A rank of mountains stood behind Thor. Some were like upturned ships, some like unfinished pyramids and monstrous cones with their tops sawn off, and none of them were smiling. Thor strode west over the tundra, and the sun kept pace with him. Then late in the morning he left the wilderness behind and hurried across scrub and undulating land.
So he came to a sound, a swift deep channel. The air was utterly still there. The sun placed a dazzling hand on the water, and the water seemed barely to move as it moved.
On the far bank a figure sprawled in the midday sun, and his flat-bottomed boat lounged beside him,
“Hey!” bawled Thor, and the water quivered. “You over there. Are you the ferryman?”
The figure stirred and sat up. He cupped his hands. “Who is that oaf yelling over the water?”
“Ferry me across,” called Thor. “I’ll pay you well from this pannier.”