I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
What Comes
The baby comes, it comes.
She can feel it, the pressure is immense, unlike anything she has ever imagined in all the world.
She can hold back her screams no longer and they tear from her throat, guttural, wretched sounds as her vision becomes dim and blurry.
Her body sways.
And she clenches the hands of those on either side of her, clenches so hard she will remember later to apologize for the pain she must have caused them.
She clenches until she collapses and then she is all the way down to the ground and she is nearing the end.
Either of her birthing or her life, she no longer is certain of which.
And the pain intensifies, sharpens further, slicing all the way through her and ripping her body apart and she hears the sounds she cannot understand are hers.
And then, in a gout, the pressure releases, flows out of her.
The most immense relief she has ever experienced.
And she hears cries not her own.
High and enraged with the world outside the womb.
And she thinks . . .
It is done. It is done.
. . . she mayn't die after all.
The cries of suffering of the one he loves come to him on the wind.
And the man who has killed without remorse . . .
Alice.
. . . taken life without hesitation . . .
Nëwicheyok.
. . . and not flinched in the throes of war . . .
Spirit of my spirit.
. . . now finds himself unable to bear the sound of her suffering.
He rises, heart pounding and clenching within his aching chest.
Brow furrowed, nostrils flaring, jaw rigid, teeth bared.
Long fingers wrapped around the barrel of the long gun, squeezing so tightly they will ache the following day.
And he shifts, the still, silent hunter shifts his weight restlessly from foot to foot.
Breathes out, breathes in.
Forces himself to find stillness once more throughout his body.
And shifts, foot to foot.
Works the barrel of the long gun restlessly between his whitened knuckles.
Over and over again.
She is laying down now, strength all but spent.
The Honored Mothers working care upon her, whatever is there, down below.
Her body is no longer her own, will not be for quite a time yet in the far, far future.
She is a mother now, a bringer and protector and giver of life.
And her babe . . .
Oh.
. . . is in her arms.
Little one.
A tiny thing, wrinkled and pinched.
Hallo.
And quiet now.
So very, very quiet.
You are very tired, I see.
The child is wrapped against her.
Skin to skin, mother to child.
I am as well.
Black of hair and blotched of face.
Dark eyes gaze unfocused and owlishly at her.
We have done much together.
This child to her mother.
Her.
Perhaps now . . .
The child.
For she is a female.
. . . we shall rest for a little while.
And Alice . . .
If that is well with you.
. . . is her mother.
The cries have quietened.
He thinks he heard a high wailing that may have belonged to a child.
And now it has stopped, he hears it no more.
And he has naught to do but wait.
And work the barrel of the long gun tight between his hands.
Until the metal . . .
Alice-
. . . grows warm.
They have been in something of a twilight, the two of them.
The Honored Mothers have bade her drink the herbed tea once more and thusly the residual pain seems to have quelled somewhat.
And now they simply remain, mother and child.
Gazing at one another, Alice carefully stroking a trembling caress along the child's damp cheek, wet wisps of dark hair.
Whatever else the women have had to care for her, the offings of the kind she cleaned from her sister and simply disposed of.
Not simply disposed of now.
For they, these women of the earth, have saved that which encased the newborn.
To be, after some preparation, consumed by the mother within the day.
So that her milk may be rich in nutrients.
And nourish her child well.
An Honored Mother approaches, dark eyes set in wrinkled face warm and gentle.
"Uncas."
And Alice finds it within her meager strength . . .
"Tëta hèch tòpin?"
. . . to form a few murmured words . . .
Where is he?
. . . with her ragged, rawed voice.
The Honored Mother smiles gently.
Nods.
"Pehao."
He waits.
He waits.
And these words galvanize Alice.
He is here.
My Mohican is here.
And she shifts, beginning her rise.
The smile and gentleness slipping from the Honored Mother's face.
She shakes her head.
Gestures.
No.
No Uncas.
Not now.
Stay.
Rest.
Recover strength.
And Colonel Edmund George Munroe's younger daughter . . .
My love.
. . . stubbornly ignores the redirect.
She tremulously gains her feet, stands defiantly, nearly collapses.
Holds her own.
She will see her Mohican.
After all this pain, after all this agony and suffering.
She will crawl if she must.
She will see him.
And bring his child to him.
She will not be kept from this, her desire, her course.
Hands she feels on either side of her, taking hold, grasping gently but firmly.
She has not the strength to fight them, fend them off.
But she will find it, she will have her way, little Alicia Elizabeth Munroe, that invalid schoolgirl.
Tradition and practice and superstition be damned.
But they do not hold her back, no.
Not these women, these dark women who understand her not.
But see her determination.
They are helping her, they have succumbed to her will.
This new, exhausted, determined mother.
They secure her, hold her up.
They guide her footsteps and guard her stumblings.
And tears blur Alice's vision.
Her heart overflows with relief, appreciation.
Gratitude.
And she, babe in trembling arms . . .
Nëwitaemàk.
. . . presses onward toward her . . .
I am coming.
. . . desired goal.
Uncas the Mohican stands.
He stands guard.
Stands guard against the worry, against the fear.
He stands guard against the troubles and trials and tribulations of nature.
Of which over he has no control.
He waits.
He will not eat.
Nor rest.
Nor attend to any of that which is not the woman he loves.
Not until he receives some sign, some reassurance that she, and the babe she strove to bring to life, are safe and well and alive.
He will wait.
He will not stray.
He will remain.
And then he sees her.
Not an Honored Mother, as he has expected, come to bring news.
But her.
Alice.
Standing as she once did in the morning light on the day her sister welcomed a child into the world.
Alice.
Standing.
But not only her.
The babe.
The child.
The one she has created and brought forth from her very own body.
Now in her arms.
And Uncas the Mohican . . .
Alice-
. . . feels the whole of his spirit may burst from him at the sight.
Okay, how's everyone doing out there? Everyone okay?
Thanks to ELY72 (hope you enjoyed your lunch anyway, sweetie), blanparbe, and the very kind Chiarab87 for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter.
See you all again soon!