Chapter 19
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: Treasure Warehouse
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Thomas Huet had just wrapped up another fulfilling service and sermon, bidding farewell to the parishioners as they left the church. He glanced around...
One person was still lingering.
It wasn't uncommon for someone with troubles on their mind to hang back like this, seeking counsel from Huet.
"Mrs. Dare, is something wrong? You look troubled."
Today, that person was Eleanor Dare.
"Um... Mr. Huet? I have one question."
"What is it?"
He figured it might be about her father, whom she hadn't seen in ages—equal parts resentment and joy, no doubt stirring up worries.
"Um... Do angels and demons fight each other?"
"Hm?"
It was unexpected. A theological question out of the blue.
"Of course they do. Ezekiel describes battles between angels and demons, and many theologians argue they wage war right up until Judgment Day."
"Th-then... do angels storm into hell and slay demons?"
"...Pardon? Well, I'm not sure."
"Y-you don't know?"
"Er... yes. Calvin advised against dwelling on the hierarchies of angels..."
"..."
"..."
Silence.
A silence heavy as ice.
Huet couldn't fathom Eleanor's reaction. All he could manage was, "If you have more questions, feel free to ask after next service," before excusing himself.
As Huet muttered something like, "How peculiar..." and left the church, Eleanor was truly alone at last.
Left by herself, she replayed that scene endlessly in her mind.
The horrific landscape of hell.
Nemo's unfamiliar, half-broken appearance.
The dreadful demons' song echoing from all sides.
What in the world did I witness...?
Ah, I don't know.
I have no idea at all.
-"Satan... I have paid the price."
-"...Mother, behold me. I am on my way to the promised land."
-"I... stand on the road to hell!"
She finally shook off those sinister verses ringing in her ears.
"Highway to Hell..."
For some reason... it was catchy.
A demon's song, through and through.
Crunch. Crack. Splat!
-"I'm on the highway to hell! Highway to hell! Don't stop me, eh, eh, ooh!"
Click.
Oh, Highway to Hell.
Truly an AC/DC masterpiece. Especially perfect for a violence-packed, gory game—blasting this clears the soul right out.
Feeling refreshed, I pocketed my phone and stopped the music.
...No matter how I think about it, playing a song titled 'Highway to Hell' for people of this era would deliver way too much psychological trauma.
20th-century tunes are still a bit too advanced for this time.
I scanned the area again—still no one around. Good. No one should be nearby for a game like this, with music like that.
Over there, John White was diligently sketching alone in his notebook. Pictures of our farm.
This was the new vineyard under development.
Specifically, the greenhouse section for rootstocks.
After Eleanor introduced me to her father John White and bolted like she was fleeing, I'd been showing him around the farm and settlement.
...But seriously, why did she run off like that?
Eleanor had been acting strange lately. She'd look at me with a sad expression for no reason, or jump in shock if I just called out to her suddenly.
Anyway.
According to the game catalog, John White's original profession was a miniaturist.
Trained in watercolors, he'd honed the skill of quick sketches, accompanying explorers and serving as a sort of human camera.
Putting that talent to use, he was now rapidly sketching scenes from across our colony.
Once his rough sketch was done, he slowly approached me and asked,
"Um, do you know what that transparent structure over there is for?"
"Ah... well, you see."
How do you propagate grapevines normally? By planting seeds from eaten grapes?
No way. That wouldn't preserve the traits of carefully cultivated wine or table grape varieties.
Traditionally, they used cuttings—snip a branch and stick it in the ground. Plants are kinda like planarians; chop a piece and plant it, and it clones itself.
But come the 19th century, trouble brewed.
The grape growers' catastrophe—no exaggeration—the phylloxera mite crossed the Atlantic to Europe.
Phylloxera, or grape root louse.
It clings to leaves and roots, forms galls, and sucks up all the nutrients meant for the vine.
European vines were extremely vulnerable to this New World import.
