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One Who Sticks Closer than a Brother  by Lindelea

Chapter 5. Every Dog Has His Day

It has been said, enough times to become something of a watchword, that a hobbit does not go willingly into the water. Of course, Brandybucks are an exception to this rule, and a few daft Tooks, but everyone knows what is said about Brandybucks, though not in their hearing and certainly not in polite company.

In any event, it is something of a novelty to find a hobbit in water. O a gaffer might fall into a brimming ditch, on his way home of a rainy evening after half a pint too many, or a young hobbit playing at ditch-jumping might drown for having misjudged the distance. There are even young Tooks who’ve been known to splash in the shallows of a chuckling stream of a hot summer’s day. But you wouldn’t find them in the stream, say, amid the snows of winter. You won’t find Tooks who’ve grown into their sense in a stream at all, as a rule; even when hunting, if their prey jumps or falls into a stream, they’ll whistle a dog to the task of dragging their intended dinner out again.

A good hunting dog, thus, is essential in the wild Green Hills with their streams running through the bottomland and tumbling down the hillsides. The water spaniel sniffing along the Tuckbourn a few miles from the aforementioned fishing path was one of these, well trained, well seasoned, and enthusiastic about his line of work.

He was tramping with his master on this icy morning. The animals had been fed, the cows milked, the eggs gathered, the pigs slopped, and all was in order. The harnesses were all mended, the plough was oiled, the roofs and buildings were in good repair, and thanks to the farmer’s sons, plenty of firewood had been split for the foreseeable future. And so the farmer accompanied his eager dog, walking through the tall, frosted wire-grass towards the Tuckbourn, running water that would not be iced over, a likely place to find a few wintering waterfowl.

The dog lifted his nose as he caught an elusive scent. He whined in his eagerness, but obeyed when shushed by his master. He was much better trained than he had been, two years and some months earlier, when he’d run ahead to find a half-drowned hobbit lying partway in the water, not far from here. Still, he quivered, straining forward with every fibre of his being, while his master smiled and fitted an arrow to his bow. ‘Steady now,’ the farmer whispered to the dog. ‘You’ll be at ‘im soon enough.’

Not soon enough for the dog’s taste; had he his way he’d have raced ahead, barking furiously, but he must content himself with another whine, his eyes fixed ahead, his nose scenting the chill breeze coming off the stream.

The quacking of ducks came to them on the breeze, and the farmer grinned. His wife had thought the temperatures too bitter, for any success at hunting this morning. But surely the fowl had sought the shelter of the tall weeds where the stream eddied... He released the dog from his side with the smallest gesture, and the dog sped towards the weeds as if he were an arrow shot from the bow. There was a flurry, and several ducks broke from cover, and the farmer was ready.

His arrow bolted through the sky, true, skewering one of the ducks mid-air, bringing it down with a splash into the stream, and the dog was ploughing through the water after, fetching the duck before the current could carry it too far. He brought the bird back to his master, his head held high, lips drawn back, and so soft was his mouth that there was not a mark on the feathers when he gave his prize into his master’s hand, his tail gyrating wildly.

‘Good lad,’ the farmer said, turning to walk downstream, to the next spot of cover he knew about. They ought to be able to shoot at least one more, a nice brace of ducks to roast for elevenses. He could almost hear the sizzle of the fat dripping down, could almost smell that heady aroma...

But the dog turned back upstream, resolute, stiffening in the way that meant he’d scented something nearby, and so the farmer turned as well, to follow. Could it be that not all the fowl had broken at the dog’s advance rush? Were some still hiding in the reeds?

The dog whined again, and this time the sound did not indicate his eagerness for the hunt, but rather something of worry, even anxiety. Something was amiss.

A fox, perhaps? the farmer wondered, pulling another arrow from his quiver and fitting it to the bow. The dog plunged into the stream, running against the current in the shallows, nose working furiously, but before he reached his aim the farmer had seen the figure in the river, draped over the rock, the incongruous sight of a hobbit, wet and muddy, in the midst of the current!

Good thing the water was low, this time of year. With the melting of snow atop the high hills, to come in a month or two, and the spring rains, the current would be too dangerous for a hobbit on foot to brave. But now the water ran low, sluggish but deadly cold, and the farmer thought he might be able to wade out, at least to the rock where the hobbit lay.

What was a hobbit doing in the stream, anyhow?

