I finally understand what people mean when they say time flies like an arrow.
A year passed in the blink of an eye.
First, in January and February, I reorganized the materials I had downloaded from the Rural Development Administration website when I first returned to farming, and planted rootstocks all over Croatoan Island with the aim of expanding the vineyard.
What I planted was 101-14 rootstock.
101-14 rootstock was suitable for growing grapes in sandy loam with a high sand content, making it a variety well suited to Croatoan Island’s environment.
Originally, I had planned to use the Teleki variety, but since this place was the homeland of that fucking phylloxera, I chose a variety with somewhat stronger resistance to phylloxera.
Once the rootstocks I planted grew, I would cut back their branches and graft Cheongsu or other varieties onto them. That was my plan.
It was a bothersome process, but if I didn’t do this… uh… there was a chance all the grapevines would die from phylloxera mites. Hah, wine grape varieties are normally just propagated through cuttings. Anyway.
Since the vines would only grow properly and bear fruit two years after the first rootstocks were planted, this was a plan made with the long term in mind.
In any case, after spending the first two months like that, March and April came, and I became busy with sowing.
Plowing the fields… sowing the seeds of lettuce, napa cabbage, cabbage, tomatoes, beets, and so on that I had been growing in the vegetable garden… planting spring potatoes too…
For now, it wouldn’t suit this soil and would suck the fertility right out of it, but since I had to preserve the seeds, I also harvested some corn again and sowed a small amount…
Right. I remember this being the busiest time.
Still, Easter fell right in the middle of it, so we spent that period fooling around a bit.
After that miserable ordeal ended, spring gradually passed and summer came. Since North Carolina’s climate was generally milder than Korea’s, the summer was fairly hot too, but it was bearable.
Why?
Because there was no! Fucking! Monsoon season!
Normally, because of the rainy season, I’d have to fight with everything I had to prevent soil erosion, keep the crops from rotting in the humidity, and add separate organic amino acid products to the grapes to promote photosynthesis…
Ah.
North Carolina is sun-ny.
The rainfall is steady throughout the year, and summer isn’t particularly, horrifically humid or anything.
In other words, the amount of effort I had to put into farming was reduced quite a lot, so it was rather comfortable.
Around this time, my main job, my work as a grape farmer, began in earnest.
Around May, after the flowers had fully bloomed, I gave the Shine Muscat grapes their first gibberellin treatment to prevent seeds from forming and to help the fruit grow better.
Then, during the first berry enlargement stage that followed, I maintained the vigor of the vines and gave them a second gibberellin treatment.
The Shine Muscat grapes that received gibberellin twice like this swelled again, and around that time, I put bags over them to protect the fruit from pests and diseases.
After spending July, August, and September, the summer and harvest season, repeating the work I had done the previous year when I first fell here, the grape farming was finished.
A wave of inventory swept over us again, but this time, from the beginning, we also made wine, and by circulating it through a gift economy, we were able to unload the enormous volume without much trouble.
The matter of making wine was very important. It was one thing for Christians at Mass, but wine was also an everyday drink, and the Shine Muscat wine made at home in a slapdash way tasted… uh…
Like complete crap.
So this time, when I grew “Cheongsu,” I poured particular care into it. When I started cultivating wine grapes, the Europeans also came over one by one to look.
-“This grape looks different from the others. A bit more… ordinary?”
-“It is a variety called ‘Clear Water(淸水).’ It’s used to make wine.”
-“Clear… water?”
-“Ah! Just as Moses struck the rock with his staff and gave the people of Israel clear water to drink, Lord Nemo is giving us clear water as well!”
-“...Pardon?”
Right. These days, when I talk to them, the context often jumps somewhere else without me even realizing it.
For example…
-“Wait. Clear water?”
-“That’s when the people of Israel complained to God, so God gave them clear water and then cursed them so they couldn’t enter the land of Canaan, right?”
-“Uh…?”
