Chapter 7
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: My Name is Nemo
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Nemo
"...You really do seem like an angel."
"... "
"You laid out a map in front of me and told me about the native tribes, beasts, and terrain around here. It was far more accurate than anything my father had surveyed over years. How is that even possible?!"
"... "
"And you're apparently living alone, yet you've got this massive farm, fences, all sorts of mysterious machines... There's no explaining it unless you're an angel...!"
"Mrs. Dare, you're getting worked up. Have some of this first and think calmly."
"Ah, thank you.
...Mmm, so sweet."
While Eleanor savored the Shine Muscat's flavor with a furrowed brow, Lawyer Hewett spoke up.
"It's incredibly sweet, isn't it."
"Right?! This has to be fruit from heaven!"
"Columbus probably thought the same when he first tasted pineapple."
"...Oh."
"Please, calm down. These grapes are truly sweet and fragrant... um... delicious... "
"They really are delicious."
"...Yes, 'really' delicious is a fact, but that alone doesn't prove their owner is an angel."
"But there are no seeds?"
"Well, nature is full of mysteries...?"
Mr. Hewett seemed slightly flustered. As murmurs rose around them agreeing that grapes this delicious must indeed be from heaven, he hurriedly calmed the group.
"Anyway, did 'he' personally claim to be an angel?"
"...No."
"See? If you ask the local savages, they'll know something about him. No one builds a farm this impressive overnight all by themselves."
That made sense.
"Whether he got help building it or permission from someone, there has to be some connection. We'll find answers."
"But last year when we were here, there was nothing like this. Does it make sense for a farm like this to appear in just one year?"
"...That just goes to show how remarkable 'he' is. Come to think of it, we don't even know his name."
"... "
"Let's not jump to conclusions."
As the lawyer—whom they called "milord"—spoke, everyone in the tent nodded along. With the governor's daughter and the lawyer reaching some sort of consensus, the group turned their attention back to eating grapes.
Munch munch munch.
Chomp chomp chomp.
And everyone, Eleanor included, thought to themselves.
'...No matter what, these are definitely fruits from heaven.'
Clatter.
"Everyone. And Eleanor?"
"Y-yes?!"
"The logging's done. Come on out."
Everyone had been uneasy about the roar of that "chainsaw" contraption, and he himself seemed reluctant to demonstrate it up close, so they'd all huddled in the tent while he felled the trees.
And when they stepped out...
"Well, is this enough?"
"...Ah, yes, perfect."
Eleanor realized she still wasn't used to the sight.
Dozens of trees felled overnight.
The man who'd accomplished in moments what thirty people couldn't finish in a full day of grueling work looked around leisurely and said,
"Alright, now that we've got the timber sorted, we can build a village around here."
His words were the signal. The settlers grabbed their tools and got to work.
The sound of hammering echoed through the forest.
It was the sound of the first English settlement rising on Croatoan Island.
I was starting to adapt to the climate here.
North Carolina (not yet named as such) wasn't dramatically different from Korea's. Autumn and winter were just a bit milder, and instead of a monsoon season, rain fell evenly throughout the year.
...And that's a bad thing?
No, quite the opposite—it's great.
Why do you think places like Japan, Korea, and China go all out producing premium grapes like Shine Muscat or Ruby Roman?
Why, unlike the half-assed farming in Europe or America, do they obsess over pruning leaves, trimming branches, and meticulously managing trees and fruit?
Because the climate sucks.
They can't produce much anyway, so they jack up the prices.
It's the same with other fruits, but grapes especially soak up excess water straight into the berries. Too much ambient moisture, and they taste bland.
Water management is key in grape farming.
That's why I'm cutting back on irrigation right before harvest now.
And in East Asia, the rainy season hits right when fruit sets in July and August.
Plus, the clay soil holds onto water like a sponge.
Meaning everything gets absolutely soaked.
There's an old saying: survive three years of drought, but three months of monsoon will kill you. That's me to a tee.
Rain feels like the death of me.
When the monsoon hits, photosynthesis shuts down, so you have to manage fertilizer accordingly.
Too much water during rains makes berries burst.
Then the heat comes and they burst anyway.
Humidity brings mold and pests as a package deal.
And all this hits right before harvest.
Unless you're dealing with leaf scorch (when humid weather suddenly turns hot and leaves necrotize black-brown), you need to control moisture—but not so much you end up with watery grapes?
What the hell? Why does grape farming act like a client demanding simple yet flashy, modern yet traditional design?
Why does this little hellish peninsula have so many handicaps? Was King Dan-gun some hardcore-mode-loving crazy rabbit princess?
...In contrast, beautiful North Carolina has no monsoon.
Rainfall is even year-round, weather mild.
Sure, horrors like Pierce's disease or phylloxera lurk, but my vines are resistant, so no worries for now.
Strip that away, and this place is...
