It was now December 25, 1589.
John White awoke and, out of habit, changed into his outdoor clothes to head for Durham House, where his patron, Sir Raleigh, lived… only to take off his coat again.
Sir Walter Raleigh had most likely departed to attend the Christmas banquet hosted by the queen.
To cover up the failure of the expedition against Spain and maintain public opinion, a feast even more lavish than usual would surely be spread.
They would spend their days in luxury, enjoying desserts of almond paste set atop plates made of hardened sugar and gelatin and decorated with sugar sculptures, eating gingerbread, all manner of tarts and pies, and pudding made from boar’s innards.
After that, perhaps they would tilt back hot spiced wine, whisper sweet nothings with his lover, the queen, watch a play together, and then enjoy the night together as well.
Perhaps Sir Raleigh himself would grow angry if he heard such talk.
He might say, do you know how thin the ice of politics is now that the expedition has failed, that no one knows who will fall from power next?
Since it was an extension of wartime propaganda, continuing as though they had won a great victory despite defeat, as though they had suffered no blow at all. This banquet too, he would say, was merely an arduous duty he had to endure as a courtier.
Perhaps so. Sir Raleigh too might be undergoing trials of his own.
But at the very least, he would be surrounded by people.
…He would have no occasion to feel lonely.
And why only Sir Raleigh?
Everyone in London would be roasting geese, dancing with song, and sharing warm drink together. Even the beggars would likely be able to spend this day more abundantly than on any other winter day.
With family.
With old friends.
Because that was Christmas.
Because that was the happiness a person could enjoy on the day the Savior came into the world.
With a dry face from which no more sighs or tears would come, he looked around the cold room.
Quiet, and covered in dust. Since returning to London, he had not once thought to clean or put this place in order.
Because he would soon return.
He would soon… return to Roanoke Island, be welcomed by his lovely daughter and the son-in-law he did not much like, and tickle his granddaughter’s nose.
Because that place was his home.
Not this… miserable, shabby hut.
He hated London.
He hated it madly.
He wanted to escape this place. He hated the people here. Every laugh and every happiness and every joy in this place felt accursed.
Amid everyone’s happiness, only he was unhappy.
“…Eleanor.”
Are you well?
And Virginia? Is she well?
You too must be spending Christmas today.
You too must be looking beyond that vast Atlantic, toward the far eastern horizon.
Waiting… for me.
The window, rattling in the cold wind, flew open, and the frozen yet lively scene of London unfolded before his eyes.
He shut the window again, unwilling to hear the carols drifting from beyond. And the middle-aged man with gray hair sobbed alone.
…I do not want to live anymore.
I do not want to torment my heart in this terrible world.
Christmas is… so hateful—
“Mr. White?”
A voice calling him.
Jingle.
The sound of a small bell ringing.
When he lifted his head… warm light enveloped him. A long table had been set beneath a wide-spread tent.
All the native chiefs from around Pamlico Sound were seated along it, looking somewhat awkward, and the one leading them was Manteo, dressed in a doublet (a men’s upper garment in Western Europe from the 15th to 17th centuries) and a splendid cloak like any Englishman.
To the left of the seat of honor, Thomas Hewet, representing the English settlers, and Vicente González, representing the Spaniards, sat side by side, engaged in some kind of theological discussion.
And to the right of the seat of honor, two seats were empty, with his daughter Eleanor Dare seated between them. One was Manteo’s seat, and the other was…
“Mr. White, please sit here. If you keep standing by the entrance, you’ll be cold.”
It was his seat.
Bewildered, White sat down in the empty chair. Anxiety rose in him—whether this was truly a place suited to him, whether he had taken someone else’s seat.
Eleanor, with Virginia sitting on her lap, laughed brightly as she said, “Look there, it’s Grandfather and… the angel!” Even that sight felt as though it would vanish like a mirage if he closed his eyes and opened them again.
All of this… felt like a dream…
“White, my friend.”
“…Manteo.”
Having finished leading the others, Manteo sat down beside him and spoke.
“Why are you sitting there so stupidly? The food will grow cold.”
Startled by those words, White looked up at the table. The dishes laid out before him had become varied and plentiful before he knew it. Smoked elk meat, chicken roasted as though fried in oil, mashed potatoes, and even the crude native dishes made with beans and corn.
After briefly picking up a chicken leg with his hand, White could not bring himself to bite into it and set it back down on the plate before him.
“Mr. White, is something wrong?”
And then came that gentle voice once more.
He turned his head and looked at the man seated at the head of the table.
Behind his back, a tree with aluminum ornaments and candles set upon each branch glittered. White felt as though it were a halo in a holy painting.
The man raised his head and spoke.
“Mr. White, you seem somehow sad. What is the matter?”
