The Alehouse at the End of the World

by Stevan Allred

  The woman lay in bed, listening to the storm outside, waiting for the fisherman’s breath to slow into the steady rhythm of sleep. The crow’s voice from the pyre had rumbled out of the wind. He was powerful in ways the fisherman was not, and that thought made her heart flutter.

  Soon enough the fisherman was asleep, and the woman waited for the pelican to arrive. Soon enough she heard a scratching at the door, and she rose from the bed. The fisherman did not stir, and she crept to the door and stepped out. She put a finger to her lips, pointed at the bed with her eyes, and was off, eager to begin her tryst with the crow.

  “Wait!” the pelican said.

  “Shh!” the woman said.

  “Your chain,” the pelican whispered.

  “Here,” the woman whispered. And then they were off, each to her loins’ desire.

  The pelican crawled in beside the fisherman, and she closed her eyes, and furrowed her brow, making sure her eyes were now blue. And once again she gave herself over to the pleasures of the flesh.

  The woman ran through the rain to the canopied bed. The wind had died down somewhat, and she could make out the dark shape of the crow inside the silk coverings. The coverings parted, and the whiskey cask came sailing out, splintering from the kick the crow had given it.

  He needs a woman’s touch, she thought. He is distraught by Dewi’s leaving. I shall tame him, and we will have a night together we shall never forget.

  §

  The fisherman awoke in the light of the risen sun, his beloved beside him. His loins were spent, and deliciously empty. What a bob-tail his beloved had become of late. He turned to her, and drew her into his arms, her back nestled against his front. For all the ordeals and tribulations of his life here under the rule of the accursèd crow, he was happy as he had never been. His beloved sighed, and reached her hand round his buttocks and drew him even closer.

  His lips were bruised. Cariña had ground her cauliflower against his mouth and brought herself to the pinnacle of passion over and over until his tongue could lap no more. She must, at long last, be in love with him, to cleave to him so. Her breast was warm in his hand, and he nuzzled his cheek to her shoulder, glad for the boon that the whale’s belly had given him of never having a whisker.

  She sat up, wide awake and sudden. Her hand went to the silver chain round her neck. She looked at the fisherman, her lips moving but her voice silent, her eyes blinking as if she had been torn from a dream and could not yet see.

  “G’mornin’, my darlin’,” said he.

  “It’s dawn,” said she.

  “It’s dawn and past, but only by a bit,” said he.

  “I must be off to the privy,” said she.

  She rose, and snatched her sarong off the floor where it lay, wrapping it about herself as she walked out the door. She went round the corner of the house and looked down the beach toward the pyre, which was smoking in the distance. She could not see the canopied bed, for it was hidden by the curve of the beach.

  She hurried to the privy, following the path into the woods behind the house. She must let loose her water and find her twin before the fisherman rose, or else they would be found out. She opened the door to the privy, and there was Cariña, on the bench, slumped against the corner.

  “Oh,” said the pelican, “there you are. I was worried.” The door closed behind her, and the two women were alone in the dark. She took the silver chain off her neck and held it out to the woman, who looked up at her in the dim light. Her shoulders began to shake, she was crying, and even in the shadows of the privy the pelican could see that her face was swollen, her eyes blackened.

  “He beat me,” the woman said. From her trembling lips came a keening, high and quavering, the inarticulate speech of the broken heart. Her lips were puffy. Three lines of dried blood marked them, a tally of cruel blows.

  The pelican sat next to her. What had they done? For the pleasures of the flesh, what had they done? She put the silver chain round Cariña’s neck, her touch gentle and soothing.

  “The crow did this to you?” she said.

  The woman nodded. “He was drunk, and his zibik was slack. I tried. I tried everything, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t. And when it wouldn’t—” And here the keening broke from her again, piercing the pelican’s heart until she thought she would die from the sorrow of it. Tears ran down her friend’s cheeks and fell to her chest. She sobbed, once, twice, thrice. She pulled her sarong tighter round her shoulders, her knuckles white. Her trembling abated.

