The River That Sinks Feathers

The river was eight hundred li across and the colour of old iron, and a stone inscription on the near bank said that here even goose feathers sink and reeds go straight to the bottom. The horse could swallow a gorge; it could not swim this. The company stood on the shore looking at the far side, which was a rumour.

And out of the water, at the smell of the beautiful monk, came the thing that lived there: red hair, blue-black face, nine skulls swinging at its throat, a staff in its fists, straight up the bank and into them with no preamble at all.