Chapter 6

I leaned against a tree to catch my breath and looked down on my dress. It was sodden beyond belief; it's once cream color unrecognizable. A small stream which must have branched off the river happily gurgled nearby, and birds were singing. How strange that this place should seem so peaceful, when we were anything but? Uncas went to the stream and washed the blood off of his face and hair. I asked him if he was all right, and he answered yes, the cut was not serious. "Where are the others?"I asked. "We did not have time to determine a meeting place" was the answer. "They will find us somehow, or us them. Don't worry."

Uncas had gone off to find some food. Before he left, I had asked him whether it were all right if I was to wash my clothes in the stream. His face took on the unmistakable look of embarrassment. "Yes, just do it quietly." When he had gone I found a secluded spot behind a line of trees and removed the many layers of my garment. I figured we would be here for a while, and I simply could not stand the thought of spending another minute looking like this. Never before had my garments been this filthy! Clad in only my shift (the innermost layer) I waded into the water and began scrubbing to the best of my ability considering I had no soap and had never washed an article of clothing before in my life. I hung the fabric on nearby branches to dry, and then I waded into waist deep waters to clean myself.

The cold stream felt so soothing to my limbs. It reminded me of the tiny creek that ran through our land by the summer cottage in England, and how our governess would sometimes let us splash in there on hot days. Although I no longer felt it necessary to hide my thoughts from reality, I still clung to memories such as these to remind me that I had once been utterly happy and content, and that what had once been could be once more.

Lost in these thoughts I became aware of…something. A presence. It sent shivers up my spine. I slowly turned and my blood froze. A painted Indian was stalking his way towards me through the water from the other side. When I saw him he paused briefly, looked me straight in the eye and, raising his tomahawk, charged at me. Water sprayed as he ran. I wanted to run, to scream, to alert Uncas, but no muscle would move and no sound would emerge. When he was nearly upon me my body finally obeyed, and I threw myself sideways into the water, fully submerging myself.

There I waited for certain death. And waited and waited. I badly needed to come up for air but dared not to. I preferred drowning to a death at the hands of this frightening man. Just as my head felt ready to explode, a hand grasped my arm and pulled me up and I could not resist it.

I looked into the breathless face of Uncas. The painted Indian floated glassy eyed behind him, a deep gash in his forehead. I drew a breath and felt my body sway and nearly faint, and Uncas scooped me up and carried me to shore. The spell only lasted a minute. By the time he had laid me down on a grassy patch the world had stopped spinning and I became mortifyingly aware that my shift, while already sheer in its dry state, was now completely transparent and clung to my every curve. I may as well be naked! My hands flew to cover my breasts and I started to sob from a mixture of relief and humiliation.

Uncas had turned away but not before a flush spread over his face, visible in spite of his darker skin. His back to me, he removed his tunic and handed it over. It covered me down to my knees. He began to build a fire and started to speak. "We cannot stay here for long. I saw him while I was looking for food. He was alone, but others may follow. I have to keep the fire low." It was only then that I saw a dead squirrel on the ground, a heap of nuts and berries next to it. Uncas skinned and gutted the squirrel expertly with only a few movements of his knife. He set up a makeshift grill around and above the flames using thick branches and roasted the squirrel. My stomach twitched with hunger. Never in my life would I have thought I would one day be famished for squirrel!

My clothes dried and my stomach filled, we were once again on our way. We did not run this time but walked steadily, barely a word passing between us. While trying to process the events of this day my thoughts ran into a thousand different directions, some too painful and some too humiliating to pursue. We had come upon a mountain ridge and walked higher and higher along some sort of path, a cliff dropping down to our right. It was late in the day so Uncas suggested we make camp at a wider spot that consisted of a stony plateau overlooking the valley deep down below. In the shadow of the higher mountain wall there was a more grassy area, and that is where we rested our weary bodies.

The beginnings of a sunset streaked across the sky, a view quite breathtaking. We made no fire for it would be visible to any potential enemies at this great a height. The woods were swarming with Indian warriors looking for any escapees of the massacre. I struggled to understand how this could have happened. We were supposed to have been under the protection of the French army during the retreat, though it had been nowhere in sight when it was needed. Did their army lose control of its Native allies? Was there miscommunication? Or, and this was a very dark idea to entertain, had the French known this would happen; did they play a part? My father was a powerful man who had made many enemies, white and Indian alike (as I learned later), so this was not an unlikely possibility.

Uncas broke the silence of my thoughts. "There is a story that my people would tell, a legend. They say it happened at this very spot. Would you like me to tell it to you?" I turned to him and he smiled. I smiled back, growing more and more comfortable around him. He had, after all, seen me as good as naked (amongst many other intimate situations that took place that day)! So he continued:

"There was a girl born to the Mohicans who was as white as the moon. Her hair was golden like the sun and her eyes blue like the sky. This was before white men came to this land, so the people had never seen anything like her. As she grew older she developed a strange beauty. Members of other tribes came from far and wide to catch a glimpse of her."

Uncas held his smile as he talked, and I drank in his face, his voice, his very presence. "A great warrior of her people fell in love with her. He planned to marry her but wanted to wait until she was a little older. Meanwhile, a chief of another tribe, known for his cruelty, wanted the girl for himself, so he set out with a war party and kidnapped her. The girl's tribe immediately arranged a rescue party, but the warrior who loved the girl could not bear the thought of her being violated on the way, so he set out alone before anyone else to follow the war party on their way back and overtook them by way of the mountains. At this very spot he attacked them head on, striking down one man after another. When he came to the chief himself he fought hard but he was young and not as experienced. The chief inflicted one gash after another on him. He struck him to the ground on this platform next to the cliff. Then he felt sorry for the young warrior and was willing to spare his life so long as he would go back to where he came from. But the warrior looked at the girl and she at him. He could barely move with pain and one of his arms hung limply at his side. Yet he stood up slowly and raised his knife. The chief quickly stabbed him again, spun him around, slit his throat and flung him off the cliff."

Uncas paused and I looked at him sadly. Why was he telling me this awful story? "The girl saw everything. She walked to the edge of the cliff and no one tried to stop her. The chief stretched out his hand to her, the same hand that was covered with the warrior's blood. The girl looked down to where the warrior's body lay and jumped."

I pondered this story and all its possible meanings as I tried to sleep on the ground that night. And then I pondered other things too. Soon my shoulders were shaking with helpless sobs of grief, grief that went beyond mere sadness, grief so cruel that it threatened to tear apart my soul.

A hand softly touched the spot between my shoulder blades. "It's my father" I managed to cry. "I know. I know." It was all he said, all he needed to say. His hand drew slow circles on my back, a touch so raw in its comfort that it shattered a part of me once more.