I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Still don't own Eric Schweig. Really, no one should. ;)
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Meditation of Sorts
Long it has been since Uncas the Mohican has gone traveling.
Near to a year since he has set his feet upon a path taking him further than a few leagues from the village.
He has not mourned this; his world has been very full and very content.
His lifemate, their child.
Their child.
A daughter.
His stern countenance softens, gentles, at the very thought of her.
Chenoa May.
Chenoa May, with her honey colored skin and her bright, peering eyes.
She has become the entirety of his existence, the meaning of his very life.
The daughter. And her mother.
They were not always known to him, these wonders at which he now marvels.
There was a time he walked upon the earth as he would, moved as he would.
Never stilling his steps for long, never contenting himself to be in one place more than a hands-ful of days.
And now he is ever content to abide where they are, be settled and at peace near them.
Chenoa May.
And Alice.
Alice who wishes to walk once more, travel to visit and commune with her sister.
Her sister and her husband.
His brother.
Nathaniel the Hawkeye.
Uncas has missed his brother by his side, wondered at his wellness and successfulness at homesteading.
Homesteading.
A chuckle huffs itself within his chest, his throat.
Love may change a man, even one so wild and free as Nathaniel.
Nathaniel who had fully embraced the wanderings of the three of them.
Nathaniel who knew his lineage was not so beholden to his adopted father's blood.
And not of so much import to still his feet and settle.
And now . . .
Nathaniel the Farmer.
I shall bring him a straw hat.
. . . he is a West Virginian homesteader.
And they will soon be making their way to see him.
His spirit is gladdened to see his brother, knows that his father's will be as well.
And yet Uncas knows this journey will not be quite so easy as ones before.
They will be traveling long leagues with a child now, their child.
He has traveled with his father and adopted brother over many long and dangerous lands before.
Tracking elk, deer.
Tracking war parties.
They moved fast upon the ground, stealthy and without reserve.
A single unit of force, no need to speak when fighting, each protecting the other, single and independent and fluid.
The Yengee colonel's daughters and their military escort had not been the first they had moved with.
Dishoused settlers, raided travelers.
They slowed them down, made the trip more wearying and strenuous.
That was the way of it and that was accepted.
Even a child here and there had been part of a company.
Over a handful of days, no more.
But none of them had been his wife, his child.
Not as now.
And Uncas the Mohican . . .
I will not sleep soundly for many nights until our destination is reached.
. . . finds himself in uneasiness at the prospect.
They will leave soon.
Their father has deemed the sky rainless in the coming days, warm and fair.
Weeks it will take them to reach their destination, rain and ill weather may fall upon them as they continue on.
And that will be what it may.
As for now, they will set their feet upon a path toward his brother's homestead.
There is but one remaining task Uncas feels he must complete before their journey begins.
Before he leaves the home he has built for his newly gotten family.
Before he ventures out into the wilderness with them.
Ash he takes, cooled ash from the fire in the center of their small structure.
Dips his last finger in it, the smallest one.
This task too delicate for anything larger and more cumbersome.
A stick he would use if it would not possibly cause unintended harm.
And so his finger it must be and that very carefully.
He covers the tip of his end finger with ash.
Turns in the dim light under the smoke hole above them.
And kneels before the am'pisun he made with his own hands, sleeping infant already snugged within it, fed and cleaned and cradled and readied for travel.
And carefully, oh so carefully, touches his finger to the soft flesh of his sleeping daughter's smooth forehead.
The child stirs at his touch, little eyelids twitching, tiny lips pursing momentarily.
She stirs, but only just slightly, before settling down once more into stillness and peace.
And carefully, he begins to work.
He is not aware of himself in that moment, that his eyes crinkle with adoration of her, corners of his mouth upturn with fondness.
He is in a concentration, a meditation, a prayer state.
A line, straight across her tiny brow, he draws, arrow above her little nose.
Then another line, another arrow.
Two arrows, he makes, facing one another.
Meeting in the middle, above the bridge of her tiny nose.
A symbol, a rune.
A warding off of evil spirits and things that might do her harm.
Her, this precious child.
"Great Spirit and the Maker of All Life, protect my daughter this day as we set out on our journey. Let no man nor beast do her harm. Let no ill thing creep into her spirit and cause her darkness. Send our ancestors to walk with her and watch over her as she moves into the wilds of the world."
These words he speaks in Mohican with his entire spirit.
Murmured low so as not to disturb the sleeping child.
For he knows the Great Spirit is within him and within all things.
And may hear.
No matter the volume of which his voice speaks.
He dashes the fire.
Checks to see if there is anything still to unattend within the confines of their home these spring and summer months.
There is not. It is all done.
Even the fetish has been taken down, secreted away upon the person of the one he loves.
The honor she has to carry it, the child belonging to her.
The honor he would take if he could, all his spirit moves and breathes for the child herself.
The light brightens and dims once more, the opening flap pulled aside and dropped back into place.
He looks and she is there.
Alice.
His spirit swells at the sight of her, the smile she gifts him.
Nëwicheyok.
She has been displeased as of late, did not understand why he did not look to her in any way whilst the Shawnee men traded for this or that such item.
For her.
And she does not understand.
But he does.
He did not look to her, did not allow himself to look to her.
Uncas the Mohican knows himself well enough, knows he has fire within him that may flame and burn others.
A temper, some would call it.
And that fire might flare more than is of reason if he allows himself to look to her.
Alice, his lifemate, spirit of his spirit.
Vulnerable and singular and all of herself.
Alice.
Who does not know her own beauty, her own allure.
Alice with her cornsilk hair and her pale skin.
Alice with her dark, doe eyes.
Alice with her gentleness, her intelligence, her bravery, her curiosity of all things.
Alice, who is, Alice.
Alice.
And their . . .
"She is sleeping?"
"Yes."
"That is good. We may make leagues before she wakes."
"We may. Or she may awake soon and keep company with the chattering squirrels."
. . . baby daughter.
I've changed the profile pic to show the rune Uncas draws on Chenoa May's forehead.
Very grateful thanks to DinahRay, blanparbe, OrneryOak, and BlueSaffire for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter!
You all have the most wonderful care and enthusiasm for this story. And I love your thoughtful insights. :)