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Mayflower: First Visitor

The canoe glided next to the large wooden ship, the small rippling waves knocking a few floating hunks of ice into the hull with hollow thumps. Pametum looked up at the frosted, weather-beaten structure that towered over his tiny canoe – even standing, he could barely reach the rope ladder that hung from the side. What amazing ships these white men can make. How many trees must have fallen to create such a thing?

Leaping to grasp the ladder, Pametum silently climbed towards the rails. Small ice crystals frozen onto the rope scraped at his weathered hands as he climbed, but Pametum’s full attention was on the railings above him. Peering both fore and aft, he looked for any movement from the men on board. Several steps before reaching the top, he reached behind his waist, beneath his layers of furs, and withdrew his knife. The stillness and quiet made him weary.

Pametum climbed one more rung up the ladder to peer through the slats of the rails, finally laying eyes on the deck. His weariness was justified.

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