and now she was so close.
The crow now gone, the cormorant hopped off his perch on the driftwood log and opened his bill over the fire pit. A hot coal fell out, glowing all the more brightly for the darkness into which it fell.
“Oh my,” said the pelican. “That must have been torturous. How did you manage to keep your mouth shut?”
“There is an old adage,” said the cormorant, his bill spreading in a grin. “Better to keep one’s mouth shut and be thought a fool, than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.”
“Good fellow,” the fisherman said. “This will save me some considerable bother.” He set his beloved down on the sand beneath the driftwood log, tucking her carefully out of harm’s way, and he set about rebuilding his fire. “That was clever of you to steal an ember.”
“An accident,” the cormorant said, “but a happy one. If the truth be known, that ember got caught in the back of my mouth, and I was too embarrassed to cough it up.”
The fire crackled and grew, giving off a comforting orange glow. The fisherman retrieved his beloved’s clamshell, and the pelican and the cormorant stood on either side of him, examining it as if it were a newborn babe.
“’Tis a beautiful clam,” the pelican said. “Nicely shaped.”
“Indeed,” the cormorant said, “Very, uhmmm, clammy, shall we say?” He pointed a wingtip at the grooves that ran lengthwise along the clamshell. “Those striations have an organic rhythm to them that is very fetching. And you handled the crow with great aplomb.”
They all nodded at one another, clucking and cooing and murmuring the sorts of things one did after a successful negotiation. Things had gone pretty well, all things considered. Only the frigate bird on his perch above was quiet.
The fisherman held his clam in the palm of one hand and gently stroked it, imagining his beloved sleeping inside, dreaming of him, her lovely eyelids softly closed, a beauteous smile on her lips.
“What do I do now?” the fisherman said.
“Do?” the pelican said. “What do you mean?”
The fisherman pointed at the clam. “I want more than her soul locked up in a clamshell. I want to make her whole again.”
The cormorant and the pelican looked at each other, and they looked at the fisherman. They both shrugged. All three of them looked at the frigate bird on his branch.
“Don’t look at me,” the frigate bird said.
At this, the fisherman rolled his eyes at the frigate bird. “Are you not gods?” he sputtered. “Can you not tell me what I must do?”
“Perhaps I can look it up,” said the cormorant. He produced a book from under his wing, Mortimer’s Compleat Atlas of the Afterlife, and he began flipping through the pages with his bill. “Canoe of the dead, cultural perspectives, fish eagles, local deities, hm, hm, hm, nautical deaths, ah. Here’s an overview of the whole process.” The cormorant began to read aloud in a low voice as he skimmed the article. “After dying in the material world, the newly dead awaken at the edge of the Sea of Bones, on the far shore of the spirit world. They are often confused, and many do not accept the fact of their own death, for most of what they think they know about the afterlife is wrong,” and here the frigate bird interrupted to say, “Ain’t that the bloody truth.” The cormorant turned a page and murmured on. “Their spirit bodies are whole, and they function much as their material bodies functioned, hence their confusion. Their hearts have quit beating, yet they walk and talk, they hunger, they thirst, they feel pain. They are clothed as they were at the moment of their deaths, and often carry an object that was close at hand. Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, the great canoe appears, the fish eagles sing them aboard, they cross the Sea of Bones in the canoe, they sing the sacred songs, their souls become clams, eventually they are reborn, so on and so forth, but no mention of extra-clamical restoration of the soul to the body,” the cormorant said, as he leafed through the rest of the atlas, and then let it fall shut. “Nor intra-clamical restoration either, for that matter. Nothing here of any use, I’m afraid.”
“So much for ‘compleat,’” said the frigate bird. “Is that the best you can do?”
The cormorant, who thought of himself as the most scholarly being in the room, if only they’d had a room to be in, considered, the firelight glinting off his spectacles. “Hm, hm, hm. I shall have to study the matter further,” he said, and at this, the frigate bird, as vexed as the fisherman, rolled his eyes.
“Try kissing her,” the pelican said, “it often works in fairy tales.”
The fisherman, dubious, furrowed his forehead, although really, he had nothing to lose by trying, and he looked the clam all around, considering the proper place to apply his lips. The clamshell, he decided, was not very kissable, but he kissed it anyway, a bird-like peck with his lips. Nothing happened.
“That’s no kiss,” the frigate bird said. “Kiss her like you mean it.”
The fisherman closed his eyes, remembering the soft kisses of his beloved, how she nibbled at his lips, how she moaned when he returned the favor along the sweet skin of her neck. He put his lips to the clamshell, kissing it up one side and down the other. But the clamshell remained a clamshell, rough to the touch, and not at all a thing that kissed him back. Exasperated, he held the shell out to his companions.
“None of you know what I’m to do with this?” the fisherman said. “I thought there would be some way to make her a woman again.”
“I’m sure there is,” the pelican cooed. “We just don’t know what it is.”
The fisherman sat down on his driftwood log. He set the clam on the log next to him, and he put his head in his hands. This was simply too much to bear.
“I don’t suppose there’s an alehouse on the Isle of the Dead?”
No, no, no, they all clucked, no such a thing here. “But,” the frigate bird said, “I have some hashish. Care to join me?”
Hashish? Not since he had sailed with a crew of Moors had he had the pleasure. “Perfect,” the fisherman said. “Come on down.”
“Sorry, pilgrim,” the frigate bird said. “It’s easier for me to fly off a perch. Would you mind coming up here?”
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 6
