I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I do still love them so. And this fandom.
Into the Wild
Tëwènama
"Hè, kwisa! Tëwènama nutxùkunk!"
Hello, my son! Your family is coming to you!
They have walked once more.
The three of them.
For days and days.
Near two weeks they have walked.
Accepted the heat, the humidity once more.
August it is and autumn not far away.
And yet summer still hangs on, selfish and stubborn as it does not wish to fade into the cooling temperatures and milder season that precedes bitter winters.
And though she did not quite wish to go from the cave, Alice has found a delight in the travel once more.
The open wilderness, the wonder.
The curiosity of what may be over the next ridge, what sights may present themselves in the next valley.
Their trek has been peaceful, uneventful.
As they have passed through field and dale.
Up forested mountain and down.
Keeping the rising morning sun to their backs.
Following it toward the horizon in the afternoons.
Following it.
And their father's steady course.
Nights out under the stars, rough bark to their backs as Alice contents herself to curl upright against the side of her Mohican warrior.
Feeling her breath attune to his, her body warm.
And now, for the first time since leaving the Smokehole Caverns twelve days thence, they have not skirted a homestead.
Not passed by, made wide berth.
But advanced directly toward it.
It is newly settled, this small patch of land.
The fields not vast and reaching.
Wooden fences not weathered and cracked with age.
They are small, these fields.
Corn and wheat and beans.
Small. But enough to sustain.
With time. With care.
With what the forest may also provide.
And the cabin. Set on an even patch of green land.
Centered in an open glade.
Near, a dug well.
Outhouse.
Shed with lowing cow.
Wandering few chickens.
Thin tendrils of smoke waft up from the chimney of the cabin.
It is like any other homestead on the frontier.
It is.
Except it is not.
For on the porch of this particular cabin there stands, in the midday sunlight . . .
"Alice!"
"Cora!"
. . . a woman.
Dark of hair and delicate of frame.
No striped skirt now.
But skirted and shoe-ed all the same.
And stayed and stockinged and laced as she is wont.
Though quite a bit more loosely than she would before.
A woman, as the one who approaches, who could not possibly have imagined the path her life would walk.
The day she stepped foot onto the Boston Harbor a mere August ago.
A woman . . .
"Oh. What a relief to be off of that ship. Alice? Alice, are you alright?"
"Yes. I am . . . I am fine."
. . . and her fair-haired half-sister.
A woman who found herself caught up in the midst of terrifying turmoil, war.
Great loss.
And great love.
A woman who found herself drawn to a Mohican-raised man.
Followed him into the wilderness.
Never to come back out again.
A woman.
This woman.
And the man she loves.
Standing now together on the cabin steps . . .
"Uncas!"
"Brother!"
. . . of their West Virginia homestead.
Alice feels a surge of emotion as she catches sight of her sister.
Leaves the men, and the deer they carry between them, behind.
Moves ahead, almost a run.
To catch hold of her sister.
To catch hold . . .
"Oh Alice, how you have grown!"
. . . of all of her sister.
"And you! Oh, Cora . . . are you really?"
A beaming face.
"I am."
And she is.
Cora Louise Munroe, elder daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel George Munroe, is pregnant.
Expecting.
With child.
Aglow.
"Oh, sister! I am so glad for you!"
And tears of happiness flow once more.
The men embrace heartily, unashamed and unabashed by their love for one another as brothers.
Father. Sons.
Chingachgook, having wrapped his arms tight around the man he once held as a fearful, beaten boy, releases him now.
Only to place age-thicked hands upon his strong shoulders.
Hands made for war and hardship.
Hands gentle and loving.
Upon that man, so easy and confident and sure now.
And smiling.
"Hè, Wètuxëmùksit."
Hello, Father.
Yet vision blurred momentarily.
"Wëlët knewël làpi."
It is good to see you again.
With unshed tear.
"òk hèch, nkwis."
And you, my son.
As his adopted father.
"Nulhatu ntèhink. Yuki xahelukwëni."
I have kept you in my heart. These many days.
The father, having spoken, simply gazes now.
Dark, peering eyes bright with joy.
As he allows the release of his chosen son.
And turns to . . .
"Cora."
. . . take the hand of the warmly smiling dark-haired woman before him.
"Chingachgook, I am so glad you are here."
As Nathaniel turns to . . .
"Uncas, nimàt, kulinakwsi!"
Uncas, my brother, you are looking well!
. . . the one he has always known as a part of him.
"Kulahkwi. Knewël ntahiha nuxëna wëlhatènamu."
You also. I see you have made our father happy.
Broad smiles between bound brothers.
"Ntite ni a nima nemëwakàn kchikënëlk."
I thought I would take some of the pressure off of you.
Loyal sons.
And good-natured laughter floats into the air around them.
The homestead her sister and her husband have laid is simple.
Homely.
Much the same as any other found in the American wilderness.
Made of log and mud and thatch.
With porch and step. Warming rough rock hearth.
Fire within never allowed to go out.
It is a single room, loft above.
That is why Uncas and Chingachgook were late in their return to the Wall homestead in the spring.
Why they kept Alice and her watchfulness waiting.
They were constructing.
The three men, along with the stubbornly useful Cora . . .
". . . swung an axe as well as a man-"
"Or perhaps you were able to swing an axe as well as a woman, dear husband-"
. . . were working to erect the humble abode that would become their family homestead for years to come.
Set in a glade upon a gentle uprising of land where Cora . . .
". . . so beautiful. And I said, this, this where I want our home . . ."
. . . had put her foot down . . .
"And I said, I do not wish to try to pick your foot up once it is down-"
. . . and requested her home.
Close as well to the Kanawha river.
A comely Shawnee name meaning 'new water'.
Not quite a morning's brisk walk from neighbors just over the next ridge.
But enough to themselves and their peace.
And their family home.
Sparsely decorated, sparsely furnished.
Full of life, love, and now that the Mohican brothers are reunited, . . .
"Tell us again, then, of the axe swinging, brother . . ."
. . . laughter.
Making the father happy and taking the pressure off Uncas?
Hopefully that's a clear movie reference to all the teasing of Uncas settling down with a woman and starting a family.
Which, you know, now that he's with Alice-
Sorry, jumped ahead of myself there.
Never mind.
;)
Thank you to everyone who has shown what I can only describe as an outpouring of love and support for this story, its characters, and its humble, happy storyteller. I am more appreciative and grateful than I can possibly express with mere words.
BlueSaffire, MohawkWoman, Another Guest, ByannaRaven, Socially Distant Guest, DinahRay, and blanparbe thank you especially for your kindness.
Pure Poetry Guest, hotforteacher3, ELY72, AsterLaurel, and Guest Who Loved 'Made For the Sun' thank you all for such kind words regarding my writing.
Questioning Guest Who Reviewed On Chapter 1 But Really Meant Chapter 30, you asked if writers want sincere feedback or simply crave positive responses. I'd like to respond to your critique with a sincere and open tone. While positive reviews are an enjoyment to any storyteller, I am a firm believer in honesty and freedom of speech.
You are more than welcome to offer your honest opinion at any time. I actually prefer it. So I'm very glad to have had the opportunity to respond to this question because everyone has a right to their opinion (so long as they do not cross the line into abusive). So keep them coming and hopefully other chapters will strike your fancy more than chapter 30. :)
And that should also answer your query as well, Guest Who Asked Why Not Simply Deny Readers The Right To Comment.
Okay, whew, well, I sincerely hope I did not miss responding to anyone because I appreciate you all.
And I do sincerely hope everyone has enjoyed the new chapter and beginning story arc.
See you again soon!