Spring

The rain was pitter-pattering away on Pippin's straw hat, pouring off the brim in a steady stream. He went a bit cross-eyed with staring at it, and then stuck out his tongue in an attempt to catch the drip.

"You'll never catch that," Merry said. "Your tongue isn't long enough." He was sitting comfortably, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, his own eyes on the fishing poles jammed into the mud. The lines were stretched tight, pulled by the current of the rain-swollen Brandywine, but alas, untouched by fish. Whoever had said fish bit a hook better in the rain was fooling himself.

Pippin stuck out his tongue again at Merry, then leaned back on his elbows, mouth open, and caught the stream quite neatly. "Hah!" he said in triumph, then leaned just a tad too far for another try, and his hat fell off in the muck. "Drat!"

"And ho ho," Merry laughed. He scooped up Pippin's hat, shook the silt out of it, and clapped it back on his little cousin's head. "Outfoxed yourself there, didn't you?"

Pippin merely sighed. "I'm tired of fishing anyway. We haven't caught a thing." His heels were in the river, and he thrashed them around in a bored fashion, making a nice backwash that soaked the hem of Merry's breeches.

"I can't imagine why," Merry said. His gaze strayed down the bank, to the small rowboat tied to a tree and slowly filling with rain. It was a present for his fourteenth birthday that he had yet to try out: His father had forbidden him to go out on the river while the water was high, at least not without a grown hobbit aboard. But it had been raining for days and days with no sign of a let-up, and he was bored with fishing, and he did so want to use it by himself. Just looking at it, he could picture himself at the oars, smoothly propelling the craft along, the pleasant stretch and burn of the young muscles across his shoulders, battling the current, testing his strength against the river-

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, Pippin at his heels, striding to the boat and working at the damp hemp-knot with nervous fingers. His dad had never used a switch on him before, he had never needed to, and he wasn't that kind of hobbit, anyway, but if he ever found Merry misbehaving this badly he might make an exception. "Want to go boating, Pippin?"

Pippin jumped up and down. "Yes! Yes! Can I row?"

"You're too little," Merry said, and Pippin made a face. "You're not strong enough. If we're going to do this, you must do exactly what I say and sit still, and no matter what happens, for pity's sake stay in the boat. Understand?"

Pippin was nodding, agreeing to anything, as long he didn't end up stranded on the bank watching Merry have fun without him. Merry lifted him under the arms and Pippin brought his legs up-thank goodness he wasn't very heavy-and Merry heaved him over the bow and plopped him in, then shoved the boat away from shore.

He waded in nearly hip deep before he climbed in himself, then he sat on the bench and took the oars in hand, grunting with the effort. The current was very strong, and slightly frightening in its power, but he was grimly determined to do this now. It was just a river, after all. He was stronger than a little water.

Pippin gazed all around, admiring the brown river sprinkled with overlapping circles of silver raindrops, the living, fishy smell of it. They seemed to be travelling very fast downstream, and when Merry turned to go against the current the muscles bunched and jumped in his arms, and his face turned red. It was a little scary, but Pippin told himself that Merry was a big, strong hobbit, almost grown; he knew what he was doing. They could get back to the shore (which seemed very far away, suddenly, though they were not even that far out,) anytime they wanted. Pippin leaned over a bit-not too far, Merry had said not-tempted to trail his fingers, and his hat fell off again and was swiftly carried away. "My hat!" Pippin cried.

"You and that hat..." Merry groaned, and then sighed. If he was quick, he could catch the wretched thing. He stowed the oars as fast as he could, leaned out and made a grab at it-missed, blast it! -And he had nearly lost it now, so he got up on the bench with one knee and stretched out farther, farthest...

Oh, the Brandywine was a tricksy thing, wasn't she, and she had taken many an older, wiser hobbit with more knowledge of her ways than one foolish young Brandybuck. He was easy prey. The boat turned smoothly in the current and over he went on his head, and she swallowed him down like a trout gulping a fly.

Merry thought he knew the river, and he could swim. He knew must get back to Pippin and the boat before they drifted too far. The river was brown as ale and cold, and he knew Pippin would be afraid and he must hurry. He automatically righted himself and hurled himself up to the surface, like a cork out of a bottle, and the hard bottom of the little rowboat connected with the crown of his head. It wasn't a hard blow, but it hurt, and he unthinkingly opened his mouth to yelp. Suddenly the Brandywine was in his ears and eyes, his mouth and nose, filling his chest like cold mortar. He panicked, his nails scrabbling against the keel as he started to sink, and he knew this was it, this was how it had happened to all those other poor hobbits lost over the years: The foolish mistake, then the terrible pull down toward the bottom, and what would happen to poor little Pip now, all alone on the cruel, unforgiving Brandywine?

Something heavy splashed down through the water next to him, and a small arm snaked around his chest, yanking him up into light and air. Pippin was there, holding on to him, pulling him strongly toward shore. Pippin was struggling and Merry was heavy, and they both sank and came up again more than once, but before too long Merry felt his toes touch bottom, and they crawled up through the mud together and collapsed in the grass. Merry coughed for what seemed like an age, then he looked over at Pippin. When on earth had he learned how to swim, anyway?

Pippin gagged and spat. His mouth tasted like fish and cold river-mud. "That wasn't much fun," he said faintly.

Merry boggled. "Fun? It wasn't meant to be any sort of fun, you goose, I was drowning!"

"Oh," Pippin said. With a child's perfect faith in the whims of an older cousin he had somehow assumed that Merry meant to go overboard, although he was pretty sure swallowing half the river hadn't been part of the plan. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Let's not do that again."

"Not if I can help it," Merry vowed. His nice new boat was a speck in the distance. He wondered where it would fetch up.

Pippin lifted the hem of his muddy shirt. He and Merry both were mud and muck from heels to crown. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"A lot of trouble," Merry said mournfully. By the look of them, no one would believe they had done nothing but fish, and the missing boat would be a dead give-away. He‘d be lucky if he was ever allowed to so much as dabble his toes in the river again, in flood or drought. "But I'm glad you didn't stay in the boat, Pip."

Pippin shrugged, stood up, and fruitlessly brushed off his knees, a bit embarrassed. He had seen his cousin's face under the water and he hadn't given it any thought, he had just went, because Merry was leaving him behind, sinking down and away under a froth of green-brown river, and he couldn't go away without Pippin, could he? Merry stood up, staggering a little, and Pippin put his arms around him. "What are we having for luncheon?"

"Hopefully not fish," Merry coughed, and he ruffled Pippin's hair.

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TBC...