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 2


The men they have encountered are French trappers.

As transient in the land as the Mohicans themselves.

And no longer interested in Alice now . . .

". . . girl alone in the woods, no?"

. . . or so they say.

". . . common decency to offer her, uh, how do you say . . . succor?"

But now the much sought after furs of the Indian men.

". . . -ttle of whiskey?"

And offer up such generous offerings . . .

"Wampum?"

. . . of which Uncas and Chingachgook have no . . .

"No. Silver."

. . . interest in.

"Bah! What need do you indians have for silver, huh?"

Uninvited, the Frenchmen have sat themselves around the campfire.

Brought pipes out, taken their time to tap them down, light them properly.

With stone-faced sentinel Mohicans hawkishly between them.

And Alice.

Withdrawn to the furthest side of the campfire, busyied with some errant bit of choring she has falsely manufactured.

All the whilst keeping eyes and ears alert and attentive . . .

". . . après la tombée de la nuit . . ."

. . . for whatever she may see and hear.

". . . et tuez-les."


Proper English gentlewomen learn manners.

Modesty.

Sewing.

Reading.

Writing.

Enough numbers to manage a household.

Or least manage the persons managing the household.

They most certainly do not learn to emulate other cultures.

Even when they have French governesses for their caretakers.

Especially when they have French governesses for their caretakers.

It is simply . . .

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Alice."

"Bonjour Madame Boisseau."

. . . not proper.


"La bouillie est assez bonne."

Alice the child does not agree.

She does not like the porridge, would not eat it if she could avoid doing so.

"Oui. Ce serait mieux avec du miel."

Save for perhaps for a drizzle of honey over it.

She does, however, relish the secrecy . . ,

"Du beurre, peut-être?"

"Nous verrons ce qui pourrait . . ."

. . . of their little conversations.

". . . être fait alors."

If only for the butter.

"Merci."


They do so like to talk.

"Peut-être devrions-nous les tuer."

These leering French traders.

"Nous prenons les fourrures."

Not loudly, of course.

"Je vais scalper le garçon."

But neither quietly.

"Utilise ses jolis cheveux longs . . ."

Perhaps because they believe their conversation safe.

". . . pour essuyer mon cul."

And not understood by the drooling savages.

"Nous pouvons prendre la fille."

Or even the plain, simple English girl.

"Partagez-la entre nous."

Who, on the other side of the fire . . .

"Oh, blast! Clumsy me, . . ."

. . . suddenly slips with the knife she was using to cut a needed length of sinew.

". . . I have cut my hand."

And spills her blood upon the ground.


"They are planning to ambush us."

This is murmured low in Mohican that only the one she loves may strain to hear as he inspects the wound upon the meaty part of her left thumb.

"Kill you. Kill our father."

Simple to cut, make bleed.

"Take the furs."

Yet easy to bandage and keep out of the way to heal . . .

"Take me."

. . . when her deception . . .

"Scalp you and use your hair to . . . wipe themselves."

. . . has served its purpose.

The one she loves keeps his stone face set.

"How do you know this?"

As he slowly tends to her wound.

"They are speaking French."

Frenchmen to his bent back in the gloaming of the day.

"You understand them?"

She does not allow herself to nod.

"Yes."

And Uncas, . . .

"La petite fille maladroite semble s'être coupée avec son grand couteau tranchant."

The clumsy little girl seems to have cut herself with her big, sharp knife.

. . . wound bandaged, . . .

"Peut-être qu'elle n'aime pas tellement le couteau maintenant, non?"

Perhaps she does not like the knife so much now, no?

. . . rises . . .

"Je ne m'en soucierais pas autant. . ."

I would not worry about it so much . . .

. . . and moves away from her.

". . . j'ai une pommade spéciale pour lui faire oublier sa petite main idiote."

. . . I have a special salve to make her forget her silly little hand.


They have crept away in the darkness.

Snoring, farting Frenchmen mumbling . . .

"Je te verrai bientôt, petite fille. Je mordrai ta jolie chair anglaise avec mes dents."

I will see you soon, little girl. I will bite your pretty English flesh with my teeth.

. . . in their restless sleep.

Alice following Chingachgook.

Nearly blind in the darkness.

Remembering, remembering . . .

"The forest knows where you are."

. . . to stay calm.

"You must let it find you."

Uncas, Uncas who has said it.

Uncas who is not with them.

She has been following Chingachgook.

Uncas behind her.

Or was.

And now he is gone.

And she does not know . . .

Uncas, my love, it is dark and I am afraid.

. . . how long.

And she strives to stay calm.

To remember he is a woodsman.

Do not leave me in the dark in this wilderness.

And knows, as the forest does, that he knows exactly where . . .

I would not walk on . . .

. . . he is.

. . . without you.

Even if she does not.


They have stopped, Alice Munroe and her Wètuxëmùksit.

He has stopped and she with him.

"Where is Uncas? Does he track ahead?"

And her question goes unanswered.


And then, without preamble . . .

"Uncas! Are you alright?"

. . . he simply is there.

He does not speak. Or even dare to quite look at her.

He only looks to his father and his father looks to him.

They speak no words, they need not.

It is done.

We move on.

His father steps forward into the darkness.

And Uncas moves to follow as well.

Alice grabs his arm then.

Hand firm.

Melodious voice brittle.

"You killed them. You killed those men."

He looks to her, does not speak.

Confirm nor deny.

Yet she knows nevertheless.

And lines appear upon her face.

Creasing her forehead, narrowing her eyes.

"You did not have to kill them."

Large, doe-like eyes judging him.

"We were leaving. We were going away from them."

She is displeased.

She does not understand.

Yet he remains as certain now as he did then.


"They would have tracked us."

His tone is final. Flat.

As on the day he pulled her back from chasing after the horses.

It brooks no argument, no further conversation.

The one she loves turns away from her.

And she realizes with a start that both he and his father knew all along these men would die.

Advancing toward her with unsavory intent had cost them their lives.

And Alice . . .

"Come. We will go now."

. . . can think of nothing to say.

"Camp beyond the next ridge."

And so simply follows her Mohican lover and his father . . .

"Continue on in the morning."

. . . as they walk west.

Into the wild.


I'm really curious to hear your opinion of Uncas and his actions as opposed to Alice and her response to what he did.

Was it really necessary or did he do it because he wanted to? And is that a character flaw or is he her bloody knight in shining armor whether she knows it or not?

The only reason those nasty trappers are French is because that is who was prevalent in these lands at the time.

I am perfectly fine with French people. And I apologize if I have offended anyone.

Also, sincere apologies if I butchered the French language itself. I used Google Translate since I've forgotten most of the little French I knew that one summer I traveled abroad in college.

Thanks to BrynnaRaven, blanparbe, and ELY72 for taking the time to review. You're just always so gracious. :D

Thanks also to the silent readers of this story. I appreciate you all very much.

See you again in a bit for the last story arc!