I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I would like to continue to write for it.

Into The Wild

Do Not Cross, Part 1


The week of traveling has been easy.

So far as traveling on foot in the wilderness may be.

Mid-October offering up cooling weather and no rain to stymie their progress.

Crossing further west towards to the edge of West Virginia.

Ever nearer toward the mystical land of Can-tuck-ee.

And despite her previous emotional turmoils, . . .

I will not be sad for long.

. . . Alice's disposition has improved substantially with the journeys.

The new sights.

"What is that?"

"Mink."

And the sights that seem a bit more . . .

"Uncas, are those more mountains?"

"They are."

. . . familiar.

"Is this entire country nothing but mountains?"

"There are also valleys between them."

And so the journeys improve her blood.

"Do you wish to stop?"

"I wish to stop always going up."

Not in small part to her even-tempered . . .

"i cannot make you into a bird to fly."

"I would not be a bird. They have no arms nor hands with which to touch you."

. . . Mohican companions.

And now they have stopped for the day.

The men have gone to trap, to hunt.

And a mischievously musing Alice . . .

One day I will insist they stay and set camp whilst I hunt for our supper.

. . . has set herself in the afternoon sun to amicably to setting camp.

A safe spot for the campfire.

Ground cleared and dug down.

Stones set.

Tinder and woodfat and stacked kindling as they should be.

Fuel wood near.

It is a preponderance to her how this simple chore was once so much a victory for her.

The girl in the woods.

She removes her own flint and steel. Makes the spark.

Tends it carefully. Feeds it just so much as it needs.

And now there is fire.

She has set it for little smoke, as there are no swarming masses of mosquitoes infuriating and torturing her existence.

And she, of course, has remembered to be careful . . .

Do not cross.

. . . as she works and moves about . . .

Crunch.

. . . alone.

Or has been.

I hear you, my Mohican lover. You cannot sneak up on me so easily anymore. I am no longer an invalid-

Rising and turning to see . . .

Oh.

. . . not her Mohicans, no.

No.

But instead, other . . .

"Bonjour, ma petite fille . . ."

. . . men.

". . . que fais-tu perdu dans . . ."

Two of them.

". . . les bois tout seul?"

Advancing toward her now.

"As-tu besoin de quelqu'un . . ."

Flanking her.

With shifty, sneaky eyes.

". . . prendre soin de toi?"

And rotting toothy mouths.

"Mon ami et moi . . ."

Buried in unruly snarls . . .

". . . très doués pour prendre soin . . ."

. . . of filthy beards.

". . . des petites filles perdues comme vous."

And Alice knows she is in danger.

Blast.

Her heart pounds wildly in alarm, she struggles to control her constricting breath.

Calm. Calm. I must be calm.

She does not take her eyes off them, these unsavory men.

For every step they take toward her, Alice takes one back.

Dipping one hand into her skirt pocket, leaving it there.

Watching them, watching them.

Trying to keep her wildly flailing rabbit thoughts calm so that she may think.

There is no way to escape them both.

No signal she may give to alert her Mohicans without also alerting these strangers as well.

And she does not even know how close or far away . . .

Calm. Calm.

. . . the men she travels with may be.

Her heels scrape up against the trunk of the tree she can now feel pressing into her back.

And she knows her time is running out.

One of the men, close enough she can smell his stench as he closes the distance, is nearly to her.

The other a double handful of paces back and to the left.

The one closer reaches out a hand out toward her.

"Viens ici, petite fille . . ."

Her face, her hair, her arm, her breast, she does not know exactly what he intends to be reaching for.

Except that she has not and will not give him leave to reach out for anything belonging to her.

And she, mannerly young lady she is, expresses her preferences in an appropriate manner for the social situation.

By meeting his hand with the hunting knife she has drawn and hidden within the folds of her traveling skirts.

Lashing out, still young enough in the woods to have no real aim in the face of her encroaching duress . . .

"-"

. . . scoring a slice across the back of his hand, a mere scratch really.

He draws back, hissing between gritted teeth . . .

". . . petite salope. . ."

. . . eyes flashing with rage.

"Vous paierez pour ça-"

And suddenly he stops as if by an invisible force, countenance draining of color.

Eyes widening with alarm, lips thinning into a grimace.

For behind him now is a tall, lean Indian with dark eyes flat of emotion, of compassion.

A knife he holds at the intruder's throat, blade ready to slice.

A word from her, a dip of the chin, a shift of eyes.

Nay, may she even think it, this Mohican knows her so well.

And blade will open this man's throat, spill his lifeblood.

The Indian would not hesitate, but turn him as he cut, directing the spray away from the one he loves and protects.

Sparing her the indignity of this filth's tainted fluids.

And drop the corpse to the forest floor at their feet.

The other would just be just as quickly and efficiently dispatched by the elder's hand in a move of mercilessness and death.

Two lives taken.

For the insult of threatening the unmolestedness of hers.

All she need do, by shouted directive or the subtlest of visual tells, is give her consent.

And these men will die.

It is but a moment, brief and passing, in the breadth of life.

But for Alice Munroe, it is yet another shift in the consideration of her existence.

Of the power she may or may not weld.

Over another living thing.

And she . . .

Do not.

. . . makes her judgement.

Uncas thins his lips together at her silent plea.

Clenches his jaw.

Releases the man.

And steps back.

Alice, knife still in hand, remains as she is.

As the glowering stranger man . . .

"Huh. You dare swing your little knife at me, little girl?"

. . . licks the blood off his hand . . .

"Maybe you really are . . ."

. . . before his entire countenance evolves into a broad, approving grin.

". . . fit for the wilderness, no?"

Leery-eyed as it is.


You may not care to know what they were saying.

If so, that's fine. Some of you may.

So here it is.

As they were advancing:

"Hello, my little girl. What are you doing lost in the woods all alone? Are you in need of someone to take care of you? My friend and I are very good at taking care of lost little girls like you."

When he was reaching out for her:

"Come here, little girl."

When Alice cut him:

"Little bitch!"

Right before Uncas showed up:

"You will pay for that."

Yeah, so not too nice then.

Thanks to MedicineGal815, DinahRay, AsterLaurel, BrynnaRaven, ELY72, and blanparbe (I would say have you tried to shut down the cuteness of the Mohicans and Uncas but it's impossible to shut that down, oh well, my bad) for reviewing!

Thank you also to DinahRay for reading this chapter and providing me the feedback I needed to post confidently.

There's a second chapter here and then we'll take a short intermission while I try to get some sleep for a few days. I've been non-stop writing and very little sleeping sooo I'm gonna hit snooze before my family calls an intervention, ha.

And give you gentle readers a little break too!

But first . . .