Abyss above, abyss below,
Ogin’s love, we’ll never know.
Naught behind, and naught ahead,
In the brine, await the dead.
Mayhap today, mayhap tonight,
In water’s grave we will unite,
To the brave, and to the bright,
All you crave is just in sight.
Ocean rise, and ocean fall,
A golden prize awaits us all,
Ogin’s love, we’ll never know,
Abyss above, abyss below.
Ogin-Shanties Volume I, Pg. 28, Reverse-Mantra of The Sailor.
It was a dark and stormy night in Fiddler’s Cove. To an outsider this may have seemed a dramatic portent indeed. This outlook would quickly change if they stayed a few days and learned that every night in Fiddler’s Cove was dark and stormy. The outsider would then move on to a place where one could sleep without the sky breaking open every few minutes.
Nevertheless, the oldest inhabitants of the Cove could tell there was something different about the storm and the dark that night. It was in the way the corkscrew clouds hung so low they practically scraped the rooftops, and how the waves crept up the shore to lap at doorsteps, and in the strange scent that rode the air. Old Tabatha, who lived by the pier and traded tall tales for booze, said that the smell reminded her of the time she got swallowed by a whale.
“S’ all the Ogin’s darkest bits, distilled!” she’d slur to anyone who forgot to steer clear. Perhaps there was some truth to those words, as sea and sky alike leaned in to Fiddler’s Cove.
It was on this peculiar –but not unusually dramatic— night that Father Acre found a bundle, stinking of sea, on the steps of St. Ingel’s Church. The bundle contained an infant, thin and scrawny, somehow alive despite being soaked in freezing brine. The holy man gazed upon the squalling child and knew what he had to do.
As the storm swirled above and below, and before the infant’s cries gave Father Acre a headache, he dispatched a disgruntled acolyte to brave nature’s wrath and locate Searoot Orphanage.
“Ah, another Ogin-Child, is it? Parents finally washed ashore?” Mother Searoot said when, some forty-five minutes later, the acolyte dumped the soggy, squirming package into her arms. “Was it the Carters? I told them they were pushing their luck, going so far from the cove!”
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, attempting to take shelter in the orphanage’s stately doorway, “she was carried right to our doorstep.”
“Who—Mrs. Carter? Carried all the way into town by the storm?” asked Mother Searoot.
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, wind pummeling his back, “I meant the babe.”
“What, just abandoned? No sign of the parents? Drowned or otherwise?”
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, his teeth starting to chatter. “Could I maybe come in?”
“Well that's just negligent parenting!” snapped Mother Searoot. “Don’t they know having your ma and pa lost at sea does an orphan’s spirit good? Gives the tyke a legacy! Did they at least leave a name? Maybe written on some special necklace or charm? What about strange birthmarks?”
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, his toes completely numb. “I think Father Acre called her ‘Brine’ but he was probably just complaining about the smell.”
“Bah! Parents today! No respect for tradition!” huffed Mother Searoot. “Well, I suppose we’ll take her in. Anything else I should know?”
“Naw, Mi-” The acolyte’s grunt was cut off as the door thudded shut in his face. He sighed and turned to face the storm, trying to stomp a little feeling back into his legs. He was halfway back to St. Ingel’s when it occurred to him that he probably should have mentioned the purplish seaweed they’d found, looped tightly around the swaddling cloth, like a ribbon around a present. As far as the acolyte knew, vegetation like that wasn't native to the cove. He vowed to tell Mother Searoot first thing the next day, after morning prayers.
He would have, too, had hypothermia and fever not blurred all memory of that strange, stormy night.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. For now, let us return to the orphanage, where Mother Searoot had just christened the newest member of her workforce. It was a peculiar name, Brine, but Mother Searoot was determined to give the child something. Peer in at her now, through the orphanage’s rattling windows, as she roughly dries off this infant. Listen to the child’s reedy squawk.
How closely it matches the beat of the ocean’s distant roar…
This was how Brine spent her first day in the world.
Secret!
