Chapter 19. We cross that river when we come to it

I feel more than see the great horse pause as we reach the edge of the dark, wide, slow-flowing water. As a matter of course, I do the same. I do not have it in me to take the lead at this point, to plunge forward confidently into unknown waters. Truth be told, I am not sure I would step out into known waters (such as that earlier ford) of my own doing, without prompting.

Not for the first time, I find myself missing my hobbits and wishing for the help and encouragement found in their kind and cheerful coaxing. Come along, Bill. All is well... Even when the cheer in their voices is forced, the kindness is never feigned.

My dearest Sam... not knowing what lies ahead, and yet understanding that we must go that way, I know that if he were with us now, he would stroke my neck while gathering his courage, then set his jaw and take firm hold of my rope. And then he would step into the dark waters, displaying confidence belied by the smell of uncertainty wafting from him.

But my companion is speaking, so low that he might be talking to himself, yet the words are obviously meant for me. If you find you cannot keep to your feet, then swim! ...aim your nose at the farther bank and kick your legs to propel yourself forward and keep from sinking.

I nod my understanding though I know little enough about swimming save that some Hobbits (such as the three cousins I claim as my own) know and practise the sport – and are thought to be daft on that account by most others of their kind (such as my own dear hobbit).

Stay right by my side! my companion continues, and then, somewhat fiercely, he adds, I will not let the current sweep you away.

And for some reason, the white one's words echo in my memory: I will not let him fall. And yet, after we crossed that other ford, the Master lay on the ground at his feet.

I determine that I must be prepared for the current to sweep me away, must be ready to strike out swimming with all my strength until I can come to the far bank and feel solid earth beneath my feet again. For I know all too well and from bitter experience that a body may resolve to do what must be done with all the strength of will in that body's possession, and still be overcome by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

Should I be swept away and drowned, I will assign no blame to the great horse standing at my side. That is, if a drowned creature is even capable of assigning blame. Which, somehow, I rather doubt. But that is neither here nor there.

Ready? my companion says now. From the sound of it, he is bending his head towards me.

Quite, I answer, perhaps not the complete truth, but as true as sheer determination can make it.

As if we are a matched pair pulling a fine carriage behind us (rather a comical thought considering how tall my companion looms above me), we step off as one, eliciting matching splashes with our feet. 

I manage to suppress a shiver at the chill of the water on my lower shanks, even as I remember not-Merry chiding Youngest while crossing some nameless little rivulet some time ago: I hope you were not expecting bath-water!

And Youngest's surprising response, spoken under his breath as he splashed across the stream: ...but better than rain or rippling streams is Water Hot that smokes and steams...

At first, the moving waters gently tug at my lower legs, rising higher with every step I take. I shudder as the icy chill reaches my belly. The gentle tug is becoming an insistent pull, growing ever stronger as we make our way.

Of course I cannot see my feet, but I can feel the unevenness of the footing – a stretch of smooth going, perhaps part of the fallen-in bridge, that feels untrustworthy somehow, as if attempting to lull us into complacency. For another step at the end of a fairly long series of footsteps suddenly finds nothing underfoot; my forequarters plunge downwards and my shriek of surprise and fear is stifled by the waters that close over my nose before I can jerk my head clear of the surface and strike out with my forefeet. So this is what they call swimming?

The current slams me hard against my taller companion. Having kept his footing, though somehow I can perceive that much less of him rises above the surface of the water than was the case a moment ago, he stands firm against my onslaught even though one of my flailing hoofs strikes him sharply as we collide.

Once I have gained my stride (swimming, that is), the tall horse moves forward again and, pressed against his shoulder by the unrelenting current, I swim for all I am worth.

...at least until a sharp, stunning blow grazes my forward-most foreleg as it comes down. My other foreleg, reaching farther as I swim along, discovers a hard, smooth surface just ahead. Scrabbling, I manage to haul myself onto another smooth, firm segment of the ruined bridge. Here, farther from the bank we have just quitted, the waters come up to my withers, and I must set all the muscles of my body firmly to resist their steady pressure. But at least I am standing and not swept off my feet.

At the same time, my companion steps up onto the raised surface, once more looming over me rather than standing at almost the same height as my swimming self, by the faint shadow he makes, outlined by the stars above us. We stop as by common accord, blowing hard.

All right? he queries at last.

I have caught my breath by this time. Quite, I answer.

Very well. My companion's voice gives no sign of the hard kick I must have dealt him.

I raise my head a little higher and study the distance from where we stand amidst the flowing waters to the deeper darkness of the bank beyond, dappled with lighter spots marking the remnants of shattered white stone from the ruins lining the far side of the river. Foot by foot by foot by foot, as they say.

Even when swimming, that holds true, he chuckles, and I feel him reach over as he nudges me gently. Onward?

Let us not tarry, I say.

Together we step off, pacing along this little stretch of solidity for as long as it may last. When the end comes, I am not startled this time but strike out swimming, strongly and with enough control that I do not kick my companion again as the current forces me against him.

By this means, we make our way from one drowned slab of the ruined bridge to another, passing between broken pillars that once supported what must have been a wide and sturdy structure. I wonder to myself what sort of power could wreak such damage?

And then I decide I really do not wish to know.

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Author's note: The 'Water Hot' quote in this chapter comes from 'A Conspiracy Unmasked' in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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