Pocahontas had gotten to her feet to stretch her limbs; she did a couple little dance movements on the spot and turned back to John as he took his compass out. A “compass.” Can I…? She took the compass in her hands and turned it around and around, but the arrow always pointed the same direction. It was fascinating, and a little familiar, but Pocahontas couldn’t understand why. How do you use it? Show me?
“You see, and I’ve noticed you figured out, that the arrow points north. Which is…” Distinctively, he squinted his eyes at the compass and then pointed to north with his finger, “…that direction. It isn’t much help if you don’t have a sight to keep track of—say I wanted to…find Jamestown…no, no,” Come on, Smith, think. “Ah, say I started from here, this spot, and you told me to walk fifteen paces due north,” he started demonstrating, unconscious of Pocahontas keeping up, “and five paces due—” There she was as he took the steps, with no boundaries between them, “—East.”
Pocahontas kept up with his instructions, but at the same time her eyes widened as her mind honed in on exactly the reason the compass looked familiar. Pocahontas stopped walking, as John kept going, and flung her arms out in excitement. IT’S THE SPINNING ARROW! The arrow from my dream!
“Uh—’ Suppose you can call it that!” He was a little thrown off his feet when suddenly she approached thus forth. He came to squinting his eyes again, wrinkling his eyebrows when he gently asked, “Would you tell me about that dream?” He sniffed it, turned to east, and turned back. “Has it got me in it?”
Not exactly…Pocahontas hopped awkwardly from one foot to the other, slightly embarrassed by her outburst. But she couldn’t stay unhappy long under John’s loving gaze. For almost a month I was having the same dream, every night: a spinning arrow that went in circles, faster and faster, until it stopped. And I thought it must be pointing at something, or somebody…Pocahontas stepped closer to John. I stopped having that dream when I met you. And your compass is a sign. The arrow points to you. It must be you. Because you are the right path for me. She bestowed a brilliant smile on him.
“Don’t you get suspicious when that happens? Continued dreams?—Ah! That’s where I come in. Well—sorry to have kept you waiting.” This is was him nature. His approaches could be taken by charm or can be ignored because of his trying to charm. Whatever the effect was, he was charmed by her brilliant smile. Well now, you can’t stay fixed like this a whole day, can you? Can you…“Should we be going somewhere?”
Pocahontas had gotten to her feet to stretch her limbs; she did a couple little dance movements on the spot and turned back to John as he took his compass out. A “compass.” Can I…? She took the compass in her hands and turned it around and around, but the arrow always pointed the same direction. It was fascinating, and a little familiar, but Pocahontas couldn’t understand why. How do you use it? Show me?
“You see, and I’ve noticed you figured out, that the arrow points north. Which is…” Distinctively, he squinted his eyes at the compass and then pointed to north with his finger, “…that direction. It isn’t much help if you don’t have a sight to keep track of—say I wanted to…find Jamestown…no, no,” Come on, Smith, think. “Ah, say I started from here, this spot, and you told me to walk fifteen paces due north,” he started demonstrating, unconscious of Pocahontas keeping up, “and five paces due—” There she was as he took the steps, with no boundaries between them, “—East.”
Pocahontas kept up with his instructions, but at the same time her eyes widened as her mind honed in on exactly the reason the compass looked familiar. Pocahontas stopped walking, as John kept going, and flung her arms out in excitement. IT’S THE SPINNING ARROW! The arrow from my dream!
“Uh—’ Suppose you can call it that!” He was a little thrown off his feet when suddenly she approached thus forth. He came to squinting his eyes again, wrinkling his eyebrows when he gently asked, “Would you tell me about that dream?” He sniffed it, turned to east, and turned back. “Has it got me in it?”
Pocahontas shook her head gently, hair flying around her face. I wouldn’t know either. Only from what I see in other people. And I…her eyes flew back to his face, taking it in. She felt as if she had been longing to see his face all her life. I’ve never felt anything like this either. Not until now. Not until you. She beamed, slipping her hand into this.
He continued to adored her with all his attention, then he jumped up, removing himself from the present conversation that was so new to him, he returned to his old self and ask, “Where are we right now?” hands on his side. South of Jamestown, he believed. Maybe there was a name for this place, any name, a name only Pocahontas called it, a phrase she gives it.
We don’t have a name for it. That is, I don’t know if anybody knows about this field but me…Nobody ever comes this close to the bay. Pocahontas twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. But they will, now that your people have settled so close. I call it my star field, because of the countless times I’ve lain here to look at the stars at night. She ran her hand through her hair, dislodging small pieces of grass, and smiled at him, getting to her feet.
He chuckled as she said the name for her place. There was an urge to label this place on his map. He admired her at a view. “Where are you going?” he said with a dream-like tone, a soft inquiry. He figured why not he follow her footsteps. Where are we? Southwest of Jamestown? He dug his hand into his satchel, searching for a flat, circular device. “Do you know what this is?” —not long after a short pause— “This is a compass. It’s used for direction—you can determine which way the wind is coming from.”
Pocahontas had gotten to her feet to stretch her limbs; she did a couple little dance movements on the spot and turned back to John as he took his compass out. A “compass.” Can I…? She took the compass in her hands and turned it around and around, but the arrow always pointed the same direction. It was fascinating, and a little familiar, but Pocahontas couldn’t understand why. How do you use it? Show me?
