Slowly, the warmth that had been in White’s hand began to cool. I felt for his wrist. There was no longer a pulse. I leaned my ear against his chest. It was just as quiet. I looked around. Save for two or three people, everyone in the room was completely motionless.
Scratch, scratch.
Hewitt, as if possessed, was scribbling down every word I had just spoken.
“Ah, M-Mom?” Virginia, her face awash with tears, clung to Eleanor.
And Eleanor…
“…”
She was looking at me. Then, her gaze shifted to the body of her father, who had just passed. And then, back to me.
“My father, he looks at peace.”
She spoke, her voice thick.
“He was truly, so afraid.”
Tears welled and spilled from her eyes, and in turn, from Virginia’s, who was clinging to her.
“Th-Thank you, Lord Nemo. Truly, thank you.”
“I only did the best I could.” It was the only thing I could say, and it was the truth.
Am I an angel sent by God?
I doubt it.
I was merely playing a game when I stumbled upon this place, albeit with extraordinary abilities. It’s true that a supernatural entity sent me here. However, I am a far cry from the angels depicted in Abrahamic religions. Although the entire situation originated from their own misunderstanding, I am essentially guilty of deceiving them to survive. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, conceal a man’s death with false comfort.
So, I told him the truth and stayed by his side. That was the best I could do. Sometimes, an action as simple as that can be the most effective.
“We must prepare the funeral. I’ll call for the undertaker. Let’s all prepare for tomorrow.”
I made the sign of the cross, and everyone in the room followed suit. A few left to call for the undertaker, while a few more moved toward the bed to move White’s body. Eleanor and Virginia, wiping away their tears, joined the latter group.
As I stepped out of the door, I heard a rustling sound from the room next door. I turned my head, and Hewitt tilted his, confused.
“Hm? No one should be staying in that room. They must be cleaning it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, as far as I know.”
“…”
I turned my head away.
“Then, let’s go.” And so, we left the cathedral with John White’s body.
***
“…”
Elizabeth Tudor, the Queen of England, sat alone in the room, frozen in silence. She remained as still as a stone, not even breathing, long after the murmuring outside had faded into nothingness. However, in stark contrast to the silence of her body, her mind was screaming, lost in utter chaos.
She had met ‘him’ before. He was a peculiar man. His gaze held a mineral-like calmness. His firmly set mouth and straight nose conveyed an impression of serene, unwavering resolve. A unique, unruffled patience emanated from him like a scent. All these elements were layered together, like strata of rock, hard-packed by the ages he had lived. He was a hardened man, made so by the life he had endured. Yet, when you looked at his face as a whole, it was merely the face of an exotic boy.
Attractive, but young. No, childish. Not a single wrinkle, not a single freckle. His skin was taut and elastic, as if it had never known time. His lips, his eyebrows, his hair—all vibrant, as if newly bloomed. He was like an ancient old man, old as Methuselah, yet he wore the face of a child.
The mysterious Emperor of the natives. An enigmatic being who had appeared with an empire whose very existence had been in question until recently. A monarch from a fairy tale, who had coincidentally encountered Christianity and converted his entire empire. A sage who had never set foot on European soil, yet was fluent in Latin, English, and French. And, a very young boy.
All of these elements coexisted within one person. And of this person, the dying old man had said:
—“Only the Lord knows who will be saved. How could I ask you, His messenger?”
‘The Lord’s messenger,’ he had called him.
“No.”
Do not look away. Do not line up all the other elements while ignoring the most important one. You heard it. Yes, you I… I ‘heard.’
I heard his voice. And that voice had spoken clearly, distinctly, in English, in Latin, in Greek, in French, in Italian, in Spanish, in Welsh, in Gaelic, in Scots, in Cornish.
Her ears had registered every language, each one distinct and clear. Simultaneously, all those languages merged in her mind, forming a single, natural, and unified meaning, like a mosaic.
Clack.
“Your Majesty? Did… did some people just enter here?” Margaret, who had stepped out to fetch some food, hurried back in, clutching a basket of bread. She must have witnessed the group leaving the cathedral.
The Queen looked up at Margaret, at the ‘saint’ who seemed more at home in the muddy clothes of a farmer’s wife than in a lace-trimmed dress. Elizabeth intended to assure her that nothing had happened and that she was fine. However, as she tried to compose herself, she felt it—her hands, her lips, and even her very eyes were trembling.
