All of this death was her inheritance, and she had little to show for it. The great devourer was all around her, and she, for all her wisdom, could think of no way to slay him. She let her tears flow, and she looked at the sky above, where in the night his great heart would beat, and she considered. There would be more blood shed, of that much she was sure.
While the goddess brooded, and found no peace, the others argued over the fate of the crow. They had him tethered to a tree at the edge of the forest, the hood still over his head, his wings bound to his body, far enough away that they spoke as if he were not there. The frigate bird stalked back and forth, his pistola and his spyglass tucked into his belt, his bearing piratical and full of menace. The fisherman sat on the driftwood log away from the goddess, honing his knife, with naught but butchery in his heart for the crow. They were spoiling for an execution. It was justice they wanted, and that meant punishment, and there was no other punishment for a rogue such as this crow than the punishment of death. The pelican argued for mercy, clucking and cooing about the redemptive power of forgiveness, and the woman agreed: they should all forgive the crow, as she had, although the truth was she was struggling to forgive him far more than she let on, and she did so more because she thought that was what the goddess wanted than she did of her own volition.
The goddess’s silence, at length, became its own voice in the argument. Cariña stood next to her and wiped the tears from Dewi’s cheeks with her hand.
“What is your thought?” Cariña asked. “What shall we do with the crow?”
In answer the goddess stood, holding the cormorant close. The frigate bird pointed at their dead comrade, and said, “His death alone is enough to call for the execution of the crow.”
He would have gone on, but the goddess silenced him with a fierce look, though one softened somewhat by the tears brimming her eyes. “Consider the gravity of what we must do next,” said she, “and tell me how, if you can, we are to deal with the Kiamah. For that is our greatest concern now. The fate of the crow can wait.”
To the others she said, “I would speak with you all, but first, let me lay my burden down.” They followed Dewi Sri as she bore the cormorant’s body into the fisherman’s house, and laid it to rest on a bed of moss. The fisherman brought more moss from the forest, and they bid the cormorant farewell, and then covered his body with it. There was a great outpouring of grief from all of them, and Dewi Sri wept with them, and then they returned to the fisherman’s fire.
“All of you fought bravely last night, and we have won a great victory,” said she, “but it will mean nothing if we do not slay the beast. The Kiamah is dull of wit, but he is large almost beyond measure, and he is powerful.”
She stood before them, her eyes cast down while she considered what to say next. It was one thing, and a terrible thing at that, to go into battle and to cause the deaths of thousands of crows. It was yet a more terrible thing to have led the cormorant to his own demise while in her service. And to kill the crow herself, that was the most terrible thing yet. She had been belly to belly with him, and together they had climbed to the heights of pleasure. Could she slay him now, while he was captive? Could she slit his throat as if he were no more than a boar slaughtered for a feast, and would that even work? Truth be told, she had not the stomach for it. But she must lead them forward, and it was best to do so without them having any doubts about her. She spread her wings, making herself larger, and, she hoped, more the leader this small band of heroes needed.
“Even now the crow feeds off the Kiamah’s power, though my own power is the greater for our defeat of him. The crow is subdued by his defeat, but he is still a god.” She paused for a moment, and in the silence the beat of the Kiamah’s heart drew her attention skyward. His life’s blood passes through there, thought she. “The cormorant taught us,” and here the voice of the goddess trembled with grief for a moment, “that only a god can kill a god, and this is so, but it might be better said that only a greater god can kill a lesser god.”
She moved amongst them as she spoke, letting the serenity of her face shine forth, and using the most dulcet tones of her voice to persuade them. “None of you has the power to kill him,” she went on, and she stopped to speak directly to the fisherman, saying “The crow is still a god, and cannot be killed by a mortal man.” She moved on to the frigate bird, the serenity of her gaze more than her paramour could meet. “His death is beyond your means as well,” said she, “for he is still the Kiamah’s favored one, and diminished though he is, he will not succumb to any injury you might deliver to him.” At this the frigate bird clawed at the sand, muttering his discontent, until the goddess spoke again.
“I do have the means,” said she, though she only guessed this to be so, and would not know if it were true until she put it to the test, “but the need of the moment is to slay the Kiamah beast. The Kiamah threatens all that is, and if he devours the land of the living, as is his intent, we shall all perish. The life or death of the crow will not matter then, and nothing will exist save the beast and his great belly.”
All the while the goddess spoke, the crow had been edging his way forward, the better to hear. He was at the end of his tether now, and though he had been silent since his capture, he was no longer subdued in his thoughts. Yes, they had won a great victory over him, and his congress of crows was defeated, their bodies awash on the beach. But he still had all his guile, and he knew that if he could but speak to the Kiamah, he would have his way with the great beast. For the beast was more than a devourer, capable of gnashing to bits all that was with his great teeth, and his great jaws. He was capable of swallowing the material world whole, of this the crow was certain. Had he not already swallowed the spirit world, and all that was within it? Yes he had, kiaw aw aw, and what these fools did not realize was the difference between devouring and swallowing. The beast could be led, and when the material world was in his belly alongside the spirit world, the crow would rule all of it as his regent. He would keep the beast sedated, and flatter him as needed, and everyone, man and beast, god and goddess, would bow down to the crow.
