Thomas Hewett finished another fulfilling service and sermon today and saw off the people leaving the church. Then, when he looked around… there was still one person remaining.
Sometimes, when someone had something weighing on their mind, they would stay behind like this and ask Hewett for counsel.
“Mrs. Dare, what is the matter? You look troubled.”
Today, that person just happened to be Eleanor Dare.
“Um… Mr. Hewett? There’s something I’d like to ask.”
“What is it?”
She must have felt both resentful and glad to have met her father again after so long. Hewett assumed it was some concern related to that.
“Um… do angels and devils fight each other?”
“Pardon?”
That was unexpected. A theological question, all of a sudden.
“Why, of course. The Book of Ezekiel describes battles between angels and devils, and many other theologians say that angels and devils will likely wage war until Judgment Day.”
“Th-then, do angels invade hell and kill demons?”
“…Pardon? Th-that, I am not sure.”
“Y-you don’t know?”
“Uh… yes. Calvin said that one should not concern oneself with the hierarchy of angels and such…”
“…”
“…”
Silence.
A silence as heavy as ice.
Mr. Hewett could not understand Eleanor’s reaction. All he could do was leave her with words like, “If you have any further questions, please ask me at the next service.”
And when Mr. Hewett left the church, muttering things like, “How strange…,” Eleanor was now truly the only one left in the church.
Left alone, Eleanor kept replaying that scene from then in her mind.
The horrifying landscape of hell.
Lord Nemo’s unfamiliar appearance, as if he were half-ruined.
And even the terrible demon song that had echoed from every direction.
What… exactly did I see…?
Ah, I don’t know.
I don’t understand at all.
-“O Satan… I have paid the price.”
-“…Mother, look upon me. I am going to the promised land.”
-“I… stand upon the road to hell!”
She barely managed to shake off the wicked verses she had heard then as they circled in her ears.
“Highway to hell…”
Somehow… it was addictive.
It seemed it really was a demon’s song.
***
Crunch. Crack. Craaack!
-“I’m on the highway to hell! Highway to hell! Don’t stop me, eh, eh, ooh!”
Tap.
Oh, “Highway to Hell.”
As expected, it’s an AC/DC masterpiece. Especially when playing a violent, gory game, listening to this while doing it really makes you feel refreshed.
Feeling much more invigorated, I put my phone away and turned off the song.
…Because no matter how I thought about it, if I played a song titled “Highway to Hell” for the people of this era, the mental shock would probably be too much.
As expected, twentieth-century music was still too early for this age.
I looked around the vicinity again, and there was still no one near me. Right. When listening to “this kind of music” while playing “this kind of game,” no one should be around.
Far off in the distance, John White was diligently drawing alone in his notebook. It was a picture of our farm.
This was the newly developing vineyard.
More specifically, it was the place with the greenhouse for cultivating rootstock.
After Eleanor introduced me to her father, John White, and left as if fleeing, I had been showing him around the farm and the settlement.
“…But seriously, why did she run off like that?”
Eleanor had suddenly become strange. She would look at me with a strangely sad expression, or startle violently if I so much as called out to her.
Anyway.
According to the game catalog, John White’s original profession was that of a miniaturist.
Having trained in watercolor painting, he developed the skill of sketching quickly and accompanied explorers, acting as a kind of camera.
Making use of that talent, he was now quickly sketching the scenery throughout our colony.
Then, once he seemed to have roughly finished his sketch, he slowly walked over to me and asked,
“May I ask what the purpose of that transparent structure over there is?”
“Ah… that is…”
How are grapevines usually propagated? By planting the seeds left over after eating grapes?
That won’t do. You wouldn’t be able to preserve the traits of the carefully cultivated wine and table grape varieties, would you?
Therefore, originally, they were usually propagated through cuttings. Trees are roughly similar to planaria, so if you snap off a part of them and plant it in the ground, it grows as a clone.
But in the nineteenth century, a problem arose.
Phylloxera, the scourge of grape growers—no exaggeration, the death of grapes—crossed the Atlantic and appeared in Europe.
Phylloxera, also known as the grape root louse.
As the name suggests, it is a pest that clings to grape leaves and roots, forms galls, and sucks up all the nutrients that should go to the grapevine.
European grapevines were very, very vulnerable to this phylloxera newly introduced from America.
When Europeans broke off branches and planted them, the phylloxera clinging to the roots and leaves sucked away all the nutrients that should have gone to the tree, drying it to death through malnutrition.
Because of that, Europe’s grapes at the time were nearly wiped out, and the history of wine came to be divided into before and after phylloxera.
Anyway.
In the end, after phylloxera, a different method came to be used for propagating grapevines: grafting.
They would plant cuttings from grapevines resistant to phylloxera—these vines were called “rootstock”—then graft the existing grapevines onto that rootstock to produce grapes.
