48
On the Twenty-ninth of May, they turn eastward again, measuring offsets and marking them as they go. Now they begin the Day sighting into the Sun, and watching their own Shadows at Evening, Surveyor and Tripod and Instrument stretching back, somehow, toward the past, toward more youthful Selves. Going west, even no further than Susquehanna, living by the simple Diurnal Rhythms,— going ever with the Sun, was not the same as this going against it. " 'Aye, very different indeed," remarks Dixon.
Mason is trying to wake up. The nearest coffee is in the cook-tent. "Pray you," he whispers, "try not to be so damn'd,— did I say damn'd? I meant so fucking chirpy all the time, good chap, good chap," stumbling out of the Tent trying to get his Hair into some kind of Queue. The Coffee is brew'd with the aid of a Fahrenheit's Thermometer, unmark'd save at one place, exactly halfway between freezing and boiling, at 122°, where upon the Wood a small Arrow is inscrib'd, pointing at a Scratch across the glass Tube. 'Tis at this Temperature that the water receives the ground Coffee, the brew being stirr'd once or twice, the Pot remov'd from the fire, its Decoction then proceeding. Tho' clarifying may make sense in London, out here 'tis a luxury, nor are there always Egg-shells to hand. If tasted early, Dixon has found, the fine suspended matter in the coffee lends it an undeniable rustick piquance. Later in the Pot, the Liquid charring itself toward Vileness appeals more to those looking for bodily stimuli,— like Dixon, who is able to sip the most degradedly awful pot's-end poison and yet beam like an Idiot, "Mm-m m! Best Jaraoke west o' the Alleghenies!"— a phrase Overseer Barnes utters often, tho' neither Surveyor quite understands it, especially as the Party are yet east of the Alleghenies. Howbeit, at this point in a Pot's life-cycle, Mason prefers to switch over to Tea, when it is Dixon's turn to begin shaking his head.
"Can't understand how anyone abides that stuff."
"How so?" Mason unable not to react.
"Well, it's disgusting, isn't it? Half-rotted Leaves, scalded with boiling Water and then left to lie, and soak, and bloat?"
"Disgusting? this is Tea, Friend, Cha,— what all tasteful London drinks,— that," pollicating the Coffee-Pot, "is what's disgusting."
"Au contraire," Dixon replies, "Coffee is an art, where precision is all,— Water-Temperature, mean particle diameter, ratio of Coffee to Water or as we say, CTW, and dozens more Variables I'd mention, were they not so clearly out of thy technical Grasp,—
"How is it," Mason pretending amiable curiosity, "that of each Pot of Coffee, only the first Cup is ever worth drinking,— and that, by the time I get to it, someone else has already drunk it?"
Dixon shrugs. "You must improve your Speed...? As to the other, why aye, only the first Cup's any good, owing to Coffee's Sacramental nature, the Sacrament being Penance, entirely absent from thy sunlit World of Tay,— whereby the remainder of the Pot, often dozens of cups deep, represents the Price for enjoying that first perfect Cup."
"Folly," gapes Mason. "Why, ev'ry cup of Tea is perfect...?"
"For what? curing hides?"
For the next three weeks, they are occupied again with the enigmatick Area 'round the Tangent Point, seeking to close the Eastern boundaries of Pennsylvania and Maryland,— the Commissioners, to appearance, being anxious upon this score. "They all live upon this side of Susque-hanna," Mr. McClean conjectures. "They don't want you across it just yet. Across it things are not so civiliz'd, so Anglican, begging your pardon, Sir, nor so Quaker, begging yours, Sir, or should I say, thine. Over Susquehanna begins a different Province entirely, and beginning at the Mountains, another differing from that, and so on,— beyond Mononga-
hela, beyond Ohio,— tho' the betting in the Taverns is overwhelmingly against your getting quite that far."
"Won't that depend upon how far the Proprietors wish the Line to run?" inquires Mr. Mason.
"If by 'the Proprietors' you mean those who truly own it," remarks John Harland.
"The Indians," suggests Mr. Dixon.
"The Army," says Mr. Harland.
"I meant, rather, the Penns," Mason a bit starch'd, " - as Maryland's Grant ends just past Laurel Hill, from there West 'tis Penn's Line alone, dividing Penn lands from Virginia,— who bear none of the Cost."
"Five Degrees from the Atlantick Coast," opines Mr. McClean, "will include Fort Pitt, and the first few miles of Ohio before it bends south.... Iron deposits, Coal as well, underground mountain-ranges of it, burning down there for centuries, known to the Indians, perhaps us'd as well in connection with their mysterious Lead Mines in the Mountains. Right up your Street, Mr. Dixon."
The Surveyors soon discover, that the Meridian drawn north from the Tangent Point, will run slightly inside the Twelve-Mile Arc, crossing it twice, at points about a mile and a half apart,— producing now, between them, two boundary lines, one "straight," and one, about a thousandth of a Mile longer, "curv'd" (which will one day be declar'd the Legal Boundary, thus whittling a tiny Sliver from Maryland). The three and a half Miles to the West Line remaining can be run as a piece of pure Meridian,— to be styl'd, "the North Line."
"All I know", Mason shrugs. " 's I'm suppos'd to line up Alioth and Polaris with the Flame of a Candle, a mile away, being held by you, who at the same time must ever be bisecting the Flame perfectly with the string of your Plummet."
"Unless it sets the String on fire, of course." So Dixon is sent out into Darkness variable as the Moon, thick with predators bestial and human, Indians upon missions forever secret from European eyes, all moving easily among this Community of Night, interrupted only by the odd unschedul'd Idiot. Even Animals are late to arrive at Water
holes, and so run into others in the Herd, away from whom the latecomers would as gladly have kept,— and Herd-Politics takes another strange and unforeseen turn. Through it all, there is the unsure and withal helpless Assistant, moving his Lanthorn about in the Air, whilst a distant voice through a Speaking-trumpet bids him go right, then left.
