Chapter 21
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Christmas Party
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It was December 25, 1589.
John White awoke from sleep and, out of habit, changed into his outing clothes to head to Durham House where his patron Sir Walter Raleigh lived... only to remove his coat again.
Sir Walter Raleigh had likely already left to attend the Christmas banquet hosted by the Queen.
To cover up the failed expedition against Spain and maintain public opinion, an even more lavish feast than usual would be laid out.
They would savor desserts of almond paste molded on plates of hardened sugar and gelatin, decorated with sugar shards, while indulging in gingerbread, all sorts of tarts and pies, and puddings made from wild boar offal, spending days in luxury.
Afterward, he would probably sip hot spiced wine, whispering sweet nothings to his lover the Queen, then watch a play together and spend the night in her company.
Sir Raleigh himself might get angry if he heard such tales.
He might snap that no one knew how treacherous the political landscape had become since the expedition's failure, or who might fall from grace next.
It was all an extension of wartime propaganda, pretending defeat was a great victory, as if unscathed. This banquet was just another grueling duty he had to endure as a courtier.
That could be true. Sir Raleigh might be facing his own trials.
But at least he would be surrounded by people.
...He wouldn't feel lonely.
Was Sir Raleigh the only one?
Everyone in London would roast geese, dance and sing, sharing warm drinks. Even beggars would spend this day more bountifully than any other winter's eve.
With family.
With old friends.
That was Christmas.
The kind of joy people could savor on the day the Savior came into the world.
His parched face, no longer capable of sighs or tears, scanned the cold, stale room.
It was quiet, covered in dust. He hadn't bothered cleaning or tidying since returning to London.
Because he would leave soon anyway.
He would soon... return to Roanoke Island, welcomed by his beloved daughter and that unsatisfactory son-in-law, tickling his granddaughter's nose.
That was his home.
Not this... wretched, miserable shack.
He hated London.
Hated it with a madness.
He wanted to escape this place. He loathed its people. Every laugh, every happiness, every joy here was a curse.
While everyone reveled in bliss, he alone was miserable.
"...Eleanor."
Are you well?
And Virginia? Is she well?
You're spending Christmas today too, aren't you?
Gazing across that vast ocean to the distant east...
Waiting for me...
A fierce gust shook the window open, revealing the frozen yet vibrant London scene.
He shut it again, hating the carols drifting from beyond. The gray-haired middle-aged man sobbed alone.
...I don't want to live anymore.
Don't want to fret in this wretched world.
Christmas... I hate it so...
"Mr. White?"
A voice calling him.
Ding-a-ling.
The sound of a small bell.
He looked up... and warm light enveloped him. A vast tent stretched wide, with a long table set beneath.
All the native chieftains near Pamlico Sound sat awkwardly along it, led by Manteo, dressed in a doublet and fine cloak like any Englishman.
To the left of the head seat sat Thomas Huett representing the English settlers and Vicente Gonzalez for the Spaniards, engaged in some theological debate side by side.
To the right were two empty seats, with his daughter Eleanor Dare in between—one for Manteo, the other...
"Mr. White, please sit. You'll catch a chill standing by the entrance."
His seat.
White sat in the empty spot, dazed. He felt uneasy, wondering if it truly belonged to him or if he'd taken someone's place.
Eleanor had Virginia on her lap, giggling, "Look, Grandpa and... the angel!" It felt like it might vanish like a mirage if he blinked.
This whole scene... felt like a dream...
"White, my friend."
"...Manteo."
Manteo sat beside him after leading the others, saying,
"Why sit there like a fool? The food's getting cold."
Startled, White looked at the table. A variety of dishes had appeared: smoked elk meat, chicken fried in oil, mashed potatoes, and native stews of beans and corn.
He picked up a chicken leg with his hand but hesitated to bite, setting it back on his plate.
"Mr. White, what's wrong?"
Another soft voice.
He turned to the man at the head seat.
Behind him gleamed a tree adorned with aluminum ornaments and candles, like a halo from a holy painting.
The man looked up and said,
"Mr. White, you seem somehow sad. What's the matter?"
"Ah, Nemo... It's nothing. I just dozed off and dreamed of last Christmas."
The time he thought his daughter and granddaughter must be dead.
The time he believed himself alone in the world.
Such days had existed.
And that was just last year.
"Mr. White? Are you all right?"
"...Yes... I'm fine. Truly... truly fine, Nemo."
He couldn't hold back the tears and bowed his head to Nemo, saying,
"Just... th-thank you... thank you..."
"..."
"For saving my daughter... For making my dream come true..."
Pat.
Three-year-old Virginia rubbed her weeping grandfather's back.
Nemo closed his eyes briefly, recalling the game booklet's account of White's life.
- '...In 1593, three years after returning from a voyage without seeing his daughter and granddaughter again, he died alone.'
At least he could revise that final line, Nemo thought.
White wiped his tears, and the feast continued.
The next day, and the day after.
It was Christmas, after all.
"Glory to Her Majesty the Queen!"
"God bless England!"
"Bless us!"
The Christmas banquet didn't end with Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
A week after Christmas came New Year's Day, and five days after that, Epiphany on January 6th, celebrating Christ's manifestation.
On New Year's, king and nobles exchanged gifts in elaborate political rituals, pausing all labor until Epiphany to laugh and revel.
And for this New Year's banquet in 1591, they had one more reason to chatter excitedly.
"...Sir Walter Raleigh still hasn't shown up."
"I heard he went to America? That fool's finally lost his mind to exploration and gone bankrupt."
"What delightful news! More pie, anyone?"
Sir Raleigh's disappearance.
The void left by the flamboyant peacock of high society was no small gap.
