Chapter 38
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 38
Chapter Title: Harvest
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Harvest season was finally upon us.
By now, even the grapes planted beyond the boundaries of the original farm had ripened to perfection. Cheongsu and Shine Muscat vines, along with various other cultivars, had burst into bloom all across Croatoan Island.
I gathered the thirty original English settlers—what you might call the "founding members" of Croatoan, though two were missing—and Manteo's tribesmen for the harvest.
"Now... we're aiming to export these grapes to Europe. Any fruit that's cracked from heat or damaged by pests and diseases gets removed immediately and set aside. If those are left, the rot will spread to the others."
"...What's rot?"
"Uh, that's a good... question. Um..."
"..."
"..."
Five minutes later, Bacon fainted on the spot.
Anyway.
This was different from before, when we'd simply pick the grapes and share them around, eating the flawed ones among ourselves.
Now that we were truly connected to England, with Shine Muscat exports in mind, it was time to seriously research long-term preservation.
We placed the grapes on the sorting machine, selecting only the heaviest, healthiest ones first and packing them up.
Long-term preservation wasn't about keeping quality perfectly intact—it was about minimizing degradation. So from the start, only the best grapes could make the journey across the Atlantic.
Then we stacked them with sulfur pads that emitted sulfur dioxide gas, maximizing their shelf life.
'...These days, they don't use sulfites in winemaking anymore.'
Without sulfites, long-term storage of low-alcohol wines was nearly impossible. Which meant we were the only ones who could preserve wine like that right now.
Just imagine it: a 1592 Imjin War edition wine surviving all the way to the modern day... Oh. At that point, it wouldn't be something you drink—it'd be a cultural artifact.
'Export wine too...!'
We already had infinitely regenerating glass bottles. All we needed were corks, and wine would be export-ready.
My ambitions swelled even further.
Flood Europe with massive quantities of grapes and wine... Fulfill the grape farmer's dream...!
Export our homegrown(?) wine... to Europe...!
The dream that instructor had shouted about in the local government's "Youth Farmer Winemaking Workshop"—I would make it real...!
Lost in a wave of emotion as I gazed at the newly planted vineyard and the stacks of storage crates, I suddenly noticed someone approaching from the side.
"They've grown splendidly. No more worries about winemaking now."
It was Mr. Hewett. The lawyer who compiled my sayings into scripture and served as this settlement's interim pastor.
"Well, yeah. If the vineyards keep expanding like this, who knows? Someday the entire area around Pamlico Sound might be blanketed in grapes, beyond just Croatoan Island."
"That would be wonderful. I'd love to see it."
"Really?"
"Yes, Nemo. Indeed. Doesn't that mean we'll need that much more grapes and wine? And that there'll be that many more of your people on this land?"
"Oh... yeah, you could see it that way."
"Yes. Exactly."
"..."
"..."
He didn't seem to have anything particular to say, and Mr. Hewett fell silent after coming to stand beside me. I had nothing to add either, but it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet.
We were both simply enjoying this peaceful stillness.
After a long moment, Mr. Hewett glanced toward the eastern horizon and let out a sigh. Guessing at his thoughts, I asked softly,
"Is it because of the ones who left for London?"
"...Yes. You knew. I just can't shake my worries about them."
"..."
"I believe they'll manage, but why did they have to go to that place brimming with death and malice... After all the hardship settling in the New World..."
"..."
I couldn't ease his concerns.
If I were a real angel, I'd fly straight to London right then. I could watch over Eleanor Dare, Walter Raleigh, Margaret Lawrence, and everyone around the clock, warding off any threats.
But I was just an ordinary human. I couldn't do that.
All I could do was trust.
"They'll... be fine."
"Because you'll protect them, Nemo?"
That's not it.
I gave a wry smile and shook my head.
"No, not just for that reason."
"Then... why?"
No need for complicated explanations—like how Sir Raleigh was the queen's favorite and central to the American colonies, so he was unlikely to come to harm. That wasn't what Hewett was after.
So I told him a story that might put his mind at ease.
"Didn't they leave to do good deeds?"
"Pardon?"
