Humphrey the hovercraft woke up before the marsh did. His fans ticked quietly in the cold dock, and his mail bags were already loaded — fat parcels, slim envelopes, one very crinkly package that smelled like gingerbread. He had islands to reach. He fired up his engines with a steady, low *whump*, and his rubber skirt puffed out beneath him like a big round breath.
*Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh* — that was Humphrey's sound, the rush of air that lifted him up off the water and carried him skimming over the shallow marsh. The herons stood like grey statues in the reeds. A frog blinked at him from a lily pad. The mist hung low and silver over the grass as Humphrey followed his usual route, heading straight for Gull Crossing. Then he stopped.
Right across the narrow channel lay an enormous fallen log, half-sunk in the muddy water. Three inches of brown water on one side, a tangle of reeds on the other. No boat could push it — too shallow. No truck could drive out here — no road for miles. Humphrey's fans hummed while he thought. *Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.* He had an idea. He was a hovercraft. He could blow a cushion of air underneath the log, tilt it up on one edge, and let it roll into the deeper water on the far side. He lined himself up carefully, aimed his big skirt fan at the gap under the log, and powered up — *WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP* — the air roaring out like a gust from a tunnel.
Out exploded a very small, very furious bird. The moorhen shot up in a storm of wet feathers, beak open, eyes blazing, making a sound like a squeaky hinge being stepped on. She had a nest tucked under the log. Three round eggs, smooth and speckled, sitting in a neat cup of woven grass. She planted herself on top of the log and glared at Humphrey with both eyes. Humphrey cut his fans to a low murmur. He looked at the nest. He looked at the moorhen. She ruffled every single feather she had. He thought again.
If he moved to the far end of the log — the end with no nest — and blew from there instead, the log would tilt sideways along its own length, sliding off to the bank rather than rolling. Slowly. Gently. The nest wouldn't tip at all. Humphrey eased himself around, inch by inch, fans barely whispering, until he was positioned just right at the far end. *Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.* Then he powered up — steady and slow, not a blast but a long, patient push. The log creaked. It groaned. It tilted — just a little — then a little more, and slid with a deep, muddy *schloop* off to the bank, landing flat. The nest sat perfectly upright. Not one egg rolled. The moorhen blinked. She ruffled her feathers once, twice. Then she gave Humphrey a single, stiff nod, stepped back onto her nest, and tucked herself down. *Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.* Gull Crossing was clear.
Humphrey delivered every parcel to every island — the gingerbread package first, landing with a satisfying *thump* on a small wooden dock. Then the fat envelopes. Then the crinkly ones. Each island smaller than the last, until the final delivery, where a very old tortoise accepted his letter without looking up and walked away extremely slowly. The mist came back as Humphrey turned for home, thicker now, draping itself over the reed beds in long grey ribbons. His fans dropped lower, and lower, and lower — *whoosh... whoosh... whoosh* — until the dock lights appeared, yellow and steady through the haze. He eased in. The fans sighed off, one by one. His rubber skirt deflated slowly, and his hull settled onto the dock with a soft, final *hush* — bobbing once, then still.
