The Continental Covenant, and specifically the society of Virginia, was a hybrid creation. In a rare occurrence in human history, multiple cultures were treated with equal dignity, blending the traditions of the English, the Algonquin, the Spanish, and the West Africans into a singular, vibrant tapestry.
This was all thanks to the guidance of the “Angel.” Through his intervention, the people of Virginia had managed to bypass the historical tragedies of segregation, physical massacres, and cultural erasure that had plagued the original timeline. Over the decades, this peculiar history had seeped into every facet of their society.
The Continental Covenant functioned on a principle of reciprocity; before demanding anything from its citizens, the state “gifted” them land and sustenance, thereby securing the legitimacy of its rule. This governance was further refined by the blending of English-style parliaments with indigenous-style councils, creating a unique administrative form. Matrilineal and patrilineal societies converged to produce a more equitable system of inheritance, while European brick buildings across the land were adorned with intricate American motifs.
Language was no exception. In Virginia and the various other nations of the Continental Covenant, English was the primary tongue.
“My aides runned back then,” a man spoke. “They said no matter how much they runned, no person appeared.”
However, this English was fundamentally different from the version spoken in England. The grammar had been drastically simplified, stripped of almost all irregularities. Verbal inflections based on person or number had vanished, and most irregular conjugations for nouns and pronouns had been eliminated. Furthermore, it was heavily infused with vocabulary from Powhatan, other indigenous languages, West African tongues, and Spanish. It had even incorporated entirely new pronouns, marking a strange linguistic evolution.
This was precisely why indigenous officials like Oitotan, who handled diplomatic affairs, had to learn British English as a separate language alongside their native “Virginia English.”
“Reports say fishes are catched without end,” the speaker continued. “It is clear that because the lake’s jurisdiction is vague, no one dares enter. This is why we need to resolve the dispute between the Wabanaki Confederacy and the Iroquois…”
The Englishmen and Spaniards gathered at the meeting listened with only a hint of confusion. They did not ask the speaker to use “proper” English. In this place, this was the proper English. Had the speaker attempted to use complex verbal conjugations or irregular nouns, even his indigenous colleagues might have struggled to understand him.
Of course, there was another reason the Europeans refrained from correcting his speech.
“Councilor, the time has come,” an aide whispered.
“Ah… is it already? Then I shall take my leave. I trust my points were understood.”
“Safe travels, Councilor.”
“Ensure the border issues are settled by our next meeting.”
The speaker was the highest-ranking official in the room. This member of the Continental Congress, an indigenous man, walked with a steady stride, leaning on an ivory-handled cane. He wore an aristocratic ensemble draped in traditional ornaments, looking remarkably robust despite being well over seventy.
His health was no accident. He was supported by the most advanced medical technology in the world, maintaining his vitality through specialized supplements, regular exercise, and a strictly controlled diet. As a man in his position, he had to remain healthy.
As he boarded a gilded carriage, his attendants shut the door and signaled the departure with loud shouts. The carriage set off, flanked by escort vehicles and a specialized carriage carrying convenience facilities like a private washroom.
Leaning back into the plush seat, he closed his eyes. One secretary began reciting the remaining schedule, while another quietly sorted through the minor administrative tasks requiring his attention. The only sounds in the carriage were the rhythmic jolting of the wheels and the scratch of pens against paper.
Feeling a sudden wave of boredom, he turned to one of his secretaries. “How much longer until we arrive?”
“It should take another seven days, sir. Councilor Thomas Hewitt is expected to arrive the day after us.”
“Good. We shall get to work immediately. We go straight to the Council building upon arrival.”
“Understood, sir.”
A few hours later, after disembarking from the carriage, a massive steamship awaited him. The captain and navigator, visibly nervous, visited his cabin to express what an honor it was to meet him, but he was eventually left to enjoy the quietude required by an old man.
Within a few days, the steamship entered warmer, albeit more dangerous, waters: the Gulf of Mexico. These waters were surrounded by Spanish colonies, yet no hint of anxiety touched his face. He was aboard a vessel of steel. Unless the Leviathan of the Bible itself appeared, nothing could threaten him—not even the Spanish Great Armada.
