I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I do still love them so. And this fandom.
Into the Wild
Forward, Back
It is morning and the dew upon the ground is fresh and light.
The sun is rising, orange and hazy in the distance.
Fog drifts upon the surface of the earth.
Alice had thought she would not sleep the previous night.
Knew she would toss and turn in restless contemplation.
She had not.
Head upon the hard pillow.
Body warmed by the fire and her sister and the babe.
The babe, stirred every so often throughout the night with hunger.
His mother's breast offered easily enough to quell his rising cries.
And as the child would sooth, Alice would find herself adrift once more.
Sinking down into the darkness and knowing no more.
Until the next feeding.
And eventual . . .
"Good morning, Alice."
"Good morning, Cora."
"How are you this day?"
"I am better. I am calm."
"That is good to hear. Have you decided your course of action?"
"I have."
"That is good."
. . . sunrise.
"It will be time soon to make for the village before winter."
She has found him alone in the yard, approached him, and simply said it, having thought of no way to cushion the causticness of the statement.
And her Mohican lover looks to her with an attentive expression.
Busy a moment ago, he is now setting down what was in his hands.
And turning to her.
She finds herself anxious, though she does not know quite why.
He is Uncas.
She trusts him.
"You have been needing to travel for several days now and have not on my behalf and I apologize."
His expression, his spirit, is amicable as he responds.
"There is no need to apologize. The time has been good to have."
She nods, almost distracted.
And they stand.
"It has been. It has been a joy to be with my sister."
Together and apart.
It has been a time of waiting and staying and Alice feels she is now beginning to reach out for something she has let go of.
And Uncas seems to study her carefully before responding.
"If you chose to stay with her, I will return to you in the spring."
And Alice smiles.
In the spring.
As before.
Much earlier their arrival, much shorter distance to traverse and no cabin to be built.
It would be easy. It would be safe.
And yet . . .
"No. I would not stay. I would follow where you go, Uncas."
She pauses, searches for the right words.
Finds them.
And speaks one final time.
In Mohican.
"Lahapa ni."
If you would have me.
His dark eyes are soft as he gazes upon her.
Head tilted to the side.
As he reaches out a calloused, tender hand to graze her cheek.
And responds in kind.
Low . . .
"Ni a kwichei. Akëme."
. . . and in Mohican.
I would have you with me. Always.
They will leave within the week.
The Mohican-born men.
"Do you so quickly wish to leave your new grandson, my father?"
Chinagachgook.
"No. But it will fill me with joy to bring word of the child to the members of the village."
Uncas.
"They will celebrate that Nathaniel of the Yengees is now a father and may be sleeping light and restless with the child who kicks him in his sleep."
And . . .
"What of you, Alice? What is in your mind?"
. . . Alice.
Alice, who breathes deep.
"I will miss him and you both."
And speaks honest.
"But I am ready to continue my travels."
To those who choose to . . .
"And go into the wild once more."
. . . love and support her in her chosen endeavors.
And so the time is come again to depart.
Farewells have been said.
Tears between the women.
Unashamed hugs between the men.
The child has been cooed over . . .
"You will be strong and ready when I return, Little One. I will teach you to hunt and track bear."
"Uncas, he will be but a year older."
"So will the bear."
. . . and gazed upon and loved.
Chingachgook has quietly pressed into Cora's hands a final gift before departing.
Small and woven.
Soft deer hide and patterned beads.
In the shape of a turtle both, they smell of sage.
Two of them.
Totems. Amulets. Talismans.
Inside one is but animal hair.
And inside the other . . .
"My people believed these will confuse evil spirits. Protect the child."
. . . is tucked what remains of the child's umbilical cord.
With her Mohican-raised husband looking on in misty-eyed pride at the continued tradition, Cora allows the elder to tie the proper one, the one with a bit of her child tucked safely within, around her neck.
"When he is older, he will carry it with him to keep his spirit serene and even, his mind to calm in the uncertainties of the world."
Sinew-looped object reaching laying just below her collarbone, light and reassuring upon her chest.
The other she tucks away for safe keeping, to be placed upon the hearth, perhaps.
And turns then, . . .
"Chingachgook, I don't know what to say."
. . . clasping his hands with hers, squeezing her love into them.
"Thank you so much for this."
As tears of humble gratitude present themselves upon her rosy cheeks.
"I will treasure them always."
Joy and acceptance of the family gathered around them.
Who had lingered, just a little longer.
And now . . .
"Are they really quite nice? The people of the village?"
"They are. You will be glad to be among them."
. . . after anxious, quick murmured exchanges . . .
"I am glad to be among you, my sister."
"As am I. But it is time to go. You will be glad of your decision, Alice."
. . . it is time to go.
"I love you, Cora, my sister."
"I love you, Alice, my sister."
And the ones who are leaving step forward.
And the ones who are staying step back.
She makes it almost to the line of trees.
The trees that will envelope her, swallow her up in crisping autumn colors and forest sounds.
A few more steps and she will be gone from their sight.
And it is here that Alice Munroe stops.
Stands.
And turns.
Her sister is still on the porch.
Nathaniel.
Baby cradled between them.
She cannot see her sister's face clearly from this distance.
But feels she must be crying.
As is she.
It is time to go.
She wishes to go.
And she wishes to stay.
She feels the man she loves step to her side.
Knows he is watching her countenance, wondering of her thoughts.
"I am alright."
She says it without thinking.
Muses the statement must be of irrritation to him.
Has not the resolve to care.
"You can stay here with your sister if it is what you wish."
He has said it again. Reminded her.
It is her choice, to leave or stay.
The one who loves her will accept, without complaint or guilt, the decision she makes.
Because he is the one who loves her.
And so Alice speaks her decision again.
Measured and decisive words.
"Xu ika nta ki èpiàn. Nich ahpia ki. Lahapa ni."
I will go where you go. I will be with you. If you will have me.
And knows she will speak them over and over again.
In her mind only if not aloud.
As many times . . .
"Ni a kwichei nkëme."
I would have you with me always.
. . . as she must.
"Shëkw npìch ni ki wëli òk ku shielìntàmu."
But I would have you happy and not sad.
Because it is what she chooses.
What she wants.
"Ku nshielintàmu. Ku shielìntàmu kwënake."
I am not sad with you. And I will not be sad for long.
And she smiles through her tears.
Waves.
And turns then.
Faces the way of the village.
"Come, let us go. Before our father finds himself alone and wondering that we have stolen away already."
And steps forward.
Not wiping the tears from her face.
But letting the drifting autumn breeze do it for her.
As she moves into the woods.
And her Mohican follows her.
Okay, this is the end of the story arc! I told the truth this time, yay! ;)
Thanks to BlueSaffire, DinahRay, MohawkWoman, ELY72, BrynnaRaven, and blanparbe (I like your plans, go!) for reviewing!
Thanks also to hotforteacher3 for adding your support to this tale.
See you again soon for another chapter!
