A great wind swept over the mountains and fields, carrying the faint chill of the Northern Continent. As Red Crow Amoxi transformed from a worried old farmer into a sly and threatening Dog-kin Great Chieftain, several hundred li away in the south, over a hundred canoes finally burst out from the mountains in the upper reaches of a Tampico River tributary and pulled in at a gentle confluence.
"Main God! The gray wolf of the wasteland traveled four hundred li east, and towering mountains bowed low by hundreds of men's height. And here, wolf-like warriors come ashore, bursting from the barren, desolate prison of the valley, finally reaching these vast, living green fields and fertile plains!..."
The poet Balamo swayed as he jumped down from a sturdy yet somewhat battered little boat and stood amid the shallow grass marsh by the river, his eyes almost unable to open.
For these four hundred li along the upper reaches of the Tampico River tributary, the channel lay between mountains, extremely difficult to travel; the drop was steep and the current swift, truly shaking him dizzy! Several times his boat had even slammed into shoals, knocking several chunks off the front planks of the little craft. As for navigation on these upper waters, shallow-bottomed and nimble canoes were about the limit; any larger oared sailing boats would likely run into trouble.
After catching his breath for several moments, the poet Balamo drew in a deep breath, widened his weathered eyes, and gazed with deep feeling at the land lush with green. He even knelt excitedly on the earth and kissed the damp soil with its faint fishy tang.
"Ah! The thousand li of fertile eastern plains, the riverside flats of the great Tampico River, the rich fields of the Huastec! Even the soil