A gentle rain bathed the party as they loaded their packs. They would travel light, not as light as they did in the jungles that sprawled endlessly along their home peninsula, but with no more than a day or two of food in reserve. They expected to rely on the native beasts of this island to fuel their journey, but Necalli couldn't help but worry, having not seen much in the way of life asides the obnoxious white birds that seemed to mirror the groups every moves; and they hardly seemed plump enough to feed more than a single man.
Concerns of dinner aside, he could hardly ignore the talk of great northern giants that seemed to have permeated the camp overnight.
It had started with Zuma, who claimed he'd heard it from an Narragansett on one of his yearly trips into the great white north to trade maize flour for seal furs. The Narragansett trader swore that his grandfathers grandfather had been driven from his home by them. Great giants twice the height of the tallest Cherokee warrior, with eyes of the coldest canadian ice, just as harsh and unforgiving. They had massive manes of braided hair the color of plains grass and blood, with wild beards bigger than their heads full of knots and trinkets. Their insatiable bloodlust matched only by their prowess in combat. He claimed that one northman had singlehandedly tore through the walls of the most stout cabin and killed a dozen warriors and hunters as well as their wives and children with nothing but a woodchopping axe and his bare hands. Worst of all, they relished death, even to the point that they seemed to long for it. They would thrust themselves into the most lopsided of fights and when they were finally felled by dozens of warriors, the look in their eyes was not one of pain or fear, but one of some greater victory.
His head was full of nonsense Necalli decided, or at least, he hoped.
Come sunrise, feet would meet dirt, and the journey would begin. Necallis' pack weighed heavy on his shoulders, but he feared in a few days its' lack of heft would cause him more grief. He put talk of giants and monsters out of his head, and for the first time, slept easy on his warm bed of hay.
Morning arrived in a soft orange haze, as it seemed to do every day on in this peculiar land. The sun shone fuzzy through the fog that seemed to be a permanent fixture on the lazy hills of the country. No matter, by noon the gods would be spitting rain or parting the clouds like every other day.
The expedition set off with a subdued hurrah from the crew, more like a funeral than a celebration. The mood was not bleak, however it was anything but hopeful. The consensus amongst most of the men was that this island was bereft of inhabitants for it's utter lack of anything worth even shyest sliver of gold, and most felt that the expedition would reveal itself as a catastrophic waste of both time and effort. Necalli himself was unsure, it seemed unlikely that a land this huge would be totally bare of men, but so far nothing had proved him wrong.
It was not long before the party reached the banks of the grand river that they had spotted from the ship. It could hardly be missed, its massive outflow had swept the ship further in towards the land like a grown man tossing a boy in a lake. It's banks were at the least a hundred ships widths apart, Necalli guessed. Far too distant for a man to swim between before he was swept under the waves and claimed by the depths, and it continued inland as far as the eye could see.
They loaded their packs into the canoes and set off, the grand river pulling them along at a healthy pace, a decent bit faster than they could have traversed the land themselves. Hour after hour, Necalli saw nothing but rolling hills of green, sparsely dotted with trees whose bark was as white as snow. Several hours into the journey, he lay his head down, resting on a sack of corn flour, brought on the possibility that there were natives to trade with, and if not, to eat. Zuma assumed control of the canoe.
He awoke to a crunchy lurch to find the boat ground into the same grey sand that littered the coast, however this time, there was no crust of salt lining the leather cover of the canoe. Necalli cupped his hands and sipped the water cautiously, it was not turbid, but flowed at a pleasant rate, far from stagnant.
The taste was clean, crisp and almost icy, totally unlike the water he pulled from the well at home, which had a familiar mossy, almost earthy taste that he had grown accustomed to. He decided that this cool water was one thing he could come to terms with about this odd land. He filled his leathers and realized that the party had begun to set up a makeshift camp. Eager to avoid the ever present tears of cold rain that fell on the island, and to claim a spot far from the latrine, he grabbed his shovel and raced toward the bank of the river.
It was Pochtecah custom to ensure that ones campsite was all but invisible to the unaware passerby, as feuds and disputes between neighboring tribes were hardly uncommon, and the wandering merchant was quick prey and his goods made for quick gold for a tribe of hardened warriors traveling by. Such murders were not uncommon, only slightly more uncommon than a wanderer disappearing into the jungle to become prey of a snake or jaguar.
So Necalli dug his way deliberately into the bank of the powerful river, the last thing he wanted was to be awoken buried in mud, worms and sand. He climbed over the bank of the river eager to find one of those peculiar white trees, he would strip it of leaves to cover his bed, and scrape off its bark to see if he could make a dye by soaking it. Brilliant white cloaks and scarves would net him a neat profit in the markets back home.
As he scrambled clumsily over the embankment he could swear that he almost saw a twinkle of flame in the distance. The sort that's born as campfires die and embers take over. He chalked it up to fatigue, more interested in the rich white wood, and the charms of sleep.