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

Home

Alice Munroe is home.

They have found the Delaware village tucked leagues past where they were.

An area much as the one they abided before.

Yet according to the ones who inspected the plants and tasted the dirt . . .

". . . here. The crops will grow well for many seasons."

. . . the soil is fertile and will well grow food for the village to share.

Upon their arrival, they were recognized and gladly welcomed by the joyful friends and elders.

Alice, in a sudden mind, looks for the dark faces she had hoped to see in peaceful safety.

She cannot find them.

Upon her timid inquiry, heads are shaken and responses are in the negatory.

No, they have not been seen and no items from the village have gone missing.

Alice works to take this in stride, the world is a wide place, even moreso out here.

They were resourceful children.

And her prayers to the Great Spirit for their safety go upward once more as she cradles her nursing daughter with extra care and consideration.

And she hopes they are well and safe, those wandering children.

As all should be.

She is not of them, the Delaware, nor may she ever be.

But as she is with them, the men, her Mohicans, she is accepted of them.

And she works to integrate herself into their society.

Because it brings her contentment, joy.

She may feel differently come the falling of the turning leaves, may decide she wishes to venture out once more.

But for now, . . .

"Hè, ànati. Wëlànkuntëwakàn."

Hello, Young Mother. Peace to you.

"Hè, Uma. Wëlànkuntëwakàn."

Hello, Honored Mother. Peace to you.

. . . she is in joy.

She works with the women to tend the planted crops.

The Three Sisters, they look after.

Corn, beans, and squash.

They pick berries, find nuts.

Tend to the children and keep clean and in good repair their few possessions.

Since everyone works as the men repair and hunt, the work is done more quickly than one or two alone doing all.

And there is more time to relax, repose.

And enjoy . . .

Ah.

I would that Cora had come.

. . . the existence of simply being.

"Ablaaaa!"

In English society, children must not be held too much by neither their mothers nor aunts nor wetnurses.

This makes them weak and problem-prone.

And adults are much too busy for that sort of frivolous thing.

Here in the Delaware village, the very young are held near constant by their mothers or young girls set to look after them.

Once they begin to crawl or scoot or walk, they may go a safe distance.

And return to caring arms as they wish.

In English society, children must act as adults, there is little patience for silliness, foolishness.

One must be prim, proper.

One must be behaved.

Here in the Delaware village, yes, children chore.

To help survival.

To learn skills they will need as they grow.

And, . . .

Oh. She has fallen.

. . . they play.

She is alright.

She is no invalid schoolgirl.

In English society, unruly children are disciplined by nannies, beaten with wooden rod and leather belt, with scathing word and withering look.

It is for their own good.

To have the devil beaten out of them 'afore He takes hold and they are stained with His mark.

Sin.

All are born with it. All must suffer it all their lives.

A crying child is a disturbance, an embarrassment, a misbehavior.

They must be shushed up and that right soon.

Pain and unhappiness must be borne in silence and resignation.

Here in the Delaware village, the mothers, the fathers, of crying children are not ashamed.

Everyone's spirit becomes troubled at times.

It is for the parent or caregiver to comfort and care, hold and soothe.

The talking comes afterward, the conversation.

Nulilaiskakwën, it is called.

Good medicine.

Lixsëwakàn na manëtuwàk.

The language of the spirit.

It is for those that love and care for them to gift the child the patience and energy to build a healthy body and spirit.

Over and over and over again.

As much as is needed.

Without, those growing upward may lose the courage to reach out, seek their way.

And that simply . . .

"Ablaaaa!"

. . . is not allowable.

Alicia Elizabeth Munroe, raised with wet nurses and nannies who had 'spare the rod and spoil the child' engraved upon the language of their hearts, at least until her father properly relieved them of their duties one at an ear-piercing time-

". . . out, ye! Or I shall break that rod upon yer back!"

"Mark my words, Master Munroe, she shall never enter the Pearly Gates iffen ye do not discipline her proper now!"

"Then I shall batter them down meself, ye soulless wretch!"

-finds this new style of parenting and guidance . . .

"Come, Little One. Sit upon my lap and I shall tell you a story."

"Ablaaa-"

"Yes, that one too."

. . . most agreeable.

And they call these people savage.

They are not.

"Ablaaaa!"

Well, perhaps this one.

