I will tell this story straight and let it be known that I am dying. My wounds are deep, my lungs burn with each breath I take and I imagine death waiting patiently by the door of the wigwam. Not yet, I keep saying, not yet.

Not yet, he whispers back in my dreams, but soon.

I will tell you how I got here because blow me down if this isn't a story for this small part of history to know.

So I was wanting to get to Illinois. I was from a small town in North Carolina, right there on the coast. My mother was French, my Father British. So when the wars broke out, I was in trouble. My father got called to war, refused and was hanged. My mother would be next...inevitably. I had been surviving on my own for a while by that stage but when your mother says your father's gone and your home will be your grave, your independence goes to hell.

"Pick a place Marie! Pick a place on the map," she pulled out a map from the drawer by my old bedroom window, "hurry,"

I spied Illinois and remembered all the stories. All the adventures I had planned for myself in the Iroquois woods on the border of Wisconson in my head. Illinois.

"I'll get supplies and we'll go together to Illinois," said I defiantly.

"No, je ne vais pas laisser votre papa," she replied stubbornly, "Je ne vais pas courir a partir de la guerre. Je vais montrer aucune peur ni hone."

"Alors pourquois devrais-je?" I fired back. If she won't run. Then why should I?

"Pas Britannique, pas Francaise. Mais vous pourriez etre a la fois."

That was an odd thing to say to me. I'm not French nor British but I could be both...

Anyway, those were her last words to me before I grabbed a bag and the map and my Father's uniform and replaced my dress with it and made for Illinois. Delving deep into the North Carolina woods without so much as a 'Au Revoir'.

It didn't take me long to realise I was useless with directions. The map only got me so far before I realised that perhaps I was heading East and not West. I had planned a solid West before blanching North and continuing on. This was a week or so into my travels and I had kept my head down right from the get go. I'm not a hero, I'm not a tracker. All I had was a sublime sense of adventure which made enduring the gunfire and the deathly still nights that much easier.

I had found a small Delaware Village in the middle of nowhere and had found myself curiously welcomed. I had my uniform stripped off of me and replaced with a beautiful but practical Delaware dress and moccasins. They were thick and warm and just the right fit which amazed me since my mother could never get my size first time. They fed me and fixed my uniform before giving it back to me in a new sling-bag. Only then did we start trying to communicate properly. We tried English, French, a Delaware dialect before we settled for making our communication attempts a game of charades at night by the communal fire and even then, though it was fun, we were stuck and I ended up lost while they stared at me kindly but with pity.

I was there for four days before I made it known that I'd be leaving. I made my way to a man I'd never seen before but assumed was apart of the family. He was carving away at a piece of wood when he looked up at the sound of my footfalls. He watched me approach cautiously, almost puzzled.

I arrived and was about to attempt to communicate my wishes when he spoke to me in English with a smooth flowing grandeur, perfect and boldly better than my own sometimes,

"You're not quite where you're supposed to be, are you..."

I was stunned. He nodded patiently and went back to what he was doing.

"Illinois...was...is where I'm headed,"

He lifted his head, surprise on his features,

"You're a long way from there."

"I know."

He looked at me thoughtfully, placing his woodwork down to give me his full attention.

"You have the eyes of someone with a story. How came you to this place?"

I paused a moment. I revelled in the sad thought that I had become a weary traveller with a story only mine was a week old and not a good one. I recounted my tale as quickly as I could, I had been doing well with not thinking about it and now, telling my tale was opening wounds a gave no time to open. They were fresher than fresh.

I sat down and crossed my legs, trying not to let the pain flow too easily. It never matters how old you are, when you mother dies and even your father, the world falls from your feet regardless of wisdom.

"Not good." He grunted. Even as I sat, half broken, I didn't get the sense of bewilderment that might have come with telling someone an unexpected tale of bereavement. I appreciated that more than words could say.

"I am Chingachgook. My sons and I are heading West to Ken-tukee. You will come with us and when we reach the villages of the Delaware, I will show you which way to go."

And so that was that. I daren't question this man not that he was asking me anything...

But that was how I met Chingachgook. I didn't meet the sons until it was time to leave three days later. Over the course of those days, not only did I speak with Chingachgook but with the people of the village. It was magnificent finally being able to speak to them and be spoken too with mutual understanding. I imagined that Chingachgook got very tired of translating our conversations but he never showed it. I did manage to learn a Delaware word or two but I don't remember them now.

The morning of our last day, Chingachgook and myself were standing on the edges of the woodland waiting for his two sons to arrive. Chingachgook looked non too pleased with a white man with two Delaware women on his arms, talking gaily with them while they displayed no small amount of attachment.

This man and Chingachgook exchanged a few words whilst the women wondered off reluctantly with Chingachgook's stoic and steady gaze trailing after them. I stood awkwardly to the side, astonished at the white man speaking a native language until at last they turned to me.