"Frankly," Mason chuckles, by way of what he fancies Encouragement, "were I watching from the Darkness, I shouldn't want to get too close to anyone in a peculiar Hat, shouting in a loud metal Voice? The Savages may be as frighten'd of you as were the People in Cecil County last winter."
' 'Twastn't I than' frighten'd 'em... ? They took me for the Apprentice, no more...?"
"I saw you, deny it all you like, I saw you conversing with that Torpedo,—
"Nooah,— they were but more of thy Visions, Mason! tha were having them hourly, by then,— which is when, in fahct... ? ev'ryone grew frighten'd of thee... ? Another few days of bad weather, and...," he spreads his hands, with a pitying Gaze.
At last, on June 6th, in a meadow belonging to Capt. John Singleton, nearly 50 Chains east of Mr. Rhys Price's House, where the Meridian and Parallel intersect, the Surveyors sink in a Post, mark'd W upon the West Side, and N upon the North, and the Boundary is clos'd.
Here at the northeast corner of Maryland, the Geometrickal Pilgrim may well wish to stand in the company of his thoughts, at this purest of intersections mark'd so far upon America. Yet, Geomancer, beware,— if thy Gaze but turn Eastward by an Eye-lash's Diameter, thou must view the notorious Wedge,— resulting from the failure of the Tangent Point to be exactly at this corner of Maryland, but rather some five miles south, creating a semi-cusp or Thorn of that Length, and doubtful ownership,— not so much claim'd by any one Province, as priz'd for its Ambiguity,— occupied by all whose Wish, hardly uncommon in this Era of fluid Identity, is not to reside anywhere. As a peaceful and meadowlike Vista sweeps Southward, the Line and the Arc approach one another, one may imagine almost sensibly,
Bearing in from either Limb of Sight, A-thrum, like peevish Dumbledores in flight
as great Tox has it, in his Pennsylvaniad.
Yet there remains to the Wedge an Unseen World, beyond Resolution, of transactions never recorded,— upon Creeksides and beneath Hedges, in Barns, Lofts, and Spring-houses, in the long Summer Maize fields, where one may be lost within minutes of entering the vast unforgiving Thickets of Stalks,— indeed, all manner of secret paths and clearings and alcoves are defin'd,— push'd over or stamp'd into being, roofless as Ruins, for but a few fugitive weeks of lull before autumnal responsibilities come again looming. The sun burns, the gravid short Forests beckon. The Soil, when enough is reveal'd, becomes another sand Arena. Anybody may be in there, from clandestine lovers to smugglers of weapons, some hawking contraband,— buckles, lockets, tea, laces from France,— some marking off "Lots" for use in some future piece of Land-Jobbery. Insect pests are almost intimidated into leaving, but sooner or later come back.
Nearby, withal, is Iron Hill, a famous and semi-magical Magnetick Anomaly, known to Elf Communities near and far, into which riskers of other peoples' Capital have been itching for years to dig,— but being reluctant to reward more than one set of Provincial Officials at a time, are waiting until the legal status of the Wedge becomes clear. Is it part of Pennsylvania? Maryland? or of the new entity "Delaware"?— which on paper at least belongs to Pennsylvania, William Penn's having leas'd it from the Duke for a term often thousand years,— tho' it has enjoy'd, for fifty of these, its own Legislature and Executive Council.
'Tis no one's, for the moment. A small geographick Anomaly, a-bustle with Appetites high and low, their offerings and acceptances.
The North Line quickly completed, the Surveyors are order'd back to Susquehanna, this time to continue the West Line "as far as the Country is inhabited." Legally this suggests as far as the Proclamation Line, at the Crest of the Alleghenies. Even before the Party reaches the River,— as if 'twere a Fate neither could avoid,— Darby and Cope are pretending to be Mason and Dixon, tho' not always respectively. It begins when someone having observ'd the Chain, assumes the obvious,— "Mr. Mason! a-and this must be Mr. Dixon!"
"Not exactly," says Cope.
"He means," Darby hastily puts in, "that he's Mason, and I'm Dixon, isn't that right, 'Mason'?"
"I'd prefer to be Dixon," hisses Cope.
"Next time, all right?" The Links of the Chain cak'd with dried Dirt, and squeaking almost painfully....
"You'll want to take care," they're eventually warn'd by a friendly Tapster, "there're a couple of Lads about, pretending to be you two."
"Get on," says Darby.
"Why should anyone wish to be us?" wonders Cope.
Maidens in varying ratios of Indignation to Curiosity show up in camp, demanding to see Mason or Dixon, or both. Upon meeting the real Surveyors, "Well, but you're not him,— " "— nor you the other."
"Of course not," reply Mason and Dixon. When they have a moment to talk about it together, "It must be someone in camp," Mason suggests, "My guess is, 'tis Darby and Cope."
"How, then?"
"Well, they're never about, are they, when all these folk show up to complain? And their Names, like ours, are usually spoken together.... Yet you know more of Chain-men than I,— what think ye?"
"The Chain-man's Sorrows," it seems to Dixon, "all proceed from being forbidden, but upon sufferance of the Party-Chief, so much as to touch any Instrument, excepting the Chain,— with centuries of that word's poetic Associations adding to its Weight. Farmers in Durham
aren't the only ones who call it the D——l's Guts.... Chain-men bear
it, they hate it, they tend it carefully, their feelings ever in a muddle... they cannot keep from sliding queer covetous glances at the other Instruments. They understand the Surveyor's Injunction, yet touch they must, and will,— some honestly wishing to learn more of the Arts, others merely to fiddle with the Equipment. That Messieurs Darby and Cope, being, here in America, Surveyors fully competent with all Instru- ments, should now toil as Chain-men...?— under British supervision withal...?— invidious Situations arise, d'tha see."