The ship traveled up the Mississippi River, heading north until it reached the territory of the Omaha tribe, situated at the eastern terminus of the new transcontinental highway. A city of several thousand people had already sprouted there. Though road construction had only begun a few months ago, progress was moving at a blistering pace.
As he reached the Council building, the faces of those who recognized him filled with shock. Council staff rushed inside to halt the ongoing meeting and usher him in. Amidst the sudden commotion, he stood naturally upon the podium as an official introduced him.
“We have a guest here to inspect the construction sites of the highway. Everyone, this is… a member of the Continental Congress, one of the six supreme rulers of Virginia, and a member of Walter Raleigh’s cabinet… Lord Manteo.”
The room fell into a deafening silence. Every person present understood the immense weight carried by that name and those titles. Once the crowd had settled, Manteo spoke slowly.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. May the Nameless One bless you all.”
***
After a brief speech, Manteo immediately began his inspection of Omaha. Everyone scrambled in the wake of this unexpected high-level visit, but Manteo felt no guilt for the disruption. This was the most effective way to engrave the authority and dignity of the Continental Covenant into their minds. To the tribes in this region, the Covenant was still viewed more as a “loose alliance” than a powerful governing body.
He intended to show them, from this moment forward, exactly who stood above them. He let the contrast between their frantic energy and his own calm composure speak for itself. Normally, Thomas Hewitt would have accompanied him, but due to a scheduling conflict, he was expected to arrive a day or two later.
“This is the logistics warehouse completed recently,” a local guide explained. “From here, equipment and materials for the road construction are moved westward.”
“I see,” Manteo replied.
Manteo intended to scout Omaha thoroughly before his colleague arrived to lighten the load. He was impressed by the infrastructure and industrial monasteries that had sprouted in such a short time. He hadn’t expected the Covenant’s influence to grow this rapidly, nor that the reclamation of California would so effectively draw in the middle-ground tribes.
It was an encouraging result. Manteo nodded silently as the guide spoke, observing his surroundings as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
“And this is the chapel… wait.”
The guide squinted at the setting sun and turned to Manteo with sudden urgency. “What day is it today?”
“It is Friday,” Manteo replied.
“Friday? Ah, I see.” The guide’s demeanor changed instantly. “In that case, I must leave you here. Thank you for your time.”
“Excuse me?”
As the guide attempted to hurry away without further explanation, Manteo’s aide stepped forward to stop him. The guide struggled, looking at Manteo with a panicked expression.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the aide demanded. “Where is your sense of decorum?”
“I—I am truly sorry, but I cannot continue the tour. Please, forgive me.”
With those words, the guide cast a nervous glance around and hurried toward the chapel. Before Manteo could even process the rudeness, he noticed the people around them had stopped in their tracks. As if on cue, everyone began congregating toward the chapel.
Manteo and his aides watched the scene in bewilderment. The Sabbath was still two days away—why were they gathering at the chapel now? Furthermore, the missionaries working in this area had never reported such an overwhelming success in their conversions.
In that moment, Manteo felt a prickle of unease. it was the same sensation he felt whenever Walter Raleigh dumped a troublesome task on his lap. Without hesitation, he ordered his aide to bring the guide back.
“Why are you doing this? I have to go! My work for the day is done, isn’t it?”
“Done?” Manteo asked. “So suddenly and without notice?”
“Pardon? Is today not the Sabbath?”
“The Sabbath?”
This was becoming increasingly strange. It was only Friday evening; what Sabbath could he possibly be talking about? Despite his breach of etiquette, the guide seemed genuinely flustered. Manteo turned and began striding toward the chapel the guide had been so eager to reach.
As he approached, he noticed something peculiar. There was no cross. There were no statues of the Virgin Mary, nor were there any angels or common Christian ornaments.
“······.”
“Councilor! Are you al—oh?”
There was, however, a single symbol. Manteo didn’t know why it was there, but it stood out clearly.
