The Alehouse at the End of the World

by Stevan Allred

  §

  Early the next morning, before the sun’s rays cleared the twin pinnacles of rock at the mouth of the inlet, the fisherman and his beloved awoke on their bed of moss. They were spooned together, he to she, their loins fully sated, the fisherman’s hand cupping the woman’s breast. They murmured sleepy greetings to each other, and lay there luxuriant in the warmth of their own bodies. Their thighs were weak from the exertions of the day before, though they would not know this until later, when they each rose in turn to get on with the day. They smelled of their own spent juices, and that smell, still fresh enough to be earthy and pleasant, sent each of them into reveries of passion fulfilled, their most favored moments returning to them in the form of happy sighs.

  “By Ashtart,” said the fisherman, “never have I had such pleasure before.”

  “No?” said the woman. She rolled over and faced her lover, taking his Man Thomas in her hand to warm it. “Be truthful,” said she, “for I know you have lain with others before me.” There was no jealousy in her, and the coupling they had done the day before had stripped away any shyness she harbored.

  “Not even with her temple whores,” said the fisherman, “who are skilled, but too well-used to perform their task with such honest enthusiasm.”

  “Ah,” said she, “so that is how it is? The goddess Ashtart maintains temples full of whores?”

  “Yes,” said the fisherman. “It is so. Though they call themselves priestess, and insist that the payment they ask is a gift to the temple.”

  “And for the women,” said his beloved, “is there a temple where they might enjoy such sport?”

  “None that I know of,” said the fisherman.

  The woman turned this thought over in her mind, looking beneath it, behind it, and beyond it. “That hardly seems fair,” said she. She withdrew her hand from his Man Thomas, and rolled onto her back, and now the two of them stared up into the dark space above the rafters.

  “You are right,” said the fisherman. “It is not fair. There is much in the world that is not fair, in fact, I would say that fairness is the exception rather than the rule.”

  Some light began to seep into the room through the window set high in the gable. Another dawn, thought the fisherman, another mark on the wall. Soon they would be going back to the world, with all its inequity.

  The woman turned on her side again, and raised herself up on an elbow. She put her hand on the fisherman’s chest, bluer in the blue light of morning. She had seen her own face in the still waters of the pool below the waterfall, but she could not find it here, on her lover’s chest for the ink in his skin was now the same blue as the blue of his skin.

  Let it fade. Her face on his chest did not make her his property.

  “We were not the only ones in love’s temple yesterday,” said the woman. “By the sound of it, Dewi and the crow made quite the lusty pair.”

  The fisherman nodded. “I heard them too. There were times when their cries spurred me to greater heights.”

  “Yes,” said the woman, “it is catching.” The crow, she was thinking, would be his own delicious frolic. “The goddess,” said she, “is taming the crow.”

  Perhaps, thought the fisherman, and perhaps not.

  “You give him too much regard,” said he. “I am not so sure he can be tamed.”

  Do not underestimate me, thought the woman, for she had just spent the night showing the fisherman that she was every bit the woman that the goddess was, and the fisherman had howled out his pleasure for all to hear. When her chance came, she would show the crow such skill and ardor as to make a supremely happy god of him. They would all be the better for it, and even the fisherman would have to admit she was a woman to be reckoned with.

  She frowned. “Why do you hate him so?”

  “Because,” said the fisherman, his ire at the crow, and the woman’s regard for him, rising in him like some vile sputum he must spit out into the world, “he is a charlatan, and a scoundrel, and a foul scavenger. Because he lied to me about his capacity to restore you to me as you once were. Because he is a savage tyrant, who tortures the dead for his own sport, and picks at their corpses like a vulture.”

  “He has never been anything but a gentleman in my presence.”

  “Yes,” said the fisherman, “and that proves the point. He is tricksy, and not to be trusted.”

  “So you say,” said the woman.

  “So have I seen,” said the fisherman. Somehow, his finger was now pointed at the woman’s face. She pushed it aside.

  “You hate him because you fear him,” said she.

  “Just so,” said the fisherman. “I hate him as I hate all tyrants.”

  And rivals, thought the woman. You fear he will take me away from you.

  “The goddess will make a new man of him,” said she. “He is already changed. You saw it yourself, when he agreed to drop his guano where we want it. And again, as he worked with you on the bed yesterday, and without rancor. If we treat him with respect and kindness, he will become respectable and kind.”

  “No,” said the fisherman, “he has tricked you into thinking this, and we shall both pay a heavy price if you do not see through him.”

  “If all you look for is the worst in him, then that is all you will see.” The woman sat up and threw aside their blankets.

  This, thought the fisherman, is the way it always goes. “You are a fool,” he said, “and the crow will make of you a bigger fool.”

  “He likes me,” said the woman. She slapped her hands on the moss beneath her, and she stood up. “He will not treat me so.”

  The fisherman looked up at her, at the flush in her face, now just visible in the dawning light, which spread down to the tops of her breasts.