"Then shall we break with Tradition, perhaps allow them to use our Surveying Instruments?— Or yours, rather, as I possess none of my own."
"Eeh! What,— My Circumferentor...? Why, 'tis another of my very Senses...? 'Twould be like letting someone else do my Smelling for 9"
me..
"Hum, so...You and this...Instrument are...quite close, then? D'ye have a Name, that you call it by?"
"Mason, the thought of either Darby's or Cope's Eye-ball dripping fluids all over the Lenses of my Old Circ,—
"Ha! 'Old Circ'! How charming you people are, how child-like in your Attachments."
"Perhaps if the Tools of thy Trade had ever belong'd to thee, instead of to the King, tha might at least once have felt this simple, sentimental Bond,— quite common among the People in fact, though scarcely, I guess, among all those great Publick Zenith-Sectors and Telescopes and so forth, up there but a footfall from the Highest in the
Land...?"
_
Mason drops his head in false apology. "Yet another Flaw! how many more, before my Character's too riddl'd for it to matter? Dixon, I know I am not worthy, to carry your esteem'd Instrument. Blessing upon you both, and much joy of your Relationship."
"Thankee, Mason, I mean that sincerely. As to our Chain-men,— they being qualified Lensfolk, might we not allow them some time with the Sector...? neither of us actually owning it."
"Fine with me, I've but its Custodians to report to. You must answer to its Maker."
"John Bird would do the same, I'm certain...?"
"Deferring as ever in matters of character," Mason making mock-French flourishes in the Air with his Hat.
"Why here are the Gents themselves, a Miracle, fetch me the Jesuit Telegraph, for I must report it to the Pope,— how now Boys,—
"Far too truculent," mutters Mason. "Mr. Cope, Mr. Darby, well met."
"We prefer 'Darby and Cope,' actually," says Darby.
"He being the Head and all," adds Cope.
"Of course that's only east to west,—
"Depending who ends up with the Stobs, really,—
Going on to describe, in foul-copy Stichomythia, their Practice of exchanging ten small wood stakes, to keep the Chain-Count accurate, tho' between Mr. Darby's habit of keeping Stobs ev'rywhere about him, including in his Belt, Leggings, and Hat, and Mr. Cope's Forgetfulness in counting, they have grown so fearful of Stob-Loss, as to have begun Exchanging Stobs after eleven Chains instead of ten, with Mr. Cope then passing back only nine of his, and keeping one. Yet now one and now the other will forget, and revert to the old ten-Chain Method—
"We may be miles off by now," Dixon's eyes having grown very round.
"Save that thro' some dark miracle of Mathesis," says Darby, ''our Errors have ever exactly cancel'd out."
"Else Susquehanna measur'd to Potowmack, Might haply 'maze the Trav'ler loxodromick,—
"With phantom Leagues, too many or too few,— As if a very Hole in Space 'twere, too."
A pause. Not a mischievous Dimple 'pon either Phiz. "All content otherwise?" Mason as he imagines smoothly.
"Go easy, Mason, don't upset them...?—
' 'Twas him made me do it!" screams Mr. Cope, as if yielding before a sudden Stress.
"Booby!" ejaculates Mr. Darby. " 'Twas you began it!"
"Yet Head Ev'rything must you ever be, mustn't you, leaving poor, miserable Cope to shift as he may,—
"Made thee do what?" inquires Dixon.
"Aha! You see?" cries Mason, "— now are they confessing."
Actually, the Chain-men are fallen rather to thumping one the other, as Mason and Dixon look on. "Then again," confides Mason behind his Hand, "a turn at the Sector mightn't be such a good idea, not just now...."
There is Commotion up the Visto. A delegation of newly hir'd Axmen come marching in. "Here are the very Subjects!" cries one of these.
"Now then ye heathen, hold, 'tis not how we Christians settle our differences."
"Yet they seem like white men,—
"Cleverly indeed fiendishly disguis'd, tho' 'Darby' and 'Cope' are not quite British Names, are they?"
"Why, they are as British as anyone here...?" Dixon points out.
"Not according to your pay-List,— see here, it reads, 'Darby and Cope, Chinamen.''
"Thah's...'Chain-men'...?"
"Ah."
"Not the same,— "
"Oh dear."
"Is Mr. Barnes but fun-mongering, and we the Gulls?"
"Pity, really. None of us has seen a Chinaman before."
"Soon," promises the oracular Squire Haligast, in a Voice so charg'd with passion that immediately all but the most desperate of the Axmen believe him.
By the twenty-second of June they are back below the Peach Bottom Ferry,— another Saturday Night,— ready to start West again. There rushes the River,— both Surveyors understanding by now 'tis not only a River, being as well the Boundary to another Country. Next day, they measure southward about forty-five feet to correct their error in Latitude, "...and there placed a mark, and in the direction of this, and the Mark on the East Side of the River,.. .we proceeded to run the Line."
Just before they cross Susquehanna, a Parcel arrives for them by way of a lather'd Youth riding Express upon a black Barb, neither showing any sign of tiring,— with a terrible "Yee-hah!" the Youth sweeps off his Tricorne, wheels, and has gallop'd back into the Brush. In the Package is Fr. Boscovich's Book, De Soils et Lunce at last, Defectibus, publish'd dispatch'd Transatlantickally by Maskelyne, who in the Jobation accompanying, invites their Attention to a great Variety of Data within, including a Warning as to the Attraction of Mountains,— "In Italy 'twas establish'd, that the Umbrian Appenines caus'd a very considerable deviation of the Plumb-line Northward, as the party, moving in that direction, drew ever closer.”