A six-pointed star. The Star of David.
“You,” Manteo said, turning very slowly to the guide who was still fidgeting beside him. “What exactly is your religion?”
“Pardon? I serve the Lord, of course. Unlike those other tribes who refused to join the road construction.”
“······.”
The guide spoke with an unmistakable note of pride. Manteo fought to suppress his growing dread as he asked another question.
“And what do you think of the Nameless One?”
The guide didn’t hesitate. “Ah, is he not the Messiah of us Jews?”
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
Manteo struggled to keep his mouth shut, barely suppressing the question screaming in his mind.
Since when the hell were you Jewish?
He couldn’t even begin to fathom how things had spiraled to this point.
***
It had all started with Manasseh ben Israel, who had departed for France.
“Everyone, the time has finally come. The day when our scattered people reunite and humanity finds salvation is drawing near!”
“Ah… finally! Praise be to our Anointed King!”
The Jewish people in Europe were swept up in a wave of euphoria, fueled by the hopeful news Manasseh sent back.
“E-everyone, please, calm down! That place is just a vacant lot!” Gershom had pleaded.
“Indeed. A vacant, fertile lot with a mild climate, isn’t it? And its name is Salem, no less.”
“······.”
“Accept it already, Gershom. Stop this irrational belittling and disparagement of the Prince.”
“Tsk, tsk. Such a shame for a young man like him…”
Gershom’s attempts at a logical, rational rebuttal were swiftly ignored, buried under a mountain of what the others deemed “unreasonable doubt.”
Amidst this fervor, the first group of migrants was assembled. Under the protection of the King of France, they moved secretly and safely, eventually boarding a ship bound for the Continental Covenant. There were about six hundred of them. Instead of stopping elsewhere, they traveled straight up the Mississippi River to Omaha, where they intended to join the Covenant’s transcontinental highway.
However…
“Ah, hello there.”
“You… you speak English? Then we can communicate! Heavens, is this another of the Lord’s graces?”
“Wait, what are you—”
“Our long-lost brothers and sisters! I am truly overjoyed to meet you again!”
The Jews who arrived here were the most devout among their people—men who had abandoned their homes and crossed an ocean based on faith alone. Consequently, they had arrived fully “ideologically armed” by Manasseh’s teachings.
They were in total agreement that Salem was the holy sanctuary destined to save the Jews from war, and that the American Indians living nearby were their long-lost kinsmen.
Of course, it was absolute nonsense. In the eighth century BC—twenty-three hundred years ago, when the Kingdom of Israel fell to Assyria—the Jews possessed nowhere near the seafaring technology required to cross the Atlantic. Furthermore, even in the far future, DNA testing on those who made such claims would prove that the genetic link between Jews and Native Americans was non-existent.
But sometimes, there are things more important than historical truth. Just as the Anglo-Saxons who displaced the original Britons took King Arthur as a national symbol, historical perception is often conveniently distorted to fit current needs. Lacking any means of genetic testing, the Jews followed what they deemed the “most rational deduction available”: the conclusion that the indigenous people before them—who didn’t practice circumcision, follow the Law, or even believe in the Lord—were their lost brethren.
Normally, such nonsense would be buried under the rejection or indifference of the locals, but…
“W-we… we are the Chosen People?”
“Indeed, brother!”
“······.”
“······.”
“···I can live with that.”
This time, the circumstances were different. The tribes involved in the road construction were looking for a justification to cut ties with their old allies and monopolize the interests of the road for themselves. They needed an identity that distinguished them from other American Indians.
In this situation, the identity bestowed upon them by the Jews—”Our kinsmen paving the way to the Holy Land”—served as a rather comfortable cloak.
“Hell, I’ll be a Jew if that’s what it takes!”
“Sounds like a plan!”
And so, they became Jews.
“That… that is how it happened, sir,” the guide explained. “What a blessing it is to finally know our true lineage. To think we are descendants of Abraham… I never would have dreamed it.”
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
Hearing the tale, Manteo and his aides could only stare, their mouths hanging open in shock.