I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I love them tho.

The Dragonfly Woman and the Turtle Man

What Abides


The past two days have been a month, a year, a lifetime.

Alice Munroe would marvel at the odd feeling of the passage of time, how it feels one way when it is in actuality another.

But she does not.

She is too weary in her bones, her spirit.

She feeds her daughter, that child ever hungring, she feeds her daughter and Alice herself mechanically eats what her Nëwitaemàk passes to her from the nightfire.

She eats without tasting, she drinks without thinking.

And she . . .

Just a few hours, just enough to recover.

. . . rests the weariness in her bones.

In her spirit.

Little daughter cradled to her, Nëwitaemàk comfortingly near.

And she, Alice sleeps, long and deep, her exhaustion and grief so complete.

And when she awakens, day is dawning and . . .

Yes, yes, dear daughter.

. . . there may be hope . . .

Are you ever full?

. . . in the world yet again.


The day goes on, life must be lived.

It is quiet and subdued on the homestead, Cora is up more than she is down and they all worry over her.

They try to take what they can from the load that must be carried.

It will be more difficult later on to pick up the more that has been dropped.

Cora, sallow and shuffling and ever gracious, seems to appreciate this and allows the ones that love her to care for her.

Though she still . . .

"I know, I know, but I must go on, mustn't I? That is the way of it."

. . . shoos them and their worry from her at times.

Alice sees the worry in Nathaniel's eyes as he hesitantly tries to take Little George, encourage his wife to sit and rest and does whatever he must . . .

"Cora-"

"I know, I know . . ."

. . . that she will allow.

They do not speak of it, none of them do.

To speak of it directly might be to invite more misfortune upon them, upon her.

And that they will not willingly do.

But Alice watches their eyes speak for them.

Nathaniel's, Chingachgook's, Uncas'.

The children, although vaguely aware of that which was is that no longer, play and laugh and cry and eat and and sleep and abide in ignorant bliss.

And the rest of them, Alice included, watch Cora.

And speak with one another.

Without speaking.


Until . . .

"You are dark with thoughts, Wënichana."

. . . one does.

She pokes the nightfire with a stick, the wide, harsh, bright world once more gone to bed again and left her in blessed, soothing darkness, attempts to formulate her words.

"I worry for my sister."

But even that . . .

"No, I . . ."

. . . isn't as it should be.

"I wonder of her."

Chingachgook does not speak, only listens as he is so often wont to do.

"I wonder that she can endure so much, that she can survive so much. That she can return as she was, even after everything that has come to pass."

And now Chingachgook does speak.

"She will not be as she was. She will be changed by her ordeals, even as you have been changed by yours."

Alice ruminates on this.

"I . . . I do not know how she does it. Suffer so and then rise again. I do not know the strength she has. Women are seen as weak in England, men stronger. Though they do not seem to suffer so."

Her elder smiles, one corner of his mouth, as his son she loves does.

"Women are not made to do what men can do. Men can do that. They are made to do what man can not do."

Alice feels were she not so numb, she might become angry at this casual dismissal of all the pain and suffering women must endure simply because fate chose men to be too weak to do so.

And then Chingachgook speaks again.

"That is what my own nëwicheyok Chenoa showed me."

And Alice's rising temper is soothed.

And they . . .

"Thank you, Wètuxëmùksit."

. . . sit.

"You are welcome, Wënichana."

For a while longer.


She is outside the cabin when she hears the call.

"-a!"

It is Nathaniel's, guttural, raw-throated Nathaniel.

Muffled and unintelligible.

But she hears it all the same.

Chenoa May, sleeping in her ampu'sin, safe and secure, is left there where she is, Alice fled to the cabin-

No-

-yet again.

She is alone, Uncas is gone a'hunting so they may not eat the winter stores before the necessary time.

Their father a ways off and their wild man of the wandering woods reluctant to leave his wife's side-

"-a!"

- secluded away within the rough hewn log structure.

Alice flings open the door and it bangs loudly off the wall behind it.

"-a! No!"

No one takes notice.


They are on the floor, past the table, crumpled before the fire.

Nathaniel Poe and Cora Munroe.

She is cradled in his arms, limp and unresponsive.

Her eyes are closed, dark shadows underneath.

And Nathaniel is . . .

"Cora! Cora!"

. . . crying out her name, rough face a rictus of fear.

A wooden spoon lays abandoned on the floor, Little George wails at their feet.

Alice reaches down, gathering the struggling him up quickly.

"AhhhH! AhhhhHH!"

The child screams in her ear, father's deafening shouts frightening him to tears.

The room darkens, Chingachgook first filling the doorway, then moving to his son's side.

"She's burnin' up with fever!"

And Alice fears-

Sister, no-

-what they all have not spoken.

"Move her to the bed. Fetch cold water."

Illness.

Bad humours.

"Cora!"

Infection.


I know I've put you through a lot. And I apologize.

But there's still a ways to go yet.

Thanks to DinahRay, MohawkWoman, chiarab87, bcawriter01, and blanparbe for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter(s) with such heartfelt, insightful sincerity.

Thank you.

Thank you also to breakingtears and WinterCount for adding your support to this story as well.

I feel like I should be responding with beautiful, soft gifts of light and joy and instead I'm handing you more pain and worry and darkness.

I apologize.

But it will come.

It will.

:)