I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
The Price of War
They fancy themselves men.
But they are boys.
Boys of the village.
Old enough to be talling in stature.
Young enough to be foolish in thought.
No more than fifteen soft summers, any of them.
They have been conniving amongst themselves, the four of them.
These boys who have yet only killed deer and other flightly creatures of the Can-tuck-ee wood.
Now have been planning a raid, an attack.
Against a Shawnee village, ridges over.
People with whom the Delaware share blood, share bond, share unity.
Alice having not yet made acquaintance of, her being so full of first gestating and now caring for her child.
But these, boys, these foolish boys.
How they do scheme.
Some imagined slight of which no one knows but them.
And 'tis not enough to warrant such stir, such action.
But their blood runs high, their belief in their own abilities, possibilities, narrow-minded, and small.
They have been heard planning to sneak away in the night, make mischief.
Prove themselves warriors.
And as is the custom of the village, they have been brought forth at council.
Out of doors, under trees.
The center of the village, the very heart of it.
The elders of the village, men and women.
In their calm, reasoning way, sit and make consideration of them.
Chingachgook among them.
Pipe smoke encircling his head.
Chingachgook, her Wètuxëmùksit.
Stern face closed, shrewd eyes darker than ever.
And the boys . . .
"Kèku hèch?"
What will they do?
. . . sullen and defiant . . .
"Kwëntàmao xahowehòsihàn."
They will teach them not to act so foolishly.
. . . stand to themselves . . .
"Kàchi?"
How?
. . . in sight of all.
All have come to witness this tribunal. All who abide in the village.
They seem so many at times.
But in truth are quite so few.
So few to fight.
But not too few to die.
And so they all are allowed attendance in the light of this danger upon the village and its people.
Against those who have done them no harm, shown no inclination to do so.
Alice, pale of skin and light of hair, stands with the women.
Uncas, near enough to his father.
Close enough as is the youth of his station.
Uncas the traveler, who wanders the wilderness.
Uncas the warrior, who has slain countless enemies in bloody battle.
Uncas, husband to Alice.
Father to their child.
And Alice watches all, silent and still.
Yengee among the Delaware.
Watches and listens.
The boys confess, one by one.
With due respect towards them older.
But . . .
"Yuh winki wsihëweyok! Patahëweokàn èlikhatink!"
We would have been successful! We would have won many spoils for the village!
. . . defiant still in their foolish self assurity.
"Nshinkahpi patahëweokàn. Ki mai pètu mahtakèn èlikhatink."
We have not need for spoils. You would have brought war upon us.
"Nchitanìsi! Mahtake nëwishëlëku!"
We are strong to fight! We are not afraid!
They are unrepentant. They do not see the error of their ways.
The elders consider all that has been said, all that has been proclaimed and uttered by these foolish, hot-blooded boys.
And Chingachgook nods, ever so slightly, to his son.
A movement near imperceptible.
Save for Alice.
For she, so closely attentive to her adopted Mohican father, sees.
Sees the slightest of nods.
Pass from father to son.
And back again.
And then the silent and still last full blooded warrior son of the Mohican people explodes into action.
Leaping at the ringleader of the foolish bunch.
Tomahawk suddenly clenched in one hand.
Hunting knife in the other.
The boys retreat from this blur of movement, fall over themselves and each other in a panic to escape.
And Uncas leaps upon the leader, knocking him to the ground.
Handsome chiseled face Alice knows every line and plane of.
Now a terrifying, twisted visage, teeth bared in silent snarl.
Dark hair flying.
The boy is flat upon his back.
Knife knocked uselessly from his hand.
And the slaughterer of his enemies is upon him.
Sharpened knife at his throat.
Lifeblood the flick of the wrist from being spilled.
And Alice's hands are up, covering the mouth her gentle Mohican so loves to kiss, squelching down the no, stop, my love, he is but a foolish child that must not be screamed.
Heart pounding so hard and so fearfully that she would not hear if that scream did issue forth.
And the moment holds.
The boy, trembling and shaking.
Helpless at the mercy of a ruthless killer.
And then the glowering Uncas speaks.
Murmurs.
Low and dark.
So only he and his helpless kill may hear.
The boy pales.
Trembles.
Another ocean of a moment passes.
The boy nods.
The towering warrior stands, then the shaking boy.
And the assembly . . .
"Xu làpi ktachimwihëna ki nòxpànkumaok."
We will talk together now and decide how the peace will be kept.
. . . is dismissed to go and consider all that has been said and done.
They are together in the sunshine.
The three of them.
Alice mending her treasured moccasins.
Uncas playing with the girl-child in his crosslegged lap.
Chubby baby fist clutching calloused forefinger.
"What did you say to him? The boy."
They have not spoken of it.
Uncas does not respond; only continues to play with his blurbering . . .
"Ahhlaaa . . ."
. . . baby daughter.
Seeming to drink her in.
Alice waits.
Finally, the companion of her spirit speaks.
"I told him, 'This is war. This is what it is to kill. This is what it is to die.'"
Alice finds this a hard lesson.
"Do you think he will listen?"
A brutal lesson.
"It is my wish for him. And the others."
And very wise indeed.
"When did you make your first kill? That was not beast?"
He seems to hesitant, his man she loves.
Dark eyes raising to her in disconcertment.
Then dropping down to the child for whom his spirit surges.
Brow furrowing, entire countenance seeming to withdraw slightly, shut down.
And Alice waits.
And trusts.
That if he will not speak, that he will forgive her tactless intrusion.
And she will not press, not press his heart further.
But he does speak, in time.
"My brother and I were traveling home from Reverend Wheelock's School. A man came out of the woods with a knife, shouting about half-breeds and traitors and gutless savages that had laid waste to his farm and brutalized his wife. My brother pulled his tomahawk but did not swing. I did."
He pauses; she waits.
"We took nothing from the body. I washed my hands and tomahawk in the river. I did not sleep well for many nights."
And Alice finds this story immeasurably horrific and sad.
"You have always looked after your brother."
"He is my brother."
And the conclusion strangely beautiful.
Wrote this months ago. Had no idea the state of affairs that would be going on in the U.S. currently.
So connect it or don't.
Just be safe out there.
And kind if you can.
Thanks to ELY72 and DinahRay for so graciously reviewing and thanks to concy for adding your support to this tale :)