Of course, this was before the nineteenth century, and worldwide, the cutting method was still used for propagating grapes.
But I was growing grapes in North America, the origin of that phylloxera.
In other words, I alone had to go through the annoying process of planting rootstock and grafting branches onto it.
Anyway, the population had grown, and the number of Christians had increased in proportion, so the demand for wine was exploding. On top of that, the gift economy network was also growing day by day.
“…And that is why we are building this greenhouse.”
“Did you say… greenhouse? What is that?”
John White, who had been listening to my explanation, asked back.
Hmm, did “greenhouses” not exist yet?
“It refers to a space where the interior is kept warm so that plants can grow regardless of the season.”
“I-I see! I have never seen such a structure in my life!”
Living in the countryside basically means you have to stockpile a certain amount of the goods and materials necessary for daily life. Naturally, we had spare PC panels for covering our farm’s smart house.
Here is the question: would PC panels be treated as consumables?
The answer is “yes.”
Thanks to that, assembling PC panels with steel frames here and there to build a greenhouse itself was not difficult.
“What was difficult… was keeping the interior temperature warm.
Here in North Carol… no, Virginia, the weather is mild year-round, so the temperature underground rarely drops below freezing… no, no, low enough for water to freeze, but if something goes wrong, the rootstock could still freeze to death.”
“I see. I understand.”
After looking around the greenhouse under construction for quite some time, White saw the stove in the middle and asked,
“Is that… the device that maintains the temperature?”
“That’s right. It is called a rocket stove. It allows resources to be used efficiently while minimizing the generation of toxic gases, including carbon monoxide.”
“W-wait, wait a moment. Greenhouse… rocket stove… carbon mono… There are too many difficult terms. Could these be… things used in Lord Nemo’s ‘homeland’?”
“…Something like that.”
“…Aah! I knew it! How incredible! To build facilities like this while fighting against all manner of great evils!”
…I didn’t know why he was so fixated on the word “homeland,” nor could I understand why he got so excited just because I agreed. And what was this “great evil” supposed to be? Spain?
More precisely, I did not want to know. I hurriedly changed the subject.
“Ahem, anyway, we will soon be able to produce rootstock in that greenhouse all year round. Thanks to that, we expect the vineyard’s expansion to proceed much faster than anticipated.”
“Hmmm… I understand.”
Snap.
John White closed his notebook and spoke to me, his clear eyes shining much like his daughter’s.
“I believe I now have a rough understanding of how this colony operates.”
“…Really? You have only looked around for about two days, haven’t you?”
“It is a village of around three hundred people living scattered about. And I am a seasoned explorer, am I not?”
John White let out a few dry coughs and said,
“You plant… an extraordinary number of grapes, don’t you?”
Ah.
Without realizing it, I flinched as if I had been stabbed somewhere.
“Ah… the settlers seek wine quite a lot, so it ended up that way out of necessity.”
That statement was only half true.
If that were the case, I would have planted nothing but wine varieties in the newly made vineyards.
…Ah, grapes.
My parents’ romance, my desire, the culprit that buried me in debt, and the scent of success I have no choice but to chase…
The day I give up grape farming will probably be the day I die.
I struggled to stiffen my expression so as not to show any wavering on my face. Seeing that, White smiled faintly, as if puzzled, and continued speaking.
“A-anyway, the crops most widely grown in this colony are grapes and potatoes. Correct?”
“…Correct.”
“Neither lasts long, and one of them is not a long-term food source.
If famine strikes even once, this colony is finished. You cannot store food and seed.”
…Huh?
He’s right?
“Moreover, this colony is economically inefficient as well. To put it simply, does this settlement have any proper products worth exporting to Europe?”
“…Not many.”
“Exactly. Even if contact with England is restored, at this rate, proper trade will be impossible.
It means you cannot generate economic profit.”
Stability: low.
Profitability: low.
…Guh. That is a painful report card.
“Ssss… What am I supposed to do about this…”
“However, there is a way to resolve all these problems at once.”
“…Truly?”
“Yes!”
White smiled cheerfully and said,
“You need only grow wheat.
As it happens, the relief supplies I brought include wheat seed, do they not?”
Wheat is a food that can be preserved long-term, so it would add stability to the colony.
Moreover, England is currently suffering from a continuous shortage of food, so it could be exported there as well.
…Oh.
“Then we should begin at once.”
“Of course. However, this Croatoan Island is not suited to growing wheat. The soil has a lot of sand, the land is low, and the salt makes it barren. Grapes may be one thing, but wheat cannot be grown here.”
“Then…”
“Yes. We must go to Chesapeake Bay.”
Chesapeake Bay.
The place White had originally attempted to colonize.
“If you additionally colonize Chesapeake Bay and grow wheat there, most of this colony’s problems will be solved. However…”
However?
