Chapter 19

Thomas Hewitt bid farewell to the people leaving the church after another fulfilling service and sermon. When he looked around, he saw that one person still remained. Sometimes, someone with a troubled mind would stay behind like this to seek his counsel.

“Mrs. Dare, what is it? You look troubled.”

Today, that person just happened to be Eleanor Dare.

“Um… Mr. Hewitt? I wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

Hewitt surmised that her worries must be related to her father, whom she had just met again after so long; a mix of resentment and joy must be weighing on her.

“Well… do angels and devils fight each other?”

“Hmm?”

This was unexpected. Such a theological question, out of the blue.

“Well, of course they do. The Book of Ezekiel describes a battle between angels and devils, and many other theologians say that they will continue to fight until the Day of Judgment.”

“Th-then, do angels invade Hell to kill demons?”

“…Pardon? Th-that, I do not know.”

“Y-you don’t know?”

“Uh… yes. Calvin advised us not to concern ourselves with the hierarchy of angels and such…”

“…”

“…”

Silence. A silence as heavy as ice.

Mr. Hewitt could not understand Eleanor’s reaction. All he could do was leave, saying something like, “If you have any more questions, please ask me at the next service.”

As Mr. Hewitt left the church, muttering, “How strange…”, Eleanor was truly alone. Left by herself, Eleanor replayed that scene in her mind over and over.

The horrific landscape of Hell.

The unfamiliar sight of Sir Nemo, looking like a hollowed-out man.

And the terrible devil’s song that echoed from all around.

What… what did I see…?”

Ah, I don’t know. I don’t know at all.

-“Hey Satan, payin’ my dues…”

-“I’m on my way to the promised land…”

-“I’m on the highway to hell!”

She finally shook off the evil verses that had been echoing in her ears.

“Highway to hell…”

For some reason… it was catchy. It truly must be the devil’s music.

***

CRUNCH. SQUELCH. CRACK!

-“I’m on the highway to hell! Highway to hell! Don’t stop me, eh, eh, ooh!”

Tap.

Oh, Highway to Hell. It truly is a masterpiece by AC/DC. It’s so cathartic to listen to while playing a violent and gory game.

Feeling much more refreshed, I put my phone away and turned off the music. No matter how I thought about it, the mental shock of playing a song titled ‘Highway to Hell’ for the people of this era would be too great. The music of the 20th century was clearly too advanced for this time.

I glanced around again, and there was still no one near me. Right. When you’re playing ‘this kind of game’ and listening to ‘this kind of music,’ you can’t have anyone around.

In the distance, John White was diligently sketching in a notebook by himself. He was drawing my farm. We were in the newly established part of the vineyard, specifically, where the greenhouse for cultivating rootstock was located. After Eleanor had introduced me to her father and then fled as if escaping, I had been giving him a tour of the farm and settlement.

‘…But why did she run away like that?’

Eleanor had suddenly started acting strange. She would look at me with a sad expression, or jump out of her skin if I simply called out to her.

Anyway.

According to the game catalog, John White’s original profession was that of a miniaturist painter. Trained in watercolors, he had developed a talent for rapid sketching and had accompanied explorers, acting as a sort of camera. Using this talent, he was now quickly sketching the various scenes of our colony.

When he seemed to have finished his sketch, he slowly walked over to me and asked.

“Excuse me, could you tell me the purpose of that transparent structure over there?”

“Ah… that.”

How are grapevines normally propagated? By planting the seeds left over after eating grapes? No, that won’t do. You can’t preserve the traits of a carefully cultivated wine or table grape variety that way. Therefore, they were originally propagated by planting cuttings. A tree is basically like a planarian; if you snap off a piece and plant it in the ground, it will grow into a clone.

But a problem arose in the 19th century. The plague of viticulturists, the death of grapes, the phylloxera mite, appeared in Europe after crossing the Atlantic. Phylloxera, in other words, the grape root louse. It is a pest that, true to its name, latches onto the leaves and roots of a grapevine, creates galls, and sucks up all the nutrients meant for the vine.

European grapevines were extremely vulnerable to this new pest from the Americas. When the Europeans planted their cuttings, the phylloxera attached to the roots and leaves would suck the vines dry, killing them from malnutrition. As a result, the grapes of Europe were nearly wiped out, and the history of wine was divided into the eras before and after phylloxera.

Anyway.

After the phylloxera epidemic, a different method was used to propagate grapevines: grafting. They would plant cuttings of a phylloxera-resistant grapevine (this is called the ‘rootstock’), and then graft the existing grape varieties onto that rootstock to produce grapes.