Europeans had been sticking cuttings in the ground, only for phylloxera on the roots and leaves to drain the tree dry, starving it to death.
Europe's vineyards were nearly wiped out, splitting wine history into pre- and post-phylloxera eras.
Anyway.
Post-phylloxera, they switched to grafting.
Take phylloxera-resistant rootstock (that's what we call the base plant), propagate it via cuttings, then graft the desired vines onto it for fruit production.
Of course, this is pre-19th century, and worldwide, they're still using cuttings for grapes.
But I'm farming grapes in North America, phylloxera's origin point.
So I'm the only one bothering with rootstocks and grafting.
Anyway, our population's growing, Christians proportionally so, wine demand exploding. Plus, the gift economy network's expanding daily.
"...That's why we're building this greenhouse."
"Green...house? What's that?"
John White echoed back after my explanation.
Hm, greenhouses don't exist yet?
"It's a space that keeps the interior warm, letting plants grow regardless of season."
"I see! I've never seen a structure like this in my life!"
Farm life means stocking up on essentials and materials. Naturally, we have spare polycarbonate panels for our smart house.
Here's the thing: are PC panels consumables?
Yes.
So assembling greenhouses with steel frames and panels everywhere wasn't hard.
"The challenge was... keeping the interior warm.
North Carol... er, Virginia has mild weather year-round; soil temps rarely drop below freezing—water doesn't often freeze solid—but mishandle it, and the rootstocks could still freeze."
"I see. Got it."
After touring the under-construction greenhouse for a good while, White spotted the central stove and asked,
"Is that... the device for maintaining the temperature?"
"Exactly. It's called a rocket stove. Efficient fuel use, minimizes toxic gases like carbon monoxide."
"W-wait, hold on. Greenhouse... rocket stove... carbon mon... Too many unfamiliar terms. Are these... from your 'homeland,' Lord Nemo?"
"...Something like that."
"...Ahh! Of course! Impressive! Battling all those monsters while building facilities like this!"
...I don't get the fixation on 'homeland,' or why agreement excites him so. And what's 'monsters'? Spaniards?
I didn't want to know precisely. I swiftly changed the subject.
"Ahem, anyway, soon we'll produce rootstocks year-round in there. That'll let the vineyard expand much faster than expected."
"Hmm... Understood."
Thud.
John White closed his notebook, his clear eyes—much like his daughter's—shining as he said to me,
"I think I've got a rough idea of how this colony operates."
"...Really? You've only toured for two days."
"It's a village of about 300 scattered folks. And I'm an experienced explorer, aren't I?"
John White cleared his throat dryly a few times before saying,
"You plant... a lot of grapes?"
Oh.
I flinched like I'd been poked.
"Ah... The settlers crave wine, so it couldn't be helped."
Half-truth.
If that were all, the new vineyards would be full of wine varieties too.
...Ah, grapes.
My parents' dream, my obsession, the culprit behind my debts, the irresistible scent of success I can't escape...
The day I quit grape farming is probably the day I die.
I schooled my face to hide any tremor. White, noticing, smiled curiously and continued,
"Well, anyway, the colony's top crops are grapes and potatoes, right?"
"...Yes."
"Both don't store long, and grapes aren't even staple food.
One famine, and this place is done. No reserves of grain or seed."
...Huh?
He's right?
"Plus, economically inefficient. Bluntly, what exportable goods does this settlement have for Europe?"
"...Not many."
"Exactly. Even if contact with England resumes, no real trade possible.
No profits, economically."
Stability: Low.
Profitability: Low.
...Ouch. Brutal report card.
"Sigh... What to do..."
"But there's a way to solve all this at once."
"...Really?"
"Yes!"
White beamed.
"Grow wheat.
The relief supplies I brought include wheat seed, right?"
Wheat stores long-term, boosts colony stability.
England's short on food; export there too.
...Oh.
"Then we start immediately."
