I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
It's a gift for all of us. ;)
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Again, My Sister
"You will stay with me tonight . . . won't you, Alice? You and the baby?"
Cora is smiling, her older sister, with her demure eyes and her gentle hand upon hers.
She hesitates, Alice does.
She does not wish to be rude.
"I do not know there will be enough room."
And that is true.
In the visit before, they had lain down together upon the rope-lashed bed, blankets up to their chins.
Talking and whiling away the long night hours like two innocent and wide-eyed Portland Square schoolgirls in their parents' house, not two grown frontier women of the new, dangerous world of the Americas.
Yes, Cora had been great with child, greater then than now.
But there had also not been two little ones.
"Chenoa May awakens still in the night to feed."
At times wakeful and at times adoze, to tend to.
"And there is little George Nathaniel as well."
Her sister laughs softly, gaze moving from Alice's face to the sleeping babe upon Alice's breast, the tiny boy upon his cot at the foot of his parents' bed.
"Yes, well, there does seem to be quite more to us than there once was, I suppose."
A pause.
Thoughtful continuation.
"It is stirring to the blood out there to be sure but . . . it is such a rough life, Alice, the cold night air, no comforts to be had at all."
And Alice's response is innocent in its intended meaning.
"I am comforted well enough."
Evenso, Cora colors, chuffs another amused, gentile laugh.
"Oh, are you now? With Chingachgook so close by? And your daughter as well?"
Her chide is teasing and not quite so judgmental as one might think.
And Alice returns, in much the same vein.
"You are one to speak so, Sister. With the comforts of which you so obviously have taken part."
And their shared laughter is light and feminine and without malice of any kind.
"Yes, that is true. That is the way of it," comes the reply, somewhat less heavily stated than earlier in the day.
And then the obvious path of conversation so many seem to take so quickly after the birth of a child.
"And with all of this . . . comforting you speak of, will there be another along the way soon for you and Uncas?"
Though it is undetermined why it would be such, one very young child being quite enough to deal with in and of herself.
And Alice takes it all with equanimity.
"Perhaps. When the time is right."
Her sister's delicate eyebrows raise in pointed admonishment to this casual reply.
"Oh, so you can choose the time, can you?"
Alice smiles gently at the English ignorance that she herself once had, that her sister, through none of her own fault, still has.
And briefly shows her the herbs tucked away in her possibles bag for just such a need.
"When you have the proper tea."
And watches as Cora predictably furrows her brow, shakes her head the slightest bit.
"Alice. I do not understand."
"The herbs. I steep them into a tea. When the tea is drunk, I do not become with child."
"Even if you . . ."
"Yes."
There is silence for the smallest time as this revelation and its implications are mulled over.
"But . . . forgive me, Sister, it is not our place to decide what must be, is it? It is not our control. It is not our right."
And Alice gently poses her own question.
"Or is that simply all we have ever known?"
To which dear Cora . . .
"I . . . well, . . . I . . ."
. . . does not seem to . . .
"I do not know."
. . . know what to say.
And Alice does go to her Mohican near the campfire.
Nathaniel passing her along the way.
"If you're done holding hands with my wife now."
Joshing gleam in his dark eyes, the congenial tone of his voice.
Which Alice hesitates not to match.
"And you my husband."
And Nathany pauses in all his false brusqueness, pauses to kiss the dark haired head of the sleeping babe whom Alice cradles close to her.
Places a strong, familial hand warmly upon Alice's own shoulder.
Gentle, fond smile for her and hers one she had never considered ever seeing upon their first . . .
". . . walkin' on back to Albany. They'll never make the passage north."
. . . meeting.
He grins then, all Nathaniel through and through.
"Good night, Alice."
"Good night, Nathaniel."
And she proceeds.
To him.
Him with the dark eyes and long hair.
Him who first looked upon her, considered her.
"Hallo, Nëwicheyok."
"Hallo, Nëwitaemàk."
He looks and smiles now as she approaches the fire, their father in deep, meditative contemplation on the far other side, only briefly acknowledges her approach with fond crinkle of his cragged eyes.
And Uncas' voice, low rumble welcoming to her very spirit, reaches out her.
"You will not stay with your sister tonight?"
She smiles.
"Would you like for me to?"
Unperturbed by the innocuous query.
"I would like you to be where you wish."
She settles herself next to him.
Caresses his dark face with a loving hand.
"I would like to be here with you."
He smiles and pulls her and their baby daughter closer.
"Then stay."
And they sit by the crackling evening fire together for a while.
And watch the flames dance.
Cora does not dare speak of Alice's startling revelation to her husband.
She does not know what he might say.
Though she supposes he would listen quietly and leave the decision to her and her alone.
That is the way of him.
And yet . . .
Women are born to become wives and bear children.
It is their lot, their duty, what their sex is meant to do.
Women find a husband and begin to fulfill their sacred duty, having children.
That is what they do.
She had always shied away from this in her youth, it is true.
Balls, dinners, social gatherings, they were all very well and good.
And though Cora had had her collection of prim and proper suitors, none had ever captured her heart and passions . . .
". . . I introduce Colonel Duncan Heyward. Colonel Heyward, Miss Cora Munroe."
"Good evening, Miss Munroe."
"Please, you may call me Cora."
"Cora."
. . . as did . . .
"Hallo again, Wife."
"Hallo, Husband."
. . . Nathaniel.
She is glad to be his wife, glad to bear their children.
The process is long and arduous and taxing upon the body.
One may never know what murmurs and caresses may lead to a child and what may not.
That is the way of it, the way of life, the way of a wife.
But Alice's declaration . . .
She must think on it, Cora must.
And decide for herself what may be right.
And what may be . . .
That power may not belong to mortal man, or woman, rather.
. . . too much.
Shall it?
And she lays awake long . . .
Shall it?
. . . into the night.
The next day, with great hesitancy and uncertainty, . . .
Surely there could be no harm in simple asking.
Asking is not doing.
. . . she comes to her sister.
Her younger sister.
"Alice."
Her very knowledgeable younger sister.
"Could you . . . could you . . . show me how to make the tea?"
And Alice seems as though she tries not to balk.
"You are . . . you are already with child, Cora."
And Cora blushes.
"Yes, of course but . . ."
She had not thought.
". . . perhaps . . . afterward. For the future?"
And Alice . . .
"Alright."
. . . acquiesces.
Thank you to BlueSaffire, MohawkWoman, chiarab87, DinahRay, bcawriter01, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing before.
:)
I have another Cora chapter nearly prepared. And some upcoming Nathaniel/Alice interaction upon gentle reader request.