Why the Sea Is Salty

Everything has its consequences.

Sunrise: Osaguere stood on the shore gazing into the ocean’s endless surf; it seemed angry today, rising and swelling with great waves that sent a fresh ocean mist over the beach. He watched the morning sun rise, looking not at the sun itself but at the path of bubbling sunlight over the water, a path that ended on the horizon where the sky touched the sea. It disappeared in the fresh, blue ocean and an even bluer sky, into a gentle, sloping curve that slipped from view. He licked his lips, tasting the ocean’s mist on his skin. No water in the world tasted fresher than that from his mother, Yemayá. Gently he bent to scoop up a handful to drink before beginning his ebó.

Osaguere was a poor man and the ebó he offered that day was simple: on the sand he put seven green apples, seven green pears, and bunches of green grapes; and then he stood back and sang Yemayá’s ancient songs as the waves reached out to the shore and sucked the offering into the sea. “I am but a poor man, Yemayá,” he whispered into the waves when the last piece of fruit was sucked under the sea, “and I need help. The diviners said you would help me if I made ebó to you.”

“I help all those who come to me with faith, and with ebó,” said a woman’s voice. Osaguere snapped around and froze; before him was one of the most beautiful women his eyes had ever seen. She was tall, imposing, with pendulous breasts meant for the suckling of babies and the tempting of men, and a waist so tiny it seemed at odds with the childbearing hips beneath them. Her face was dewy, rich, and black, and her eyes like dark pools of ink. Her hair was long and loose, coarse but kept in place with cowries and seashells woven into its strands. Osaguere’s face was torn between astonishment and fear.

“Don’t be afraid. You came here looking for me, but it was I who found you.”

He threw himself to the sand, rolling from side-to-side before putting his head to the ground. Yemayá reached down and touched his shoulders gently, blessing him; and then with an almost preternatural strength helped him rise to his feet. They embraced, orisha and human, and Osaguere felt ashé like warm water flowing into his body. When they parted he reached out for her again; the feeling of separation was intense, like falling down a well. But Yemayá stood back and looked at him lovingly. He felt naked under her gaze.

“I live in more places than the sea, Osaguere. I’ve been watching you as you made ebó. I am most pleased. I’ve been listening to your singing. It brought joy to my heart. And now I have something for you.”

She walked him to a palm tree that grew on the edge of the beach. Beside it sat a mortar; but Osaguere noted that it had strange markings up and down its sides. He stood close to Yemayá and even closer to the mortar, and something like a low-pitched hum seemed to fill his chest. “All your life you’ve lived in the shadow of your brother, Osamoni. All that is about to change.”

Osamoni was Osaguere’s older brother, and it was true—all his life he lived in his brother’s shadow. Where Osamoni was brilliant Osaguere was dull; Osamoni was handsome and Osaguere was plain. His brother was favored by his parents while Osaguere was left to fend for himself in the world. And as the older brother, when their parents passed he inherited everything including the salt mines, and those mines were what made him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Osaguere remained poor.

“This is my gift to you, Osaguere.” She looked at the stone mortar; it was slightly taller than his knees.

“I’ve seen these before but normally they are made of wood. This one is made of stone.”

“Yes, stone. Stone taken deep from the earth. Stone that lies deep beneath your brother’s salt mines. I mined the stone myself and with my own hands. My ocean runs beneath the earth in secret caves no mortal will ever see, and there is one that runs below your ancestral salt mines. I took the stone from which this mortar was carved from that place, and I carved it into a mortar with my own hands.”

“Thank you, Yemayá.” Osaguere looked at the mortar, puzzled. “But what am I to do with it?”

“Since the day your parents died I have watched over you, Osaguere. Even though your brother inherited the kingdom, and even though he got the salt mines, never once did you get bitter. You did your best with what you had. And today you came to make ebó. There was no bitterness in your heart. There was only love for me and hope for a brighter future.”

“Still, what am I to do with the mortar?”

Yemayá smiled, ignoring his question. “Little did you know that your older brother stole everything from you. Your parents meant for you to have half their wealth. Your parents meant for you to have half the salt mines. They wrote everything down on a piece of paper; they gave specific directions as to how everything was to be divided equally. But your brother found that—he who was your own blood—he who was once your best friend. He destroyed that paper, and as the older brother he declared himself sole heir to all your parents owned.”