-“We… we must have done something wrong to Lord Nemo after all! The important thing isn’t that the wine tastes bad, but the heart Lord Nemo showed in providing for us, and yet all we did was complain…”
-“Shine Muscat wine is… d-delicious too! I’m perfectly fine drinking only Shine Muscat wine!”
Like that.
Belatedly realizing that the atmosphere had turned strange, I set down the pesticide sprayer and watched Eleanor and the others.
-“...Pardon?”
…Are you serious? You’re saying that amateur-made Shine Muscat wine is fine?
-“That’s right! We’re more than satisfied with just Shine Muscat wine, so please don’t worry! We don’t need some trifling ‘Clear Water’ grape—”
-“Remove your hand. If you damage the grapes, there will never be wine again.”
-“...”
-“...”
I was not fine with it.
There are plenty of people who can make delicious Shine Muscat wine.
But I am not one of them.
Anyway.
Of course, with the number of mouths to feed having increased several times over, I couldn’t focus only on grapes.
While tending and harvesting the grapes, I also carried out a second cropping of lettuce, napa cabbage, and cabbage. It was a task in itself to set the dates so the first frost and harvest season wouldn’t overlap.
While everyone in the village tended the vegetable gardens like that, I harvested the small amount of corn we had grown at the right time and refrigerated the seeds.
Then I managed the seed potatoes to use in autumn, retraining those who had failed at cultivating spring potatoes because they were unfamiliar with potato farming.
At the same time, while handling all sorts of miscellaneous administrative work scattered throughout the village, I… uh…
-“Uh, uhh, wait, you mustn’t eat potato leaves!”
-“No! You threw it away because it looked like a dirty clod of earth? That’s the potato tuber!”
-“Sssup, let’s look at the cabbage first. The fertilizer… uh… you didn’t spread any?”
…I felt like I had become the village headman.
Isn’t it supposed to be the premodern people who teach farming to the modern person when he gets transported? Why am I the one teaching them?
Why do they come to me asking for mediation when conflicts arise? You people are Spaniards, even. Then go to Vicente, your commander.
I had thought it was only three hundred people, but teaching those three hundred how to farm, interpreting between people who couldn’t communicate, and managing public facilities left me feeling like even ten bodies wouldn’t be enough.
On top of that, since I was the only one who could handle all sorts of equipment, I was also in charge of clearing weeds with the brush cutter, driving the excavator to construction sites, and tidying up tough fields with the cultivator.
After dragging Eleanor in and splitting all kinds of administrative work with her, Eleanor collapsed from exhaustion, and I collapsed too.
Through all those twists and turns, we managed to spend another year. This time, we celebrated a proper Christmas, and once again, we were able to greet New Year’s Day safely.
The number of people to share that emotion with had also grown from about thirty to around three hundred.
Before I knew it, after rubbing shoulders with one another for a year, some kind of bond had formed, and Spaniards, Englishmen, and Algonquians all prepared a feast together while singing songs that they seemed to know and not know at the same time.
And so.
The year 1590 dawned.
***
Vrooom. Vroom.
Rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle.
“Whoa, whoa…”
“Am I truly allowed to dare ride in such a place?”
“Why wouldn’t you be, Eleanor? Don’t worry, and put on your seat belt first.”
“Ah… yes!”
As I drove the used Damas here and there, Eleanor looked around curiously. Well, now that I thought about it, this was the first time I had let anyone ride in it since being transported here.
For a while, I hadn’t been able to use the Damas properly.
The Damas was originally a vehicle with terrible safety, and since its center of gravity was high, even wind blowing from the side could make the body lurch and possibly topple over.
Therefore, unlike in twenty-first-century South Korea, driving it around sixteenth-century Croatoan, where most of the land was swamps and forest rather than anything resembling roads, was close to impossible.
Woooooong!
“Vicente… must have had a hard time.”
“Of course. He stayed up for weeks on end managing it.”
Until a road like this was built, that is.
How did we end up making it? Since we had a ship, we needed a harbor, and since we had a harbor, we needed a road leading to the harbor—the Spaniards insisted on it so strongly that it was built.