〰️
Secret! 〰️
Brine - Prologue
Abyss above, abyss below,
Ogin’s love, we’ll never know.
Naught behind, and naught ahead,
In the brine, await the dead.
Mayhap today, mayhap tonight,
In water’s grave we will unite,
To the brave, and to the bright,
All you crave is just in sight.
Ocean rise, and ocean fall,
A golden prize awaits us all,
Ogin’s love, we’ll never know,
Abyss above, abyss below.
Ogin-Shanties Volume I, Pg. 28, Reverse-Mantra of The Sailor.
It was a dark and stormy night in Fiddler’s Cove. To an outsider this may have seemed a dramatic portent indeed. This outlook would quickly change if they stayed a few days and learned that every night in Fiddler’s Cove was dark and stormy. The outsider would then move on to a place where one could sleep without the sky breaking open every few minutes.
Nevertheless, the oldest inhabitants of the Cove could tell there was something different about the storm and the dark that night. It was in the way the corkscrew clouds hung so low they practically scraped the rooftops, and how the waves crept up the shore to lap at doorsteps, and in the strange scent that rode the air. Old Tabatha, who lived by the pier and traded tall tales for booze, said that the smell reminded her of the time she got swallowed by a whale.
“S’ all the Ogin’s darkest bits, distilled!” she’d slur to anyone who forgot to steer clear. Perhaps there was some truth to those words, as sea and sky alike leaned in to Fiddler’s Cove.
It was on this peculiar –but not unusually dramatic— night that Father Acre found a bundle, stinking of sea, on the steps of St. Ingel’s Church. The bundle contained an infant, thin and scrawny, somehow alive despite being soaked in freezing brine. The holy man gazed upon the squalling child and knew what he had to do.
As the storm swirled above and below, and before the infant’s cries gave Father Acre a headache, he dispatched a disgruntled acolyte to brave nature’s wrath and locate Searoot Orphanage.
“Ah, another Ogin-Child, is it? Parents finally washed ashore?” Mother Searoot said when, some forty-five minutes later, the acolyte dumped the soggy, squirming package into her arms. “Was it the Carters? I told them they were pushing their luck, going so far from the cove!”
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, attempting to take shelter in the orphanage’s stately doorway, “she was carried right to our doorstep.”
“Who—Mrs. Carter? Carried all the way into town by the storm?” asked Mother Searoot.
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, wind pummeling his back, “I meant the babe.”
“What, just abandoned? No sign of the parents? Drowned or otherwise?”
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, his teeth starting to chatter. “Could I maybe come in?”
“Well that's just negligent parenting!” snapped Mother Searoot. “Don’t they know having your ma and pa lost at sea does an orphan’s spirit good? Gives the tyke a legacy! Did they at least leave a name? Maybe written on some special necklace or charm? What about strange birthmarks?”
“Naw, Miss,” grunted the acolyte, his toes completely numb. “I think Father Acre called her ‘Brine’ but he was probably just complaining about the smell.”
“Bah! Parents today! No respect for tradition!” huffed Mother Searoot. “Well, I suppose we’ll take her in. Anything else I should know?”
“Naw, Mi-” The acolyte’s grunt was cut off as the door thudded shut in his face. He sighed and turned to face the storm, trying to stomp a little feeling back into his legs. He was halfway back to St. Ingel’s when it occurred to him that he probably should have mentioned the purplish seaweed they’d found, looped tightly around the swaddling cloth, like a ribbon around a present. As far as the acolyte knew, vegetation like that wasn't native to the cove. He vowed to tell Mother Searoot first thing the next day, after morning prayers.
He would have, too, had hypothermia and fever not blurred all memory of that strange, stormy night.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. For now, let us return to the orphanage, where Mother Searoot had just christened the newest member of her workforce. It was a peculiar name, Brine, but Mother Searoot was determined to give the child something. Peer in at her now, through the orphanage’s rattling windows, as she roughly dries off this infant. Listen to the child’s reedy squawk.
How closely it matches the beat of the ocean’s distant roar…
This was how Brine spent her first day in the world.