"Crude metaphor, maybe cliché... but aren't good deeds like farming?"
I opened one of the styrofoam boxes at my feet, plucked a Cheongsu grape, and held it out to him as I spoke.
"In a vineyard, grapes grow naturally enough. Good deeds bring more good in return."
"..."
Hewett hesitated, then took the grape and popped it into his mouth. Watching him roll it around, I continued.
"From a single small branch sprout countless twigs, and on each twig grow countless fruits, right?"
"Around those who do good, even more good will grow."
"...Is that so?"
"Yeah, pretty much.
At least, that's what I believe."
"Disinfection! Disinfection!"
"By order of Her Majesty the Queen—disinfection!"
Burly men with tanks of diluted disinfectant on their backs raced through the streets of Aldgate slums outside London's walls, shouting as they went.
Among them were guardsmen, mixed with Sir Raleigh's personal retainers. They'd risen at dawn to scour every alley, emptying rat traps, spraying disinfectant into gutters and house corners, purifying wells.
This was a place nobles would normally scorn and hurry past. But with the arm of public authority reaching in for days now, the locals gathered, murmuring and staring.
And then.
"Harriet, I have no idea from here. Where does this alley bend?"
"That way's a dead end. We turn left first, then proceed."
Sir Raleigh was right in the thick of it.
Spotting the famous Londoner—in bizarre white garb fit for a child or jester—the slum dwellers' eyes bulged even wider.
This was Black Death season, wasn't it? Why on earth had the queen's favorite come all the way here?
"They're gonna bulldoze this and build a big mansion..."
"Tryin' to drive us out?"
"Black plague's here... so burn the filthy spots first..."
Such "plausible" rumors spread, and attitudes turned defensive. They couldn't stand against the queen's troops out of fear, but they skirted paths and averted eyes.
And then.
Walter Raleigh finally arrived somewhere.
"...This the herbalist's place?"
"Looks like it..."
Of course beggars, whores, and day laborers had no money for proper doctors. So they turned to dubious herb women, faith healers or worse.
Reaching the "unlicensed doctor's" house, Raleigh shuddered at the stench assaulting his nose from the doorway.
This was... the smell of something rotting.
Rotting meat and guts.
And this wasn't anywhere near a butcher's.
Putting those facts together painted a grim picture of what lay inside. As Sir Raleigh, leading the soldiers, hesitated before stepping forward, Harriet grabbed his shoulder.
"No. You mustn't go in now."
"..."
"You need to preserve your health. You've pulled all-nighters with state affairs for days..."
"Waaahhh!"
A wail.
Not an adult's.
Raleigh's body moved before his head. Soldiers rushed after him.
"Sir!"
Raleigh plunged into the building where blackened limbs decayed amid corpses. He clambered over the already-dead old herbalist's body.
And then.
Bang!
He flung open a door to find a five- or six-year-old child writhing in fever.
"H-hel... p... hel..."
"..."
Rats swarmed around the child. Raleigh held his breath a moment, then threw himself in.
He dove into the sea of rats and pulled the child free. Trembling hands lifted the boy as he emerged outside. Everyone stared in stunned silence.
The wary glares of slum whores, the anxious looks of soldiers—all fixed on him.
"Cli... clinic."
And he spoke.
"N-no... other survivors in that building... Disinfect the area and bu... burn it."
"..."
"To Southwark clinic... with this child. Mrs. Dare and Miss Lawrence will sa... ve him."
"...You go too, sir."
"..."
"No dizziness?"
"...Now that you mention it."
"Well, you've been at this nonstop."
Harriet asked,
"Why go this far? If you're to work, at least care for your own body..."
"Oh, my friend. You still haven't shed your skeptic's nature."
"..."
Raleigh smiled faintly but clearly, soothing the now-still child.
"...The path to salvation is open. What more could I want?"
Flames burned in his eyes.
Flames enough to consume his whole body, blazing from his heart.
"Here! Over here!"
Eleanor felt her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her neck as she ran. She'd just finished her shift and was heading to the cabin to change out of her protective gear when someone called her.
It wasn't uncommon. Commuters often begged her to help move infirm family or friends. This seemed like another such case.