"First the Iron-Lodes disable my Needle," moans Dixon, "now the Mountains are about to throw off my Plummet?"
"Obliging us, as Maskelyne and me at St. Helena, to take symmet-rickal readings on the opposite sides of the Crests, and hope that the two errors will cancel out. I pray the Western Slopes of Allegheny may prove less distressing than the Windward side of that wretched Island....”
49
To Appearance, Trans-Susquehanna is peaceful enough,— Farm-houses, a School-house, a Road to York. At the third ten-minute segment of Arc, they calculate their probable error, change direction by an R.P.H. to the Northward, and continue to their next stopping-place, which once again shall place them conveniently,— this time beside the great inland Road between York and Baltimore, more real than any imaginary Line any would run athwart it. The earth hereabouts is red, the tone of a new Brick Wall in the Shadow, due to a high ratio of iron,— and if till'd in exactly the right way, it becomes magnetized, too, so that at Harvest-time, 'tis necessary only to pass along the Rows any large Container of Iron, and the Vegetables will fly up out of the ground, and stick to it.
Ahead of them in the next ten minutes of Arc lie a dozen Streams falling into Gunpowder Creek, which runs roughly parallel to the Visto, and about a mile south of it. The last of these Branches being close enough to another ten minutes West, upon crossing it, they need only calculate their error as before, and aim slightly north, so as to fall in again with their proper Latitude, ten minutes west of that.. .in such easy Hops thro' the summer fields and the German cooking, do they progress, Susquehanna to the Allegheny Mountain. Some mornings they awake and can believe that they traverse an Eden, unbearably fair in the Dawn, squandering all its Beauty, day after day unseen, bearing them fruits, presenting them Game, bringing them a fugitive moment of Peace,— how, for days at a time, can they not, dizzy with it, believe themselves pass'd permanently into Dream... ?
Summer takes hold, manifold sweet odors of the Fields, and presently the Forest, become routine, and one night the Surveyors sit in their Tent, in the Dark, and watch Fire-flies, millions of them blinking ev'rywhere,— Dixon engineering plans for lighting the Camp-site with them, recalling how his brother George back home, ran Coal-Gas through reed piping along the Orchard wall. Jeremiah will lead the Fire-flies to stream continuously through the Tent in a narrow band, here and there to gather in glass Globes, concentrating their light to the Yellow of a new-risen Moon.
"And when we move to where there are none of these tiny Linkmen?"
"We take 'em with huz...? Lifetime Employment!"
"But how long do they live?"
"Ensign Cheer."
As the Visto has grown longer behind them, the Philadelphiaward Fringe of the nightly Encampment has lengthen'd to a suburbs dedicated to high (as some would say, low) living. Gaming, corn whiskey, Women able to put up with a heap of uncompensated overtime, Stages knock'd together each nightfall and lanthorn'd into view, to a Murmur as of a great Crowd in Motion, only to be struck again each dawn,— as those for whom it is cheaper to follow than to abandon the Party for business elsewhere, groaning with the Night just past, hoping for a chance to sleep sometime during the Journey, prepare to follow the Axmen through another day. The fast-and-loose artist, the Quartz-scryer, the Vasquez Brothers' Marimba Quartet, who often play back-up for the Torpedo, to whom it is the musick of his Youth, his home Waters. The marimbas, in great towering Structure assem-bl'd each evening just outside of camp, pulse along, Chords and Arpeggia-tions swaying upward to their sharp'd versions, then back down again, sets of Hammers, Hands, and Sleeves all moving together along the rank'd wood Notes, nocturnal, energetic, remembrancing, warning, impelling.... The Anthem of the Expedition, as it moves into the Unknown, is "Pepina-zos,"— marching, and rolling, but wishing rather to dance.
Pepinazos, nunca Abrazos, Si me Quieras, Sí
De Veras,
¡Oigamé!—
Déjaté,
Los Pe-pi-naa-zos!
All summer they labor in the service of the Line, over Codorus, Conewago,— pausing to set up the Sector, dodging inch-and-a-half hailstones, calculating Off-sets, changing Direction,— 'cross Piney Run and Monocacy Road, and the Creeks beyond, till just past Middle Creek, figuring they are about in their Latitude, without bothering to set up the Sector, the Surveyors turn off the Angle calculated to put them another ten minutes on,— at the South Mountain, in among all the ghosts already thick in those parts.
"We are Fools," proposes Dixon one night. The wind has shifted at about sundown to the SSE, heightening even minor stresses among the Company. "We shouldn't be runnin' this Line...?"
Mason regards his Cup of Claret. "Bit late for that, isn't it?"
"Why aye. I'll carry it through, Friend, fear not. But something invisible's going on, tha must feel it, smell it...?"
Mason shrugs. "American Politics."
"Just so. We're being us'd again. It doesn't alarm thee...?"
An accident of the late Light has fill'd Mason's Orbits with color'd shadows. "Resign? They would bring up the Letter. Immediately. Then?"
Dixon nods glumly, and Mason keeps on, more than he has to. "Tho' we're in this together, yet is it easier for you, being the Quaker and not expected to prove combative, than for me, who must accordingly bear double the burden of Bravery. Splendid. Did they team us up together like this deliberately? Are you my Penalty, precise to the Groat, for enjoying a Command of my own? For not having seconded Maskelyne at the Transit? Now I have to be Eyre Coote?"