No matter. The farmer set down his bow and quiver, threw off his cloak, and waded into the freezing water. The current pushed against him, but he was well able to withstand it, and within a few steps he’d reached the rock.

He thought perhaps the hobbit might be dead, but no, the fellow blinked his eyes and muttered something incomprehensible when the farmer reached him. Covered with mud he was, from hatless head to where the water came up, just above his knees.

‘Halloo,’ the farmer said, grasping the muddy shoulder firmly and giving a shake. ‘Do you hear me, lad?’

‘I hear,’ the hobbit said faintly. ‘But do not shout so very loudly. What if the ruffians should hear?’

‘Ruffians!’ the farmer said. He’d just returned from the muster, himself, late the previous night. ‘Ain’t none of those round here abouts any more. They’re gone, all gone, and good riddance!’

‘Ruffians,’ the hobbit whispered, and said no more, though the farmer shook his shoulder, with the admonition that this was no place to be sleeping, and was he looking to freeze himself to death?

The farmer managed to roll the hobbit, just enough to get a good grip on him, and then he eased him over one shoulder. It was a tricky business to turn around on the slippery stones, with the current trying to push him over, but he managed, and carefully feeling his way, not wanting to lose his balance, he shuffled back to the bank where his dog waited, eyeing him as if he’d lost his wits, which in any other circumstances, he’d’ve agreed whole-heartedly.

If not for this hobbit, here—heavy fellow, he was, too, well-muscled and evidently well-fed—he’d not be caught dead in a stream, not he!

He laid the fellow down on his cloak, mud and all, and considered. He might blow his horn to fetch his sons... but they’d returned from the muster as late as he had, and were all too likely still abed and sawing logs into the bargain. The morning chores had been done by the farmer’s wife and daughters, in point of fact, to allow the weary hobbits to catch up on their sleep.

But he didn’t want to leave the fellow here, long enough to fetch one of the plough ponies.

Just then the dog whined again, his nose pointing towards the cover, and following his line of sight the farmer saw a smallish pony grazing nearby, saddle on its back and reins trailing. Well now. If he were a wagering hobbit, he’d bet that hobbit and pony went together. He still didn’t know why the hobbit had gone into the stream, but he’d wager a packet that this was a hobbit who’d been returning from the Thain’s muster, when he’d gone wrong.

‘Well now,’ he said aloud, and to the dog, ‘Sit, sir! Lie down! Stay!’ He didn’t need the dog frightening the strange pony, now, did he?

The dog lay beside the half-frozen hobbit, panting with excitement. First he’d gone into the stream to fetch a fat fowl, and then his master had got into the spirit of the game and gone in to fetch a greater! His tail quivered and his eyes shone with approbation.

‘Good lad,’ the farmer said, and turned to the pony, walking slowly, one hand held before him.

The beast snorted and lifted its head high, rolling a wary eye, but he just smiled and spoke soothing nonsense. ‘Aren’t you the beauty, then, my little friend. Is that your master, I found? And you stayed close by, my fine lad, you stuck close as you could without going into the stream yoursel’, for you’ve much more wit than the hobbit, to all appearances...’

He was able to catch a trailing rein as the pony turned away at the last moment, and in a moment he was soothing the velvet neck. ‘Steady now,’ he said. ‘Steady, and we’ll have thy master warming in a tub, and yoursel’ out o’ this wind and cold, and eating a good warm mash for your breakfast, much better for your innards than frosted grass, I’ll warrant!’

He led the pony to the unconscious hobbit and managed to lift the fellow up, laying him across the saddle. He whistled the dog up from its “stay” and commanded him to “Go home! Go home, lad!” He picked up his cloak and laid it over the cold figure, and secured the duck, still intended for elevenses, to the saddle. Then taking the reins and walking on the near side of the beast, he guided the pony, with one hand on the hobbit that he should not fall on his head, back towards home, and help.

He wondered about the mention of “ruffians”. Was the hobbit out of his head?—the farmer was inclined so to think, after finding the fellow in the stream. But perhaps it was possible that there were more ruffians than those the muster had found, and dispatched. He’d see this fellow warmed and tucked up in a bed, seen to by his wife, who knew something of the healing arts, and fed, if they could manage it, and then he’d consider sending one of his sons to the Great Smials, to inform the Thain.

***
A/N: Thanks to Sulriel for advice on pony behaviour.

If you are familiar with FirstBorn, yes, this is the same dog as appeared in that story. He loves his work.





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