Chapter 34
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 34
Chapter Title: Change
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-"Francis? Francis!"
Bacon dredged up the oldest memory from his thirty-one years of life. It wasn't anything special.
-"Mom, why... why is the moon following the carriage?"
-"It's not following us, dear. The moon is so very far away that it just looks like it's not moving."
-"Then are the sun and stars far away too?"
-"Of course! Much farther than the moon."
-"How far?"
-"Hm?"
-"Uh, how far away?"
It was a phase everyone goes through.
Everything is unfamiliar, so everything sparks curiosity. Kids bombard the people around them with questions, driving them nuts.
That's how childhood is for all of us. And as we grow up, we learn one crucial fact.
Adults actually find those questions annoying.
And they wish we'd stop asking them as we get older.
So the questions stop.
One person's world closes off.
And they live inside that world. You could call it their common sense, or their worldview.
Anyway, that's how it goes.
Francis Bacon had long since stopped asking those kinds of questions. The days of wondering "why?" about everything felt like a foolish phase from his distant past.
And yet...
-"If you know your sins, will you repent? How could you fail to recognize the Lord's kin and commit such evil?"
-"A... dev... il..."
-"I can't fathom why you call me a devil. I've never harmed you, nor will I ever."
Why?
Why is he coming back to life?
Is he an angel? Or a devil?
-"Even now... you are the Lord's sons... Heaven has not fled from your hearts."
Why?
Why is he trying to save the very people who tried to kill him?
Has the pain driven him mad? Or if not... could it be...?
And finally.
-"M-me... it wasn't... please! It wasn't me! I didn't know any... thing...!"
-"Fear not. The Lord's mercy is like sunlight—noble beyond measure, yet given freely without price."
Why?
Why did he say he saved me?
I'm the one responsible for his "death," his suffering. Because I brought those "servants," he faced mortal peril.
And yet he threw himself in harm's way to save me.
Why?
-"...When a person saves another person, there's no need to seek a reason."
Don't seek a reason.
Because it's only natural.
Because people are precious.
...It felt like getting smashed in the head with a hammer.
A firm answer.
A resolute declaration that cut off all those questions right there.
He came to this place for humanity's sake, and acted for humanity's sake.
That was the reason.
You couldn't ask "why?" again. Why did the angel come down for humanity? Why does the angel act for humanity? Behind such questions lay the Lord's infinite will.
He knew that. He knew it all too well.
...And yet.
"Fascinating. Utterly fascinating."
"Pardon? What's fascinating?"
"He's not human, is he? He's an angel, right?"
A flood of questions surged through his mind at once.
On the voyage over, he'd heard there were other tourists besides himself. To stave off boredom during the long sail, Bacon had befriended one and spent about two months chatting him up.
That's why he'd gone spying on the angel with him, and why he was now lounging in the guy's cabin, shooting the breeze.
"Anyway, he's an angel, but why did he justify his own actions by saying 'when a person saves another person'? Isn't that intriguing? Don't you think?"
-"..."
"Here's my take. He was setting an example. By making himself the model for all mankind, anyone who calls themselves human must follow his lead!
That's why he said there's no need to seek a reason 'when a person saves another person.' Has to be it! What do you say?"
-"..."
-"..."
-"..."
"Sounds plausible, doesn't it?"
"Right? That's what I figured. But that raises another question."
Beaming ear to ear, Bacon unleashed a torrent of chatter on Shakespeare.
Why?
Why would someone meant to be humanity's exemplar come to this godforsaken backwater teeming with savages? Especially when even those savages were few in number?
Wouldn't it make more sense for an angel to descend in the heart of a great city like London, Paris, Rome, or Seville—someplace packed with the faithful?
Then everyone might have believed and followed him. So why here?
"Because foolish humans might harm or imprison him? Could be.
Or maybe it's a divine revelation to preach here? Possible too. I still haven't figured that part out."
Why. Why. Why.
"And there's so much more I'm dying to know! Why doesn't he use any powers besides resurrection? Have you seen his veins and muscles knitting back together? How did his heart keep beating, and his muscles and nerves find their places? And what did he mean that humans and monkeys share a father?"
