The Alehouse at the End of the World

by Stevan Allred

  He gathered up his breeches and slung them over his shoulders, and he walked up the beach toward his house.

  §

  They were there when he opened the door to his house, the pelican in her old woman shape, and his beloved. They sat on a low bench, the pelican with her arms round Cariña, cradling her like a mother soothing a troubled child. Her long bill lay on top of his beloved’s head. His beloved’s face was no longer swollen, her eyes were no longer blackened. No doubt the pelican had vulned herself and healed her. A useful skill for a lesser god to possess, and they had made ample use of it in providing food and drink for the nightly revels. But the pelican, whom he had taken at her word in every way, was a tricksy varlet like the crow.

  Never trust a shapeshifter. Or a god. They had too much power, and like a tyrant, they were bound to put that power to ill use sooner or later.

  The pelican looked up, and said “Ho.” His beloved’s eyes opened, and met his, and looked away.

  She had lain with the crow, that was the gorbellied bur in this. She had betrayed him with his enemy, this tyrant, may he be gutted and choked to death on his own entrails. And she had done so while he was here, not away on a voyage. She had never done that before.

  But this was not the same woman. If there had been any doubt of this before, it was gone now.

  “Ho,” said the fisherman. There was nothing else to say.

  She had the face of his beloved, and her eyes, so full of the beauty and sadness of the troubled world. But she knew nothing of their past.

  “Thank you,” said the fisherman to the pelican, whose yellow eyes had remained on him.

  “For what?”

  “For healing her.” The pelican opened her bill wide, and the old woman inside nodded in reply.

  “Come,” said the pelican. She invited him in with her beckoning hand, and when he got to the bench, she stood.

  “She needs you.” The pelican walked to the door and left.

  He took his breeches from his shoulders and hung them on a peg. He sat on the bench and wrapped his arms round her. It was what a man did if he were not bent out of shape by his own spite. She was stiff for a moment, and then let him pull her in, and he rocked her in his arms. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  “I didn’t know,” she said.

  “You didn’t know what?” said he.

  She began to sob, and between sobs, she spoke. “You warned me,” she said. “I didn’t believe you,” she said. “I thought there was only pleasure,” she said. She sobbed harder, her whole broken world gasping out of her chest. She said, “I didn’t know there was pain.”

  So much had he endured to find her. He could not forsake her now.

  “I tried to kill him,” said the fisherman. “He would not die.”

  “I wish I were dead,” she said. “Death was easier than this.”

  She would know which was easier, the fisherman thought. But life was never meant to be easy. If it were, there would be no need of it. We could spend all our time inside a clamshell, dreaming.

  “Let us leave this place,” said he.

  “How?” said she.

  “I know a way,” said he.

  A shadow crossed the open doorway, and there was the goddess, Dewi Sri.

  “It has come to my ears,” said she, “that you are in need of some aid.”

  The crow’s consort. The fisherman regarded her with baleful eyes. “Thank you, but I have the situation in hand.”

  “Yes,” said the goddess, “for the moment. But the pelican tells me you sharpened your blade and went after the crow.”

  “It’s true.”

  “And yet you could not slay him.”

  “No.”

  “’Twas a noble effort on your part,” said the goddess. “I commend you for that. But you are both in danger now, danger that I have brought upon you. The crow will come for you, and you are no match for him.”

  “Why should I trust you?” said the fisherman. “Are you not his lover?”

  “I was,” said the goddess. “It was my fate to be so.”

  “Fate? You blame this on fate?”

  “Dear fisherman,” said the goddess, “I understand your suspicion of me. But we have no time to waste. There are forces at play here beyond your ken. We are all of us in danger. And fate has everything to do with it.”

  The goddess stepped into the room, and the pelican followed her. “By your leave,” said the goddess, her gaze resting on the fisherman, “I would speak with you alone. Will you not grant me this favor?”

  The fisherman held his beloved tighter in his arms. “She needs me now more than you ever could,” he said.

  “In any other moment I would agree,” said the goddess, “but not now. And our friend the pelican will stay with Cariña.”

  The pelican came over to the bench. “We meant you no harm,” she whispered. Her eyes were wet with tears. The fisherman unwound his arms from his beloved, and he went out with the goddess.

  Together they walked toward the Sea of Bones. They were silent for a time, gaining some distance from the fisherman’s camp, the sound of the sea growing closer as they neared the mouth of the inlet. And then the goddess spoke.

  “I know that I must seem a villain to you, for my liaison with the crow. But I am here on this isle as a thread woven by the hands of fate. I will not lie to you. I went willingly to the crow, and I made the most of every moment with him. It is my nature to couple, to bring forth abundance.”

  “He is a foul tyrant,” said the fisherman. His voice was rough with ire. “You gave him your love. And so you are his accomplice in all the foul things he does.”

  The goddess nodded, her dark eyes taking in his wrath, and not refusing it. They stood now in the shadow of one of the rock pinnacles at the mouth of the inlet. The goddess took the fisherman’s hands in hers.

  “It was I who put the pelican and Cariña in mind of trading places,” said she. “If you blame someone, it must be me you blame.”