“Uh… you are far too short on craftsmen… and livestock as well.”
That was true.
Since seventy percent of the Englishmen who originally landed on Roanoke Island had vanished somewhere, the goldsmith William Brown was currently doubling as a blacksmith.
On top of that, livestock in this era were basically tractors, food, automobiles, and textile factories all in one. But since all we had were chickens, the colony seemed so precarious that it would collapse immediately without my help.
“However… this seems like a difficult problem to solve…”
White lowered his head gloomily.
“What do you mean?”
“No… It is obvious, is it not? Profit is needed for investment to come in, and investment is needed in order to generate profit. Then what is a colony that cannot produce profit right now supposed to do?”
“…”
“If only this were a place overflowing with jewels and all manner of luxuries!”
“…”
Uh… wait a minute.
“John? Would you come this way for a moment?”
“Ah… yes, of course. What is it?”
What else could it be?
“What would you think if I said this colony actually has profitability?”
“Let’s suppose… that this island produces all sorts of jewels, animal pelts, placer gold, pearls, and coral.”
“…Is that, by any chance, another story about your homeland?”
Of course not.
My homeland is a shitty land where not a single drop of oil comes out, where yellow dust blows in spring, monsoons pour down in summer, typhoons hit in autumn, and bitter cold descends in winter.
In any case, without bothering to answer, I led the way. I brought White, who still looked puzzled, to stand in front of the newly built warehouse.
“Well… the thing is. You know the grapes?”
“Do you mean those green grapes with no seeds, whose skins are so soft and whose fragrance is beyond compare? Or do you mean those black grapes, long and unfamiliar in appearance, yet with a crisp texture and sweetness in perfect harmony?”
“…It seems the Black Sapphire tanghulu left quite an impression on you. Yes, in any case, both.”
“Is there some problem with those beautiful grapes?”
“No. There’s no problem at all. They’re perfect grapes.”
And we aren’t the only ones who want to eat those perfect grapes.
“…Among the natives here, there is a custom of displaying one’s power by exchanging gifts.”
“Ah, yes. I know that too.”
“Then do you think we’re going to eat all those grapes ourselves? Or give them away?”
“We would… give them away, I suppose?”
“Yes. Then…”
Creak.
“…Wouldn’t there be something we receive in return?”
I flung open the warehouse door.
At that moment, John White’s mouth fell wide open.
In one corner stood a display cabinet made by cutting up a microfiber blanket. Why did I make something like that?
“Those… don’t tell me they’re all…”
“They are pearls.”
To store pearls and coral in it.
And when I opened another door, all sorts of animal pelts were spread out everywhere. When I opened yet another door, it was filled with uncut gemstones.
“Uh… ah… uhh…”
“These are all things Manteo exchanged for grapes.”
“…”
John White sank down on the spot.
“Well? Can we obtain livestock and craftsmen with this?”
“…”
Without a word, White nodded like a madman.
This feels like some sinister desire is being fulfilled.
…Somehow, my urge to show off is being satisfied.
***
“‘Currently… November 4th. This is the first time in my life I have prepared for a voyage and set sail in a mere two weeks. Is this a new form of suicide attempt, or a great undertaking? I do not know. Would Sir Walter Raleigh know?’”
“Thomas! What are you doing there!”
“‘…Perhaps he would not.’”
Thomas Harriot, mathematician, linguist, and naturalist, closed his diary with trembling anxiety. Then, with a very unsteady gait, he climbed up onto the deck.
But when he looked around, his employer Walter Raleigh’s face was nowhere to be seen. As Harriot tilted his head in puzzlement, Sir Raleigh poked his head out from a cabin in the distance and beckoned to him.
When he hurried over, Sir Raleigh was kneeling in the middle of the cabin with both hands clasped together.
“Uh… what are you doing?”
“Can’t you tell by looking? I kneel before no one but God and my lover.”
“Ah, I see.”
Thomas Harriot had just begun thinking that, in that case, there were far too many people Sir Raleigh would kneel before, when Raleigh shot him a glare. Before he knew it, Harriot was kneeling beside him with his eyes closed.
The prayer of Sir Raleigh, a devout Protestant, quietly echoed through the cabin.
“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
Up to that point, it sounded like a normal prayer, but…
“…Please, if this colony fails too, I’m dead. Ah, Father! Father! Please…!”
“…”
Fundamentally, it was a prayer in the same form as those offered by the countless stock investors who would, in the twenty-first century, be responsible for the temperature of the Han River.
Of course, Thomas Harriot, who regarded the twenty-first century as an unimaginably distant future, had no idea that a river called the Han existed, and lived in a world where joint-stock companies did not even yet exist, could not possibly think such a thing.
He simply… felt his head go rather numb.
Though in the twenty-first century, that would be called a “reality check.”
He did not know that either.
And so, they began their crossing of the Atlantic.