The Hour of the Gate by Alan Dean Foster Page B

where it ground against the mountainside, and the current was no swifter than usual.
    â€œWhat do we do now?” Flor had waded out to stand next to him. She watched as logs several yards thick spun and bounced off the rock. They must have weighed thousands of pounds and were waterlogged as well.
    â€œThere’s no way we can move any of that stuff upstream against the current.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” he told her. “Even if Clothahump could magic them aside, the opening’s still much too low to let the boat through.”
    â€œSo it seems.” Bribbens stood on the sand behind them. He was unloading supplies from the boat. “But we’re not going in that way. That is, we are, but we’re not.”
    â€œI don’t follow you,” said Jon-Tom.
    â€œYou will. You’re, paying to.” He grinned hugely. “Why do you think the Sloomaz-ayor-le-Weentli is called also The Double River, The River of Twos?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Jon-Tom was irritated at his ignorance. “I thought it forked somewhere upstream. It doesn’t tell me how we’re going to get through there,” and he pointed at the churning, rumbling mass of jackstraw debris.
    â€œIt does, if you know:”
    â€œSo what do we do first?” he said, tired of riddles.
    â€œFirst we take anything that’ll float off the boat,” was the boatman’s order.
    â€œAnd then.”
    â€œAnd then we pole her out into the middle of the current, open her stoppers, and sink her. After we’ve anchored her securely, of course.”
    Jon-Tom started to say something, thought better of it. Since the frog’s statement was absurd and since he was clearly not an idiot, then it must follow that he knew something Jon-Tom did not. When confronted by an inexplicable claim, he’d been taught, it was better not to debate until the supporting evidence was in.
    â€œI still don’t understand,” said Flor confusedly.
    â€œYou will,” Bribbens assured her. “By the way, can you both swim?”
    â€œFairly well,” said Jon-Tom.
    â€œI don’t drown,” was Flor’s appraisal.
    â€œGood. I hope the other human is likewise trained.
    â€œFor the moment you can’t do anything except help with the unloading. Then I suggest you relax and watch.”
    When the last buoyant object had been removed from the boat, they took the frog at his word and settled down on the beach to observe.
    Bribbens guided the little vessel out into the river. On locating a place that suited him (but that looked no different from anywhere else to Jon-Tom and Flor) he tossed over bow and stern anchors. Sunlight glistened off the boatman’s now bare green and black back and off the smooth fur of the nude otter standing next to him.
    Both watched as the anchors descended. The boat slowly swung around before halting about a dozen yards farther downstream. Bribbens tested the lines to make certain both anchors were fast on the bottom.
    Then he vanished belowdecks for several minutes. Soon the boat began to sink. Shortly only the mast was visible above the surface. Then it too had sunk out of sight. Mudge swam above the spot where it had gone under, occasionally dipping his head beneath the surface. The amphibian Bribbens was as at home in the river’s depths as he was on land. Mudge was almost as comfortable, being a faster swimmer but unable to extract oxygen from the water.
    Soon the otter waved to those remaining on shore. He shouted something unintelligible. They saw his back arch as he dived. He repeated the dive-appear-dive-appear sequence several times. Then Bribbens broke the surface alongside him and they both swam in to the beach.
    They silently took turns convoying the floatable supplies (carefully packed in watertight skins) out to the center of the stream, disappearing with them, and then returning for more.
    Finally Bribbens stood dripping on