I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
See me hiding in a cave?
Into The Wild
The Hiding Place
The summer has been dry and sparse of clouds and rain.
As they walk through field and forest.
Up hill and down.
There has been passing rain before.
Dewy morning sprinkles and cooling afternoon drizzles.
All passing so easily they may only shelter under a tree, a rocky outcropping.
Or for Alice once . . .
"Alice. Nuwi yakaon wënchi thëlan."
Come shelter from the rain.
. . . simply stand with face upturned.
"Kut. Wëlamàmkòt."
No. It feels good.
And smiling.
"Ktahkòchihëmo."
You will be cold.
Arms outstretched.
"Nulhatenami shè."
I am happy here.
So rain, yes. Smatterings.
Light and quickly passing.
It seems to Alice's untrained eye, however, that may be about to change.
They are three days and a bit past Hannah and the baby and the cook who hefts both butcher's knife and musket.
They are making better passage now, quicker than they were when the woman and babe traveled with them.
Alice misses them some.
Not to yearning.
For they are not dead and gone, only apart on their own journey.
And she on hers.
She walks with her Mohicans once more.
The one she loves. And his father.
They walk and they rest and allow the world to move along as peacefully as it may.
It is better between them now, her and her Mohican lover.
His discontent seems to be easing with every step he takes into the wilderness, equanimity of spirit returning.
The distance his friend, his balm.
As . . .
"Hallo, Uncas."
"Hallo, Miss."
. . . she herself hopes to be.
Now, the midday sky is darkening, shadows at their feet dissipated in the gathering gloom.
Chingachgook eyes the sky, Uncas as well. They seem to study it.
"A storm is coming," the older murmurs. "We must take shelter."
And they go, pacing quickening.
And Alice, eyeing the sky, noting also the quietening of the forest creatures around them, follows.
Heavy clouds loom above their heads, thunder rumbling above them.
The first drops of rain plip upon the leaves above them, their heads, the ground at their feet, as they, in single file, step cautiously into the yawning mouth of the cave the men have found.
Chingachgook first.
Alice following this man she trusts.
And Uncas, the last of their line, keeping an eye to the sides and back for any beast or man who might be alerting to their hiding place.
There is none.
And so, they enter therein, are enveloped by the darkness, wrapped into the unknown.
And otherwise, disappear.
The mouth of the cave nearly hidden by overhanging greenery, perfect for sheltering prying eyes.
Uncas stops behind them, gathering several relatively dry sticks for the beginnings of a small campfire so they may not have to sit in darkness.
Alice marks his movements, stops, and gathers her own armful.
Chingachgook, torch held high, continues on.
And they follow.
Into the mouth of the cave and a tunnel greets them.
Wide enough but low, rocky outcroppings mere feet above their heads.
Alice can feel the weight of the mountain, in that moment, pressing down upon her head.
She should feel fearful, anxious of the crush of the rock.
But with the outside world and all that has transpired thereout, she feels comforted by it.
She welcomes it.
The Mohican Chingachgook, torch in hand, moves deeper into the darkness.
And they, the young ones, follow him.
Down and down and down they go.
The winding tunnel, she sees now, narrowing before, opens up here.
Revealing a vast chamber, the boundaries of which she cannot see.
Following the light of the torch, progressing with prudent step.
The rocky uneven floor slopes up the slightest incline, then down.
Suddenly and without warning in some places.
Gentle and relatively smooth in others.
They make their way down slow and careful.
Backtracking here and there as they must, until a safe path is found.
The floor of the cave they eventually reach twenty feet or more below the mouth of the cave.
The air here cooler than the humid surface.
They see no evidence of any creature's current habitation in this space that may warn them not to linger.
And so, Chingachgook in the lead, they advance.
Until they find . . .
"Here. This is good. We will stop here."
. . . a good place.
Chingachgook has chosen their shelter well.
It is not simply a hollow in a rock.
But an entire cave system, what will one day be called the Smoke Hole Caverns.
Connected to a vast network of chambers and tributaries tracking deep into the guts of the mountains of West Virigina.
This particular space in which they now reside is large enough to fit her house in Portland Square and then some.
She cannot see the ceiling for the flickering torch light only reaches a few feet.
Enough to see. And not see.
But she can feel it, sense it.
Or, rather, the lack thereof.
And Alice . . .
"What is this place?"
. . . is mystified.
They have made their camp near a wall of rock.
Not a straight expanse, almost a gentle bumping curve for them to cradle themselves into.
This will provide optimum safety and protection, a place to put their backs against.
It also will provide warmth, warm air from the fire pushing itself outward.
Only to be rebuffed and funneled back.
The sound of trickling water comes to their ears from the darkness but this their camp is a dry place.
A place of out the harsh elements.
And barring bears, bobcats, and snakes, to name a few, a good, safe place.
Chingachgook builds the fire with the few branches and roughage dry enough to burn.
Smoke curling up into the darkness above.
Food will be little this night.
Pemmican mostly, dried berries and nuts as well.
And Alice Munroe does not mind much.
She has been walking for near a month.
She has slept most of it outside.
She has killed for food, killed for survival.
She has taken the burden of another onto her narrow shoulders without complaint.
Focused all her energies on ensuring their survival and safety.
And she has done well.
She is strong and hale and hearty, moreso than ever before.
And very, very tired.
The smooth rock of the cavern floor is hard, unyielding.
She lays upon it with gratitude.
Her lumpy bag her pillow.
She nestles her head into it.
She has unrolled her blanket, . . .
"I would like to rest now, if it is alright."
Her Mohican elder nods.
"We are safe here."
. . . covered herself up with it.
The air is warm, summer and campfire assuring of that.
Though cooler here than it may be on the surface, less humid.
And Alice, having so stalwartly traversed the wild lands for many days, releases deep sigh of relief.
"Wanìshi, Wètuxëmùksit."
Thank you, Father.
Amicable reassurance from around the pipe.
"Alaximwi, Wënichana."
Rest, Daughter.
And Alice closes weary eyes
And sinks down into sleep.
I had always planned for this little cave sojourn our trio is about to embark on. Mostly fun and light and relaxed. Along with a little hotness.
But I especially want to hide away in a cave right now as you can imagine with everything going on in the world.
And because I'm going in to teacher inservice here in the morning. Me with fifty plus people for the first time since March. Will not freak out. Will wear a mask and wash hands and social distance.
Will run off into the woods when it's over.
*dons Hazmat suit like Dwight Schrute, strolls into school*
"Hey, peeps . . . what's everyone looking at?"
Rising anxiety aside, I do want to say thanks to Conbird, lovely102, MohawkWoman, DinahRay, Eilan21, BryannaRaven, BlueSaffire, ELY72, blanparbe, and two Gracious Guests for so kindly reviewing the final fort chapter.
Guest reviewers of chapter 20, I'm so sad to hear of the ICU child in your town and the death as well. That's awful. But thank you for sharing.
Everyone stay safe out there if you can.
See you soon!