I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.

I do own some little ones.

Little Ones


They are playing, the little ones.

Frolicking on the edge of the forest, out on a grassy knoll in the bright May sunshine.

Pouncing, bouncing, falling, tumbling over one another, again and again and again, over and over and over.

Playing fight, playing attack, playing stalk.

All bushy red and white tails, black tips.

Bounding on lanky black-footed legs.

Perky furry ears and pointed little mouths.

Beady, brown eyes and panting pink tongues.

Their friskiness, unbridled enthusiasm, make them seem almost as the children of the village in their play.

Giggles and laughs and spoken language replaced by yelps and yips and barks.

They are far from fully grown, a real enemy would best them easily, they would cower and scurry and run, they are so small and helpless.

But there is no need to worry for them, no.

They are well protected, well cared for, these babes of the wild.

Their mother is nearby, grinning, narrow face belying constant watchfulness.

And the small human child with the honey-colored skin bears fascinated witness to this small Canidae family, all her five summers old attention upon them, these beautiful, playful wild things.

Watches as she crouches in the earth, simple shift covering her from neck to knees, bare feet dirty and comfortable.

She watches the playing ones through tangled dark tresses and wide open eyes.

They are separated, her and them, by a wide, rippling, wandering brook.

She will not engage them and they will not engage her.

Were she to raise her voice, shout or some such, make abrupt movement, the four-legged guardian lounging in the grass would whip-quick gather the younglings to her and they would disappear into the underbrush, blink from sight, be gone.

But the child does not cry out or much move.

Her hands cradle small figures, raccoon, squirrel, owl, carved for her many years ago close after her birth, as an act of hope, an act of welcome, of family.

Her fingers rub the smoothed wood, know every bump, every notch, she would know them always, knows them when the sun is down and the fire is low, knows them when the light is gone from the day and the cool breezes dance across her face.

They are hers and she knows them.

So she rubs them with unthinking comfort and watches the creatures she has no name for.

A shadow traces its way across the uneven ground toward her, tall and quiet, sure and easy.

It reaches her, kneels.

Tattooed arms come around her, gold-banded wrists.

Hands with long fingers touch hers.

Skin shade darker, calloused and rough.

But always gentle, always gentle.

A sheath of straight black hair curtains her view from one side.

She knows this presence, has always known this presence, all her existing moments and lives in complete and absolute comfort with it.

And so does not flinch away, does not hesitate to speak.

Little child voice thin and high in tenor but low in volume, not wishing to disturb the playing wild ones she watches.

"What are they?"

And the response is like a murmur of distant thunder.

"They are foxes, Daughter."

The kind that rumbles low and comfortably familiar in her bones.

"They play like little dogs."

The gentle kind she knew before she ever opened her eyes upon this earth.

"They do play like little dogs."

They watch evidence of this, the child and the man.

"But we must be careful of them. The mother will fight like a cougar to protect their children."

"Like Mama with the coyote last winter?"

There is a huffing sound that means her father is smiling and thinking of laughing, something he often does when he speaks of her mother.

"Yes. Except with less shouting."

They sit together and watch the foxes and the sun warms the glen through the green leaves of the tall trees.

"Where is the father?"

"He hunts. To feed his family. He will return to them. He will find them."

"Like you return to us."

"Yes, Daughter."

By degrees the play of the kits abates, the child realizes they are all staring with rapt gaze, eight glittering eyes staring, across the divide.

At them, at her.

She feels something that might be the whisperings of fear, if she were not with her father.

"Will they . . . cross the water to us?"

He does not respond immediately but the child has always known this and is not discomfited by it.

"No. They will not attack unless threatened. And we do not threaten."

This holds true, as so often does her father's reason.

And the kits are bade after a matter more of time by their mother to take their leave and go.

They melt away into the treeline and are gone from the two figures on the other side of the running water.

The child peers intently into the shadows until she can not longer sense their slinking movement.

"Where do they go?"

And turns to her father.

"Do they go home?'

She finds him as she always has.

Eyes dark and smiling, hands gentle and kind.

His face is very big.

But hers is very small.

And she feels enveloped by his love as she always does, so much a part of her being that she has never known any else, so much still a child she cannot express this or even understand the depth of its absolutism.

"They have gone home to rest. And we should do the same."

"I am not tired."

This is not a defiant challenge, the child has not learned such.

Her father seems to consider this and does not refute her confident assertion.

"Perhaps not. But your mother may wish to hear of your discovery. Should we go tell her?"

At this, the child beams.

"Yes!"

He nods in agreement.

"Yes."

And rises.

As is their custom, her father lifts her onto her shoulders, carefully arranging his long, thick hair out of the way so that she may not pull him bald.

She wraps her legs in practiced motion under his arms, bracing herself comfortably.

He pats her knee.

"Set?"

"Set."

And they go, child and man.

Father and daughter.

The Last . . .

"Look, a butterfly!"

"I see."

"Is he going home to rest too?"

"Yes."

. . . of the Mohicans.


There are foxes in our backyard. Three little ones and their parent.

They're just like this everyday.

And we are obsessed.

Thanks to DinahRay for suggesting I write this!

And thanks to you for reading!

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.

:)