I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Of Woman, Part 3
Days and days and days it has been.
The child in her belly grows ever larger.
And Alice Munroe . . .
I would wish to touch my toes again.
Or at least know of them.
. . . is managing the best she may.
The Honored Mothers do not seem overly concerned by her continued gestation.
It is, she surmises, the way of it.
She remembers how the days stretched on and on as she waited for her sister to give birth to her child.
How Uncas and Chingachgook and Nathaniel and she kept exhaustive watch . . .
"Do not watch me so, Sister. It will not hasten the child's arrival."
"I apologize, Cora. But it has been so long."
"Yes, I am aware."
. . . as her stalwart half-sister spent the last days of her pregnancy larger and more uncomfortable than ever seemingly without reprieve.
Cora.
Cora who fell in love with a wild man of the world.
Cora who now raises the beginnings of a family deep in the depths of the Virginia wilderness.
Cora . . .
". . . word to Nathaniel and Cora so that she may come and be at your side?"
"No. She must see to her own. And I to mine. We will visit as we may."
. . . who does not even know . . .
I have spent so much time in this water, I wonder I will become a fish.
. . . of Alice's pending motherhood.
And then . . .
And then . . .
And then . . .
"Uma, nchipamàlsi."
Honored Mother, I am feeling a strangeness.
She did not keep to it to herself as her sister . . .
". . . days."
"Three days?!"
. . . did.
Alice Munroe is not that self-assured or strong or stubborn.
But now . . .
"Nsëkàpsi."
And I am wet.
. . . the time is at hand.
And . . .
"Mimëns pè."
The child comes.
He is return to the village under cloudless after noon skies, hunting companions in tow, deer hanging between them on a cut pole.
It has been a good hunt and a fine day spent.
Though his thoughts have rarely strayed from her.
Alice.
And the child she carries safely within her belly.
Uncas the Mohican walks with ease among the people of his father's people, ready and eager to catch glimpse of the woman he loves, his lifemate.
Perhaps floating in the water as she is wont to do, sitting near the longhouse where the women have taken her.
Allowing the energy of the earth to fill her spirit with the fortitude it will need to face the arduous task ahead.
He has understood the reason for the separation, he respects it. The women, they understand the way of things, what must needs be done for mother and coming child.
The care, the attendance.
He has understood, as much as a man can.
And he has sorely missed her presence near him day-to-day.
The warmth of her body, the loveliness of her form.
The light in her eyes, lilt of her voice.
The saguineness of her nature.
Days it has been, nearing a fortnight.
And he has missed her.
Not for the food she prepared for them or the low fire always kept burning, though those things speak of reassurance to him.
But her.
Simply her.
Alice.
He moves easily among the people of the village.
At first not noticing the knowingness of their mild expressions, so caught up he is with thoughts of her.
The way the corners of their eyes crinkle up, their mouths.
And then he sees.
Not her.
His father.
A welcome sight, to be sure.
But not-
And then it becomes apparent to him, the shrewd, sharp-eyed woodsman, he finally sees it.
In the warm, dark eyes of-
Alice?
. . . his long-suffering father.
It is time?
And Uncas the Mohican . . .
Alice.
. . . runs.
I must not be afraid.
The pain comes and goes.
I must not be afraid.
Her body working within to bring the child without.
I must not be an invalid schoolgirl.
This is what must come to pass.
I have come this far.
It happens to all with child.
I must not be afraid.
And yet she is.
It is not the side of a cliff, rocky crag of the mountain.
It is the relative flat of the valley in which the village lays.
It is not a race against time and hate and resentment and long-burning bitterness.
It is life come into the world.
And it does not require his presence to complete its task.
It will become as it is or it will not, no regard to him.
But it is the woman he loves, as it always has been.
It is life and it is birth and it is creation.
And it is her, as it always has been.
And Uncas the Mohican will be there.
Although he will be powerless and helpless and useless in the face of it.
A breath of minutes it takes him to reach his destination.
The birthing hut, set back, so much like the one his brother built for his own wife.
A breath of minutes.
Hardly more than two.
Nothing for a hunter who spends his days in the untamed wild, fleet of foot and sure of step as he has been in long memory.
And yet, his heart beats painfully within his chest.
Breath burning in and out of his lungs.
As he arrives at his destination and stands still.
He mayn't enter the hut, it is women's territory.
And this is women's business.
Instead he must remain without.
Without and at a distance.
And so he does.
Hands clenched upon the stock of the long rifle to which he desperately clings.
