I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I do own some little ones. Not quite so little now. But they once were.
Little Ones
So Is
A thing has happened.
A child has been hurt.
Another child has been involved.
The children have done these things to one another.
Without war, without tribulation.
Without hunger or desperation or necessity.
"So dark the con of man."
These words they do not know.
These words they have not seen written nor heard spoken.
They never have, nor they ever will.
But the meaning is there.
That there may be peace always.
That war will never come.
That humans will not do what they have always done, eventually, to one another, at all points in history, past and future.
They fight.
Fought.
Hurt.
And will do so.
Again.
And again.
And so the young children are separated by the older girls, their caregivers that tend them as their mothers work to plant The Three Sisters, water the seeds that will become their food, prepare them to grow.
The young children are separated and they cry, they wail, they clench their small fists.
The hurt done is a thing that will heal within a day and night.
There is no concern of it.
The act itself, however, that must be dealt with and swiftly.
And so the mothers come.
Chenoa May's mother comes.
She of the cornsilk hair and pale skin.
Unlike the others, yet the child thinks not of it.
That only she is who she is.
And that she is her mother.
And that child has done something her mother would not like her to do.
And the child . . .
"Mama . . ."
. . . cries.
"My child, what is your sadness?"
Though the child does not know the mother already knows, has already been told.
Would know if she were to speak an untruth.
And remembers the stern punishments children of her upbringing were subjected to at similar misbehaviors.
Rods smacked down hard across the palms of the hands, isolations without food or drink, public shaming within the family.
And of course, prayers, many prayers.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
The little girl does not know her mother has watched other mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers and the like address misdeeds with their own young ones within the village.
Has watched and learned better ways than were taught to her.
And brings them forth.
For the benefit of her own child.
The child only knows . . .
"Come. Sit with me, daughter."
. . . that her mother is here.
And all will be well soon.
The child sits in the warm comfort of her mother.
Her mother who gently rocks her, plays with her hands.
"I understand you did a thing today."
The child does not respond. She cannot.
"And that thing you did was a bad thing."
She can only listen to her mother's soft voice.
"Is that truth, my daughter?"
And the child's eyes well with tears, tears that spill down her cheeks as her chin trembles and her body begins to shake.
This is confession enough for the mother who was dressed in black and sent with stinging, welted palms to the priest to confess her sins, be reminded that she is a sinful creature and nothing but penitence and forgiving acts were to but begin to save her from hellfire everlasting.
And the mother shares with her daughter none of this.
Only holds her close.
"I have a lovely little girl, so smart and kind, so sweet, a blessing to me."
Rocks.
"Her name is Chenoa May and she was named by her grandfather who loves her."
And speaks.
"Fed by her mother who loves her."
Speaks again.
"Protected by her father who loves her."
And again.
"And cared for by her village that loves her."
Small, whispering words over and over to her and only her.
"My daughter Chenoa May is a good little girl and I am glad to be her mother."
As they sit in the afternoon breeze.
"I will always be glad to be her mother."
And watch the dancing leaves in the trees.
"My daughter's ancestors watch over her, they see she is the future of her people."
Her worries and upset and hurt and fear begin to ebb in the soothing cadence of her mother's murmuring voice.
"When my daughter does a thing she should not do, she must remember she is good."
Though she may not understand all of the words her mother speaks . . .
"And will continue to do good things in her life."
. . . she understands the general meaning of the message.
"And be loved by her family."
And the feeling within it.
"You are this child, yes, my daughter?"
And child nods, spirit soothed and restored.
"Yes, Mama."
"That is good. I give my thanks for you."
"I give my thanks for you, Mama."
And all turns back to ease.
"Thank you, my child."
Little by little.
Grandfather has come, she sits with him.
He speaks.
"There are two creatures inside of us at all times, Granddaughter."
She listens.
"One is a creature of anger, jealousy, greed, things such as these."
Speaking when she has question.
"These are bad things, Grandfather?"
"Yes, Granddaughter. More than you know."
Receiving answers she may not yet understand the entirety of.
"The other is a creature of peace, humility, kindness, truth."
But she listens as much as she can.
"Every person upon the earth is ruled, at one time or another, by one of these two creatures."
For she is still, a very young child.
"How does the creatures rule, Grandfather?"
Who watches as his hands, thick and rough, cover a small green thing growing from the ground.
"If we hide this plant from the sun for many days, what will happen to it?"
"It will lose its green to brown and fade."
Her Grandfather nods, removes his hands from the green growing thing.
"Yes. It is fed by the sun's light, Granddaughter. That is why when we build a hut to cover the ground, the green grass grows no more and only dirt remains."
Yes, this she has seen in her mother and father's hut.
"That which you feed is the one that grows, Granddaughter. That which you starve, fades away."
She thinks on this, holds the words in her mind, as long as she can.
Finally . . .
"I do not understand, Grandfather."
. . . she confesses.
Feels his chest move against her back, hears the low rumble of his chuckle.
"That is alright, Granddaugther. It is a big thought, a big understanding that takes time to learn. When you are older, the meaning will become clear to you."
"Why tell me now if I am not old enough to understand?"
It is a question, not a challenge.
And she is not reprimanded for her query.
"Because, Granddaughter, the time we have is now."
And this . . .
"And may not be again later."
. . . she does not understand either.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
Thanks for reading!
And thanks to blanparbe and bookworm4life0812 for adding your support to this story! I appreciate that. :)