The Alehouse at the End of the World

by Stevan Allred

  “You would do well to remember,” said the crow, “the fate of the last man who drew that blade against Our person.” He opened his beak wide, and snapped it closed several times, clack clack clack clack clack. There was murder in his black-on-black eyes. The crows at his feet were all staring at the fisherman, ready to pluck his bones clean.

  The fisherman clasped his hands behind his back. He was outmatched. He’d best be tricksy himself if he wanted to slaughter this tricksy varlet. He would bide his time, and slay this whore-pipe of a god when he could take him unawares. He lowered his eyes and took in a long slow breath. “I hear the wisdom in your words,” said he.

  “Do you?” said the crow. “Clever fellow. Do you require Our assistance in returning to your home?”

  “I think not, Lord Crow.”

  “Then you are dismissed,” said the crow, “and our bargain is fulfilled. Is it not?”

  The fisherman was already walking away. He raised his hand, waving it without turning round to look.

  “Let the record show,” said the crow to the cormorant, “that the supplicant agreed.” And then the crow laughed his awful laugh—aw aw aw aw aw.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the cormorant, and when the crow looked away, he allowed himself the barest shake of his head, but he produced his book of records, and made note of what had just happened.

  “A cheeky lad,” said the crow to his congress. “Someone should teach him some manners.”

  “Cheek-cheek-cheek-cheek-cheek,” said the congress of crows.

  §

  The pelican stood at the edge of the crowd, on the far side of the fire from the fisherman. She was in her crone shape, an old woman with her bill nestled between her sagging breasts, her skin wrinkled, her round belly hanging over the top of her sarong, and her bottom flat. This was what the fisherman saw, and though he was friendly enough, there was no hint of desire in his eyes when he looked at her, any more than there was when she was in her pelican shape. She was ugly in this shape, she knew this now. She wanted him to look at her the way he had when she was bouncing and jiggling herself atop his q’hram. What a night of coupling they’d had, though too short, too short. It was all she could do not to pass her hand in front of her face and take on the shape of his beloved. She would walk over to him and offer herself, this very moment, in front of all of them. His hands held a mug of ale, those powerful hands of his, hands that could smooth boards until they felt like silk. The tips of his fingers were tender and fierce at the same time, and how they made her quim sing.

  “Stop staring at him.” It was the woman, who had sidled up behind her while she was lost in her reverie. Her whisper was harsh. “He will guess the truth if you do not watch yourself.”

  “I want him again,” said the pelican.

  “If it were up to me you could have him again,” said the woman. “I would love to have another romp with the crow.” She put her arm round the pelican and turned her away from the firelight, and together they walked a few steps into the night. “But the goddess said we could only do this once, and we dare not go against her wishes.”

  “Why not?” said the pelican. “Why does she decide what is right for me and thee?”

  “Because she’s the goddess,” said the woman. “There are things afoot here beyond our knowledge.”

  “I am a goddess too,” said the pelican. She passed her hand in front of her face, and took on her pelican shape. “Can Dewi Sri do this?” She passed her wing in front of her face, and took on the shape of the woman. “Or this?”

  Cariña grabbed her hand and pinched her, hard. “Stop that. Change yourself back before someone sees us.”

  The pelican tugged at her sarong, smoothing it round her hips, and shifting it down a bit to reveal the tops of her cat’s heads. What lovely curves she had in this shape. “Dewi Sri need not know. We shall bide our time until she is busy with other things.”

  “It is too risky,” said the woman.

  “One time in a thousand times a thousand years. Is that all I am to have? You have the fisherman every night.”

  “Change yourself,” said the woman, “or we shall both suffer.” Her eyes were fierce, and her hands, hanging at her sides, were fists. “We cannot do this,” said she. Her fists trembled. She looked back at the fire, where the fisherman was talking to the frigate bird. He knocked back his mug of ale and looked around for the cask.

  “We can, and we shall,” said the pelican. She stepped back, away from the firelight and farther into the darkness, drawing Cariña with her. “If you do not aid me, then I will show the fisherman your shape, and tell him that I have lain with him, and I will tell him you were with the crow that night.”

