I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Two Become Three
And they take her.
Not to him, no, not to her Mohican standing on ready alert.
Respecting the station of the women, those creatures who possess a power and strength no man could ever hope to imagine to have.
They do not take her to him, no.
But to a tree.
Thick and sturdy and straight at its base.
Almost a curve there, a cradle.
They settle her carefully, cover her with a fur to quell her after birthing cold tremors.
Arrange the now sleeping child comfortably in her arms.
And then with quiet nods and gentle eyes, they go.
Back the way they came.
Nodding assent to the one who approaches.
That tall, tough, merciless warrior.
And his timid footsteps, awed countenance.
And they go.
They will return for her in a short time.
Take her back with them into the hut.
For it is with them she must stay until all bleeding and discharge has stopped.
For it would not do to spread sickness and disease amongst the village.
They will return for her and she will go.
She and her child.
They will teach her all the ways of mothering, of feeding and caring and bonding.
They will feed her, bid her rest.
They will attend the child and the one who has so valiantly brought her forth.
But for now, at her behest, they go.
And he . . .
He speaks not.
Is he in such a wonder?
. . . comes.
The face into which Uncas the Mohican so loves to gaze is quite pale in the waning afternoon light.
Pallid.
Framed by dampened cornsilk hair he so loves to stroke.
Dark eyes sunken into dark circles, shadows.
She has suffered in her labors, it has cost her greatly.
And his spirit sorrows for that.
Would that she never suffered pain in this world or any.
But that is the way of it, he has been told.
The way of the woman.
The woman who can create and bring forth life from her own body.
Strain it from her.
And survive.
Men have no such strength and endurance as women.
No such wonder as creation.
And he is, he is in a wonder as he gazes upon her.
This slender, fragile creature who had once struggled to lift a bucket of river water.
And now she has brought forth a child, a new being upon the face of the earth.
Wrapped close against her now, bundled tight and safe.
And Uncas . . .
Alice.
. . . finds he can barely draw breath.
He approaches carefully, almost reverently.
Dark eyes depthless and shining with more intensity than she has ever thought possible.
Were she not in such a weakened state, she would smile in gentle amusement at the rough and rugged warrior now so meek.
He pauses.
Looks to the babe, to her.
And Alice realizes he is mutely requesting permission to sit at their side.
For the Delaware and Mohican, children belong to the mother for it is only she who may create and bring them forth into the world.
And she pats a hand . . .
My beloved . . .
. . . beside herself.
Come.
And he carefully, oh so carefully, joins her.
Uncas . . .
His body is warm and solid and strong and reassuring.
And she tucks herself into his side as she did so long ago, leans against him, grateful for the strength he provides her.
And Uncas . . .
My dearest Nëwitaemàk.
. . . holds her.
And looks into the face . . .
Oh.
. . . of his . . .
It is a girl.
. . . daughter.
He mayn't have wished for a girl.
And suddenly she is struck with English fear.
It is a sinking fear, pulling her down into the earth with its crushing weight.
In England, men wish for boys.
Strapping young lads to carry on the family name.
Boys mean heritage. Boys mean pride.
Boys mean virility and strength and future.
Girls mean responsibility, duty.
Girls must be cared for, must be found a husband.
Girls are a necessity yes, perhaps a girl after a firstborn male to carry on the family name and the family pride.
But girls, at least until they are married off and begun their wife-ing, mothering duties, and even then so, are a burden.
She has been with her Mohican, learnt from him and his father.
Walked among the villagers and witnessed the care and love they have for their children.
All life among the Delaware is precious.
She knows this.
But here, now, at the edge of her strength and endurance, she is exhausted of her labors.
And her fear pushes her down, she is weak and trembling under it.
Her sister brought forth a firstborn male heir to pass on his Nathaniel's name and pride.
She has failed to do the same.
Uncas of the Mohican people has forsaken a mate of his own lineage.
He has brought forth a stranger into their midst, made her his lifemate.
He has saved her life and welcomed her into a new one.
Pledged to her his love and his devotion.
And she in return has saddled him with . . .
"Xkwechëch."
. . . a female firstborn child.
The truth must be told, it will out and that quite soon.
And now she must hold her tongue . . .
It is a girl.
. . . and await his judgement.
Uncas of the Mohican people finds himself stunned, wholly moved at the revelation.
Xkwechëch?
All the world save the woman he loves and the child in her arms drift away from him.
All but them are unimportant.
Were a misguided enemy to attack them just now, muscle memory and trained survival instinct would retaliate, bring about certain death to one so foolish.
it would happen without hesitation, without remorse.
But aside from that, little else would stir him from the vision of the woman and babe that fill his sight and spirit to overfull.
A girl.
The woman he loves has birthed a girl.
The tiny babe lays nestled against her mother's bosom.
Sleeping and peaceful, tiny, round face in pure repose.
The child's skin is blotched and reddened from birth, just starting to even out.
But he is certain the hue is only a touch lighter than his own.
The damp, birth-slick hair is dark as his own.
The woman he loves has created life, a child.
A girl.
And Uncas the Mohican is in . . .
Wënichana.
. . . awe-struck, joyful wonderment.
Alice, near to trembling, watches the man she loves study the tiny round face of the child.
Watches him lean forward, dark eyes intense and shimmering.
Long, black hair falling over his shoulder in a sheath.
She watches him raise a hand.
Pause.
And look to her.
He is, once again, being but a man, asking permission to touch her, this child she has brought forth from her own body.
And Alice . . .
Children belong to the mother.
. . . speaks not.
But grants his request with only a smile from her eyes.
And watches his full attention return to the child.
And the hand, that strong, brown hand with its long fingers, reach out gently.
Brush a graze upon the smooth forehead.
The cheek.
Sees the child ever so slightly stir.
Sees her Mohican. . .
Oh.
. . . smile.
It is alright then.
Even as moisture silently paints his unashamed face.
That is good.
As they paint hers.
Thanks to Conbird, DinahRay, ELY72, Chiarab87, MedicineGal815, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing before. I love your enthusiasm!
Thank you also to S-LY-M for adding your support to this story!
Now that the baby is finally amongst us, would anyone like to make a request of something they'd like to see? PM me or leave it in the reviews! There's a lot of good humanity to be had here. :)
See you soon!