Chapter XXIII: Over, Under and Through

Aragorn stood long by the water's edge, studying the coursing surface of the river as he tried to divine the movement of the currents and eddies beneath. It was an impossible task, he decided. There was no hope of a well-planned crossing: Anduin's swollen breadth would surely prove unpredictable.

Therefore his one hope was to properly arrange himself and his burdens. He cast an appraising eye upon his prisoner, still warbling tunelessly under his breath. Aragorn saw as if for the first time the ropey sinews standing out beneath the discoloured skin that stretched like a shroud over the skeletal limbs. Beneath the hollow ribs he could almost see the carmine lungs stretching and shrinking with each shallow breath. A twinge of pity plucked at his innards: as ill-suited for this swim as he was himself, Gollum's condition was worse. He could not be expected to swim across, and therefore he must be borne.

There were a number of ways to tow a body through water. A hand beneath the chin, supporting the head above the surface while one drew the other person along, was the least strenuous, but it was easy to lose one's grip in a rapid current. Aragorn did not suppose that Gollum would have much chance of escaping him mid-stream, but the thought of his prize swept away and drowned was intolerable. A cooperative passenger could be carried on a swimmer's back, holding fast to waist or shoulders, and when the swimmer was weak this was the preferred method, since it left both arms free for propulsion and allowed for a reasonably efficient front stroke. Gollum, of course, could not be trusted to be cooperative. He might attempt to strangle his bearer in the midst of the river, or to blind him with his spindly fingers. Or he might merely panic and let go.

The pale eyes were glittering maliciously at him, as if the captive sensed the Ranger's thoughts. Aragorn stared coldly back, carefully concealing the doubt and trepidation that had been writ across his brow. With a whimper, Gollum cast his eyes away and resumed his petulant splashing.

There was also the question of baggage, Aragorn thought, turning his own face before the prisoner could look back to it. Scant though his possessions were, they would prove a hindrance in the frigid currents. In friendlier lands or fairer weather, he might have considered abandoning a portion of his luggage, but he was already reduced to carrying the barest essentials of survival, and even what he had might prove inadequate in the end. Stores and clothing, boots and scant sundries, all had to come with him.

The magnitude of the problem was beginning to make Aragorn's head ache. He eased himself down onto the river bank, bracing himself with his left leg and stretching his right towards the water so that the scar on his thigh twanged irately. Crooking his elbow around his raised knee, he rested his head upon his arm. In this perfect aspect of defeat he sat, leaden eyes closed.

Perhaps his mind was trying to light upon some distraction from the present conundrum, and latched onto the first noise to reach his ears, or perhaps Gollum raised his voice, but suddenly the muttered syllables of the eerie song penetrated Aragorn's sphere of awareness. He listened, entranced, as his prisoner sang:

A small, cynical laugh reached the Ranger's lips and he raised his head. Long legs sinking, was it? Gollum wouldn't be rid of him that easily. There was something to be said, however, for branch and log.

'You have my thanks, O sullen one,' he said, cocking his chin and smiling rather superciliously; 'for you have neatly solved my problem.'

Gollum gaped at him, taken aback by this apparent reversal of his captor's mood. Then his mouth snapped closed over his isolated teeth and he glowered wrathfully, drawing his legs up to his chest and curling his spindly arms around them.

Aragorn stood and, without consideration for Gollum's stubborn stance, began to walk upstream, examining the flotsam cast up in the mud of the riverbed. With a strangled noise, Gollum came scrambling after – having learned at last, it seemed, that the Ranger was more stubborn than he. Sharp eyes scoured the detritus washed from the wild lands to the north: tangled weeds and splintered twigs, coarse stones destined to be worn smooth long before they reached the Sea, a denuded knucklebone that had once belonged to a sheep or a goat, and a goodly assortment of driftwood.

Here, where the river flowed swift and narrow, few larger pieces found the shore. Most rode Anduin over Rauros, dispersing in the lake and washing up upon its dark beaches. But soon enough he found what he sought, all but buried in the mire. With a little effort and a just measure of pain, he wrestled it from the sucking river mud and held it up, the better to examine his prize. It was a piece of pine, doubtless splintered from some venerable old tree far in the north by wind or lightning or a woodsman's axe. A little more than a yard in length and almost two handspans wide, it was as thick as a framing board. Waterlogged and heavy, it would nonetheless float even under the weight of a child – or a strange hobbit-like creature.

'A raft,' Aragorn said in answer to Gollum's perplexed stare. The look of bafflement became one of scepticism, and the Ranger curled his lip. 'You'll see,' he promised, grim but half-teasing.

