I should have suspected long ago, really, Cora chided to herself. There was so much that was unusual for me...so much that did not make sense at the time, but now, I understand. I am not going mad. I am going to have a child.

It was a frightening thought that, at the same time, made her feel almost delirious with happiness. She had considered the possibility of pregnancy while in Albany, but the long move back to the cabin, and their communal stay in it, had put such ideas temporarily out of her mind. It had been something she had thought might not happen until later in their marriage, once they were properly settled within their own four walls. Now the cabin was built; but here they were, on the wrong side of the country, far from it.

They would simply have to return. As soon as possible, to avoid any complications. Cora did not know much about what her expectant state would bring over the next few months, but she was sure that the longer she waited, the more problems another two-week journey would pose.

What would Nathaniel think of such a proposition? She was soon to find out. Perhaps he would not be happy at this alteration to their plans to spend as much time here as was needed until his aunt got better—or failed to—but it could not be helped. Surely their having a baby, and ensuring its safe arrival in their own home, was more important than an ailing relative. She could only hope that Nathaniel would agree.

The nap had refreshed and relaxed her, and now Cora was beginning to grow hungry. Was it only the knowledge that a being was taking shape inside her, requiring nourishment, that made her think so? She pushed aside the hides and scooted over to the entrance of the wikwam, pulling back the flap—and shrieked in surprise as she saw Nathaniel right outside just preparing to come in. "Oh! You frightened me."

"Sorry," he said. "I should have been more noisy."

"Yes, you should have." Cora sighed and backed up, making room for him to come in. "You brought me dinner! Lovely."

"Well, it is not much but the best the cook could whip up at short notice. And it's not snake," Nathaniel teased, watching her set upon the meat. "Alice is not here?"

Cora shook her head. "I left her outside, much earlier. Perhaps she is at Tiskemanis' wikwam? Will you check in a little while? But first we must talk."

He smiled, amused at the way she was already talking and eating at the same time, with unusual vigor. "All right."

"Husband." Cora finished the portion of food and stared at Nathaniel, unable to keep the news to herself any longer. Then she realized she was beginning to blush, which was strange; it was not as if they had not discussed the possibility of progeny before, but she knew he was not in any way expecting what she was about to tell him. "Do you recall, last winter, when I asked you...how you would feel if we were to have a child?"

"Yes," Nathaniel said, his gaze suddenly intensifying.

"And...you said that it would be better if it waited. Until next year."

Nathaniel said nothing, but seemed not to be breathing.

"I think that...next year...has arrived." She smiled, very tentatively.

"When?" Nathaniel said, sounding a little strangled.

"I am not sure, but we must prepare for sometime in the early spring."

"No...I mean when? We were barely alone—"

"There were a few instances," Cora said, knowing her cheeks were heating still further. "We must go back at once, must we not?"

Nathaniel rolled backwards from his heels into a sitting position, looking as stunned now as she had expected him to (but not, thankfully, angry). "Must we?"

Cora knew instinctively that her attitude would have to stem from the view of wanting to be in their own home, rather than seeming that she simply did not want to be in the camp. With Alice she had been quite clear, but men did get offended so easily and she did not want him to misunderstand. "Well, I would like to prepare our home for the baby. I will need time for that, and I want to have my things around me when it comes." The quaver in her voice was not affected. To be back in the cabin was what she most desired, now more than ever. It seemed of utmost importance.

Nathaniel was quiet for a little while. "I suppose that is fair," he said at last. "Cora...this is...unforeseen. You should be wherever you will be comfortable, but if we are to leave, I must consult with Father."

Cora supposed that Chingachgook would have to know, and Uncas too, although she felt embarrassed at the idea of anyone else being made aware of her condition. It seemed like it should be a private thing, just between herself and Nathaniel...although that was scarcely possible. She nodded. "And we will go? As soon as possible, husband, before the weather changes again—next week?"

Nathaniel nodded, but as if he was not really listening to her.

"It is already the last month of summer," Cora reminded him. "Fall will be here by the time we can be back."

"You are right," he said. "I will talk to Father, and my brother."

"Are you not happy, Nathaniel?"

He gave her a weak smile that was all the more endearing for its uncertainty. "I think I'm afraid." Then he enfolded her in his arms and squeezed her so tightly that for a moment she could scarcely breathe, and murmured words of love in her ear.

Cora smiled back, relief flooding her. All would be well. Everything was going to work out. He would talk with his family, and they would leave together, returning to her own home, to prepare for the arrival of their first son or daughter. Surely it was God's own will that it be so.