"...Huh?"
...Or so Eleanor thought as she rounded the corner.
It was a dead end.
"Uh... there's nothing here?"
As she turned back, something glinted in the dark alley.
A blade.
"...You remember Sir John Hawkins?"
The man licked his lips and advanced slowly toward Eleanor. Now she noticed details she'd missed in her rush: skin too clean, cheeks too plump for a slum dweller.
Details useless now that she'd noticed.
"Truly terrifying to catch a highborn's ire. Know how scary?"
"..."
"As scary as meeting a murderer in a back alley."
He chuckled at his own wit, then lunged, closing the distance and swinging his knife at Eleanor...
"Shove that thing away!"
Kaboom!
"...Huh?"
Eleanor had squeezed her eyes shut, imagining the blade piercing her chest. At the shout, she peeked...
Boxes stacked by the wall had collapsed onto the "murderer." He twitched, still clutching the knife... then stilled.
Eleanor checked his pulse up close. Nothing.
"A-are you okay?"
"Kyaaah!"
"D-don't worry! W-we, we won't h-hurt Mrs. Dare."
A woman huddled, stammering badly. Looking closer... a prostitute from the clinic, discharged just three days ago. The one with the stutter.
"S-suspicious f-face I h-hadn't seen... f-followed him..."
"Mrs. Dare! You alright?"
"No injuries?"
Soon her other patients and volunteers arrived, kicking the corpse wildly while checking her over.
"Yes? Oh, I'm fine! Really..."
"Come with us! The clinic's in big trouble!"
"...Pardon?"
An old beggar grabbed her hand, pulling her along with the others. She found herself running from dark narrow alleys into bright wide streets.
Blinking against the sudden sunlight.
Club-wielding toughs swarmed the clinic... but cowered trembling before powerless beggars.
The reverse.
The toughs backed away fearfully from the beggars, shaking.
"Eat this, you bastards!"
"Eat it and get treated here too!"
The beggars hurled rat corpses.
From traps Eleanor and Margaret had set everywhere lately. Rumors were spreading that the Black Death came from rodents.
"D-don't come closer!"
"S-spare..."
And that "knowledge" terrified the thugs threatening the clinic. At a loss, they panicked at a shout from behind.
"What are you scum doing here!"
A voice now known to all London. He'd dashed so through slums and alleys, his face was known to everyone.
"The Guard captain himself!"
"Shit!"
Eleanor turned to see "Royal Guard Captain" Sir Walter Raleigh and his guards charging with drawn swords. The thugs scattered and fled.
Dazed, watching... Margaret ran up from afar, hugging Eleanor and sobbing.
"M-Mrs. Dare... O-other folks said they didn't know where you'd gone, I thought something happened..."
"I'm fine! Really, I am..."
"Hey! You lot alright?"
"Sir Raleigh? That child in your arms..."
"A patient. This one first... cough."
"You're coughing! You too, sir..."
"Child first."
"..."
"No more attacks now... Failed once, won't try again. We'll station guards here from now on... cough, hack."
"Treatment first! This way! Those in line... first..."
As Eleanor and Margaret rushed to support Raleigh setting down the child...
The crowd's chaos halted instantly.
The mob before them parted like the Red Sea to either side.
Even those first in line stepped aside, clearing a path to the makeshift ward.
Hundreds... prayed in that state.
Some knelt, hands raised to heaven; others murmured "Saints, saints..." and crossed themselves repeatedly.
In that eerie, holy silence, the three walked to the half-ruined clinic.
And that night.
"That tent collapsed! Prop it up!"
"Gather the syringes and bring 'em here!"
Passersby, locals of this slum, guarded and rebuilt the place.
Strangers gathered quietly, offered small helps, then vanished.
Those tiny gestures, hundreds, thousands piling up.
"...Huh?"
"What is it...?"
When Eleanor woke next day, the clinic was nearly fully restored.
Simple, childish faith. Like a child's.
Do good, and more good returns.
But sometimes, such faith finds its reward.
From the tiniest branch sprout countless twigs.
And on those twigs, countless fruits grow.