I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I love them so much.
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtleman
The Valley of The Shadow
Uncas the Mohican sits with the children.
In the dust, on the autumn earth of glade.
He sits and plays with them, his daughter, his nephew.
He feeds them, cares for them.
There is sickness heavy upon his family, there is illness.
Upon the wife of his adopted white brother, the sister of the spirit of his spirit.
He fears she may die, he fears her spirit will soon leave this earth never to walk upon it again.
In doing this, she would leave her child, her son, the one that now innocently waves a soft, curious hand at the fire crackling low to warm their day.
He is getting too close and Uncas the mighty warrior reaches out a large, brutal hand.
And gently pulls the child back to a safe separation.
Draws a line in the soft dirt.
Do not cross.
That the child immediately then begins to trace, pat, smear.
Attention drawn away for now from the warming, searing flames.
Little Chenoa May on his lap, heart of his heart, wiggles and squirms her warm little body, tries to reach out, snatch a handful of her older cousin's hair.
Uncas takes that hand gently in his own, presses it to his lips.
She gurgles at him, open face a wonder of joy and the gift of life to him.
And returns to his thoughts.
In dying, Cora would not only lose her life and never walk the Earth again.
She would also leave her child, the boy that plays now.
That boy that needs his mother.
Not just for the nourishment only she may provide him, it is known there are other ways children may survive.
But for the spirit of hers that is most nourishing to him.
As his mother, as the one who first created, then gifted him, his very life.
She would leave that.
And though Uncas the Mohican has experienced life beyond the nourishment of a mother . . .
Little ones, there are but two of you.
. . . he would not ask it of any that must not live without it.
How is that so many?
He would not have her leave her child.
And he would not have her leave her husband, Nathaniel, Nathaniel who feels so much so deeply.
Uncas worries for his adopted brother were the woman he loves to depart this world.
Fears he may start walking once again, walking, walking away from his pain, his loss.
Walking, never to return, never to look back.
He worries his brother would find ways, so stubborn and headstrong and bold as he is, to find ways to throw himself into danger that, if he could possibly manage, would strive to strike him down, dispatch him before his time.
Were he to succumb to madness, seek a desperate solution to rejoin his beloved Cora in the afterlife.
Uncas worries.
For Cora.
For his beloved.
For his brother.
For the children here now that he ministers to, plays with.
Cares for as one . . .
"Careful, Wënichana. His mother would that he remains with the two ears she gave him."
"Abalaaaa . . ."
"Yes. I would keep mine as well."
"AaaaaaaAAA . . ."
. . . who loves them.
He has prepared himself first, cleansed, with smoke.
His hands, his face. His body and spirit.
Removed his shirt, revealing the markings of honor, of respect of his people, his ancestors.
And then, with the permission of her sister, his adopted white son, went in to her.
Cora.
He wrapped the sage, the tobacco, the cedar, the sweetgrass, a fresh smudging, not to take any power or cleansing from her who needs it so much, by using it himself first.
He had gathered them himself, as part of the ritual.
With utmost reverence and care.
Tobacco, the first plant given to them from the Great Spirit.
An offering, to open up the door for communication, of thanks.
Cedar, to purify hearth and home, their place of sanctuary and gathering.
Calling attention to the ancestors with the crackling and sparking of the fire.
Protection.
Sage, for cleansing, a call for help, for aid.
Sweetgrass, the sacred hair of Mother Earth.
Gentleness, love, kindness.
Calming, balancing the body and spirit.
Much as the woman herself.
Beginning with her head, smoke from the herb bundle wafting about the still, sleeping form of the woman his adopted white son loved.
Cora Munroe.
Dark-haired daughter of the deceased English Colonel Munroe, slaughtered years past by the dark-hearted Huron Magwa.
She had been strong then, as strong and resilient as one could in such dark and trying times.
Secreting away a musket, fighting for the life of her sister.
Submitting to, enduring, the march of the Huron captors for a night and a bit.
Then . . .
"Chingachgook, we are so grateful for your arrival."
"Cora, my daughter. Hallo."
. . . now.
Following the man she chose into the wilderness.
Carving out a life for herself of her own devising, her own love.
Adapting, thriving.
Bringing forth a child, that most sacred of all human powers, one no man can ever match.
And holding him up, holding them all up, with her strength, her belief, her grace.
She is a blessing, a gift, to his adopted white son, and so, to him.
And Chingachgook is sorrowed to see her laid low.
What will be, will be.
No man nor sacred woman nor creature may change that.
"As this smoke rises . . ."
Still, . . .
". . . may it carry with it, our prayers, our supplications . . ."
. . . he does not wish it.
". . . to our venerated ancestors."
And works what he may.
"May this beloved one of our family be cleansed of all sickness that works . . ."
