Consider the god of salmon.
There is a god of salmon, somewhere in the gravel and the pebbles of the spawning redd. All salmon are aware of it as soon as they are born, in their own, private, fishy ways, and remember their god of salmon when they leave the spawning grounds and journey into the saltwaters beyond.
Theirs is the god of journeys and returnings.
Eventually, every salmon is struck by the urge to return to the holy lands of its ancestors. They pray to the god of salmon, asking for protection against bears and other predators on the journey.
“Deliver us from eagles,” the salmon pray.
All animals get their own gods, and those animal gods get their own prayers. The gods of mice and rabbits and other small, squeaking, hunted things usually get prayers along the lines of, “Oh please, oh please, oh please…”
Unlike those fickle gods, parishioners of the god of salmon get results.
A salmon returns to freshwater and discovers that it can breathe.
A salmon swimming against the current watches its spine curl, its teeth lengthen, sees grey scales turn red.
A salmon comes to a waterfall and discovers that it can fly…
Eventually the salmon complete their pilgrimage, and return to the holy lands of their ancestors.
Many raucous orgies are held.
And then, exhausted, the salmon die. The land flourishes as residual nutrients run through creeks and estuaries.
And the god of salmon continues, buoyed on the souls and prayers of millions of martyrs.
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