The next day is crystal, and she is one of the first up, joining the sailors who have been on night watch. No, no more petticoats and stays. She dresses herself in an old grey skirt and loose bodice, wears a jacket over the top, and John finds her sitting on the prow of the ship, watching the sea birds wheel in the blazing sky.
He sits beside her. She takes his hand.
And things change. Perhaps things change because of Meg, who seems to have developed a deep affection for the elder woman, and lends her some breeches, shows her how to climb the rigging, discusses Indian stories, the food of Pocahontas' childhood. Asks what it was like to live in a world where everything had a spirit. Pocahontas, in her turn, braids the girl's hair, and even kisses her forehead, thinking how she would have liked a daughter like Meg – all bright eyes and pealing laughter (she forgets, as many people do, the screaming, demented Ophelia, who would gladly rip her own skin to shreds).
Perhaps things change because of Thomas. Separate from his father, he neglects his bible reading in favor of patching sails, or climbing to the top of the mast. He seems to wear his own skin with confidence, and his bright smile, his calloused hands, his sun burned skin makes Pocahontas smile at him. The way he blushes when Meg kisses his cheek – that makes his mother smile, too.
And there is John. John who lets her steer the ship, who tells her about all the places where he's been, doesn't ever remind her again that she did not choose him. John asks her opinion about things. About whether animals have souls like humans do. About whether woman should have the same rights as men. About whether people can help becoming evil, or if it is just caught up in their blood. He seems to have developed a philosophical streak, since they last met, and she finds she likes it. Wonders if it was perhaps partly due to her.
John helps her rescue a bird that gets caught in the ropes of the rigging, and they smile as it launches into open sky, it's feathers haloed, sanctified in the sun.
It empties its bowels on John Smith's head. She doesn't think she's ever laughed so much.
He lends her books he brought to read to Meg (never much for paper turning himself) – a book about India, the place they were looking for when they found her country. A book called Arcadia. Utopia, which confuses her but which she likes. And Shakespeare.
She likes Shakespeare – especially the sonnets. But sometimes they are too sad – and she doesn't want sadness any more – she wants to run to the deck, to fling up her arms in the sun, swing herself into the rigging alongside the sailors with as much ease as she had when she was young. She wants to laugh with him, to see his eyes light up when he speaks of Venice, of the Netherlands half under wave, of the bleak brutal beauty of a world called Russia. Of the spices in Arabia. Of the temples of Greece.
When she is with him, it is as though she is able to taste the world.
Or perhaps things only change because of the sky – because it is so infinite. So blue.
Perhaps things change due to the wind.