I do not own Last of the Mohicans.
I will always love it.
The DragonFly Woman and The Turtleman
The Deer and The Wënichana (And The Other)
They are taking repose from walking, there in the waning grass, the autumn leaves, these wanderers, these two.
Alice Munroe and her tiny girl-child propped in her lap.
The breeze is cool, the child industriously gnawing on one small, well-dampened fist.
Her mother, blond hair into a braid, lest her grasping daughter snatch her bald.
Her precious daughter who . . .
"Ablaaa . . ."
. . . carries on musings only she may understand.
Whilst her mother softly sings some half-forgotten childhood English rhyme.
". . . with a whoop, come with a call . . ."
Aimlessly playing with the fingers, the toes, the previous, plump perfection . . .
". . . with a good will or not at all. . . ."
. . . of her beautiful, babbling, baby . . .
". . . ablaaa . . ."
. . . girl.
Her Mohican and their father are to the side, attending their weapons, murmuring here and there as they work.
Set back and safe from the young one . . .
". . . kèxukwënàkhake."
"Kwëlaha wëlapàn."
. . . with the wisps of Mohican-colored hair . . .
". . . ablaaa . . ."
. . . who has begun, so recently and so sneakily . . .
". . . ladder and down the wall . . ."
. . . to grab any and every thing she may.
". . . ablaaa . . ."
For her own constant curiosity.
They face the water, these peaceful, quiet wanderers, on one side of the gurgling clear stream.
And the doe and her fawn . . .
"Look, Chenoa May. Do you see?"
. . . are on the other.
The fawn, a female, for she has no budding velvet horn nubs, only very recently has lost her spots.
She is not yet all grown, will stay with her mother another year and a bit.
Learning, receiving safety.
Protection.
Until, when she is ready, she will go, step out into the world on her own.
Make her own way, birth her own fawns.
To shelter, to raise, and teach.
Alice knows nothing of this, only sees the mother and the little one.
Coming to the clear water stream for a drink.
So peaceful, so graceful.
"Creatures such as these may provide us with food to fill their bellies, Wënichana."
So wild and free.
"But not these. Not everything must die so that we may live. Your Këmëxumës taught me that."
And they, these peaceful wanderers, watch.
"Ablaaa . . ."
And smile.
". . . milk, and I'll find flour . . ."
And . . .
". . . pudding in half an hour . . ."
. . . abide.
"Ablaaa . . . "
They have stopped for the day, wearied from their travels.
Alice setting down her traveling accoutrements, releasing herself from the weight of the child she so loves upon her back.
The child, who . . .
"Ablaaa . . ."
. . . sounds to be delightedly gurgling at the world around her, her mother also, perhaps.
The men have gone off a pace, will return shortly.
And are no high boulders, no berry bushes, no hissing, snarling bobcats within the small, flat clearing they have chosen for their evening's camp.
And so she has once again felt safe.
She has been in a remembrance of first learning to build fires, do not cross.
And what a child she had been then, so foolish and overwhelmed and lost and found by a thing so simple as building a simple campfire.
Uncas, what he must have thought of her, naught but an invalid schoolgirl.
She shakes it away, the embarrassment, the shame.
She was as she was and is who she is and will continue to become who she is choosing to be.
That is the way of it and that is good.
"Ablaaa . . ."
Yes, dear darling daughter, yes . . .
And Alice, turns, rising, smile ready upon her face.
. . . I am come-
And her breath catches in her throat, equanimity vanished in a breath of a moment.
Oh gods . . .
Whilst she has been so languidly building their fire, she and her still am'pisun-ed daughter have been joined by another.
Not her Mohican. Nor their father.
Not another, unfamiliar person, French trapper or lost and desperate gentlewoman.
But a creature.
A creeping, slithering, wicked creature.
A creature that crawls upon its belly, brown and black scales slowly rasping the ground.
White line seeming to undulate the entirety of its legless, armless, unnatural form.
Unblinking, soul-less black eyes.
Forked tongue flicking in and out of lipless mouth.
Below slits that inhale the aroma of the world around it.
Feeding it the scent of the child, the smell of its flesh.
Her child, marked and remarked with arrows of protection and safety upon her forehead.
Now encircled by a large serpent, the daemon The Good Book tells them represents evil and poison and corruption upon an innocent, helpless world.
"Ablaaa . . ."
And Alice, unable to scream her sudden terror.
Steeling to stomp, to dash, crush the loathsome slithering thing into dust before her daughter.
Fully prepared to take the fangs that will surely sink into her flesh, fill her veins with deadly venom, sending her away from this world she has only yet begun to discover and embrace.
She will not hesitate, she will dispatch-
And her Wètuxëmùksit moves into the narrowing tunnel of her pulsing vision, advancing with smooth, measured steps to the creature trapping her daughter within its evil, malicious circle.
Murmuring low and hypnotic, almost a chant.
"Wanìshi ònkùntëwakàn kishkwik, Xansa Xkuk."
Thank you for blessing us with your presence today, Brother Snake.
Alice feels rather than sees her Mohican step close to her.
Her hand reaches out blindly, grips his forearm with all her strength, fingers pressing into the tense muscle deep enough there will be marks thereafter.
"Ki wixkwèpi nuxwis hapi chitanësëwakàn òk lëpweokàn."
You encircle my granddaughter with your strength and wisdom.
Watching helplessly on as Chingachgook carefully kneels.
"Wëlët ta nën."
That is good.
Grasps the hideous four foot monstrosity carefully, expertly by the head and tail.
"Shëkw kpuniha yukwe."
But you must go now.
Lifting it, denying the coil it attempts, the way it opens its venomless mouth wide to appear threatening.
"Wënichana sàkhotènamëwakàn."
My daughter worries.
Rising, walking away, removing it from their encampment.
Òk nkwis chitanëma tëmahikàn."
And my son holds ready his tomahawk.
Setting it free to travel onward and away.
As Alice . . .
Daughter, daughter, darling daughter . . .
. . . rushes to her daughter, pulling her from her carrier . . .
I am sorry, I am sorry, oh my child . . .
. . . and hold her tight until she wriggles and burbles out her . . .
"Ablaaa . . . ablaaa . . . "
. . . discontent.
I hate snakes. They terrify me more than I can express.
I did not like the research it took to study which snakes were indigenous to Northeastern Kentucky and West Virginia.
But now that's done (and wasn't there a deer and fawn somewhere in there before that?), I hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you think.
Thanks to chiraba87, DinahRay, and BlueSaffire for previously reviewing!
See you soon!