  “When it wouldn’t,” said she, “he beat me. And then he threw me out.” Her voice was flat. “Like a common gill-flurt.”

  The pelican stroked her shoulders and cooed, soothing her as best she could. What a fool she had been. Dewi had told them, only the one time. She should have listened. These bruises, she had put them on her friend.

  They heard the fisherman outside, singing a sailor’s song of fair winds on a bright morn. He was already in the woods, coming their way. The path to the privy was short.

  The woman looked at the pelican, her face full of fear. “He’ll know,” said she.

  “Oh, my beloved,” the fisherman sang, “my bladder is full, and I must make water.”

  “Not if we’re quick,” said the pelican. She raised her hand to pass it in front of her face. The door swung open, and there he was, with the grin of a fool in love on his face.

  “Not quick enough,” said the woman.

  §

  The fisherman honed his knife with the sure strokes of a man who knew how to go about his business. The blade was half the length of his forearm, and as wide as his two thumbs together, the steel well-hammered, the handle, made of ironwood, unadorned, heavy enough to balance the sturdy blade. It was a knife built for work, whether that work be cutting, carving, shaving, slicing, or the thrust and parry of a close battle.

  The woman was in the house. He would deal with her later.

  When the edge of the blade was sharp enough to shave with ease a thin slice from the driftwood log on which he sat, the fisherman stood. The sun was risen above the twin pinnacles at the mouth of the inlet. It was a fair day, last night’s storm having passed, the breeze light and fresh. His hands were steady, his mind clear. He walked along the beach toward the pyre. The congress of crows called out a warning from the trees as he passed their perches.

  The cormorant was in his customary spot, his spectacles glinting in the sunlight, reading Ovid’s The Art of Love.

  “Ho, fisherman,” said the cormorant. “A good morning to you on this fine day.” The fisherman strode on by without a reply.

  “Have you seen the pelican this morning?” said the cormorant.

  The fisherman did not pause nor turn his head. He raised his arm and pointed behind himself in the direction of his house. The canopied bed was ahead of him, its gaudy silks ruffling in the breeze. The whiskey cask lay on the sand, a hole kicked in its side.

  The fisherman parted the silks and looked in. The crow, in his man shape, lay on the bed face up. He was snoring. An empty cask of ale sat next to him, listing to one side in the bedding. The fisherman leaned over the bed, his knife at the ready. The crow’s loincloth was askew, his miserable pizzle exposed, the loincloth piss-stained and stinking.

  The fisherman knelt on the crow’s chest, pinning his arms with his knees. The crow did not stir. His breath reeked of ale. He pushed his beak back, revealing the crow’s throat. He was feathered to the base of his neck. The fisherman used the edge of his hand to lift the feathers along their bottom edge, exposing a band of skin the width of a finger. Beneath the skin, on either side of the neck, were the thick arteries that fed blood to the crow’s head.

  The fisherman drew his knife in one swift motion across the crow’s neck. The skin parted. His blade was in a thumb’s width. This was no different than slaughtering a pig. He sliced right through both arteries. Blood spurted with the pulse of the crow’s beating heart, once, twice, then stopped.

  The wound was a red l
ine, already closed. “Shite!” the fisherman yelled. “Smegma! Putino!” He sliced the crow’s neck open again, and again blood spurted, then stopped.

  The crow’s eyes opened. His beak parted, his tongue black and dry within.

  “Awww?”

  The fisherman shifted his weight and reared back. He plunged the knife into the crow’s chest, sinking the blade deep into his heart with both hands.

  “Aww!” said the crow. Again there was blood, but only for a moment. The wound was sealing itself around the blade, and the fisherman pulled his knife out. The crow struggled against his knees, trying to free his hands. The fisherman stabbed him again, hitting bone this time as the crow struggled. He was knocked off balance. The crow freed a hand and slapped at him. The fisherman slashed at his wrist. Again the crow squawked. Again the fisherman stabbed him in the heart, but the first wounds were already healed, as if they had never been. The new wound sealed itself as soon as he pulled the knife out.

  “Die, you miserable poltroon, die!”

