I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
So, um, we're taking a shift here. And I understand if some of you wish to discontinue.
The Dragonfly Woman and the TurtleMan
*Trigger Warning For Disturbing Content. I apologize.*
Deepest Darkness
Tis not the time.
But tis all the time they have.
And things must be discussed, decided upon, placed into action.
And so they do.
Chingachgook breeching the divide of dialogue to the grieving mother and father.
Alice listens on without comment.
Tis not her child, tis not her place.
And she wishes . . .
"It is decided. I will go speak with my son."
. . . it may never be.
They clean the tiny body, water, cloth, smudging.
Wrap her lovingly and securely in the scraps blanket Cora had been making for her.
A shallow grave has been dug, lined with bark and the most lovely autumn leaves Alice could find in the early morning chill.
The child has no possessions to take into the next world.
Only the unfinished blanket her mother had been preparing for her.
The blanket.
And her family's love.
They stand together 'round the tiny grave.
Chingachgook, already so much death and loss seen and felt, now another to add to the winter painting he will do, mark the passage of another year, the goings-on, the joys, the heartaches.
The life.
Uncas, returned with the children, one arm around the weary Alice, one holding his innocently blabbering baby daughter.
Cora, weak and worn, leaning heavily on Nathaniel, the wild woodsmen, who holds her up, her and their boy who yet lives.
Nathaniel and Cora, letting their tears freely flow.
Their son, hand stuffed wetly into his little mouth.
They stand, these mourners.
And they sing, as the morning sun makes it way into the sky.
Cool autumn breeze brushing their tears back from their eyes.
They stand. And sing.
The men chanting low in Mohican, rumbles harmonizing in this, as in all others.
Alice does not focus herself to the words, only to the tune, the ebb and flow of the melody.
There is life, there is loss.
There is uncertainty, there is hope.
It is a song more felt than spoken, sensed more than heard.
Tears course their way down her cheeks.
She lets them, this the time to mourn what is gone.
Now, to let it flow.
And then continue on.
She only hopes her sister can do so as well, ere her grief take her also away from them.
But it is not her sister of whom she must worry.
Cora is abed now, night fallen on a long and listless day, the first many after the passing of the one who never was.
Cora is resting, with pinched face and restless eyes that move beneath purple lids.
Little George in his cot near, thumb firmly in his mouth, what Aunt Eugenia would have to say about that.
The third member of the cabin's family is nowhere to be seen.
But Alice thinks she knows where she might look.
The light of the moon illuminates the night.
That and the fire set a ways off.
Two men staring into its flames.
Two men, and an ampu'sin set protectively between them.
Alice approaches, cracking a twig with her foot to alert them of her presence.
Uncas turns first, spirit of her spirit even with so much apart and at strain, turns and raises a hand in invitation.
She takes it but does not sit.
It is not, unfortunately, for him she seeks.
Their father speaks what she already knows, can see for herself if she looks further into the darkness.
Low and solemn, as so often is his way.
"My white son will not leave his daughter's side. He stays at her grave and mourns her loss. I believe his wife and son need his presence and he theirs. But he will not be moved unless by force. And neither I nor his adopted brother wish to handle him so."
Chingachgook reaches out a thick, blunt hand to the girlchild sleeping peacefully in the carrier her father made for her many months ago.
His fingers graze her forehead and she stirs in her sleep under his touch.
Alice looks from this gentle interaction to the dimly lit darkness beyond and the moon illuminates the ghostlike figure at the place they have buried the child.
She thinks on the man there and how frightened and aghast of him she was when he would not let them bury the butchered frontier family she would later learn were the Camerons.
She thinks and she muses and she decides.
"I will go. He will listen to me."
She releases her husband's hand, walks away from the warmth of the fire.
And toward the man lost in darkness.
The autumn wind blows, it is nearing the end of October though they do not know it, and she shivers in the cold night air.
Her strength is coming to an end, she must soon take more food and drink than she has in the last day and a bit or she will collapse and be of no use to anyone.
But she must do this final thing first.
And then she may rest.
And so she keeps moving, one foot after the other.
Until she is within reach of the man.
And breaks a twig with her foot to alert him to her presence.
For even in his mourning, he is, as are they all, flush with weaponry and preparedness.
His long gun lays on the ground to the side of him, easy reach for any enemy foolish enough to challenge him.
But for the enemy within, the one who squeezes his heart and his mind.
And there is no way to shoot it.
Without shooting himself.
And Alice does not believe him ready to do that.
Brother.
She hopes.
He glances to see her presence, then turns his eyes back to the disturbed earth under which sleeps his lost child.
He is sitting on the ground, covering of any kind to guard against the cold, no fire to warm.
And Alice mourns his broken heart.
She carefully wraps a blanket around him she has brought for just such an occasion.
Wraps it 'round his shoulders.
And sits herself next to him.
He does not demand her away and so she remains, they remain, the two of them.
Sitting and gazing into the darkness, the dark earth at their feet.
Until Nathaniel finds words that he may speak aloud.
"Many men wish for a boy. A big, strong one to carry the load. I did not worry myself whether it would be a boy to run with on the hunt or a girl with which to search for fairy rings. I simply joyed in my family and the life we awoke to every day."
Tears track his cheeks and the strong and mighty warrior does not wipe them away.
"Now she will never awaken again."
Alice does not immediately speak.
Only lays her weary head upon his shoulder, comforting gesture to them both.
"I would not leave her cold here in the dark, alone. She would be afraid, alone."
And Alice thinks.
"She is not in the dark. She is in the light. She is in the Sky, with her ancestors, with my father, your parents. She is there and she is always warm."
He knows. He knows.
He needs to hear.
And more.
"My sister and your son wait for you. The night is cold and they need your warmth beside them. And you theirs."
Nathaniel stays as he is, tears tracking their way down his face.
Alice allows this, it is a part of it all.
Finally, . . .
"Thank you, my sister."
"You are welcome, my brother."
. . . he gathers himself together.
And goes.
"Good night, Alice."
"Good night, Nathaniel."
And Alice . . .
I am sorry, Little One.
. . . returns presently to the fire.
Her adopted father.
Her daughter.
And her . . .
"Hallo, Nëwitaemàk."
"Hallo, Nëwicheyok."
. . . beloved one.
Hugs and care to you all.
More to come.