  “You want him,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  The woman huffed out a harsh breath of air. “You’re jealous,” said she. “Over nothing. Nothing at all. I barely know him.” Her voice rose now, until she was shouting at him. “And I am no fool. It is you who are the fool, and it is you who has a withered heart, and you who cannot see anything but evil around you. I will leave you,” said she, her voice raw and raspy, “to your despicable thoughts.” She turned then, and walked out of their house naked, and left her man there, shaking his head.

  If we were the last man and woman in the world, thought he, which we are, we would still find something to fight about.

  The sooner they left here, the better.

  §

  The crow slept soundly after his revels with the goddess, her front to his back, her wings covering them both. He awoke in darkness, before the first glimmering of dawn, the piquant tang of the smoke from the pyre savory in his nostrils.

  Meat, he thought, there’s nothing better.

  He pulled the goddess’s arm more tightly round him, soaking up the warmth of her. Perhaps there was something better than meat. This coupling, this pleasuring of the flesh, it was truly divine. He wanted more. His zibik began to stiffen. Would she welcome him again between her legs? Of course she would. She had tutored him on how to touch her there, and told him he was a gifted pupil.

  But he was forgetting something. She was out to betray him. She had already given herself to who knows how many others.

  He was a god. He was the King of the Dead. No one had the right to treat him so. She was his now, and if she would not be his, and his alone, he would kill her.

  He rolled onto his back. That smell, that wasn’t just the pyre, that was her. Her nether juices were all over his beak. Her hand drifted down to his zibik. “Mmmm,” she murmured, “Lord Crow.”

  “Humuh,” he said. “Kurawk.”

  “You want me,” she said.

  “Ummuh,” he said, “uh-huh.”

  “And you shall have me,” she said, “but first, we must speak.”

  “Awww,” he said. “Couple now, talk later.”

  She pulled her hand back from his q’hram. It was time to set the hook. “You are suspicious of me,” she said. />
  “What?” he said.

  “You are jealous, and want me all to yourself.” She stroked the feathers above his brow. “You think I will make a cuckold of you.”

  The crow began to sweat despite the soothing of her hand. She had the power to read his thoughts. He should kill her now. He put his hand on her chest, above her breast, close to her throat.

  “How do you know this?” he said.

  “You spied on us,” she said, “at the waterfall. You came in the shape of a dragonfly.”

  “You knew that was me?”

  “Yes, my darling, I knew. And you heard me say that I would have the fisherman, and that his woman could have you. You have been cold and aloof with me since then. For this I do not blame you.”

  “I am forgiven?”

  “Yes, forgiven. Any man would be angry. But know this: I am a changed woman now.”

  “Changed? How so?”

  “Because of you, my darling. Because no one has ever taken me to the heights as you have. Never have I schooled a pupil so apt.”

  Well, yes, thought the crow. I am, after all, King Crow. His hand slid away from her throat, and drifted down to her breast.

  “I forsake all others,” said the goddess. “I am yours, and yours alone, from this moment forward.”

  “Truly?” said the crow.

  “Truly,” said the goddess.

  The crow, never having been in love before, was unprepared for the deluge of feelings that rose within him. She loved him, and he her, and nothing else mattered. Her nipple hardened between his fingers.

  The goddess put her hand on his q’hram again. The handle by which a man is best led, it swelled to her touch. Poor fellow, he was no match for her. She nuzzled him where his neck feathers gave way to his skin, that soft hollow above his collarbone that, she had discovered, made his moan quaver. She could play him like a gamelan gong. The crow closed his eyes, giving himself over to the pleasure of her hand.

  “I am yours,” said the crow, “forever.”

  Yes you are. She was only leading him on, and certainly not forever, but for now, she would give him plenty of honest pleasure. And take her own full measure of delight along the way.

  “Let us seal our covenant,” said she, “thusly,” and she lowered herself upon him.

  Done.

  §

  Dewi Sri, the pelican, and Cariña—goddess, demigoddess, and mortal—having bathed in the pool just below the waterfall, sat one behind the other on a flat rock, their legs splayed. The pelican was in her old woman shape, her heavy breasts slumped over her round belly. The goddess’s hair was down, and the pelican was preening it with her bill, while the goddess combed the woman’s hair with a wooden comb. Their freshly washed sarongs lay on the rocks around them, drying in the sun, and next to them were their vials and kohl pots, and a mirror the frigate bird had brought them. Their loins were sated with Sapphic delights. Their skin was oiled and perfumed, and shiny in the light of the sun.

  “Is he dangerous?” said the woman. “The fisherman says the crow is a savage.”

  “Oh, he is,” said the pelican. “He is easily provoked, and violent.”

  “He can be cruel,” said the goddess. “Make no mistake about that. But he is easily flattered, and a slave to the pleasures of his own q’hram, and therefore easy to rule.”

  “This is the way it’s done?” said the pelican. “It’s all about their zibiks?”

  The goddess and the woman both grinned. “That is the biggest part of it,” said the goddess. “Handle the q’hram the way they like, and you can lead them wherever you care.” The woman made a circle of thumb and forefinger, and thrust the first finger of her other hand through the ring she’d made, and she held her hands over her head so the pelican could see. They all three of them fell to giggling, and when their laughter had subsided, they fell silent.

