The Fouled Stream

The river turned against itself. That is how it started.
 
A thing like this is unnatural. Water should not bring death—at least, not by drinking. Drowning, yes, that is expected. But to turn mad? To writhe, to vomit? No.
 
We found a treant, old and knowing. Borogrove, he called himself. Gave us acorns that heal. A good trade, since we found the ones responsible—worshippers of Wastri, the Frog God. Men and beasts alike, all kneeling to some croaking prophet.
 
They had an ooze. I have seen many things in my life, but this was something else. It did not move like a beast. It did not die like one, either. But we stopped it. The river will not claim those who drink from it, not today.
 
Borogrove gave us another acorn when we returned. I thanked him. I do not know if he heard me, but I felt the river shift, as if it did.