“Ah, Lord Nemo… it is nothing. I merely dozed for a moment and dreamed of last Christmas.”
A time when, in his heart, he had believed his daughter and granddaughter were already dead.
A time when he had believed he alone remained in this world.
There had been such a time.
And that had been only last year.
“Mr. White? Are you all right?”
“…I… am all right. Truly… truly, I am all right, Lord Nemo.”
Unable to hold back the tears flowing down his face, he finally bowed his head to Nemo and said,
“I only… th-thank… thank you…”
“…”
“For saving my daughter… For fulfilling my dream…”
Pat, pat.
Three-year-old Virginia rubbed the back of her weeping grandfather.
For a moment, Nemo closed his eyes at his words and recalled it.
The life written in the game booklet.
—“…In 1593, three years after returning from a voyage without ever seeing his daughter or granddaughter again, he dies in loneliness.”
At least he could amend that final sentence, Nemo thought, and he was grateful for it.
White wiped away his tears, and the dinner continued.
The next day, and the day after that.
Because it was Christmas.
***
“Glory to Her Majesty the Queen!”
“God bless England!”
“Bless her!”
A Christmas banquet did not end with only Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
Because one week after Christmas came New Year’s Day, and five days after New Year’s Day came Epiphany (January 6, a holiday celebrating the manifestation of Jesus).
When New Year’s Day came, kings and nobles exchanged gifts and performed complex political rituals, and until Epiphany arrived, all labor ceased as people laughed and chattered merrily.
And at this New Year’s banquet of 1591, there was one more thing to laugh and chatter about.
“…Sir Walter Raleigh is still nowhere to be seen.”
“I hear he went to America? That fool has finally gone mad with exploration and ruined himself.”
“What delightful news! Wouldn’t you each like another slice of pie?”
Sir Raleigh’s disappearance.
The void left by Sir Raleigh, who had strutted like a dazzling peacock of high society, was by no means small.
The queen visibly showed that she was displeased, and at her side, the queen’s other lover, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, constantly poured flattery upon her.
But the queen was gradually growing sick of the lamb’s tongue dish and the cow’s udder dish alike. Even the nights she spent with the handsome Earl of Essex were beginning to feel tedious.
The queen knew the reason why.
“…Walt.”
Flinch.
At the sound of that name, the Earl of Essex’s face stiffened slightly, but the queen paid it no mind.
Walter Raleigh had dared to throw aside the Christmas banquet, ignore his duties as captain of the royal guard, and flee across the Atlantic.
Irritation and worry over that fact made her brow furrow.
“Your Majesty, your beautiful brows are filled with tension. I fear that because of that scoundrel, your heart may be stained black—”
“It is fine. I am quite fine.”
“Your Majesty, I—”
“…”
“…”
Everything irritated her.
The fact that Walter Raleigh had left like this during Christmastide, the fact that the Earl of Essex kept casting jealous whispers beside her, and the fact that Raleigh had chosen some needlessly dangerous path instead of asking her for financial help.
She did not want to speak further.
That irritable exchange reached everyone who had been listening for the queen’s voice even amid the noise.
Just as everyone, needlessly watching the queen’s mood, began to lower their voices little by little—
One of the royal guards came running in haste, bowed his head before the queen, and shouted.
“Sir Walter Raleigh enters the palace!”
Springing to his feet,
“How dare that man come here—”
“Calm yourself, Earl of Essex.”
“…”
“…And everyone else here would do well to calm themselves too. He crossed the Atlantic to fulfill the noble duty of expanding my territory and spreading the Christian faith…
Though whether he succeeded is another matter.”
At the queen’s venomous words, everyone froze.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Soon, an explorer with fluttering, splendid robes and a beautiful mustache strode across the middle of the court. He let a faint sneer slip toward the Earl of Essex at the queen’s side, then stood before the queen.
“Your Majesty’s loyal servant has returned from the New World.”
And he bowed with delicate gestures and manners not befitting an Anglo-Saxon. Truly, he was a man who had captivated the queen with nothing but his face and tongue, without any background to speak of.
“Hm… Sir Raleigh? Did you have a good journey to the Virginia colony?”
But the queen’s response was lukewarm.
“According to my sources, your colony suffered a miserable failure due to a Spanish attack. How unfortunate. Fortunately, you are my captain of the royal guard, so you shall suffer no further hardship.”
→ “Your colony has failed, so where do you think you’re wandering off to? If you simply stay nearby and act charming, I’ll look after you well enough.”
When the queen’s words reached him in their translated meaning, Raleigh’s expression stiffened slightly, then relaxed.
He had anticipated a light rebuke like this.
And.
“Failed… you say? Your Majesty, has the English tongue changed a little while I was across the Atlantic?”
“Mm?”
Snap.