At acceptable distance, unobtrusive and respectful.
Uncas the Mohican . . .
Nëwicheyok . . .
. . . begins to wait.
A difficult and taxing experience, she has heard murmured here and there.
Watched and assisted her sister in her own birthing trial in a hut much like this one.
And now, as the pain wraps itself around the width of her and clenches and squeezes until she wishes to scream, Alice Munroe does much the same as her sister once did in her presence.
She paces. She breathes.
She squats to relieve pressure, women supporting her on either side.
So unladylike, she should feel embarrassment and shame.
But deep in the throes of her agony, she does not think to care.
Teeth gritted so tight her jaw aches.
The pain comes and goes, swells and fades.
She is unsure of how effective the black cherry and bark tea are now against the pain, this pain that is larger than the world.
Times between shorter and shorter and shorter.
So much pressure and so much-
And she must push against it.
Push and strain and groan against enormity of it.
The women, they are there, the heat of the day, it is there.
Her hair hangs in her face, the entire world and everything in it consisting of nothing but the yawning, gaping maw of torment her body has become.
And she is struggling, flailing in her mind, the skitterings of panic beginning to squirrel in desperation.
What if she cannot do this? What if she is not strong enough?
What if she has done wrong and now is the time she will die?
Die alone and forsaken out here in the lost wilderness of the new world that savaged the life she knew, murdered the father she loved, stole the familiar faces she has not seen in so long?
The women, these strange people, with their strange murmurings she cannot translate in the throes of her unbearable pain and the despair that creeps in with it-
Her sister should be here, her sister, her constant, her Cora, so strong and wise, Alice cannot do this alone, how could she ever have delusioned that she were capable-
The sun has moved.
Uncas the Mohican has not.
The oak against which he leans is tall and strong.
And that is good.
Because the mighty warrior feels small and weak.
He is sunk down on the balls of his feet, hands gripping the stock of the trusted long gun he has carried so long it is near a part of his body.
Eyes closed, forehead pressed to the smooth barrel.
He does not feel the earth below his feet, the bark to the small of his back.
He does not feel the metal of the bracelets that hang on his forearms.
The zephyrs that lift tendrils of his hair from its fall, cool the sweat upon his brow.
The woman he loves strives to bring a child forth into the world.
Expel it from her body in such a manner he can only imagine must be the most intolerably painful experience a being may undergo and survive.
And he, with all his skill as a hunter, prowess in battle, ability to survive in the wild, is helpless to assist.
He is nothing in this moment. He is without ability or use or function.
He is simply a man.
And if she dies in this, as women have been known to do, he will be without her.
For she will walk this earth no more forever.
And if she lives . . .
Alice . . .
. . . she will be . . .
Nëwicheyok . . .
. . . a new being.
Chingachgook stands afar, watching his son suffer helplessly as the woman he loves works to bring the child she has created forth into the world.
A world that may not accept them, a world that may wish to cause them harm.
His son is a mighty warrior, a fighting force with which to be reckoned.
And he has done much in the care and protection of this woman.
He has fought.
He has killed.
He has run.
He has provided and taught and loved and done all that he may do for her.
And now he, strong and hearty and hale, is nothing in the face of what only she may do.
He cannot help or aid her in anyway.
And Chingachgook remembers.
He remembers when Chenoa fought to bring their son into the world.
He remembers the fire, the pipesmoke.
He remembers how the other men bade him to sit, commune with the spirits as he waited and kept watch.
Speak stories of the past.
Run with them on the hunt.
In any and all ways, otherwise engage him until the birthing be over and done.
So that he would not have to wait alone.
Their words, their murmurances distracted him, irritated him.
Their very presence was one in which he could not abide.
He would not suffer them about when she, his beloved, had not the luxury of distraction and comfort, instead nothing but to delve deep within herself for the reserves to bring about new life upon the face of the harsh and merciless earth.
And he knows his son, belonging to his mother but so very much like his father, would find his presence much the same.
He would allow, he would accept.
He would not speak ill of his elder.
But he would not welcome it, he would not take comfort in it.
And so, father waits with son, waits and watches.
From afar.
Probably not exactly what you were expecting, I know.
But it's not over yet.
And I don't know about you but there's something I just love about Uncas being out there about to have a comeapart.
;)
Thanks to MohawkWoman, ELY72, KuBu14, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter!
And thanks to OneryOak for adding your support to this tale as well.
You're all just so gracious. :)
Another chapter by weekend's end (I mean, honestly, we can't just leave them here like this, right?).
See you soon!