Why. Why. Why. Why. Why.
It felt like regressing to his impulsive five-year-old self. Or maybe it wasn't impulsiveness back then—perhaps that was a time of pure wisdom.
People get trapped in their own experiences and words, leading them astray. Didn't even he warn against worshiping the finite words of scripture as idols?
That's why his childhood self—lacking experience, ignorant of words, free of preconceptions—might have been so full of questions and wisdom.
Maybe children are the beings farthest from idols?
Yes. Stories free of prejudice are the farthest from idols. From idols. Idols, idols...
"...Idols."
Something clicked, like the thread of a new idea unraveling.
Inspiration writhed and grew in his mind. Bacon felt his lips twitching upward, a grin bubbling unbidden.
When was the last time he'd felt this thrill?
Anyway, Shakespeare, who'd been listening to Bacon's ramblings, paused as if pondering something, then shook his head with a hearty laugh.
"Haha... I've got no clue. Looks like I lack the gifts for philosophy or theology."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I'm a poet, playwright, and actor. My curiosities and worries lie elsewhere."
"Tell me about it."
"Uh... Doctor?"
"Call me casually."
"Alright then, Bacon. What was the angel's skin like?"
"Huh... what?"
In an instant, Shakespeare's pen danced, his eyes ablaze.
"How did the angel's skin differ from ours? Did his body have a pulse? Was it warm?"
"No, things were too chaotic—I don't remember well... but aside from flawlessly smooth skin, no real differences come to mind."
"Is that so? Incredible! An angel clothed in flesh, just like us!"
Shakespeare grinned at Bacon's words and twirled his quill.
"What about his eyes? To me, they were like stars."
"Clear and resolute. No hint of hesitation or anxiety."
"His voice... even thinking back, it's mystical."
"Did his voice come to you in multiple languages too?"
"Yes."
"Good lord... Good lord!"
"Human tongues were shattered after Babel, yet his words..."
Scratch. Swish. Scratch.
Shakespeare thrashed like a bull in the ring, shoulders heaving with excitement. Each flick of the feather birthed new verses and lines. No matter how much he poured out, the inspiration wouldn't quit.
"Weren't his words beautiful?
'There are more things in heaven and earth than dreamed of in your philosophy.' I can't forget it. How does it fit my lines so perfectly?!"
The reason was obvious. Because it matched what he was writing.
Because the play he was crafting was Hamlet.
An immortal masterpiece even Nemo would know.
But to Shakespeare, unaware of that, it felt like inspiration plummeting from the heavens straight into his heart.
The vision of an angel saving assassins, rescuing Bacon, speaking all tongues—it wouldn't leave his mind.
As he bantered with Bacon, lines flowed seamlessly from his pen... until suddenly, he stopped and stared at the page.
'...But can I actually stage this?'
Could he pitch this for funding, gather actors, book a stage, and pull off a production?
With a theme like this...?
What if they branded him a heretic and burned him at the stake?
"Hmmm..."
Too late, Shakespeare groaned between overflowing genius and harsh reality. Hughie's offer to compose hymns here or other gigs weighed on him too.
This trip, meant as a brief diversion, felt like a life-altering pivot. He was tempted to abandon his London foundations for all he'd gained here.
Should he... stay longer?
Shakespeare groaned and vented his dilemmas.
Bacon sighed and wrestled his own.
Two geniuses agonized through the night amid unquenchable sparks of inspiration.
Chatting about the experience that had upended their lives.
For the Chesapeake folk, the Pamlico, and all the other tribes, life followed a similar pattern.
They tended gardens, hunted, gathered wild fruits, and lived in their villages.
They waged brutal wars with rival tribes—some wiped out, others building empires—but their ways of life were much alike.
Sons and daughters lived as their parents had. Rewind centuries, and it barely changed.
A steadfast world that seemed eternal.
-"Heard about the new great chief?"
A small ripple approached that world.
-"They say aside from Croatoan's Manteo and a few others, he never shows his face."
