I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

Still don't own Eric Schweig.

The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man

A Mother's Day (and Children at Play)

"Oh, she is so beautiful, Alice. So perfect and so beautiful!"

And the child is, yes, she is.

Alice does not mind in the least agreeing with her wise older sister on this most accurate . . .

"Thank you, Cora."

. . . point.

And the child herself seems quite as enamoured of her new-found Auntie Cora . . .

"Ablaaa . . ."

"But how did you ever manage?"

. . . as her Auntie Cora . . .

"Was it very difficult?"

. . . is with her.

Or so it seems to Alice.

Alice, the once . . .

". . . invalid schoolgirl . . ."

. . . who now . . .

Will it ever cross you that I am now capable on my own, dear Cora?

That I am no longer that which I was?

. . . laughs.

"Yes! It was! A man could not have survived. You know that well."

Cora chuckles quietly.

"Yes, I do."

But I was not alone.

Not as you are now.

"The Honored Mothers cared for me well. They took me in before the child came and prepared me. During and afterward, they cared for us both and taught me well."

"Really? Do tell, Alice. Tell me everything."

And so . . .

". . . eat it? They made you eat it?"

"It is quite nourishing for the milk."

"It is? What a wonder."

. . . she does.

"How . . . did it taste?"

"Ah, well . . ."

"And what of your wedding, dear sister?"

They are alone now, the men having gone to break the deer into parts that will serve them well in all different ways.

"Did you have a ceremony?"

Cora, for the survival of her family, must not stop working for long.

"I imagine it was quite different."

No matter who comes to a'visiting.

And so she is working at the large table, preparing food for evening meal, to nourish and fill their bellies.

Alice sitting now, nursing her famished girl-child . . .

"It was- oh!- lovely, dear sister. More wondrous- sss! - than anything I could have imagined."

And that tale . . .

"Oh sister, how truly romantic, much more romantic than breaking dishes!"

"And a sight less to clean!"

. . . is also told.

"It is a lovely name, Chenoa May. How did you come to it?"

Her sister is full of questions.

"I did not name her. Wex- Chingachgook did."

Full of misunderstandings.

"He did? Did you ask him to? Is it a family name?"

And this story . . .

"Oh, Alice, how beautiful, how absolutely beautiful."

. . . is now summarily told.

"What did you think of the village?"

An innocent enough question as they work.

Alice, resting the fed and cleaned Chenoa May back in her am'pisun.

Little George Nathaniel . . .

"Ma-ma, buda, buda, Ma-ma . . ."

. . . contentedly playing with a bowl of bread pieces upon the floor.

"Tis a far cry from Portland Square, is it not?"

Thin cord 'round his middle trussing him to the bed upon which his girl-cousin lays sleeping.

Trussing him for safety from the fire . . .

Do not cross.

. . . that must always be kept burning . . .

"'Tis. I never imagined people could live so peaceful and free as that."

. . . at their home hearth.

"You did not balk at the women without their top coverings? Or the men?"

Alice chuckles along with her sister as she watches her nephew in his own white cloth covering roll pieces of bread in the dirt upon the floorboards.

Raise them to his mouth.

"Well, I must admit, . . ."

And use his four tiny baby teeth . . .

". . . they were something of an adjustment to my senses."

. . . to gnaw them into even smaller morsels.

The sisters laugh together in their quiet, secret way and it feels good to Alice, it feels like home.

Here so far away from it.

So far away from gold-gilded mirrors and marble tabletops.

So far from high-ceilinged rooms and tapestry-draped windows.

So far from the pomp and circumstance of well-to-do teas and ladies' luncheons.

But here, Cora, Alice; this is familiar, this is home.

Home, here, in this tiny, stuffy, rough wood cabin.

Constructed of log and thatch and mud.

Porch and step and warm rock hearth.

A single room not so large, arranged with plain, sturdy furniture; bed and table and benches.

A single rocking chair in the corner.

Loft above, furs stacked and waiting for winter, traded and tradable items gathered for purpose, for need.

All within and without of practical and necessary use.

No superfluous trinkets and delicates of the kind one would find in Portland Square.

All things serve the survival of the inhabitants, all things.

Dried herbs hang from the ceiling.

Covered baskets of harvested fruits and vegetables stowed under the floorboards.

Tools, items of usefulness hang from the wall.

It is dark here, shutters on either side of unglassed windows open wide for light and crossbreeze.

Door propped open as well.

And the woman within . . .

"Is my brother-in-law caring for you well, dear Alice?"

"Is mine, dear Cora?"

. . . who never stops working.

Cora, who now nods, moving a hand across her face.

"He is."

Leaving an errant blemish upon her fair, pale skin.

"It is a hard life here. Harder than I ever could have imagined."

Which she seems not to notice, not to care.

"The work, it never ends. Always there is more."

Only moves, ceaselessly, ceaselessly moves.

"And not enough hands to do it."

Alice listens to her sister, listens carefully.

Listens for a note of regret, of self-pity, fear for an uncertain future.

"George will help Nathaniel in the field when he is of age. I do not know of this new little one."

Ascertains none.

"It will be what it will be, I suppose."

And lets the matter go . . .

"And that is enough for you, Cora?"

"It must be. It is what I have chosen."

. . . for now.

"Now what is this marking upon your chest? Are you injured?"

It is lighter on the porch than twas within.

Cora's gaze . . .

"Oh, no, I am not injured."

. . . is sharp.

"It is mine."

"Yours? Whatever do you mean, Alice?"