  There was something oiled and queasy roiling around in the fisherman’s guts, as if fingers pierced his flesh, and toyed with his liver. “Did you force her into the arms of the crow?”

  The goddess shook her head. “She was willing. As you have been, given the opportunity, to take the pleasure of the moment. As all of us are, no matter how much we may love our mates, for we crave in our loins the touch of someone new. Listen, my friend.” Her face was serene, the face of the wisdom of the ages, and her eyes looked into his without calculation.

  “Long ago, before there were rice paddies and gardens and orchards, before there were cities, this was how we all lived. We shared our stored food, and the warmth of our bodies at night, each of us cleaving to many others, as the opportunity arose. We reared our children as if all children were our own blood. We did this without rancor, or jealousy, or complaint.” The gold hibiscus flower at the front of Dewi’s coif was shiny against the black coil of her hair. “And why?” she asked. “Because we were bound together by the pleasure we shared, and so when trouble came, we willingly shared the danger.”

  The fisherman picked up a stone from the sand and threw it into the water. “What has any of that to do with my beloved’s betrayal of me?”

  “Only this,” said the goddess. Again she took his hands in hers. “That her willingness to lie with the crow is not cause for you to love her less. That there was no malice in what we did. That she loves you no less for her tryst with the crow. That she meant you no harm. It was I who counseled secrecy, and that was to keep you from pain. And it was I who saw to it that the pelican came to you in Cariña’s place, and that was to give you pleasure.”

  The fisherman scowled. The goddess smiled at him in return, as if she liked him the more for scowling.

  “You did enjoy the pelican, did you not?” she said.

  The pelican had worn him out, that was the truth of it. She had swived him raw. But she was lusty, and easy to please, and quick to return the favor.

  “
You were her first, you know,” said the goddess. “She is wild for you, even now. She thinks you are my gift to women.”

  The fisherman could not help but smile at this. “I am that,” said he. Confound this goddess, she was flattering him, and twisting everything around.

  “She could learn a great deal from you, should the occasion arise,” said the goddess, “about love, and loyalty, and about setting jealousy aside.”

  “A pox on all that,” said the fisherman. “The crow has made a cuckold of me. I want revenge.”

  “And you shall have it,” said the goddess. “You shall live to see the crow’s demise. But only if we all work together against him. I need your help. For once the crow is dead, we shall all of us have to slay the greater beast. The Kiamah will awake.”

  First the crow, and then the Kiamah. He had no desire to be drawn further into the affairs of the gods. The price of his vengeance might well be his own life. “These are deeper waters than I care to sail,” said the fisherman.

  The goddess squeezed his hands, imploring him. “We must all of us put our heads together,” said she, “for separately, we shall surely lose them.”

  Here he stood, naked as the day he was born, a winged goddess holding his hands and asking for his help. He had no friends here, save the frigate bird, and he’d best take care of himself. But her gaze was steady, and would not leave his alone.

  “All right,” he said. Let her hear what she wanted to hear. He would gather up his beloved and flee. They had come too far and endured too much. He could not leave her behind.

  Dewi’s red lips smiled wide, and then wider. There was an abundance of gratitude in her kohl-rimmed eyes, and then something more. A sparkle of mischief, a glimmer of glee, the glint of lust.

  He looked at the bounty of her breasts. They were magnificent. She drew his hands to them. And let her own hand fall to his Man Thomas, O sweet caress, how deep the thrill. Her nipples hardened between his fingers, and she uttered a low moan.

  She said, “Let me show you how the goddess thanks her friends.”

  §

  That evening, before the canoe of the dead arrived, they gathered around the fire pit at the fisherman’s camp. “His bowels are loose,” said the cormorant. He was speaking of the crow. “His head aches, and he can barely keep down a draught of water. He was asleep when I left him, though fitfully so. But he is in no shape to do us any harm for the moment.”

  “By morning,” said the frigate bird, “that advantage will be lost.”

  “We must take him unawares, the sooner the better,” said the fisherman.

  “And do what?” said the cormorant. “You have already tried to slay him and failed.”

  The fisherman sighed. “Surely there is a way.” Cariña sat next to him on the driftwood log, and she drew him closer with both arms. He looked at the frigate bird, who shook his head, and at Dewi Sri.

  “It is not in my nature to kill him,” said the goddess, “nor any creature by my own hand.”

  “Perhaps the old nimpsy will drink himself to death,” said the frigate bird.

  “He could kill us all in the meantime,” said the fisherman. There was fear in the pelican’s eyes, and the cormorant’s, but the goddess’s countenance was calm and unreadable. Full of surprises, that one. “We must act, and act swiftly.” The pelican nodded in agreement. She was in her pelican shape, sitting in a shallow scrape in the sand.

  “Better to be cunning and alive,” said the frigate bird, “than to be bold and dead.”

  “His mind is troubled,” said the cormorant. “And has been ever since the goddess took him into her arms. I watched him, some several fortnights ago, as he fell from the sky. He was in his man shape, and I think he meant to do himself in.”

  “What happened?” said the goddess.

  “At the last moment he took on his crow shape,” said the cormorant, “and saved himself.”

