191I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
A Breed Apart
She is not a Delaware speaking tribe woman. Nor even an opinionated, determined Yengee as her half-sister.
She is a fragile thing, young and tender and afraid.
A creature made and raised and trained for comfort.
She is not for long travels over rough wilderness.
Sitting, knitting. Tea.
Those to her preference.
She is not a strong creature.
Mere days out of her rescue from the nightmare, he of the pock-marked face and cruel eyes.
Only days of months yet to be walked.
And her shoes hurt her feet. Yet she does not complain, does not cry out.
Her face alone, pinched and pale, speaks to her discomfort.
As she walks along, hour after hour, in shoes meant for a light ride in the country for a day.
They stop for the night, now no longer fleeing nor chasing, to rest and take nourishment.
He watches quietly as she sits, thin hands gravitating shakily to her shod feet.
Leather and brackets and hammered heels.
All the things he does not understand.
Why squeeze and punish the feet when they only serve to take you where you need to go?
She will not be able to walk tomorrow in them, her blood will paint the ravaged flesh.
And he thinks.
Unbundles the light pack he carries with him.
Retrieves hide, bone needle, and sinew string.
He considers his hand, large and strong, nearly able to cover, he thinks, the length of her foot, perhaps less than a bit.
And before the quietly crackling fire, as the others attend to their own endeavors, begins to work.
The pattern is simple, the manufacture basic.
Swift and sure, his hands work.
Almost of their own accord.
Not women's work, no.
Nor men's specifically.
People's.
For animals of hoof and paw and claw have no need of such covering.
When the moon is high overhead and the coyotes have gone to ground, he is done.
They are simple and plain, without adornment or decoration.
No tassel, no bead, no story do they tell.
Only that of a girl.
And her feet.
He brings them to her the next day, brown and gray. Bits of rabbit fur tucked into what the Yangeese would call the insoles.
She is sitting upon a rock, reddened, angried, swollen flesh of her feet stoically hidden within torn white stockings.
Shoes before her on the ground.
Hateful, prim and proper things that pain her so in this wild wilderness.
And she takes notice of him, instinctively drawing away.
Expression demure and appropriately placid, as is English custom.
And his hands, previously painted with the blood of her captors and enemies astrange, come bearing soft, supple, sturdy things.
Mocassins, the white man calls them.
He offers them peacefully with one hand, steady and calm.
Offers them because she has need.
She takes them in both her pale ones, fingers not quite brushing his.
And inspects them.
Perhaps a length longer than she requires.
But her feet, at seventeen years of age, still to grow.
And she slips them on.
The relief and release of the dreaded anticipation of constriction and pain softens her features.
Livens her eyes.
She does not know of laces and knots so he kneels before her and ties them careful and sure.
Not so swiftly as he may, for she is to learn.
And learn she does, watching intently, noting each movement and storing it away for later practice.
He ties the other, securing it without unnecessary linger or flourish at all.
Bent before her, long black hair sheathing over his broad shoulders, early morning sun dappling his strong back.
And she does not move.
Task accomplished, he rises and steps back.
And waits.
She rises from the rock, tenderized heel and arch and toe, still aching, still sore.
But enveloped in fur, in hide. Strong, yet soft and yielding.
She takes a tentative step, then another. And another.
Her civilized feet slowly wilding with abandon, as though she's boldly and brashly wearing slippers outside her bedroom door.
She takes another step and another.
He watches her face, her eyes, stoic in training, yet ever telling nonetheless, for opinion, for critique.
She raises her skirt, ever so slightly. Sticks out a newly shod foot and wiggles it.
The toes are no longer pinched to screaming, ankle rigid and strapped.
Now supportively cushioned and wildly unfettered.
She will have to be careful not to trip or fall.
Or when they have healed, run and scream and play.
For her feet will be free of pain and unburdened of propreity and decorum.
And she looks up at him before her, now so close with her evaluative footsteps.
And smiles.
Tiny little author's opinionated note here: Magua is such a deeper character than the pock-marked face, cruel-eyed man described.
But this is Alice. And I don't think she's there yet.
Also, any cultural errors I may make in regard to the noble Indigenous People of this time is unintended and I apologize in advance. I am making much effort to research and provide accurate information in respect to them.
Lastly, never have I ever dreamed of writing for this powerful, beloved movie.
But here I am and for the first time in a long time, happy in my creativity.
Think I'll stay here a bit. Care to join me?
Everyone appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.
