I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
For Life
There was a time when Uncas the Mohican walked the land near ceaselessly.
Wandered far and wide alongside his father, his adopted brother.
He did not want for travel, adventure.
They hunted the fleet-footed deer and the mighty elk, tracked them leagues and leagues through dense green forests and along rippling rocky streams.
They traded with strange peoples and supped with familiar friends.
They fought when they must, killed when they must.
They did not hesitate, they did not look back.
That was the way of it, the way of his life.
He did not mind it and he did not look much to the future.
His father wished for him, when fortune presented itself, to find a woman, settle, make babies.
And Uncas, in the face of his calmly hopeful father and predictably teasing brother, always smiled and brooked no argument.
Perhaps. One day.
One day when the hunt called him no more, when his feet and his spirit no longer urged him along the winding path.
One day.
Perhaps.
He had not worried or mused much upon it.
And then, he had found her.
He had not meant to find her, had not been looking for her.
And had not thought much of her.
In the beginning.
Nëwicheyok.
And now . . .
Ktaholël.
. . . she fills his thoughts.
She . . .
Wënichana.
. . . and the child she has created and brought forth into the world.
The child.
A girl.
Uncas the Mohican . . .
Ktaholël.
. . . is a father.
And it gladens him.
He no longer desires the hunt, the wandering.
No longer awaits the end of winter with eager feet and restless spirit.
He is content to stay and to abide.
Be close to the one he loves.
As much as he may.
She has not been with him, the one he loves.
She has been away.
A full cycle of the moon she has been away.
The Yengees would call it a month.
A fortnight before the birthing.
And a fortnight after.
And the one who loves her has sorely missed her.
He visits her daily, to see her face.
Hear her voice.
Rejoice in her indomitable spirit.
And to learn the child, his daughter
He studies her with rapt delight, every soft hair upon her tiny head, every small feature upon her perfect face.
Her dark eyes, when open, contain the mysteries of the world, he is certain of it.
And her tiny coo, unlike anything he has ever heard before.
And he joys to hold her close to him, to his heart, which beats for her.
He looks up at the stars at night, watches them move.
He thinks of all stories he will tell his daughter, all the things he will show her, all the things he will teach her.
He thinks of how her mother, so strong and weakened during this time, will grow in strength and assurance in herself.
And how he will joy to see it, how he will strive to provide for her and care for her as she needs.
For she the one he loves, all the days of his life, and now the child, the girl she has brought forth.
So long as they may walk this earth.
He eagerly awaits the day when they, the three of them, shall be rejoined as a family.
Though those of seasoned experience warn him he will no longer sleep well in the night.
He does not believe he will mind much.
And so he prepares.
He repairs their shelter, their home, diligently.
No damp leak must allowed within, no errant cold autumn wind.
He hunts with purpose, provides food for his family, them of the village.
Gather furs.
Cleans them, tans them, leaves no error to mar their warmth or softness.
He works with his hands.
He carves playthings, animals, for the child.
Raccoon, squirrel, owl.
He carves them all.
Working the wood over and over; it must not be rough, no splinter shall pierce his daughter's tender flesh.
And he builds.
Following the tutelage of those more skilled, more practiced than he.
He smoothes the bark, dogwood he has chosen.
Strong and broad this am'pisun will be.
It will keep the child safe upon her mother's back as she moves about the village, the open fields, forests beyond.
Along the path he is sure she will wish to take to her sister's home once she has regained the strength to travel distances.
A footrest he constructs at the bottom, a protruding cover at the top.
These will help hold the child in place, shield her eyes, protect her head.
The inside he lines with moss, shredded, soft bark.
For comfort, protection of this most precious infant.
Straps he affixes to crisscross the front of the one he loves, the mother of the child, his Nëwicheyok.
Help her manage the safety and weight of the babe as she, the mother, moves more freely about wherever she may choose to go.
At times he is dissatisfied with his efforts, works it over again and again until it is to his liking.
He has never had need to construct one before; his dedication is absolute now.
And he will, and quite soon, complete his task.
Bring it her, this thing he has made for her, for them, with his own two hands.
And he will see the smile, the appreciation upon her face.
And he will be . . .
Alice-
. . . glad.
These are the things he works over in his mind, the things he works over with his hands.
Each thing he does, each preparation, each consideration, is a mediation, a prayer for the future, a gesture of hope for life long and lasting.
For them.
For his family.
For life.
Thanks to DinahRay, ELY72, and blanparbe previously reviewing! You're very encouraging and gracious, you know.
Next up, what do we call Precious Pants anyway?
Actually no, that sounds awesome enough in itself. ;)