Before long, the small army of the Brotherhood had vanished from sight as the river took a westward bend. They were very close to the opposite bank now, tantalizingly close, but if they jumped overboard and swam, it meant that their supplies, not to mention themselves, would be drenched. Ehomba elected to try to ride it out, hoping that the combination of current and wind would carry them safely to shore. Simna concurred.
“If it sinks under us, we’ll have to swim for it anyway,” the swordsman pointed out. “Might as well stay as dry as possible for as long as possible.”
Even as he concluded the observation, something jarred the wagon sharply, bringing it to a shuddering halt. Simna grinned cockily. “Nothing like having a request filled on the spot. We just hit a sandbar.” Leaving the tiller set, he sloshed to the left side of the wagon and peered over the side. The murky water obscured and distorted everything that lay more than a foot below the surface, but by leaning over, the swordsman was able to make out the broad, dun-colored, slightly curved shape that had brought their aimless odyssey to a halt.
“It’s a sandbar, all right,” he informed his companions confidently. “Looks like it stretches all the way to shore.” Still grinning, he gathered up his sword and backpack. “We can walk from here.”
Ehomba hesitated. “Simna, I am not sure….”
“Not sure?” The stocky swordsman hefted his pack higher on his shoulders as he prepared to step over the side. “Not sure of what, Etjole? With those long legs most of you will stay drier than most. Hunkapa’s the one to feel sorry for.” He nodded in the shaggy hulk’s direction. “With all that fur he’ll soak up this brown muck like a sponge.”