I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

Why, yes, yes, this is the final story arc. ;)

Into the Wild

The Girl Who Was Too Pale


Alice has not felt such anxiety, such an attack of worry, the entirety of her journey throughout the wild lands of the Americas.

She has stopped walking all of a sudden, feet rooted to the ground.

Frozen body unable to carry her onward.

The outskirts of the valley village just within their sight.

What if they do not accept the paleness of my skin?

The elders of the village who remember the atrocities of the white man.

The women who wished to choose him for themselves.

They may look down upon me.

They may not let me stay.

They may drive me out.

I am not a part of them.

I am not a part of-

Her panicked tunneling vision notes him.

Uncas, the one she has chosen, so bravely all this way, to follow, has put himself next to her.

On the other side, his father.

Chingachgook.

The one who teaches her, accepts her.

Even for his own son's heart.

She feels their strength flowing out to her.

Feels their belief, their acceptance.

Feels their power.

They are with her.

They walk beside her.

They . . .

Uncas has chosen me.

Chingachgook has accepted me.

They will not leave me.

. . . will not abandon her.


This does not ease her worry, her anxiety.

Not in the slightest bit.

It only enables her to move forward.

One step at a time.

One moccasined foot at a time.

And she keeps . . .

Uncas?

Wètuxëmùksit?

. . . moving.


The village is a strange amalgamation of Delaware and English markers.

Laid out in the traditional circle.

Longhouse in the middle, their community meeting place, large enough for everyone.

Wigwams encircling.

Smaller roundish structures.

Big enough to comfortably sleep the various family groups.

Store the few personal items.

Huddle 'round a low, warming fire.

The wigwams. Like her sister's birthing hut.

Made with twig and branch and sinew.

Overlaid with woven mats, birchbark, cattail.

Holes at the top, flaps at the door.

Cookfires without.

Workstations.

The men wear buckskins, leggings.

Some cotton settler shirts as her Mohicans.

The women, buckskin dresses.

Others, colonial dresses.

Or a mixture of both.

They work in the fields, attend their own pursuits, children scattered among them.

They carry guns and hunting knives.

Tomahawks and gunstock war clubs.

But down in ease. At peace.

Prepared for protection.

But relatively unencumbered by fear, the hyperattentiveness of war, battle.

They have tattoos upon their bodies, these people. Feathers in their hair.

That hair, for some, cleanly kept scalplocks.

For others, like her Uncas, cleanly kept flowing tresses.

Men.

And women.

Some even . . .

If they were to sneeze, would it hurt?

. . . metal in their noses.

It is all very strange to her, how naturally they all seem to be at ease with who they are and who they chose to be.

And she wonders why she assumed Chingachgook and his sons were outliers in the land of the American frontier.

"Chingachgook, kwëtkiàn . . ."

Chingachgook, you have returned . . .


Hubris.

Excessive pride and self-confidence.

It has been the fall of many a man in the days of humanity.

And even some . . .

"Nulelìntàmuhëna èli paèkw . . ."

. . . women, it would seem.

Alice had been confident.

Overly confident, she now realizes.

So very confident in her ability to understand Mohican.

She had worked so hard, listened so carefully.

Practiced so studiously.

And succeeded, yes.

Succeeded in learning Mohican.

Similar to Lenape.

But not exact.

And, she now understands with little more than some embarrassment . . .

". . . nulelìntàmuhëna . . ."

. . . 'twas not the same at all.

". . . ktàpi pèchi yushe witawsumku . . ."

For the one she loves and his father had taught her well.

Schooled her carefully.

And because she was but a babe in the woods, . . .

". . . chich . . ."

. . . slowly.

They had been speaking slowly.

Slowly enough for her to understand.

For her to cut apart, piece together.

But now . . .

". . . Nahëli kulhatuhëna kulhatu . . ."

. . . she is among those not yet in the way of caring for her linguistic growth and abilities.

And she . . .

". . . wikhatihëna . . ."

. . . is struck mute with hidden humiliation . . .

". . . luwàn tëwènama."

. . . and daunting realization.

Uncas notices, of course he does.

She has hidden it well. (Though she does not know it.)

Yet he as swift of mind as he is of foot, does notice.

Already standing near her, edges a touch closer.

And speaks.

"He is saying he is glad we are here."

Familiar rumble directed and low enough to reach only her ears.

"What they have is ours."

And she, eyes downcast and face tinged pink . . .

"And we will spend the winter together as family."

. . . under her sun-kissed skin, . . .

Too pale. I am too pale. I thought I could understand and try to fit in.

. . . nods.

But I cannot.

Shame and humiliation complete.

I should not have come. I am not made for this.

Chingachgook and the elder man who has approached them first continue to converse, with Chingachgook looking toward the two who have walked with him.

Gentle gestures and "Alice Munroe" among the quiet sounds he speaks.

And then the one speaking with her Wètuxëmùksit moves forward and in broken English, and gently taking Alice's hands in his, . . .

"Hè."

. . . speaks.

"You are very welcome here, . . ."

And she, quite suddenly emotional and valiantly attempting to not appear so . . .

". . . Alice Munroe."

. . . just manages a grateful nod.


A long journey it has been.

Over rough and wearying terrain.

Her moccasins are needing mending.

So long they have carried her, a long, looping journey.

Over seven hundred miles, though she does not know it.

And now she is to rest.

And mend the footwear her Mohican made for her with his own two hands.

She is sitting alone, the men she has traveled with gone off for the moment on their own errands.

She feels safe.

As safe as one may feel ever in the wilderness of the world.

And not thinking . . .

I could not understand them.

. . . of anything in particular.

Only sitting.

I was not ready.

And mending her moccasins.

A movement comes near.

And she looks and sees.

A wisened and wrinkled old one near her.

A grandmother perhaps.

An elder.

Alice realizes she herself is glaring, frowning.

Has not meant to.

Only . . .

Who comes?

. . . startled and still yet without the confidence she had hoped to feel as her new self.

And she fixes . . .

"Hallo."

. . . her face as best as she can.

A full buckskin dress.

Grey hair in decorated braids.

"Hè."

Body not widened with the gluttony of the well-to-do English dowager.

And she sits easier than Alice would have thought.

And offers her . . .

"Katupwi hèch?"

Does your belly hunger?

. . . a bowl of gathered berries and nuts.

"Mitsi."

Eat.

Miming her hand to her mouth.

And Alice realizes . . .

I understood her.

. . . that perhaps all is not so lost as she might have once thought.

For the old woman has spoken carefully.

Slowly.

And just as Alice . . .

"Wanìshi, . . ."

Thank you, . . .

. . . needed her to.

". . . Uma."

. . . Honored Mother.

And the elder woman smiles in surprise.

"Nulelìntàm, . . ."

You are welcome, . . .

And delight.

". . . Mimënsa."

. . . Child.


Who knew a squirrel could be language barriers and social anxiety?

Still, it's happened to the best of us. Wait 'til Uncas tries to learn French.

*ahem, what? Somebody said something. Wasn't me-*

Thanks to these lovely reviewers: DinahRay, MohawkWoman, AsterLaurel, the enthusiastic blanparbe, BrynnaRaven, ELY72, and BlueSaffire (and her morning Eric, oh lord) for so kindly reviewing!

Well, now that we're here in the village, let's get a little taste of day-to-day living, eh? (i.e.-more metaphorical squirrels, this time good ones.)