I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I have missed it tho.

The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man

Stolen Woman

A short span of days it has been since the one she loves impressed upon a foolish boy the brutal cost of war.

Leaves drift more freely upon the cooling Can-tuck-ee winds than they did upon Chenoa May's Naming Day.

And upon the request of the elders of their clan, a small band of men, no more than half a dozen from the Shawnee village so recently, foolishly, unknowingly preyed upon by the small group of now humbled Delaware boys, have come through the dense forests to the small clearing that is the center of their village.

Men, dark and tall, lean.

Men only, no women accompany them. Women left back at their own village to attend to the cultivating, harvesting against the oncoming winter months.

Women, who to Alice, seem more the lifeblood of humanity than she ever before realized.

But the men now, these men.

With their survival accoutrements and their long guns and tomahawks.

They are welcomed into the village.

To break bread. Commune.

And that is good.

This time together, it resolves them against isolation, against the unwelcome interlopers, against the white man.

Makes good promises to come to one another's aid in time of conflict.

So long as the bond stands.

And so they are allowed in, welcomed to move throughout the community at will.

These men.

They are put close to evening fires.

They are fed good portions.

They laugh. They talk.

Share stories one with the other, stories of life well spent, of nobility and pride.

Humanity and long history upon the earth.

Darker tales of the warring, lying, encroaching white man and his inconstant ilk.

Stories, all these things they share.

And, of course, they trade.

They trade for fur, they trade for tools.

Arrows and knives and all other manner of survival in the unforgiving wilderness.

And that is good.

The trades are congenial but shrewd.

It would not do to be ill-prepared out in the wild.

This is all good for the Shawnee, the Delaware people.

And for the foolish boys who must learn how to put aside their own fragile egos and form close alliances with those of similar clans.

Alice sees them, these invited men, makes appropriate note of them from a distance as she moves about, attends to her self, her child, her life partner.

These men.

Much like her Mohican.

And yet not.

Eyes, dark and stern.

One in particular.

"Waapa kweewa."

"Ku."

And wandering.

And yet, strangely enough, her lover's do not.

He who has always watched her, kept his eyes upon her, now, does not look to her at all.

Does not seek out or acknowledge her in any way as he involves in the trading.

And Alice, . . .

That is strange.

Something is afoot.

"Wtëlsëwakàn?"

. . . child close by her side, . . .

What does he want?

. . . is disquieted by this.

And her curiosity peaks as she sits, works with her hands among the other women of the village.

The men gathered together at pace, good natured air of their trade noticably cooled.

Now not quite so welcoming and friendly as before.

Uncas is among them. And he does not look.

He does not look at her.

And women with whom she abides, with their now quiet mouths and watchful eyes all about her, previously talking and laughing and communing amongst themselves, they sit.

"Waapa kweewa."

"Ku."

And listen.

"Waapa kweewa."

"Ku."

The Shawnee language just turned enough out of her understanding.

"Waapa kweewa."

"Ku."

And so she asks . . .

"Wtëlsëwakàn?"

. . . that which she does not know.

What does he want so?

That which they, the Delaware women, do seem to wish . . .

"Wtëlsëwakàn?"

. . . not to answer.

"Wtëlsëwakàn?"

Though finally they do.

"Kahtalkuwa."

He wants you.

And it stuns her.

Pardon?

The man, tall and dark and lean and savage.

Much as her Mohican.

Me?

And yet . . .

Why?

. . . not.

Brows drawn together, frown heavy about his mouth as . . .

"Waapa kweewa."

. . . he is denied . . .

"Ku."

. . . his trade.

Me?

Trade? For me?

I am no trade.

He offers more tools.

"Ku."

He offers more arrows.

"Ku."

He offers beads and whiskey.

"Ku."

He offers more cloth, more furs.

"Ku."

He offers coin of the French, of the Yengee.

"Ku."

And Alice . . .

"Waapa kweewa."

"Ku."

. . . finds herself in . . .

Me?

. . . a bewilderment.

White women have been stolen before.

She has heard tales before.

Mostly from silly, giddy girls . . .

"- you away in the dead of night-"

"-eyes, huge, hulking beasts-"

"-never be heard from again!"

"The soldiers say so!"

. . . of Portland Square.

One of which she used to be.

And now she sees the way this man looks at her.

Not her Mohican.

The other.

With his intensity, his hooded eyes.

And the remembered tales strike her more concerning now . . .

I am no chattel.

I am no trade.

. . . than they did in her foolish distant youth.

And she speaks to her Mohican on this when they are together.

"Liteheyok nulhala shèshikwitasik."

They think I am stolen?

Evening fire crackling.

"Òsòmi."

Yes.

Shadows dancing within their little home.

"Liteheyok ki ktëlsin ohëlëmi."

They think you have stolen me away.

Shadows creeping without.

"Nink lah?"

Have I?

And a shadow growing . . .

"Ku. Këmutëmul nhàkay ohëlëmi. Këmilël."

No. I have stolen myself away. To you.

. . . within her heart.

Her Mohican raises a warm hand to her face.

And she, hesitatingly so, and in English, speaks.

"Will they try? To steal me?"

Moments pass before the one she loves responds.

"I do not think so. It would not be wise."

Quiet.

"I would stop them."

Soft.

"I would kill them."

Certain.

"As I have done before."

And she thinks.

"It would start a war between the clans?"

Questions.

"Perhaps."

And is replied thereof.

"I do not wish for war."

With quiet certainty.

"I do not wish for harm to you."

And the shadows . . .

I do not wish harm because of me.

. . . remain.

And the next day . . .

"Pilaechëchi kwëtkihëna ashùntèsuwàk."

They say they will return to trade.

. . . under watchful eyes . . .

"Nulelìntàm eyok."

I am glad they go.

. . . the Shawnee men leave the village.

They sleep together, this little family.

Alice Munroe.

Uncas the Mohican.

And the babe . . .

"Wëli kawi, Wënichana."

Sleep deep, Daughter.

"Kenahkihëmòch."

We watch over you well.

. . . cradled between them.

And Alice, mind darkened even in the midst of her ongoing joy, has secreted away a new addition she has not made mention of.

I will not be an invalid schoolgirl.

A knife.

I will not be taken again.

Sharp. Gleaming.

I will be strong and ready.

And ready . . .

I will be brave.

. . . to cut.

And though the men go again and will surely not return before winter, . . .

I am brave.

. . . Alice Munroe . . .

I am me.

. . . keeps it close at hand.

Hello all! Hope you are safe and well. :)

Still interested in this little tale?

The new pic is a lovely piece by the fantastically talented blanparbe. Isn't she amazing?

Thank you so much to blanparbe and chiraba87 for voicing your well-wishes previously and thanks for all the positive vibes out there that have been coming my way.

Thanks also to BlueSaffire for encouraging the return of this story as well as assuring me that this new story arc does not suck. (I trust you.)

You're lovely, lovely people, all you.

See you again by the weekend for another chapter :)