“You see, and I’ve noticed you figured out, that the arrow points north. Which is…” Distinctively, he squinted his eyes at the compass and then pointed to north with his finger, “…that direction. It isn’t much help if you don’t have a sight to keep track of—say I wanted to…find Jamestown…no, no,” Come on, Smith, think. “Ah, say I started from here, this spot, and you told me to walk fifteen paces due north,” he started demonstrating, unconscious of Pocahontas keeping up, “and five paces due—” There she was as he took the steps, with no boundaries between them, “—East.”
Pocahontas shook her head gently, hair flying around her face. I wouldn’t know either. Only from what I see in other people. And I…her eyes flew back to his face, taking it in. She felt as if she had been longing to see his face all her life. I’ve never felt anything like this either. Not until now. Not until you. She beamed, slipping her hand into this.
He continued to adored her with all his attention, then he jumped up, removing himself from the present conversation that was so new to him, he returned to his old self and ask, “Where are we right now?” hands on his side. South of Jamestown, he believed. Maybe there was a name for this place, any name, a name only Pocahontas called it, a phrase she gives it.
We don’t have a name for it. That is, I don’t know if anybody knows about this field but me…Nobody ever comes this close to the bay. Pocahontas twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. But they will, now that your people have settled so close. I call it my star field, because of the countless times I’ve lain here to look at the stars at night. She ran her hand through her hair, dislodging small pieces of grass, and smiled at him, getting to her feet.
He chuckled as she said the name for her place. There was an urge to label this place on his map. He admired her at a view. “Where are you going?” he said with a dream-like tone, a soft inquiry. He figured why not he follow her footsteps. Where are we? Southwest of Jamestown? He dug his hand into his satchel, searching for a flat, circular device. “Do you know what this is?” —not long after a short pause— “This is a compass. It’s used for direction—you can determine which way the wind is coming from.”
Pocahontas wasn’t sure what to say. She ducked her head as she grinned, sitting on the grass beside him. You think I am “perfect,” when I know I am not. And I think you perfect when you deny it…She laughed, toying with a strand of grass that’d blown into her lap. Is this what love does?
“You tell me. I’ve been told, I’ve read—very seldom,” he wanted to make that sure. “But I haven’t felt like this before. The way you make me feel.” Did you just say that? You—you—you meant it, but you never say anything like that. Ever before. —Have you gone soft? —For her. —For her. Two voices spoke inside him. His mind was always straight forward—worked on one path. His mind was on what he used to call “more important things”. He could honestly say that he had never been in love. It was just closed, shut down, put aside, left in a dark room. But there she was—right before his eyes.
Have you ever loved somebody like the way you do now? —No. Just now. Just her.
Pocahontas shook her head gently, hair flying around her face. I wouldn’t know either. Only from what I see in other people. And I…her eyes flew back to his face, taking it in. She felt as if she had been longing to see his face all her life. I’ve never felt anything like this either. Not until now. Not until you. She beamed, slipping her hand into this.
He continued to adored her with all his attention, then he jumped up, removing himself from the present conversation that was so new to him, he returned to his old self and ask, “Where are we right now?” hands on his side. South of Jamestown, he believed. Maybe there was a name for this place, any name, a name only Pocahontas called it, a phrase she gives it.
Powder? Gowns? Pocahontas wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know what those things were but they sounded uncomfortable. She looked down at her own dress, wondering what an English lady looked like and what she would say if she met Pocahontas. This is comfortable, and it is good for the summer. But why wouldn’t they survive here? We can teach them how to dress for the hot weather.
“Oh, the ladies like to well—they like their privacy, while still trying to get a man’s attention,” he mumbled the last remark. “Big hypocrites. They bicker about how a look from a man means he wants to have her, but they dress themselves up to catch that attention. You can hardly have time to look at their faces with the too-detailed dresses.” Tone down a little, Smith. “A man will come along. The—uh—gowns, they—uh, give the image of having hips—a fuller body.” He felt uncomfortable but he was willing to use his effort to explain to her thoroughly.
“And yet what we want to see—who we want to know is the woman inside, pass all the layers of fabric.” Was this too much? “Are you understanding? Do my words not translate to any—any sense? Just uh—tight, pressing clothes, layers and layers—Yeah.” He brought a fist to mouth, clearing his throat.
So English women wear lots of silly clothing to attract a man’s attention. She nodded thoughtfully. But you’re saying that the clothes are too distracting from the woman. And the best way to catch his attention is to dress simply, so that he can look at her face instead? Pocahontas beamed. Like me? Did I get that right?
He recovered from cupping his eyes with his hands when she expressed all that he could wish for. “Exactly.” He put his hand to his mouth, laid his index finger on top of his lip, rubbing it, as he admired Pocahontas. “You succeed in every way,” he admitted, half dreamily, relating it not just this small part, but of her whole understanding, “and more.”
Pocahontas wasn’t sure what to say. She ducked her head as she grinned, sitting on the grass beside him. You think I am “perfect,” when I know I am not. And I think you perfect when you deny it…She laughed, toying with a strand of grass that’d blown into her lap. Is this what love does?
“You tell me. I’ve been told, I’ve read—very seldom,” he wanted to make that sure. “But I haven’t felt like this before. The way you make me feel.” Did you just say that? You—you—you meant it, but you never say anything like that. Ever before. —Have you gone soft? —For her. —For her. Two voices spoke inside him. His mind was always straight forward—worked on one path. His mind was on what he used to call “more important things”. He could honestly say that he had never been in love. It was just closed, shut down, put aside, left in a dark room. But there she was—right before his eyes.
Have you ever loved somebody like the way you do now? —No. Just now. Just her.
