Skip and Tracy were otter siblings who lived in a holt under the roots of an old willow tree. Every morning Mum and Dad said the same thing before they let the two pups out to play. “Stay close to the banks, you two. The middle of the river is strong, and it will not ask whether you are ready.” Tracy always nodded and said, “Yes, Dad.” Skip nodded too, but his whiskers twitched, and his eyes slid towards the dark, fast water in the middle. He had never been allowed to touch it, which made him want to touch it more than anything.
One sunny afternoon the pups were sliding down the mud bank, splash after splash, when Skip suddenly stopped with his nose in the air. “Tracy. Tracy! Look. What is THAT?” Something bright red was bobbing down the middle of the river (it was a basketball, and someone accidentally threw it into the river upstream). It was round and shiny, and it spun slowly as it floated, flashing in the sunlight like a giant berry. Neither otter had ever seen anything like it, and for a moment both of them simply stared with their mouths open.
“It is not a fruit,” said Tracy slowly. “It is not a stone either. Stones sink.”
“It is the best thing I have ever seen,” said Skip, already hopping from paw to paw. “Come on, let’s follow it!” The pups trotted along the bank, keeping pace with the red ball as it swept downstream. Skip’s tail swished back and forth and he could hardly breathe for excitement. Tracy kept her eyes on the ball too, but her brow was wrinkled, and she kept glancing at the swirling water around it.
“Skip, wait a moment,” said Tracy. “Look how fast it is going. The water in the middle is pulling it along like a leaf. If we swim out there, it will pull us too.”
“But we are strong swimmers,” Skip said. “You said so yourself. Remember when I beat you across the pond?”
“The pond does not have a current.” Tracy pointed a paw at the water. “And what if we reach it and cannot get back? We could ask Dad to help us. He might know what it is.”
“By the time we fetch Dad, it will be gone!” Skip’s voice went high and squeaky. “It is right there, Tracy. I can almost touch it. I will be quick, I promise.” Tracy opened her mouth to argue, but the red ball drifted a little closer to the bank, and Skip did not wait to hear another word. He crouched low, wiggled his back legs, and leapt into the river.
The water closed over Skip’s head, and it was colder than he had expected. He bobbed up, coughing, and paddled hard towards the ball. It was a good start, and for a few strokes he felt like the cleverest otter in the whole world. Then the current grabbed him. It tugged at his legs, spun him sideways, and dragged him away from the bank so fast that the trees blurred. Skip kicked with all four paws, but for every stroke he took, the river took two. “Tracy!” he spluttered, swallowing a mouthful of water. “Tracy, it is too strong!”
Tracy was already running along the bank, her paws sliding in the mud. She snatched up a long, trailing willow branch and stretched it out over the water as far as she could reach. “Skip! Grab on! Grab the branch!” Skip flung out a paw. His claws scraped the very tip of the leaves, and for one heartbeat he held on. Then the river gave a great heave, the leaves tore loose in his grip, and he was swept round the bend with a last, small cry. “SKIP!” Tracy shouted until her throat hurt, but there was no answer except the rushing of the water.
Tracy ran home faster than she had ever run in her life. She burst into the holt, gasping, and the whole story tumbled out in pieces. Mum’s paws flew to her mouth. Dad was already out of the door. All through the evening and into the dark, the whole family searched. Dad swam the shallows with a lantern of fireflies. Mum called Skip’s name along every bend of the river until her voice cracked. Tracy checked every reed bed and every hollow log, her heart thumping, and with every empty one, she whispered, “Please be there. Please.” Nobody slept. The moon rose, crossed the sky, and sank again, and still there was no sign of Skip.
At first light, Tracy crept down to the very edge of the river, where it met the wide grey sea. The waves were rolling gently onto a sandy beach, and something small and brown lay in the shallows. It was clinging with both paws to a bright red ball.
“SKIP!” Tracy splashed across the sand and threw her arms around her brother. Skip was shivering and covered in sand, and his whiskers were drooping. But he was alive, and he was holding on to the ball as if it were the only solid thing left in the world. “I held on all night,” he croaked. “It kept floating. It would not let me sink.”
“You silly, silly otter,” said Tracy, and she was laughing and crying at the same time. “You brave, silly otter.”
Mum and Dad came running, and for a long time nobody said anything at all, because they were too busy hugging. Then Dad set Skip down and looked him straight in the eye. “Skip. We told you about the middle of the river a hundred times. A hundred and one, actually. What were you thinking?”
“I was not thinking,” Skip mumbled, scuffing his paw in the sand. “I just saw the ball and I went.”
“That is exactly it,” said Mum, but her voice was soft. She turned to Tracy and stroked her head. “And you. You thought before you moved. You stayed on the bank and tried to help from where it was safe. Then you ran for us, and you never stopped looking. That is what makes us proud.” Tracy’s ears went pink. She had never felt so happy and so tired at once.
“There is an old saying for this,” Dad said, settling down between his pups. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. It means that those who jump first and think later often end up in trouble, while the careful ones stay out of it, or at least know when to ask for help.”
“Who is the fool?” asked Skip, in a very small voice.
“You were,” said Dad, “this time. But a fool who learns turns into somebody wise. Now, let us get you home and warm.”