I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do love it so. And this fandom.

Into the Wild

Woman of Earth


The last of the day is fading when they come for her.

The Honored Mothers of the village.

They take her from where she was, alone and contentedly contemplative.

And bring her into an empty longhouse.

Empty, save for them.

There are three of them, these old ones with strength in their gentle fingers and grey in their braided hair.

Light in their kind, dark eyes.

It has been a week that she and her Mohicans have resided in the village.

She has encountered no hostility from the people here.

No threatening mutterances, no.

On the contrary, the elder men who have been joined by her Wètuxëmùksit greet her with slight nods and mild pipe-filled smiles as she crosses their paths.

The elder women, such as the one who first gave her the bowl of berry and nut to fill her belly, much the same.

The children, the young girls and boys, have seemed fascinated with her hair.

". . . manitak wisainakòt? ènta alàhshi milxukòn?"

. . . makes it so yellow? It is like corn silk.

Brushing it with their small fingers as they gather curiously about her.

Twisting it into plaits. Undoing their work. Beginning again.

They have sat with her and played with her hair, allowed her twist theirs as well.

Giggling and chattering.

Before shaking their dark tresses out and running off to play again.

They have brought her things.

Autumn leaves and curiously twisted branches.

One little boy, a fat toad.

And grinned and clapped as she gasped when it leapt its lazy escape from her hand to the ground.

And she laughed with them.

Alice has caught Uncas more than once observing her at this pastime when work is done.

Herself surrounded by the young ones.

Looking happily upon the little children with their sweet, open faces.

And out here and there to that which she may see.

And seeing . . .

My Mohican.

. . . him.

Uncas.

With his own warm gaze and upturned mouth.

And each time, Alice has caught her breath.

Felt a renewed fluttering in her belly.

A warmth in her chest.

And felt very, very glad . . .

Why do you look at me so?

. . . to be as she is.

And where she is.

The mothers and fathers of the children, gentle smiles and nods and utterances of quiet appreciation of Alice's gentility toward their young ones.

The boys of age, about their pursued activities and work, cast passing glances of muted curiosity.

And the girls, those old enough of summers to begin to dream of men with slender, straight noses and piercing dark eyes and strongly prominent cheekbones, have not quite engaged her much at all.

Not quite met her gaze as she has come upon them in the village.

And she has not pressed the matter.

For she has not known how.

And holds hope within her heart that it may resolve itself with time.

There has not been much outwardly palpable tension at her presence.

From man nor woman alike.

Youth nor elder.

She supposes the word of the men with whom she has traveled holds much sway in the village.

Much as in the frontier lands . . .

They are respected by sensible people wherever they go.

. . . she has made her way through.

And here there is no different.

And ever so much more she wishes to please.

And so she has simply eased herself along among them.

And found it all . . .

"Hè, Alice Munroe."

. . . quite pleasant and peaceful.

And so when the Honored Women come for her . . .

"Wëntaxa."

Come.

. . . she goes.


They have brought with them bowls of clear water, items of a grooming nature.

Set them within reach.

And sitting her among them close enough to the quietly crackling fire to ward away the light chill, they begin to attend to her.

They brush out her hair, smooth it down.

Take notice of the interwined pale and dark that lays against her neck.

And leave it be.

They have removed her worn traveling clothes, these gentle women.

Cleaned her body with fragrant oil.

Her arms, her hands.

Her feet.

Her face.

And redressed her in a clean buckskin dress.

A lovely, earthy garment, it is.

Quite soft and comfortable upon her freshened body.

The toggles are deer antler.

And it is long, reaching midway down her lower legs.

She does not know exactly what they are doing, these women.

Only that she is experiencing the sensation of being delicately cared for by near strangers.

Women.

Once young, like her.

In love, like her.

They paint her face, these Honored Mothers.

With blue and white ochre.

Clay mixed from the earth with water from the sky.

They paint her face carefully.

With strong, gentle fingers.

Humming and chanting softly all the while.

A line of blue dots down the center of her high forehead to between her brows.

Another line of blue dots curved gracefully under her eyes midway between eyeline and nose.

Thin white fingerlines, one on either side of her face.

Following just under her cheekbones.

And a final one as well. Just touching her bottom lip and down her chin.

She cannot see herself; she wishes she could.

But she feels beautiful.

She feels strong.

And protected.

And being prepared . . .

". . . xkwe kwëtèli . . ."

. . . woman of earth . . .

. . . for something special.

". . . apuwàt, lëpwe . . ."

. . . patient, wise . . .

White bands they paint, thin and delicate 'round her wrists.

Dots.

". . . kimixsu . . ."

. . . speaking truth quietly . . .

And on her slender fingers as well.

And when they are done, . . .

". . . hapi chitanësu pëmëtunhe . . ."

. . . with strong voice . . .

. . . they press an ear of corn, still in its shuck, into her hands.

Perhaps it is even one she had helped gather the day before whilst taking a reprieve from the making of the pemmican.

She may not know and that is alright.

". . . kine tëmp . . ."

. . . sharp mind . . .

For she believes it to be an offering.

A gift.

A promise.

". . . kanshilësihëna . . ."

. . . unwavering spirit . . .

Of the new life she has begun to live here.

And the ones with whom she is choosing to live.

". . . chitanësu ila . . ."

. . . strong warrior . . .

A blanket they wrap 'round her shoulders.

And then guide her rise . . .

". . . welhìk ànati, mwisa . . ."

. . . devoted mother, sister . . .

. . . and walk with them . . .

". . . tkawsit wèhihëlëwès . . ."

. . . gentle giver . . .

. . . into the gathering darkness . . .

". . . xkwe kwëtèli."

. . . woman of earth.

. . . of the early evening.


They walk with her, the women, gently guiding her she knows not where.

Along through the village.

And she goes with them.

Blood rushing through her veins.

Breath and belly aflutter.

But somehow fully trusting that all is . . .

They will not lead me astray. They have cared for me.

. . . as it should be.

She does not know exactly where she is going.

Until she sees it.

And it is then she cannot breathe.

There is a light breeze stirring the cool autumn air.

Harvest moon, orange and huge, hangs low in the sky.

It is a rare moon. The second full in only a month.

It will seem to grow smaller as it ascends into the night sky.

Grow lighter in color.

Develop a bluish haze around its circumference that will fascinate the eye.

A sign of good fortune in the minds of some. A portent of ill tidings to others.

Alice chooses to embrace the good.

Another step more and she is there.

Alice Munroe.

Alone.

The women, it seems, those low chanting guides, have removed themselves from her.

Brought her to the small glade where she secretly watched the one she loves at his work days before.

That completed structure she sees there now.

A campfire.

And him.

The one she loves.

Uncas-


I just can't apologize for the outpouring of chapters here. I'm just so relieved and joyous and hopeful due to the results of the US election that I just feel like spreading the love and happiness and hope.

I mean, really. :D

As for those who spread love and joy to me in this fandom, most grateful thanks to DinahRay, ELY72, BlueSaffire, MedicineGal815, and PanickedPossum (thank *you* for such a glowing, stellar review!) for taking the time to review.

Anybody hear bells?

I think I hear bells.

Like, special event bells or something?

;)