Chapter 17

I finally understand what people mean when they say time flies like an arrow. A year has passed in the blink of an eye.

First, in January and February, I reorganized the materials I had downloaded from the Agricultural Development Administration’s website back when I first moved to the countryside, and I planted rootstock all over Croatoan Island with the goal of expanding the vineyard. I planted the 101-14 variety of rootstock. The 101-14 is suitable for grape cultivation in sandy loam soil, which made it a perfect fit for the environment of Croatoan Island. I had originally planned to use the Teleki variety, but since this land is the goddamn origin of phylloxera, I opted for a variety with stronger resistance to it.

My plan was to let this rootstock grow, then prune its branches and graft Cheongsu or other varieties onto it. It was a tedious process, but if I didn’t do it this way… uh… there was a chance that the phylloxera mites could wipe out every single grapevine. Sigh. Normally, you would just plant cuttings of wine-grape varieties. Anyway, it would take two years after planting the rootstock for the vines to fully mature and bear fruit, so it was a long-term plan.

And so, after the first two months passed, March and April were a flurry of planting. Plowing the fields… sowing the seeds of the lettuce, cabbage, napa cabbage, tomatoes, and beets from the garden… planting the spring potatoes… and although it wasn’t well-suited for this soil and would suck the nutrients dry, I had to preserve the seed, so I harvested the corn and replanted a small amount. Yes. I remember that time being the busiest. Still, Easter fell in the middle of it all, so I did get to relax a bit.

After that ordeal ended, spring gradually gave way to summer. The climate of North Carolina was generally milder than Korea’s, so the summer, though quite hot, was bearable. Why?

BECAUSE! THERE WAS NO! GODDAMN! MONSOON!

Normally, because of the monsoon, you have to fight with all your might to prevent soil erosion, protect the crops from rotting in the humidity, and apply organic amino acid products to the grapes to promote photosynthesis…

Ah. North Carolina is sunny. The annual precipitation is consistent, and the summer is not particularly, terribly humid. In other words, the effort required for farming was significantly reduced, which made things quite comfortable.

Around this time, my main job as a grape farmer began in earnest. In May, after the peak bloom, I performed the first gibberellin treatment on the Shine Muscat grapes to make them seedless and help the berries grow larger. Then, during the first growth period that followed, I maintained the vigor of the vines and applied a second gibberellin treatment.

The Shine Muscat grapes, having received two rounds of gibberellin, would then swell again, and at this point, I would bag the bunches to protect them from pests and diseases. The grape season would conclude by repeating the same tasks I had performed last year when I first arrived, through the summer and harvest season of July, August, and September.

Another wave of inventory washed over us, but this time, we were able to make wine from the start and offload the massive quantity without issue through the gift economy. The matter of winemaking was very important. Not only was it necessary for the Christians’ Mass, but wine was also an everyday beverage, and the home-brewed Shine Muscat wine tasted… uh… like crap.

So, this time, I poured my heart and soul into cultivating the ‘Cheongsu’ grapes. As I began to grow wine grapes, the Europeans started coming over one by one to watch.

-“These grapes look different from the others. They’re more… ordinary?”

-“This is the ‘Clear Water’ (Cheongsu) variety. It is used for making wine.”

-“Clear… Water?”

-“Ah! Just as Moses struck the rock with his staff and gave the people of Israel clear water to drink, so too does Sir Nemo give us clear water!”¹

-“…Pardon?”

Yes. Lately, when I talk to them, the context often jumps in a direction I don’t understand. For example…

-“Wait. Clear water?”

-“Didn’t God give the Israelites clear water after they complained, and then cursed them so they couldn’t enter the land of Canaan[1]?”

-“Uh…?”

-“We… we must have done something wrong to Sir Nemo! The taste of the wine isn’t what’s important, it’s the heart with which Sir Nemo provided for us, and we did nothing but complain…”

-“The Shine Muscat wine is… d-delicious! I am fine with drinking only Shine Muscat wine!”

Just like that.

Belatedly realizing the atmosphere had turned strange, I put down the pesticide sprayer and watched Eleanor and the others.

-“…Pardon?”

Are you serious? You’re fine with my home-brewed Shine Muscat wine?

-“That’s right! We are more than content with the Shine Muscat wine, so please do not worry! We have no need for these paltry ‘Clear Water’ grapes—”

-“Take your hand off that. If you damage the grape, there will be no more wine, ever.”

-“…”

-“…”

I am not fine with it. There are many people who can make delicious Shine Muscat wine. But I am not one of them.

Anyway.

Of course, with the population I had to feed having grown several times over, I couldn’t just focus on the grapes. While managing and harvesting the grapes, I also proceeded with the second cropping of lettuce, napa cabbage, and regular cabbage. It was a chore just to schedule it so that the first frost and the harvest season didn’t overlap.

