Railways or roads—that was the question.
It wasn’t that we lacked the technological prowess to build them. After all, if we could manufacture and operate hundreds of steam tractors, it would be far more bizarre if we were incapable of constructing a single steam locomotive. However, one had to consider the scale. The nineteenth-century United States, a nation with a population in the tens of millions and immense economic power, took years to lay down the transcontinental railroad. The seventeenth-century Continental Covenant, which lagged far behind in both demographics and treasury, could not simply conjure such a feat overnight.
It would likely take decades. Yet, my intuition whispered that it would be completed within this century.
Roads or rails? The answer changed depending on how the industry was structured and how the economy and society functioned. It was not a question with an easy answer, but rather a decision that required looking decades—perhaps even centuries—into the future. After agonizing over it for a long while, I shook my head. I couldn’t decide this alone.
Nevertheless, it was wise to set the goal now and prepare steadily. If the East and West could be properly linked, the centripetal force holding the Continental Covenant together would grow exponentially.
Wait… how did I end up worrying about railways and roads in the first place?
Tracing the plan back to its inception, I remembered the root cause: the Jews. My anxiety stemmed from the fear that they might establish a closed, isolated society that refused to integrate with the rest of the Covenant.
And what about the indigenous people living there?
Whether the Jews formed a secluded community or failed to assimilate was a problem that couldn’t be solved immediately. However, if they intended to settle there while viewing the land as their “Holy Land,” conflict with the original inhabitants was practically inevitable. I was particularly worried about the religious aspect.
In the Spanish colonies, indigenous people were fundamentally treated as “potential subjects of His Majesty.” The attempts to spread Catholicism and assimilate them into Spanish culture were extensions of that view. The English colonies in America, however, were a different story. They sought to build a society exclusively for Englishmen, forming communities strictly separated from the local tribes. To them, the natives were not merely heathens to be converted, but devil-worshippers. Once their settlements were firmly established after receiving initial help, they often turned to active extermination.
So, where did the Jewish community fall? Judaism was not a religion particularly known for aggressive proselytizing. Furthermore, since their goal was migration and settlement, their colonial character was closer to that of the English than the Spanish. If I wasn’t careful, the Jews might find themselves at war with the Native Americans. Blood would be shed in the process of displacing the locals. This was a pressing issue.
I wonder what Gershom and Manasseh are up to right now?
I just hoped they weren’t doing anything insane.
***
“O Zion! The sepulcher of King David! The descendants of those once ruled by your hand have returned!”
“Isn’t this the fifth ‘Mount Zion’ already?” Gershom muttered. “Unless King David was hacked into five pieces and buried separately, there really should only be one.”
As he spoke, Gershom found himself imagining King David divided into two arms, two legs, and a torso. For some reason, he felt that if one collected all the pieces, they would gain infinite attack and defense power, though he puzzled over where such a bizarre thought had come from. Putting that aside, there was a more important fact.
“And besides, King David’s tomb would be in the real Jerusalem in Palestine. Why on earth would it be here—”
“Does that matter?” Manasseh interrupted, his voice full of fervor. “The Prince himself has bestowed this New Salem upon us!”
“······.”
Of course it mattered. But because Manasseh dismissed him with such casual certainty, Gershom was momentarily speechless. It would have been less frustrating if Manasseh looked like a madman, but the elder wasn’t shouting at the top of his lungs or dancing like a lunatic. He was simply kneeling in quiet, focused prayer.
Ironically, it was Gershom who seemed more agitated and loud. Even the surrounding natives were looking at Gershom with more curiosity than they showed the praying Manasseh.
It was profoundly unfair.
Manasseh eventually finished his prayer and stood up, dusting off his legs. “Come, let us move. I do not wish to waste a single moment of this momentous pilgrimage through the Holy Land.”
“······.”
“Hm? What is it? Are you alright? Why are your legs shaking?”
Considering they had walked nearly twenty kilometers and crossed the Jordan—no, the Willamette River—three times, it was a miracle Gershom’s legs were only shaking and not falling off. This was their fifth time ascending and descending a hill.
Gershom wanted to collapse.
Thump.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, his legs gave out. As he sat there dazed, wondering why he was on the ground, Manasseh looked down at him with an inquisitive gaze.
“Is something the matter? Are you simply too lazy to move?”
“It’s not… it’s not laziness. My legs literally won’t move······”
“Hm?”
“······.”
“······.”
“Never mind,” Gershom sighed.
He looked around and noticed an unnerving number of American Indians gathering. He turned to the interpreter-cum-courier who had been guiding them. “Excuse me, who are all these people?”
“Ah, it looks like the Kalapuya tribe and several other nearby groups have all come out to watch.”
“Why would they—oh.”
It made sense. If someone walked into your backyard and started sobbing and kissing the ground while shouting, “O, Holy Land!” you’d come out to watch, too. Even if it was happening at a neighbor’s house, it was a rare spectacle worth seeing. Realizing this, Gershom felt his face flush with embarrassment.
I’m not the one doing it…
Gershom turned back to Manasseh, grabbing his sleeve to pull him away. “Listen… Manasseh? I think it’s time we stopped. You might see this as the Holy Land, but to these people, we are nothing more than strangers with no connection to this place.”
“Hm? Ah, yes, quite right. We did cross an ocean and a continent to get here. We truly have no previous ties to this land.”
Finally! Gershom could hardly contain his joy. Manasseh was finally pretending to listen. It seemed the man had finally regained his senses.
“Exactly, Manasseh. And if a bunch of strangers like us come here and cause a scene, won’t they be offended?”