"Nathaniel," Chingachgook said stonily, "My white son."

Nathaniel nodded and we shook hands.

"Marie," I offered and Nathaniel accepted though he seemed baffled.

"Ah. That is your name." Chingachgook said abruptly, turning to me.

"You never asked."

Chingachgook smiled at me then. I had managed to say the right thing it seemed.

"You're travelling with us to Ken-tutee, I hear," Nathaniel said factually, tightening his belt.

"Illinois actually. Your...father...kindly offered to take me as far as Kentucky with you before he pointed me in the right direction."

"Illinois? How'd you get here?" he looked perplexed and I scrunched my nose at my poor explanation. Chingachgook filled in the blanks much to my dishonor.

"Bad with directions." Was all he said and I stared at him blankly.

Nathaniel laughed and on that little moment, I feel mine and Chingachgook's relationship was based.

"Where is Uncas?" the elderly man asked Nathaniel with a frown. The son shrugged,

"I'd tell you he's with a woman but –"

"I would not believe you. Life is good but not that good."

"Why's that?" I asked, perhaps a little too upfront.

"Uncas, despite the man he is, is not interested in finding a woman. That's why we're off too Ken-tukee, to find him a wife. They're the last two."

"Last two of what?"

"The Mohican lineage. Uncas is my father's last hope..."

"And I will die waiting," Chingachgook grumbled. Nathaniel pulled a face at me before he turned and shouted for his brother to which a voice from nowhere responded.

From the border of the village stepped a young man. Tall and lean with cheekbones as sharp as knives and almond eyes that were sharper still. His beauty was unmatched by any man I had ever seen, French, English or Indian. He emerged alone and walked alone and made no subtle glances back that may have indicated a secret someone.

"What took you, my Son?" Chingachgook asked in English and I was surprised to find that he, too, responded easily in the English language.

"Helping Sachem with the wigwam fire."

He turned to me expectantly,

"Uncas, meet Marie. She'll be travelling with us." Nathaniel said with amusement.

Uncas grunted and set off without a word. Chingachgook sighed and followed wearily.

We marched on for a good hour or so without a word before Nathaniel drew level with me.

"Here," he handed me a knife and a tomahawk.

"Thank you," I tucked them into my own makeshift belt, "Where'd you-"

"They're mine. Father thought it would be a good idea for you to have them because apparently you arrived with nothing but the clothes on your back and a bag of supplies."

"Truth."

"Dangerous. Keep them close,"

I nodded obediently and waited for him to go on ahead of me, only he didn't. Our attention was drawn to Uncas coming out from the undergrowth in front of us. He made eye contact with us, waving briefly before continuing on. I watched him for a while, his enigmatic self walking straight backed and steadily with a calm self-assurance.

"Uncas doesn't want to go to Ken-tukee," Nathaniel said thoughtfully. I glanced at him,

"I would never have guessed," I replied ironically, "He's been neither here nor there for a while. Why not?"

"That's the trouble with being the last of anything and in your prime. He has a duty to his father and his ancestors but, unfortunately, that puts some restrictions on his life."

"The last of the Mohicans." I said softly, "and what of your life?"

"My father adopted me when my parents died. I was only a boy. He sent us off to school to learn English and the white ways. Said it's easier to understand people when you know where they're coming from."

"Ah..." a revelation it was, "That explains that then. And you two have always gotten along? Being adopted and all..."

"It certainly does. Uncas has only just made it past his 25th summer. I'm currently in my 32nd. Though I was there before him, who was I to judge at the time? And he grew up knowing nothing better so we have our ups and downs. I've hit him a few times and he's hit me. We're brothers. Couldn'ta hoped for better one."

Nathaniel smiled fondly at the back of his Mohican brother who was being spoken to by his father rather sternly but every so often Chingachgook would give his son an affectionate slap on the back and Uncas would look his father in the eye and then return his gaze to whatever thought was first and for most in his mind. His voice was deep and sometimes it rolled back to us and it reminded me of a river. The more I looked, the more I saw a longing. He often stopped and gazed at his surroundings and sometimes he'd stop and stare blankly at a shrub. I sensed memories. But he would never voice them. I took a pause in my stride and saw his rigidity as a way of keeping himself together. Sowing up the bitter seams of want and putting forth the exterior motive of 'must' and he strove for it purposefully.

"The sun is setting." Chingachgook noted through a hole in the canopy, turning to us, "We should make camp here. George Road is not far North of here so we must be cautious."

The brothers agreed and busied themselves with making camp. Firewood from here, bits of food from there and berries they picked along the way.

"Can you make a fire?" Chingachgook asked, kneeling down by a little groove in the ground and beckoning me over from my seat on a tree root.

I knelt beside him, looking at the groove where he had started piling bits of crackling on top of each other.