-"He treats sea-crossers like limbs of his own body."
-"Filthy rich, yet he's never once shown up to a council."
-"Looks like he has no warriors or retainers."
Strange rumors.
And an even stranger future dawning on them.
Fears mounted among Chesapeake Bay tribes of a Powhatan raid.
Then the Ooitotan suddenly submitted their entire tribe to this enigmatic great chief.
Some gathered at the Bay out of unease, some hoping for food handouts, others plain curiosity.
Thousands converged, though they could scatter anytime.
Because what they encountered there was an utterly alien way of life.
They huddled on cramped land, raising beasts for plowing instead of eating, tilling soil with bizarre tools, sowing seeds.
Nothing made sense. It was all uncomfortable as hell. But they endured, sticking to that patch of earth.
Hunger gnawed. Anxiety too.
And one more reason joined that list.
"Th-that lord... well, think of him as a mighty spirit."
-"...Spirit?"
"Yes. So he doesn't die. Far stronger and wiser than us."
-"..."
-"..."
-"..."
"He's the executor of a greater will. Uh, Manteo? Help me translate."
"He... is the Creator's servant. We follow the Creator, so we must heed his words too."
...Faith.
Not everyone converted en masse. Few grasped the full picture.
Some couldn't comprehend it. Why forgive and save his killers? Was he claiming to be a god? Questions abounded.
Normally, no one could answer such tales.
Europeans didn't speak Algonquian, and while Manteo was baptized, his faith wasn't fervent.
Then.
"The Creator left a message to love one another!
The Creator sends angels to drive off devils and protect humans—and that angel is him!"
A newcomer fluent in Algonquian and Christianity emerged.
He spoke with passion about the almighty Creator, greater than any spirit, shaper of all things including humanity.
He unpacked the tale of the Creator sending his son to die. All listened intently, puzzled yet riveted—no one tuned out.
"Thomas? Preaching again?"
"Ah... Sir Ralegh. Well, if not me, who else?"
-"..."
-"..."
-"..."
"You're zealous."
The explainer was the atheist Thomas Harriot.
His audience: Algonquians who revered spirits and ancestors.
They whispered wild theories or posed questions that would horrify ordinary Christians.
Is God male or female? A mashup of male and female souls? The angel seems male, so is God female?
Outlandish chatter and sharp queries flew.
And Harriot, no priest, didn't brush them off. He answered hundreds of questions from hundreds of mouths. Even just to chat, they joined his "sermons."
Thus, a major crack formed in the Algonquians' familiar world.
That was the start.
Those grumbling they'd leave come spring, unable to stomach this weird life, now split potato tubers and planted seeds on their own.
When they haltingly asked how to farm in broken English, European farmers taught in mangled Algonquian and gestures.
Rival tribes, half-enemies before, quit feuding. John White's workload plummeted.
A great stride forward.
Early farmers are poorer than hunter-gatherers. Hungrier, toiling harder. Undeveloped crops yield less than foraging.
That's why tribes turn back from the so-called "Neolithic Revolution." Not ignorance. The payoff—meager food and rigid hierarchies—isn't worth the grind.
Into their hands fell crops refined over centuries or millennia by Eurasian and African blood and sweat.
Given freely, by the grace of their "great chief" and "mighty spirit."
Their fates shifted.
They gripped tools their parents never saw, did things their grandparents couldn't dream.
They felled forests, transplanted trees, plowed fields, etched their mark on land and nature.
Something dormant for centuries stirred anew.
Manteo and the perceptive felt it in their chests, echoing from earth, sky, and sea. But most just scratched their heads, clueless.
It was the wind of change.
The rumble of shifting destinies.
The fate of their children and grandchildren fleeing westward, bloodied, was fading.
The horrors of white massacres, the blood-painted Trail of Tears—they twisted and broke.
Of course, no one at Chesapeake Bay knew any of that.
Just nightly prayers drifting on the air.
And vivid tales of the great spirit rising from death.
Even after Nemo arrived, things didn't seem so different.
In truth, everything had changed.