I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
A Breed Apart
And On And On
Stories they tell.
Legends.
Tom knows many.
Makes up a few more.
And on long days when the bitter cold eats at their bones, they huddle near the fire.
Pile close.
And listen to . . .
". . . the bear who came down from the mountain, the lost cub once caught in the lightening storm . . ."
. . . meandering winter tales.
March arrives with the first tentative thaw.
Most of the animals are still to ground.
Yet some have ventured forth unaware.
The family hungers, Rebecca weak with childbirth.
Tom Wall, years Alice's senior, will go out to kill an animal, find meat.
To feed the family, sustain their lives.
And she musters her bravery, pulls him near.
Murmurs her request.
And watches his confusion.
But her eyes insist and she has not asked for much.
So when he has killed his prey, he brings it quick to her so they may dress it . . .
"What is that?"
"Liver. Good for the blood."
. . . together in haste.
"Rebecca? Here. Eat this. It will help."
She gathers the dried herbs from a basket above her head.
A basket gathered months before.
"Use only this much. Dried are more potent."
She remembers her tutelage from the wise elder Mohican.
And prepares the draught as he had instructed her.
"What is this?"
"It eases the pain."
And the lady of the house . . .
"Thank you, Alice. However did you know to do that?"
"Chingachgook taught me."
. . . is most grateful.
Rebecca grows stronger, as does the babe nestled near constant to her bosom.
"What will you name him?"
"William, I think."
William. It is a good name.
They work, they chore.
They toil.
They live as best they can.
She is no longer the invalid schoolgirl who was left behind.
The winter was long and hard.
They came close to burying John in the coughing cold.
As bitter winds eeked their way through the cracks in the logs.
Alice is still young come spring, still a simple beauty to behold.
But she no longer cringes at the sight of spiders.
Wearies after a mere hour of labor.
She has learned to accept the pains and repetitiveness of every day life on the frontier.
A coyote she chased away from the chickens.
A slinking, hungry fox.
She has endured the bite of the morning chill and an errant finger smashed in a door.
She has learned to ration food, stretch it as far as it may go.
She has learned to bed down hungry, awakening to the sound of coughing child.
Feet touching down upon the cold floor before her eyes are fully open.
Pain, she has learned to work through pain.
Pain of the aching cold.
Pain of the woman's blood and chores nevertheless.
Pain of the heartache of feeling alone in the world when all time seems to stop and spin out into the waiting dead trees.
She has grown.
She has matured.
And she still finds the spirit to smile.
And watch.
And wait.
April comes and goes and the men who rescued them from certain slaughter are late.
And she fears, she dreads.
Where he is. And how and why.
She sits on the porch with Rebecca and the baby.
". . . early yet, Alice. Ease your mind. They will come."
They spin. They clean. They chore.
Prepare food.
The outhouse is moved. Filled in and redug before it gets too warm.
They wait.
Rebecca and Alice make lye soap. Use it to vanquish a nasty case of bedbugs that is a common plague to such enclosed household places on the frontier.
All the bedding, clothes, even the boys' sleeping mats from the loft are scoured.
They cleanse their hair and bits of their bodies as well.
Tom spends long days with Daniel in the field.
Daniel, old enough now to be becoming a use in the fields.
". . . a man now!"
And Mary-
". . . them. Do you not know how to be gentle?"
-is teaching John to not frighten the chickens to breaking the eggs they have laid for the family's table.
"No."
A cat has joined them, begun to keep mice away from the grain stores.
All in return for a mouthful of-
"Pussy, pussy, pussycat . . ."
-milk straight from the udder every so often.
And she watches.
She waits.
And she does not . . .
"Alice? Are you alright?"
"Yes. Of course."
. . . speak of it.
So telling the long, meandering stories is my dad. We would literally drive around in his pickup for hours with him making up stories.
Good memory.
Anyway, thanks to BrynnaRaven, AsterLaurel, DinahRay, TithaJaime, and BlueSaffire for reviewing previously!
And hmmm, whoever could that be on the horizon there?
See you in a couple of days to find out! ;)
*trust me, it's really good*