"I can make one with matches and in an urn..." I looked up apologetically but he simply nodded and said,

"Good." And got up, "Hawkeye! We're going hunting."

He said that for my benefit while I stared at the tiny pile of wood.

"Same principle." I heard Chingachgook call back to me as I watched Uncas side step my little project, narrowly avoiding a misstep as he fiddled with his musket. Chingachgook said something to him and he paused, looking down at me. He pulled a box of matches from out his pack and lobbed it to me. I rolled my eyes and turned to glance at Chingachgook's back.

"Now it is." I answered, shaking the matches for emphasise but I don't think he heard me. As for Uncas, I got me his first smile.

"He does that a lot. Says things that make more sense to him than anyone else."

"It made perfect sense. I was just worried he was going to leave me without matches."

"He was going too."

"He was?"

Uncas nodded and made to sit down and rummage through his pack after having thrown his musket to Nathaniel who followed his father into the woods,

"Good luck," he said wistfully and disappeared. Uncas sat not far from me, fiddling with his pack. From out of it, he pulled a few pieces of jerky and chewed on it savagely while I lay on my stomach trying to get the fire going. I was blowing it relentlessly, albeit, gently. I managed to light something and whatever I'd lit was smoking profusely.

"It's going to go out," Uncas commented nonchalantly.

"Yup." I sat up and looked at him while he chewed.

"What?"

"Got anything alcoholic?"

"My father has some whisky from the camp. Why, got yourself a burn?"

"May I have some?"

Uncas went through his father's pack and pulled a bottle from its contents and handed it to me, watching quizzically to see what would happen next.

I took a swig and gave it back to Uncas with a nod of thanks. He had stopped chewing and I could see a small amount of boyish excitement in him. I grabbed two nearby rocks and dashed them together and as a spark took flight, I spurted the alcohol. My plan worked like a charm. The fire roared gloriously bright and wonderfully warm against the chill of the evening as the sun sank further and further behind the trees. I sat back and admired my handy work.

"Not bad, is it?" said I with elation but Uncas looked stunned.

"Nope...a little unorthodox but...good."

"I'll accept that." I grinned at my fire, imagining it grinning back at me.

"I won't tell my father you used his whisky to light the fire."

Chingachgook and his son are the same people, I swear. I looked at him blankly. The second blank look I'd given that day. He caught my eye and winked without a smile, mid-chew and I realised he was jesting. He handed me some jerky and we chewed contentedly together in a companiable silence until the others got back with two small rabbits.

Chingachgook knelt by my fire and nodded appreciatively,

"It is a good fire."

Then he went for his pack. Uncas and I shared a look when our older pulled out his bottle of whisky and studied it with displeasure. He looked at my fire a little less fondly the next time and commented grumpily,

"Resourceful... but not ideal."

Nathaniel laughed from behind me and Uncas continued to chew, enduring a small shove of his head.

"You weren't going to tell me that was a bad idea?" I stated cooly as Uncas roasted the two rabbits a little while later.

"You already knew otherwise you would have told me what you planned to do in the first place."

"Touchè. But then again, so did you."

"I did." He answered without missing a beat.

"Alright, then, look at you with your snide sense of humour."

He looked at me evenly and with a small smile.

"What of you?"

"What do you mean?" I asked in puzzlement. I told them all everything about me. What else could there have been?

"Your accent doesn't quite fit these parts. You're not from the Frontier."

"No..." it was a good observation and I eyed Uncas up steadily, taking note of a quiet intellect, a deep understanding and awareness of those that surrounded him. In the times he wasn't speaking, he was listening and apparently he was listening with a keen ear and watching with his sharp eyes. He looked up expectantly but didn't push me into an answer.

"My father was hanged because he didn't go to war. He was British. My mother was...killed because she wouldn't leave my father. She was French."

"I see. I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Uncas didn't hurry over the subject. These stories make people uncomfortable. He just sat there and let it be. It was rather a blessing not to have it brushed aside. His father had been the same and his courtesy towards not correcting my untold story for his sons touched me. Again I say, Uncas and Chingachgook were the same person. My eyes wafted over to the resting Mohican elder, his eyes transfixed on the fire before him. He said that he saw a story in me when we first met. Looking at him amidst the fire light, the shadows dancing on his face, the wrinkles here but not there, tattoos fading there but not here, I thought I saw a thousand stories. What were those thoughts that whirled in front of him? I still wonder because I never got the chance to ask.

"You can speak French, then."

I turned my attention back to Uncas with my eyebrows raised.

"Can I?"

He looked at me without reserve, rising to my witty challenge.

"Can you?"

I smiled,

"Yeah. My mother said because I was neither French nor English, I could be both."

"My father says it's good to be one but also to know where the other comes from."

"Nathaniel said as much."

