Better with Salt

I sought a sea god. I built a temple of weathered stone, carved deep with imagined creatures dancing in curls of foam. The altar I topped with a precious shell, bought in the market from the salt-traders. They came through twice a year from the south, bringing their necessary cargo, along with shells and trinkets. The year I built my temple, they had a shell, all pearlescent whorls. It cost me dearly, but I knew it was meant for the god I sought. When I placed it on the altar, something settled, something approved. I knew it was only a matter of time before a god came to stay.

My village, far more concerned with goats and sheep, did not approve of my chasing the sea. “Stick to the gods you know,” they said. “Worship the gods of the woods and land. We are too far from the sea for those gods to notice us, and it is better that way.” I could not agree. The sea called to my heart, and the shell sang in my ear when I held it close. I just knew that with time and the proper sacrifices, a sea god would come to stay.

I did not have much; I was a simple farmer. A portion of oats, a cup of goat’s milk, fresh spring water – these things were precious to me, so I left them for the god. Surely a god would recognize and appreciate treasures, regardless of source. Yet every day the temple remained empty. I began to wonder if any god was listening, much less the sea god I sought. Still, every day, I left what I could, spoke an invocation and asked a blessing. Soon I realized there was a peace in it, as though a god had come to stay. I wondered when it would make itself known.

One day, there was a voice, an answer to my invocation. The voice was small; the merest whisper. I strained to hear. It was a god’s voice, finally. Falling to my knees before the altar, I bowed with due reverence, covering my face.

This would be better with salt, the voice complained, thinly.

I did not understand at first. Then it struck me that my offerings were not sufficient. I had to remedy that. Of course, a sea god would want salt. Salt was a gift of the sea. I didn’t have much salt, but I had some. I resolved to bring it to the god.

I spoke through my hands, quickly. “I will bring you salt, oh god, if you permit it.”

You have salt? The voice was stronger now, sharper. Bring me salt.

“Yes, oh god.” I scrambled to my feet and backed away from the altar. Once across the threshold, I turned and dashed to my small hut. I collected the leather pouch with the remnants of last season’s salt purchase and ran back to the temple.

At the temple, I placed the pouch on the altar and fell to my knees again. “Here is the salt, oh god.” I realized I was in for half a season of eating bland mush. I could not even dry meat. Still, it was for the god, a worthy sacrifice.

Good, the god replied, with satisfaction. You will bring more tomorrow.

”Alas, oh god, that is all the salt I have. The traders will not be back for another month.” I bowed again as my words fell in a rush. “I beg time, holy one. Salt is rare and expensive here. I am only a simple farmer.”

Tell me your name. The voice took on an edge of command. I would know my worshipper.

I hid my face in my hands, uncertain. It was a reasonable request, but the old tales warned against sharing your name too freely. I did not know this god, though I desperately wished to. I took a chance. “My name is Sten, oh god.”

Sten, the voice echoed idly. It is a simple name.

“I am a simple man, holy one. Just a farmer.”

Yet you yearn for the sea.

“I do, oh god. Without ceasing” There was no explaining it, not to my fellow villagers, not to myself. Not even to this strange god who demanded salt. “Might I know your name?” I knew I dared greatly with that question. The god might strike me for insolence. Still, it knew my name. Perhaps it would be merciful.

The voice did not answer for some time. I feared retribution. It finally replied hesitantly: I am called Ydris.

Aghast, I looked up. “Like the river?” The Ydris river was nearby, only one hundred yards or so on the other side of the western border of my land. It was a small river within the hunting preserve reserved for the manor lord of my village. As a farmer near the preserve, I had the right to collect deadfalls in the forest for wood, run my pigs for acorns and hunt for herbs in season. I also collected water from the spring that fed the Ydris. I had even left that water as an offering to my god. I had a sudden realization that this god was not at all what I expected.

Yes, the river. I am…a river god. The voice was contrite, if a god could be that.

