I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
Have missed it tho.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Unexpected Saviors
The berries are delicious and will add nicely to their evening meal.
The child upon her back is quiet for now and Alice, foolishly, is lost in her own thoughts.
And here in wilderness . . .
"Grrrrr . . ."
. . . that is the defining line between life . . .
"Grrrr . . ."
. . . and death.
The sound comes from above her, pebbles clattering down the boulder the berry bush grows near the base of.
Her blood runs cold before she even manages to look up . . .
I have been foolish.
. . . to see the stalking bobcat hunched on its hackles, . . .
I do not wish us to die.
. . . dark-tipped ears alerted to her.
Tufts of fur framing its whiskered face.
Green eyes wholly focused on its prey.
Her.
Her on the ground, knelt and made smaller by her positioning.
Smaller. And more vulnerable.
It is not the largest feral cat she may ever encounter in the wild.
But its razor sharp claws and shredding teeth may easily be the death of her in seconds.
Her.
And her helpless baby girl.
At her flinch, at her scream, it will pounce, it is ready.
Blood will be splattered upon the ground before her lover can find her.
Gouts of her lifeblood, soaking into the forest floor.
The only saving grace that remains is that if Alice can shield her daughter's body with her own long enough for the big cat to lose interest in her bloodied, mangled corpse, perhaps only she will die.
And not Chenoa May as well.
Alicia Elizabeth Munroe's slender, calloused right hand twitches toward her knife.
And the big cat growls low in its throat, muscles tensing and bunching as it prepares to pounce.
I will protect my daughter. I will die brave.
And a rock the size of a child's fist suddenly smashes the bob between the eyes with a meaty sound.
It recoils, caught between a garbled snarl and a pained whimper.
Shaking its head, hissing its rage.
Regrouping once more to poun-
And another rock hits its snout, almost in the same place.
Nëwitaemàk?
And the big cat withdraws completely now, turning tail and fleeing amidst the barrage of rocks that follow its hissing retreat.
My Mohican does not throw rocks.
And Alice casts her gaze wildly about as she gains her feet, knife in hand, heart pounding.
Who-
And sees them.
Oh.
Standing at pace, just out from the copse of trees from which they have been hiding.
One a child, the other midway to young adulthood.
Feet bare below their ragged clothes.
The boy, the younger, fuzzy cloud of black hair.
The girl, the older, head covered with a tied cloth.
Dress a loose garment about her stick-like frame.
The whites of their eyes are startlingly bright against their ebony flesh.
As are the twisted, raised markings . . .
Oh.
. . . upon their scarred flesh.
They are slaves.
Or have been.
Alice sees, as her mind struggles to process her senses of the last few minutes, no one accompanying them.
Small cloth sacks set at their bare feet.
And . . .
It was you.
. . . the rocks in their clenched hands.
"Thank you-"
She shifts to move toward them and their eyes widen in alarm.
She is strangely garbed, holding an upraised knife.
And white.
And they, these lost children, are runaway slaves.
And this is the merciless wilderness.
The girl clenches her jaw, raises a rock in resolve.
And Alice, recovering herself, . . .
"I apologize, . . ."
. . . drops the knife, shows peaceful hands.
". . . forgive me."
As Chenoa May . . .
Daughter . . .
. . . begins to whimper.
All the world vanishes upon the cry of her child.
Alice kneels once more on the loamy earth, untrusses herself from the carrier her Mohican constructed for them.
And turns it round to see her daughter.
Small, round face scrunched, eyes squeezed shut as she calls for her mother.
"Shhh . . . it is alright, dear one . . ."
She reaches out a soothing hand to her child, the babe who hiccups at the touch.
And resumes her crying, more adamantly than ever.
Alice loosens the binds, draws her daughter into trembling embrace.
"Shhh . . . shhh . . ."
And does not mark the careful, wary approach of the two children.
"It is alright . . . it is alright . . ."
Until their shadows fall across her.
And she still does not glance, does not take her gaze away from her daughter, whose wails are now tapering off with the soft kisses and caresses of her trembling mother.
"Her name is Chenoa May."
Has decided they will not harm her without just cause.
"She is my daughter."
And she will give them none.
A dark hand reaches out slowly to the squalling infant.
That little girl who will walk into the sun, into the future.
Who reaches out, grasps one dark finger.
Holds, it tight.
And Alice looks up.
The finger her daughter has so strongly claimed belongs to the boy.
The boy standing close, smiling at the now calming, wide-eyed babe.
The boy who has surely borne so much in so little life.
