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


If her Mohican's embrace was gentle and protective as he held her in the night before her revelation of childing, they are moreso now.

If her Mohican's eyes gazed in love and adoration upon her before her revelation, moreso do they now.

If her Mohican's lips smiled fondly upon her, kissed her with reverence and devotion before her revelation, even moreso now.

No discontentment, disappointment, reservation, or any matter of unhappiness at all shows the one who loves her.

He still hunts, still traps.

Still goes away from her side from time to time, various pursuits, conversations, obligations has he.

And yet, as gladly as he returned to her before her revelation of the new life growing inside her, even moreso . . .

"Hè, Nëwicheyok."

Hallo, Wife.

"Hè, Nëwitaemàk."

Hallo, Husband.

. . . now.

"Kèpe hèch kulamàlsi?"

Are you well?

"Osòmi. Nkatupwi."

Yes. I am hungry.

"Nulhala michëwakàn. Nkatupwi mimëntët?"

I have food. How fares the child?

"Nkatupwi lënu."

Hungry as well.

"Wëlët ta nën. Chitanësu."

That is good. He grows strong.

Alice's pregnancy has not changed the fact that winter portions must be cautious against winter starvation.

But Uncas provides her a half portion extra.

From the communal pot.

From his own plate.

"Uncas, kënch ta mitsi."

Uncas, you must eat.

"Nëmitsi. Kënch ta mitsi lënu."

I eat. You eat too.

And will not be murmured against.

Even by . . .

"Nshinkahpi nkatupwi."

I would not have your belly empty.

"Nkata nkispwi."

I would have your belly full.

. . . his own wife.


And Uncas is not the only one who makes offerings of food to the growing mother.

Small gifts of meat, nut, plant, pemmican find their way to their fireside.

Even Chingachgook has come. Placed offerings into her hands on more than one occasion.

Covered her hands with his own heavier, more aged ones.

Dark smiling eyes warmer than she has ever seen them before.

And gone once again without a word spoken.

For none was necessary.

And Alice understands these small offerings are for her.

And not for her.

She understands they are for the child growing within her.

The child that represents the continuation of life, of hope.

The child that will be of them.

And yet not entirely so.

That child of Uncas, the last full blood Mohican son.

And the Yengee woman who has joined herself to him.

And so when Alice Munroe consumes this food, she does so with appreciation, respect.

For the sacrifice being made.

By the Delaware people.

For her.

And her unborn child.


She fears to ask.

For she has noticed.

Knowing some of the tragedy that has befallen these people in past times.

Knowing now the mercilessness of the natural world as it is.

And not wishing to cause pain in the possibility of what may be.

But now that she is in it and a part of it . . .

"There seem to be so few children here."

. . . she must ask.

In England, women may become with child with ease.

It is the survival of the children to adulthood that provides the challenge.

Birthing death, infant death, child death.

All keep household numbers low enough to count on a hand.

The colonies, so far as she has seen, boasts larger numbers of children, though the mortality rate remains high.

What Alice sees here in the Lenape village is the striking lack of carrying mothers at all.

Only one, perhaps two, on rare occasion.

"Do they . . ."

She does not quite know how to speak it.

She does know that the more self-righteous of well-to-do Englanders and nay even misguided colonizers may declare it is "God's righteous judgment that they may not produce offspring to follow in their savage ways".

And yet . . .

"Can they not . . ."

. . . the question remains.

And true to his nature, . . .

"No."

. . . her Mohican responds gently.

"They can as they wish."

With simplicity.

"They choose to keep families small. It is easier to feed and provide and care for few than many. And they do not require them to work the fields to keep the family alive."

And Alice is intrigued.

"How do they make it so?"

And concerned.

I do not wish to abstain from my Mohican.

She need not be.

"Women who would not wish to be with child drink a tea steeped with certain herbs. The tea keeps the babies away."

And Alice, for lack of a better term, . . .

"The Church would call that sacrilege."

. . . is dismayed.

"To assume the powers of God and go against a woman's sacred duty to bear children."

As is . . .

"Your Church disapproves of much freedom of the body and spirit."

. . . the one she loves.

"Why does It dislike Its people so?"

And cannot answer his query . . .

"I . . . I do not know."

. . . when he voices it.


He will not wander the lands in the coming seasons.

Nor will his father, no.

They have wandered as they will, as they wished.

And now, the wish, the will, centers around the mother, the unborn child.

The safety and care and protection of them.

To naught else.

Uncas will hunt, he will trap.

He must, so that he may provide for them whom he cares for, provides for, protects, loves.

The necessity of it will warrant his temporary absence; the love and devotion to them will both send him away and drive him back.

No, they will not walk and wander.

They will gladly stay.

They will linger.

They will be near.

And they will be . . .

"Hè, Wètuxëmùksit."

"Hè, Wënichana."

. . . glad of it.


Hope is a dangerous thing. Faith, belief, in something he cannot control.

Uncas the Mohican can control the aim of his long gun, he can control the swing of his knife.

