I do not own The Last of The Mohicans.
And I really don't know where the first part of this chapter came from.
The Dragonfly Woman and the Turtle Man
Enlightenment and Despondency and Going On
The Earth does not exist to serve humans.
The Earth is here, it moves, it breathes.
It existed long before a human foot was placed upon it.
And it will remain long after the last has gone.
The living things upon it grow, live, reproduce, and die without ever purposing to serve the whims of man.
And there is something innately comforting about that thought.
Something releases the strain, the worry, the stress.
What shall this be used for, what shall that?
These are unending questions that push, that pull, that nag.
Planning, preparing.
Seeking meaning, purpose, utilization.
Rather than simply being.
When pressure is released, when one simply lets go, realizes how insignificant they are, how little they mean, how completely and absolutely the world will continue its ministrations whether or not those upon it care to.
Their names will not be written in books, memorialized in neither song nor statue.
And those that do will crumble and be blown as dust until they are all but naught.
No deed shall live on forever and no word spoken be remembered evermore.
It is all fleeting and may not stay.
A freeing and empowering understanding in warm, bright day.
A crushing and demoralizing darkness in deepest, blackest night.
It is all meaningless and fruitless and without duration.
And yet there is all the world there before them.
To those few, those very, very few, they are all.
Those that love them, truly, deeply, smile at the most singular word, rejoice at the merest glimpse, thrill at the smallest touch.
They are all the world and all consuming.
Babes are fed, cleaned and sung to, rocked.
Food gathered, water carried.
Dirty things cleaned, items arranged, set.
Clothes sewed, cleaned, mended.
Tools, shelters, weapons neated, maintained.
Cycles over and over and over again.
Consuming, draining, unending.
Sleep finds them at the end of each day with still more, more, more to do.
What shall they say to war then, to life then, to discovery and adventure and excitement then?
"I was not a part, for there was choring."
It is everything and it is nothing.
There is only one and one may not send back and undo the life that has been done.
And it is a wonder there is time for any thought at all beyond this, this, this.
It is so simple and basic to grasp yet so large and awe-inspiring one may hardly process the understanding.
And Alice does not know whether to take comfort and sigh.
Or pitifully sob and weep.
So she simply stretches her aching back.
A little more now.
And then, to rest.
And continues on with her work.
And yet that is not all.
There is wonder, there is laughter, there is love, and joy and contentment.
She lays in the fragrant, verdant grass with her lover, feels his fingers caress her flesh in the most exquisite ways.
They commune together, they speak in low murmurs before their nighttime fires, she brushes her hair and his, freshing the braids that were the first outward symbols of their devotion to one another.
She plays among the trees with her toddling baby girl, that child with the honey-colored skin and flow of dark hair.
That child whose joyous laughter lifts the warm days comparable to the chatterings of the scampering squirrels and twitterings of the winging birds.
She works with the women of the village to grow their crops, gather the nuts and berries and wild fruits that so nicely supplement their diet of stream-caught fish and bounding venison, rabbit, and squirrel.
The singular elk is downed and the whole of the village is fed a little hardier.
She comes to her adopted father, seeks his counsel, his guidance, the peacefulness of his presence.
Is always comforted, soothed by the consistent equanimity of his spirit.
During her time of bleeding, she removes herself to the women's longhouse, releasing her duties to others for the time she must reserve for herself, this time of introspection and respose.
When her time is concluded, she returns to the ones she loves, returns to that which she must do within the village.
They live and they let live.
And there, for now, is peace.
Evening comes.
She and the one she loves sit before a quietly crackling fire.
Their daughter, she the perfect mixture of them both and also unto herself, so far as such a tiny child might, with them.
Alice Munroe is approaching twenty years of age.
She has lived much, experienced more than she ever anticipated in her few years upon the earth.
She has followed her sister, Cora Munroe, to the Americas to see the redmen.
She has gone beyond.
She has adopted their ways, loved and bound herself to one of them, borne his child, her child.
She has become . . .
"Wëli kawi, Nëwitaemàk, Ktaholël."
Good night, my husband. I love you.
"Wëli kawi, Nëwicheyok. Ktaholël."
Good night, my wife. I love you.
. . . The Dragonfly Woman.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read all these many long, wandering words.
That's it for now, Gentle Readers. I hope you have enjoyed reading this story, as long as it took me to write it.
And as of this moment, I don't have any plans in the works for another.
But who knows what the future holds. I, for one, couldn't have predicted *any* of this, I can tell you that.
Thank you most sincerely again and happy reading of whatever makes you happy.
Ahkulsin mùxulhama òk wëlamàlsëwakàn, nëwichusàk.
Safe travels and good health, my friends.