It was a road made by pouring in cement, sand, and countless amounts of labor. Naturally, it was more terrible than even a long-neglected dirt road from the twenty-first century, but at this level, I wouldn’t have to worry about the Damas flipping over—
Thud!
“Kyaaaak!”
“…It’ll be fine.”
“R-really?”
“…Probably.”
…Was it really true that I didn’t have to worry?
In any case, what mattered was that I could now drive the Damas outside my farm and the settlement.
Originally, the purpose of using the Damas had been to carry small orders of grapes to delivery companies, and since its cargo capacity was actually fairly large, for a while I had used it well within the farm to haul fertilizer sacks and grapes.
No matter how much it was practically a motorcycle-level car, in this era, and in this colony with no horses or cattle at that, the existence of the Damas was truly unparalleled.
Rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle!
…Of course, its sensitivity to vibration was also unparalleled. I couldn’t tell whether what I was holding was a car steering wheel or a game controller.
Anyway, after passing along that extremely unstable dirt road of about one kilometer, the surrounding forest soon disappeared, and the view opened wide.
A broad, flat sandy beach came into view. Coastal batteries built from red bricks and precast concrete panels stood here and there, and beyond them were simple harbor facilities.
Our galleon was there.
The ship’s name was… the Nautilus.
…Because I was “Nemo.”
Its former name had already been discarded. According to Vicente, now that the ship had “been spiritually reborn, it must use the name bestowed by its new master,” or something like that.
People were moving supplies here and there, shouting things. Soon, the Algonquians led by Manteo came beside the Damas and unloaded the cargo.
Eleanor fidgeted anxiously for a moment, then turned her head and asked me.
“Will Father truly come?”
“…”
“As you know, today is… Virginia’s third birthday. It would be wonderful if Virginia could see her grandfather… though I don’t even know if Father is still alive…”
“Virginia.”
I cut Eleanor off and said,
“She will absolutely be able to meet her grandfather today.”
“…”
“So go in peace. I wish you a safe voyage.”
Instead of turning my head, I checked Eleanor’s expression through the rearview mirror and side mirrors.
Something fell from her eyes with a quiet drop, and Eleanor soon got out of the Damas.
“Th-thank you… all of this, all of it…”
Her voice, swallowed by sobs, could not finish speaking.
She ran toward the Nautilus.
And soon, a single galleon left the shore.
…Not that it had sailed away for good.
It was scheduled to return soon.
August 18, 1590.
The day Eleanor’s father would return.
***
“There! Roanoke Island!”
“Drop anchor and launch the boats! Hurry!”
When the two ships reached the coast of Roanoke Island, boxes of relief supplies were lined up one by one on the shore.
Then a group of men forced their way through the rough current and landed, looking around.
“Mr. White, is this the place?”
“…It is. The settlement should be a little farther in, but… broadly speaking, this is the island.”
John White answered the subordinate assigned to him by his patron, Sir Raleigh, in a dispirited voice.
‘I should never have… left Roanoke.’
All dreams begin infinitely sweet.
From the moment Sir Walter Raleigh, favored by the Queen, obtained the right to colonize America, up until he trusted John White and appointed him governor of the colony, everything had gone smoothly.
He gathered devout Puritans and formed a pioneering party. With all manner of support from Sir Raleigh, he thought he had secured capable companions and a navigator.
But from the moment the voyage actually began, everything became a nightmare.
The mad navigator had no interest whatsoever in building a colony.
Rather, that bastard wanted to kill them all, seize the ship, plunder Spanish vessels, and make a fortune.
“Simon Fernandes, that damned bastard…!”
The one who had arbitrarily changed the colony’s planned location from Chesapeake Bay to a remote place like Roanoke Island was him as well. Even now, his atrocities made White grind his teeth.
Had things gone smoothly after arriving at Roanoke Island?
They had not.
The supplies that were supposed to arrive never came, and misfortunes continued one after another—attacks by hostile tribes, accidentally attacking allied tribes and ruining diplomacy, and so on.