  The crow freed his other hand, and he grabbed the fisherman’s arm. His terrible beak closed round it, clamping down so hard the fisherman feared his bones would be crushed. The crow jerked his head back and forth, wrenching at him, his hands trying to free the knife. The fisherman grabbed the knife with his left hand and plunged it into the crow’s eye. The crow threw him off, his hands going to his eye, and rolled to his side. The fisherman stabbed him in the back, and this time he left the knife in. He rolled off the bed. He rubbed his forearm where the crow’s beak had squeezed him. The crow’s blood was hot and sticky on his hands.

  The cormorant’s head poked through the silks. He said, “You cannot kill him.”

  The crow sat up, his eye already healed. He reached both hands behind his back, trying to grasp the knife.

  “Why not?” said the fisherman.

  “Only a deity can kill a deity,” said the cormorant.

  “Then kill him,” said the fisherman. He was shouting, his face red with rage. “Kill him.” His hands shook. His fingers were bent to wrap around a throat and crush it. “Do it.”

  “He cannot,” said the crow. The rasp of his voice was oily and gloating. He had a hand on the knife in his back, but he could not draw it forth. “He has not the power to kill me.”

  “Justice!” the fisherman screamed. “He has made a cuckold of me, and beaten my woman.” He gave the cormorant a sharp cuff to the side of his head. “You said only a god can kill a god.” The cormorant only looked at him, his spectacles askew. The fisherman raged on. “Are you a false god? Be not false in my hour of need.”

  “I am not false,” said the cormorant. “I am a lesser deity.” There was a deep sadness in his eyes, and he shook his head back and forth. “I said only a deity could kill a deity. I did not say any deity could kill any other.”

  “So now you split hairs with me?” The fisherman turned and leapt up on the bed. He dropped to his knees behind the crow and grabbed his beak in both hands. He wrenched his head sideways. The crow’s neck snapped. He went limp. The fisherman stood and let the crow fall back.

  “Yes!” the fisherman screamed. “I’ve done it.”

  The cormorant leaned in from the side of the bed. He straightened his spectacles and studied the crow, who lay still, his back bent, propped up on the knife in his back.

  The fisherman leapt down. “You see?” he said. “He’s dead.”

  The cormorant put his head to the crow’s chest, over his heart, and he listened. The fisherman too leaned in, but the cormorant held him back with an outstretched wing.

  “Is he dead?” the fisherman said. “He’s dead. Tell me he’s dead.”

  “Be still,” said the cormorant. “I’m listening.”

  The fisherman held his tongue. He raised his head to the heavens, his arms wide, his palms up, his lips moving in a silent prayer. By all the gods held holy, let this nithering foul tyrant, this piss-reeking chancre of a king, this whoreson, this pustulent, cullionly canker-blossom of a crow, let him never draw breath again. Let maggots eat his brains, let flies lay eggs in his rotting cods, let worms crawl up his dungbie and devour his stinking guts.

  “I thought it was not possible,” said the cormorant, “but I detect no signs of life.”

  The fisherman tore the silks aside, letting light into the sordid bedchamber. He clapped his hands, and he danced a quick jig, whistling the tune, turning in place, hopping from one foot to the other, and slapping the soles of his feet.

  “We shall have to revise our theories of deicide,” said the cormorant, “to reflect what has just happened here.”

  The fisherman leaned over the crow, whose beak was open and slack, his black tongue hanging to the side. He sang a sailor’s jolly verse to the crow’s corpse:

  I snapped his neck with my bare hands,

  How sweet the sound of death,

  I stilled the villain’s beating heart,

  He drew his final breath.

  And he put his hands under his ribs to roll him over so he could pull his knife out of the crow’s back.

  The crow’s eyes opened. He winked at the fisherman, and he laughed, “Aw aw aw aw aw.”

  “Swive me!” the fisherman screamed. His face went purple. He pounded on the crow’s chest with his fists, but the crow pecked him, hard, and he had to stop. There were tears of rage at the corners of his eyes. He looked the crow in the eye, and he spat a gobbet of spit at him. He spat so hard he missed.

