I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
Sometimes things it takes time to put yourself back together after you fall apart.
The Dragonfly Woman and the Turtle Man
The Journey Back
She awakens more sore than she has ever been in her life.
More sore than the day after the weasel, more sore than all the walking they had to do when she was so unused to it, more sore, even perhaps than when she gave birth to her daughter.
Or near so.
Her breasts ache beyond all measure.
They are unbearably swollen and hot, she is long, long past milking and the pain is unbearable.
Her head is splitting, the sunlight drives daggers into her eyes.
Uncas brings their daughter to her and Alice cries because she cannot raise her arms to hold her, muscles unable to function so overworked are they.
Uncas sits behind her, back against a boulder.
Cradles his wife to him, places her arms atop his and holds the girl child to her mother's breast.
Carefully, lovingly, patiently.
And they . . .
I am here.
You are not alone.
. . . abide.
Alice's rage has disappated, she has burned it out of herself and now there is nothing left but despondency and emptiness.
She senses it may return in time, life to her being.
For now there is nothing left for her to do to sit in her emptiness, allow herself to be hollow as she is.
They remain to themselves for the time being, quietly abiding.
Alice resting, caring for the child.
Uncas caring for them both, the trio abiding largely in silence, without intensive interaction of which Alice has so exhausted herself of
It is though they have gone back to their beginnings.
When they simply existed within one another's presence, looking, speaking, without words.
She feels he is giving her time and though she still believes she is being afforded grace she has not been worthy of . . .
Mohican.
. . . she is feeling more grateful than malcontent for it.
And in time, days only, they return.
To the glade.
The dwelling by the cabin.
Hers and her new, their child.
Quietly. Without fanfare or aplomb.
They simply go.
And are there once more.
Alice still has not spoken to anyone.
She does not know how to begin.
She does not know if she yet wishes to.
And so she stays.
Within the shelter, close to the fire, cradled up with her daughter at every resting, every awakening.
When the girl-child demands the brightness of the sunlight, the openess of the world, Alice acquieses.
Acquieses. Yet remains to herself.
Uncas seems to be taking another step.
He stays with them in the night, some at the dawning of day.
He does not complain, does not demand, does not question.
But he does go out from them.
He walks with his father and adopted brother, works with them, speaks with them.
Sometimes he gently disengages Chenoa May from her mother's company.
And, without apparent animosity or judgement, goes with the child out.
With them.
To themselves.
At these times, Alice does not argue, does not fret.
The child belongs to her father as well as herself.
And the father, the grandfather.
The aunt, the uncle, and the little nephew are good.
They are all good.
She just does not wish to be among them for now, endure them and their attentions.
Cora comes to her, comes to the opening of the dwelling.
"Alice?"
That opening Alice has kept closed.
"Alice?"
That she does not now open.
"I wish to speak with you."
Alice does not respond, does not move.
"Alice, please."
She knows her sister knows she is here.
"Please do not shut me out, I beg you."
Little Chenoa May burbles and blabbles, louder and louder.
"I am sorry I have hurt you so, Alice."
Alice remains stoic and unmoving.
"You are my sister and I love you."
Not out of hate or disdain or retribution.
"Please, Alice. Please let us be sisters once more."
But out of emptiness and despondent apathy.
"I love you, Alice."
And then . . .
"I will be ready to talk when you are ready."
. . . she goes away.
Nathaniel comes next, whilst she is out foraging for roots.
Nathaniel with his wild hair and quiet eyes.
"Hallo, Alice."
She does not speak.
"Cora tells me she has bade you return the village with my father and brother."
Only watches him with veiled eyes.
"She says you asked her to come with you."
He takes her daughter's tiny hand in his large, rough one.
"That she said no."
Releases it.
"I would have her go with you, Alice. I would take us all there gladly were she willing to go."
The child admonishes him for it in her blabbering, cooing voice.
"She is strong, like you."
A ghost of a smile passes over his face.
"She follows her own sound judgement, just as you do."
And then fades.
"It is one of the things I love and admire most about her."
And he stands before, this man.
"Though sometimes it can make things somewhat complicated."
Just a man.
"Alice, I would not have her alone in the wilderness were she to wish otherwise."
And Alice . . .
"But she says it is what she wants."
. . . still does not speak.
"And I cannot convince her otherwise."
And eventually, . . .
"I only wish to love her so long as she lives upon the earth."
. . . he goes his way.
And she . . .
"Can you understand that?"
. . . lets him.
Chingachgook comes.
She has expected him.
And not expected him.
He tends to his own affairs, allows others to attend to theirs.
But he is also a guide, a mentor, a father-figure to her.
And it is to him she defers, this craggy old warrior that did not have to take a pale, thin, timid English girl under his wing.
And help her become what she has made herself to be now.
And so thusly when she hears, or more senses, a presence outside her dwelling, she peeks.
Sees him, her adoptive father, outside, paces away.
Attending to a bracer of rabbits he has trapped for their supper.
Uncas has taken their daughter with Nathaniel and Little George off into the woods.
And she is alone.
She hesitates, considering.
And exits the dwelling the men have made for their winter months.
The dwelling in which she has been hiding since her outburst a week prior.
Though he does not look up at her as she approaches, he does lay out one coney in her direction.
And pulls the other toward himself.
Alice, feeling a stirring familiarity with her beginnings as a woman of the wild, kneels slowly in front of the fresh kill.
She follows the movements he makes with his blade, mimics them with her own.
The hides are removed and placed aside, valuable furs that must not be wasted.
And then, the carcasses.
The cuts are precise and minimalistic, no organs must be nicked; to do so would be to ruin the flavor of the meat.
Once the cavity has been hollowed of organs and wiped clean, they break them down into six pieces each.
Front legs, hind legs, belly, rib cage, saddle.
Twelve pieces all together.
No waste or want of any kind.
Chingachgook lays his pieces on a bark slab he has brought with him, Alice follows.
They clean their tools, their hands.
And Chingachgook picks up the furs, hands one to her.
Throws the other over his shoulder.
Hefts the rabbit laden slab.
Inspects them.
"Yuk chëmamës kshitay lòkwënipuwakàn piskèke. Wa tëwènama nulipwi.
These will make a good stew for supper tonight. Our family will be well-fed.
She nods.
He returns.
And that . . .
Thank you, Father.
. . . is that.
She dresses herself that evening, comes to dinner.
The door is open to admit fresh air and sunlight.
The family there and they stop at her arrival.
She looks upon them, waiting for a welcome or a by your leave.
Uncas moves to afford her space.
She sits lightly, a slab is placed before her.
Chingachgook passes her the bread basket, Nathaniel a brimming rabbit stew bowl.
Cora sets down a cup of fresh spring water.
"Did you clear the north field today?"
Places a careful hand upon her sister's shoulder.
"Close to it. Another day and a bit and it should be done."
And the conversation goes on around her, she is once more a part of them, however she may wish.
She nurses her daughter, quietly feeds a piece of meat to her crowing nephew, . . .
"With all his energies, I believe our Little George could clear it by himself."
"That he could and make no mistake, I warrant."
. . . and sits in quiet acceptance.
"Perhaps in a few years."
"Yes. Perhaps."
With her family.
Enjoying it? I hope so. :)