It is me. I am the dragonfly.

"It is my marking. Wex- Chingachgook gave it to me."

And Cora's brow furrows.

"He . . . marked you? Why?"

Alice finds her hand leaving their mending of her moccasins, fingers protectively flitting about the marking, just below the hollow of her throat.

"I asked him to."

And Cora, ever the supportive, encouraging, elder, wiser sister, . . .

"You . . . asked him to?"

. . . struggles to understand this.

"Yes."

And Alice smiles at the woman next to her on the rough, hard sitting bench.

First her buckle shoes, followed close after by her constrictive stay, her useless bustle.

The dressing of the squirrel, the drawing back, staying with the frontier family instead of dutifully following along behind her elder sister whom she had always followed behind.

A man's shirt then, foreign leggings, an uncovered petticoat.

New spoken language and newborn daughter there is now.

And also . . .

"I am sorry, Alice."

. . . a strange and most un-English marking upon her chest.

"I do not understand."

Placed permanently, so very permanently and improperly upon her very skin.

Alice Munroe knows she has become quite changed in the long time following the attack upon the George Road.

What would I do now, I wonder?

Would I scream and cry and bury my face in my sister's middle as a helpless child, an invalid schoolgirl?

No. No, I think decidedly not.

I would dispatch as many as I could.

And not flinch.

She knows she has changed. She has been there with herself every step along the way.

Has changed herself because she chose to, because she wished to.

Her person, her clothing, her thinking.

And her sister, amongst all the changes, amongst all the upheavals and transitions, has stayed very much the Cora Alice has always known her to be.

A proud, strong, confident, intelligent English woman.

So dignified and poised, Alice has always admired her.

Admires her still.

Alice, who once so naive and weak, and worried and timid when faced with the unfamiliar, has purposefully, and one step at a time, walked so far down the path she has chosen for herself . . .

"I studied the markings upon Uncas' flesh. I asked him of them. He told me."

"He encouraged you to mar your flesh?"

"No."

. . . that now she has transformed from what she then was . . .

"I asked him of them and he explained and spoke no more. I pursued further."

. . . into what she now is.

"Oh Alice."

With a dragonfly etched proudly and forever . . .

"I . . . I . . ."

. . . upon her modest chest.

"Does it . . . hurt?"

Alice acquiesces.

"It did. It does not any longer."

Her sister ventures.

"What is it? What does it mean?"

"It is a dragonfly. It is me. All the things I am."

And Cora tries, it seems, . . .

"Well, . . . are there . . . more?"

. . . to widen her thinking.

"Not yet."

Support her sister.

"Will there be?"

And summon a wan, . . .

"There may. In another winter or so. When the desire comes upon me."

. . . and valiantly brave . . .

"Well, . . . I shall keep a watchful eye out. Shall I?"

"If you like."

. . . smile.

The autumn breeze cools their skin as they sit together.

Cora Louise, some knitting in her ceaselessly moving hands.

Alicia Elizabeth, snapping freshly harvested beans in a hollowed, wooden bowl.

George Nathaniel, the dark-haired, dark-eyed, active little lad, has now been trussed in his short clothes, to a post set just for him.

Chenoa May, she of the honey-colored skin and somewhat less mobile nature, braced against her mother's possibles bag for stability.

"I do believe, dear Alice, our Aunt Eugenia would be most taken aback by the squinting eyes we are developing."

Ah yes.

Dear Aunt Eugenia.

"Don't squint so, girls. It is most unladylike. Men do not look well upon women who squint."

Rather unfortunate.

"And the state of our dirt-covered children, dear sister."

"Yes. Cleanliness is near Godliness, as I recall. Ah well."

They sit amicably together and watch as Little George Nathaniel rises clumsily to his wide, flat toddler feet.

It is an uncertainty whether or not he will remain upright.

He will land with a thump on his plump little rump.

But upright he stays and . . .

"Ablaaa . . . ablaaa . . ."

. . . much to the bright eyed, arm-waving interest of his younger girl-cousin . . .

". . . sompa ambata . . ."

. . . and begins . . .

". . . bompa wee mah . . ."

. . . stomping his little feet . . .

". . . amba gabad!"

. . . in the dust of his parents' . . .

". . . daba kaba ma!"

. . . front yard grounds.

"Ablaaa . . . ablaaa . . . heeheeheaheahea . . ."

Stomping them up and down over and over again.

Sending puffs of dirt clouds billowing underfoot with every gigantic baby stomp.

Laughing with every billow.

Laughing together, these two.

Little George Nathaniel.

"Oh my, . . ."

And his arm-waving, leg-kicking girl-cousin.

Whose joyous, delighted, bubbling giggles are more heavenly and melodic than any musical instrument handcrafted by mortal . . .

". . . Alice . . ."

. . . hand.

And George Nathaniel pauses suddenly in his stomping.

"Oh!"

And squats down, red-faced and grunting.

Oh dear.

To let fall a moderately impressive . . .

"George!"

. . . deposit . . .

I know that look.

. . . there . . .

"You should not show yourself so in front of guests! Oh, . . ."

. . . in the unabashed sight of all to see.

". . . do not step your foot in it!"

And . . .

"George!"

. . . smell.

Ah, the joys of motherhood. ;)

Oh and those indecipherable words George Nathaniel was babbling was just that. Baby babble.

Special thanks to bcawriter01, MohawkWoman, DinahRay, BlueSaffire, and chiarab87 for your fantastic reviews!

Hope you enjoyed!