The Snow Smial
For the prompt "winter weather"
I enter the parlor just in time to hear Pervinca shout "And stop being a baby-you can wait like everyone else!"
She flounces past me in a whirl of petticoats and dark curls, and I hear her mutter something about annoying brothers.
A little gulping noise makes me turn. Pippin is sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, little arms around his knees, a tear making its way down one chubby cheek.
"Pippin?" I hurry to kneel on the rug beside him. "What's the matter, Pip?"
He looks away, embarrassed to be caught crying. He's in his tweens now, and insists that he's "too old" to be babied. But he can never resist me, and after a moment he gives in.
"I'm hungry," he says in a small voice. "And supper isn't for hours and the cooks are too busy to make me a snack. They won't let me in the kitchen either. And Vinca snapped at me." His face crumples at the memory. "I was excited about the feast, that's all."
Pippin loves the Yule feast. And why shouldn't he? His relatives and friends (including me) come from all over the Shire, there's food and drink enough for almost three hundred hobbits, and there's dancing afterward. But it's only mid-afternoon, and the festivities start at six.
"Here," I say, fishing a butterscotch candy out of my pocket. A little smile flickers at the corners of Pippin's mouth, and as he sucks at the candy I try to think of a way to keep him amused until suppertime.
"Pippin," I say after a moment's thought, "Have you ever built a snow smial?"
"A what?" Pippin looks up at you through his wet lashes.
"A snow smial. C'mon, get your coat and I'll show you how."
Pippin and I stand up, and he takes my hand as we walk to the mudroom together. On the way, we pass the closed doors of the dining hall, & I can hear clattering and voices coming from inside. I squeeze Pippin's little fingers and keep walking.
Pippin can't find his plaid scarf, and then he can't find his other mitten, and then he needs help tugging his snow boots over his furry feet. Actually, I end up needing a little help with your own boots. A heavy snowstorm is rare in the Shire, and I haven't had one for at least three years, which means I haven't worn boots for quite a while. But the snow is falling steadily today, and when at last I step outside the crunch under my boots tells me it's the perfect snow for building things with. Pippin follows you a bit timidly. He hasn't had much experience in snow—when he was a little hobbit, he caught a winter sickness that hurt his lungs, and he hasn't been allowed in the snow much since then. But he's stronger now, healthier, and his round eyes aren't too big for his face anymore.
"Come on, Pip," I say, holding out a mittened hand. And with a bound, he leaps out into the snow. Snowflakes fall on his upturned face, and he giggles.
"The snowflakes are huge!" he says. Then he's off, running around and around, stumbling through the snowdrifts and leaving big clumsy footprints behind. You laugh and look up at the grey sky. Suddenly something hits you square in the back. A snowball!
"Peregrin Took!" I shout, whirling around. Whomp! Another snowball knocks my hat off, and I get a face full of soft, powdery snow. Spluttering, I bend to scoop up my own ball, then change my mind and head straight for Pippin instead. He's fast, but I'm faster, and in an instant I have him pinned down.
"Help! Help!" he shrieks as I tickle his ribs and stuff snow down his coat. When I'm satisfied, I let him go and help him shake the snow out of his clothes.
"Now how about making that snow smial?" I ask.
"How do you…" Pippin looks dubiously at the snow around him.
I laugh. "It'll work, I promise. Look, first you choose a spot and stamp the snow down. This'll make the floor."
Pippin and I stamp until a wide circle of snow is tamped firmly down.
"Now what?" Pippin blinks up at me. He has snowflakes caught in his lashes.
"Now we form blocks out of the snow, like this…" I demonstrate, "and we stack them up to make walls. If we're careful, we can even make a roof!"
Pippin's mouth fell open. "It really is like a smial!"
"Of course it is!" I laugh.
Suddenly Pippin's arms are around my waist, and he kisses my cheek, wet and a little bit sloppy. "You're so smart," he whispers. Then he's off again, busily building snow blocks. I smile after him.
Pippin carts blocks back and forth until his breath shows in frosty puffs and his face is brick red. I don't suppose you look any less hot and tired—I've been building just as fast as he has. We stop halfway through to sneak into the kitchen for a couple of apples, leaving wet, snowy footprints behind us, and we eat our forbidden snack inside the half finished smial, giggling between crunches. But at last the snow smial is finished. Pippin takes my hand again as we survey our work.
"It looks nice," he says simply.
Before I can reply, I hear a sound behind us. It's Pervinca, well bundled up and looking embarrassed.
"Hi," she says. "Um, I like the house."
"It's a smial," Pippin says. But he offers his other hand to his sister. "You can come in if you want."
Vinca has brought some more contraband snacks as a peace offering, and the three of us crowd into the snow smial together.
"Good thing we made it big enough for three!" Pippin exclaims. He's still holding my hand in his, and he grins at me.
I suddenly don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. Instead I just squeeze his hand again, and the three of us stay cuddled together, telling stories and even singing a few Yule carols, until the bell rings for supper.
"Oh!" says Pippin. "The Yule feast! I forgot all about it!"