"Bit steep, isn't i'...?"
Mason begins fiddling with his Queue, bringing it first over one Shoulder, then the other. "If it were all true,— ev'ry unkind suspicion, ev'ry phantastickal rendering,— would we, knowing all, nonetheless go on? Do what's clearly our Duty?”
"We sign'd an Agreement."
"If it meant our Destruction?"
"The ancient matter of the Seahorse must ever prevent us from Resigning. We've no choice, but to go on with it, as far as we may."
"Then as we've no choice, I may speak freely and share with you some of my darker Sentiments. Suppose Maskelyne's a French Spy. Suppose a secret force of Jesuits, receives each Day a summary of Observations made at Greenwich, and transcalculates it according to a system known to the Kabbalists of the Second Century as Gematria, whereby Messages may be extracted from lines of Text sacred and otherwise, a Knowledge preserv'd by various Custodians over the centuries, and since the Last, possess'd by Jesuit and Freemason alike. The Dispute over Bradley's Obs, then, as over Flamsteed's before him, would keep ever as their unspoken intention that the Numbers nocturnally obtain'd be set side by side, and arrang'd into Lines, like those of a Text, manipulated till a Message be reveal'd."
"Bit sophisticated for me. Tho' I don't mind a likely Conspiracy, I prefer it be form'd in the interests of Trade,— the mystickal sort you fancy is fair beyond me, I'm but a simple son of the Pit."
' 'Trade.'— Aha. You heard me mention Jesuits,— so now you're making veil'd allusions to the East India Company, in response,— I do see, yes... Drivel, of course."
"Come, Sir, can you not sense here, there, just 'round the corner, the pattering feet and swift Hands of John Company, the Lanthorns of the East... ? the scent of fresh Coriander, the whisper of a Sarong... ?"
"Sari," corrects Mason.
"Not at all Sir,— 'twas I who was sarong."
"Something's afoot with those Two, all right," says Dixon one day.
"Which two?"
"Frenchy and Mrs. Redzinger, they're scarcely together of late, 'd tha notice?"
As they draw nearer the Redzinger Farm, the presence of Peter Redzinger becomes quite sensible to both. Indeed, he's been back since the Winter,— he and the Boys have been working the place, lumbering
about insomniack, eating whenever they happen to remember, tracking soil ev'rywhere, hardly speaking. To Luise he seems chasten'd, even at times dejected, yet innocent of all suspicion as respects his Wife, having long travel'd past the Conjugal Emotions,— belonging to the simple fact of another hard Pennsylvania Winter, the lowness and solidity of Sky, no day without its distress, roads that end in Thickets at nightfall. "Christ went away," he discovers at last how to tell her, one morning, the eaves a-drip, the bleary Sun irregularly brighter and dimmer, "one day, for no reason that I could see, Christ came to me and said, 'Peter, I am going away. You thought it was hard before this? Here is where it gets impossible.'
" 'Are you coming back?' I almost couldn't speak.
; 'You must live ever in that Expectation.—Come, spare Me that Face,— of course it is a lot to ask.' He seem'd in a dangerously merry State. Was it relief at being shut of me, at last?
" 'How do I proceed without you?'
' 'What have I been teaching you all this time?'
"I was smit dumb, Luise. I didn't understand the Question. 'Be more like You?' I tried. He'd been teaching me? All this time? Wehe!
'' 'Alas.' His Smile, at least, was not a pitying one, nor was it quite as disappointed as I'd fear'd. He turn'd, for the first time I saw the back of His Robe. He had a Motto in German embroider'd fine as could be in Gold Threads, upon the back. I couldn't read what it said. He receded. He was gone."
"Peter."
"I feel cold, helpless, without him...ah. I believ'd I could count upon him forever, he was there, he was real, then he turn'd and went away. I have displeas'd Him,— but how? I lov'd him!" All day, half the Night, on he talks, stunn'd and sing-song. He does not weep as much as Luise expects. Armand has a swift look in from time to time, smiles under-standingly, heaves a Sigh, withdraws. Luise waits to grow impatient. She considers the Frenchman for the first time with unrestrain'd Desire, having glimps'd the possibility that they may never have a chance to address it,— she can also appreciate how tiresome this listening to Peter is. Yet from some unexplor'd Region to her Spirit's West, like upland folk with goods to sell, come Messengers with the late News, that her destiny 'spite all may lie with this craz'd Christless wreck of a
Husband,— or, as she will also find herself asking in tears, upon any number of future occasions, "What else was I suppos'd to do? What? That Frenchman, and his Duck? I actually tried for a while to tell Peter about our little Trio. But I couldn't even do that, for he never heard me, he was too full of old adventures, out past Monongahela, with Christ, going about in various Disguises, Christ and his Hop-field companion Peter, upon missions of education. Christ and Peter visit the Indians. Christ reminisces about His Teen Years. Christ teaches Peter how to make Golems."
"Excuse me, Luise! Your Husband, he...?"
"Makes Golems,— oh, not the big ones, Lotte! No, Kitchen-size,— some of them quite clever, the Tasks they do,— one that peels and cores Apples,— ja, even pits Cherries,—
"Luise, for Shame!" The women beam together mischievously. One day, however, Luise will show her. Peter will not mind.