  The woman’s mouth gaped. “You would not.” She folded her arms in front of her, as if that settled the matter.

  “I would. What have I to lose? And you, you have another night with the crow to gain, and all we need do is wait and watch for the moment.”

  “It will never happen,” said the woman. But already within her desire stirred, and she fought to keep her lips from taking on a saucy smile.

  “Patience,” said the pelican. “We bide our time, and then we seize the moment, just like skimming a fish out of the water.”

  The woman’s head fell forward, and she let out a puff of air. The crow had been courtly with her in speech. “Enter, milady,” he had said, holding back the ribald silk for her with his beak. The canopied bed was lit with candles, and his skin was the color of copper. He touched her face, tracing the line of her jaw, and then her lips, and she stroked the length of his neb, black and shiny in the candlelight. Then his hands were on her everywhere at once, and hers on him, fondling, feverish, ravishing, frenzied, his need feeding hers, her need feeding his. She brought his zibik to her quim and gave him entry while he nibbled her nipples with the tip of his big, black beak.

  Swive me, she thought, the thrill of it! The fisherman was ardent enough, and well-practiced, but, for all his skill, her body knew his every move, and there were no surprises. Where he was patient with her, the crow was desperate.

  She trembled within, remembering the urgent glitter of his black eyes in the candlelight. Where the fisherman asked, the crow took, as a king takes whatever he wants. And with that taking, she gave, with all her body, willingly, over and over, and again and again.

  When she looked again at the pelican, there was the trace of a smile on her lips, and the barest rise of one eyebrow. The crow made a woman of her in ways the fisherman did not. He made of her a goddess.

  “You want this as much as I do,” said the pelican.

  “No promises,” said the woman. “And we must not be caught. Do you understand? I will not give the fisherman reason to suspect me. Now change yourself, or we shall never have our chance.”

  “We shall be as foxy as pickpockets,” said the pelican. She took on her crone shape again, and she put her arm round the woman’s shoulders and gave her a wink. The woman leaned into her, and gave her belly an affectionate rub.

  “As sly as sleuth hounds,” said the woman.

  “And as bold as bobcats,” said the pelican. “I’ll not spend the next thousand years wishing I had been brave enough to get what I want.”

  §

  The crow, in his man shape, lay on a driftwood log near the pyre. He was stretched out on his side as if the log were a roman lectus, with his arm bent and his head propped up on his hand. This was a manner of repose the goddess favored, and the crow found it befitting to his station in life. It was late in the afternoon, the sun nearing the eastern horizon, the hour of the beast fast approaching. His zibik lay fat and sassy beneath his loincloth, having been well-used that morning by the goddess, and again in the middle of the day. His congress of crows cawed sociably from their perches in the nearby trees, and one or another of them hopped about on the pile of bodies slowly roasting atop the embers of last night’s pyre.

  Never in all his days had his life been so good. When he was not belly-to-belly wi
th the goddess, he was drinking ale with the newly dead, or sitting atop his throne with his subjects admiring his every word. And kiawwww, now he had coupled with the fisherman’s woman. He had given her the ride of a lifetime on his beak, and she had pleasured his zibik with hands, mouth, and quim. “Swive me,” she had said, “it’s so big!”

  Of course it was big. He was King Crow, was he not? The woman had covered him in kisses, and teased his nipples with her teeth. She had bathed his feet, and rubbed them with fragrant oil, and sucked on his toes, a delight not even the goddess had shown him. Now their eyes shared the secret of their lusty swivance whenever they met. And that was part of the fun, wasn’t it, to share the secret with the woman, and not the cuckold.

  Such a crowish word, cuckold. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

  Yes, his zibik was large. The goddess had told him so, she of a thousand times a thousand lovers, so adept in the arts of love. But she was his now, and only his, and she had taught him how to pleasure her for hours on end, and she had given him the woman so that he might practice his carnal arts on someone new. “You are the lover of whom women dream,” she said, “and it is time you know this.”

  Yes, it was good to be the King.

