I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Hè, Kwëtii
A person's life can, and does, change gradually, over the course of an entire lifetime.
It can also take no time at all for one's life to change completely.
For good or ill, in the blink of an eye.
And there is no going back.
The person is no longer who they were.
And not who they may become.
And it happens, that absolute and complete change.
Without request or preference.
And when that change comes, the person affected must adapt.
Adapt or be crushed beneath the wheels of life and time.
It takes a great deal of effort, this adaptation.
Day after day.
Over and over again.
Until near all vestiges of the old life, of the old person, are gone.
And something previously unknown becomes the new norm.
A new person.
Cultivated and shaped and raised up into a new creation, a new being.
Dotted and interwoven with fragments and tracings of who they once were.
Alice Munroe has been one of these.
And she is in flux still.
Adapting, changing, shifting.
Becoming.
All the things that she has been, that she may yet be.
All these.
And now, a mother, this young girl less of twenty summers.
A mother.
And this previous unbeknownst to her.
And life does not stop, the wheel does not cease to turn simply because she has borne a child, no.
Things must still be done, day to day, life must be attended to here and now.
Cultivating of the crops, gathering of wild growing things, the hunting and killing and preparing of animals.
Building, creating, repairing.
Any and all manner of life must be looked after for survival.
And, for now, it falls upon others to look after them.
For the mother, the nushèxàm, and her child, the mimëntët, must be bonded.
They must be given time.
To learn one another.
Grow and care.
And be cared for.
Alice has no mother to help her do these things.
She has no grandmother or mother-in-law, nor Great Aunt Eugenia.
Even her sister is away from her and cannot be that which she needs.
Were this English society, there would be much commiseration for luck so bad.
Clucked tongues and sorrowful eyes.
Prayers lifted up and bemoanment of a child without so much.
A pity, such a pity.
But that is not the way of it here.
This community, this small band of beings, they are Lenape, they are Delaware.
They care for those who have need.
And so, the women who have come to aid Alice Munroe in her time of birthing, stay.
They watch over her whilst she sleeps, whilst her body works to heal itself.
They clean her with care, brush her hair with strong, gentle fingers.
They feed her foods rich in protein, rich in iron, to replenish the blood and strengthen the spirit.
They feed her foods to help her bowels move as gently as possible in the tender days following the birth.
They bid her drink fresh, clean water, healing teas.
They soften the casing which issued forth after the child; it will help her nourish her baby all the stronger.
They watch over them, mother and daughter, care for them, teach them.
All these things they do for her, night and day as she has need.
For theirs is the power and honor and strength alone, them being of woman.
They are the creators of their world, them who bring forth life.
It is they upon which it turns.
Her father.
The baby will never meet her father.
Not her father.
Not Uncas.
Alice's father.
Colonel Edmund George Munroe.
Papa.
The child she nurses close to her bosom in the afternoon sunlight will never meet him.
That proud and stubborn Scotsman.
With his stern, lined face, ice blue eyes.
That warm, reassuring cadence of his clipped highland lilt.
The strength of his arms around her, holding her close, making her feel safe and warm.
She had been raised with the women, as was proper.
Men off on their important business, the securing and safetying of their English world.
And thusly he had not been a constant in their day-to-day lives.
But his love, his steadfastness . . .
". . . -member that always, my gel. Your papa loves ye."
"I do, Papa. I will."
. . . that was constant.
Was.
Had been.
Now, nevermore.
He would never see his grandchild. Never hold her.
Never sit with her before a roaring fire, pipe smoke wreathing their heads up to the rafters as her Papa murmured the mysteries of the world as he saw then.
For he had been slaughtered by his enemy.
And was gone from her and them forever.
She does not know she is crying until a teardrop plops itself onto the suckling babe's forehead.
Up high where the widow's peak sweeps up.
The child seems to barely register the moisture, lashes over closed eyes barely twitching in response.
But the movement, the tear, the realizations and emotions with them surging with them, erupt in gasping mournful sob.
And Alicia Elizabeth Munroe . . .
Oh my dear baby girl, oh my dear dear baby girl . . .
. . . can do naught but clutch her nursing child to her modest breast.
I would not that you have lost so much.
And the fall of her undone hair covers her face.
