I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Little One
The child is, as of yet, unnamed.
Not a grievous oversight. Many children are not named until well into the span of their years.
Some, a rare few, never receive significant namings at all.
Some, more than one bestowed upon them as their lives demand it.
Delaware custom holds the child be named by an elder.
A grandmother, some female member related to the child.
Alice has none in the Can-tuck-ee wilderness.
One may be assigned to her and her newborn babe.
Perhaps one of the Honored Mothers who has cared for her so well these many days.
Prepared her for bonding to her Mohican.
Cared and assisted her in the birthing, before, during, and afterward.
Or Alice, as not fully Delaware, may buck the entire custom.
And name her own child as she sees fit.
The people of the village would not protest it, she may do as she wishes.
But Alice Munroe wishes to embrace this life, this world into which her Mohican lover, her Nëwitaemàk, her Uncas, has welcomed her.
And yet, even so, she is not wholly complicit.
These others are good choices and she appreciates them and their toils for her well.
But there is only one she wishes the honor of naming her child.
He who has brought her so far in this new world.
"Nèkàch nuxëna wichëmil?"
Would he help me?
Accepted her. Strengthened her.
"Ktuxtao, ika xu ahpu."
If you ask it of him, he will.
Marked her, christened her The Dragonfly Woman.
And so she straps her daughter safely to the cradleboard the one who loves them has made with his own two hands.
Ventures forth.
Careful of her steps, watching her balance, welcome burden now shifted from front to back.
And goes away from the village, into the trees.
Come, Little One, we are going on our first adventure.
And presently . . .
Small as it may be.
. . . returns.
"Hè, Wètuxëmùksit."
"Wënichana."
With her offering.
A gift of herbs.
The best she could gather, the best to honor her adopted father.
And makes her humble request.
"Wichëmi?"
Will you help me?
The dark eyes of Chingachgook of the Mohican people show gentle joy..
"òsòmi, Wënichana. Katatàmën."
Yes, Daughter. If it what you want.
His hands strong and warm upon hers.
"èt na. Wanìshi, Wètuxëmùksit."
It is. Thank you, Father.
And her heart is quite full . . .
"Maxelëman, Wënichana."
It is my honor, Daughter.
. . . and hopeful.
He will meditate upon it, the first name the child will receive.
Perhaps it will come to him in a dream, a vision.
Perhaps he will look upon the child and simply know the name for what it will be.
But he will not speak of it, no, the secret will be kept until the moment of the ceremony.
And when it is affixed in his mind, . . .
"Mèchi."
. . . he will present it to the child.
Her mother.
And . . .
It is time.
. . . the village.
They gather, the people of the village.
Young and old. Men, women.
Delaware and Mohican.
And adopted Yengee alike.
They gather in the Sacred Circle.
That circle set into the ground.
That circle set to honor the continuous pattern of life and death.
The path of the sun, the moon.
The cycle of the seasons of the earth and the seasons of man from birth until death.
And even then, a continuing on.
The shape of the shelters of which they call their summer homes.
It is late August, nearing the beginning of the harvesting season.
The sun is still bright and close, the breeze still holds warmth.
A flowering tree, a Yellowwood, standing at the center of the circle, has not yet begun the process of shedding its leaves, drawing energy into itself to for winter survival.
Instead, it flourishes still, strong and hale.
Upward-spreading branches wide, rounded crown full of verdant green.
And the gathered people honor the four quarters that nourish life.
To the east, peace and light from the sun.
The south, warmth.
The west, rain, and the cold, the cold and mighty winds that give strength, endurance.
The circle is strong for it compasses all life, all their world, all they honor.
And so this is where they meet.
The village stands within the circle.
They are one united family.
And they have adopted her . . .
I am not alone.
We are not alone.
. . . into them.
Chingachgook is there, the father who took her for his own.
A ceremonial fire is prepared, set with intent and sage.
And the village forms a prayer circle around it.
Two Honored Mothers, the very same that looked after Alice and her birthing and the days that followed, stand in the middle, with Chingachgook.
These are the witnesses and Alice presents them and her adopted father gifts of herbs.
Alice, for the child is hers, and all others but ask favor.
They accept, nod pleased heads in pleased honor.
Prayers are given forth for this day, this most glorious of days, as it is a day upon which they are allowed to wake and walk upon the earth.
And then Alice gives the three week old babe, swaddled up tight and warm, to . . .
Hold her well, my Wètuxëmùksit.
. . . her grandfather.
The child who is even now . . .
Well, it is alright.
That is the way of them.
. . . peacefully sleeping.
Chingachgook, who holds the child, his granddaughter, with reverence and care.
And the gathered wait upon his words.
"Great Spirit and the Maker of All Life, I am in great honor and joy today at the child who lays within my arms. She is of a woman who was lost and now found, a dragonfly who has gained strength she did not know she was possessed. It is her who has seen fit to bond her spirit to the spirit of my son. A light shines in his eyes that I have never seen before he gazed upon her."
He pauses.
And a hawk on the wing, dips and sails through the cloudless azure sky.
And the Mohican elder continues.
"And now she has brought forth into this world, a new being, a new creature. A child borne of love and perseverance and hope in a time of great upheaval and conflict."
He raises the child up in offering and gratitude to those of the Sky World.
"Kpëmëska kishuxink, tëtàch, Nuwiti."
It is you who will walk into the sun, the future, Little One.
"Kikayuyëmënaninka knataèpi ahilënsu mpi ki."
With all of your ancestors watching proud over you.
"Ni yuni nuwiti, ni yuni nuxwiti . . ."
My little one, my granddaughter, my . . .
"Chenoa May."
There is silence within the circle for a moment.
Chenoa May.
And Alice, through her rising tears . . .
Oh Wètuxëmùksit.
. . . sees the gathered smile and nod with approval and pride.
She turns then, finds the one she loves, the father of the child, and reaches out . . .
My love . .
. . . a hand to him.
Tears shimmering, smile turning the corners of his mouth, he joins her.
And they are together, this new family of three.
Remaining thusly, reflection, gratitude, and consideration the focus of the moment.
And then . . .
"èt na. Wanìshi, Wètuxëmùksit."
It is. Thank you, Father.
. . . they all, every man, woman, and child among them perform the sacred dance of continued life and thanksgiving.
They dance.
They chant.
They sing.
They feast.
"Maxelëman, Wënichana."
It is my honor, Daughter.
As the child . . .
Little One, you are loved.
. . . sleeps on.
In Lenape, "May" means "go and do something".
In other words, Chingachgook believes the baby is not only a gift but will also do things, good things, throughout the course of her life.
And, of course, the honor of Chenoa, the name of Uncas' mother (in my story anyway), who I believe Chingachgook held as a great woman, a healer to her people.
And, of course, Jodi May.
Plus, I think it has sort of a pleasant rhythm to it in my mind.
So, anyway, Chenoa May.
Anyway, I hope you like it. Please let me know. :)
Also, check the pic. Adorable, right?
Thanks to DinahRay, chiarab87, OneryOak, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing before! :D