The frigate bird flew down from the roof and landed on the twisted roots at the end of a driftwood log. The fisherman went back to planing his cedar plank, curls of fragrant wood falling to the sand at his feet, and he thanked the frigate bird once again for the fine tool he held in his hands. The blade was of a very fine grade of steel, and it held its edge well.
“That reminds me,” said the frigate bird, “I have something for you. It’s tucked into my belt at the back.” He turned, and the fisherman saw a leather sheath there, just the size and shape to accommodate his knife. He pulled it free of the frigate bird’s belt. It was deftly stitched and made from a sturdy leather by someone who knew well the leatherworker’s art.
“Thank you,” the fisherman said. His knife was near his sawhorses, stuck in the sand there. He fetched it, and the blade fit perfectly into the sheath. “I am in your debt,” the fisherman said.
“You may repay me in ale,” the frigate bird said, and at this, the fisherman smiled.
“Prepare yourself,” said the frigate bird, and when the fisherman looked up, the frigate bird pointed with his bill at the crow, who was walking up the beach toward them.
“By Pluto’s stinking arse,” said the fisherman, “here comes the ruination of a perfectly good day.”
“Patience,” said the frigate bird, “lest the heat of the moment boil away our wits. And follow my lead, for there are things at play here beyond your ken.”
The fisherman nodded, though he reminded himself that, in the end, his only allegiance was to himself, and his beloved.
The crow sauntered along, the very picture of a regent out for a stroll, his bearing regal and upright. He was in no great hurry, but neither did he tarry. He raised a hand at the fisherman and the frigate bird and waved it, the gesture midway between indolent and dismissive. The fisherman nodded, and went back to his cedar plank. Let the crow understand that the task at hand was more important than anything he might have to say.
“Loyal subjects,” said the crow, “and valiant vassals, a fine day to you both.”
The frigate bird bowed his head. “Your crow-ness,” he said. “We are honored.”
The crow regarded him with a baleful eye. “We should prefer a form of address with a bit more regality to it.”
“What could be more regal than a crow?” said the frigate bird. “I have racked my brain for the answer to this question. Your black-ness? Your king-ness? Your shifty-ness? No, none of these, for it is ever your essence as crow that defines you, not the dark sheen of your feathers, which are beyond fuliginous, nor the eminence of your office, prestigious though it may be, nor the perspicacious prowess with which you change shape. And so it is ‘your crow-ness’ that suits you best. In my humble opinion.”
The crow, his vanity feasting on this banquet of polysyllabic morsels of encomium, stood taller, despite the fact that he knew not the meaning of several of the words. “Very well,” said he, “since you’ve given it so much thought.”
“Thank you, your crow-ness. May we inquire what brings you to grace our humble camp with your presence?”
“You may. You, sir,” said the crow, directing his remark to the fisherman, “might We have a word with you?”
The fisherman finished the stroke he was in the midst of, brushed away a bit of shaved wood, blew gently on the plank, scattering a few tiny motes of wood to the air, and laid his plane down.
“Sir,” he said, bowing his head. How he hated speaking to this whipjack as if he truly deserved to be flattered so. “How may I be of service?”
The crow ambled his way to the corner of the house, and he stood there with his back to the fisherman while he watched the waves on the inlet. He clasped his hands behind himself, a study in nonchalance. He must want something very badly, thought the fisherman, to put on such a false guise.
“As you know,” said the crow, “We are carving bedposts for a bed in which the goddess, Dewi Sri, will repose in a manner suited to her divinity.”
“Yes,” said the fisherman. “So I’ve been told.” Repose was hardly the word, but he’d best not quibble with it now. The gods were a lusty lot, and if they wanted to couple with one another, it was no affair of his.
The crow waved a lazy hand at the house. “This is a fine building. The planks are smooth, and well fitted.” He turned, facing the fisherman, and he offered him his grinning beak. “It occurs to Us that we are fellow woodworkers, We and thee, members of the same guild, as it were.”
