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

Death and Life


The winter lays heavy upon the village.

Upon some . . .

"Kishelëmùkònk, Alukalkehëna Kìkay ànkël nkënthwi kèshxink yukwe . . ."

Great Spirit and the Maker of All Life, an Honored Loved One comes to you now . . .

. . . more than others.

". . . nihëlatàmweokàn ahelëntàmëwakàn ok shielìntàmëwakàn."

. . . as free from pain and old age as a bird on the wind . . .

One of the elders, one of the already so few, has died.

A man.

No tragedy whilst hunting. No misfortune in battle.

Simply gone to sleep and not woken up.

A shallow grave has been dug, lined with tree bark.

The cleaned and cared for and smudged body laid on its side, arms wrapped 'round the torso, legs bent close.

He looks as if he may be sleeping, so natural is the positioning.

Personal items are lain 'round, small offerings of food as well.

There is not wailing in its exact understanding.

But songs are mournful, the whole of the village quietly joining in.

Alice, standing quietly and respectfully amongst them, does not understand it all.

But it is clear to her this was an an individual highly respected in the community.

A person now rising to join with the Creator and ancestors, gladly opening arms to welcome him into the afterlife.

After this, he will rarely, if all, be spoken of. Out of respect of making the living loved ones sad.

His name, and the sadness with it, must die with him.

When Uncas explains this to Alice privately later, she asks him if she should not have spoken of Chenoa to their father so many times.

And the one she loves shakes his head gently.

"No," comes the soft reply. "My father is well-versed in sadness. He knows he cannot escape it. He accepts it within himself so that he may also remember the good."

And he holds her a little closer to him in the night.

"I think I would always want to remember."

"Yes. I would as well."

As she him.


And she must remember something else now in the long, endless days of neverending winter.

The last time, well . . .

There is no cause for alarm, so to speak, only cause for alertness.

Awareness.

For something is different.

Alice does not feel as she has.

It has crept up on her, as do many subtle changes in life.

If she were still who she was, she might have noticed earlier.

The tightly-bound stays. The dresses.

Unforgiving leather shoes that may squeeze the feet.

The close scrutiny of . . .

"Are you alright, dear? You're looking a bit peaked."

"Yes, I am well, Aunt Eugenia."

"Not been getting too much night air, have you?"

"No, Aunt Eugenia."

"Drinking your charcoal regularly?"

"Yes, Aunt Eugenia."

"Good girl."

. . . of well-meaning family members.

The Mohican and Delaware people are not of a generally intrusive disposition.

And so it has simply gone unnoticed.

Then again, if she was as she had been, she would not be as she is or where or with whom.

Thus eliminating the current growing situation altogether in total.

But in light of all the things that have come pass to bring her to this moment in time . . .

I am not in the way of knowing for myself.

. . . it is as it is and she . . .

I cannot ask my Wètuxëmùksit.

. . . must seek out the counsel of someone . . .

I simply cannot survive that.

. . . she may dare to trust.

And I do not wish to alert my Mohican for naught.

And so the one remaining ally . . .

My sister is weeks away.

. . . open to her is . . .

"Hè, Uma."

"Hè, Alice Munroe."


She has taken her away from prying eyes.

Taken her into an abandoned hut.

Lit a fire, warmed the space for a time.

Bade her sit close.

And Alice has been reminded of the eve . . .

"Nkwëtënëmën."

I will put my hands on you now.

"Osòmi."

Yes.

. . . not so many weeks ago . . .

"Kwikwihëla hèch?"

You have been tired?

"Nkawi kìshi paxhàkwèke."

I sleep some in the afternoon.

. . . when a trio of them gathered her to them . . .

"Niskxamùkw ala mitsu?"

Sick to not eating?

"Ku. Kahtupwii tatamse."

No. Only do not wish to eat at times.

. . . and prepared her for . . .

" Këshitèxi?"

Hurt?

"Nintite yukwe."