She had meant to say something else, to assure Margaret that she was fine and that no one had entered the room. But her mouth and tongue moved of their own accord, weaving the words.
—“The Lord’s messenger?”
Yes.
If this phrase held no meaning, if it was merely a metaphor, she would simply tilt her head in confusion. I would clear my throat in embarrassment, and just as she was about to inquire about its significance, I would have her sit down and present me with what she had brought. It was likely some rough bread, cheese, and fruit.
“…”
“Why… are you silent?”
Margaret’s face went rigid.
Elizabeth’s mouth moved again. She understood that once this was uttered, it could never be retracted. She realized that crossing this line would expose everything. Yet, driven by the same cursed curiosity that had led Adam and Eve to consume the fruit, she spoke anyway.
“And you… were you real, too?”
It wasn’t a proper question. What was she asking about? What did “real” mean? But the false saint’s face flooded with pure terror.
No. Not ‘false.’
Not a false saint.
“…”
“…”
“Well.”
“Y-Your Majesty, that is.”
“An old man recently passed away. One I knighted.”
“Pardon?”
“How old was he?”
“…”
The abrupt, mundane question seemed to break the tension, and Margaret staggered slightly. She had been wound so tightly that it was a natural reaction. She closed the door, stepped fully into the room, and processed the question.
“Sir John White was sixty-six.”
Sixty-six.
And she, was seventy-two.
It had been such a long life. Initially, she had immersed her hands in conspiracy and extended them into countless massacres, all solely for survival. Looking back, her feet were caked in filth, and her hands were stained with blood, yet she had walked on without a care. Her body and soul were already soiled. Or perhaps she had been conceived in that filth from the very beginning. Perhaps she was always destined to live this way and die this way.
Destined for hell.
As that great reformer, John Calvin, had said: some are destined for eternal damnation.
She was afraid of that.
It was that fear that made her cling to life so desperately. She would have preferred nothing at all—neither the glory of heaven nor the eternal punishment of hell. She had wished, as those impudent atheists Raleigh kept around him used to say, that the heavens were empty and the earth was just filled with minerals. Yet,
—“Fear not hell.” Someone had said it.
—“And long not for heaven.”
It was a thing she never thought she would hear a Christian utter.
—“Death is, by its very nature, something to be feared.”
Her entire life, Elizabeth had been taught that the death of the flesh was trivial, nothing to be feared. The only thing to truly fear was for that body and soul to be cast out from God’s light, into eternal torment. He had denied that teaching. And what else had he said?
—“You have lived a good life. Remember only that.”
“Utter nonsense. And it doesn’t even apply to me.”
“Your Majesty? What did you just—?”
“Hah.”
The stream of absurdities was so relentless that it forced a laugh from her.
Heh. How ridiculous. The Lord’s messenger. A saint. It’s alright to fear death. Fear not hell.
—“It is more precious than eternity, because it is fleeting.”
A fleeting life is more precious than an eternal one.
“Ha!”
Truly, what nonsense. The Queen took a deep breath and stood up. Margaret, who had been frozen, stumbled over to her and bowed, her face wet with tears. She was trembling with tension and fear. Elizabeth placed her wrinkled hand on the girl’s shaking shoulder.
“Oh, Margaret.” She lifted her chin, forcing her to meet her gaze. And the Queen spoke. “May I attend the funeral?”
***
The founder of the first English colony in Virginia. A member of the six-person council that governed the Virginia Commonwealth. And. An Apostle.
When news of such a man’s passing spread, it was only natural that countless people flocked to pay their respects. A great crowd gathered in front of his villa in Chesapeake. The flower shops in the new arcade sold out and closed their doors. All of those flowers were laid before one man’s casket. Those who had been close to him tossed flowers into the still-open coffin, whispering their last words to the deceased.
And.
“Therefore, just as one trespass resulted in condemnation for all people, so also one righteous act resulted in justification and life for all people. (Romans 5:18)”
My sermon began.
“We must remember these words from the fifth chapter of Romans. Just as through the sin of one man, Adam, all humanity was condemned, so also through the righteousness of one man, Jesus Christ.”
I quietly recited the words I had frantically written and memorized last night.
“To be a Christian is to ask to live a life like Christ’s. Though the path to heaven is narrow and hard, though all manner of sin and hardship await you, do not forget the righteousness in your hearts. Fill this fleeting, momentary life with goodness and beauty. Walk the path that the Lord left for humankind, the path commanded by the God within your own hearts.”