"Ablaaaa!"

All will be well.

I shall teach her.

Despite being unthinking, sinful, wild, red-skinned savages, the people of the village keep themselves surprisingly clean and well-groomed.

The women, yes.

But the men also.

Men like her Nëwitaemàk.

It would not surprise Alice to learn the first European women of the Florida settlements became enamoured of the redmen they encountered simply because they practised better hygiene than their English counterparts.

Whilst many English colonials believe a cleansing of one's body is sinful and that a healthy layer of dirt keeps 'the devil at bay' and one free from sickness and disease, . . .

Some in Boston must surely then have been pristine and seated next to the Almighty himself, by that right.

. . . the Delaware take care in daily bathing, especially of the hands before touching food.

They brush their teeth with rubbed sticks, as her Mohican taught her once so long ago. They chew rolled balls of tree sap to clean their teeth and refresh their breath.

Shave, they shave their faces, careful knives or small pebbles rubbed against the skin.

Their clothes are cleaned often enough they do not begin to moulder.

And thusly, their savage visages are more comely, more enjoyable to gaze upon . . .

Hallo there.

. . . than the prim and proper 'Christians' . . .

I know of you.

. . . who fancy themselves more 'civilized'.

As Alice is put into a reminder now.

For as the air grows warmer with the strengthening sun . . .

"Ashëwihëlatàm, Ehòlit."

Swim with me, my love.

. . . there is less and less need for clothing.

"Mpèhëwe ki."

I am waiting for you.

Alicia Elizabeth Munroe, dress carefully washed and laid to dry in the sun, watches with great appreciation.

As her tall, lean, lovely Mohican man stands on the edge of the sparkling lake.

"Surely, . . ."

Grinning knowingly . . .

". . . you have no need of clothes."

. . . at her.

She buoys herself up out of the water, just enough to gift him the briefest glimpse.

"I do not."

Another teasing word.

"Join me."

And smiles herself . . .

"If you like."

. . . as he begins to untie the bindings . . .

"I do."

. . . of his coverings.

Everything about his unadorned form as he stands naked on the water's edge gives her delight, pleasant sensations, eager rushes throughout her submerged body.

Later, when she retrieves their daughter from those she has left her safe with, she shall brew tea from the herbs in her bag.

Brew and drink with satisfaction in her body.

And reassurance in her spirit.

For now . . .

"Come to me, my love."

. . . she beckons to her husband.

"I am in need of your touch."

And watches him glide smoothly through the water toward her.

She is treading water as he reaches her, water lapping gently almost up to his shoulders, dark hair fanning the water.

Theirs is a private lake, surrounded by trees and bushes, near half a league away from the village.

So there is no one to hear, no one to see, as she reaches out, wraps her arms about those shoulders, about his neck.

Catches his lips with her own, opens her eager mouth to his.

None but a scandalized fish or two, the errant turtle underwater to see her lift her legs.

And wrap them about his hips.

"Uncas . . ."

"Alice . . ."

His hands she feels, his fingers, as they hold her up with him, caress her flesh.

And she moans her rising pleasure.

"Uncas . . . "

For only his listening ears to hear.

"Alice . . ."

As his lips trace kisses along her neck.

They lay in the sun and dry together upon the shore.

They lay and they talk and they abide.

Alice is happily spent and well-satisfied.

Though if her Mohican remains as he is now . . .

"You are happy to be returned to the village."

. . . she may find herself recovering strength sooner rather than later.

"I am."

The fingers of one hand lazily trace circles upon the smooth flesh of his chest, as she curls into his side, enjoying the feel of their bare flesh together.

"Your spirit seems restored."

"'Tis. As much as it may be."

His arm around her, warm and comforting.

"I am not quite who I was. But I am content as I may be with who I am."

Fingers trailing her side along her ribs, the swell of her breast.

"I am glad. This has been a difficult time for you."

She traces circles and trails lower to his belly.

"For us all."

The dark hair that begins to lead her hand, her fingers . . .

"But that is all very far away from me now."

. . . lower and lower . . .

"You, however, are very close. Come here, sir."

. . . still.

"Yes, Miss."

So now they are back with the village and the last part, well, hope it meets requested expectations. ;)

Thanks to everyone who is reading!

One final chapter now.

I hope you come back for it.