"Of course. But Croatoan Island isn't ideal for wheat. Sandy soil, low elevation, salty—barren. Fine for grapes, not wheat."
"Then..."
"Yes. We need Chesapeake Bay."
Chesapeake Bay.
White's original colonization target.
"Colonize Chesapeake Bay too, grow wheat there—most problems solved. But..."
But?
"Er... We lack technicians... Livestock too."
True.
Of the original Roanoke English, 70% vanished somewhere, so goldsmith William Brown doubles as blacksmith.
And livestock? In this era, they're tractors, food, transport, textile factories rolled into one. Only chickens means without my help, the colony teeters on collapse.
"But... this seems unsolvable..."
White slumped, head down.
"Why's that?"
"Well... Profits attract investment, investment brings profits—but a non-profitable colony now? What then?"
"..."
"If only jewels and luxuries poured out!"
"..."
Uh... hold up.
"John? Come over here a sec?"
"Ah... yes, sure. What is it?"
What is it.
"What if I said this colony does have profitability?"
"Er... Suppose this island yields gems, beast hides, placer gold, pearls, coral."
"...From your homeland again?"
Obviously not.
My homeland? No oil, spring dust storms, summer monsoons, fall typhoons, winter deep freezes—a shithole.
I led on without answering, stopping White—still puzzled—before the new warehouse.
"Er... Actually, grapes?"
"You mean those seedless, soft-skinned, divinely fragrant green grapes? Or the elongated black ones—odd shape, but crisp texture and sweetness in perfect harmony?"
"...Black Sapphire tanghulu left quite the impression, huh. Yes, both."
"Any issue with those splendid grapes?"
"No. Perfect grapes."
And those perfect grapes aren't just for us.
"...The natives here have a custom of exchanging gifts to show off status."
"Ah, yes, I know."
"So, do we eat all those grapes ourselves? Or share?"
"Share...?"
"Exactly. And..."
Creak.
"...We get something in return, right?"
I flung open the warehouse doors.
John White's jaw dropped.
One side held a display case from cut microfiber blankets. Why? To store pearls and coral there.
"Th-those aren't all...?"
"Pearls, yes."
Opened another door—beast pelts everywhere. Another—raw gems piled high.
"Uh... ah... uhh..."
"All traded by Manteo for grapes."
"..."
John White collapsed on the spot.
"So? Can we trade this for livestock and technicians?"
"..."
White nodded frantically, like a madman.
This feeling... some dark desire fulfilled.
...Ostentation sated.
"'Today... November 4th. Preparing to sail after just two weeks—first time in my life. Is this a new form of suicide, or a great feat? I don't know. Does Sir Walter Raleigh know?'"
"Thomas! What're you doing there!"
"'...Probably not.'"
Mathematician, linguist, naturalist Thomas Harriot slammed his journal shut, trembling with anxiety. He climbed to the deck with uneasy steps.
Looking around, his employer Sir Walter Raleigh was nowhere. As Harriot tilted his head in confusion, Raleigh peeked from the cabin afar, beckoning.
Rushing over, Harriot found Raleigh kneeling in the cabin center, hands clasped.
"Uh... what are you doing?"
"Can't you see? I only kneel for God and my lovers."
"Ah, right."
Harriot, thinking Raleigh must kneel often then, caught his employer's piercing glare and knelt beside him, eyes closed.
The devout Protestant Raleigh's prayer echoed softly in the cabin.
"Give us today our daily bread, forgive our sins as we forgive sinners...
...Please, if this colony fails too, I'm done for. Oh, Father! Father! Please...!"
"..."
Basically the prayer format of countless 21st-century Han River stock investors.
Of course, to Thomas Harriot—living in an era oblivious to the distant 21st century, Han River, or corporations—that thought never crossed his mind.
His head just rang fiercely.
In 21st-century terms, a massive 'reality check.'
But he didn't know that either.
And so, they set off across the Atlantic.