Pennsylvania is a place of spiritual Wonders amazing as any Chasm or Cataract. Among the German farmers of Lancaster, for example, are scores, perhaps hundreds, of truly, literally Good People, escap'd from a Hell we in our small tended Quotidian may but try to imagine,— entire Villages put to Flame, and Tortures worse than Inquisitorial,— disembowelments, bloodlettings,— a world without Innocence,— yet, escap'd here, into Innocence reborn,— something deeper and more intricate,— they call it "a new Life in Christ,"— it is their way of explaining it. Not a moment of their waking day passes, without some form of Christian devotion. Work, which the rest of us, at one time or another, have cursed and wish'd at an end, is here consider'd Sacred,— and this is only one of many Wonders—
Never has Traveler encounter'd such personal Variety, where utter cleanness and sobriety may be seen immediately adjoining the most stupefied exhibitions of Hemp-field Folly. There are Ger-manickal Mystics who live in Trees,— not up in the Branches, but actually within the Trunks, those particularly of ancient creekside Sycamores, which have, over time, become hollow'd out, like Caverns. In the midst of these lightless Woods are gun-smithies where the most advanc'd and refin'd forms of Art are daily exercis'd upon the machinery of Murder by Craftsmen whose Piety is unques-tion'd....
- Wicks Cherrycoke, Spiritual Day-Book
DePugh recalls a Sermon he once heard at a church-ful of German Mysticks. "It might have been a lecture in Mathematics. Hell, beneath our feet, bounded,— Heaven, above our pates, unbounded. Hell a collapsing Sphere, Heaven an expanding one. The enclosure of Punishment, the release of Salvation. Sin leading us as naturally to Hell and Compression, as doth Grace to Heaven, and Rarefaction. Thus—
Murmurs of, " 'Thus'?"
- may each point of Heaven be mapp'd, or projected, upon each point of Hell, and vice versa. And what intercepts the Projection, about mid-way (reckon'd logarithmickally) between? why, this very Earth, and our lives here upon it. We only think we occupy a solid, Brick-and-Timber City,— in Reality, we live upon a Map. Perhaps even our Lives are but representations of Truer Lives, pursued above and below, as to Philadelphia correspond both a vast Heavenly City, and a crowded niche of Hell, each element of one faithfully mirror'd in the others."
"There are a Mason and Dixon in Hell, you mean?" inquires Ethelmer, "attempting eternally to draw a perfect Arc of Considerably Lesser Circle?"
"Impossible," ventures the Revd. "For is Hell, by this Scheme, not a Point, without Dimension?"
"Indeed. Yet, suppose Hell to be almost a Point," argues the doughty DePugh, already Wrangler material, "— they would then be inscribing their Line eternal, upon the inner surface of the smallest possible Spheroid that can be imagin'd, and then some."
"More of these...," Ethelmer pretending to struggle for a Modifier that will not offend the Company, "curious Infinitesimals, Cousin.—The Masters at my Purgatory are bewitch'd by the confounded things. Epsilons, usually. Miserable little,"— Squiggling in the air, "sort of things. Eh?"
"See them often," sighs DePugh, "this semester more than ever."
'"What puzzles me, DeP, is that if the volume of Hell may be taken as small as you like, yet the Souls therein must be ever smaller, mustn't they,— there being, by now, easily millions there?"
"Aye, assuming one of the terms of Damnation be to keep just enough of one's size and weight to feel oppressively crowded,— taking as a model the old Black Hole of Calcutta, if you like,— the Soul's Volume must be an Epsilon one degree smaller,— a Sub-epsilon."
' 'The Epsilonicks of Damnation.' Well, well. There's my next Sermon," remarks Uncle Wicks.
"I observe," Tenebras transform'd by the pale taper-light to some beautiful Needlewoman in an old Painting, "of both of you, that your fascination with Hell is match'd only by your disregard of Heaven. Why should the Surveyors not be found there Above,"— gesturing with her Needle, a Curve-Ensemble of Embroidery Floss, of a nearly invisible gray, trailing after, in the currents rais'd by Talking, Pacing, Fanning, Approaching, Withdrawing, and whatever else there be to indoor Life,— "drifting about, chaining the endless airy Leagues, themselves approaching a condition of pure Geometry?"
"Tho' for symmetry's sake," interposes DePugh, "we ought to say, ''almost endless.''
"Why," whispers Brae, "whoever said anything had to be symmet-rickal?" The Lads, puzzl'd, exchange a quick Look.
50
Not all Roads lead to Philadelphia. Chesapeake means as much, and often more, to the Back Inhabitants as Philadelphia,— so Roads here seldom run in the same sense as the West Line, but rather athwart it, coming up from Chesapeake, and going on, to the North and the West. Soon, lesser roads, linking farms and closer Markets, begin to feed into these Line-crossing roads,— before long, on one or more of the Corners so defin'd, a Tavern will appear. It is thus, in the Back-Country, evident to all, however unschool'd in Euclid, that each time the Visto crosses a Road, there's sure to be an Oasis but a few miles north or south.
"Here's how we'll do it," proposes Mason. "Whenever we come to a Road, one of us goes North, the other South. The one not finding a Tavern in a reasonable Time, returns to the Line, where he finds either the other waiting, or that the other has not yet return'd,— in which case, he then continues in the same direction, either meeting the other returning, or finding him, already a dozen pints down."
East of Susquehanna, under this System, there prove to be Crossings where Inns lie both North and South of the Line, and on such Occasions, entire days may pass with each Surveyor in his own Tavern, not exactly waiting for the other to show up,— possibly imagining the good time the other must be having and failing to share. Later, across Susquehanna, there come days when the only Inns are worse than no Inn, and presently days when there are no Inns at all, and at last the night they encamp knowing that for an unforeseeable stretch of Nights, they must belong to this great Swell of Forested Mountains, this place of ancient Revenge, and Beasts outside the Fire-light,— the sun this particular evening as if in celestial Seal, spreading into a Glory, transgressing all Metes and Bounds, filling the Trees, lighting the Animals, their flanks averted, wash'd in its oncoming Flow, bringing to human faces a precision approaching purification, goading each soul, as if again and again, ever toward the Shambles of Eternity. The Axmen stand beneath it, no less bruised, worn or hungry than from any other day, blinking, turning away, then returning to this Radiance that flares from behind edges of Shapes uncertain,— the Creation they believe they know,— re-created.
