I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
This is the final arc of this story. I hope you enjoy. :)
The Dragonfly Woman and The Turtle Man
Grateful Mercy
They pass through shadow and light.
Damp and dry, chill and warmth.
Flat fields and sloping ridges.
They encounter few people along their way.
A farmer, a hunter, a trader.
Many of whom are wary of two large redmen, untamed indians, clad in skins and weapon-ready.
Even traveling with a woman and a child.
Do not look upon me so.
I am but a woman.
Not a creature in London Menagerie.
The unfamiliar men often cast surmising, surreptitious eyes she resolves to ignore.
Making herself too close at hand to be dragged off without notice.
Yet distant enough to remove herself from physical contact.
Her hand she keeps upon her hidden blade, prepared at all times to fight for the safety of herself, her child.
She has not heard of the disparaging words they will later associate with her and her helpless child once the frightening redmen are safely gone.
Squaw-girl, half-breed child.
They do not speak these words in their presence, these strangers they run across no, they are not so unwise as all that.
But Alice feels the emotion of these unknown, unspoken words.
Suspects some.
Speaks nothing.
And breathes a sigh of relief . . .
I would not have my Mohican dispatch everyone along our journey.
. . . when they continue their travels . . .
'Tis not a breadcrumb trail.
. . . without altercation.
Chingachgook has walked this path many times.
It always changes a bit, they do not walk between the same trees, pass the same homesteads.
But he puts his back to the east, away from his homeland.
And sets his feet upon the path west, toward a land not of his ancestors.
This time they may board with friends, the next they may silently skirt unfriendly tribes.
He is not afraid as he walks.
Neither is he careless with his steps or mindfulness of his surroundings.
His thoughs may wander to the long past, question the possibilities of the ahead future, or remain content to experience the waking present.
Birds dipping on the wing, squirrels dashing among the budding leaves.
The girl-child bouncing in his arms, pulling at his hair, speaking sounds that will one day become words she will share with the world.
The future for them is uncertain, the next moment not promised.
Chingachgook of the Mohican people watches his step, his load too precious to drop.
And steps . . .
"That, Little One, is the Wheel of Time. And it turns ever from me to you."
. . . into the next moment.
Uncas, the last full-blood Mohican, watches his father carry his daughter in his arms.
The daughter Alice has borne into this world.
The girl-child's face is bright with curiosity and joy.
As she attempts to tug the earring from her grandfather's ear.
And he gently takes it back from her.
She will not give up easily, Father.
She is her mother's child.
Only to have her reach for it again.
And again.
He should not walk with her, even to relieve the mother of the burden.
It makes him more vulnerable to attack; it makes him less stable upon the ground.
It makes him . . .
"'. . . you are the one!' And will bear him many children!"
. . . happy.
'Many children'.
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
His brother always joyed in teasing Uncas of his contented bachelorhood.
So many years.
Now they are both old men.
Uncas does not know how many children the spirit of his spirit will choose to bear.
Nor does this matter to him.
No, nor his father either, he believes.
Only that whatever children she may bring forth are well and well-loved.
By their mother. By their father.
And him.
Chingachgook.
Grandfather of the Mohican-Yengee people.
And Uncas smiles.
Three years it is coming into being.
And it is not possible for him to have imagined what now is.
A wife.
A child.
A brother far away from him.
With his own family.
His own . . .
". . . farmer?"
"Perhaps. But it feeds my family better than enemy bullets."
. . . troubles and contentments.
He is hopeful they will once more make the Delaware village.
They will have peace and contentment.
That he and his wife will reunite with one another.
And . . .
"I will take her to relieve you."
. . . that his girl-child will . . .
"Not yet, son. We are still talking."
"You understand her?"
"I understand her spirit."
. . . eventually learn to speak.
"Wètuxëmùksit, tani hèch èlikhatink?"
Father, where is the village?
They are standing in the middle of it.
The buildings.
Or where some of the buildings are.
The longhouses, they remain.
The wigwams, scattered about as people chose to place them.
They are gone.
Bare, uneven, dirt circles upon the ground.
The village, what remains of it, empty of people.
She has heard tales, the lost English village of Roanoke comes to mind.
Over a hundred settlers gone, vanished, never to be seen again.
Ghost stories are told in Portland Square, meant to scare small children off their careless daydreams of stealing away on passenger ships, cargo ships, kidnapping themselves away to the wilds of the Americas when they came of age.
Deadly storms.
Starvation, cannibalism.
Slaughter at the hands of savage redmen.
So dangerous, so ungodly, this new land so far away from England.
That was centuries ago, long before any of the surviving English colonies existed.
And they, Alice, Chenoa May, and her Mohican companions are much farther inland, many, many leagues inland.
And seeking a people who have walked the land for generations beyond counting.
They will not be lost or laid low, not without leaving trace.
They are of the land, they are enduring.
But tragedy, a conclusive end, may strike any living thing, regardless of the familiarity or skill.
And so much has been suffered already.
Alice would find peace, find solidarity amongst her adopted father's family.
She would.
Please. Please.
No more death.
No more suffering.
Or know the reason why.
And then . . .
"Ksultuwàk èlikhatink. Hàkihèneyo shinkhakihe."
They have moved the village. To plant better crops.
And Alice Munroe . . .
Oh.
"Niluna ta màxkàm."
We will find them.
. . . finds her hope . . .
Grateful mercy.
. . . restored.
Two more chapters, I believe.
And then, the end.
Though it never really is over, is it?
*hugs*