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IT IS EARLY springtime. Outside the open window, the trees wear their lacy new green, and the air is alive with insect sounds. I am four and a half years old. Inside our cottage, my mother is stirring a pot of bubbling cornmeal porridge over the fire—our midday meal. I am standing on a chair, doing my best to pound corn into meal with our large mortar and pestle. My father arrives from working in the fields.
“Ah, my girls are cooking together, I see,” he says. He stands behind my mother and wraps his arms around her. His hands come to rest on her slightly bulging belly. I glance at my parents and am surprised to realize what I hadn’t noticed before. I flash them a huge smile.
I want to say, Oh! A new baby is coming! But I can’t let on that I know, and they obviously think it is too early to tell me.
I just keep pounding corn and smiling.
. . .
Pocahontas has been living in Henrico, a new outer plantation far from James Town fort. We receive reports—mostly gossip—as to her well-being.
She is happy. She is angry. She wants to stay with us. She wants to go home. She wears her new English clothing like a princess. She goes barefoot like a commoner under her long dresses. She reads the Bible. Reverend Whitaker has converted her to Christianity and her new Christian name is Rebecca. She will always believe, in her heart, in those heathen gods of theirs: Okeus, Ahone, the Great Spirit.
There is controversy over the ransom. Some say her father has paid some of it but refuses to pay all of what Captain Argall and Governor Dale demand. Others say that her father keeps paying all that they ask, but it is never enough; they always ask for more because they have no intention of allowing her to go home. Some say she is angry at her father. Others say she is furious at Governor Dale and Captain Argall.
The gossip continues: Rebecca is in love with John Rolfe. No, she is not in love, she misses her husband. Her marriage to Kocoum doesn’t count because it was not in a church. John Rolfe wants to marry her, and Governor Dale has given his consent.
This last piece of gossip at least, about her marriage to John Rolfe, turns out to be true. A wedding is planned to take place at the church in James Town fort on April 5.
The day dawns warm and sunny. Reverend Buck wears his Sunday black suit. Everyone in the fort wears their finest clothing. For the gentlemen and their wives and children, this means ruffles and starched collars, velvet, lace, and shined shoes. For me and my mother, it means newly washed and mended dresses and clean feet. For my father and Samuel, clean shirts. The Indians come, too: Pocahontas’s sister, Mattachanna, and her aunts and uncles, all with their beautiful feathers and necklaces of copper, shells, and beads.
There is a hush, as though if someone says the wrong thing, this magical moment will dissolve—this moment of love and union between our two peoples. We are all tired of the fighting and bloodshed. We want this wedding to bring us peace.
The “better sort” take their seats in the pews, and we stand at the back of the church with the other commoners. I can barely see Mr. Rolfe at the altar with Reverend Buck, waiting for his bride.
Suddenly everyone is on their feet, turning toward us. No, not toward us, toward her .
Her black hair is pulled back, her skin dark against the scarlet of her mantle. She is accompanied by her uncle Opitchapam, who will give her away. She carries a bouquet of rosemary and wears a necklace of pearls, a gift from her father. She walks slowly, her face as unreadable as a blank stone.
I desperately want to know what she is thinking and feeling. Is she happy to be marrying John Rolfe? Is she still grief stricken that she can’t go home to Kocoum and her young son? I know I only have to touch her, and the knowing will reveal at least some of her feelings to me.
I reach out and brush her hand as she walks by. She doesn’t even notice, but I have what I want: the blank stone becomes alive. She is determined, hopeful, nervous, interested, ready for the next step.
Good , I think, she is making the best of what life has given her .
I nearly doze off during Reverend Buck’s long sermon. But when the wedding is over, when John Rolfe and Rebecca have been pronounced “husband and wife,” I am wide-awake. There is joy ruffling through the crowd as we file out of the church. Joy and hope.
Men shake Mr. Rolfe’s hand and congratulate him. Rebecca’s sister and relatives gather around her. When I see Samuel walking toward Rebecca, I trot after him. He wishes her well and grasps her shoulders as if he could put strength into them—strength she will need, as the peace of two kingdoms rests on those shoulders.
I tug on Rebecca’s hand so that she’ll notice me. She looks down and I can see that she doesn’t recognize me.
“Matoaka,” I say. I can’t think of anything else to say.
She bends down and takes my face in her palms. “Ginny?” she asks in amazement. “You’re such a big girl now!”
I grin. Then, through her hands, a memory comes to me, almost as if it is my own: a day in her village, her baby son on her lap, her loving husband, Kocoum, nearby. Her eyes fill with tears.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
But it startles her, and I realize I have said a very stupid thing on her wedding day. “Um, I mean, be happy. Be happy now ,” I say.
She blinks, quickly wipes tears from her cheeks, and laughs. “Yes, Ginny,” she says. “Thank you.”