“I suppose,” said the fisherman, “if it pleases you to think so.”
“Yes, it does,” said the crow. “We have come to the point where We shall require the proper pieces of wood to form the frame.”
“Ah,” said the fisherman. “You want the side boards.”
“Just so,” said the crow. “What We require are the side boards.”
“Rails, they are called,” said the fisherman.
“Rails, yes,” said the crow, “to connect the bedposts.”
“And slats?” said the fisherman.
“Slats?” said the crow.
“Yes, slats,” said the fisherman, “to support the mattress.”
“Just so,” said the crow, “rails and slats, with which to connect Our bedposts, and support Our mattress.”
It was at this moment that Cariña and the pelican returned with their buckets of water. Cariña raised an eyebrow as she came close, and the fisherman gave her the barest shake of his head to signal that he did not wish to be interrupted, and so they walked on by and busied themselves with sprinkling the nearly sprouted barleycorns in their cement trench.
The frigate bird, who had positioned himself behind the crow so that he could signal the fisherman without the crow seeing, mouthed the word bargain. Given the length and shape of his bill, he had to mouth the word several times before the fisherman caught his drift.
“Aha,” said the fisherman. “And should I take on this task, what might I ask in compensation?”
“Aww,” said the crow. “We haven’t given that much thought.” He turned and gazed across the inlet, as if his thoughts had perhaps taken up residence there. “What would please you?”
The fisherman regarded the crow as he might regard a mountebank offering a potion for eternal life. There was no trusting this shapeshifter, this peddler’s dog, barking his wares here on the sand. What would please him most was safe passage back to the land of the living for himself and Cariña.
“I wish to go home,” he said, “with my beloved.”
“Home?” said the crow. His hands were again clasped behind his back as he gazed across the inlet, the fingers of one hand grasping the fingers of the other. “A simple request,” he said. “Very well. Let it be so. But only after you have lived here for the year and a day that was our original bargain.”
“Too long,” said the fisherman. The crow was in need, and now was the chance to press home his advantage.
The crow faced him, scratching at the ground with his feet, as if he wore his crow shape. “You drive a hard bargain, sir,” said he. “Throw in a cask of this fabled whiskey I’ve heard about, and I may meet your terms.”
The fisherman and the frigate bird held a meeting of the eyes, and when the frigate bird nodded, the fisherman said, “Yes, your crow-ness, we can do this for you.”
“A month and a day then,” said the crow. “We may have further need of your skills.” We may, for example, thought the crow, want to have you build Us a gibbet. A gibbet would be a fine thing indeed. Perhaps he would hang the goddess from it, once he was finished with her.
The fisherman nodded his assent. “A month and a day, from this very day, and we shall go home.”
“Kiaw,” said the crow. “Let it be so.”
“The two of us,” said the fisherman, for he was wary of the crow and his tricks. “Cariña is to go home with me.”
“Home, the two of you,” said the crow. “Let it be so.”
Now Cariña joined the fisherman, taking his arm wit
h her hand, and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “Thank you, Lord Crow,” she said, and she bowed her head. She gave the fisherman’s arm a sharp squeeze, and he bowed his head as well.
The frigate bird pointed with his beak at the fire, and again at the mound of guano at the far corner of the garden. Back and forth he pointed, again mouthing the word bargain. It was Cariña who seized the opportunity.
“Lord Crow,” said Cariña. “We have one more favor to beg of you.”
“Yes?” the crow said. He spread his arms in a courtly manner, and he said, “How may I be of further service to milady?”
Ye gods, thought the fisherman, such airs did this lowly, carrion-eating demigod put on.
“It concerns your guano, Lord Crow. May I speak freely?”
“Of course,” said the crow.
Cariña stepped forward and bowed again to the crow. “We have discovered your guano to be most useful in the garden. No doubt you are aware of its beneficial qualities as a plant food?”
