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rather like porridge, he decided, but made from corn.
    She gave him another spoonful which he ate gratefully.
    How hungry he was! He sat up and gestured — I’ll feed myself. She put the dish down next to him and handed him the spoon.
    He began to eat, resisting the impulse to gobble it all down at once. Between mouthfuls, he began to look around. Hanging from the first rung of lashed saplings, he saw various cooking implements, and pouches with personal items. A small hand loom stood at one side, behind some rolled up blankets. Two unstrung bows and quivers of arrows hung high under the birchbark covering. Her husband’s, obviously.
    Just then the flap opened and an older man came through. He spoke simply but tersely to the woman. Thomas noticed his left arm hanging useless at his side.
    The woman rose and followed him out.
    So now, he was alone. But only for a flash. The flap opened again, and a girl crawled in. His eyes widened. Was she the woman’s daughter? The sheerest long black hair framed her perfectly formed features, a nose oddly European in size, delicate, between piercing black eyes, about eighteen, hard to tell with Indians. So far he had not heard about the beauty of these people. Thinking back to yesterday, most of them were fairly attractive, certainly not ugly brutes by any means.
    He stopped eating as they sized each other up. Who would have thought such a tempting creature lived in this wilderness?
    She came around and sat sideways to observe him more closely. He picked up the dish and tried to finish eating without looking at her too obviously. She continued to study him. She didn’t think of him as a young man, he figured, but rather as a curiosity. Eye contact such as this could never be imagined with any young lady in England — much less a shy Indian.
    She remained seated with her legs at one side, watching him carefully. With difficulty he tore his eyes from her captivating face and nodded into the dish, which was almost empty. “Good.” He smiled. Then he repeated clearly, “Good.”
    This time, she responded. “Good?”
    He nodded, and then finished the porridge. All the while she watched him seriously. All at once she said, “Gdúlg.” She nodded and pointed. “Good.”
    Thomas glowed. The Micmac word for good? “Gdúlg,” he repeated, in a mangled fashion.
    Smart, he thought, pretty and smart. Would the others be as intelligent? He’d have them talking English in no time. And they’d make him into a Micmac expert. Maybe even earn a living as a translator? Flights of fancy again. In no time, he had finished the dish and, with his forefinger, wiped the last bit off. He licked his finger clean to get the very last taste and saw her, at last, give the suggestion of a smile.
    Without prompting, she took the birchbark dish back, and reaching behind her, filled it a second time, and handed it back.
    This time he seemed to catch in that dim light a hint of recognition, as though she might be seeing him for what he was: an attractive young sailor, lonely too, in fact quite frightened, who at the same time wanted so much to become a real participant in this strange and intimidating New World.
    He smiled at her again. “Gdúlg.” “Good,” she replied. “Good.”
    “Yes, yes, very good...” What next? He pointed to himself.
    “Thomas.”
    She looked puzzled. “Thomas,” he repeated. “Thomas?”
    He nodded. Then he pointed to her, and spread his hands in the questioning gesture he’d seen the translator use the night before.
    She frowned, and paused. Then she replied, “Magwés.”
    “Magwés?” he repeated.
    She nodded, seeming pleased with the exchange, though she betrayed little.
    The flap opened and the translator poked in his head. He motioned for the young man to come out. Thomas hastily finished his porridge and handed the dish back to her politely. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very, very much.”
    She nodded, watching his every move.
    He grabbed his canvas