I did not think so until now.

. . . the life she now has been proudly leading.

Her face has been inspected.

Eyes, mouth.

The curve of her throat.

Breasts pressed upon over her dress.

Realizes that as modest as they still are, there is also a fullerness to them, something she has also not taken note of until this moment.

Fullerness and additional tenderness, soreness she has been ignoring.

And now having been directed into a supine position, . . .

"Mutay?"

Belly?

. . . her lower stomach is palpated as well.

"Chuwixën hate."

There is a solidness there.

And she is certain of the answer now to her tremulous query.

"Nchèchèmskwehëla apuàt wënchi?"

World turns upon you?

"Chitanikapu."

When I stand quickly.

Wonders at the Honored Mother's thoughts of such an unprepared girl as her.

"Ktanehëmalke?"

You bleed?

And she remembers . . .

"Ku. Lòmwe nòchi."

No. Not for some time.

. . . not since her sister's West Virginia cabin.

The Honored Mother nods.

And speaks.

"Mimëntët mhitahpi nipënëwi."

The child will come in the summer.

And Alice knows . . .

Oh dear-

. . . she must tell her Nëwitaemàk immediately.

"Wanìshi, Uma."

Thank you, Honored Mother.

"Nulelìntàm, Nëwësksi Ana."

You are welcome, Young Mother.


And then . . .

"Hè, Nëwitaemàk."

"Hè, Nëwicheyok."

. . . she finds . . .

"I . . . We . . . How goes the hunting?"

. . . she cannot.

"It goes well . . . Is all well with you?"

For she worries . . .

"Yes. I am well."

. . . as to his answer.


He may not wish for children yet, this Mohican she loves.

He is a wanderer, a man of the wild.

Can-tuck-ee to New York to Virginia to wherever his feet may take him.

He and his father will leave when the ice melts in the spring.

They will walk for leagues and leagues over rough and rocky and often mountainous terrain.

They will go hungry, they will thirst.

They will be battered by the elements.

Stalked by animal and man alike.

There is no safety.

There is but danger and uncertainty and adventure.

No place for an innocent babe . . .

"Shhh . . . shhh, little one . . ."

. . . and its vulnerable mother.

Much less a woman heavy with child.

Approaching labor and birth.

As will she be upon their time of leaving.

I must find a way to manage.

For she does not wish to be left behind as he walks when the ice breaks.

Though he may insist for her own safety.

I must not be invalid schoolgirl.

Or perhaps offer her only to the safety and familiarity of her sister's cabin.

And I very much must . . .

And she would be forced . . .

. . . tell my Mohican.

. . . there to watch him walk ahead.

"I must speak with you."

Without her.


And now, with pounding heart and anxious mind, she has spoken the words.

"Mëhàskwëte."

I am with child.

As simply as she may.

"Iapchi nitkuxk's maxàskwikaon."

Since my sister's cabin.

To the Mohican . . .

"Mimëntët mhitahpi nipënëwi."

The baby will come in the summer.

. . . whom she loves.

"Uma ntëlùkw."

An Honored Mother has told me so.

And Alice Munroe watches with tremulous spirit . . .

"Kënatuxtaii?"

You did not say?

. . . as Uncas the Mohican . . .

"Ku nuwahaa."

I did not know.

. . . smiles.


So Alice is around three to four months pregnant here. Which, for me, would be a loooong time to be pregnant without knowing it, ha! But considering her menstrual cycle might have been thrown off by the rigorous exercise and the limited diet and the not caring about the calendar bit (pre-hysterectomy, I used to have an app that would track it for me, ding! You're about to bleed to death for a week, whee), it's entirely possible she got this far along before being, like, wait-

Thank you to BlueSaffire, YesMyDarling, EverGreen1272, KuBu14, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing before. I just love all of your thoughtful comments and insights regarding these characters we just love so much! Thank you!

Last chapter on January 31! See you there! :D