Instinct had never yet led Uncas astray; he depended upon it for survival nearly as much as he depended on his senses, experience, and accumulated knowledge. His father had always taught him the ways in which properly honed instinct would protect not only his own life but the lives of his companions. It was instinct that now showed Uncas where to go in search of young Ben, though the forest was so darkened as to make seeing his way ineffective. He had to know his way. He tasted the air, listened to what there was to hear. Finding something that was lost—or that had been stolen—was a skill he had nurtured from an early age. It was not given to just anybody. So said Chingachgook, although Uncas himself believed it could be taught, at least to some degree. It was one of the lessons he wished he had had the time to inculcate in Ben; how much more valuable was the ability to find than to steal.

He followed the path made by the boy's moccasins; he paused by branches that had been bent in the boy's wake; he could even feel his desolation, which resounded through, and against, the surrounding trees in an almost palpable manner. He did not wonder where Ben had gone, or why. He simply knew.

South of the river, the forest grew thickly, almost jungle-like in composition, with massive trees shooting upwards into the sky. Uncas crossed through the shallow part of the river and stood for a moment on its opposite shore, listening, his head tilted upwards. There was silence, beyond the normal forest and river sounds; but he could smell grief, and uncertainty.

Ben was curled, like a puppy, among a nest of branches in the undergrowth at the base of one of the big trees. When Uncas knelt and put a hand on his shoulder Ben struggled to sit up, his breath coming out in soft little puffs of fright.

"Xanikw," Uncas said quietly. "It's me."

The boy held tense for a moment longer before slumping back somewhat. "What you want?"

"Why are you not in the wikwam?"

"Not my place. Not my house."

Uncas looked up at the canopy of stars above them. It was another warm summer night, but soon the weather would be changing. "Well, when you're old enough you can make your own house, but right now you need somewhere to stay, and the camp is all you have."

"Not have," Ben said defiantly. "Nothing have."

Uncas stared at him for a while. He couldn't really fault the boy for not wanting to share a borrowed wikwam with the women, and he suspected that was at least part of the reason Ben was here. "If you don't want to stay with us, I can ask one of the other families to find room for you. Nachenum's cousin—"

"No!" Ben jerked away, but in a defeated, barely audible voice added, "He says I am schiquineu."

Uncas rubbed his face with the back of his hand, suddenly tired. The word meant fatherless, but it was an entire concept unto itself, and a negative one. "There isn't anything I can do about that."

"Kill," Ben muttered.

"We only kill enemies."

Ben leaned forward, so close that despite the darkness Uncas could see his eyes. "My enemy."

Manto, it is like dealing with Alice when she is in a mood. Uncas wondered what Chingachgook would say in response to such a comment. He decided not to address it. "You're coming back with me."

"Don't want."

"I know." He felt a twinge of pity for the boy, but said repressively, "You've only been in the camp a few days. Nathaniel told our father you had learned some discipline. Are you going to make a liar out of him?"

Ben shook his head, but not very definitely.

Uncas stood up. "So we go back."

"Yes."

"'Yes, older brother'," Uncas corrected.

Ben mumbled the words as if embarrassed by them. But he followed Uncas out of the undergrowth then, and back across the river.

Nathaniel met them at the outskirts of camp. "I need to talk with you and Father."

Uncas rested a hand on Ben's shoulder. "This runaway needs somewhere to sleep."

Nathaniel waved back in the direction of their wikwam, looking distracted. "He can still sleep there, as far as I know. Cora is up yet. Alice is out on the hill, if you want to go get her? And then can you come to Nohkumihs' wikwam?"

Uncas nodded, giving Ben a gentle push to send him off. He waited until the boy had disappeared within before circling and going up in the direction of the hill.

Alice was sitting on a rock, her unbound hair around her, glowing in the moonlight. She seemed to have fallen into a reverie because she did not notice him until she was very close.

He knew she expected him to bid her return, so he did not say anything, simply sat down among the wildflowers near her, picking one and rolling its stem idly between his fingers. After a moment Alice said, with a hint of suspicion, "Haven't you come to tell me how late it is?"

"I came," he said, "to look at the stars."

He did not see her expression now but knew she was taken aback by this. Some time passed while they sat in silence. Eventually Alice said, almost defensively, "Cora and Nathaniel wished to be alone. I had nowhere to go, so I thought I would sit outside."

Uncas made a noncommittal sound. Privately he was thinking that it seemed to be the night for runaways. At least she had not gone far.

"You don't—mind?"