"We hunt not just to eat but to understand that when at last we are hunted, we know why."

"Vengeance?"

"Not quite."

And that concluded that conversation. The rabbit was dry and left an odd tangy taste in my mouth but it was food and it did the trick for a body aching and hungry from a long days trek.

We followed the likes of George Road for 3 weeks, staying near but never walked it. In that time, I was taught to use my knife and tomahawk correctly. I grew stronger, fitter and more worldly. I learned a lot, not just from my new companions, but from the wilderness. I grew wiser but my directions didn't get any better. Twice I was set the task to lead the pack, twice Chingachgook said,

"Nevermind."

But, over our 3 weeks of trekking, nothing eventful happened. Until it finally did. Gunshots and shocked screams, neigh-ing horses and screaming braves. Screams of war. I'd only heard it once before and the effects are pretty devastating to one's nerves.

"Help? Or go?" Chingachgook asked us all as we gathered together, listening to the commotion. Uncas was getting his musket ready. Nathaniel was more cautious,

"We don't know how many they are. We go to help and risk never making it Ken-tukee."

Chingachgook nodded but I could see the wonder in his face. The age old question, if I do not go, will I live forever wondering if I could have done something for the right people? He looked at me for Uncas had already decided what he was to do. Chingachgook would not leave his son, Nathaniel was reserved about the situation. My choice would decide our fates.

"I think we should take a look..." I suggested, not in and not out, my morals intact.

"You will be a distraction. Walk straight into it. Make them see you. We will be in the undergrowth. Surprise attack. Make yourself known." Chingachgook squeezed my shoulder and then he and the sons disappeared and I was left to wonder up onto the road feeling rather...not good about the idea of walking straight into a fight. A knife and a tomahawk was all I had. That, and being a distraction was not what I suggested.

"Chingachgook..." I muttered angrily.

I jogged down the road towards the commotion and realised the plan was doomed to fail. English soldiers were being outnumbered by Huron warriors. Their scrambling for honour and order killing them more quickly than would they have settled for firing at will.

I was shocked. Unsure of what to do. But then again, it would be immoral to have turned and run and besides, there was no reason for the attack. The British were clearly not looking for one. A brave man was prepared to take the Huron on with only a sword whilst defending two cowering women. A man after my own heart, thought I, admiring his cutlass. So I legged it. I raced into battle with my tomahawk brandished and went straight for the first man I saw about to get his throat cut. I surprised the Huron with my arrival and buried my tomahawk in his head which disgusted me. My body seized up upon the crunch of bone. And then I couldn't get it out. So I left it and lashed daringly with my knife. I got a few but not before Chingachgook, Uncas and Nathaniel came roaring in with their clattering muskets and perfect shots that probably saved us all. I stopped my aimless lashings when I finally outdid a Huron warrior and stepped back mildly horrified. Surrounded by death and the smell of blood was wafting towards me and I felt myself gag. I looked around and spied a Huron warrior taking aim. I followed his line of fire and landed on the two women. I looked back at the Huron. I saw that Nathaniel had seen him too and so I stupidly decided that it was a good idea to step in this Huron's way. I did this and instantly regretted it. I shut my eyes and squeezed tight, waiting to die.

A shot went off some moments later and suddenly everything was still. I opened my eyes to find myself still very much alive.

"You fool!" Nathaniel yelled at me, rising from his knees.

"You slow!" I fired back, "How long does it take to shoot somebody?"

"You could have been shot."

"So could have you!"

"You had no gun! No nothing!"

"And yet you took forever to shoot."

"Don't pin this on me!"

"I won't if you stop arguing with me."

Nathaniel did as I suggested and turned his attention to the trio now standing frazzled and disorientated one behind the other.

"Who are you?" The soldier demanded. Nathaniel smirked

"You're welcome."

"That's Nathaniel, Chingachgook, Uncas," I said ignoring Nathaniel and his contemptuous regard, and pointing to each in turn including myself, "Marie."

The soldier, still weary of us, said nothing. Instead the elder of the two girls, dark haired and cautious but with a subtle fire about her, stepped forward bravely.

"This is Major Duncan Haywards of the 33rd regiment." (which meant nothing) "And I am Cora Munro and this is my sister, Alice. We're indebted to you."

"What happened to you?" Nathaniel ventured while Chingachgook and Uncas went about pick-pocketing the dead. I was temporarily distracted by that, that I missed the story – something about ambush and a Mohawk actually being a Huron. They were on their way to Albany.

I came to when Uncas brushed passed me and the others to scatter the horses. This brought about no small amount of distress from the young Munro girl, who flew over Uncas to try and stop them,

"What are you doing? We need-!"

But Uncas' firm grasp and steady gaze locked on her and she on him and suddenly they both froze. Taken aback by what was in front of them, so much so that they stumbled a little. I cocked my head and then the moment was over.