Chapter 14. Thain: Through the High Waters

Pippin stared about him, his thoughts building in panic much as the threatening clouds in the sky-pasture above reared ever higher. The fleecy cloud-lambs had disappeared, sucked into the maws of monstrous thunderheads, building ever higher in the late-afternoon heavens, crowned with fire as the Sun ducked beneath them on her way to the horizon.

There was a low rumble of thunder, rolling through the Green Hills, making the ground tremble underfoot at the last, and this galvanised the lad to motion. The old shepherd had taught him what creatures of habit sheep were. ‘Likely to take themselves off to the fold without us, if we don’t pay heed,’ he recited, and with a sharp word to the dogs he was off at a run towards the distant fold.

He ran, and he ran, until a stitch took him in the side and he had to pause, bent over, leaning heavily on his shepherd’s cane for support, kneading at his ribs with an impatient hand as he gasped for breath. Stubbornly he resumed walking, while the dogs ranged ahead, looking back to urge him onwards. At last the bothersome stitch was reduced to the point that he could ignore it, and he broke into a jog once more.

Rain began to fall ere he reached that day’s resting place, but he heard the rumour of sheep before he crested a hill to see the flock, standing in a large, uncertain clump outside the fold. He stopped, breathing heavily, and whistled the dogs into action. Joyously they leapt down the hill, bunching the stragglers, as Pippin followed. He moved to the gate, opened it, and began to count as the sheep streamed in.

Six score there were, and more, but not enough. Not the whole of the flock by any means, since nine lambs had been born since Pippin’s arrival to swell the numbers. Worse yet, the most valuable ewe was missing with her twin lambs. Good mother and good milker echoed in Pippin’s dismayed head. The “auld love” was missing as well, Pippin’s personal favourite amongst the sheep. She was due to lamb any day now, and out in wind and storm, prey to stray dogs or other dangers that meant death to a defenceless sheep...

He set the dogs to guard the gateway whilst he rapidly hauled buckets of feed from the storehole into the fold, and buckets of water to fill the drinking troughs. His father would have been astonished to see him moving about his chores so quickly; but when Pippin finished here, his greater task was yet to be begun. Closing the gate, making sure it latched securely, he ducked into the shelter to light a lantern, called the dogs to his side and jogged back over and around the great hills, back to the pasture, as the wind plucked at his cloak and the rain began to bucket down.

Pippin put his head down and slogged through the dimming day. The Sun had disappeared in the storm, though she still lent her light to the land, struggling, watery light threatening to drown in the deluge. The waters would be rising in the bottomland, where the sheep liked to stray, to graze on the rich grass found there. There were boggy areas to be found there as well, which is why the shepherd chose his pastureland carefully. While Pippin had slept, the strays most likely had sought the bottom of the valley near the stream, the good grazing, the copses of trees, the thickets. Any about to drop a lamb might well find herself a sheltered hidey-hole, and Pippin knew that stormy weather such as this was likely lambing time. He’d check the bottomland first, to make sure no stray was stranded, and then he’d search the thickets.

The storm winds pushed him along, and it was a good thing he bore a lantern rather than a torch, for even that sheltered flame flickered and fought for life. He didn’t need the lantern, having the rain-washed daylight to go by, but if he were still out searching after dark the lantern might be handy, and it was of a clever design such that he could hang it on his belt should he need free hands. He ducked as lightning crowned the hilltops around him, but kept going determinedly.

Reaching the grazing valley, he stared through the pounding rain. The stream here split itself, forming a small island, a hump of green in the centre surrounded by an ankle-deep trickle most of the warm months of the year. Now the water was coming up rapidly, as he’d feared, threatening to inundate the small island, and just his luck: he could see a few small woolly puffs on the rapidly disappearing green.

He charged down the hillside to the edge of the fast-moving stream. The trickle had become a torrent, rushing by with a loud and boisterous roaring song. He hesitated but for a moment, just long enough to place the lantern atop a flat rock well above the waterline, before plunging in. The current nearly swept him from his feet, but by shuffling along, not lifting his feet from the flooded ground, he was able to make his way, even as the waters rose above his knees, to his waist... He used the long crook to steady himself, pushing it into the mud on his downstream side.