Of course, it was not yet the 19th century, and the world still used the cutting method to propagate grapes. But I was farming grapes in North America, the native home of phylloxera. Which meant that I, and only I, had to use the troublesome method of planting rootstock and grafting branches onto it.

In any case, the population had grown, and the number of Christians had grown in proportion, so the demand for wine was exploding. On top of that, the gift economy network was growing by the day.

“…And so, we are building this greenhouse.”

“A… green-house, you say? What is that?” John White asked after listening to my explanation.

Hmm, the ‘greenhouse,’ did it not exist yet?

“It is a space made to be warm inside so that plants can grow regardless of the season.”

“I-is that so! I have never seen such a structure in my life!”

Living in the countryside basically means you have to keep a certain amount of necessary goods and materials on hand. Naturally, I had a surplus of the PC panels that made up the walls of my smart greenhouses. Pop quiz: are the PC panels treated as a Consumable? The answer is ‘yes.’ Thanks to that, assembling the PC panels with a steel frame to build the greenhouse was not difficult.

“The difficult part… was keeping the inside warm. This land of North Car— I mean, Virginia, is mild year-round, so the ground temperature rarely drops below freez— no, no, to the point where water freezes, but if things go wrong, the rootstock could still freeze to death.”

“I see. I understand.”

White, who had been looking around the greenhouse under construction, pointed to the stove in the middle and asked.

“Is that… the device that maintains the temperature?”

“That is correct. It is called a rocket stove. It allows us to use resources efficiently and minimizes the production of toxic gases like carbon monoxide.”

“W-wait, wait a moment. Greenhouse… rocket stove[1]… carbon monox… there are too many difficult words. Are these… things from your ‘homeland,’ Sir Nemo?”

“…Something like that.”

“Ah! Indeed! Magnificent! To build such a facility while fighting against such great evils!”

…I didn’t know why he was so obsessed with the ‘homeland’ part, or why he got so excited when I confirmed it. And what ‘great evils’? The Spanish?

More accurately, I didn’t want to know. I quickly changed the subject.

“Ahem, in any case, we will soon be able to produce rootstock in that greenhouse year-round. Thanks to that, the expansion of the vineyard is expected to proceed much faster than anticipated.”

“Hmm… I see.”

Thump.

John White closed his notebook and, his clear eyes shining much like his daughter’s, said to me.

“I believe I have a rough understanding of how this colony operates.”

“…Really? You’ve only been looking around for two days.”

“It is a village of about 300 people, scattered about. And am I not an experienced explorer?”

John White let out a few dry coughs and continued.

“You are planting… a great deal of grapes, are you not?”

Oof. I flinched as if I had been stabbed.

“Ah… the settlers are looking for a lot of wine, so I had no choice.”

This was only half-true. If that were the case, I would have planted only wine varieties in the new vineyard as well.

…Ah, grapes. My parents’ romance, my own desire, the very thing that put me in debt, and the scent of success that I could not help but chase… The day I give up on grape farming will probably be the day I die.

I tried to keep my expression firm, not to show any wavering. Seeing this, White smiled curiously and continued.

“Uh, in any case, the most cultivated crops in this colony are grapes and potatoes. Correct?”

“…That is correct.”

“Both do not last long, and one is not even a long-term food source. If a famine were to strike, this colony would be finished. You cannot stockpile food and seeds.”

…Huh? That’s right.

“Furthermore, this colony is economically inefficient. To put it bluntly, does this settlement have any products worth exporting to Europe?”

“…Not many.”

“Indeed. Even if we open contact with England, we cannot engage in proper trade like this. Which means you cannot turn a profit.”

Stability: low. Profitability: low.

…Ugh. That’s a painful report card.

“Sigh… what should we do about this…”

“However, there is a way to solve all these problems at once.”

“…Really?”

“Yes!”

White said with a broad smile.

“We can grow wheat. As it happens, the relief supplies I brought include wheat seeds, do they not?”

Wheat is a long-term storable food, which would add to the colony’s stability. Furthermore, England is currently facing a food shortage, so we could also export it there.

…Oh.

“Then we must start at once.”

“Of course. However, this Croatoan Island is not good for growing wheat. The soil is sandy, the land is low-lying, and the salt makes it barren. Grapes, perhaps, but not wheat.”

“Then…”

“Yes. We must go to the Chesapeake Bay.”

The Chesapeake Bay. The place White had originally intended to colonize.

“If we establish an additional colony in the Chesapeake Bay and grow wheat, most of this colony’s problems will be solved. However…”

However?