He plunged the width of wood into the water, brushing it clean with his good hand. It bobbed and bucked, tempted to ride with the current. It was as buoyant as he could have hoped, and Aragorn felt some of his anxiety lifting. Beaching the split log, he set about divesting himself. There was little hope of his clothing remaining dry in the crossing, but at least it would not be weighing down his limbs with its sodden mass. He lifted his cloak carefully over his head, mindful of the makeshift copper clasp. Laying it out on the dead grass, he set his belt upon it.

Removing his boots was no easy task. He sat down to wrestle with the obdurate leather, but having been worn continuously for weeks, repeated wetted and then allowed to dry, it clung to his feet like an outer skin. Gollum watched, vindictive glee in his eyes, as Aragorn struggled. Using a heavy stone for leverage behind his heel, he pushed with his left foot at the side of his right boot. At the same time he struggled to pull his right leg free. With a crackling of his ankle-joint his foot slipped loose, and he fell backward, landing uncomfortably on his elbow. A fiery numbness shot into the last two fingers of his hand and he grated his teeth against the indignity of the prickling sensation. His discomfiture did not last long, fortunately, and he was able to pry off the other boot with less difficulty.

He peeled off his foul-smelling hose – a duck in the river would do them no harm, at least – and inspected his feet for the first time in many days. The nail of his right great toe was half gone, and he remembered that he had noticed it blackened in the clearing in Harondor. It seemed that long ages of the world had passed since that autumn afternoon.

There were three blisters, all healing, on his left foot, but close inspection of the offending boot revealed no probable cause. Despite a few bruised toes and the habitual calluses his feet were largely unscathed. He spared a moment of gratitude for this small kindness.

He could not remove his cote while still tethered to Gollum; at least not without dragging the prisoner through his left sleeve. He worked the knot loose, and shifted the rope from one hand to the other and back. After a minute more, he stood clad only in the bandages that wrapped his forearm, and the tattered remains of his shirt. It was now a sleeveless smock, its ravaged hem hanging in straggles about his knees. Coarse though it was it was light, and he decided to retain that last modicum of modesty.

Still gripping the end of Gollum's halter, Aragorn knelt. Reaching into his pack, he found the little bundle of grease that he had carried for so many miles. Then he took the pack, his boots and his garments, and rolled them tightly in the heavy, fulled wool. Abbreviated and tattered though it was, the cloak provided several layers of protection. With a little good fortune, his clothing would not be soaked quite through when he reached the thither bank. He tucked in the ends of his bundle with care. Then with the first finger of his right hand he scooped up a blob of grease. Carefully, he pushed it into his ear canal, sealing out water and locking in heat. He did the same with his other ear, and as he did so he tried to steel himself for the next ordeal.

It was time to secure his prisoner.

lar

In the annals of Minas Tirith, the lore-masters of the White City exercised a certain degree of circumspection when it came to the indiscretions of their betters. When a princess of Dol Amroth ran away to be married without her lord's consent, or a younger son of the Steward begat a child with his mother's chambermaid, or a member of the Council was dismissed in suspect circumstances, a veil of tact was drawn discretely over the humiliating details. No record remained of the particulars of these regrettable cases: one could only speculate what had befallen the indiscreet lady when her father discovered her mesalliance, and how she had come to be gifted with a minor manor holding on Tolfalas; or what machinations had been necessary to ensure an advantageous marriage for the Steward's illegitimate grandson; or what further penalties the disgraced counselor had suffered. Such diplomatic omissions were a frustration to the historian, but doubtless they had been a consolation to the unfortunate people involved. Some facets of life were simply too unpleasant and demeaning to be recorded for posterity.

If the tale of this tiresome journey were ever told, Aragorn reflected sardonically, he hoped the scribe would be prudent enough to exclude, neatly and artfully, any account of how Gollum came to be bound to the length of driftwood. In the end, at least, it was accomplished: the prisoner and his captor's baggage lashed firmly to the log with the length of orc-rope. Gollum lay upon his back with Aragorn's clothing beneath him, scowling but silent at last. Neither party had sustained any serious hurt in the process, save perhaps each to his pride. And that, the victor decided, was all that he had a right to ask.

He had left a little rope free of the bands trussing together his burdens, and Aragorn now knotted it about his left wrist as firmly as his right hand could manage. He would have preferred to tow with his weaker hand, but travelling westward his left was downstream. He plunged his bare forearm into the water, soaking the rope before testing the knot. It did not yield under his wrenching; he prayed that it would withstand the brute force of the river. He knew from experience that he would not be able to rely upon his fingers to grasp the rope properly.

Bent double, he nudged the little raft into the river. There was a terrible moment when he feared that it would sink, but it bobbed and stabilized, the water lapping gently against the pad of cloth beneath the prisoner's body.

'Now for good fortune and a fair wind,' Aragorn muttered, raising his eyes towards the far bank and trying to quell the doubts that were assailing him. Then he glared sternly at Gollum and said; 'If we drown, we drown. But if you are wise you will not attempt to scuttle me mid-stream. Be still and be silent.'