“Aw aw aw aw aw,” said the crow, and they all turned and looked at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “I was just clearing my throat.” He retreated then, going back to the tree to which he was tethered.
The frigate bird put his mouth to the goddess’s ear and said, “I still think we should kill him now. I don’t trust him any farther than a mouse can hurl one of its own turds.”
The goddess nodded. “First the beast,” she whispered back. She bade the frigate bird pull back with the rise of one of her lovely eyebrows, and he did so. Again she looked skyward, where the Kiamah’s heart beat on.
“I have a notion as to how to slay the beast,” said she. She gathered them all in closer with her wings. “’Twill be best if the crow does not hear what I am about to say . . .”
§
They had all of them spent the middle part of the day gathering the bodies of the dead crows in their thousands and dumping them on the pyre to burn. It was sobering work, and they spoke little amongst themselves, but at length the sacred fire, which had been smoking and sputtering, burst into flames, and the carnage of the night before was sent the way of all flesh. All the while there were strange rumblings in the air, and ominous clouds gathering in the sky. The pelican reminded them that she had not fed the Kiamah for three days, and he had therefore had no conaria to keep him drowsy.
“If we are successful this evening,” the goddess said, “that will not matter.”
The crow, for his part, stood muttering and krucking as the day wore on, pecking with his hooded head now and again, as if he sought a meaty morsel to eat, and the frigate bird in particular kept an eye on him. He was planning something, the frigate bird was sure, and he said as much to the fisherman.
“So have I seen,” said the fisherman. “If I were he, I would be planning my escape.”
By mid-afternoon the beach was nearly cle
ar of dead crows, though more washed ashore on the waves. A storm was gathering to the west, dark-headed clouds piling themselves taller and taller against a sky the color of tarnished pewter. The frigate bird took up a perch where he could keep an eye on the crow, and the fisherman and the pelican, who was in her old woman shape, went off to sleep in the fisherman’s house. They were both weary in body and spirit, and they lay down together. The fisherman was mindful of whom he held in his arms, this ancient bird who held within herself the shape of his own beloved. They had been lovers, and each was aware that they might be lovers again with the mere passing of the pelican’s wing in front of herself. But for now what they desired was the warmth of each other’s embrace, and nothing more.
“What if Cariña comes upon us like this?” said the pelican. “She will be jealous, will she not?”
The fisherman let out a long slow breath. “I am too weary to care,” said he, “and we are giving her no cause. Let her join us here, that we might all give ourselves what comfort we can.” He held the pelican more tightly in his arms, her capacious bill resting on his cheek. “Or not, if she so chooses.” And with that, he let himself drift into sleep, and the pelican followed.
Meanwhile, the goddess and Cariña sat on the driftwood log, the two of them also weary, but each of them too disquieted to sleep. They, too, took note of the gathering storm, glancing up when the distant flash of lightning caught their eyes, and they edged closer together until Cariña laid her head on the shoulder of the goddess. The goddess wrapped her winged arm round the woman, and stroked her hair with her other hand.
“May I speak with you?” Cariña said.
“Of course,” said the goddess. She stood now, and put out her hand. “Let us walk together along the shore.”
They set off hand in hand, the waters of the inlet calm beside them. “What troubles you, my friend?” the goddess said.
Cariña trembled, holding back tears. Her roiled heart carried her this way and that. When she was near the fisherman she wanted his sheltering arms around her, and yet she had done him such wrong she was not worthy of his touch. Whenever she looked at the crow, hooded and bound, tethered to a tree, she wanted to pound her fists on him one moment, and bed him again the next. At length she spoke. “Was I wrong to love the crow?” she said.
“Oh, Cariña, my friend,” the goddess said, “I have forgotten how new you are to all this.” Now she faced the woman, and put her hands on Cariña’s shoulders. “My dear, dear friend. Understand this: love and desire are two different things. They often travel together, and either one can lead to the other. You desired him, as did I, for he is well-formed, and powerful, and yet so much in need of a woman’s tutelage, in so many ways. It is no surprise that we both desired him, and there is no shame in that. But desire will burn itself out over time, and love is what remains, glowing in the embers. And when we truly love someone, then we can bring forth desire from those embers whene’er we want it.”
“Is it always so?” the woman asked.
“It is not. It is often the case that desire exhausts itself, and we move on. And when we look back on the object of our desire we can scarcely fathom what it was that overtook us so heartily for a time.”
The woman considered this for a moment, turning the thought over in her mind, and looking beneath it, behind it, and beyond it.
“I fear the crow still,” she said, “for the beating he gave me. And fear also that I have lost him, and that I shall never win him back. I want him still, and I want the chance to tame him, for I am sure that I could.”
The goddess took her friend’s hands in hers and said, “You might, if given the proper circumstance. But the time for that is past, and the crow’s fate is sealed. Let go of your affections as best you can, and you will suffer less.”