While the entire village was tending their gardens, I harvested the small batch of corn at the right time and stored the seeds in the refrigerator. I then managed the seed potatoes for the autumn planting and retrained those who had failed in their spring potato cultivation due to their inexperience.

At the same time, I was handling various administrative tasks in the village, and so… uh…

-“Oh, oh, wait, you can’t eat the potato leaves!”

-“No! You threw it away because it looked like a dirty clod of earth? That is the potato!”

-“Sigh, let’s look at the cabbage first. The fertilizer… uh… you didn’t apply any?”

…I feel like a village chief.

Normally, when a modern person gets transported to the past, shouldn’t the pre-modern people be the ones teaching them how to farm? Why am I the one teaching them? Why do they come to me to mediate when a conflict arises? You’re Spanish, for God’s sake. Go to your commander, Vicente.

I had thought it was only 300 people, but teaching 300 people how to farm, acting as an interpreter for those who couldn’t communicate, and managing public facilities, it felt like I needed ten bodies. On top of that, since I was the only one who could operate the various pieces of equipment, I was also in charge of clearing weeds with the trimmer, bringing the excavator to construction sites, and tilling tough fields with the cultivator. I dragged Eleanor into it and divided the administrative work, and she collapsed, and I collapsed.

And so, through many trials and tribulations, we were able to get through another year. This time, we had a proper Christmas, and we were able to safely welcome the new year. The number of people to share that emotional moment with had grown from about thirty to over 300.

Having spent a year together, a sense of camaraderie had formed, and whether Spanish, English, or Algonquian, everyone had prepared a banquet, singing songs they all seemed to know and not know at the same time.

And so. The year 1590 dawned.

***

Vroom. Vrooom.

Clatter, clatter, clatter.

“Whoa, whoa…”

“S-sir, is it really all right for me to be riding in a place like this?”

“Is there any reason why it wouldn’t be, Eleanor? Don’t worry, and buckle your seatbelt first.”

“Ah… yes!”

As I drove the used Damas microvan around, Eleanor looked around in wonder. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve had a passenger since I was transported here.

For a long time, I couldn’t even use the Damas properly. The Damas is a model known for its terrible safety, and its high center of gravity means that even a crosswind can cause the vehicle to lift and tip over. Therefore, it was next to impossible to drive it in 16th-century Croatoan, which was mostly swampland and forest, unlike 21st-century South Korea with its paved roads.

WROOOOOOM!

“Vicente… must have worked hard.”

“Of course. He managed it for weeks on end.”

That is, until the road was built. How did we build it? The Spanish had strongly insisted that since we had a ship, we needed a port, and since we had a port, we needed a road leading to it. It was a road built from cement, sand, and a great deal of labor. Of course, its quality was worse than a long-abandoned dirt road in the 21st century, but at this level, the worry of the Damas flipping over was…

CLUNK!

“KYAAAAAK!”

“…probably fine.”

“A-are you sure?”

“…Maybe.”

…Is it really not a concern?

In any case, the important thing was that I could now drive the Damas outside my farm and the settlement. The original purpose of the Damas was to transport small orders of grapes to the delivery company, and its large loading capacity had made it very useful for carrying fertilizer sacks and grapes within the farm. Even if it was a vehicle on the level of a motorcycle, in this era, and especially in this colony with no horses or cattle, the existence of the Damas was truly unique.

RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE!

…Of course, its vibration sensitivity was also unique. I couldn’t tell if I was holding a steering wheel or a game controller.

Anyway, after passing through the nerve-wracking one-kilometer stretch of unpaved road, the surrounding forest soon disappeared, and the view opened up. A wide, flat sandy beach came into view. Coastal batteries built with red brick and PC panels were positioned here and there, and beyond them was a simple port facility. And there was our galleon.

The ship’s name was… the Nautilus.

…Because I am ‘Nemo.’

Its previous name had already been discarded. According to Vicente, the ship had been ‘spiritually reborn, so it must bear the name given by its new master.’

People were moving supplies here and there, shouting something. Soon, a group of Algonquians led by Manteo came alongside the Damas and began to unload the goods. Eleanor fidgeted for a moment, then turned to me and asked.

“Will he really come? My father?”

“…”

“As you know, today is… Virginia’s third birthday. It would be nice if Virginia could see her grandfather… I don’t even know if my father is still alive…”

“Virginia,” I said, cutting Eleanor off. “Will absolutely meet her grandfather today.”

“…”

“So, go with an easy mind. I wish you a safe voyage.”

Instead of turning my head, I checked Eleanor’s expression through the rearview and side mirrors. Something like a tear dropped from her eye, and she soon got out of the Damas.

“Th-thank you… for all of this, for…”

Her voice, choked with sobs, could not finish the sentence. She ran toward the Nautilus.

