I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

It is a gift for us all. :)

The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtleman

Invalid Schoolgirl

"Welhìk alàpaèk, Xansati."

Good morning, dear Elder Brother.

"Welhìk alàpaèk, Xwisëmësa."

Good morning, Younger Sister.

They are smoking, the three men are.

Smoking deer meat to set aside for months of winter weather ahead.

His glance is quick as he works, Alice may have missed it if not for the words he speaks following.

"I see my father has spent the winter marking."

Alice, burbling daughter in her am'pisun, stands near the working Nathaniel.

Near enough, apparently, that he has noticed the tattoo just below the hollow of her throat.

The one she fondly fingers at his observant words.

"Yes."

The morning autumn glade where the smokehouse stands is colored with bright reds and oranges, varying shades of browns, and, less and less, willful greens.

The smokehouse constructed the spring Cora put her foot down upon the land and declared it her home.

"Did you choose dragonfly or did he?"

"I asked him to mark me. He chose the mark."

The smokehouse with its sloped roof and opening near the top.

"It is a sign of great honor to be marked by an elder. And so meaningful the mark."

"Thank you."

Squarish in form, four foot around and eight feet at its highest, hickory fire burning low within.

Hard wood dried long and well, meat hung high near the ceiling.

"Did chewing the fat help?"

She smiles and is honest.

"Not particularly."

The smoking does not cook the meat, only renders it flavorsome to the taste and safe from rot.

Safe for cooking, eating, for a few months at least.

"Though it did keep my mouth shut of unsuitable words."

Nathaniel, working sure and steady, grins.

Glances to her, then to the markings upon his own arms.

"I chewed so much fat my brother wondered I would become the bear myself."

No English male pomp and pride anywhere about his person.

"It did not help either."

And secret pride wells in Alice's modest chest . . .

Strong and mighty Long Rifle.

. . . that she might be strong as a man.

Nay, stronger, in some respects.

A long strip of venison falls from Nathaniel's pile to the ground, lands among the crisp autumn leaves.

Alice bends carefully to not unbalance the child upon her back.

Bends and scoops the flank strip, brushing it off as she goes.

Rises, offers it back to the man before her.

And with a false disapproval and reprimand, speaks.

"We do not waste. It is not a game."

It is a jest, a sally.

One he has brought upon himself, to her sly thinking.

She sees him allow it, the playful wound, without umbrage, that the no longer invalid schoolgirl has taken upon him.

Whilst the spirit of her spirit fails to press down upon his smile behind him.

The fire below the kettle desires fuel to keep the slow bubble on the sustenance within.

The mistress of the house has been given the leisure to task another to bring it forward.

Congenial and amicable, always ready to serve and be of help, Uncas has taken from the stack outside and entered . . .

"Just there, please."

. . . the tiny cabin.

He places the cordwood at her direction and rises.

"Thank you."

A nod and smile is his response and Cora is taken into a remembrance of when first she laid eyes on him.

Gunsmoke and blood and screams and fear had filled the air.

And strangers, strange strangers advancing.

She had sensed they would do them no harm, logical being of her Nathaniel she did not yet know as he downed two attackers and drew bead on the one who would later hold them captive . . .

"Duncan, no."

. . . and turn eyes upon her helpless younger . . .

"In case your aim's any better than your judgement."

. . . sister.

Helpless.

Perhaps then.

Cora holding the screaming, terrified Alice as tight as she could.

Own screaming terror locked behind locked jaw, pursed lips.

Cora, Alice.

And the men, these strange men, oddly garbed and wild-looking much more than their accustomed red-uniformed soldiers.

"I must say, when last I saw Alice, I thought her so changed."

She speaks this now to Uncas, so dark and unEnglish.

"My little baby sister, once so so fresh and young in the world."

Uncas who smiles and listens.

"Now, she is even more."

And speaks not.

There is a . . . is a . . . hardness to her, a strength, a resilience there I have not seen before."

Not yet.

"I think you were a great cause of that, Uncas. I do not think she would have survived without your strengthening and support day by day."

She stops then, boldly moving to take his hand.

"I think she would have languished and eventually succumbed."

A strong, dark hand, so different from all those who whom she was surrounded in her youth.

"I think, I know, she loves you very much and that love has allowed her to grow and become so capable and self-assured."

Even different than his adopted brother, her Nathaniel.

"I am glad you and my sister found one another out here in the wild. I truly am."

Uncas does not pull away. Does not draw back.

"She had those qualities in her all along."

Simply stands.

"Yes, but a lesser man, especially an English one, might have discouraged those qualities, found them unappealing, ungentile."

Quiet smile.

"I am happy for her to be the person she chooses to be. That is all."

Dark eyes.

"That is not all and you well know it."

And Cora Munroe, once English well-to-do, . . .

"Now, if you will, call the others to eat."

. . . finds her heart full for him, this tall wild redman.

"Yes, Miss."

Whom her sister loves.

Thanks to all the gentle readers of this story. I really appreciate your time.

Thanks to my encouraging readers of this story, DinahRay, chiarab87, BlueSaffire, bcawriter01 and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing before.

See you all soon!

(Anything you're interested in upcoming?)