I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Have missed it tho.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
I Am - I Am Not
And yet, after only a few days they do return, the small band of Shawnee men.
And again, the same man . . .
"Waapa kweewa."
Still?
"Ku."
. . . seeks his desired trade.
And Alice . . .
He is not right in his mind.
. . . is aghast.
"Waapa kweewa."
What sort of man is this?
"Ku."
What sort of woman does he think me?
She murmurs low to the ones sitting close about her.
"Nshilìntàm. Nuhëla."
I am bonded to another. I nurse a child.
"Ksinhatènamu."
These things do not concern him.
And offers an entire . . .
I am no tr-
. . . elk . . .
That is a good trade.
. . . to those who sojourn in trade with him.
And her Mohican, who still does not look to her in any way . . .
"Ku."
. . . responds flat and without hesitation.
He does not look to her, no, not him.
But she feels, without daring to see, the eyes of some of the others of the village upon her.
My Mohican may need to hunt the village an elk on the morrow to satisfy this day.
And Alice Munroe does not quite know what . . .
I may need to hunt the village an elk as well.
. . . to make of it.
And now he has come to her, Alice, gathering berries.
Come quietly, stealthily.
As the men of the wild may do.
And she has been caught unawares, inattentive.
Luxuriating in feeling nicely, relievedly, removed and to herself.
Oh.
Her and the contentedly babbling child . . .
"Ablaaa . . ."
. . . upon her back.
Birds in the trees, clouds in the sky.
Autumn leaves crunching under her moccasined feet.
Brown bushy-tailed ground squirrel . . .
I have no need to squeeze your bladder . . .
. . . abruptly dashed away.
Alerting her to his advance.
Oh.
And now she has seen him.
It is you.
Him.
Tall and dark and lean and proud and strong.
Mouth a closed line, eyes dark and searching.
I did not want for you.
He is not cruel about the eyes.
Not pocked about the face.
His head is not shaven on the sides, not tuffed atop the middle.
Instead it flows down and down, much as her Mohican's.
The markings upon his flesh are vaguely familiar in their patterns.
And unfamiliar in that they are not of her Mohican's.
His rough hands are not painted with the blood of her dead lover as she had once so horribly dreamed.
He is not threatening in his stance, not fearsome in his lurking.
All men save the three she trusts without reservation are to be weighed and measured with a wary, careful eye.
All but them.
The father, the son, and the brother.
Only them.
And now, here, there is this person, this stranger.
He is an unknown, an uninvited.
It is a necessity for her to look upon him, calculate the danger.
And she does.
He appears to be but a man.
Clad in deerskin and cloth and possibles bag and all basic manner of a man of the wild.
Long rifle set peacefully against a blazing orange blackgum.
Nevertheless, Alice . . .
Nëwitaemàk, . . .
. . . feels her breath catch . . .
I am alone.
. . . in her chest.
He stands, paces away, this seeking Shawnee, and does not approach.
Eyes unwaveringly set upon her.
Her.
Alice.
Thin, plain, unassuming Alice.
In her deerskin dress and her moccasined feet.
Long, colorless hair plaited up out of her eyes.
Bag of nuts and seeds and berries hanging from her person.
And her babbling child . . .
"Ablaaa . . ."
. . . trussed upon her back.
The Shawnee man is not smiling, though the heavy frown has gone from his face, eyes intent under thick brows.
And Alice wonders if she could make it to the village if he were to give chase.
Her babe upon her back would be jostled, surely cry and wail.
Could possibly be injured, even tucked safely within her carefully constructed carrier.
But what choice would her protective mother have, there is no alternative, she will not submit, will not be taken agai-
And then he raises his hand.
Oh.
And she sees it, held delicately between his long, slender fingers.
Brown and striated and smooth, the large feather is.
An owl feather, to be exact.
Not taken from the dead animal, no.
Plucked from the ground where it floated down as its owner silently soared up and away into the open and wild night sky.
Found by this Shawnee, tucked away, a good omen.
And now offered up.
To her.
As well as a single spoken word.
In Delaware.
Or something closely tongued enough.
"Wëntaxa."
Come.
And Alice is stunned.
"Pa- . . . I . . . no . . . ku."
Peaceful beckoning of the hand from the one before her.
Come.
She steps back.
"Ku. Nshilìntàm."
I am bonded to another.
She has made a grave mistake; she has made herself alone.
She has been alone before.
With men not to be denied.
The cruel ones who drug her across the cliffs.
The ones her Mohican ran up the side of a mountain to save her from.
The ones left dead and bloody upon cliffs by him and his father and brother.
The leering, murderous French traders whom her lover mercilessly dispatched in the dark.
"Wëntaxa. Tkawsu."
Come. I am kind.
Alice reaches into her pocket, slowly and with great resolve reveals that which she has secreted away.
"Nëmatapei."
I am not.
And he raises his eyes from the knife in her hand.
To her eyes which, with all of her might, neither flinch, nor blink.
Nor cower in any way whatsoever.
If she were not in such a concealed state of fear and dread, she might see the beginnings of an impressed smile touch the corners of his mouth, fade as it becomes evident she will not be moved of her own accord.
But Alice Munroe is preparing to stab, slash, claw, bite.
I will not be taken again.
And does not see
And so she only sees the Shawnee man with the striated owl feather . . .
I will fight.
. . . puts his hand slowly back down by his side.
I will be strong.
Turns away . . .
I will be brave.
. . . and leaves her . . .
I will not be an invalid schoolgirl.
. . . in peace.
"Ablaaa . . ."
And when he is gone from her and she is alone again . . .
"Shhh . . ."
. . . Alice takes the other way . . .
"We are going home."
. . . back to her village home.
She relates the story to her Mohican, there is little she will ever choose to keep from him.
And a scowl darkens his handsome, chiseled face. Thick brows knitting together above his fearsome glower.
"Did he hurt you?"
Alice senses murder in her lover's heart as he reaches out, takes her head gently in his warm, roughened palms.
"No. Not in any way."
And she breathes him in deep, forces her voice to be calm and even as she replies.
"He withdrew."
And he does not speak, does not lighten.
And she surmises his thoughts.
He will go to war for her, for the threat of her.
And their daughter.
But, Alice knows, as much her fear was upon her at their time in the woods, the man did not threaten.
Did not attack.
Only offered.
Offered again.
And withdrew peaceably upon her insistence.
And that is not worthy of . . .
"Do not go to him," she pleads with her beloved Turtle Man.
. . . war.
"Do not kill him."
The dissolution of a needed alliance.
"Stay with me. Stay close with me."
Over a simple owl feather.
"If he comes again, if he insists, . . ."
And an offer.
". . . you may deal with him."
And her Mohican, thunderous of mind and murderous of heart . . .
"If you must."
. . . heeds her plea.
This one time.
And the next day, with no altercation and no directed misgivings, they leave.
The Shawnee men.
Leave without looking back.
Leave without returning.
And Alice Munroe . . .
"Are you alright, Nëwicheyok?"
"Yes."
. . . breathes her sigh of relief.
"I am."
And continues to keep her knife close.
Thanks to Conbird, KuBu14, DinahRay, and blanparbe for your wonderfully encouraging reviews! So glad to see you back again! :D
I hope this isn't too much of a cop-out or anything.
But I couldn't stand another war and all the ugliness that goes along with it.
I also didn't want it to seem like every Indian but Uncas and his dad are bad.
I also did consider allowing another Delaware girl to go with him instead but I couldn't stomach for any person of the First Nations to be a consolation prize for a white woman.
I mean, it would be a dishonor.
So tell me what you think, huh?
And tell me if you're ready to go traveling.