The Queen showed clear irritation, and at her side, her other lover, the Earl of Essex Robert Devereux, showered her with flattery nonstop.
But the Queen was growing tired of lamb's tongue dishes and cow's udder recipes alike. Even nights with the handsome Earl felt wearisome.
She knew why.
"...Walt."
The Earl flinched at the name, but she ignored it.
Walter Raleigh had dared abandon the Christmas banquet, shirk his duties as Captain of the Guard, and bolt across the Atlantic.
Irritation and worry over it furrowed her brow.
"Your Majesty, tension clouds your beautiful brow. If that rogue is darkening your heart, I worry..."
"I'm fine. Quite fine."
"Your Majesty, I..."
"..."
"..."
Everything irritated her.
Raleigh ditching Christmas festivities, the Earl's jealous whispers, Raleigh seeking dangerous paths instead of her financial aid.
She didn't want to say more.
The snappish exchange reached everyone straining to hear amid the din, as they began glancing nervously at her and lowering their voices.
Then, one of the royal guards rushed in, bowing before the Queen and shouting,
"Sir Walter Raleigh enters the court!"
The Queen shot up.
"That bastard thinks this is some..."
"Calm yourself, Earl of Essex."
"..."
"...And everyone else here should calm as well. He crossed the Atlantic to fulfill his noble duty of expanding my realm and spreading the Christian faith...
Though whether he succeeded is another matter."
All froze at her venomous words.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Soon, a dashing explorer in splendid attire, flaunting a fine mustache, strode through the court. He smirked faintly at the Earl beside the Queen before standing before her.
"Your loyal servant returns from the New World."
He bowed with un-Anglo-Saxon grace and poise—befitting the man who captivated the Queen with face and tongue alone.
"Hm... Sir Raleigh? How fared the Virginia colony?"
But her response was lukewarm.
"My sources say your colony suffered a defeat from Spanish attack. How tragic. Fortunately, as my Captain of the Guard, you'll face no further hardship."
→ 'Your colony's in ruins, yet you wander? Stay close and play cute, and I'd take care of you.'
Raleigh's face stiffened briefly at her implied barb, then relaxed.
He'd expected such light reprimands.
And then.
"Failure...? Your Majesty, has English changed while I crossed the Atlantic?"
"Hm?"
Snap.
Raleigh snapped his fingers, and porters emerged from behind, carrying crates in formation.
Click.
Raleigh opened the crates before the Queen himself, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Pearls and coral glittered, refracting chandelier light everywhere.
Click.
Another crate opened.
Fox and beast furs piled in beautiful layers.
"Your Majesty! How can you call a colony that brought such treasures a failure?"
"...Walt!"
"And there's more—a gift for my beautiful Queen."
Click.
The third crate opened amid more gasps.
"Is that... silver? Or platinum?"
"Oh, Your Majesty."
Raleigh slipped slyly to her side, sliding a ring onto her finger as he whispered,
"Would I put something so common on your finger?"
A brilliantly cut ruby ring, engraved with mysterious script inside.
"Behold. No European artisan could mimic this craftsmanship—made by our colonists!"
"Good heavens... By savages?"
"With skill like this, savage won't do. Let's say we had 'local collaborators,' my Queen."
"So... what's this metal called? So light... so beautiful..."
Raleigh flashed the smile that had enchanted her and countless women.
"Aluminum, Your Majesty."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"...Aluminum. Such lovely sheen. And so light."
"Like the legendary orichalcum. Harder than iron, rarer than gold, light as a feather.
But this isn't the end."
This isn't the end...?
No more contemptuous glares at Raleigh—only pure awe like audiences at a magician, fixed on him and the final crate.
Walter Raleigh cried out proudly before opening it.
"Fortune favored us! Had I not transported 'this' in winter! Had my captain and navigator delayed! I couldn't have brought this precious gift to Your Majesty!"
All eyes locked on.
What could it be from this showman? Mysterious beast? More precious metal? Gems? Mountains of gold?
Creak!
The final crate opened.
Confusion rippled through their gazes.
Inside was... another crate. Pure white.
"This crate too embodies the aliens' astonishing wisdom and technology—ultralight yet protecting fragile contents. And inside..."
Raleigh opened it, and disappointment spread openly.
Inside was...
Just grapes.
Large, plump, translucent... but just grapes.
The Queen rolled her eyes as if questioning the fuss, but Raleigh calmly offered them without flinching.
"The savages' most prized fruit, obtained by my trusted explorer John White from a noble 'local collaborator'—likely some great king or emperor."
"Hm..."
Pop.
"Washed already—just eat."
He placed one in her palm. She eyed it dubiously, then popped it in and crunched.
Crunch.
"..."
"..."
"..."
Silence fell.
Creak!
"Wh-what's this grape! You vulgar fool... Worrying Her Majesty, then offering mere grapes?"
"Calm down, Earl of Essex. Say you're jealous if you are, crave the grapes if you do."
"Argh! What's a grape? Give it here! This... mere... gra..."
Crunch.
"..."
"..."
"..."
More silence.
All watched the Queen and Earl tensely, half-suspecting mad Raleigh had poisoned her.
And then...
"Ah, aaah... L-Lord, good heavens...!"
"Uuuuh... ooooooh...!"
The Earl snatched another; the Queen, not to be outdone, took two and savored them. Curious Lord Treasurer William Cecil and Secretary Francis Walsingham approached, each taking one.
And.
"Ooooh, oh... OOOOOOH!"
"Uwaaa... uwah... th-this...!"
"Sailors who've tasted it say these grapes...
...are like fruit grown by angels."
January 6, 1591—Epiphany.
The fifth monarch of the Tudor dynasty.
Great Queen of England and Ireland.
"Virgin Queen" Elizabeth I first tasted Shine Muscat.