I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I do still love them so. And this fandom.
Into the Wild
Of Woman Part 2
In the midst of all their other preparations, the men have also been constructing.
A building of sorts.
Not colonial.
Mohican.
Lenape.
A wigwam, a designated birthing hut.
Round in shape.
Built with ash, basswood.
Bark trimmed off, ends sharpened into points.
Hardened by fire.
They are young, these carefully chosen saplings.
Straight in growth, yet flexible.
Staked into the ground.
Lashed into a dome at the top.
The ground, dirt below even and bare of grasses, brush.
The frame of the structure covered with large mats of thatched cattail, furs, canvas.
Tied down and secured so that the elements may be kept out.
There is a smokehole at the top.
Small and able to be closed if need be.
It is small, this structure.
Bare within.
Naught but a pit for fire.
And a pole.
Folded furs.
The fire is for warmth and dim light.
The pole is to give the occupant, the one for whom this dwelling has been made, something to hold on to.
A mere five feet in height.
Pounded deep into the ground for sturdiness.
Bark once more stripped, exposed fibers smoothed free of splinters.
It resembles, without intending to, a whipping post.
It is not.
The occupant will not be lashed upon it.
Nor beaten.
Nor mocked.
However . . .
"Cora, . . ."
. . . the occupant for whom it was constructed . . .
". . . it is alright."
. . . will find herself in need to cling to it . . .
"Cora, . . ."
. . . all the same.
". . . I am here."
The men now are inside, an abrupt turn of events.
Within the cabin, within the log and thatch enclosure.
The father.
The blood son.
And the other one.
Nathaniel.
Of the Yengees.
Adopted son of Chingachgook of the Mohican people.
He is an expert woodsman, a strong and ruthless warrior.
An unerring shot, so much as to have earned the name Hawkeye.
He moves with grace and speed and confidence throughout the world in which he abides.
He is intelligent, deftly verbal, and a shrewd but fair trader by practice.
He can be near silent when he wishes.
Brash and unblinking when he must.
And he is something else now too.
He is, at the moment . . .
"They have been long."
. . . a first-time expectant father.
"They have been too long."
His adopted father and brother are at his side as they so often have been in times past.
They stand silent watch with him, a comfort and steadiness in this time of interminable waiting.
Chingachgook has made an herbed tea, pungent in smell and soothing in properties.
It will not dull his son's senses, only make them a touch more manageable.
And nothing in potency to the concoction he will prepare for the mother of his first born grandchild when this her trial and tribulation are done.
Uncas abides as well, all humor and mirth gone from his watchful gaze.
The aged father sits and smokes a pipe as the to be father paces the room, unable to remain still for more than a moment.
Mohican and Lenape men do not attend their wives in the birthing of children.
It is not tradition.
They remove themselves, surround themselves with their kin.
Allow the women the respect and space to do what their bodies and only their bodies have the awesome power and capability and stamina to do.
Create life.
Still, it is difficult for many of them.
Close but still far from them whom they love.
Unable to stop the pain, unable to protect against it.
Unable to do naught but wait and wonder.
That is why the men now are in the cabin.
To be out of the way from what only women can do.
To wait and to wonder and to worry.
And be of no use whatsoever.
Uncas knows all of this.
Knows his father knows.
Knows his brother knows.
And still it is almost too much for him to bear.
The waiting.
His brother paces and his father smokes.
An almost inaudible humming of a tune issuing from the latter, a tune Uncas identifies as a prayer of strength for the women.
For their endurance and perseverance in this, of the most extreme of human events.
And when the keening sound grows louder than the rhythmic humming, Uncas rises without summon.
Steps to his brother.
Nathaniel, whose wild hair and eyes silently beseech him for that which no man can afford, speaks not.
As Uncas, knowing one day he may yet, if life allows, be placed in his brother's position, places his hands wide upon his shoulders.
Feels the near vibration under the skin.
His brother, who is, in this moment of impossible turmoil, striving not to come undone.
He looks deep into his brother's eyes.
Reassurance, strength pouring out of his own spirit and into his brother's.
His brother, older than he and yet in this moment, so in need of being held up.
Uncas squeezes those broad, tense shoulders.
