Chapter 3. To Jump into the River and Drown

To be homeward bound! Ferdi felt like lifting his voice in song, and so he did. Behind him he heard Pippin join, and then Haldegrim, until they were chasing each other around and around in interweaving melody. Even the ponies pricked their ears, though they never varied their measured pace. There was no speeding these coldbloods towards home and stable, Ferdi thought. He’d’ve arrived weary at home, had he been riding Starfire, simply from the strain of holding that pony down to a safe pace for the entire journey.

The streams ran wilder than before, further swollen from the rains of the past week while the travellers had been snug indoors listening to talk. The water was over the footings of the first bridge they came to, a sturdy arch of stone with boards laid across awash in the current. Ferdi dismounted and motioned to the other two to stand fast while he examined the bridge. First he walked across, studying the boards and the water. Only the middle of the arch was dry.

Reaching the other side safely, he returned and took up his pony’s reins. ‘Well?’ Pippin said.

 ‘Wait until we’re over,’ Ferdi replied, meaning himself and his pony. ‘Lead your ponies, don’t ride them, and come one at a time, if we cross safely.’

 ‘Ferdi, I—’ Pippin began, his brow furrowed with concern, but Ferdi shook off the restraining hand.

 ‘If I weren’t fairly sure of its safety I’d never risk the pony,’ he said, and turned away, clucking at the pony to follow.

Starfire would have balked for certain, with his distrust of water, but the stolid pony followed without a quiver of nerve, lending confidence to the hobbit who led him. They splashed through the water and thudded across the dry middle, down into the water again and through the flooded shallows until they reached dry land on the far side.

Ferdi turned and waved. ‘Come along!’ he cried. ‘It’s fine!’

Pippin waved back and led his pony across, step by careful step, and then Haldi followed.

 ‘That wasn’t so difficult,’ Pippin observed, climbing back into his saddle.

The next bridge was much the same, though this one was made of wood and creaked ominously as each rider-and-pony pair crossed. There was a long stretch of wooded trail before they reached the third bridge, about mid-morning, and before Ferdi tested this bridge of solid, sturdy stone Pippin decreed that they would stop and eat.

It was too damp to sit upon the ground, and so the travellers stood about, munching on sandwiches and fruit turnovers and potatoes baked in their jackets and wrapped in flannel for pocket-warmers. These still retained some of their warmth, and the faint steam that arose on the chill Spring air heartened the hobbits nearly as much as the food did.

They allowed the ponies to drink from the still water at the flooded verge before Ferdi stepped onto the next bridge. He stomped his foot, hard, and said, ‘Solid!’

Truth be told, he was worried about the Thain taking a chill, splashing through the shallow icy water, and so he mounted and rode across, waving to the others to follow, which they did.

There were two more bridges to cross before they left the woodland, another wood bridge that Ferdi was dreading, considering the creaking and complaining the previous wooden bridge had made when they’d crossed, and then a last bridge built strongly of the native stone, and then they’d be out of the woods.

When they came to the wooden bridge Ferdi was pleasantly surprised. The water had gone down significantly and the bridge rose well above the churning stream. Nevertheless, he called another halt, dismounted, gave his reins to the Thain and walked out onto the bridge, stamping his feet to test the solidity of the wood. ‘No damage from the high water!’ he called back from the high point on the bridge. He stopped a moment to gaze through the railings, peering fascinated into the waters passing so swiftly beneath him, and then began to walk down the slope of the arch towards the far bank.

Pippin nodded and clucked to his pony, and Haldi followed close behind him. They had nearly reached the centre when the ponies threw up their heads, nostrils flaring, and Ferdi’s pony danced at the end of the reins, causing the bridge to tremble underfoot.

Ferdi looked around in surprise and then stiffened at this warning, though he was not sure what precipitated this skittish behaviour on the part of these unimaginative, stolid mounts. A Brandybuck, wise in the ways of rivers, would have suspected the lowered river at first glance, knowing how debris can provide a temporary blockage, restraining the waters until the power of the river breaks free, built to greater fury by the delay. But these were Tooks, and the one who’d lived in Buckland, who had been taught by the Brandybucks, did not have rivers in his blood in the way of his Buckland cousin. In truth he was chilled and weary, and thinking more of hearth, home and rest, trusting to pony and escort to bring him safely through.

When the white-maned, roaring beast that was the river, freed of its bindings, burst upon them with frothing jaws, there was no time to run.

Pippin had clenched tight the lead rein to Ferdi's pony as he fought to control his own mount; when the sound reached him he looked up to see the white wall of water, tree limbs in its jaws, bearing down upon them. He looked ahead to see Ferdi standing near the end of the bridge, his hands clenched tight upon the railing. He released the tight hold he’d taken on the reins when the pony had thrown up its head, jerked at the leading rein of Ferdi’s pony, and kicked his heels hard into the shaggy sides of his own mount. ‘Ferdi!’ he cried.

It would be a race to safety, and he intended for Ferdibrand to grab hold of rider’s leg or pony’s mane as they plunged to the end of the bridge—he didn’t want his cousin to blunder into the ponies’ path and be ridden down!

Haldi was frozen in terror, but his pony knew what to do, ramming forward into Ferdi’s pony. The latter kicked out instinctively, catching Haldi’s pony with a thud that the rider felt rather than heard, what with the roar from the water. He nearly lost his seat as his pony reared and then plunged forward once more.

He did lose his seat when the water hit the bridge, causing that sturdy structure to shudder. It seemed to the escort that the world began to move with excruciating slowness; he watched the slow fall of droplets of spray shot high into the air, he saw flecks of foam fly from his pony’s mouth, the white of the rolling eye, the red flare of nostril, he felt himself leave the saddle as the bridge moved under them... He saw the Thain’s hands fly up as his pony fell away from beneath him, and as if in a dream he noted Ferdi’s white face, the blackness of Ferdi’s gloves clenched hard on the white-painted railing, and then the shock of the icy water drove all else from his thoughts.

***

The bottom of the bridge fell out from under them, or so Pippin’s racing mind told him. Instinctively he loosed the reins of his and Ferdi’s ponies, throwing up his hands, grabbing for something, anything to hold on to as he felt his pony falling downward and to the side. With a stunning shock he was thrown against the railings of the bridge; somehow he managed to grab hold as they splintered. He clung grimly, his legs streaming behind him in the current, raising his head above the foam of the torrent to fight for breath, though there seemed to be as much water in the air as there was in the stream.

He waited for the bridge to give way completely, to carry him downstream, but the piece to which he clung so precariously held. He lifted his head higher, both hands firmly on the broken railing, and tried to blink the water from his eyes.

Haldi and ponies were gone, the middle of the bridge washed away from under them. He could only hope that the escort could somehow swim free and fetch up downstream, though with all the debris buffeting him it was more likely he’d be knocked about and drowned. There was no trace of Ferdibrand. Pippin fought down grief. His own predicament was what he needed to focus on.

He slid one hand along the railing, grasping firmly before moving the other hand. The railing quivered to be holding his weight against the pull of the torrent, but it held. So long as his strength, and that of the battered railing, held out, he’d be able to pull himself to safety, hand-hold by shaky hand-hold.