Grape farmer's paradise.
Oh, America.
I scattered fertilizer with my chest puffed full of American pride. Eat up, grow big and strong, supply department stores...
Ah, the first department store is 264 years away.
Grape farming had become just a hobby for me now.
I couldn't let go yet—the facility investments poured into three 500-pyong greenhouses were too sunk—but someday, for survival, I'd have to ditch even this.
...Tears. I finally reached grape heaven, and the grapes end up useless.
Anyway.
Minus the 10,000-ish unsold bunches still growing, everything was on track.
A few temporary huts for the English were up in days, thanks to my logging help.
The English, who'd been crammed in farm sheds and tents, started moving furnishings into their new homes.
They couldn't rely on me forever, so they hunted, foraged, secured food on their own. Some even gifted me crayfish from the stream.
I refused, of course.
Too much hassle to cook, and it wasn't time to let them repay debts yet.
Instead of gifts, I offered extra bunches, and they went away teary-eyed, deeply moved.
I still didn't fully trust them—locked doors at night, machete and chainsaw by the bed—but they showed no hostility.
I worried they might try killing me for my stuff.
But without me, no one to run the farm or help them. And they knew it.
Thus began my friendly symbiosis with the English settlers.
The exact situation I'd hoped for after crash-landing here 'alone'.
With these 30-odd friendly English around, neither natives nor settlers would touch me easily.
But nearly ten kids among them meant I couldn't slack on defenses.
For true safety, I needed another angle. Like...
"You're back, Eleanor. How'd it go?"
"The tribe on this island will accept us! They said we can settle here!"
Diplomacy.
Eleanor returned from the natives with good news.
I inwardly cheered and nodded slowly.
That's why they came here—friendly tribe. Through the English, I'd indirectly secured my right to stay.
"Manteo said they'll be leaving this land eventually anyway, so settling here is fine!"
"Excellent."
Manteo—the first Native American Anglican convert. Son of this island's chief, who'd traveled England and decided on exchange.
"But they were puzzled. Why choose this cramped, swampy island?"
"It might look that way. But Eleanor, don't you need to wait for your father's relief ship along this island's coast?"
"...Well, yes."
"... "
"... "
What?
The sudden silence made me turn, meeting her wide-eyed stare. Her face flushed as she whipped her head away. Ah, in this era, staring at a woman is rude.
I averted my gaze belatedly, but her silence lingered. Glancing back, she watched me with a strangely meaningful look.
Like she was trying to see right through me.
Deep in thought.
...This man before me.
What is he, really?
A prince from Asia? An angel? Or just a handsome, wealthy Easterner?
How does he know English? How's he so clued in on Europe's affairs? How'd he predict my father's return? What's with this huge farm, the complex machines, the setups?
Eleanor probed gently.
Why this cramped, swampy island?
How'd you end up settling here? What's your identity?
But he didn't answer. Just stared at her.
She'd had tons of questions already. Meeting Manteo doubled them.
...Eleanor recalled her meeting with Manteo.
As they approached the village, Manteo greeted her party warmly. When he asked if they'd come to seek shelter, she said no—they sought permission to settle.
-"...But most of your group is women and children. How do you plan to settle?"
-"You know there's a massive vineyard ahead, right? We're under its owner's protection."
-"...Pardon?"
Manteo's face hardened.
-"Vineyard? There's no such thing."
-"But deep in those woods, there's clearly a huge settlement..."
-"We scouted those woods two weeks ago—nothing but quiet. We'd have found a 'huge' settlement first!"
-"What, what?!"
Thankfully, no one else was there—just Manteo, his mother the chief, and Eleanor.
-"Even Mother knew nothing. You really saw such a farm?"
-"...What are you saying? You didn't know about a farm built here? This is your home!"
Manteo pondered her words, then picked up a grape from her hand.
Grapes the man had given her to gift them.
-"I've never seen grapes like these... Whoa... Delicious. Mind if I have another?"
-"Help yourself."
-"Anyway, never seen anything like it."
-"... "
...Exactly.
Eleanor didn't know who this man was or where he came from.
Only that he was friendly now.
"...This might sound silly, but."
"What's on your mind? Ask freely."
"... "
Eleanor closed her eyes, opened them, and asked firmly.
"What's your name?"
He paused briefly... then spoke.
"Nemo."
"...Pardon?"
"Call me that."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Nemo."
And then.
"...Oh, I forgot one thing I wanted to ask."
"Yes?"
"See these grapes? What do you think?"
"Um... A whole lot?"
"And?"
"Super ripe?"
"Exactly."
'Nemo' snapped his fingers and smiled at her.
"Help me with the harvest."
And so, Eleanor and the settlers picked up shears and dove into grape harvesting, clueless as to why.
"...How many bunches total?"
"Hahaha! Looks like a lot, but not that many.
About 10,000 bunches."