He extended his right foot into the water, gritting his teeth against its icy bite. The first steps were difficult, as the burning band of cold rose higher upon his legs. Even here at its very border Anduin dragged upon his limbs. Further he waded, drawing deep and deliberate breaths as he attempted to acclimatize himself. When Gollum was floating level with his hip, Aragorn tucked his hand under the loop of cord that crossed his belly. He closed his fist around it. Then, turning forty degrees downstream, he bent his knees. In one concerted motion that demanded all of his resolve, he plunged his trunk and head into the water and drove forward with his right arm extended above his head.

Despite his effort to prepare himself, the air was driven from his lungs. His eyes burned, blinded by the frigid waters, and for a moment it seemed that he would drown. But instinct overcame panic, and he rolled onto his side, flexing his right leg and drawing up his left. He brought them together like the blades of a pair of shears, and forward he shot, sucking in a painful measure of air and dragging his burden beside him.

The current was at his back, driving him downstream as his powerful side-stroke carried him westward. He bent his legs again, as if genuflecting before some great lord, but this time he drew in his right arm. As he kicked again he extended his elbow like a rudder, guiding him in his southeasterly course. He tightened his grip upon Gollum's bonds, hauling the makeshift raft with him.

Five times he kicked, then six, then seven. Each time breathing became more difficult, and his toes began to prickle with the cold. Setting his teeth and inhaling resolutely through them, Aragorn forced an eighth kick. A ninth. His riven thigh was aching. A tenth. The currents were dragging on his limbs. He was now past the depth at which he could stand with his head above the water: Anduin flowed in a deep and cavernous bed.

He gained another twenty yards before a spasm of torment shot through his wounded right arm. The resultant gasp of anguish drew in a lungful of water, and Aragorn jerked into a vertical posture, feet flailing as he fought to keep his head above the surface. In the moment of panic he almost forgot the board floating beside him, but then he hauled it nearer, bracing his shoulder against it and coughing furiously. He clutched his forearm to his breast, the sodden bandages doing little to ease his discomfort. Presently he regained some semblance of control and his breathing leveled again.

But he was loose in the current now, and it was dragging him southward, parallel to the bank. Whipping his legs in circles like two complimentary cogwheels, he forced his shoulders out of the water and blinked through the streams flowing from his brow, trying to orient himself. He was not fifty yards from the east bank, with the whole broad expanse of Anduin still severing him from safety. A cursory glance told him that Gollum, though incandescent with silent rage, was still unscathed and indeed, largely dry. An ironic snort expended more energy than he could at this moment spare, but it was exceedingly satisfying nonetheless.

Aragorn tried to calm himself, to forget the cold and the myriad reasons that he should fail. Failure was not now, nor had it ever been, a viable alternative to the struggles of survival. Slowly he began to relax, easing back onto his side. He extended his right arm again, resting his cheekbone upon his shoulder as he let his legs float upward once more. When he was lying on his side, he resumed his kicking, but this time he left his arm unmoving. It was steering him forward and holding his course, but no longer was it bearing the burden of motion.

His progress was slower now, but less frenzied. He closed his eyes, trying to relish the cathartic rushing of the water over his limbs and against his spine and around the outstretched fingers of his guiding hand. He had always enjoyed swimming. It had been a delight in the summers of his boyhood, and in his wanderings he had never regretted the necessity when it arose. The unified, almost harmonious motion of long limbs and lean muscle, the triumphant surges of strength that worked at once with and against the water, the sweet, cleansing feeling as his head broke the surface and his lungs drew in a fortifying measure of cold, clean air – all this he enjoyed.

He focused now on the slipstream of fluid running from his fingertips around his arm, over his shoulder and down the length of his body. The strong lateral motions of his legs alternated with long seconds of gliding as he rode the momentum of his efforts. Aragorn opened his eyes again, trying to weigh his progress. He was now about two hundred ells removed from the eastern bank. Twice that distance lay between him and the far shore, but his path was not perpendicular. The downstream route was longer, but this way he had to waste less energy fighting the current.

The river flowed more swiftly now, as he drew on towards its middle. A crest of water broke against Aragorn's back, and Gollum yelped indignantly as he was splashed with the icy spray. The Ranger expected a string of creative curses, but apparently the creature appreciated the gravity of the situation, for he made no sound. Drawing in a deep breath and a mouthful of icy water, Aragorn spared the strength to say, with as much confidence as he could muster; 'Hold fast. The worst is behind us.'

Anduin waited five strokes before it proved him wrong.

Aragorn's right leg was weakening, and at the nadir of his kick it was no longer parallel to the surface. Instead it drifted downward, and though he tried to correct this deficiency in his technique the newly-healed muscles were hesitant to obey him. On the fifth kick, his leg sagged further than before.