“Why, yes,” said the crow, “now that you mention it.” Not that he had considered the matter before, but of course his guano would have beneficial qualities, for he was a god, was he not? Yes, he was.
“If we could just trouble you to drop it over there,” Cariña said, pointing at the spot where the pelican was even now mixing a drop of her blood into their fertilizer, “rather than here,” she said, pointing at the fire.
“The guano over there,” said the crow, pointing with his beak, “and not over here.”
“Yes,” said the fisherman, “that spot, and no other.”
“Fair enough,” said the crow. “We can do this.”
“Thank you, Lord Crow,” said Cariña. She bowed again, and stepped back to stand beside the fisherman.
“You are most welcome, milady,” said the crow, his voice as kindly as a mother crow cooing her simps to sleep. “Now,” he said, his voice a shade raspier as he spoke to the fisherman, “When might I have my rails and slats?”
The fisherman considered. Shaping the boards the crow wanted was a day’s work for him, if he did nothing else. But he was ever a rebel in the face of authority, and he could not pass up the chance to work a trick on this tricksiest of tricksy varlets.
“In three days’ time,” said the fisherman.
“So long?” said the crow. “Am I asking for so much? The bedposts will be done by the end of the day.”
What did he care if the crow had to wait to enjoy the favors of Dewi Sri? Let this bastardly god, this scabrous sauce box, this cullionly shabbaroon, let him suffer. He should have said it would take a fortnight to shape the boards. A fortnight and a day.
“Lord Crow, to make boards fit for the bed of a goddess will take at least three days’ time,” said the fisherman. “Maybe four.”
“Make it three,” said the frigate bird. It would take him that long to arrange for the goddess’s bedding to arrive. Best to keep things moving along without unnecessary delay.
The fisherman again nodded his assent. “I’ll be needing those bedposts,” said he, “as soon as they are finished.”
“Of course,” said the crow. “Do we have an accord?”
The fisherman offered the crow a curt bow of his head. “Your crow-ness,” said he. “Yes, we have an accord.”
The crow departed, and our little band of friends gathered around the fisherman’s fire.
“Well done,” said the frigate bird. “You shall have your freedom in a month and a day.”
The fisherman was not so sure, but he kept his doubts to himself.
“And,” said Cariña, “the crow will drop his guano where we want it. We shall have to eat for a month and a day, and this will be a great help.” She leaned her head against his, and spoke so that only he could hear. “I know you think the crow difficult, but do you see what a little flattery gets us? He can be handled, as anyone can, with some kindness and some respect.”
The fisherman nodded his assent, but what he was thinking was that the best crow would be a dead crow, for the dead could be trusted to keep their word like no others.
§
On the morning of the third day hence, beneath the waves, a great shadow approached the mouth of the inlet from the seaward side. It was the pelican who saw it first, for she was soaring on the onshore breeze between the twin pinnacles of rock that framed the mouth. She squawked at the sight of it, this shadow from the deeps, looming long and broad, gliding silently toward her home. Her first thought was that the serpentine line of muck from which the Kiamah beast had formed itself so long ago had produced another monster, and her very heart trembled from the fear that all she knew and loved was about to be devoured. But as the shadow neared the mouth of the inlet, it breached the surface in order to swim over the sandbar there, and she saw that it was a great whale.
“Awwwwk!” the pelican cried. “Awk-awk-awk-awk-awk!”
The whale swam between the rock pinnacles and on into the inlet, its flukes rising and falling in the shallow waters. The pelican’s cries drew the cormorant and the crow, and their cries drew the fisherman and the woman, and they all stood along the shore and watched as the great whale swam past, and then turned and beached itself with a great lunge.
“Ye gods, what a ziphius,” said the fisherman. He shuddered to think that this might be the self-same beast that had brought him here. His beloved leaned against him, her hands soothing his shiver.
“You have survived the whale before,” said she. “Let us keep our distance.”
