The goddess leaned into the frigate bird, her lovely neck nestled next to his. “I shall miss all this,” she whispered, “when it comes to its end.”
“As shall I,” said the frigate bird. “As shall I.”
§
The crow found whiskey very much to his liking. A mug of whiskey in the morning made of him a brilliant orator, one who could speak for hours on any subject that drifted through his mind. He held forth from his throne on topics as diverse as why crows were superior to all other birds, and why whiskey was superior to ale, and why he was superior to everyone and everything. The pelican and the cormorant learned that they could stand behind the throne, out of the crow’s line of sight, and occasionally shout huzzah, the cormorant all the while reading his books, and the pelican preening herself, rooting around in her feathers for feather mites.
A mug of whiskey for lunch made of the crow a brilliant napper, one who could sleep the afternoon away in the comfort of his canopied bed. Dewi Sri joined him there, making sure his mug was full, massaging his shoulders as he mumbled on about dictating his memoirs to the cormorant, and assuring him when he woke at sunset that they had indeed enjoyed a stellar romp through the gardens of carnal delight. The crow could never remember these delights, but another mug of whiskey as the sun went down banished any worries he might have about his powers of recall.
The goddess was never there when he awoke again in the evening. This was when he wanted her most, and he would lie in bed, remembering her cries of pleasure as her haunches clasped themselves on his beak and rode him. His zibik stirred. He filled his mug with more whiskey. He ached for her touch, and he called out to her, “Dewi, kiaww, come to me.” When she did not, he called out again, “Ko, ko, ko,” his voice as loud as thunder now, “Goddess, come!” And still she did not come, and the crow drank whiskey to dull the ache in his loins. The sun would set, and the thump of the Kiamah beast’s heart filled the dark night, and every now and again the crow shouted, “Dewi, Dewi, your love lies waiting, Dewi.”
Anon and anon the goddess did indeed appear at the canopied bed, but not until the crow was well into his cups. If he was curt with her, she flew off. If he was maudlin and tearful, she climbed in beside him and soothed him with her wings, trailing her feathers up and down his form. She plied him with more whiskey, and when he was too drunk for his zibik to rise, she clucked her tongue, and told him to go back to sleep.
After many such evenings the goddess came to him and said, “It is whiskey that is your lover now.”
The crow belched. His breath was sour as a bale of sorrel, and the goddess wrinkled her nose at its foul stench. “I have other lovers,” said the crow, “and what is wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” said the goddess. “I am happy for your many loves. Only, I am no longer amongst them. We have come to the end of our liaison.”
“End?” said the crow. “What do you mean, end?”
The goddess backed away from him, and swung her legs round to meet the sand. “The word needs no explanation, my sweet. End, as in end, as in we shall no longer make of ourselves the beast with two backs. I wish you only the best.”
“You’re leaving me?” the crow said. He hiccupped, and through his hiccup he said “Wh-why?”
“Because, my darling,” said the goddess, “it seems you have found your true love in your cask of whiskey. Do not trouble yourself over the matter. It is the way of these things, that sooner or later lovers part. We are both now free to pursue whomever we please.”
“But it pleases me to be with you,” said the crow.
“’Tis sweet of you to say so,” said the goddess. “But as you say, you have other lovers. I will not stand in your way.”
“Kiaww,” said the crow, “don’t do this. I need you.”
Only the goddess’s head poked through the silk canopy as she spoke her last words to the crow. “I am off to my home across the sea,” she said. “Drink some more whiskey, and you won’t even miss me.”
And with that, the goddess flew off. The fisherman and his beloved were reunited, and just this morning Dewi Sri had felt the first faint stirrings of the crow’s child in her belly. Now it was time to see if the Turropsi still meant her to sacrifice Cariña and the fisherman on the pyre. She must persuade them otherwise, if only she could, lest the birth of this love-child be darkened by the blackest deed she had ever done.
§
The crow, for his part, filled the hole in his heart with whiskey. His raspy calls filled the canopied bed as he sang a song he made up{7}.
The goddess done left me
Don’t even know why
She says it’s the whiskey
I say that’s a lie
I feel so lonely
I feel so mad
But she wasn’t my only
So life ain’t so bad
’Cause I’m evil
What a bad, bad, bad, bad bird I am
You know I’ll swallow your soul, baby
‘Cause I’m the hoochie coochie man
Get over here, dolly
Get hold of my zibik
You know that you want me
And here the crow always stopped to drink more whiskey, because he could not think of a rhyme for zibik.
Somewhere in the drunken depths of his night he heard the canoe land on the beach, and the newly dead making their way to the fisherman’s camp. He poured more whiskey into his mug, the cask now nearly empty, and he staggered up to the revels. He had souls to harvest, and he was hungry for man-flesh.
§
Firelight frolicked across the faces of the revelers, and sweet music from the minstrels amongst them filled the air as the newly dead drank their ale. A warm stew of barley and vegetables steamed from a large kettle on the fire, the stew never giving out, for, like the ale, it contained a drop of the pelican’s blood, and so there would always be enough.
