He'd heard the story from his grandmother many, many times. It had happened when he was too young to walk, barely crawling. His mother for a minute or two hadn't kept an eye on him, and when she turned around, he'd been gone, out the door left slightly open for a summer breeze to waft in from over the river.
They didn't have any front steps, so that had been lucky. He was terrible at steps. Instead, it was an easy crawl down the gently sloping path to the river. Nobody had been around outside, and he didn't mind being alone.
He loved the river. It wasn't much of a river where it went past his home, more of a shallow creek, but he loved it just the same. The way it flowed, almost squirming, through the low ditch, the squish of the mud, the shining of the fish under the water. He wasn't big enough yet to swim, but he'd paddled in the water before, and he'd almost, almost touched a fish.
Young as he was, he knew for a fact he'd be in for it from his mother if he so much as dipped in a finger. So he didn't, instead poking into the muddy banks, fingering pebbles (they were not food, as he had found out the hard way), and staring at the current making swirls in the translucent water. Eventually, he made his way farther downstream.
He found a small sapling reaching its roots into the muck of the stream bed, and gazed at it with big eyes, for it seemed gigantic to him. He looked up to see the green leaves dancing, but the sun was very bright that day. It hurt his eyes. He squeezed them shut and shook his head to clear the sharp brightness from his vision. He was careful not to look up anymore.
Instead he looked down. This was a world he hadn't seen much before, as he was too often carried. The roots of the young tree dug into the wet soil, reaching downwards in a messy tangle of brown, dirty, strings. He tried to untangle them with one hand, but the thick ones were too strong and the thinner ones broke.
How far did the roots go down, he wondered? With his tiny fingers, dirt already under his nails, he scooped away small handfuls of mud, stopping only to wipe his hands on his by now filthy clothing. He forgot all else, his mind consumed with his patient burrowing. It wasn't hard. The soil was wet and soft, and it felt so nice. His hole wasn't very big or very deep. He didn't mind.
All too soon, he heard voices calling his name. He stopped suddenly, clenching muddy earth in his tiny fist. They sounded worried, but at the time he didn't care. He didn't want to be looked for. He didn't want to be found.
Too late. They'd seen him. Feet were rushing over to him, kicking dirt onto the roots he'd uncovered, trampling the ground with too many footprints. They didn't care. They didn't care!
His mother's arms scooped him up and held him tightly, babbling with relief. He struggled, cried. She wouldn't let him down. Didn't she understand? He didn't want to be held. He wanted to go back down!
Wiping his muddy cheek, she kissed him, holding him tighter. He wailed. No! Put me down!
"Don't you ever do that again!" she said. "I thought you'd fallen into- I thought-" she couldn't finish. "Look at you. I'm so glad you're all right." She ruffled his baby curls and kissed him again.
No! No no no!
"Oh, Smeagol, my love, what would I do without you?"