While Chaska and Osha lashed the first pair of cedar drift-poles into a stubby A-frame with spare hemp cord, the center of the sagging river-belly gave a deep, hollow glug.
A bubble of trapped air the size of a hogshead rolled across the underside of the ceiling current. Under its pass, three more iron-roots tore loose from the lodestone vault. The dark blister of water sagged down to breast height above the pebble road, blocking the way completely and pouring a cold, black sheet of magnetic silt across their boots.
Pip did not wait on the gravel bank.
Walking straight into the swirling four-inch flood on all six legs, Pip positioned itself directly beneath the lowest, heaviest bulge of the sagging root-mat. It planted its feet wide on the submerged pebbles, braced its green-and-white patchwork shell, and lifted its head until the wide, branching lattice of its new antlers pressed straight up against the wet, tangled underside of the torn roots.
The lattice did not pierce the water skin. Instead, its dozens of small, pale cross-struts spread the upward push across four square feet of slipping root-fiber at once, reading where the current was heaviest and tilting half an inch left or right to keep the water-belly from rolling over the edge.