Later, not all will agree on what they have seen.
Thus, as the Communication is a long sequence of Fortified remounting stations, so is the Line a long sequence of Taverns and Ordinaries, and absences of the same. One day, the Meridian having been closely enough establish'd, and with an hour or two of free time available to them, one heads north, one south, and 'tis Dixon's luck to discover The Rabbi of Prague, headquarters of a Kabbalistick Faith, in Correspondence with the Elect Cohens of Paris, whose private Salute they now greet Dixon with, the Fingers spread two and two, and the Thumb held away from them likewise, said to represent the Hebrew letter Shin and to signify, "Live long and prosper." The area just beyond the next Ridge is believ'd to harbor a giant Golem, or Jewish Automaton, taller than the most ancient of the Trees. As explain'd to Dixon, 'twas created by an Indian tribe widely suppos'd to be one of the famous Lost Tribes of Israel, who had somehow given up control of the Creature, sending it headlong into the Forest, where it would learn of its own gift of Mobile Invisibility.
"And...do you folk wear Special Hats, anything like that?" inquires Dixon. It sounds enough like the Frenchman's Duck to make him cautious. "Most of thee, in Speech and Address, I'd've guess'd to be Irish.. .I thought thee were known for Little People. This is a Wonder of the Wilderness, for fair... ?"
"If, I say 'if,' you do see it," advises the Landlord, "you'll then talk of Wonders indeed.”
"Sure that Golem,— you have to catch him when he's asleep," asserts a short red-headed woodsman in Deerskins, who is holding a tankard in one hand and a Lancaster County rifle in the other.
"Of course," adds a florid Forge-keeper who occupies the entire side of one Table, "that might not be for years." He chuckles, and the Tankards rattle upon the Shelves.
"Aye, some of us have never seen him, only heard his steps on the nights when there is no Moon, or his voice, speaking from above the only words he knows,— 'Eyeh asher Eyeh,'' - in on which, in Tones hush'd, though ominous, the others now join.
"That is, 'I am that which I am,' " helpfully translates a somehow nautical-looking Indiv. with gigantick Fore-Arms, and one Eye ever a-Squint from the Smoke of his Pipe.
"Tho' Rashi in his Commentary has, 'I will be what I will be,' as the Tense is ambiguous between present and future."
"Isn't that what God said to Moses?" Dixon inquires.
"Exodus 3:14. 'Tis what the Indians'll say to you, if you go far enough west,— being the Lost Tribes of Israel out there, whose Creature this is."
"In the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, you see, Jesus as a Boy made small, as you'd say, toy Golems out of Clay,— Sparrows that flew, Rabbits that hopp'd. Golem fabrication is integral to the Life of Jesus, and thence to Christianity."
"Nor is it any Wonder here by South Mountain, anyway. Sometimes the Invisible will all at once appear,— sometimes what you see may not be there at all."
"I am told of certain Stars, in the Chinese system of Astrology, which are invisible so long as they keep moving, only being seen, when they pause. Might thy Golem share this Property?"
The Company rush to enlighten Dixon. " 'Tis shard with this whole accursed Continent," the quarrelsome Carrot-top lets him know, waving his Rifle and narrowly missing several Tankards upon the Table.
"— Which, as if in answer to God's recession, remain'd invisible, denied to us, till it became necessary to our Souls that it come to rest, self-reveal'd, tho' we pretended to 'discover' it—”
"By the time of Columbus, God's project of Disengagement was obvious to all,— with the terrible understanding that we were to be left more and more to our own solutions."
"America, withal, for centuries had been kept hidden, as are certain Bodies of Knowledge. Only now and then were selected persons allow'd Glimpses of the New World,—
"Never Reporters that anyone else was likely to believe,— men who ate the Flesh and fornicated with the Ghosts of their Dead, murderers and Pirates on the run, monks in parchment Coracles stitched together from copied Pages of the Book of Jonah, fishermen too many Nights out of Port, any Runagate craz'd enough to sail West."
"All matters of what becomes Visible, and when. Revelation exists as a Fact,— and continues, as Time proceeds. If new Continents may become visible, why not Planets, sir, as Planets are in your Line?"
"Ye'd have to ask Mason, who should be here Hourly."
"Howbeit,— the Secret was safe until the choice be made to reveal it. It has been denied to all who came to America, for Wealth, for Refuge, for Adventure. This 'New World' was ever a secret Body of Knowledge,— meant to be studied with the same dedication as the Hebrew Kabbala would demand. Forms of the Land, the flow of water, the occurrence of what us'd to be call'd Miracles, all are Text,— to be attended to, manipulated, read, remember'd."
"Hence as you may imagine, we take a lively interest in this Line of yours," booms the Forge-keeper, "inasmuch as it may be read, East to West, much as a Line of Text upon a Page of the sacred Torah,— a Tellurian Scripture, as some might say,—
'Twill terminate somewhere to the West, no one, not even you and your Partner, knows where. An utterance. A Message of uncertain length, apt to be interrupted at any Moment, or Chain. A smaller Pantograph copy down here, of Occurrences in the Higher World."
"Another case of, 'As above, so below.''
"No longer, Alas, a phrase of Power,— this Age sees a corruption and disabling of the ancient Magick. Projectors, Brokers of Capital, Insur-ancers, Peddlers upon the global Scale, Enterprisers and Quacks,— these are the last poor fallen and feckless inheritors of a Knowledge they can never use, but in the service of Greed. The coming Rebellion is theirs,— Franklin, and that Lot,— and Heaven help the rest of us, if they prevail."
