The Gods Who Stayed

When the sea rose into the sky, it did not go quietly. It lifted like a blue curtain pulled by a careless giant. Gull-cries, ship wakes, and lanterns from harbours dragged up into the bright. Masts shook. Prayers mingled. Those who loved the water most found themselves ascending as if on a ladder of waves, reaching toward the sky.   The sea gods watched. They had always liked those loud, weathered people who sang to barnacles and cursed at storms like they were cousins. Some gods loved them for their shrines made of rope and shell. Others enjoyed the drama of pirate flags. A few simply liked the smell of well-cooked crab. So when their believers rose with the tide and found themselves surrounded by endless blue with nothing beneath, the gods felt a dull ache, like returning to your favorite tavern and discovering it had drifted away.   No one knew why it happened. Not the augurs. Not the archivists. Not even the gods themselves. They tested old omens. They shook out prophecies like empty nets. The sky kept the sea. Mystery kept its mouth shut.   “All right,” said one god at last. “If we cannot answer why, we answer how.”   “How do we keep them alive?” said another.   So they worked. They braided currents. They combed the foam for ideas. First came trees. Not land trees. Not the sort that sulk in dirt and gossip about the wind. These were tall, sleek things with trunks as pale as driftwood. Their roots sank like braided ropes into the deep. Knitted hollows held people dry and snug. Their branches unfurled ladders of fruit, bright as buoys, sweet as shore-leave. Their bark took a good nail. Their sap could seal a hull. The sailors named them lantern oaks, mastwillows, and snack-pines. Taxonomies are for libraries. Sailors have work to do.   Next came food for nets. The gods kneaded the underblue until it puckered into slow, shining blisters of ore. They let these pockets float up in schools like fish, glinting like a rumor. A clever crew could cast and bring in iron, bright as fish. There were copper swarms. And the rare gold bloom that sent a whole flotilla chasing it like a comet. Miners learned to whistle like sailors. They blessed their nets with the same quick touch to the heart.   “But what of soil?” asked a child, clutching a pouch heavy with sleeping seeds. “How shall beans grow without earth for their roots to find, and be rude in?”   "Trust the water," said the gods. They taught the seeds something new. Grains, gourds, and herbs learned the art of raft-sitting. They spread like flat plates on the surface. They wove themselves into mats. Roots reached down into the endless deep, sipping minerals from old mountain memory. Beer still happened—a personal victory for one god, who did not stop mentioning it for a decade.   With shelter, food, and metal sorted, the sea gentled its tantrums. Not always. It is a sea. It has moods. But the gods stitched temper and tenderness together so a brave person could read the wrinkles on the water and know when to reef, when to rest, and when to roast something celebratory.   Finally, the gods divided the high sea. They set markers of music and light that drifted like proud banners. Each god took stewardship of a region, promised fair tides, and agreed to only petty rivalries that made good stories. Pirates kept their swagger. Sailors kept their songs. Netters learned a prayer that sounded suspiciously like a work chant. Children learned to sleep to the creak of rootwood, the hush of the deep, and the soft clink of ore in the hold.   So the sea dwelt in the heavens, and people remained its faithful companions. The gods, watching, felt their briny pride swell anew for those beloved wanderers. Not a return to the former world—never that—but the forging of a new realm: afloat, vibrant, and crowned with stories.