And soon, one galleon left the coast. It hadn’t left for good. It was scheduled to return soon.

August 18, 1590.

The day Eleanor’s father was to return.

***

“There! Roanoke Island!”

“Drop anchor and launch the boats! Quickly!”

As the two ships reached the coast of Roanoke Island, boxes of relief supplies were lined up on the shore one by one. A group of men waded through the rough waters, landed, and looked around.

“Mr. White, is this the place?”

“…It is. The settlement is a little further in… but this is the island.”

John White spoke to the subordinate assigned to him by his patron, Sir Walter Raleigh[2], his voice subdued.

‘I should never have left Roanoke…’

All dreams begin with infinite sweetness. From the moment the queen’s favorite, Sir Walter Raleigh, obtained the rights to colonize America, to the moment he entrusted John White and appointed him governor of the colony, everything had gone smoothly. He had gathered a group of devout Puritans to form the expedition. He thought he had secured capable colleagues and a navigator with the full support of Sir Raleigh.

But from the moment the voyage began, everything had been a nightmare. The mad navigator had no interest in building a colony. In fact, that man had wanted to kill them all, seize the ship, and make a fortune plundering Spanish vessels.

“Simon Fernandes[3], that damned bastard…!”

It was he who had arbitrarily changed the location of the colony, originally planned for the Chesapeake Bay, to a backwater like Roanoke Island. His teeth still ground at the memory of the man’s outrages.

And was it smooth sailing after arriving at Roanoke Island? No. The promised relief supplies never arrived properly, and a series of misfortunes followed, from attacks by hostile tribes to mistakenly attacking an allied tribe, ruining their diplomacy. In the end, at the urging of the settlers to go and procure supplies by any means necessary, he had no choice but to board a ship for England… and what was the result?

A naval war with Spain.

To fend off the Spanish invasion, Her Majesty the Queen had requisitioned nearly every ship and banned all private voyages. Even when Sir Raleigh, the queen’s favorite, pleaded with her, she had not listened. And so, a year and a half was wasted.

When the great war ended and the queen’s ban on sailing was lifted, White once again did everything in his power to find a ship. But no one was willing to finance a voyage to a colony whose survival was uncertain, especially with the high risk of being attacked by the Spanish. And so, another year was wasted.

After more than two and a half years had passed, White was finally able to depart, and now, nearly three years after he had left, he was finally able to return. Virginia, who had been a newborn when he left, would now be a three-year-old. Eleanor would now be a mature lady of twenty-one, having shed her girlishness.

The settlement, after three years, would be firmly established. Perhaps they had even moved to another location, finally free from the interference of that villainous navigator.

If they were all alive.

“…”

In truth, he knew. Three years is a very long time. For a colony that had sent a plea for relief due to a lack of food to be abandoned for three years, the outcome was obvious. Especially in a place with hostile relations with the surrounding savage tribes and a less than ideal location.

“Mr. White! Why are you dawdling there? We cannot afford to delay!”

“…J-just a moment, please wait a moment.”

“What is it?”

“…It is nothing, nothing at all.”

But White tried to soothe his somber mood. Yes. Beyond that thicket, my beloved daughter and granddaughter are surely waiting. My detestable, rakish son-in-law will be there, and the other settlers will scold me for being so late.

Rustle.

Then he would apologize. He would say he was sorry for being so late. That he couldn’t help it, because of the war and the royal decree. That there were almost no merchants willing to come here.

Rustle. Rustle.

And then, this John White, his body and soul utterly exhausted, would fall into his daughter’s arms and weep. His granddaughter, now so grown, would walk up and ask who this old man was.

Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!

Then he would rub his bearded face against hers and tell her. That I am your grandfather, and you are my granddaughter. That I have wanted to see you for a very, very long time. That I… and your mother, my daughter… very…

“…Oh, my God.”

“Mr. White? No… how should I put this…”

“…”

…very much wanted to see you.

Thump.

John White finally pushed aside the undergrowth and emerged from the thicket. And there, before his eyes, was the settlement where his beloved daughter was waiting… or rather, the settlement where his beloved daughter should have been waiting.

Thump.

For a moment, the strength drained from his legs, and he collapsed.

“Mr. White… is this the place?”

At the question, White could not answer in human language.

“Ugh, uwoooook…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Ah, uwaaaak! Gyaaaaaaaaak!”

Before him, there was no colony. There were only its half-burnt remains.

“H-here! There’s some kind of record here! Like graffiti…”

“Ing…laterra… puta. Oh, for God’s sake. It’s Spanish.”

The words of the men Sir Raleigh had sent with him reached his ears, even though he didn’t want to hear them. All the signs were clear.

The Spanish… those damned Catholic pigs…!

