Mohican Brave. Chris Blake

      “Yes,” said the boy, crossing to a young willow tree and peeling off some strips of bark. “And this willow bark will make a good healing tonic once I take it home and boil it up. Do you feel well enough to walk to my village? It’s not far, just round the bend there.”

      “Village?” said Zuma, sounding relieved. “So there are other people here?”

      The boy nodded and helped Tom to his feet. “Yes. My people are called the Mohican.” He started walking towards the water. Tom and Zuma followed.

      “My name is Rising Sun,” the boy said. “What are you called?”

      Tom replied for both of them. “I’m Tom, and this is Zuma.”

      Chilli let out an indignant bark.

      “And this is Chilli,” added Zuma, giving the dog a pat.

      As they travelled through the woods, Tom noticed how silently Rising Sun moved, avoiding things like fallen twigs. Tom copied him, trying to walk as quietly as he could.

      “We call ourselves Mohican,” Rising Sun explained, “because it means ‘People of the waters that are never still’.”

      Tom eyed the swift current churning under the surface of the wide blue river. It sparkled in the autumn sunlight. “I can see why,” he said.

      “Why were you worried that we might be members of the Mohawk tribe?” Zuma asked.

      Rising Sun scowled. “Because they are enemies of the Mohicans. They live on the other side of the river. And they are trying to drive us away so they can have these hunting grounds for themselves.”

      “That doesn’t sound very fair,” said Zuma.

      “Is that why you’re wearing war paint?” Tom asked excitedly. “Because you’re going into battle with the Mohawk?”