  “You see?” said the fisherman. “His mind may be troubled, but not troubled enough. And we are undefended.”

  “Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur,” said the cormorant. “Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time.”

  Around and around they went, the fisherman arguing for immediate action, the goddess and the frigate bird counseling patience, and some form of guile rather than another assault. Just before midnight the crow surprised them all by walking into the firelight. His black eyes were watery, his neb was dingy and drab, his shoulders slumped, and he had nothing of the regal and manly bearing that had turned so many heads at the nightly revels.

  “Ho,” said the crow. His eyes went round the circle, taking them all in, but offering no one of them any more regard than another. No one returned his greeting until the goddess spoke.

  “Ho, Lord Crow.” Her face was as serene as ever. “We are honored by your presence.”

  The crow nodded. “As are We by yours,” he said. “Let us dispense with the formalities, for We have a royal headache.” He closed his eyes and put his hands on either side of his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his skull. “We have come here to say”—and here he dropped his hands and opened his watery eyes—“that we have all been through a great deal of late. Much drinking, and much sporting about in beds. We fear that, under the influence of strong drink, We have given aw-aw-offense to one or another of you.” Here the crow looked at the woman most particularly, and he wiped a tear from his eye. “If that be the case, We inform all present that We are most sincerely sorry. We think it best not to dwell on the details of any such offense, for by all appearances no permanent harm has been done. Nor do We hold anyone here,” and here he looked most particularly at the fisherman, “accountable for any attempts to commit murder on Our person. It is possible that We may have provoked such an attempt by Our own deeds.”

  All now looked at the fisherman, who held the crow’s gaze with his. The woman nudged the fisherman with her foot. He nodded at the crow.

  “Thank you, Lord Crow,” said he. “We are all of us grateful for your beneficence.”

  “You are welcome,” said the crow. “And so, from this moment forward, We say let the past be forgotten by all, and we shall renew our friendships, as of old.”

  The crow bowed, and then he turned and walked away.

  No one spoke until they were sure he was out of earshot, and even then, they kept their voices low.

  “It’s a trick,” said the fisherman. “He means to lull our defenses.”

  “That may be so,” said the goddess, “but it gives us some time.”

  “Only until he catches us unawares,” said the fisherman. “He will slit our throats while we sleep.”

  “I’ll stand watch,” said the frigate bird. “We cannot all be asleep at once.”

  “A sensible precaution,” said the goddess. “But I do not think he will come tonight. He has something else in mind.”

  “What?” said the pelican. “Do you know something the rest of us do not?”

  “No,” said the goddess, “’tis only the inkling of my intuition.”

  The canoe of the dead entered the inlet then, the fish eagles keening, the dead singing, their paddles dipping into the water as one. They went down to the water to meet the canoe, all of them together, for they felt that if nothing else, there was some safety in numbers. They fell to the task at hand, leading the newly dead to the fisherman’s camp, filling their mugs with ale, and offering them what comforts they had. It was what they could do, and it was far better to do it than it was to give themselves up to worry.

  §

  The crow, his mind clear for the first time in days, did not sleep after he led the newly dead to the pyre. The cormorant climbed atop the pelican’s shoulders, a good deal farther from the pyre than their customary spot. They did not trust his peace offering, that much was clear, but it was of no matter to him. Apologies and contrition were for mortals, and though he had indulged himself with such feelings, most particularly toward the woman, he was past all th
at now.

  He waited while the pelican and the cormorant settled and became still, pretending to fall asleep himself. Then he flew to the waterfall, and in his mole shape, padded down his tunnel to the hole in the sky of the material world. He uncovered the hole, and peered down upon forest and plain, taking in all the rich smells, of plowed earth, of smoke from hearth fires, of mounds of rubbish and the wriggling worms and busy beetles crawling within. So much to eat down there, and soon enough, he would rule it all, and have his fill of whatever he desired.

  He passed a paw in front of his face, and he took on his crow shape. He stuck his head down through the hole, looking about for his fellow crows. It was near sunset, the sun low above the horizon. “Ko, ko, ko,” he thundered, and in their roosts and on the wing they heard him, crow upon crow upon crow. They came to his call in their thousands, rising to the sky in great flocks, whirling and wheeling, spinning in gyres and spirals, turning and circling. “Ko, ko, ko,” they called to one another, the racket of them screeching and squawking, drowning all other sound from below, their flocks joining together and rising ever upward, following, in their multitudes, the cry of King Crow. A thousand times a thousand of them rose, turning the sky black, a great long line of crows rising above that black mass and flying ever upward.

  They rose like a great tornado turned upside down, and disappeared, through the hole in the sky.

  §

  The fisherman did not sleep that night after the revels but lay awake, thinking. His beloved lay next to him, and for her the blessing of sleep came, for she was tired beyond the troubles of the night before, and this long day of grief just passed.

  The fisherman was calculating the odds, and he did not like them. He had no faith in the goddess, who had all but led his woman to the crow’s bed. And the crow was too powerful for these lesser gods, none of whom had the will nor the wherewithal to slay him. His performance at the fire was nothing but a ruse. He would seek vengeance for what they had done to him, and his vengeance would be cruel.