He didn’t want to think anymore, but horrific images unfolded in his mind. People being hacked to pieces, his daughter screaming in terror, his granddaughter already dead, the house and furniture burning…

As he shed tears, Sir Raleigh’s men fell silent, realizing that no words could comfort a father who had just lost his only daughter. The merchants who had come with White, their faces showing they had made a bad investment, returned to the ships. Soon, only White and Sir Raleigh’s men remained before the ruins.

And so, after a time of tears and silence.

“G-get back! Now!”

Suddenly, a shout came from the direction of the coast. When White turned his head at the sudden call, a sailor who had run from the coast was screaming something.

“A-a warship… a galleon is coming! You must board immediately!”

“…What?”

The only English colony here… he had just confirmed its destruction. He had also just found Spanish graffiti nearby. In that case, the galleon approaching was… could it be…

“Son of a bitch! It’s the Spanish!”

“Mr. White, get up at once! Quickly!”

Sir Raleigh’s men hastily pulled John White to his feet and began to run, supporting him. But when they broke through the undergrowth, they saw the two merchant ships already hastily leaving the coast.

“Th-those bastards! Abandoning their passengers and running!”

The ships they had come on were fleeing to save themselves. Sir Raleigh’s men spat all sorts of curses and ran toward the interior of the island. White, his eyes half-glazed, looked toward the opposite coast. As they had said, a single galleon was approaching the shore, its majestic form gleaming. It was already too late to pursue the two fleeing merchant ships.

“Aah… aaaaah…”

Those minions of Satan, they killed my daughter and granddaughter, and now they have come to kill me too.

White suppressed the urge to scream and ran after Sir Raleigh’s men. The sound of splashing and shouting from behind him stabbed at his back. Quickly… I have to run quickly. If I don’t want to die…

…Huh?

White, who had been running blindly with Raleigh’s men, slowed his pace. The startled men turned back to him, and White spoke as if muttering.

“…Even if we run, can we really survive?”

“…”

“…”

“I will die here. You all go on.”

“Mr. White! Our employer, Sir Raleigh, wanted you to…”

“Go.”

“…”

“…”

Soon, as the murmuring grew louder, they seemed to decide to let things be and ran on, leaving White behind. White, now alone, walked toward the burnt-out settlement.

Thud.

He passed through the collapsed gate of the stockade, to the house where he had lived. Here… he had believed he would find a new life. He had thought he could rise from his humble commoner status to become a gentleman of the New World, a nobleman, and live in splendor with his daughter. The remnants of all those dreams were scattered here, turned to soot and ash.

“…”

He found a rope. He also found a suitable tree just outside the house.

“Over there!”

“What about the others?”

“Already captured!”

“Search the settlement!”

He could hear various voices murmuring. Hah… Sir Raleigh’s men have already been caught. How unfortunate.

Behold, you devils who killed my daughter. Witness the miserable death of a certain girl’s father.

Suicides do not go to Heaven; he, too, would wander in Hell. But that was of no concern to White. This world, without his daughter, would be a greater hell…

Flash!

A sudden rage at the world boiled within him. He glared at the noose he had just made, hanging in the air, and shouted.

“A curse upon the harlot who calls herself the Queen of England! May that whore Elizabeth, who let my daughter die by issuing a ban on sailing, go to Hell!! Oh, Walter Raleigh. The devil who whispered false hopes to me, the lewd catamite who pleases the queen in her bed, that filthy little demon… a curse upon him as well! And finally, you Spanish bastards! You are all going to Hell!”

And then he brought over a chair, stood on it, and…

KICK!

The rope tightens…

My breath… is cut off…

“D-dad!”

I hear my daughter’s voice…

My daughter… is waiting for me in Heaven…

I’m… sorry…

This unworthy father… is going to Hell…

WHOOSH!

SLICE!

…Huh?

CRASH!

The rope was cut, and John White’s body fell to the ground. His consciousness faded. His vision blackened from the edges. In the distance, a man who looked Spanish shouted, and others came running.

One was Manteo. Ah, my friend. You, too, were waiting for me in the kingdom of God.

Another was the lawyer, Mr. Hewitt. A decent gentleman… to think even a radical Calvinist could go to Heaven. I did not know.

And the last… uh…

“Dad! Daaad!”

My… daughter…

He lost consciousness.

And when he awoke.

“…Huh?”

He was on the deck of a Spanish ship.

“Wh-what is… what happened…!”

“Are you awake? Sir Raleigh’s employees are in the cabin over there.”

“M-Mr. Hewitt? What is all this? Why are you on a Spanish ship…?”

“…Ah, do not worry.”

Thomas Hewitt, looking slightly dazed, as if in a trance, spoke to him.

“You, too… will soon meet ‘Him’.”

“…’Him’? Who is that?”

“A very… noble person. One more supreme than any earthly monarch.”

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.