Of course I mind, he thought. You should not be out here alone; I would even rather have you ask Nachenum to take you than go alone. But if his protectiveness was making her feel trapped, rather than safe—then he had been right. He had to let her go; a little at a time, for that was all he could manage.

Perhaps it would bring her back to him.

He said, choosing his words carefully: "Stay as long as you like."

Alice stared in disbelief, as he rose, looked at her, then, giving her the flower he had been holding, went back down the hill.

It was with something approaching reluctance that Uncas arrived at his aunt's wikwam for a conference with his father and brother. He did not want to talk, nor was he inclined just to be in the presence of others for its own sake; he would far rather have spent the night as Ben had planned to do, out in the forest under a tree. But as he had just lectured Ben on the importance of discipline it would be hypocritical not to attend on Chingachgook and Nathaniel, regardless of how attractive the idea of solitude was at the moment. Summoning up inner will, he stooped to go in.

Chingachgook had been helping his sister drink a little of the broth that had been made from the boiled bones of that day's hunt, but her eyes now closed. The Mohegan used the side of his hand to gently wipe some of the spilled liquid away from her face. Watching him, Uncas thought what tender care his father took of his aunt; then again, she was the last of his generation; he had no other family besides his sons, and Uncas knew that Chingachgook believed, as he did himself, that the care he lavished on her now would reflect honorably on him, though perhaps in a different world, or another lifetime.

"Ah, Uncas." Nathaniel looked up from poking the flames. The fire was reflected in his eyes which were bright and restless.

Uncas sank into his habitual crouch by the circle of stones. Chingachgook joined him, after having pulled covers around the old woman, who had fallen back into insensibility.

"What have you to say, my son?"

"It seems, Father, that you can in fact look forward to the arrival of a grandchild this coming spring. Cora is expecting."

"That is welcome news, indeed." Chingachgook's face was as if the sun had just shone down on it.

Uncas, knowing he must react positively, though he felt rather stunned by the announcement, rose and offered his congratulations to his brother, who, he thought, had the pleased but desperate look of a man who knows his life is about to change.

"As this will be your niece or nephew, I am counting on a lot of help to raise it," Nathaniel warned with a smile.

"You shall have my help, be assured." Uncas gripped the older man's arm. But he could not feel entirely enthusiastic; things were too uncertain at the moment. It seemed a strange time for Manto to choose to bless his brother with offspring. Then again, perhaps the parents-to-be were ready for a family; and who was he to question that? He realized Nathaniel, who had turned back to Chingachgook, was saying, "Cora wishes to have the child in our own home, and I have agreed to leave as soon as possible, before travel becomes difficult for her."

Chingachgook's brows drew together. "She will not need the assistance of the midwives when the time comes?"

Nathaniel spread his hands. "Initially, I thought that staying here might be a better idea, but she is determined for us to be settled. And as it is not I who is having the baby, it follows that her wish should be granted."

Chingachgook nodded, and said sagely, "An unhappy woman will birth an unhealthy child."

"When do you go?" Uncas asked. Slowly he was realizing that if Nathaniel and Cora were shortly to depart, his role in remaining behind at his father and aunt's side was ever more significant. How he would maintain that, with an increasingly restless Alice to sort out, and an emotional, flighty Ben to be responsible for, he didn't know.

"Within the next few days, I think. Once we can set in a good store of food for the way back. I won't have time to stop and hunt."

"When you're ready, Nachenum and I can come with you back down the river," Uncas offered. "Should only take one night to reach the road."

"Nohsh, if you would excuse us." Nathaniel made deference to their parent and then, putting an arm around Uncas's shoulders, hustled him outdoors. They walked a little ways, out of earshot. Then Nathaniel stopped and faced him. "Brother. I see the doubt in your eyes. Do you think I will make a bad father?" He said this lightly, though his tone was shadowed with his own doubt.

"No," Uncas said. "It is not that." How can I be so selfish as to tell him there is too much for me to do if he leaves? If it were Alice, if—Manto forbid it, not yet—she were carrying a child, I would do as he is doing.

"You have to stay," Nathaniel said, reading at least some of this on his face.

"I have to stay," Uncas agreed.

"I am sorry for that. It is not fair to leave you and Alice here, indefinitely."

"In any case, it is not just Father and Nohkumihs," Uncas said. "There is Ben. He needs more time. Do not worry, Brother. Clearly you must go."

"I hope that it will get easier," Nathaniel said, not specifying.

As do I, Uncas thought, but trouble is on the air. You could smell it just as you smelled fear.