He can control the swiftness of his footsteps, the direction they move.

He cannot control the winters of his life, the accuracy of his enemies' shot.

He cannot control another's mind.

And he cannot control the child growing within his wife's belly.

He cannot control whether or not illness will take it before its time.

Or hers

Or his.

But he can control his thoughts.

He can choose them.

He can choose to focus on what it may be here, now.

Him.

Alice.

Life.

The fire.

Food.

Water.

Rest.

Community.

And it is to that, . . .

I believe.

. . . he holds.


He finds her outside, paces from the cluster of longhouses.

Back to him, wrapped in fur.

Breath billowing white into the cold winter air.

Face turned upward, searching the snow-blanketed world, winter-draped branches of the trees.

The sun a blurred outline of vague warmth in the white sky.

His first instinct is to tell her to return to the fire, warm herself and the child within her.

His second is to speak not, only wrap his arms gently around her, warm her further in the fur wrapped upon him.

Warmer together they will be, both in body and spirit.

To press his nose to the hair of her head, breath her in deep.

And it is this that he does.

"Hallo, Uncas."

"Hallo, Miss."

It is an old play between them, one he greatly enjoys.

And the quiet surresh from her, the manner in which she leans back against him, signals him that she fonds of it as well.

"Are you well, Nëwicheyok?"

"I am, Nëwitaemàk. And you?"

"I am."

She turns in his arms then.

And he sees the flush of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips.

He sees the warmth and contentment in her dark eyes as she looks up to him.

And Uncas the Mohican, full of love and joy for this his wife, lowers his head down.

And kisses her.

Soft and sweet, as she has taught him.

As she enjoys.

As does he.

As he lifts his head to gaze upon her once more, she smiles.

In amusement, he thinks.

And gently raises a hand to his face.

He does not move, he trusts her entirely.

Her fingers brush his skin, light as a feather and warm in the frigid air.

And she draws them back.

Between her thumb and first finger, a black eyelash.

His eyelash.

Her smile broadens and she looks more beautiful than ever before.

And more than a bit mischievous.

"Do you wish upon them?"

And his murmur is low and amused.

"Tell me."

She nods a little, as if she already guessed this.

"You make a secret wish. And then to send the wish to the heavens to be granted, you blow it away."

She smiles, blushing a bit, as if thinking this must sound very silly and ridiculous to a grown man who may dispatch an enemy without hesitation.

But Uncas finds it charming and hopeful.

And there are many things he could 'wish' for.

But only one in that moment that presents itself to his mind.

Gently, one corner of his mouth turning upward as it does so often when he casts his thoughts upon her, Uncas moves his hand.

Slips it between the folds of the fur that keep her warm.

And presses his palm against the growing mound of her belly.

And blows the eyelash . . .

Alice-

. . . away.


The village moves from time to time.

Searches out fertile soil in which to plant their crops.

Intermixing The Three Sisters.

The beans that climb the corn stalks, make the soil more fertile.

The stalks that provide the stability, the squash that keeps away the weeds.

The Three feeding the people of the village, providing them sustenance to survive.

Uncas will not walk with his father to their ancestral homeland in the spring.

He will gladly stay now here with the Delaware, with his wife.

He will make a home for them, he will provide safety and shelter.

He will hunt for them, care for them.

His wife, growing a child, the strength and courage it takes for her body and spirit to do so.

His child, he will hold it up, lift it high.

Cherish it all throughout his days.

They will stay, they will live and love and survive.

As the woman and babe grow stronger, they may travel.

With care and consideration.

Extra weaponry.

And a well-cautious eye.

To the home of his adopted brother, her sister.

They will reunite the family.

Bring together the little ones.

And then, perhaps, continue on . . .

"Kathoel, Alice."

"Katolel, Uncas."

. . . into the wild.


Last day of 2020 (Bye, Felicia) and the last chapter of this story. I can hardly believe it.

But I will be honest, this fandom and the friends I've made whilst in it are some of the few good things that came out of whatever that (2020) just was.

I have been grateful for each and every one of you that I have come to know as well as the silent readers out there.

Thank you so much to each of you for enjoying this story (and the previous) with me. Thank you for your patience, thank you for your suggestions and requests, thank you for just being out there in the world.

I have no doubt you make the world a better place just by being in it.

Don't be sad this is over. Their story isn't over (third installment or no); this is just where this particular telling ends.

Because they are still out there in our minds. They're alive and healthy. Alice is pregnant. Chingachgook is just watching this whole thing play out, having never had to suffer the shredding grief of his son's gut-wrenching death.

And of course, there's our Uncas (yeah, I said it) having never died at all now living his best life with an awesome wife and a baby on the way that I cannot adequately express how much he will adore.

I mean, can you imagine?

Anyway, thank you again, thank you always, I'm so grateful for them (again, yes, I know they are fiction, hush) and you for being out there.

Please stay safe and well.

And happy reading of whatever you enjoy.

Wëlànkuntëwakàn òk Aholtëwakàn

(Peace and Love)

-NotMarge