“Uh… we are severely lacking in skilled artisans… and livestock.”

That was true. Since seventy percent of the original English settlers who landed on Roanoke Island had disappeared, the goldsmith William Brown was also serving as the blacksmith. And as for livestock, in this era, they were tractors, food, cars, and textile factories all in one. Since all we had were chickens, it seemed this colony was teetering on the verge of collapse without my help.

“But… this seems to be a difficult problem to solve…”

White’s shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

“Why is that?”

“Well… isn’t it so? You need profit to attract investment, and you need investment to make a profit. What is a colony that is not currently making a profit supposed to do?”

“…”

“If only this were a place overflowing with jewels and all sorts of luxuries!”

“…”

Uh… wait a minute.

“John? Could you, for a moment, come this way?”

“Ah… yes, of course. What is it?”

What is it, indeed.

“What if I told you that this colony does, in fact, have profitability?”

“Let’s… assume for a moment that this island produces various jewels, animal hides, gold dust, pearls, and coral.”

“…Is this also a story from your homeland?”

Of course not. My homeland is a shitty piece of land where not a single drop of oil is produced, and which is hit by yellow dust in the spring, monsoons in the summer, typhoons in the fall, and severe cold in the winter.

Anyway, without answering, I led the way. I had the still-puzzled White stand in front of a newly built warehouse.

“Um… about the grapes.”

“Do you mean the green ones, which are seedless, with a skin so soft and fragrant beyond compare? Or do you mean the black ones, with their strange, elongated shape, but with a wonderfully crisp texture and sweetness?”

“…The Black Sapphire tanghulu seems to have left quite an impression on you. Yes, in any case, both are correct.”

“Is there some problem with those beautiful grapes?”

“No. There is no problem at all. They are perfect grapes.”

And it’s not just us who want to eat these perfect grapes.

“…There is a custom among the natives of this land to show off their power by exchanging gifts.”

“Ah, yes. I am aware of that.”

“Then, will we eat all those grapes ourselves? Or will we share them?”

“We would… share them?”

“Yes. In that case…”

Creeeak.

“…wouldn’t we receive something in return?”

I threw open the warehouse door.

And in that moment, John White’s jaw dropped. On one side was a display case made from a cut-up microfiber blanket. Why did I make such a thing?

“That… don’t tell me that’s all…”

“They are pearls, yes.”

To store the pearls and coral.

I opened another door, and all sorts of animal furs were spread out everywhere. I opened another, and it was filled with uncut gemstones.

“Uh… ah… uh oh…”

“These are all things Manteo traded for the grapes.”

“…”

John White collapsed on the spot.

“What do you think? Can we get livestock and skilled artisans with this?”

“…”

White, without a word, nodded like a madman.

This feeling, it was as if some dark desire was being fulfilled.

…Something like a lust for showing off.

***

“‘…November 4th. To prepare for a voyage and set sail in just two weeks is something I have never experienced in my life. Is this a new form of suicide, or a great endeavor? I do not know. Does Sir Walter Raleigh know?’”

“Thomas! What are you doing over there!”

“‘…Probably not.’”

The mathematician, linguist, and naturalist Thomas Harriot closed his diary, trembling with anxiety. With unsteady steps, he climbed onto the deck. He looked around, but his employer, Walter Raleigh, was nowhere to be seen. As Harriot tilted his head in confusion, Sir Raleigh peeked his head out of a cabin far away and beckoned to him.

When he hurried over, he found Sir Raleigh kneeling in the middle of the cabin, his hands clasped together.

“Uh… what are you doing?”

“Can you not see? I kneel for no one but God and my lover.”

“Ah, I see.”

Doesn’t that mean Sir Raleigh kneels for a great many people? Thomas Harriot thought, but then, at Sir Raleigh’s sharp glare, he unconsciously knelt beside him and closed his eyes.

The sound of the devout Protestant, Sir Raleigh’s, prayer quietly echoed in the cabin.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

So far, it seemed like a normal prayer…

“…Please, if this colony fails too, I am a dead man. Ah, Father! Father! Please…!”

“…”

It was, fundamentally, a prayer in the same vein as those of the countless stock investors who are responsible for the temperature of the Han River in the 21st century.

Of course, Thomas Harriot, who considered the 21st century a distant, unknowable future, had no idea that a river called the Han even existed, and lived in a world where the joint-stock company had not yet been invented, could not have had such a thought. He just… felt a great throbbing in his head. A feeling that, in the 21st century, would be called ‘hyun-ta[2].’

That, too, he did not know.

And so, they began their crossing of the Atlantic.