  From the direction of the alehouse came the frigate bird and that sailor fellow, the sailor wheeling a wheelbarrow in front. They were headed his way. His personal cask of ale, no doubt, though they’d just brought him one a day or two before. It was beneath his bed, still more than half full, in the cellar the fisherman had dug for him as a token of his fealty to his kingly self. But a King could never have too much of anything, and so he beckoned them forward.

  “Greetings, O magnificently beaked one,” said the frigate bird.

  “Ho, cousin,” said the crow. “And ho, featherless one.”

  “Lord Crow,” said the sailor fellow. His voice was quiet, and he kept his eyes on the cask in the wheelbarrow, a befitting posture for one so lowly. This mephitic whale dropping had been a lot less insolent since he’d been made to understand his foolish bargain for the rails and slats.

  “Another cask of ale?” said the crow. “For Us?”

  “Something much better, Cousin,” said the frigate bird. “’Tis a cask of aged whiskey, brought from the Isle of Fogg, in accordance with your bargain with my friend here.”

  The fisherman scowled at this, but the frigate bird ignored him. “Would you care to try some?”

  “Awww!” said the crow. “The fabled whiskey, of which We have heard so much acclaim. Yes, We think We would like to try some.”

  How delicious this was, to watch this cuckold of a sailor tap so daintily at the bung with a wooden mallet, knocking it loose. His loyal vassal, come to serve him. The sailor poured whiskey into a mug, filling it full, and careful not to spill a drop. He tucked the mallet into the waist of his breeches, and came forth, his watchful eyes on the whiskey brimming the mug.

  “Your whiskey, Lord Crow.”

  The crow sat up, and took the mug from him, and their eyes met, and in the sailor’s eyes the crow found no fear. He should seek an opportunity to remind this rank petard of his power, as he had by plucking his eye out when this walking, talking manure stack first arrived. He took the hollow reed the turd ball offered him, and he took a sip of the whiskey. It was warm on his tongue. He swallowed.

  “Ka-kawww,” he yelled. His throat was afire. But only for a moment, and then he felt the heat spreading in his belly. A most pleasant feeling, this warming from the inside. He took another sip, and this time the burning in his throat was less, and the warming in his belly more. Another sip, and another, and soon the mug was empty.

  “I trust this is to your liking,” said the frigate bird. “’Tis strong drink, much stronger than ale.”

  “Kiaww!” said the crow. “It is indeed. And We like it very much.”

  “A mere mortal could not swig it down so deftly,” said the frigate bird.

  “Of course not,” said the crow, “but then, We are no mere mortal. Pour Us another mug.”

  “As you wish, Lord Crow,” said the sailor fellow. He and the frigate bird traded glances, no doubt impressed with his prowess. They were weaklings, and he was all powerful, and of course they were impressed. There was a word the cormorant used. Ompimpitence? Impompousness? Pontificence? Something like that, and in any case, whatever the word, he was all of those things, and more.

  He sipped more whiskey, and bade the sailor fellow to wheel the wheelbarrow to his canopied bed and to set the cask of whiskey there. The frigate bird left with him, and the crow stretched himself out again, whiskey mug in hand. The sun was beginning to set behind the peaks at the center of the isle. Soon his congress of crows would retire for the night. He called them down, and they gathered at his feet. He was feeling exceptionally good, and he began to sing, “Kaw-aw-aw-aw awww,” his fellow crows joining in. “Kiaw-aw-aw, ka-kaw, ka-kaw, kulkui ka-kaw,” he sang, making the words up as he went along. He had never been in better voice. The light of the setting sun was golden, and his belly was warm. He would put that sailor fellow in his proper place, and soon enough. He stood, and raised his mug of whiskey, and he began to sway back and forth as he sang. His congress of crows swayed with him.

  “Ku-kaw, ku-kuld,” sang the crow. “Ku-kaw, ku-kuld.”

  “Ku-kaw, ku-kuld,” answered the congress of crows. “Ku-kaw, ku-kuld.”