“He would not do that!”

“He did. But this mortar sets all things right. This mortar has ashé and will make you a rich man.”

Osaguere ran his hands over the mortar and felt . . . something. It was like the ashé that flowed to him from Yemayá, but not wet; it felt dry and warm and left a salty taste in his mouth.

“I taste salt,” said Osaguere.

“Yes, that is the ashé of the mortar. Just as your brother amassed a fortune with the salt mines he stole from you, so shall you amass a fortune selling salt. The mortar will give it to you.” She leaned in close to Osaguere. “Pay careful attention to what I teach you. Whenever you want salt, you say these words—‘Dance, mortar, dance, and let the salt flow free!’ Now, say it back to me.”

Osaguere chanted the words and the mortar began to move, beating the earth. Each time it slammed into the ground a mound of salt appeared. Quickly the salt spread.

“And when you have enough salt,” said Yemayá, “you say, ‘Still, mortar, still, and let the salt be.’ Now say it back to me.”

He said the words—the mortar stopped. “That is amazing. I must write those words down.”

“No!” said Yemayá. “The secret of the mortar is only for you. Never write down the words. One day you will be rich, and your brother will be poor, and you will be able to buy back the salt mines from him. One day you will be so rich that the kingdom will be yours. And when that happens there will be no need for the mortar anymore. I will take it back far beneath the earth for all time.”

Osaguere thanked Yemayá for all she had given him, and with great difficulty he carried the heavy mortar back home.

His wife was waiting for him sullenly in the kitchen; she cooked over a stove by candlelight. When he walked in the kitchen she barely looked up. “It’s late. What did the diviners tell you?”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “They told me I had to make ebó, and Yemayá would make me a rich man.”

“The diviners always say that,” she said. Her words were heavy, filled with grief. She turned to look at him. “And did you? Did you make ebó?” She saw the stone mortar he carried over his shoulders. He sat it down of the floor with a great thud. She jumped.

“I did. And I saw Yemayá today. She came to me. She gave me this.”

“You saw Yemayá?” Her voice was thin and wispy. “In a dream? A vision? How did you see her?”

“She came to me and gave me this.”

His wife smiled. Her husband had always been a dreamer given to tall tales about the orishas. “And what is this?”

“A salt mortar. Watch.”

Softly Osaguere chanted the words Yemayá taught him; his voice was soft and unsure at first, but as he remembered the words his voice grew stronger. The mortar twitched and then jumped. His wife jumped as well when it landed on the floor with a great crash and lifted again. Beneath it was a mound of salt.

Osaguere stopped singing. Again and again the mortar lifted and slammed into the floor as if moved by unseen hands and the mound of salt spread and grew. Soon the entire floor was covered in salt. His wife stood there with her mouth open not moving, watching the salt grow around her feet.

“How?” she asked. “How do you make it stop?”

Again Osaguere chanted, only this time he spoke the words Yemayá taught him to make the mortar sit still. The mound of salt beneath it stopped growing and spreading. “We will be rich, my wife. We will sell our salt and be as rich as my brother.”

She flew into his arms.

When word reached Osamoni that his brother was now a vender of salt, at first he did not believe it. But when his palace guards verified that Osaguere was, indeed, selling salt in the marketplace he was perturbed.

“My brother sells salt? Where does he get it from?”

“We don’t know,” answered his guard. He and his wife hawk it in the market and when they run out they return home. A few hours later they return, their cart overflowing with bags of salt; and they sell it cheaply.”

“But they have no mines. They have no laborers. Where do they get it from?”

The guard was silent.

“Find out!” he said. “Watch my brother in the marketplace and when he runs out of salt, follow him. See where he gets it. See who he gets it from. I want to know . . . everything.”

The guard did just that.

He returned later in the afternoon. Osamoni was waiting for him.

“What did you find out?”

The guard was pale-face when he told him, “It’s magic.”

“It’s what?” Osamoni’s face was twisted in disbelief.

