I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
Sometimes things just go sideways.
The Dragonfly Woman and the Turtle Man
The Rage of Alice Munroe
Alice storms from the house, not even bothering to assure the door close as she flees down the steps.
How can she?
How can she?
How can she be so purposefully daft?!
Uncas, she sees, Nathaniel, the men with their children, these children that hurt so much to bring into the world, the hurt so much to feed, that drain life, take life.
These children that are a gift, a blessing.
That are so much thankless toil and tribulation and that's if they don't dispatch their mothers first.
Alice turns away from the sight of these helpless, useless men and their children, always, always, always hungrying.
Even now, Alice can feel her breasts aching with milk for her daughter.
And she turns away, turns, sees him, her father, her adopted father.
No-
And she cannot face him, she cannot face any of them, why do they hurt so much to see to now at this very moment when they should be a comfort?
And instead . . .
No-
. . . all they do is enrage.
Leave me be.
And Alice turns . . .
For God's sake . . .
. . . flees away . . .
Leave me be!
. . . from all of them.
She goes to the woods to escape helpless needful humanity, so fragile and constant and worrisome to those they love.
She walks, she paces.
Among the budding trees, the fearful forest creatures that flee her wake.
Hands on her face, hands in her hair.
She clenches her hands until her nails dig into her palms.
She is swelled up with rage, with disgust, with frustration, she's fit to bursting and she must, she must, she must do something about it.
There is a stump nearby and an axe upon it, thrust into the wood several bits deep.
Nathaniel has been chopping wood for their fire.
Man's work.
Hard labor.
Since they, the men, are too weak to give birth, give life.
She reaches out a hand, feels the smooth wood handle.
If I were a man-
And pulls . . .
If I were a man, I would carry my sister kicking and screaming from this place and keep her safe!
. . . it out of its nick.
It is hard, the chopping of the wood.
Her aim is poor, the axe heavy and cumbersome in her hands.
But she sets herself to a tree, some strong thing that has stood for longer than she has been alive.
She sets herself.
If I were a man . . .
And swings.
. . . I would chop down this whole forest!
The axe does not bury far into the trunk, she is not a man.
It does not ease her rage the way she thought it would.
It feeds it, makes it grow bigger.
She continues to chop, making pitiful licks in the trunk.
Damn!
The axe handle hurts her hands, hurts her body jar so.
Damn the whole affair!
She is but a weak-willed woman who cannot even swing an axe without it hurting to lift, hurt to swing, hurt to hit.
She hates everyone and everything around her.
Hates that she cannot do what she wishes.
She hates.
She hates.
She hates so much she doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't want to hurt anymore, doesn't want to worry anymore, doesn't want to toil anymore.
They are all going to die, one at a time or all together.
Soon enough or far into the future.
She cannot stop it, she cannot control it.
It will be and no thing she may do may change that.
She cannot even . . .
. . . fell a damn blasted tree!
Uncas comes upon her, spitting and cursing an entire singular tree for her dying breath.
-hell be damned-
And she takes no heed of him.
Him.
Tall and dark and still and calm.
Him.
His brother did not almost die.
His father was not massacred by savage redmen.
His entire way of life was not upended and set adrift from what it always was.
He has known adventure, it is his friend, of that and so much more she wildly has no doubt.
And she knows, she knows she is being irrational and unconsidering.
She knows she is not what she should be.
But she does not wish to look upon him, does not wish be told to calm, to comfort, to ease.
"Nëwicheyok-"
"No! Do not speak to me! I do not wish to be spoken to!"
He stops, those deep dark eyes searching her, she can feel it.
And she hates it, hates him, by rights he should be demanding of her and not so forgiving and understanding.
By rights, he should not even speak to her at all, it was he and his father and brother that drug them into the wilderness in the first place, this all would not have come to pass if not for them and their ilk.
Because of them-
"She's going to die out here! Some day!"
"She's going to die out here because she is a fool and because she loves your brother!"
Uncas does not retaliate, does not argue, only continues to look at her with those eyes of his that know too much, understand too much, judge too little.
"She is going to die out here and I cannot stop her! She will not listen to me! She follows her heart and her own foolish judgement! All because of him! And you!"
She hefts the axe with both hands, preparing to aim again for the begun butchered tree.
"I do not wish company!"
A whack into the tree.
"I do not wish counsel!"
Another whack.
"I do not wish comfort-"
Whack-
"Or hopeful, fond stories-"
Whack-
"I only wish to be left alone-"
Whack-
"Just leave . . . me . . . be!"
Whack-
Whack-
Whack-
I'm going to post this entire mini story arc now for your consideration and because it feels right for me.
Enjoy!