In a moment between songs, the fisherman raised his mug and shouted for silence. “Welcome to the Isle of the Dead,” said he. “It’s time to eat, drink, and be merry, for yesterday you died, and tomorrow never knows. Huzzah!”
“Huzzah!” they all shouted, and together they drank. The music started up again, and the revel went on its merry course. But beneath the music, always, was the steady throb of the Kiamah’s heart, a rhythm as dark and dire as the drums of war.
The fisherman stood next to his beloved, and the frigate bird. The wind off the sea was stiffening, and the frigate bird said, “There’s another storm out there, and this one is worse than the last.” He was just back from another trip to the material world.
“It seems they are getting stronger,” said the fisherman.
The frigate bird nodded. “They have never reached here before, but I fear this one may.”
“What is the cause?” said the woman.
“It’s the beast,” said the frigate bird. “The foul humors of his belly grow worse from all he has swallowed.”
The fisherman took his beloved’s hand. “Fear not,” said he, “for we have a stout home, and we will not suffer.”
It was at this moment that the crow appeared. The feathers on his head were askew from lolling all day in bed, and his eyes were lit with the fire of whiskey. There was a rakish slouch to his bearing, as if he were too sure of himself to bother standing up straight.
“Ho, cousin,” said the crow to the frigate bird.
“Your crow-ness,” said the frigate bird, bowing his head ever so slightly.
“I need more whiskey,” said the crow. His voice rasped like a whipsaw with a dull blade. “My cask is nearly spent.”
“Do tell,” said the frigate bird. “You have quite the appetite for the stuff.”
“I am the King of Whiskey,” said the crow. “When can you bring me more?”
“Oh, a day or two,” said the frigate bird.
“I do not wish to wait,” said the crow.
“These things take a little time,” said the frigate bird. “I’ll make the nece
ssary arrangements.”
“See that you do,” said the crow. He drained his mug, and then looked around, the mug raised as if trying to decide where to throw it.
The woman took the mug from his hand, stealing a moment to admire his regal nonchalance, and she asked, “Where is the goddess?”
The crow kicked at the sand, sending a small flurry into the shins of the fisherman, who scowled. “Gone,” said the crow, taking no heed of the fisherman. “Home,” said the crow.
“Gone?” said the woman. “For how long? She said nothing to me about leaving.”
“Oh, she’ll be back soon enough,” said the crow, “when she’s ready for more of this,” and he put his hands on his hips and thrust his loincloth forward.
The frigate bird ruffled the feathers below his throat pouch, a sure sign that he was angry, although the crow took no notice. “Excuse me,” said he. “If I am to procure more whiskey, I shall be off.” He tilted his head toward the beach. “Mind giving me a boost?” he said to the fisherman.
When they had gone the woman said, “So you shall be alone tonight?”
“I shall,” said the crow.
“It need not be so,” said the woman.
“Awww,” said the crow, his black eyes glittering in the firelight. “You wish another frolic with me.”
“I do,” said the woman. Her eyes were lowered, the better to gaze at his loincloth.
“As do I,” said the crow. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Until then,” said the woman. She traced her fingertips ever so lightly down the soft underside of his forearm and across his upturned palm. There was lust for her in his gaze, and lust for him in hers.
She cast her eyes across the crowd and found the pelican.
§
The goddess Dewi Sri flew from her palace high atop Mount Agung to the roof of the world, and from there she made her way to the realm of the Turropsi. They must know, she thought as she approached, that I am coming. Were they ever surprised? Life could be dreary with no surprises in it, something she knew full well from her long, peaceful reign over Bali Dwipa. Often had she found relief from that dreariness in coupling with a new lover, or in fomenting some romantic intrigue amongst her courtiers. But if war were truly coming, there was no more time for such pursuits.
She was soon surrounded by a swarm of the Turropsi, who gathered around her like a bloom of jellyfish, though legions more continued their labors ahead of the great wave. She heard them murmuring in her mind, and then their voices joined together. Welcome back, they said.
I have done as you asked, Dewi told them. The fisherman’s beloved is revived—
Yes, they said, we know this.
Then you must know that she has no memory of their life together, she told them.
No matter, they said. She loves him now, does she not?
She is fond of him, Dewi said, but she is drawn to the crow.
Yes, they said, we know this also, and then their voices separated, and she heard amongst them the mutterings of what sounded like a wager, or many wagers, as if they were betting on whom Cariña would cleave to more.
Must the lovers die? The goddess said. You said their bodies must burn upon the pyre.
The needs of the many, they told her, outweigh the needs of the few. But beneath that dictum their mutterings grew louder and more contentious, and many of the Turropsi fingered the gold beads on their abaci.{8} Dewi caught bits and pieces of it, some saying lovers always made the best sacrificial victims, and an answering voice calling that idea deterministic heresy, and others saying the woman’s desire for the crow was what mattered, and if she carried the crow’s daughter things would be different, and still others saying we told you so, but too late for that now, and through it all their gold beads made a sound like the clink of coins.