The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. She wiped them away, and together they walked on. So much had gone awry, and yet, when she looked back on what she had done, there was little she would change, save the crow delivering his blows to her. And the fisherman—she would never have made him suffer.
“This is the fisherman’s tale,” she said, “that he loves me still, and has always loved me, and so he desires me still?”
“Just so,” said the goddess.
“And yet I have caused him pain,” she said, “because I desired the crow more than him.”
Now the goddess put an arm round Cariña’s shoulders, her wing feathers trailing down her side.
“We want what we want,” said she, “and we love whom we love. But we should never let desire rule us.”
“And yet it does,” said the woman.
“If you let it,” said the goddess. “To rise above desire takes discipline, and practice. We must learn to let go of what we want, and at the same time to accept what comes our way.”
“I made him suffer,” the woman said, “the fisherman, I mean.”
“Yes,” said the goddess. “’Tis so. But not because you meant him to. And his suffering was not without compensation. The pelican was there to balance the scales.”
They walked on farther, the goddess still with her arm across the woman’s shoulders, who was comforted enough to follow where her thoughts led.
“Did you love the crow?” said the woman.
“I loved the pleasure we gave each other,” said the goddess, “but not the one who gave it to me. And there is nothing wrong in that, to love pleasure for its own sake.”
“Why?” said the woman. “Why did you send me to him?”
A bilious wind blew past them, ripe with a smell of rot and putrefaction. The woman wrinkled her nose and covered her mouth with her hand, but then it was gone. The goddess was unperturbed.
“What is that horrid smell?” the woman said.
“The beast awakes, and his foul humors awake with him,” said the goddess. The goddess knelt, and she picked up a dead crow, one they had missed earlier. She cradled it in her hands, and she stroked the feathers on the back of its neck with her thumb, smoothing them. “Why did I send you to the crow? Because there was a chance that your desire would have bloomed into love, and your love might have redeemed him,” said she, “and if that had happened, we could have spared ourselves a great deal of killing.” And I, thought the goddess, could have held on to the creed by which I have lived for a hundred times a hundred years, and saved myself from the grief I feel now. “But he would not have it so,” said she. “He was overcome by his own ambition.”
“And by whiskey,” said the woman. “’Twas whiskey that made him beat me.”
“And for that, I am truly sorry,” said the goddess. She gave the dead crow to the woman, who held it as tenderly as the goddess had. Then Dewi Sri stood, wrapping her wings round the woman, and she held her, and hummed a sound that was a balm to the woman’s troubled mind.
“I disobeyed you,” the woman said, “and for that I am truly sorry.”
The goddess gave her the serenity of her smile. “Let us forgive each other our trespasses. I should not have left you here alone.”
The goddess put a hand on her belly then, the hope of the future warm beneath her touch. She had sacrificed much for this. She had let evil come to the woman who stood before her.
“The whiskey was the frigate bird’s doing,” said the goddess. “He never believed that love would redeem the crow, and he sought to finish him more quickly with the poison of strong drink. Though, truth be told, I furthered his plot willingly, and did not foresee the harm that came your way because of it.”
They walked now to the sacred fire, and Cariña laid the dead crow to rest on the embers. She thought of how the fisherman had been patient with her in the beginning, yet she had not understood the gift of his patience till now. The dead crow’s feathers caught fire, and in the flames she saw the fisherman’s anger, and she understood that in his heart he had moved on, and he no longer sought the path that led back to their love. If they were to rekindle that flame, it must be by her desire for him. The dead crow’s fe
athers burned away, and now its flesh began to cook, and she turned from the pyre so as to see it no more. Then the woman and the goddess walked along the shore of the inlet together, holding hands now, and it came to her that the goddess, who had nursed her into being, and taught her how to give pleasure to both a woman and a man, was as true a friend as she might ever hope to have.
“I wanted to prove,” Cariña said, “that I . . .” Tears filled her eyes, and her throat grew tight around her voice. “That I was . . . as good a lover as you.” Now her tears flowed down her cheeks. “I wanted to tame the crow with my love. And thereby save us all.”
The goddess nodded, and she gave her friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “That was a noble effort, even though it failed. I bear you no ill will because of it.”
A distant rumbling came to their ears, and they felt a sudden tremor, a shuddering of the very ground beneath their feet.
“The beast stirs,” said the woman. The hairs on her arms prickled, and she held the goddess’s arm for comfort.
“We are in danger,” said the goddess, “and we shall all of us have to work together to overcome it.”
The woman looked about, at the waters of the inlet, where she had gone bathing with the fisherman, at the green forest surrounding them, at the wisp of smoke rising from the fire pit next to the house the fisherman had built. His friendship had also been true. She was in his debt, though she doubted he meant to collect on it. This was the only home she knew, the one he had built for her, and yet she longed to be away from here, to seek her destiny elsewhere.
“What would you have me do?”
“Whatever is asked of you,” said the goddess, “but know this: I am old, and my time is near spent. This is the end of an age, and sacrifices will be asked of us. I shall need your aid.”
The Alehouse at the End of the World Page 35