Now from the sea came the frigate bird, who had followed the whale across the sea from the island where the goddess reigned. The frigate bird landed on the sand next to his old friend, the whale, and he reached out a wing and touched the creature, and he could be heard clucking and rattling, murmuring sounds of encouragement. The whale opened its mouth, and from it, bit by bit, came a green, squarish shape, as the whale worked its tongue to disgorge the cargo it had carried some considerable distance.
Dewi Sri flew out of the sun now, her wings spread as she soared down to a landing on the beach. She stood next to the crow, who was cawing and krucking fiercely.
“He had better not put out the sacred fire,” said the crow, “or I’ll peck his eyes out and feed them to the Kiamah.”
“Have no fear,” said the goddess. “He is only here to deliver my mattress.”
“Mattress!” said the crow, and he passed a wing in front of himself and took on his man shape.
“Yes, my love,” said Dewi Sri, “and the bedding to go with it. See that bundle sitting atop it? We shall have a proper bed as soon as you finish the frame.”
The crow, overjoyed, hopped and hopped, circling the goddess, his tongue waggling inside his open beak. At last the day was come. The bedposts were done, slats and rails had been promised him for this very day, and now, this enormity of a whale had brought them the bedding.
The goddess watched him, a bemused smile on her lips, this god jigging before her like a boy given the day off to go to the fair. Such ardor. Such zeal. It was catching, and she felt her divine womanly juices begin to moisten the furrow in her garden of delight.
The fisherman and his beloved walked up to the green bundle that was the mattress, keeping a wary eye on the whale, who startled everyone with a great exhalation from its blowhole. They were joined by the cormorant, who studied the leaves in which the mattress was wrapped.
“Arum leaves, if I’m not mistaken,” said the cormorant. “Large enough to be bedsheets.”
“Yes,” said the fisherman. “I’ve seen arum flowers bigger than I am. Corpse flowers, they are called.”
“How fitting,” said the woman, “that the leaves of such a plant have been brought to the Isle of the Dead.”
“Amorphophallus titanum,” said the cormorant, “the titan arum.”
The fisherman untied the knots that held the bundle of bedding together, and out spilled yards and yards of the finest silk, woven in bright colors. The patterns were of gods an
d goddesses and men and women cavorting with one another in a veritable bounty of poses, pleasuring their partners in myriad ways. The pelican, who had joined them, passed a wing in front of herself and took on her old-woman shape, and she regarded the pictures with the greatest of interest, stopping, occasionally, to examine her own cat’s heads and cauliflower, and casting sidelong glances at the fisherman’s loins.
“So this is how it’s done,” said she. “I had no idea there were so many ways.”
The crow and the goddess strolled up arm in arm, and the pelican said, “This bedding would make a gill-flurt blush.”
At this the goddess grinned at the crow, the bow of her mouth stretched wide, and a lusty, come-hither look in her eyes. The pictures, she thought, would be invaluable when it came time to instruct the crow in the art of love. “Well,” she replied, “I am, after all, a fertility goddess.”
“Friends,” called out the frigate bird, “lend us a hand. We must help the whale unbeach himself.”
The whale was indeed struggling with his flukes to drag himself back into the water, and they all joined in, pushing on him, putting their shoulders into it, even the fisherman, who stayed well clear of the beast’s mouth, the lot of them heaving and ho-ing and generally getting nowhere with all that effort until Dewi Sri bade them all stop.
“Allow me,” said she, and she put her palms together and closed her eyes. A low hum came from deep within her, a sound that trembled inside all their chests, man, god, and whale alike, tuning the very air between them, so that they were all of them enveloped in a sacred chord that swelled louder and louder, and grew ever more forceful as their own voices joined in. The goddess held her palms up and pushed steadily into the air, and they all held their palms up and pushed, and the great whale began to slide bit by bit backward, and together they all hummed and pushed the leviathan into the water.
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 24