With poultice, herb, and smoke.
". . . to take her from those who joy in her light."
Prayers and beseechings.
"May this smoke leave her cleansed . . ."
In the language of his people, of the Mohican.
". . . and purified, healing of her sickness."
All that he may do.
"So that she may continue her walk upon this earth . . ."
For the loved one . . .
". . . until the end of her natural days."
. . . laid so very low.
Nathaniel Poe wipes the brimming tears from his swollen, weary eyes once more.
With the back of one rough, grimy hand.
He hangs his head in dismay and defeat as he slumps there on the porch of the log cabin he built for his bride in the lost Virginian wilderness.
He has brought her here, the woman he loves and made his wife.
He has done it, brought her far away from her Boston, her London.
Her family and friends.
He did it to save her life and then she chose to stay with him.
For life, for adventure, for love.
He should not have allowed it.
Women are not made for such hardships, such lives, they do not long endure.
She once said it was not what she expected out here, that it was more stirring to her blood than any imagining could possibly have been.
He had wondered upon that when she had spoken it.
Begun to look and wonder of her for it.
And the musket she had pulled from her skirts, filled, and prepared to fire at their French and Mohawk enemies slinking through the deep shadows of long night.
It had been the beginning.
The beginning of so very much between them.
Now he worried that it would be the end.
Of her.
Of her existence on this plane.
Cora.
Cora.
My wife.
My love.
Please, I beg of you..
And he did not wish it.
He did not wish it.
Do not.
At all.
"I . . . I had a dream."
It's so quiet, hardly a rasp of a whisper at all.
"I dreamed of my child, my . . . lost child."
But Alice hears it.
"She . . . she wasn't dead and covered in blood."
And rises from the bench at the table.
"She . . . was alive. And well. I . . . saw her."
Rises, heart pounding, eyes wide.
"Sitting on our father's knee, my father, your father."
To cross the few steps needed.
"He was . . . he was back in the old country, in the . . . . house on the moors where he used to take us, . . . do you remember, Alice?"
And kneel at her dear sister's . . .
"I remember."
. . . side.
Cora's face is pale, so pale, the only two points of red high on her cheeks.
The fever is upon her, she's burning up and Alice gently presses the spring water cool cloth to her forehead, her cheeks, her neck.
"They were sitting together. Our father was . . . smoking his pipe, my . . . daughter . . . on his lap."
Cora is looking at her, really looking at her.
Eyes bloodshot and watery.
But unnaturally bright.
And focused with all her remaining strength.
"They were . . . smiling and . . . happy."
On her little sister.
"Our father was laughing . . . do you remember his laugh, Alice?"
Their father had a deep, rumbling laugh, Alice can hear it still if she allows herself.
"I do."
And she is trembling, trembling.
Alice Munroe is terrified, there's a wretched feeling in her chest, it's hard to breathe, the pit of her stomach is heavy stone and she does not know what will come out of where.
"They were laughing under a cloudy sky on the moors. They were . . . happy."
For now, everything holds.
"Our father turned and saw me . . . and he . . . he said he was proud of me, of us, of the women we had become. He said . . ."
She's terrified, absolutely terrified.
Because she thinks . . .
". . . the world was a tiresome place and . . . and . . . and I was welcome to sit with them awhile if I liked."
. . . her sister might be dying.
"I . . . I grew scared. I was afraid that if I sat with them . . . I might not get up and return to you. To Nathaniel. To my son."
And she very much . . .
"If I die, Alice-"
"Cora, no-"
. . . doesn't want her to.
"Please."
Cora gulps air, perspiration standing out in beads on her pale skin.
"If I die, please take care of little George for me. I . . . I know you are younger and it is too much to ask but . . . I am not certain Nathaniel will be able to survive."
Alice holds her sister's hand, and when Cora squeezes it . . .
"I love him, he is very strong but . . . he is hurting so very much, Alice. I . . . do not know what he might do to himself."
. . . her grip is so fearfully weak and frail.
"Please, Alice, please promise me if he cannot, . . . you will."
And she'll say anything, do anything.
"Yes, Cora , . . . I promise."
If only, if only . . .
"I am . . . very tired, Alice. And so very hot. Do you . . ."
. . . her sister would revive and live.
". . . do you think we should make some sweet bread for supper?"
And then she lapses into a very unhealthy sleep.
That Alice Munroe . . .
"Oh Cora . . ."
. . . fears . . .
"Sister . . ."
. . . she may never wake from.
Everybody okay out there?
I know I've been putting some pretty heavy stuff out there lately.
Thanks to DinahRay, MohawkWoman, bcawriter01, WinterCount, and blanparbe for reviewing the previous chapter, I appreciate you all so much. :)
See you again soon.