But I do so love them. And this fandom.
Into the Wild
For You
The men venture out and hunt.
Trap, mostly.
Bury their snares just under the snow.
Bring back braces of conies, squirrels.
The occasional fox.
If not, there are stores in reserve for just this reason.
The women break ice in the river, carry water for drinking.
Water for cooking.
Water for occasional cleaning.
And they forage, rare winter berries, nuts they may find if they are lucky.
If not, there are stores in reserve for just this reason.
And if the winter becomes too long, if the food spoils where it has been lain.
If there is nothing else, no animal or plant to else suffice, they may strip the bark from the trees, chew the hide from the furs.
Do what they may to survive.
Because survive they must.
Alice, along with the other women gathering water, has seen the grey wolves watching them, watching the two-legged water gatherers.
Gauging their number, their strength, their weakness.
Ruthless wild eyes surmising the most feeble amongst, the easiest prey.
They are at a distance still, these far away and not yet ready for engagement.
For winter is only just begun.
And they may not yet have need for such desperation.
And so Alice, along with the others, makes note.
And does not concern herself much further.
Uncas has gone out to trap, to hunt.
Alice has remained behind.
And she has found . . .
"Kèski nkwëchi?"
May I try?
. . . yet another interest she may . . .
"Òsòmi, Xkwechëch Kòskahtènao Ahtu."
Yes, Girl Hugged by Deer.
. . . her mind and hands to task.
They have welcomed her, the women, perhaps with the gentlest of teases but only the gentlest.
And so she sits.
She watches.
And she . . .
"Yu?"
Like this?
"Në mpi. Kchitanaptun."
Closer. Tighten together.
. . . begins to learn.
The quills are sharp, her sore fingers and hands are tender at the end of each session.
Undyed, they are pale yellow and white with black tips.
Flattened, she has run them through her teeth over and again that they may sit as she wishes them.
Bitten off the tips as well, she does not wish them to cause the one she loves to associate her gift with discomfort.
Bound with sinew to the bit of rawhide pouch she has secreted away for just this need as she discovered it.
And she hides her unfinished work away so that it may not be revealed until it is complete.
Works it bit by bit, day after day.
Does, undoes, redoes, until it is as she wishes.
Or close enough as she may make it.
Her design, curvilinear patterns, are imperfect as she is not near the expert as some.
And yet it is still something of which she may be proud.
Because she has made it and made it for him.
There will be more perhaps in coming winters.
Moccasins and fetishes for children.
A necklace perhaps, telling the story of her journey, similar to the belts he and his brother carry with them on their journeying.
She does not wish to become Portland Square materialistic.
Only to keep a record of the days of her new life.
As does her . . .
"Kèku hàch këmikëntàm, Wètuxëmùksit?"
What are you doing, Father?
. . . adopted father.
"Luwàni, nliksëmën achimëwakàn kahtëne."
In winter, I paint a story of the year gone by.
The picture of which he speaks is still early in its creation.
"Kwëti luwàni, achimëwakàn ktëmakhatènamu."
Some winters, the stories are sad and mournful.
Too early to be seen in the minds of anyone but its creator.
Its creator whose eyes . . .
"Kwëti luwàni, yun luwàni, wëlatenamëwakàn."
Some winters, such as this, they are full of joy.
. . . smile gently at her.
"Kulhatenami?"
You are full of joy?
As he works.
"Ki nkwis winkhatènamu, Alice."
You give my son joy, Alice.
And Alice Munroe . . .
"Kulamàlsuhali."
That gives me joy.
. . . finds herself . . .
"Wanìshi, Wètuxëmùksit."
Thank you, Father.
. . . quite grateful for the life . . .
"Wanìshi, Wënichana."
Thank you, Daughter.
. . . she did not expect to be living.
Uncas has returned, along with the others who have gone out.
Supplying meat, some small, skinned thing that will be boiled down to the bones.
He has returned.
And she has been glad . . .
"Hallo, Uncas."
. . . to see him so.
Her husband, her companion, her life-mate.
Who seems . . .
"Hallo, Miss."
. . . glad to be seen by her as well.
"I have something for you."
He does not know of Christmas, not in any real sense.
He does not know of candle-lit trees and feasting and small gifts given to children.
Reverend Wheelock's school, stationed in the Middle Colonies, would not have celebrated, nor even mentioned the holiday, such an affront to God it would have been considered.
Neither the New England Colonies for that matter.
A day of toil as every other. Fined and judged and otherwise punishable it would have been to break from the religiously strict routine.
Only the heathen Southern colonies and their ungodly ways may celebrate the Winter Solstice.
And of course, Portland Square over the seas.
But Alice remembers.
And though she has long since dimissed any formal calendar, she has still set aside this time, this consideration.
And now revealed . . .
"It is not much. A seed pouch, perhaps."
. . . her gift to him.
And Uncas . . .
"I am honored to have it."
. . . smiles.
"Thank you."
And kisses her.
It is a rare thing.
A plant that grows in the dead of winter.
Survives, thrives, when all else dies.
Less of the sun, the rain, that which the earth provides to grow.
And when he sees them, he thinks of her.
The one he loves, the one he has bound himself to for all the days he may have.
And he believes that she . . .
Alice-
. . . would smile to see them.
So he marks their space in his mind.
And continues the hunt, the search, for food, sustenance, insurance of survival for the village.
And when his task is done, when he is ready to return to them, to her, he circles back.
Roughened hands gentle with the delicate petals, the fragile stems.
He would not harm them, he would not spoil the gift.
And when inside the warmed longhouse once more, the one he loves with her pale face, her cornsilk hair, her plait intertwined with dark and pale, her welcome, inquisitive eyes so joyful at the sight of his return, he shows her what he has brought.
Offering the small bundle for her consideration.
Small flowers with white petals.
Plunked from the cold, dead earth.
He took three for her, just for her.
And left many to continue on.
And now she holds them close, face picture of wonder.
"Oh, Uncas . . . welsichik. Wanìshi."
They are beautiful. Thank you.
"Kèku hèch yuki?"
What are they called?
And he . . .
"Takta. Nuwatu pilët òk wèlsit."
I do not know their name. I know they are pure and beautiful.
"Wihëlaneyo. 'Òtaèsàk Alice'."
I will call them 'Alice Flowers'.
. . . sees that she is . . .
"Ktaholël. Uncas."
I love you. Uncas.
"Ktaholël. Alice."
. . . very happy indeed.
Not the expert at quilling BrynnaRaven and some of the others of you may be. But I didn't want to ask and ruin the surprise.
Also, the flowers Uncas finds and gives to Alice are called hellbores or Christmas flowers.
'Cause, you know, Christmas!
Thanks to blanparbe, DinahRay, and BrynnaRaven for so gladly reviewing!
Merry Christmas!
(And if you don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Being Alive Day!)
