The Riddle of the Rapping River

The Rapping River wasn’t so much a river as it was a series of interconnected puddles that gurgled and spat with the rhythmic insistence of a particularly annoying toddler. It was also, as the gnome with the suspiciously sparkly beard had informed them, the next hurdle on their increasingly bizarre quest to find Sheng. “The river,” he’d chirped, adjusting his mushroom cap, “sings its own song. And only those who can sing it back, word for perfect word, shall pass.” He’d then vanished in a puff of glitter that smelled faintly of burnt toast, leaving Lin and Feng standing at the muddy bank, utterly bewildered.

Lin, whose patience had been thinner than a fairy’s wing since Sheng’s disappearance, immediately threw her hands up. “Sing? A river? Are you telling me we have to *sing* to get across a bunch of glorified mud puddles watched over by… by what? Singing amphibians?”

Feng, ever the slightly more grounded of the two, sighed, her usually sparkling eyes clouded with worry. “He did say ‘singing frogs,’ Lin. And he did point this way.” She gestured vaguely towards the murky water, where, indeed, a collection of plump, emerald-green frogs sat perched on lily pads, their throats bulging.