  §

  Later that evening Dewi Sri and the frigate bird stood in the darkness, watching the nightly revel at the alehouse. There were minstrels playing and singing, the frigate bird having seen to it that rebecs and viols, flutes and crumhorns, cymbals and tambours had all found their way to the Isle of the Dead. Before them a crowd of the newly dead danced and sang and drank the latest batch of the fisherman’s ale, flavored with hops from Hallertau. The frigate bird offered the goddess a sip, telling her that these hops gave the ale a spicy tang, but she declined.

  “Never do I take strong drink,” said she. “I prefer a cup of tea.”

  “And our cousin, the crow, have you introduced him to the delights of tea?”

  The goddess’s smile allowed a bit of levity to show through the usually serene curve of her lips. “I daresay that tea would not have gotten us the results we desire.”

  “The king is in his cups, then?” said the frigate bird.

  “Quite in his cups, and beyond,” said the goddess. “He lays snoring on a driftwood log by the pyre.”

  “Too drunk to perform his office this evening?”

  “We shall have to rouse him,” said Dewi. “Only he can sing forth their souls.”

  “More whiskey will bring him around,” said the frigate bird. “You see to it that the dead find their way to the pyre, and I shall have him roused enough to sing his wretched song.”

  The goddess put her hand on the frigate bird’s shoulder. “Do not despise him. It is not for us to know why the Turropsi have chosen him for this office. ’Twas you who taught me this.”

  “He is a scoundrel,” said the frigate bird. “He is a liar and a cheat.”

  “I have heard the same said of you,” said the goddess. “You are widely known as a thief.”

  “I steal only what is needed for our enterprise.”

  “So you say now, when you are well-fed and prosperous. But in other circumstances you have stolen the unhatched eggs of your cousins and eaten them without the slightest regret.”

  “I was meant to survive,” said the frigate bird.

  “Perhaps,” said the goddess, “although the Turropsi may have other instruments at their disposal, and care little about which of them performs the task.”

  “You think so little of me?” said the frigate bird. “You think anyone could do what I have done, and will do?”

  The goddess embraced her friend, and wrapped her wings round them both. “I think a great deal of you,” she said. “You cannot doubt this. All I am saying is that the crow is not so different from you, or any of us. He merely plays the role into which
he has been cast.”

  “You have a weakness for him,” said the frigate bird.

  “I have a weakness for scoundrels,” said the goddess. “And you of all persons should be grateful for that.” She nuzzled his cheek from within her feathery embrace, and then stepped back from him. “And you are jealous, and that is something I find most unattractive.”

  “Jealous? Of that spleeny, rough-hewn simp? Perish the thought.”

  “May it be so,” said the goddess. “To rise above jealousy is to find the truly divine within.” The goddess put her palms together, and touched her own forehead, and then her friend’s. “You miss me, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Give the crow plenty of whiskey when you rouse him, and he will sleep the rest of the night away. Once he is beyond wakefulness, come to me, and we shall once again renew our friendship.”

  The frigate bird’s red throat pouch swelled. “I shall do as you say.” The goddess nodded, and looked then across the crowd of revelers, her forehead, so unfailingly serene, now creased with worry. “The crow’s drunkenness may be the least of our troubles,” said she. “You’ve seen no sign that the coming war may be turned aside?”

  “None, milady.”

  “And the devouring beast will awaken in its aftermath?”

  “Yes, milady, so it would seem,” said the frigate bird. “There is no way out but through, and naught we can do to change that.” The musicians started a lively reel then, and the frigate bird began to bob his head from side to side. “In the meantime,” said he, “will you not dance with me?”

  The goddess fluttered her wings coquettishly. “’Twill be my pleasure,” said she. And so goddess and frigate bird began to dance, circling each other, their wings spread wide as they moved in time with the music. The frigate bird’s gaze was bold, and proprietary, and the firelight brought out the green iridescence of his flight feathers. The goddess kept her eyes lowered, only looking up to meet his gaze momentarily, the beat of her wings like the throb of a lover’s heart. The frigate bird stepped closer, and with his raised wings beating in time with hers, he shielded her eyes from all others. The swell of his throat pouch was taut.