It is thusly that her husband finds her.
"Nëwicheyok?"
Leaned against the cradle of the tree.
And mild alarm . . .
"Palsi hàch?"
Are you unwell?
. . . darkens his spirit.
Calloused, gentle fingers, brush her dampened cheeks, pass over the child's smooth skin.
"Alice?"
As she shakes her head vaguely.
"My father . . ."
And she chokes out her words
"My father."
In English.
"My father is dead."
And Uncas, he can be known to speak so little.
"My father. . ."
And see and hear so much to understanding
"My daughter will never see him."
Quietens his queries.
Ah.
And simply holds his lifemate.
My love.
And allows her grief to spill forth from her.
"She will never know him."
Until her eyes droop.
"He is gone away forever."
And she rests in slumber.
She awakens in his arms, having slept less of an hour.
But deep and calming as one tends to slumber after suffering such an emotional outpouring.
She stirs and he shifts to suit her.
And speaks.
"I am sorry for my grief."
Low and contrite.
"I was . . . mourning the comfort my child will never know."
Babe still sleeping in her arms, unencumbered by grief or loss.
"I said things . . . offensive to you and the love and acceptance you have so freely lavished upon me."
And Uncas her Mohican, shakes his head gently.
Strokes a thumb along her cheek.
"Your spirit is free to feel as it does, my wife. I take no offense, only wish to care."
She feels fresh tears swelling within her eyes.
"I am grateful, my love. I am grateful for you."
Wonders if she will always be so.
And her lover, her Nëwitaemàk . . .
"As I am for you, my wife."
. . . does not seem to be offended by this either.
And so . . .
"Thank you, my love."
. . . she lets herself be.
Chingachgook comes.
He comes to her, the father of the man she loves.
The grandfather of her child, the only one the child will ever have.
Dark of skin and long of hair.
Craggy visage gentle, flint sharp eyes soft.
Flat mouth smiling.
She greets him with joy and welcome.
"Hè, Wètuxëmùksit."
"Wënichana."
She does not rise from her cradle at the tree, he does not expect her to.
Instead she only extends a hand.
Which he takes and covers in both of his warm, age-thickened ones.
"How fare you?"
She nods.
"I am well as I can be. I am strengthening."
He returns.
"I am glad to hear it."
And then, though he does not request, it is not his place as a mere male, no matter how respected and elder he may be, she offers to him . . .
"Little One, someone is here I wish you to meet."
. . . the child.
The babe, wakeful and content wrapped tight and snug in a fur, does not protest, does not whimper or moan.
As Chingachgook of the Mohican people takes the bundled child carefully.
Inspects her with manifest awe and adoration.
This child, the fruit of the love between his only Mohican son.
And the Yengee woman with whom he has chosen to bond himself.
Unfocused eyes dark, tuft of dark hair a touch lighter than her father's, this newborn one.
Skin, almost a translucent shade of untamed, wild honey.
Chingachgook holds the child in careful hands, the years lifting from this man who has seen much to dampen even the most indomitable spirit.
"Hè, Kwëtii."
Hallo, Little One.
And makes introduction to . . .
"Këmëxumës."
I am your grandfather.
. . . his granddaughter.
Yes, that's called a reality check. And postpartum blues. But isn't it lovely that Alice has that familial support?
Speaking of support, thanks to blanparbe (you gentle readers are wonderful and deserve all goodness, it is I who do not deserve all of your graciousness, but I'll take it with boatloads of gratitude!), DinahRay (Pa Uncas, I'm losing it over here!), Col8 (thank you so much, I'm so glad you like!), Chiara87 (thank you so much, sweetie), ELY72 (he is just so adorable, will clearly have no chance, amiright?), SLYM (so glad to be spreading joy!), BlueSaffire (Wow, all the chapters at once, hugs to you!), and MedicineGal815 (thank you for the suggestions, this is going to be so fun!) for so graciously reviewing before!
Thank you to the silent readers of this story as well, I appreciate you all very much.
I've finally got Fall Break for a whole week (thank goodness, I love teaching but this year is something, let me say. So, yay, time to play! I'm hoping to post another chapter or two before going back next Monday.
That's the plan anyway.
And you know how they can go, right? ;)
But I'll try. ;)