I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I would like to continue to write for it.
Into The Wild
The Call of the Void
Beyond the circle of their cavern campfire lays darkness.
And within that darkness lays the unknown.
She has taken a torch, stepped forward.
A little at a time.
Knowing she is being watched. By the things in the darkness.
The animals, the creatures.
The unspoken things in the deep shadows.
Being watched by them she is.
She.
And the men with whom she walks.
The men with whom she is safe.
But them she has left behind.
Torchlight illuminating her lithe form as she moves forward.
One step at a time.
The cave itself is large, the floor uneven in places, rocky and pitted.
Tunnels, she finds. Tributaries.
Branching off here and there into the darkness.
Deeper into the cave.
How far it goes, she cannot tell.
What is beyond and what hides ahead.
She wishes to take another step forward.
And another. And another.
Become lost in it, swallowed up.
Enveloped.
Consumed.
By the darkness ahead.
She wishes to see into that darkness.
And what lies within.
She knows there are dangers.
Snakes, bears, mountain lions.
All manner of known creature.
But moreso than that.
Everso much more.
Things, she imagines, monsters, ghouls, goblins.
Creatures no one has ever seen before and lived to tell the tale.
Stories from her father's country, murmured into her listening ears in hushed Scottish cadence on dark and stormy nights after first extracting a solemn promise to not tell her sister, her nan.
Tales, such tales.
Brollachans, shapeless lurkers of the night. Ciuthachs, whispered to dwell in caves such this.
Dunters, those haunters of the Borders.
Nuckelavee, skinless bodies, long sinewy arms reaching out.
Slaughs, fallen angels of the immortal plane, the unforgiven dead.
So many more her father had extolled of as she had gazed, hypnotized, into the warm fire just beyond the hearth.
He had not meant to disturb, she believes now. Only mystify and enchant.
Pass along the childhood stories of his youth to her, his wide-eyed, fair-haired girl-child.
And the stories, mild wonderous terrors in the days of youth have returned.
Must be here. Are here.
Just beyond the torchlight.
They pull to her, they whisper.
These unseen flights of fearful fancy within her quietly feverish mind.
The pull of the darkness, what psychologists centuries later will term as the call of the void.
They bid her come and look, come and see.
So they, those hidden things waiting in the dark, they and she, may talk more closely, more intimately, there in the dark.
And she is pulled, she is beckoned.
She is darkly welcomed.
And she turns, Alice turns.
On her heel, slow.
As the things in the deep dark whisper.
Moving back, back toward the campfire light.
Moving faster.
Back toward the men with whom she walks. The men calm and serene around the fire.
Then past them, beyond them.
Much to their mild bewilderment.
Away and up and out.
Up and up and up.
Toward the light of the world, the air so fresh and open and wide.
Into the tunnel, out again.
The mouth of the cave.
Where she may see the sun, the sky.
The world beyond the darkness.
And face the day.
"Alice? Are you alright?"
His voice is not fearful, not Uncas, no.
Not quite alarmed.
It is deep and melodious.
Warm and resonating to her very soul.
And it is . . .
"Yes. I am alright."
. . . soft and spoken with care.
And she lets him stand there with her.
Facing the world.
The bright, sun drenched, green hued forest world.
Back to the darkness.
The darkness that whispers to her.
To come and look.
To come and see.
What there may be.
Beyond the light.
She has gone back to it again.
The darkness beyond the light.
She has gone, step by step, to the edge of what she knows.
It whispers to her.
Whispers in her ear, in her mind, her soul.
And she has decided.
Exploration. Discovery. Adventure.
Deep within the mountain.
But she does not wish . . .
"I would like to see. What is there."
. . . to go alone.
"Would you . . . would you go with me?"
And his answer, the one she loves, the one that holds her, is as she had hoped.
"Yes."
She pauses.
Thinks.
"Have you seen it? Have you gone in there?"
"No."
"But you will go with me?"
"Yes."
And she smiles.
"Thank you."
They each carry a torch.
Additional sticks in their bags.
Flint and steel tucked away as well.
They do not take the left tributary, the late night, urgent business, latrine-appointed tributary.
But rather, the one to the far right.
They have chosen. They have selected.
They stand.
Together.
The two of them.
Uncas peers into the darkness beyond the torch.
Over to her, dark eyes alight with possibility.
Alice casts her gaze into that which she cannot see.
Back to her Mohican.
"Will there be bears, you think?"
"No," he replies. "It is not yet winter."
And she feels . . .
"That is good. I would not wish to meet a bear."
. . . relief.
"I would not wish a bear to meet you."
The corner of his mouth curls up.
And she thinks he may be joking.
She thinks.
"Xuniti nkwëtki, Wètuxëmùksit."
We will return, Father.
And they . . .
"Nkishëwikàmën, ntamimënsàk."
I will keep the fire, my children.
. . . go.
Call of the void is typically used to describe the feeling of wanting to jump off a high place when you actually don't want to jump at all.
(Me. Always me.)
Not exactly the same here. But applicable.
As for the monsters, all pulled from Scottish folklore. And let me tell you something, the illustrations are just as terrifying as they sound.
'Cause Scottish people are badass.
Thanks to DinahRay, MedicineGal815, BlueSaffire, ELY72, BryannaRaven, Informative Guest (be safe out there yourself), Gracious Guest (ah, thank you, Master, wow, I humbly courtesy), and blanparbe (married, you say, hmmm, well, no, not quite yet, but . . .) for so kindly reviewing before.
Two more chapters to go in this story arc and then we'll take a little break before moving on to the next part.
Sound good? :)