How can you wager amongst yourselves, she asked, with so much at stake?
Her question silenced them, though she felt their consternation. They had let slip their own discord. That great dark mass out in the Fetch grew ever closer, and still the Turropsi had no way around it, nor over or under it, and no way to push it aside.
We do not gamble, they told her, we only keep score.
The goddess considered. They were lying about their wagering, she was sure of that, and they did not wish to speak of it, for it made them appear frivolous, and not at all the invincible beings she had once believed them to be.
Do you not determine what happens, she asked, out of all that is possible?
We narrow the choices, they told her, and then let the choices made determine the pattern that is woven. She heard them muttering again, about the eternal play of free will and destiny, and about the likelihood that they themselves would survive. She heard the clinking of yet more wagers being laid, their gambling rising to its peak.
They were gambling on their own deaths. An absurdity, the goddess thought, for who would be left to collect on their wagers if their whole race were devoured by the Kiamah? She felt then the Turropsi within her mind, and knew that they knew what she was thinking. All wagering stopped, and the Turropsi pointed an arm, each and all of them, at the great wave of the present below them, and speaking with one voice they said, The choices you make down there—and now they pointed a second arm at the great dark mass out in The Fetch—will determine what happens when that arrives here.
The future is uncertain, then, Dewi said. You do not know the outcome.
What we know, said the Turropsi, is that you carry the daughter of the crow. She is the future, but she will be of no use to us if you perish in the coming war. What we know is that now you must make haste. The crow grows more savage, even as we speak. He will come for you, with murder in his heart.
I am no warrior, Dewi told them. What would you have me do?
You are the daughter of a warrior, they told her, and you will rise to the occasion, or we shall all perish. More than that we cannot say.
The crow might kill me? she asked, but even as the question formed in her mind, the Turropsi withdrew.
Go back to the Isle of the Dead, they told her. Your destiny awaits.
§
Gusts of wind ripped through the treetops, and carried flurries of sand along the beach. The crow strutted back and forth before the crowd of the newly dead, a hungry look in his eye. “Behold Lord Crow,” said he, “King of the Dead, and Regent of this Isle. Bow down before Us. We suffer your presence here even though you are not worthy of being Our subjects.”
They all looked at one another, glassy eyed and tipsy, wondering where the jolly mood of the alehouse had gone, and who did this crow-headed fellow think he was, anyway? He’d promised them whiskey and led them off into the dark, sending away those other two birds, the cormorant, so trepidatious about the storm that he’d drunk too much, and the pelican, who seemed only too happy to leave.
“It’s just a mask,” someone muttered, “like a hood over his head.” A woman put the back of her hand to her mouth and blew a loud petard at the crow. The crowd erupted in giggles, and a man’s voice called out, “Where’s the whiskey you promised?”
“Who said that?” thundered the crow, and he grew himself taller by a cubit. The crowd was cowed into silence by this show of divine power, and when no one answered, the crow spoke, his voice as loud as thunder.
“I said”—the very air shaking with his every word—“Who. Said. That?”
A meek voice rose from the back. “’Twas me sir.”
The crow strode forward, the crowd parting before him, yielding a path to a man in a leather apron with the stains of a tanner on his hands.
“Kiaw,” thundered the crow. “You?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The crow grabbed the man round his middle with his beak and tossed him high into the air. He landed with a thump on the sand, and everyone heard the crack and crunch of a bone breaking. The man screamed, and the crow laughed his terrible laugh—aw aw aw aw aw.
“Kneel before your King,” said the crow.
The tanner gasped with pain. “I cannot, my lord,” he said, “for my leg is broken.”
“You can,” said the crow, and again he picked the man up with his beak, squeezing him hard. The man’s eyes bulged, and his breath was naught but a wheeze as he struggled to take in air. The crow brought him down hard on the sand, his knees bent, and again he screamed in pain as he landed.
“Bow down!” the crow thundered. “All of you!”
Men shivered, and women wept, and all the newly dead did bow down.
“Listen to Our song,” the crow said. “You have something inside you that wants out. Let it go now, for it belongs to Us.” And this night he sang louder and more fiercely than ever he had before, twittering and clicking, cawing and kiawing, rattling and rasping. The newly dead coughed up their souls, and the crow gobbled them up faster than they could burrow into the sand. He would turn these souls into guano, never to be reborn again.
“Tasty,” said the crow when he was finished. He belched. Rain began to fall, pelting down from storm clouds that hung heavy over the Isle of the Dead. The steady throb of the Kiamah’s heart grew faster, as if the beast were waking up. The crow took on his crow shape, and he spread his wings and herded the bodies of the newly dead to the pyre. The heat of their bodies burning would calm the beast.
His work for the night done, the crow flew to the canopied bed. He passed a wing in front of his face, and became his man shape again, and he climbed in. He feared no storm. His belly was full. He had whiskey to drink, and a woman to bed. And if the goddess returned, he would rip open her belly, and feast on her guts.
§
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 29