The dogs swam against the current, heads high, splashing with their feet as the stream tried to wash them away, but they fought with the fierce determination characteristic of their kind, to reach the sheep they saw ahead. As it was, one of the dogs reached the island first, pulling herself onto the land and shaking with vigour. Pippin was next; he shook as well, more with relief than anything else. It was a good thing Merry had spent all those lazy summer days teaching him how to swim, ducking him under the surface, playing and splashing and helping Pippin learn to use the water, to regard it with respect but not fear.

Just as he got his breath the other dog managed to reach the island, racing to his side and showering Pippin with more water as he shook it from his coat, staring up at the young shepherd with tongue hanging ridiculous out one side of the panting mouth as if to say, That was great fun! Shall we have another go?

The ewe—it was the valuable mother-and-milker—would be reluctant to enter the fast-moving water. She’d be more likely to make the attempt with the encouragement of seeing her lambs on the other side, Pippin decided. The little ones were old enough that they wouldn’t try to enter the flood in a mindless attempt to return to their mother. He caught up the nearest and turned into the water, with the mother following him to the edge and ba-ahing her distress in a deep, worried voice, and the other twin added its thin bleating.

 ‘Come along!’ Pippin shouted, shouldering the lamb as best he could and forging deeper. ‘Come along!’

The dogs elected to stay on the island, seeing their only chance for herding standing there in the form of the distressed ewe and her remaining twin. They couldn’t herd a lamb on hobbit’s shoulder, after all!

Pippin reached firm ground and set the lamb down, turning back into the flood. Aen, as a shepherd would count. One lamb was safe.

Taen, he chanted at the end of the next round-trip, though it was not as easy in the doing as it was in the later telling. He was exhausted from fighting the current and the water had risen above his waist... even the hobbit-sized sheep the Shire-folk used would be hard-pressed to cross the water at this point. A sheep could swim, true, but they feared fast currents, and Pippin had his doubts about getting the ewe into the water, even with two lambs now bleating on the shore. She’d have little choice but to swim, soon enough, the way the island was disappearing in the rising waters... Better to direct the swim than to have her swept from her feet and drowned in panic.

The ewe’s attention was on her lambs as she stood at water’s edge calling to them. It shouldn’t be too hard to get her into the water... but push as he might, Pippin could not budge the stubborn creature. He pursed his lips to give a piercing command and the dogs leapt joyously into the fray. A sharp nip was enough to startle the ewe into the water, and Pippin grabbed at her wool to pull her along.

Eyes wide, she fought him, resisting the pull as she realised the water grew ever deeper before them.

 ‘Ye’ll have to go deeper afore you climb out,’ Pippin grunted, maintaining his steady pull. With her sharp hoofs she could at least dig her feet into the mud beneath the waters, keeping them both from being swept away, but of course once she started to swim he’d have to rely on his staff to anchor them. Even so, they might travel some ways downstream before being able to climb out again.

The ewe slowed and stopped. Another few steps and she’d be swimming, and the fast waters terrified her. Pippin shouted and pulled, the dogs jumped in and nipped, were carried downstream, struggled against the current to return and harry the sheep again, and still she stood firm.

 ‘Come along!’ Pippin yelled with a mighty tug, and she moved! But seconds later he realised to his horror that she moved only to surrender, folding up her legs underneath her and lying down, the water closing over her head. She feared quick death less than the struggle to cross the swift-moving waters, and so she had chosen.

Pippin thrust his staff into the mud as far as it would go and ducked under the water himself, striving to lift the ewe though she weighed as much as he did, or more. He got both arms under her and heaved, trying to roll her over, to push her up, to get her onto her feet once more, but his plans went further awry as her weight shifted, pinning him underwater!

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Thanks to Marye for giving permission to use her true story about the old ewe and the flood!