I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Not really sure what I'm going to do with myself when this story's over.
Into the Wild.
Thoughts and Words in Three Tongues
So much he knows, always so much.
So much she learns from him and his father, so much.
And now that winter slows the world around them to a crawl and there is now more time with which to do as they will . . .
"Will you teach me French?"
"You wish to learn French?"
"I wish to understand French."
. . . Alice finds herself, in rare occasion, the teacher.
"I have never taught anyone anything of importance."
"You have taught me many things of importance."
Though apparently not so rare.
"Have I now?"
"You have."
As much as I would like to revisit this declaration at length . . .
"Oui, je vais vous apprendre le français."
Yes, I will teach you French.
It is not quite so sensual, Alice's tutelage . . .
"Je suis Uncas."
I am Uncas.
. . . of her Mohican.
"J'ai des fourrures."
I have furs.
It is not that she does not wish to allure him into the mystery of French as he did her with Mohican.
"échanger de l'or."
Trade for gold.
It is that she learned it to bond herself further to him, his way of life.
Honor their father.
"Pas de perles."
No beads.
Whereas Uncas' desire to learn this chosen tongue . . .
"Je viens en paix."
I come in peace.
. . . stems wholly from a desire to be better protected and prepared . . .
"Cette saleté est ma maison."
This dirt is my home.
. . . to face the world beyond this little village.
"Non. Terre. Pas de saleté."
No. Land. Not dirt.
Though there are times . . .
"Terre. Cette terre est ma maison."
Land. This land is my home.
"Bien. Beaucoup mieux."
Good. Much better.
. . . they share a laugh.
"Cette femme. Cette femme est ma femme."
This woman. This woman is my wife.
A smile.
"Bien. Très bien."
Good. Very good.
A kiss.
"Ktaholël, Uncas."
"Ktaholël, Alice."
Or two.
Uncas and the other men continue to hunt here and there.
Make tools, repair tools, sharpen tools.
Alice and the other women continue to quill, make clothes, mend clothes.
Break ice for water.
There is a blustery blow and they find the lands beyond the immediate longhouses treacherous and alien.
They melt snow for water.
Huddle close together for warmth.
Listen to the wolves at night, long, undulating howls that rise and fall on the frigid wind.
They listen to winter stories. They tell winter stories.
They repeat them, over and over.
They watch the fires burn low, see the snow flakes drift in through the smokeholes.
And Alice wonders.
She wonders after her sister, after Nathaniel and the new baby.
She wonders after those who have accorded them shelter in their travels.
The Walls. The Olivers. The men at Fort Cumberland.
Hannah and Timothy and Mrs. Donnelly.
She wonders after those left behind at Boston and Portland Square.
Friends. Family. Acquaintances. Strangers. Friends. Family.
She wrote to them in Boston, the women who surely must think her dead.
She wrote to them then, the entirety of the long journey ahead of her hidden from her childish and naive sight.
Wrote to them then of the exhausting sea voyage she endured.
Weeks and weeks and weeks of endless ocean.
Followed by days and days of travel.
That were only the beginning of what she could not have imagined in her wildest fantasies.
And did not write to them again.
Not in her somewhat catatonic beginning state.
Nor later, when she finally and fully awakened, by degrees, to her new world and everything therein.
For she considered they might look for her.
When now, in truth, she did not wish to be found.
Only by one.
Who now has.
She wonders at the mystery and misadventure and all manner of circumstance that has led her to this point.
And she wonders at what the future may hold.
The eve, the morrow, the day after.
The season after.
And round again.
She wonders if she will always be a breed apart.
Wonders how much further she will go in her journey of herself.
She wonders of the English and French and Indian men to the East.
Who fight for land.
Who fight for freedom.
Who fight for money and greed and power.
She wonders if they will come west, if the people along the way and even here and beyond will be caught up in the slaughter that she now realizes seems to follow these interlopers wherever they go.
She wonders, yes, but in a mildly wandering fashion.
She does not allow herself to be consumed by it.
She has learned that much by the side of her Mohican companion and his father.
To allow these thoughts to come and go.
Without so much as a by her leave.
"Je t'aime, Uncas. Je t'aime."
She whispers this as she slips toward sleep.
As the fires quietly crackle and pop near them and around the longhouse that protects them from the cold.
She whispers this as his arms hold her safe and secure as human creature may be.
She whispers this into the semi-darkness.
Not knowing whether he is adoze or awake.
And Uncas the Mohican, her companion, her lover, her Nëwitaemàk, of course, hears her murmur . . .
"And what does that mean, Nëwicheyok?"
. . . and responds low and sleep-husky , , ,
"It means, dear Husband . . ."
. . . rumbling in her ear.
". . . 'I love you'."
His arms tighten about her for the briefest of moments.
A press of the lips into her hair.
"Je t'aime. Alice."
And a drowsing smile she hears in his voice as she slips further toward sleep . . .
"I do not wish to speak this to the French traders."
. . . that summons a smile to her somnlent lips . . .
"Though it may afford me additional trading leverage."
. . . and joy to her . . .
"To bring home to you."
. . . heart.
I promised three but I'm delivering extra.
Mostly for the French, I won't lie.
But also because wintertime is thinking time.
Quarantine or no.
And whether it be fast or slow, you oft not know where it will go.
;)
Anyway, thanks to BlueSaffire, BrynnaRaven, DinahRay, blanparbe, and KuBu14 for reviewing the previous chapter.
Two more to go!
(Plus a big reveal.)
;)
