Chapter 111. What goes up must come down, or so they say, though perhaps not in polite company 

I shake my head at myself, with the added boon of dislodging accumulating snow from my mane, but I see a similar unease in Master’s face before he shakes himself, as well, and forces a smile (or so it seems to me, for I see his jaw muscles tighten before his lips part to let the smile shine through). ‘Well then,’ he says to Youngest. ‘If we are to go back down, and “the sooner the better”, then perhaps you will have the chance to put Boromir’s shield to the test after all.’

And turning his eyes to the slopes below us, Master adds under his breath, ‘For I deem that the shallowest of those drifts, even the ones that have not been scooped and piled against the Mountainside to cover over the path, will be high above your head, Pip, much less Merry’s or mine.’

I do not think the two younger cousins heard the muttered words. At the Master’s mention of the Other Big Man’s shield, they immediately fell to arguing as to which of them will have the first turn at this exciting prospect. I cannot (despite my weeks of travel with these Hobbits) discern whether they are serious about the matter or merely trying to lighten the Master’s spirits, as if they too saw the weariness and worry behind the smile and light words a moment or two ago.

It seems at last that Youngest has prevailed in the argument, for he turns away from determinedly-merry to clap the Master on the shoulder. ‘How kind of Caradhras to cover the path for us!’ he cries aloud, though he is keeping his voice low, as if afraid the Mountain might hear his words and waken again to throw more snow and wind at us. ‘Why, it is as if he has prepared the way!’ And then he claps his hands and rubs them together with vigour as if embracing the prospect. Or perhaps he is merely trying to rub away the numbness and chill.

I wonder what our Other Big Man (the one with the shield – but that may only be temporary, as things appear to be proceeding) will say when my hobbits inform him of their plan?

‘It’s all very well for you,’ I hear determinedly-merry say now, ‘that is, if you manage not to fall off and break your head as you go pell-mell down the mountainside. But then what are the rest of us to do? We have only the one shield among us!’

‘And that one not even ours to claim,’ Master says dryly. ‘But cheer up, Merry! Should Pip fall off the shield, I deem that he’d hardly break his head against a rock or tree.’

‘I thank you much for that, cousin,’ Youngest says, sketching a bow.

But Master continues as if Youngest has not spoken. ‘Ra-a-a-ther,’ he adds, drawing out the word thoughtfully, ‘I do believe he would simply sink to the bottom of a pile of snow so deep as to be lost forever more.’ He sweeps his hand out before them. ‘Why,’ he says, ‘only a few steps from the ashes of our fire, the snow is heaped higher than even my head! And as I’m the tallest of us, I fear that you younger cousins would not fare well at all.’ He does not mention my Sam. Perhaps that means that my Sam would fare well, or at least better than the younger cousins?

‘It is many feet deep,’ the Fair One says at my shoulder, but I do not startle. Even on the thin, chill air, I have been smelling his amusement since he came up behind me and began to follow my hobbits’ conversation. ‘Indeed,’ he says, extending his own hand back down towards the way we came up, ‘the wind has lifted and scooped the snow into great drifts, piled against the cliffside in places,’ echoing the Master’s low-voiced thoughts spoken earlier, ‘and in those places, even the tip of Gandalf’s hat would not break the surface should he make his way downward through the drifts.’

I hear a snort from the Dwarf.

‘But,’ adds the Fair One, as if he has been considering the problem for some moments and has found a solution at last, ‘if Gandalf would go before us with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you – and himself, thus sparing his hat from possibly being “lost forever more”, as you so eloquently put it a moment ago, Frodo.’ His face is merry as he speaks, and mischief glints in his eyes as if the snow is merely a minor inconvenience.

Tall Hat does not seem to share his amusement but speaks rather sourly about Elves flying over mountains and fetching the Sun to save us. I give the Fair One a careful look but see no evidence of wings either hidden or sprouting from under his cloak. I find myself wondering how Elves can fly over mountains at all? Or perhaps they can only fly over smaller mountains, and this one is too large or windy or snowy or somewhat. At any rate, the Fair One shows no signs of taking to the air, at least for the moment.

So deep in my ponderings am I that I miss the words Our Big Men exchange. I only realise they have said something of import when the Other Big Man (still holding firmly to the shield) leaves our circle, loosely surrounding the dead ashes of our saviour fire, and begins to retrace the party’s steps, Our Big Man following in his wake. Only a few paces from the ashes, they are already toiling heavily through snow that reaches nearly to their shoulders in places. It would definitely be over my hobbits’ heads should they try and follow.

Youngest is not easily daunted, however. He elbows thoughtful-merry in the side and says, ‘Why, will you look at that! Boromir might be swimming through the snow there! See how he scoops with his great arms! Just as you taught me – and as you said Frodo taught you – of a summer’s day on the River when you decided I needed to learn to swim like a Brandybuck! (And swore me to secrecy lest the Tooks and Tooklanders be so scandalised that they wouldn’t let me back into the Tookland... though looking back, I suspect it was because you did not want my parents to scold you...)’ He throws back his head and laughs. ‘Why, we might take a page out of his book and swim down the mountainside, should all else fail!’

‘But what would Samwise do in that case, I ask you?’ thoughtful-merry retorts.

‘That’s swimming?’ my Sam surprises everyone by saying, for he oftener listens than speaks when the cousins are talking. But perhaps the subject matter has unnerved him into blurting out his thoughts. ‘Flailing your arms like that? You’re having me on, Mr Pippin!’ He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, having taken himself once more firmly in hand.

‘They look to me more as if they are burrowing,’ Master says, patting my Sam on the shoulder as if in apology for the younger cousins’ poor choice of topic. Hobbits, as a rule, avoid “water in the wild”, as I have heard one of the younger cousins put it. They prefer their water well-behaved, confined within some vessel, such as a well, a cup, a pot, or the bath. “Swimming” is a word seldom spoken in polite company outside of Buckland, or so I have overheard various hobbits say at one time or another, including some who picnicked upon our meadow when I was only a foal, kicking up my heels in the sunlight as my dam grazed nearby.

‘There you are, Samwise!’ Youngest says, not to be repressed. ‘We mad Brandybucks and Tooks will swim our way down the hill whilst you, sensible paragon of Shire-folk that you are, can burrow!’

But Master levels his sternest gaze at Youngest and knits his eyebrows. ‘Pip,’ is all he says.

Yet it is enough, and all mention of swimming ceases.

*** 

Author notes:

Some thoughts here are derived from “The Ring Goes South” from The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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