“It’s magic. Your brother has a stone mortar that he speaks to. It pounds the earth and salt comes . . . from nowhere. He and his wife bag it up as the mortar makes it.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I know it seems impossible, but I watched it with my own eyes. He spoke to the mortar as his wife stood beside him, and then the mortar started moving up and down. It pounded the floor hard before lifting again. And each time it hit the floor, under it a pile of salt grew. After he stopped chanting it kept pounding and the salt pile kept growing. I watched them bag it, more than they could keep up with! And then I ran here to tell you.”

Osamoni was quiet. When he spoke his voice was thin. “My brother always believed in magic and tall tales. Since he was a young child he was devoted to the orisha Yemayá. He spent a lot of time with priests and diviners. Maybe there is something to all that after all?” He looked at his guard sternly. “You remember these words he spoke?”

“I do.” He spoke the words Osaguere said to the mortar. Osamoni held his hand up.

“Stop. That is enough. I want you to get that mortar for me tonight while my brother and his wife sleeps. Bring it to my ship. We’ll set sail you and I. We’ll travel just away from land and I’ll test this mortar for myself. If it works . . . you get to live.”

“Yes sir,” said the guard before slipping away timidly.

“A magic stone mortar. Who ever heard of such a thing?” Osamoni asked himself.

While Osaguere and his wife slept, the guard slipped in quietly through the front door. It was locked, but the guard knew how to pick locks and in a few minutes he was in. His fellow guards stood just outside keeping watch. He made his way to the kitchen where the mortar sat still; and with a great effort, he lifted the heavy stone over his shoulders. As quietly as he came in he left; together with his men he made his way to port.

Osamoni was waiting on the ship.

By moonlight they set sail, following the stars just over the horizon’s bend where there was no hope of anyone seeing what they were about to do. Osamoni looked back at the shore, its sandy beach glowing with the silvery sheen of the moon; he watched as it seemed to slip from view, swallowed up by the ocean. The stone mortar sat on the ship’s deck; it, too, glowed in the moonlight, the hard white stone reflecting it like a thick star.

“You remember the words?” he asked his guard.

He smiled and stood tall. All the ship’s crew came to the deck to watch and listen. Softly at first, his voice unsure of the words he began chanting. The mortar twitched; it levitated slowly before crashing into the deck with a thud.

There was a mound of salt beneath it.

“Keep chanting!” ordered Osamoni.

Again and again the guard chanted: Again and again the mortar slammed into the deck. Each time there was twice the amount of salt sitting on the deck; it grew and slid across the floor until the crew’s feet were buried beneath it. “Enough!” ordered Osamoni. “That is enough for now. Men—we set for the next port. Bag this salt. When we get closer we will make more . . . and we will be rich!” The thought of producing salt without labor gave Osamoni visions of gold bars and more dancing in his head.

The guard stopped chanting; the mortar, however, did not stop pounding.

“That’s enough!” he told the guard. “Make it stop.”

“But I stopped,” said the guard. Each time the mortar pounded on the deck, twice the amount of salt appeared. It had reached the stairs to the lower deck and was spilling down below.

“How did my brother make it stop? Do what he did!”

“I never saw him make it stop,” said the guard.

“What?”

The ship started to rock and roll under the weight of the salt. “We’re sinking!” cried one of the crewmen. “Throw it overboard. Quickly!”

The guard reached for the mortar but as he grabbed it, it shook him off. Another crewman reached for the mortar, but it threw him off as well. Yet another tried to grab the mortar but it slammed down on his hand, crushing it.

The boat began to sink; and so far was it from shore than none were able to swim back safely. They all drowned that day.

The next evening Osaguere stood at the shore gazing across the ocean. His mortar was gone, stolen with no witnesses to the crime, but Osaguere knew—his brother was the thief. There was no other explanation. Earlier that morning bodies had washed up on the shore, the bodies of his crewmen; and his ship had set sail secretly the night before. Men up late on the docks said they saw his guard carrying a strange object covered in sheets; he strained under the weight so they knew it was heavy. They knew not what it was—Osaguere had told no one about the mortar. And now that his brother was gone all that his parents once had was his. Even without the mortar he was a rich man.

A light mist worked up by the crashing surf and endless ocean breeze sprayed his face; he licked his lips. The water was salty, not fresh. Osaguere sighed.

Since that day, the sea has been salty.