"Strange."

They started with that. Then added, "well, more like... creepy, you know. There's something seriously off about them."

"They're good girls, very well-mannered, charming even," one said, "but they're just unsettling. Something about the... way they walk? Move, really."

"They were definitely the weirdest students at school. Oh, oh, oh! The younger, I think her name is Meda, yeah, she broke the nose of her Senior Prom date," a youth confided in his friends. His circle assented with their addenda:

"Some of us have tattoos, like small and secret. Just for kicks. But they had tattoos."

"Oh, yeah! The sleeves, right? I could never make any sense of those."

"They're Mahican traditional tattoos. I heard it from the older one."

"Look like cheap fishnets to me."

"You remember that phase they had? When they wore purple contacts?"

"That was weird. Some goth phase shit."

Then, there were the cruel ones. A certain individual said, "they're devil worshipers. They should give up their diabolical ways and join the church."

"You know what Roosevelt said, 'the only good Indian is a dead Indian'. I stand by his words but I can't do none... there's laws and crap," declared another, "I'm just gonna watch the show and say 'I told you so' when they do something nasty. And they will. I know they will."

Donovan Silverheel was privy to them all, and to all those that were crueler still. Some he overhead himself, some his daughters overheard and told him about, others he was informed about by the few friends he had. He explained them all away with half-truths and white lies.

Papa, why did ma leave? "Her twin sister, your Aunt Maev, was in trouble. She went to help her. Wouldn't you leave everything behind to help Winona if she were in trouble?"

I would. But pa, when will she come back? "I don't know, baby..."

Kids at school told me we shouldn't have tattoos. "Pay no mind to them, Winona. Nobody has the right to tell you how to honor your life and your body."

But why did we get them? "When you were born, you'd come early. You were so small and so fragile, we weren't sure you'd live. But you did, as did your sister, so you bear the mark of warriors who have fought death itself. Be proud of it."

It was not the talk, nor the questions of his children that bothered him so much as the people's fear and hatred did, and the effect it had on them. Fear and hatred had the tendency to manifest in minacious acts. And to prevent those effects from raining down on his daughters, he trained them to fight, to stand their ground, to hunt, to fend for themselves – all the while reiterating what Chief Silverheel had taught him in his boyhood: In nature, you live on your knees. For you are here because nature allows it. In the battlefield, you die on your feet. For you are Mahican and you bow to no one but the Great Spirit.

It went without saying that no matter how much the people around them bristled, no matter what threats they posed, Donovan raised Winona and Meda to be better Mahican warriors than he'd ever been. He edified their mores in ways of the people of the waters that are never still; from being the rain that nourished the earth, to being the rivers that cut though the lands, and the tides that were unstoppable.

When he had nothing left to teach, he searched for greater knowledge and was rewarded. In Rorio Silva, a former street-fighting champion in his homeland, now a grocery store owner in Andover, and a close confidant, Donovan found understanding and empathy. "I know only too well about the world treating us as lesser because of our skins," he'd said, "I will teach your girls Vale Tudo."

He was proud to know from Rorio that his girls would have been revered champions in the underbelly of Brazil. Proud and reassured.

He knew his love, Mab, would have felt the same.

Mab lived in Donovan's mind, and would live until he breathed his last. He saw much of her in Winona and Meda – in their bright eyes, in the ink that adorned their arms and sides, in their coolness, and in how they could spit fire if and when required. The woman he bequeathed his heart to, who bore his children, and gave final shape to his world, was in most of his thoughts and all of his dreams.

Her last moments with him conjured images clear as day, always awakening a hollow ache in his chest.

They were returning with their spoils of the hunt. Mab, miffed that Donovan had offered to carry the deer, pinned him under a glare.

"I just thought you might be tired." Donovan chuckled, scrubbing the freshly shaved side of his head. "Must you shoot daggers at me like that?"

"Would you rather I throw a real dagger at you?" Mab was already reaching for the hunting knife at her belt, the one he had carved for her from stone and lynx bone.

"No! No, no! I'm sorry, I will never ever assume that you cannot carry your own kill," he vowed, hands up in surrender.

"Good," said Mab. Hefting the deer over her shoulders, she started walking homewards.

Another reason why Donovan wanted, most ardently, to make her a clan leader alongside himself. Deciding he would ask for betrothal when they reached home, he gathered the bags of foraged roots and fruits, strung his bow and quiver crosswise over his chest, and chased after her.

Halfway through their trek, Mab dropped to the ground, the carcass slipping from her grasp. "Hah," Donovan couldn't help but jeer mildly, "tired already?"

When he reached her side, however, all playful jibes he'd had in mind to needle her with vanished, only to be immediately replaced by concern. Mab's lovely face was contorted in agony. Clutching at her midriff, she fell on her side. A pained cry tore out of her and stabbed him right in his heart. In an instant, he had gathered her into his arms.

"Something's wrong," she rasped.

"What's wrong?" Donovan felt the cold grip of panic. "What is it?"

"Maev—" Mab's words were cut off by a spasm, she curled in on herself. "Maev's hurt," she bit out through clenched teeth. Uncomprehending, he scooped her up and began hurrying to their wood cabin. But she struggled in his arms, protesting, "no. no. Stop, put me down."

Donovan conceded. "We should get you home," he implored, "we should call for help, we—"

"Nobody can help," she told him with such aggression that he was taken aback. "I have to return. They need me."

Donovan wanted to ask who—and a thousand other questions—but he somehow knew now was not the time. So instead, when she struggled to stand up, he helped her prop herself against a tree, and asked, "to Mab's Meadow?"

Through gritted teeth, she said, "yes."

They stood like that for a minute, with Mab leaning her head against the tree behind her, with Donovan taking in everything about her. She sucked in a deep breath; he could see determination rivaling the pain that had hold of her, and he saw it win. And then, she pushed off, standing straight and tall, rolling the joints of her neck, knife pulled from its sheath – a cougar readying herself to defend her territory. She turned to walk back into the heart of Harold Parker Forest.

Donovan made to follow, but was stopped short by her whipping around on him. "No!" she commanded, "no." At a loss for words, he could only reach out with a hand. She didn't take it. "If you love me," she said, tears sparkling in her gaze, "you will not follow me. Go home to our daughters. Keep them safe."

Insides knotting, he nodded.

"I will return," said Mab. But Donovan had the sinking feeling that this was the last time he would see her. "I will come back to you, I promise," she asserted, but he committed her loveliness to memory all the same. With one last lingering look at him, Mab marched into the woods, taking the route to the pond where they'd first met.

Mab's Meadow, he'd named it.