Pocahontas is too Gullible
He looked like every other strange white man that had come off of the strange clouds that had kissed the beaches of her land. Yes, they all looked the same. Light hair. Light eyes. White skin. Blue veins. They were strange looking things. They looked naked to her. He did stand out somewhat. It wasn’t what he looked like though, it was how he looked at things. He looked at the trees longer than the others. While they worked away, pounding metal rods into the dirt, digging away with their strange picks and shiny tools, he was listening to the birds in the trees or the chattering of raccoons in the bushes. He was curious about a land he had only just met. Yes, he was different. But she would be careful nonetheless. She had encountered white men with their shiny hats and loud exploding sticks a few times before—they poked and prodded her like an animal. They had hurt her. They had cut her open and she had bled. Trusting them was out of the question. Trusting them was only what an idiot would do. Fool me once, shame on them, she thought. Fool me twice…
When he first set eyes on her, he wasn’t sure if she was really there. Her skin matched the bronze of the soil, and her eyes matched the color of the shaded trees. She blended in perfectly with the new world he had only just discovered. When he was given the opportunity to take a look around, he took it gratefully. He was glad the other men were lazy cowards because he preferred to do his exploring on his own. Mapping out a new land was only as dangerous as one wanted it to be. He climbed into the unknown, higher and higher. He was on her scent, he was tracking her every step, but she didn’t know yet.
He had seen others like her. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark secrets. They had tried too hard to stand out, to be different. They painted their faces like warriors or ghosts, they painted their bodies with the patterns of dangerous animals, they drank potions that turned them into dizzying shadows. She did not. The glow of her shoulders without any trace of paint was untouched and uninterested in cover ups. Her face was bare, innocent, curious, open. And she did not smell of any mixed concoctions, she smelled of rain water, water from the spring, water of life.
He took a drink from a spring on the cliff overlooking the ocean.
“I know you’re there,” he said.
She walked out from the bushes, tentative, scared. “How long have you known?”
“I saw you before you saw me,” he said.
“You won’t hurt me?” she asked.
“Why would I hurt you?”
“I’m not like you,” she pointed to the color of her skin.
“We like you. We like this,” he pointed to the color of her skin.
“No,” she said. “You don’t.”
“Well, I do. Maybe they don’t.”
“Why do you and not they?”
“Because I like to see beyond the mountains of my own home.”
“You’re not like the others.”
“You just don’t know the others like I do.”
“I know them well enough.” She now stood next to him. She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed him an ugly scar.
“Who—we did that to you?”
“I…” he stopped. He touched gently touched her shoulders, and she flinched. He did not let go. Her calm returned when he looked deep into her eyes, “I will never hurt you.”
“Do you promise?”
“Come with me. I want to show you my world.”
“Am I a part of it?”
“If you want to be.”
“Do you want me to be?”
“If I can be a part of yours.”