And then, without a word, releases him.
And walks out the door.
Her sister has been laboring for hours.
Walking, standing, crouching, kneeling.
Her body, so that Alice can see, is covered in a sheen of perspiration.
Dark hair, fuller and thicker than at any time Alice remembers in all the sisterly brushings, is soaked through.
Hanging in her face.
Alice has brought with her an earthen bowl of clean, fresh water.
Soaks a cloth, wrings it.
And wipes her sister's forehead, her cheeks.
Cools the back of her neck.
Hours it has been, hours and hours.
Early evening it was when Cora announced the time had come.
And with those who loved them looking onward, Alice had accompanied her sister, hand in hand and arm 'round swollen waist, to the waiting hut.
The hut with its bare ground that will not require scrubbing, not require cleanup.
Alice had accompanied her, cast a brief gaze to her Mohican lover.
And gone.
And watched, on and on as her sister labored with her first pregnancy.
Late into the night, as the moon rose high above them.
Unseen, unadmired, uncared for.
For it is Cora, Cora and her forthcoming baby upon which the world turns for Alice.
That was long ago.
And Alice is becoming worried for her sister.
Water came down her legs, bare feet some time ago.
Cora paced and knelt and squatted, bit back groans of increasingly intense pain.
And still nothing.
They were raised away from birthing and all such "unpleasant" activities of womanhood and life in general.
Cora has, on rarest of occasions, accompanied a laboring woman to her bed where she may writhe in agony without reprieve.
And Alice, only Rebecca.
Seventh in pregnancy, seventh in birth.
And she had not labored more than . . .
"We shall have to move quickly, ooh-"
"We shall? It is that quick?"
"And quicker with every time, oooh-"
. . . fewest of hours from start to finish.
But Cora . . .
"I am here, Sister. I am here."
. . . has been a different experience altogether.
The child seeming to never be coming at all.
And Alice has provided conversation.
She has provided quiet.
She has provided a cooling touch.
She has provided support.
She has held her sister's hand for which to squeeze.
Held her hair as she vomited her pain-induced nausea onto the bare ground.
Rubbed her back, rubbed her belly.
"Please, Alice, thank you. But I can bear no touch just yet. I apologize."
"Please do not apologize, my sister. I am only here for what you need."
And now, she has almost decided the child . . .
"Oooh . . . ssss . . . ooooh . . ."
. . . will never acquiesce to arrive at all.
They are together again now, the women.
Cora having beckoned her . . .
"Please. I fear I will lose what strength I had . . ."
And Alice had willingly gone.
They are fully squatted now and Cora is in extreme distress.
Arms wrapped 'round the supporting pole, hands slick with sweat and trembling with exhaustion.
"I am here, Sister. I am here."
Alice, wrapped 'round her from behind.
"Do as you must."
Holding her from collapse, holding her as steady she may.
As Cora Louise, nee, Munroe . . .
"I am here."
. . . bears down with all her might.
Keening.
A strange mewling sound unlike anything Alice has ever heard.
Not wailing, not crying.
And keening without awareness of anything but her agony, her pain.
Her impossible torment.
She is fighting, Cora is.
Fighting with all her might and fading strength to expel this stubborn child of her own making from her body and out into the cold, unforgiving world of the frontier.
Fighting because she has no choice.
Fighting because she might.
It is the way of all things, the pain and agony of all females.
To grow.
To labor.
To birth.
To create.
And now, just when she seems she can go on any longer, Cora clenches her jaw, draws a hissed breath.
And bears down harder and longer than she ever has before.
And as she does so, she lets loose.
And screams.
Thanks to ByannaRaven, DinahRay, BlueSaffire, MohawkWoman (I got the review email and I appreciate you so much! I'll try not to disappoint!) ELY72, Socially Distant (oh you are a badass, seriously! and me? 74 hours with #1 after being 8 days late, omg, it suuuucked. #2 and 3 were c-sections, I looooove my c-sections, I go to the hospital and they just hand me a kid, ha! oh and thank you for reviewing!), MedicineGal815, and blanparbe (I'm glad you enjoyed it, thank you!) for so kindly reviewing.
Anybody ready to meet this kid?
See you soon!