There was a sharp tug upon his ankle, as if a fist of ice had closed upon it and yanked, hauling him at once downstream and towards the riverbed. Startled, he foundered. His cry of dismay was muted by an influx of water as he sank below the surface, his right hand flailing helplessly in the air. The deep-water current dragged harder, and for a moment he feared that he would be swept away.

Then his left shoulder jerked, resisting. His wrist stung, and pain shot down towards his body as the wet rope chafed the palm of his hand. The pain roused him, and he remembered Gollum and the raft.

His right hand flew, clutching at something chilled and slippery – but firm. Aragorn kicked violently downward, driving his feet into the subversive eddy and propelling himself up and out of its insidious grip. His head broke the surface and he scrabbled against the log, choking and sputtering, his lungs burning in his breast.

Gollum, doubtless panicked by this sudden calamity, began to shriek and to struggle, rocking against his bonds. Aragorn wanted to shout out a command for stillness, but as he was struggling merely to breathe speech eluded him. Instead he tried to right himself so that he could ease his grip upon what he now realized was the prisoner's forearm. But he moved too slowly and Gollum once more proved stronger than he looked. Wrenching himself to the right, away from Aragorn, he succeeded in upending the raft. Aragorn's right hand lost its hold and his left arm was extended violently as the length of driftwood capsized.

Horror froze the Ranger as his captive vanished below the rushing waters. Hours seemed to pass as he stared in mute dismay at the overturned board, though in truth his heart beat once, then twice. Before the third staccato knell rang against his ribs, he gripped the rope with his left hand and the board with his right and rolled it towards him. Gollum, spitting and apoplectic with rage, emerged from the water like a sea-serpent.

'Be still!' Aragorn cried, as he should have done before. 'Be still, or you shall drown!'

'Curse us and splash us! Drownses us, precious! Drownses us!' Gollum shrieked.

Unable to ease back onto his side and unwilling to linger longer in the chaos of the river's heart, Aragorn shoved the board ahead of him. Gollum howled as again the frigid waters broke against him, but the Ranger closed his ears to the creature's indignant noises. Now on his belly, he gripped the raft with both hands and pushed it before him, kicking with all the strength in his legs.

He moved swiftly, bobbing his head up to inhale, and down to eject a cloud of roiling bubbles. His toes were searing with a fiery agony now, and his fingers were numb. He could feel them growing thick and clumsy, and he drove his right hand between Gollum and the bundle of clothing. Wedged fast, it held. His left hand was safely tucked under the rope, and he pushed onward.

In Rivendell in winter, swimming in the Bruinen was strictly prohibited. The water that rushed down from the mountains was too cold to be borne by elf or by man-child. The ponds froze solid, and the river-bank was rimmed with ice. Once – only once – Aragorn had disobeyed, flaunting the ban on swimming. Weary of winter activities, he had shucked off his layers and waded out into the deep water. Thirteen and defiant, he had refused to admit to himself that he was growing too cold. When at last he had found the good sense to remove himself from the water he had been half-stupid with the chill of it. Somehow numb feet had found their way back to the house, where swift rewarming and a long scolding had awaited him. When the reprimand was over, he remembered lying in bed, a hot stone at his feet and blankets piled to the tip of his nose, while his mother sang. Warmth and peace and a gentle hand upon his brow…

Aragorn gasped, sucking in yet another lungful of Anduin. His thoughts were growing muddled. The pain in his limbs was gone, but in its place it had left only leaden uselessness. The muscles of his thighs still remembered how to kick, but below the knees his legs were without sensation. His hands could not grasp. Even the burning anguish in his wounded arm was gone.

He tried to blink through the frost forming on his eyelids, to clear his vision that he might measure the distance yet to travel. He could not. He was no longer even certain whether he was moving westward, or east, or merely floating downstream to the south. He would float for hours, unable to move, unable to think, unable at last to breathe. When the cold took him and he knew no more, Anduin would bear him over Rauros Falls and sweep his moldering bones down into the Sea.

Gollum was silent now, or else Aragorn's ears were choked with ice and he could no longer hear him. Strength was forgotten. The desire to survive was no more. His head slipped beneath the surface, and it was only the last feeble, habitual jerks of what had once been his legs that raised it up again. He drew in a tortured breath. It sent daggers of anguish through his ribs, and that saddened him. It was such a pity that his last breath should bring with it no pleasure, no peace. In sleep alone there was peace. He had tried. In the end he had failed, but at least… at least he had tried.

Serenely, quietly, he sank into the river. Only his left hand, stubbornly bound to the driftwood litter, remained in the cold morning air. Sleep and peace, he thought…

Then his sinking knee scraped against the slick stones of Anduin's bed.