While the surrounding natives currently looked at them as if they were curious animals at a zoo, there was no telling how the situation might escalate.
“······.”
“Manasseh?”
Suddenly, Manasseh stopped listening again. He fell into a deep, solitary trance, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. A familiar sense of dread washed over Gershom. He was terrified of what the elder might say next.
“We are strangers,” Manasseh finally said, his voice heavy. Gershom swallowed hard, relieved by the admission.
“Yes, we are. So—”
“And they are the true, ancient owners who have lived upon this soil for well over a thousand years.”
“······.”
Before Gershom could even process the sudden weight of the tone, Manasseh continued. “For over a millennium, upon this very land······”
Manasseh’s voice cracked with emotion. Gershom began to feel anxious about the specific timeframe. Not “thousands of years,” not “centuries,” but “well over a thousand.”
Wait… over a millennium? No way.
“To think they are the ones who have guarded the Holy Land for all these centuries… there is no room left for doubt. Even if they have forgotten the rite of circumcision and the laws of the Torah, the truth is blindingly clear.”
“······.”
Gershom tried to object, but Manasseh’s eyes were ablaze with conviction. Gershom shot him a pleading look, begging him to reconsider, but Manasseh ignored him.
“The Lost Ten Tribes,” Manasseh whispered.
“······.”
“The tribes of Israel exiled by Assyria after the fall of the Kingdom—Reuben, Simeon, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher, Issachar, Zebulun, Manasseh, and Ephraim… The world has wondered for ages where they went. Now, the answer has been revealed.”
Gershom found this incredibly hard to swallow. How could Jews from the eastern Mediterranean suddenly cross the Atlantic and become American Indians? Their appearances, customs, and languages were entirely different. Shouldn’t at least one of those things be similar?
When Gershom cautiously raised these points, Manasseh tilted his head as if Gershom were the one being illogical. “And? Are you suggesting these people are not of our blood?”
“You’ve already decided they are Jews? They don’t even follow Judaism!”
“That is only natural. If they are truly the descendants of Abraham, they might have lost the Lord’s light for a time, but they will surely return to Him one day.”
Manasseh let out a frustrated sigh, and though Gershom felt like he was going to explode, he knew he couldn’t win the argument.
“Gershom, think about it. Even the Scriptures say—”
“No, forget the Scriptures! Does this make any sense? American Indians are Jews?”
“Then why else would the Messiah have descended here in America?”
“······.”
“Furthermore, what is the significance of him appearing not as a European, but in a form so similar to these American Indians?”
“Wait… uh… hold on.”
Gershom was just a mere writer, while Manasseh was a renowned scholar of the Law. He stood no chance in a debate of this nature. As he listened, it started to sound as if these natives truly were lost kinsmen, and that the King of Salem had a grand design in sending them here.
It was a persuasion difficult to overcome with mere reason. Gershom held on by the skin of his teeth, clinging to his faith in the Prince.
“Finally… now that the long-lost brethren have been reunited, all that remains is to build the Holy Land together! You there! Can you translate my words for them?”
Ignoring everything else, Manasseh shouted to the native interpreter. Before Gershom could stop him, they approached the Kalapuya tribesmen, the owners of the land.
“Brothers and sisters who were once parted from us, we wish to settle here. May we share this land with you?”
“······.”
“······.”
“Let us rebuild Salem upon this soil together, my brothers!”
Manasseh’s joyful exclamation was translated for the Kalapuya. They were initially indifferent, but when Manasseh pulled out a heavy pouch of gold coins, their eyes nearly popped out of their heads.
“This is compensation for the land. We Jews are a people who know the value of honor, are we not? This is a gesture of friendship toward you, the original owners of this earth.”
The Kalapuya immediately began whispering frantically among themselves. Manasseh, watching their animated faces and smiles, imagined a bright future where they would rebuild the Holy City together. Surely, he thought, they were overjoyed to meet their kin who had been separated over a thousand years ago. Like an old man rediscovering a lost memory, their souls must be drenched in ecstasy.
We shall build a cenotaph for King David on that hill. And a temple would be perfect in that basin. Everything is perfect.
The American Indians, he assumed, were likely discussing their own hopeful tomorrow.
***
“…Why is he calling us brothers?”
“I don’t know. More importantly, is that real money?”
“It looks different from what the Virginia people use. Hmm… it looks real enough.”
“Hey. How much is this worth?”
“Well… let’s see…”
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
The Kalapuya people quickly reached a unanimous realization. They would make a much bigger profit if they simply abandoned this land, took the money, and ran.
They pretended to be close to Manasseh, calling him “brother,” and roughly imitated the prayers he offered to the sky. Touched by their “piety,” Manasseh handed out even more money. It was all the funds the Jewish community had pooled together for the two men to use in case of an emergency. Gershom tried to stop him, feeling a wave of unease, but Manasseh’s eyes remained bright.
“Do not worry! Even if, by some incredibly small chance, they are not our true brothers and sisters, aren’t they the people we must live with from now on? There is no harm in securing their goodwill like this!”
Gershom gave up. Eventually, a Kalapuya man approached them.
“We have received your gifts. Now, we must withdraw to hold a council for our entire tribe. Please wait for us.”
“Thank you, Great Chief. We shall be waiting!”
Manasseh waited on that spot for a full day, expecting the Kalapuya to return. A week passed, and when there was still no word from them, he finally realized something was wrong.
The Kalapuya people had taken the money and migrated to California.
“······.”
“······.”
In any case, the area around Salem was now vacant. The “native problem” was solved.