I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
But I do so love them. And this fandom.
Into the Wild.
And That Is Good
They can no longer deny the onset of winter.
The coming bitter cold.
The days are shorter, colder.
The nights are . . .
"Thè."
It is cold.
"Nkishëwikàmën.'
I will warm you.
. . . colder as well.
"Pèxu nkwësihëna kwënikaon. Kishuwikamikàt ìka."
We will move to the longhouse tomorrow. It will be warmer there.
Alice thinks on this.
"Ki òk ni takuu wiku."
We will not be to ourselves.
And her Mohican . . .
"Kìchi në le."
That is true.
. . . confirms her reasoning.
Near a month it has been since they joined hands before the fire.
November is nearing its end, though they do not mark it.
An arbitrary keeping of time that is no longer of use for her in the wilderness.
And yet, it is significant.
The acceptance of the world as it is.
That changes must be come to pass.
Though she is understandably . . .
"Nich wikiyànkw."
I will miss our little home.
. . . less of a heart to share her space with her still new Nëwitaemàk.
"Ki òk ni yu ktàpi. Ahchinkìch luwai."
We will stay here if you like. Though it will be a difficult winter.
And she decides . . .
"Ku. Ki òk ni èlikhatink."
No. We will be of the village.
. . . it will be good to belong.
And her Mohican . . .
"Ki òk ni tëki sikòni tupàn linksu."
We will return in the spring when the frost melts.
. . . nods in agreement.
"Sikòni? Kwëtkiàn?"
In the spring? As you returned to me?
And takes her . . .
"Osòmi."
Yes.
. . . in his arms.
"Ohëlëmi tàkwe."
The journey will be shorter.
And she . . .
"Alàpa?"
Ah, will it?
. . . lets him.
"Lekèch."
It will.
There is so very little to move.
In Portland Square, any travel at all requires days, if not weeks, of preparation.
Moreso ever if one is moving household items.
Servants, carriages, horses, footmen, foremen.
Boxes and bags, straw and cloth.
And endless, endless lists.
Here, tucked away in a hidden Lenape village in a valley in the wildlands of Can-tuck-ee, Alice and the Mohican man she loves may only gather their furs, their possibles bags, items tucked down within.
Alice her hunting knife, Uncas his sundry weapons.
The fire within their home is smothered for the first time since they have begun to abide there.
She is saddened more than a little by the departure.
She does look back to cast a lingering eye upon the little hut, wood and thatch and sinew.
Built with his own two hands for them.
She has closed the smokehole firmly.
Lowered the flap over the entrance.
And knows this decision is good, that they will be among his people, her accepting people, that they will all care for one another.
Their collective warmth will hold the winter chill a bit more at bay.
They will commune together, share winter stories.
They will be a people surviving the long cold together.
And that is good.
There are beams criss-crossing the space above her husband's head.
The longhouse is a larger structure, requiring more frame to keep it upright.
They hang their furs from it.
There is space for more than one cookfire; they build one, light it.
There is room for their bowls, their slab.
Their possibles bags and weapons, close but stowed safely away.
And there is room for them.
A little corner they have tucked themselves comfortably into, far into the interior of the winter lodging.
Uncas the Mohican.
And Alice, the one who has chosen him.
There is room for them among the others, people of the village.
Young and old, man and woman.
Those with children. And those without.
She does not see their father, he must be with others in neighboring longhouses.
There is room for all where they may choose.
And that is good.
It is cold here too, it cannot be escaped.
Alice wraps herself in a fur, deer it is.
Fur to the inside, soft and warm.
Well tanned hide to the out, a buffer to the chill.
It is cold.
And yet it is warmer than without.
The extra people, the extra campfires, the extra movement and accoutrements and life within the structure lend warmth.
Warm air rising to push up against the cold drifting down from the smokeholes that assure they will not suffocate whilst cooking, huddling, breathing.
And that is good.
In winter everyone sleeps cuddled up close to the fires they have made.
Five couples in the one Uncas and the lost Yengee woman abide, families, singular individuals.
All together.
In winter daylight it is dimmer within than without. A repreive from the blindingly white snow that blankets the world.
In night, only the barest light from fires illuminates those drowsing nesr the fires.
Lends a false sense of privacy to the aura of the space.
They eat, sleep, and, in general, subsist here, banded together for warmth.
Longhouse. That is just what it is.
A long open structure.
Made of wood and with thatch and dirt.
Many low fires scattered carefully throughout.
Smoke circling lazily up to rounded ceiling, holes at regular intervals.
And the people themselves, wrapped in furs, wrapped in quiet, wrapped in community.
They eat, they drink, they talk, they laugh.
Babies cry and are comforted.
Children play and fight and argue when they are restless.
Stories are told, memories shared.
Work is done, the repairing of clothes, cleaning of supplies.
Sharpening of tools.
They even venture forth into the frozen wild as needed.
Foraging for winter berries. Retrieval of water.
Animals hunted, though their sightings in deepest winter are more rare than in warmer seasons.
The necessitated trudge for bodily excretions an unpleasant reoccurrence.
And, in the longhouse, they sleep.
Family groups together.
Single individuals, separate to themselves.
Uncas by her side, arm frequently draped comfortably around her.
Breathing deep and even, often matching hers.
Or hers to his.
She never is quite certain of it.
Only that inside his embrace, she is calm, peaceful, relaxed.
Except when . . .
"Uncas . . ."
. . . she is not.
Night work does not cease for the hibernation of the world.
In fact, for some, as bodies are not exhausted from long days in the tending of crops and hunting of animals . . .
". . . there are others."
. . . there is more.
It is a natural part of the order of life.
And here in the deep winter, there is nowhere to go.
And no reason to be ashamed.
"Would you have me stop?"
Movement under sleeping furs.
Quickening breathes.
Muted pleasures.
"No."
The others she speaks of, herself on occasion of being wakeful in the night, simply turn away.
"Then . . ."
Close eyes and ears.
Respect privacy.
For those in the throes . . .
". . . try not to scream."
. . . of intimate human connection.
And then, his gentle, sneaking fingers and his kissing, smiling lips test her resolve.
And that, also, . . .
"Uncas-"
"Alice-"
. . . is good.
Not gonna lie, would not be comfortable with this.
But do love the idea that it is an accepted part of life and others will simply turn away to give privacy.
I mean, seriously, where are they going to go in winter?
Thanks to MohawkWoman, AsterLaurel, DinahRay, BlueSaffire, BrynnaRaven, MedicineGal815, ELY72, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing! You're all so very kind and patient with this story. :D
Gracious Guest, thank you so much for reading and so frequently reviewing A Breed Apart and Into the Wild! I'm so very glad you enjoyed! Thank you so much for giving my writing style a chance.
I am hoping to post again this coming weekend. See you then! :D