When Sir Raleigh snapped his fingers, laborers emerged from behind him and began carrying a series of chests.
Click.
And the moment Raleigh personally threw open the chests placed before the queen, exclamations poured from the crowd.
Countless pearls and coral sparkled, reflecting the chandelier’s light in every direction.
Click.
Another chest opened.
Inside it lay beautiful furs of foxes and all manner of beasts, piled in layers.
“Your Majesty! How could the word failure possibly suit a colony that has brought back such precious treasures?”
“…Walt!”
“And there is another gift for Your beautiful Majesty.”
Click.
A third chest opened.
Once more, cries of astonishment followed.
“This is… silver? Or platinum?”
“Oh, Your Majesty.”
At some point, Raleigh had quietly drawn near the queen’s side, and he slipped a ring onto her finger as he whispered.
“If it were something so trifling, would I ever place it upon your finger like this?”
A ring set with a brilliantly cut ruby, mysterious words engraved within.
“Behold. This ring, made with a skill no European craftsman could imitate, is astonishingly not the product of our colonists!”
“Good heavens… You mean it belongs to savages?”
“If they possess the skill to make such a thing, they can hardly be called savages. Let us simply say there were ‘local collaborators,’ my queen.”
“Then… what is the name of this metal? So light… and so beautiful…”
Sir Walter Raleigh spoke with that distinctive smile which had captivated the Queen and countless women before.
"It is called aluminium, Your Majesty."
"···."
"···."
"···."
"···Aluminium, aluminium. Such a beautiful luster. And to think it is so light."
"It is much like the orichalcum of legend. Harder than iron, more precious than gold, and light as a feather.
But this is not the end."
This is not the end...?
No longer could one find gazes of contempt or jealousy directed at Raleigh.
Like audience members marveling at a magician, eyes filled with pure admiration and wonder poured toward Sir Walter Raleigh and the final chest.
Walter Raleigh cried out before opening the chest with an expression full of pride.
"We were fortunate! Had the season in which I transported 'this' not been winter! And had my captain and navigator been unskilled, delaying our voyage further! I would not have been able to bring this precious gift to Her Majesty the Queen!"
At his words, everyone's attention was focused.
It was the words of that show-off. Just what was the identity of the final gift? A mysterious beast? Or another precious metal? Jewels? Or enough gold to make one's eyes pop?
Bang!
And when the last chest opened.
Bewilderment filled everyone's eyes.
What lay there was another chest. A snow-white chest.
"This chest, too, is the product of the foreigners' astonishing wisdom and skill, being extremely light yet safely transporting fragile contents within. And the object inside is···."
When Sir Raleigh opened that chest and lifted the lid, this time no one could hide their disappointment.
What was inside was···
Just grapes.
They were particularly plump, their color translucent, and each berry was enormous, but··· they were just grapes.
The Queen of England rolled her eyes as if to ask if he had made a fuss over just that, but Raleigh, unfazed, extended the grapes before the Queen.
"This is a fruit that the savages value most highly, and my trusted explorer, John White, reportedly obtained it by entreating a noble 'local collaborator.'
I suspect he may be a great king or emperor of the locality."
"Hmm···."
Pop.
"I have washed them beforehand, so you may eat it as it is."
Raleigh plucked one and placed it upon the Queen's palm. The Queen glared at the grape with a displeased expression before popping it into her mouth and rolling it around. And then···
Crunch.
"···."
"···."
"···."
Silence fell.
Bang!
"Th-this grape, what of it! Such vulgar temperament... Is this miserable grape all you have to offer after returning and causing Her Majesty the Queen worry?"
"Calm yourself, Earl of Essex. If you are jealous, simply say you are jealous, and if you wish to eat this grape, say you wish to eat it."
"Gah! What of this miserable grape. Give them here! This... this..."
Pop.
"···."
"···."
"···."
Once again, silence followed.
Everyone watched the Queen and the Earl of Essex with tense gazes, suspecting that the mad Sir Raleigh might have poisoned the Queen.
And then···
"Ah, aah... L-Lord, dear God...!"
"Uwoooh... ooooh...!"
As the Earl of Essex plucked another grape, the Queen, as if unwilling to be outdone, took two and rolled them into her mouth. Unable to contain their curiosity, William Cecil, the Lord Privy Seal and Lord Treasurer, and Francis Walsingham, the Secretary of State, also approached and each plucked a grape to put in their mouths.
And then.
"Ooh, o... oooooh!"
"Uwa... uwaa... th-this is...!"
"The other sailors who tasted this grape said it is···
···like a fruit cultivated by angels."
January 6, 1591, the Feast of the Epiphany.
The fifth monarch of the Tudor dynasty.
The great Queen of England and Ireland.
It was the day the 'Virgin Queen,' Elizabeth I, first tasted the Shine Muscat.