I paused, and glanced back.
John White was sleeping a sleep he would not wake from until the end of days.
“May he, who volunteered to be the Lord’s instrument alongside me, find his rest.”
One day, everyone here would be just like him. They would all leave me behind.
“May the Lord look upon him, John White of England, and find him righteous and faithful enough.”
Will he truly go to heaven? Will any of the people gathered here? Does the God they believe in even exist?
I knew none of it.
“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”
I bowed my head. I swallowed the hot lump that had risen in my throat and stared at the floor. Everyone followed my lead, bowing their heads and murmuring silent prayers for the departed. Eleanor was weeping as she looked at me. I looked into the distance,
“…” “…” “…”
—and saw someone who should not have been there.
“So. You weren’t a mute after all.”
At those words, I felt my breath catch. She paid it no mind and drew closer, that same dignified, bitter smile on her face as before. Still, that elegant walk. That walk, fit for a monarch. Finally, the Queen of England stood before me.
“You can speak, can’t you?”
I was frozen. As my mind raced, trying to find the words, she smiled, a small smirk, and raised a single finger.
“I have many questions for you.”
“…”
Questions.
I could barely get a single word out, before she spoke quietly, “Let us move away from this place,” her gaze sweeping over the crowd with deliberate leisure. “There are too many people here, are there not?”
“Then, we can move to the cathedral. I will prepare the Apostles and clear the—“
“Oh, my Walter.”
Elizabeth patted Raleigh’s beard as he drew near.
“I only need two people. Myself, and the Emperor. Just the two of us.”
And so, we moved.
***
The Queen glanced around the room. She observed the furs and firearms hanging on the walls, the strange instruments laid out and spoke.
“This is your government’s meeting hall. Where the Council convenes, and where the heads of your government speak with you.”
—’That is correct.’
“I already told you I know. Must you use the notepad?”
“…”
“Fine. Very well. If you are more comfortable that way, do as you please.”
—’Thank you for your understanding.’
“You are a strange one.”
The meeting Elizabeth had imagined was far more dramatic, more explosive than this. She had planned to expose his ‘true identity,’ to get the upper hand to bend this man to her will.
“’Behold, are not all these which speak Galilaeans? And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born?’ (Acts 2:7-8)”
“Koff, keck, koff.”
Yes. Just like that.
When she recited the passage about the Apostles’ miracle of ‘speaking in tongues,’ the Emperor in front of her choked in surprise. Elizabeth finally felt the satisfaction of a proper conversation beginning. She took a sip of the bitter, black liquid before her.
Co… ffee, she believed it was called.
The upper hand was hers.
“You certainly, did have something to hide.”
After all, for a supposed ally, his protocol had been abysmal. Trapping her on an island like a prisoner, and even when she left it, posting guards everywhere while pretending not to…
—’I apologize.’
As if sensing her thoughts, the Emperor quickly pushed a note toward her. The Queen waved her hand, dismissing it.
“No, no. Think nothing of it. I am the one who should apologize for intruding on a funeral.”
—’It is no matter. It was already concluding.’
“That is, a relief.”
The pleasantries were over.
“In any case, it is a joyous thing when the work of the Holy Spirit manifests in a Christian monarch.”
“…”
“It is merely, odd, that you would hide it.”
“…”
Now, it was time for the serious talk.
“The Pope, and everyone else, will be clamoring for you. You knew that, did you not?”
Silence again. So he knew. That made it even stranger. If such a blessing had been given to her, Elizabeth would never have stopped talking about it. She would have papered the world with pamphlets proclaiming England as a nation blessed by God.
“Well, whatever your reasons, if you wish to hide it, I will cooperate.”
—’Thank…’
“There will be a price, of course.”
“…”
“To be stabbed and live. To think I would see the prophecies of the Apocalypse realized in my own lifetime.”
This time, the ‘Emperor’s’ eyes shook violently. He didn’t need to write; I knew what he was thinking.
‘How did you know that?’
“It was simple enough. What’s to stop me from dressing as a farmer’s wife and walking around your settlements? Margaret is too soft to stop me.”
“…”
“You couldn’t have hidden it for long, not once I was here. There are tens of thousands of people. It is impossible to silence them all.”
“…”
“Ha. Haha.”
Sip.