I jumped to my feet, suddenly incensed. “But the shell, the salt, the carvings – all of those are for a sea god! I have been praying for a sea god for months. Why are you here?” The last statement was almost a demand, but I was beyond caring.

You have put much work into this temple. The voice was warm with appreciation. No one has ever built me a temple. I am too small and unimportant. But you, the voice continued, you built a temple and brought an exquisite shell. Most importantly, you brought water from my spring. You prayed to me and left me gifts, whether you knew it or not. How could I not be found here?

“You are a trickster. You lied to me.” The accusation was flat and rang harshly in the air. “What sort of god does that?”

I am no such thing. I did not lie. You saw what you wanted to see. The voice was indignant.

“What about the salt? Was that not a trick?”

All rivers flow to the sea, one way or another. It was a verbal shrug.

The god sounded maddeningly reasonable, but it did not matter. The longer this god stayed in this temple, the longer it would be before a real sea god would take residence. “I want you out,” I ordered. “Leave this place and do not return. I renounce you as a false god and trickster and want no part of you.” I dashed the offerings from the altar. I aimed to miss the shell, but my sleeve caught it, knocking it to the ground. To my horror, it shattered. Despairing, I knelt and began to gather the shards.

But I like it here. The voice was stubborn now.

“I renounce you. I cast you out. Leave now,” I growled, standing with the remnants of the shell in my hands.

Why?” the voice asked plaintively.

My grief about the shell spurred me to an angry reply, but the sadness in the god’s voice stopped me. I felt compelled to explain. “I yearn for the sea. You are not a sea god.”

Yet I am the god you found. My water is sweet and clean. It was worthy of offering to a god. Surely it is worthy of reverence. And all rivers remember the sea.

“You are not a sea god,” I repeated, uncertain now.

Perhaps I wish to be a sea god. The god sounded hopeful, as though offering a compromise. You have brought me salt, after all. What is the sea but salt and water?

“It is more than that,” I insisted, hoping more than believing that was true. I was adamant this false god would not trick me again.

It is, the god agreed, perversely. Yet what sort of sea god does a farmer need?

Truthfully, I had never seen the sea. Something in me yearned for it, nonetheless. There was always something else to do on the farm. The animals, the crops – they always needed care. The only respite was market day, and those were few. The Church mandated a day of rest in every seven, but the cow did not care for Church ordinances. Nor did the pigs, the goats, or the garden. In fact, I was long overdue for the morning’s milking.

To my shame, I had no answer for this river god. “I do not know,” I mumbled, with a deep sigh.

Perhaps you can have your sea god after all, suggested the god suddenly. I know a way.

“But how?” I asked, in sudden anguish. “The shell is shattered. My finest offering to a sea god is gone.”

Go to the river. You will find shells. They are humble shells, but you are a simple farmer and I am but a small god. Bring one back to me; keep it filled with spring water and salt. Place it here on the altar and I will sing of the sea in your dreams.

“It will not be the same,” I groused, mildly ungrateful.

Perhaps not, but how many sea gods do you know? You have heard my offer. Do you accept?

“Will you leave, if it is not enough?” Again, I dared to challenge a god, but I would not be tricked a second time.

I will. You have my word. The god’s voice was firm.

“Then I agree.” The altar glowed briefly before me and peace settled into the stones of the temple. I heard distant unfamiliar birds calling and the rhythmic rush of water. “What was that?” I breathed, turning to find the source of the sounds.

That was a memory, the god replied merrily. I have more.

“I will find your shell now,” I insisted, eager for what this god would share. “Wait. I will return soon.”

Tend to your farm. It needs you. I will still be here in the morning. The god’s voice was serene.

“Yes, my god.” Suddenly I was content. The temple was filled and I would dream of the sea tonight. I bowed before the altar. “Welcome, Ydris.”

Benevolent warmth washed over me. Be blessed, Sten.