The girl, having come up behind.
Taken the dropped knife from the ground.
And is holding it out to Alice for her to take.
For her protection.
And . . .
"Thank you."
. . . her daughter's.
"Thank you so much."
She could not convince them to come with her.
Back to camp.
To eat cooked food, to warm themselves before the fire.
To rest from their journeys, their labors.
She begged them to come.
In Delaware.
In English.
Even in, . . .
"S'il te plaît. Tu ne seras pas blessé."
Please. You will not be harmed.
. . . French.
They have shook their heads, mouths forming frowns.
Bare feet ready to run.
And finally, Alice, . . .
"Please."
. . . has offered up the entire contents of her foraging bag.
"At least take this."
Watching them, in turn, . . .
"You saved me. You saved my daughter."
. . . take only a handful each.
"Will you not take more?"
And smile.
She has told her Mohican and their father of this.
These men whose faces darken at her recountings of the cat, the danger.
Uncas, whose arm goes tighter 'round the daughter on his knee as the child plays happily and without concern with the curtain of his long, thick, black hair.
Chingachgook, eyes narrowing, brow furrowing, pipe forgotten, smoke uncurling thin and unappreciated into the ether.
She has told her story and they have listened.
And now she ends it with a simple sentence.
"Ehëliwsikakw."
They traveled west.
They do not reply, these men.
Not for a moment.
Then Uncas murmurs lows, seeming to read her thoughts.
"Pahtite e èlikhatink."
They may come across the village.
It is a distant possibility.
As was a distant possibility them happenstancing upon a young, transplanted Yengee mother picking berries with a bobcat stalking above her head.
And Chingachgook acquiesces.
"Shëkwe."
They may.
Alice joins in these considerations.
"Kèku hèch lèke?"
What will the village do to them?
Feeling they, her young saviors, would skirt, given the opportunity.
"Na winki, Wënichana."
The same as we would do, Daughter.
"Ntàxamaok nèkamò. Ekaonkwite nèkamò."
They would feed them. Harbor them.
Wènchim nèkamò ohëlëmi nihëlalachik kwëlahta alëmska."
They would send them further from their captors if they wished to go.
Nataèpu ahsëna.
And they would watch their rocks.
This final statement from her Nëwitaemàk makes her smile, eases her mind.
Reminds her . . .
As well they should.
. . . that they, these stouted-hearted runaways . . .
They were very sharp.
. . . have their own defenses.
Nathaniel would have been proud.
And have come this far already.
She does not know how to pray to Uncas', their father's, God.
The one that needs no church, no tithings.
The one that accepts those from so many walks of life and choice and color.
Her childhood prayers full of 'thees' and 'thous', full of Latin, and grand, impressive phrases and rote, repetitious utterances she has little to no true understanding of.
As it was, for the victors and priests, they being closer to God, the go-betweens between an Almighty God and sinful, simple humans.
And Alice does not quite know how to pray from the heart.
And yet she feels, she is compelled to try.
And so, stumbling and with hesitations and stutterings, holding her precious child close to her modest bosom, she does.
Not as her father taught her.
Not as her church taught her.
Not as her prayer book nor her nanny, nor even her Aunt Eugenia has drilled her.
But as her Mohican, his father.
These savage, 'godless', uncivilized men of the wild, as they.
Great Spirit and the Maker of All Life, guide the feet of these children as they seek escape from persecution in this new, wild world.
Let their wrists chafe with no chain and their backs bleed with no whip.
Let their aim be true and their determination steadfast.
Let their bellies be filled and brows cooled.
Let them find safe haven and acceptance in their journeys.
Let them be free and at peace all their days.
It is not the prayer her father would have prayed, nor their family victor, nor Aunt Eugenia.
Nor any person she has known before her Mohican and their father.
But it is the best prayer she is able.
And she sends it up as she holds her saved girl-child close to her bosom.
And drifts into sleep before the quietly crackling nightfire.
Thanks to BlueSaffire and her awesomeness, MedicineGal815 (Welcome back, my friend, I'm just happy you're here!), blanparbe (have you seen her AMAZING fanart in the story pic?! It is SO perfection! You can find more of her lovely artwork as elevenofspades on Instagram!), and the ever supportive and encouraging DinahRay for reviewing the previous chapter with grace and aplomb.
Anyway, this kind of thing was historically realistic at this time and some were taken in by First Nations People. Some were actually caught by them and returned for favors and monetary rewards but I'm SURE the Delaware wouldn't have done that.
Give me your thoughts if you like and thanks for reading! :)