In the end, unable to resist the colonists' fervent pleas that he somehow procure supplies, he boarded a ship bound for England... but what had been the result?
Naval war with Spain.
Her Majesty the Queen had requisitioned nearly all ships to stop the Spanish invasion and prohibited private voyages. Even Sir Raleigh, the Queen's favorite, had pleaded desperately, but the Queen did not even pretend to listen.
A year and a half had been wasted like that.
When the great war ended and the Queen's voyage prohibition was lifted, White once again exerted himself to find a ship by any means necessary.
But no one was willing to fund a voyage to a colony that might not even be surviving by now. There was even the considerable risk of attacks by the Spanish.
Thus another year was wasted.
And so, only after more than two and a half years had passed could White finally depart, and now, almost three years since he had left this place, he was finally able to return.
Virginia, who had been a newborn when he left, would now be three years old.
Eleanor would now be a mature lady of twenty-one, having shed her girlishness.
The settlement, after three years, would now be firmly rooted. Perhaps they had finally moved elsewhere without the interference of that villainous sailor fellow.
If everyone was still alive.
"..."
In truth, he knew.
Three years was a very long time.
If a colony that had sent a request for relief due to immediate food shortages had been neglected for three years, the outcome was obvious.
Especially if they were in hostile relations with the savage tribes around them, and in a location that was not particularly favorable to begin with.
"Mr. White! Why are you dawdling there? We cannot waste time!"
"...J-just, please wait a moment."
"What is the matter?"
"...Nothing. It is nothing."
But White tried to console his melancholy heart.
Yes.
Beyond those bushes, surely his beloved daughter and granddaughter were waiting. That detestable rake of a son-in-law would be there, and the other colonists would chide him, asking why he had only come now.
Rustle.
Then he would apologize. He would say he was sorry for being so late. That war and royal command had made it unavoidable. That almost no merchants were willing to come here.
Rustle. Rustle.
And this John White, exhausted in body and mind, would weep in his daughter's embrace. His granddaughter, already grown so much, would stride over and ask who that old man was.
Rustle! Rustle! Rustle!
Then he would rub his bearded face and tell her. That he was her grandfather, and she was his granddaughter.
That he had wanted to see her for so very long.
You... and your mother, my daughter... so very...
"...Oh, my God."
"Mr. White? No... how can I say this..."
"..."
...That he had wanted to see them so very much.
Crack.
John White finally pushed through the bushes and emerged from the scrubland. And then, before his eyes, the settlement where his beloved daughter was waiting... came into view.
No.
The settlement where his beloved daughter should have been... waiting.
Thud.
In an instant, strength left his legs and he collapsed.
"Mr. White... is this the right place?"
At those words, White could not answer in human speech.
"Urk... ugh..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Ah, waaaaah! Gwaaaaah!"
Before him, the colony was no more.
There were only half-burned ruins.
"H-here! There's some kind of record! Something like graffiti..."
"En...gland... wh...ore. Oh, dammit. It's in Spanish."
The words of the men Sir Raleigh had sent reached his ears whether he wanted to hear them or not.
All the circumstances were clear.
The Spanish army... those damned Catholic pig bastards...!
He did not want to continue the thought, but horrifying images unfolded in his mind.
People being hacked apart, his daughter screaming terribly, his granddaughter already dead, burning houses and furniture...
As he shed tears, Sir Raleigh's men could no longer speak and fell silent. They had realized that no matter what words they offered, they could not console a father who had lost his only daughter.
The merchants who had come with White turned back to the ship with expressions of utter loss. Soon, only White and Sir Raleigh's men remained before the ruins.
And so, time passed with tears and silence.
"C-come back! Immediately!"
Suddenly, a shout came from the shore.
White turned his head at the sudden call, and a sailor came running frantically from the shore, shouting something.
"A w-warship... a galleon is coming! You must board immediately!"
"...What?"
The only English colony here... they had just confirmed it destroyed.
They had just discovered Spanish graffiti nearby.
Then the galleon approaching these waters... could it be...
"Damn it! It's the Spanish!"