  The crow cupped his zibik in his hand, his black eyes glinting with malice. “Aw aw aw aw aw,” he laughed. “Aw aw aw aw aw.”

  The fisherman’s head drooped at that raspy sound, and the cormorant put a wing round his shoulders. He turned him, and they stepped away together. “You’d best leave if you value your life,” the cormorant said.

  “Help me,” croaked the crow. “Pull out the knife.”

  “Leave,” said the cormorant.

  “We are not done,” said the fisherman. He stared at his bloodied hands. What good were they if they could not kill the crow?

  “Kiaw,” cried the crow. “Too true. Too true.”

  §

  The fisherman walked down to the water. He stripped off his breeches and waded in. He was spent, his battle lust burnt away. The water was cool, the waves calm, endless, soothing. He had failed, and put his life at risk in the bargain. They must flee. Or find a way to kill the crow. Neither the pelican nor the cormorant possessed the power, but the frigate bird was endlessly resourceful. Perhaps he could do the deed.

  He swam to the other side of the inlet, and stepped out on the beach there. He had never been on this side before. He turned and looked, and there was his house. A thin trail of smoke rose from the fire pit.

  They must flee. He would take his woman and find a way off this cursèd isle.

  His woman. His betrayer. He had forgiven her much, and she him, but this? She had bedded his sworn enemy. He did not know if he could forgive this.

  Ye gods, what a hellish morning this had been. The sight of those two women in the privy, his beloved and her double, his beloved’s face swollen and bruised. He’d gone dizzy. And then the pelican passed her hand in front of her face and became herself, and they all started talking at once, answers and questions jumbled back to front. His whole world was shattered to bits and tossed into the air, and came crashing back down in shards and shreds. He beat her. Who? The crow. Why? Forgive me.

  He sat on the sand with his head between his knees. That night when he’d glimpsed the pelican’s eyes for a moment, was that the first time? She’d been so impatient, and so clumsy. Last night she was just as demanding, waking him from deepest sleep with her kisses and her eager hands. He’d felt old in the face of her need. So urgent, she was. Like a young maiden, and he an old goat past his prime. But that was not his beloved. No, she had been with the crow. And of her own will, for it was clear that they had plotted together to make this happen.

  He could kill her. She was a mortal. H
e could kill her, and himself. They would become clams, sleeping in their shells, waiting for the next life.

  But the crow would know who they were. He would find a way to torture them again. There was no escape from the crow, not if they stayed here. And killing his woman would bring him no satisfaction. It would only put her blood on his hands.

  Across the inlet, the cormorant came out of the canopied bed and walked down to the water. He drew forth the fisherman’s knife from where he had it tucked under his wing, and he held it in his bill, and he washed it in the lapping waves. The congress of crows plucked at the pyre, gobbling bits of charred flesh. Their thorny squawking prickled the fisherman’s ears.

  The sooner he was quit of this place the better. He swam back across the inlet to where the cormorant stood in the shallow water. The cormorant gave him his knife.

  “How much time do I have before he comes for me?”

  The cormorant considered. “His wounds are healed,” he said. “But he cannot walk. He is still drunk from last night. He says the cask of ale was half full when he started, and it is empty now.”

  “So he must climb the rope back up the well before he can toddle after me. Is he out for my blood?”

  The cormorant sighed. His turquoise eyes blinked from the bottom up, once, twice. “He will kill you at his leisure,” he said. “You cannot escape him.”

  “So you all say,” said the fisherman. “I say we gather ourselves together and find a way to kill him.”

  In reply, the cormorant only gazed at the gentle waves around his legs. His spectacles glinted in the sunlight. The crows at the pyre croaked and cawed. The wretched sound of the crow fergling up his guts came from the canopied bed. The fisherman stood with his hands at his sides, naked before the world, and he smiled.

  “At least he is sick as a sailor’s dog for the nonce.”

  The cormorant nodded. “I’m sorry,” said he. “I am a scholar, not a fighter.”

  “Then study your scrolls and your books,” said the fisherman, “and find a way to kill him.”