Elizabeth noticed her hand was trembling slightly. She frowned. Why am I shaking? I am the one in control of this conversation. I have all this leverage on him. I can make my life on Roanoke…
“…”
“…”
The Queen tried to make a joke. She thought about demanding a steady supply of luxurious furs, or asking if he planned to form a one-man choir with all those tongues. And then, she let it all go. She had not come here for such games. She had not even come to extort him for wealth. There was something she needed to know.
“…’The Lord’s messenger,’ he called you.”
Silence.
“What is heaven like?”
More silence.
“Are you truly an angel? Are you a charlatan? Or are you the Beast, come to bring about the end of days?”
—’No. I was silent only because you did not need to know.’
Did not… need to know?
At that, the Queen’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean? I am a Christian and the head of the Church of England. How can you say I do not ‘need to know’ when I ask about heaven?”
“Shh.”
“…”
For the first time. For the very first time, the foreign ‘Emperor’ interrupted her. With a quiet, gentle smile. He hadn’t spoken, of course. Elizabeth, stunned, watched as the ‘Emperor’ merely—
scritch, scratch…
—began to write again.
He pushed the note toward her. The Queen read the words.
—’Heaven and hell are not important.’
She froze. There it was again. That absurd, impossible statement. That wasn’t just some sweet platitude for a dying old man? It wasn’t just nonsense meant to calm him? Scritch, scratch.
—’Only this life, here and now, is important.’
“That is preposterous. Compared to eternity, a life of less than 100 years is meaninglessly short, is it not?” Scritch, scratch.
—’That is true. But consider it logically. If this earthly life is not important, why would the Lord judge us for eternity based on this “meaninglessly short” time?’
“…”
—’Therefore, do not concern yourself with words like heaven or hell.’
“Are you, are you truly an angel?”
“…”
He just smiled again, saying nothing. And with that simple, empty smile, the Queen felt something deep inside her begin to crumble. She couldn’t stop a dry laugh from escaping. Heh. Heheh.
—’Why do you laugh?’
This is absurd. Yes. That’s right. I am already destined for hell, so what does any of it matter? I am… already fated for the death of the soul.
“…”
“…”
Like a joke, she uttered the same words she had spoken to Margaret. Her intention was to observe his reaction. Would he, like Margaret, pledge to pray for her? Would he offer her sweet words, questioning how she could utter such a thing?
Scratch. Scratch.
“…”
“…”
Riiiiip.
It appeared he would neither comply nor offer any response. He had been fixated on the Queen’s face. He tore the page he was writing on, crumpled it, and discarded it. Then, he directly addressed her and spoke.
“I do not know.”
Ouk oîda. Hescio. Je ne sais pas. Ki kenlusa. No sé. Cha’n eil fhios agam. Níl a fhios agam…
“Ah.”
Just as she had heard before. The Latin of Cicero’s orations, the Greek of Homer’s songs, the French whispered in the Parisian court, and the Italian shouted by the merchants of Florence. She had heard them all.
“Whether you will go to hell, I truly do not know.”
“…”
She remained frozen by the miraculous sound resonating in her ears when he spoke again. “But I will offer you one piece of advice. Simply live as you wish to live.”
The harmony of the choir that enveloped her was no less astonishing than the first time. However, it was not the sound that was striking her now, piercing her heart.
“Do not… be so concerned with the ‘next,’ with heaven or hell.”
“…”
It was the lyrics.
The Queen was silent.
After a prolonged moment, she stood up abruptly, striking her head on the low ceiling beam and staggering. It didn’t hurt; she barely noticed.
“…”
“Are you alright?”
She was. She was alright.
For the first time in decades, she felt truly at peace. She turned, frantic, and fled the meeting house.
“The price for your advice will be my silence,” she declared.
“Your Majesty? Queen of England? Your Majesty?”
“I must go,” she replied, leaving without a farewell. She scrambled into her carriage and raced away.
As soon as she reached her room, she collapsed, her entire body trembling.
I didn’t need to know about heaven or hell. I didn’t need to be afraid.
No one in her entire life had ever said such a thing to her. She had always been afraid.
After a while, the Queen wiped her face and went to the window. She looked up at the sky, which was only blue. There was no sound of a punishing trumpet. She looked down at the ground and no longer felt the searing heat of hellfire from below.
She closed her eyes. Death was still fearsome, and she still clung to life with all her might. But just a little, she was less afraid.