  “The flattery is important as well,” said the goddess. “You must tell them they are good at pleasing you, and more than that, you must teach them how you most wish it to be done. In a true love match, the pleasure the woman gives the man is fed by the pleasure the man gives the woman, just as it is with the three of us.”

  “And are they all willing to be trained?” asked the woman.

  “Some more than others,” said the goddess, “and some not at all. With those, it is best to move on, after one has given one’s best effort, for if they will not play the game of love as your equal, they are best left to their own devices.”

  “How is the fisherman?” asked the pelican. “Is he well trained in the arts of love?”

  The woman considered for a moment. “I believe so,” she said, “though I have no one to whom I might compare him.”

  “He is a good man,” the goddess said. “One senses these things. He is tender and patient with you, and it would surprise me if he were not equally so in bed.”

  “He has lain with many others in the land of the living,” said the woman, “and he was quick to show me what pleased him.”

  “His experience in these matters is a boon to you both,” said the goddess.

  “I heard you arguing with the fisherman,” said the pelican, “early this morning.”

  “He thinks I hold the crow in too much esteem,” said the woman.

  “And do you?” said the pelican.

  “Who is to say what is too much?” said the woman. “The fisherman is jealous, although I’ve given him no cause to be.”

  “Yet you wish to,” said the goddess, for she had taken note of how the woman looked at the crow, secretly and with lust, “and you have let slip your hidden feelings.”

  “All I said was that the crow liked me, and would do me no harm.”

  The comb the goddess was using found a tangle in the woman’s hair. She set it aside, and deftly plucked the tangle apart with her fingers.

  “Perhaps he has guessed what is in your heart,” said the pelican. She had finished her preening, and was now coiling the goddess’s hair on top of her head.

  “And more,” said the goddess. “He has seen the yen in your loins for the crow.”

  “What am I to do, then?” said the woman. “The more I deny it, the less he shall believe me.”

  “Truly,” said the goddess. “Men may be foolish, but when it comes to spying a rival, they are not fools.” The tangle in the woman’s hair now unraveled, the goddess resumed combing her hair. There was a great deal at stake here, thought she. They must be careful.

  “I have heard the two of you,” said the woman. “The crow must be very skilled.”

  “Yes,” said the pelican. “I had no idea that coupling was such a loud affair.”

  Again they all laughed, for they had rent the air, both the goddess and the woman, with their lusty cries, and they had been shameless about it.

  “He is an apt pupil,” said the goddess, “and full of pent-up spunk.” And enthusiasm, thought she, and stamina. Her nether lips were rubbed raw.

  They might as well take what pleasure they could while there was still time. War’s havoc would render all these carnal intrigues trivial, and who knew if any of them would survive? Perhaps she should send them away, and face what was coming by herself. But there was too much at stake, and she would need her friends at her side.

  She found the gold hibiscus flower she wore on the front of her coif and handed it to the pelican, who slid it into its place.

  “You may have the crow if you must,” said the goddess, “and I will teach you what he favors best.”

  “I haven’t asked for the crow,” the woman protested.

  “Yet he is what you desire,” said the goddess, “and we shall arrange things so that the fisherman does not know.” He would be easy to distract, she thought, though there was risk in that. She must not lose the crow’s trust, fragile as it was.

  The woman leaned back, resting her head on the goddess, her eyes lit with the heat she felt for the crow. “Thank you, my queen. I am in your debt.”

  “And somethin
g else,” said the goddess. “You may have him only the one time. The delicate threads of fate are being woven here, and the crow is at the center of them. We dare not disturb them too much.”

  The woman bowed her head. “It shall be as you wish. You have my word.”

  “What about me?” said the pelican. “You promised I would have my chance as well.”

  Frogs and princesses, thought the goddess, what to do about the pelican? She swung round on the flat rock, and the woman too, and they looked at the pelican, the sag of her breasts, the rumpled flesh of her round belly, the folds of skin at her neck, her puckered thighs, the wrinkles and crinkles at her knees and elbows and on the backs of her hands. The woman caught the eye of the goddess, and she shook her head.

  “The fisherman will not take you,” said the woman. “Forgive me, but you are too old, and too unshapely.”

  “’Tis true,” said the goddess, “that a man is best aroused by a woman of child-bearing years.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” said the pelican. “I have something to show you.”

  She turned away from her friends, showing them her back. She passed a hand in front of herself, and when she turned round again, she appeared as Cariña did, with her face, and her body. Only her eyes were different, as they kept their yellow color. That, and the silver necklace the woman wore round her neck.

  “Swive me,” said the woman. “You’re me.”

  The goddess laughed. “Stand next to each other. Let me look at the pair of you.”

  They were as two rosebuds on the same stem, the one a mirror for the other. A handsome woman, mature and comely, her body edging toward old age but not yet arrived there, and now doubled. A good match for the fisherman, who, unlike some old men, did not require a youthful partner to feel desire.

  “Is this likeness enough?” said the woman. She put her hand to the pelican’s face, and gently traced the curve of her cheekbone, her own best feature.