"Mr. White, get up immediately! Hurry!"
Sir Raleigh's men hurriedly raised John White and began to run, supporting him. But when they emerged from the bushes, what they saw were the two merchant vessels already urgently departing from the shore.
"Y... you bastards! Abandoning your passengers to save yourselves!"
The ship they had come on was fleeing, every man for himself. Sir Raleigh's men poured out all manner of curses and ran toward the interior of the island.
White gazed at the opposite shore with half-unfocused eyes.
Just as they said, one galleon was approaching the shore, radiating a majestic bearing. As if it were already too late to pursue the two escaped merchant vessels.
"Aah... aaah..."
Those minions of Satan, who killed my daughter and granddaughter, now come to kill me as well.
White suppressed the urge to scream and ran after Sir Raleigh's men. The splashing sounds and shouts from behind pierced his spine.
Quickly... he had to flee quickly. If he did not want to die...
...Huh?
White's pace, which had been running wildly with Raleigh's men, slowed. The startled men turned back to him, and White muttered as if reciting.
"...Can I... truly live by fleeing?"
"..."
"..."
"I shall die here. All of you, go."
"Mr. White! Our employer, Sir Raleigh—"
"Go."
"..."
"..."
Soon, as the clamor of pursuit grew louder, they abandoned White as if to say "so be it," and ran off. White, left alone, walked toward the burned settlement.
Clomp.
Over the collapsed gate of the palisade, toward the house where he had stayed.
Here... he had believed he would gain a new life.
He had thought that from the status of a worthless commoner, he would become a gentleman of the New World, a nobleman, and live grandly with his daughter.
All the remains of those dreams had turned into the smell of soot and ashes, scattered here.
"..."
He found a rope. Fortunately, he also found a suitable tree outside the house.
"Over there!"
"What about the others?"
"Already caught them!"
"Search the settlement!"
Various voices buzzed in the distance. Ha... Sir Raleigh's men have already been caught. How truly unfortunate.
Devils who killed my daughter, behold. The spectacle of the father of the girl you killed dying miserably.
A suicide cannot go to heaven, so he too would wander hell. But to White, that was no worry at all.
Because this world without his daughter would be more like hell...
Flash!
Suddenly, rage at the world boiled over.
He glared at the noose hanging in the air, which he had just made, and shouted.
"May heavenly punishment befall that harlot who calls herself the Queen of England! May Elizabeth, that harlot who issued the voyage prohibition and caused my daughter's death, go to hell!!
Oh, Walter Raleigh. Devil who whispered vain hope into me, lewd male whore who pleases the Queen in bed, filthy little demon... may curses be upon you too!
And finally, you Spanish bastards! You are all bound for hell!"
And he brought a chair, climbed upon it...
Bang!
...and kicked it away.
His throat constricted...
Breath... blocked...
"Da... Daddy!"
I hear my daughter's voice...
My daughter... is waiting for me in heaven...
So... sorry...
This unworthy father... shall go... to hell...
Whirrr!
Slash!
...Huh?
Thud!
The rope was cut and John White's body fell to the ground. His consciousness faded. His vision blackened from the edges.
From afar, a man who appeared to be Spanish shouted loudly, and others came running.
One was Manteo. Ah, my friend. You too were waiting for me in God's kingdom.
Another was Mr. Hewet the lawyer. A dignified gentleman... I didn't know a radical Calvinist could go to heaven too.
And finally... uh...
"Daddy! Daddy!"
My... daughter...
He lost consciousness.
And when he awoke.
"...Huh?"
He was on the Spanish ship.
"Wh-what... what happened...!"
"Are you conscious? Sir Raleigh's hired men are in the cabin over there."
"H-Mr. Hewet? What is all this? Why are you on a Spanish ship...?"
"...Ah, do not worry."
Thomas Hewet spoke to him with a somewhat vacant, hazy expression.
"You too... shall soon meet 'Him.'"
"...Him? Who is that?"
"A very... noble person, one more supreme than any sovereign on earth."
Something was wrong.
Something was seriously wrong.