In these tales of the Brisingamen’s fate, it is sometimes hard to recall that the wreck was only ever briefly vacant. As its hull settled upon sand and stone, curious fishes crept in, marvelling at this vast new landscape of nooks and niches. Then came small sharks, dextrous cuttlefish, barnacles no longer denied the interior.

Beneath the waves, this great vessel teems with vastly more life than it ever did above them.

But words and imagery also swim those gloom-deep spaces, washed from the books of the Captain’s library and the decks of cards tucked beneath long-abandoned bunks. They ride the swell, rock against porthole and reef, imprint themselves on hard coral and soft flesh. 

Perhaps they are nothing more than curlicues and serifs, lines in the sand, but it is notable that those creatures whom the compass points fell upon fled in cardinal directions.

If you could only arrange all the teeming fishes in perfect alignment, perhaps you could read those lost volumes, or reconstruct the Ancient Mariner from an octopus’s coils. If you could carefully beckon the stonefish from his hideaway, you may see the shadow the eight of hearts left upon him.

And if you could read the words swirling upon the tide, you would hear the voice of the ocean, and comprehend some small part of the wonders it has seen.