"Yet," puts in a queer, uncollected sort of Townsman, who's been drinking so far in silence, "what of the way Mr. Franklin and his people stopp'd the Paxtonians before the City, as the Pope halted Attila before Rome,—
'Like Leo First, upon the Mincian Bank, Before that Horde, Rank after endless Rank...'
- yes and now, as then, the preponderant Question is, What kind of
Arrangements were made? With conquest in their grasp and sight, our
own Barbarians in like wise turn'd, and sought once again their wild
back-lands, renouncing their chance to sack the Quaker Rome."
"Enjoy its Women." General Comment. "Careful, Lad, some of them's us."
"Just so. What argument could have prov'd compelling enough to dissuade them?—
'The Kite, the Key, the mortal Thundering
As Heaven's Flame assaults the hempen String,'
- Eh?— for they esteem Franklin a Magician. A Figure of Power. We
know what he is,— but to the Mobility, he is the Ancestor of Miracle,— or, of Wonders, which pass as well with them,— without which, indeed,
they would soon grow inquisitive and troublesome. For, as long as it
remains possible to keep us deluded that we are 'free men,' we back
Inhabitants will feed the Metropolis, open new roads to it, fight in its
behalf,— we may be Presbyterian today, and turn'd only by the force of
God, but after very few seasons of such remorseless Gulling, we must be
weak and tractable enough even for the Philadelphian men of affairs,
who themselves cannot be reckon'd as any sort of Faithful, but rather
among Doubt's advancing Phalanx,— of whom one must ask, If they no
longer believe in Bishops, where next, might their Irreverence not take
them?"
"Now then, Lad.—Tis Patrick Henry, Sir, they've all got the Itch,— "Why, these Presbyterians need no Oratory from the likes of me, not men who ev'ry day face Savages seeking to destroy them, who will set and hold a Line of Defense quite well before Schuylkill,— though 'twill be Deists and Illuminati, and Philosophers even stranger than that, pois'd upon the Mountaintops between, to observe and, who can say? direct the Engagement.—
'In pale and Lanthorn'd reverie the Fair Of Philadelphia lounge, discussing Hair,— Whilst in the steep Shade of some Western Alp, A Presbyterian's fighting for his Scalp.' "
"These Lines thou keep quoting...? I know I should recognize them... ? Is it Alexander Pope?"
"Why, 'tis Mr. Tox." A certain impatience of the Eye-brows.
"A Poet whom,— that is,— "
"In the Constellation 'Poesia,'' Sir, to frame it in more comfortable terms for you, even the Wasp of Twickenham must be assign'd the Letter Beta, for 'tis Timothy Tox who is its Lumina. I was quoting from the Pennsylvaniad, of course."
"Of course."
"Oh, go on, then, Tim, tell him."
"Thoo are— "
"Not so loud. This is not my Home. I am upon the Scamper, I fear, tho' none will speak of it. Like Mr. Wilkes, I have endanger'd my Freedom by Printing what displeaseth this King. Not 'the' King, you appreciate—" He peers at Dixon as a Physician might, waiting for some sign. "Only a Broadside. No more than a couple of hundred Copies. Went...something like,
'As legionaries once in Skirts patroll'd
The streets of old Londinium, damp and cold,
So Troops in kilts invade us now, unbeckon'd,
Styling themselves "the Highland Forty-second."
Who is this King that fires upon his own,
Who are these Ministers, with heads of Stone,
Holy Experiment! 0 where be Thou,
Where be thy hopes, thy fears, thy terrors now?''
Outside, great Percussions upon the Earth are heard, coming ever closer. Trees, push'd over, crash to the ground. Bears, Bobcats, and Wolves come fleeing before whatever is just behind. Pewter dances across the boards of the Tables. Ale trembles in ev'ry Can. Observing Timothy Tox's Brightness of Eye and steadfastness of Lip, Dixon pretends Astonishment. "Have thoo summon'd it here, with thy Verses?"
"Somewhat as ye may summon a Star with a Telescope. I pray no more than that."
"No Friend of the King, I collect...?"
"An American Golem. They thought the Black Boys who fought them at Fort Loudon were dangerous,— those were benevolent Elves in Comparison. Here as in Prague, the Golem takes a dim view of Oppression, and is ever available to exert itself to the Contrary."
Out the Window, great Mud Feet are seen to stir, tall as the Eaves. The Countrymen raise Tankards in their direction. "A sovereign Deterrent to Black Watch Plaid," declares Mr. Tox.
"This Forest suffers not the Bag-Pipe's Scream, To stay away, the Brits it wiser deem.”
51
South Mountain is the last concentration of Apparitions,— as you might say, Shape-'Morphers, and Soul-Snatchers, besides plain "Ghosts." Beyond lies Wilderness, where quite another Presence reigns, undiffer-entiate,— Thatwhichever precedeth Ghostliness....
Dixon takes to wearing a coonskin cap. Mason is alarm'd,— "That something has happen'd to your hair," is what he says aloud, whilst thinking, that Dixon has become a Werewolf, or even worse,— some New World Creature without a name, at home among the illimitable possibilities of Evil in this Forest,...some Manifestation to daylight denied— Meanwhile Dixon, sensing in his partner but a lower order of Snakes-and-Bears Jumpiness, in Fun begins appearing at the Tent-opening with the tail of the Hat pull'd round in front of his face, screaming in a Pitman's Cant intelligible but to himself. Mason's reactions are all he is hoping for, and more. The Quill goes into a panicky skate off the page,— Mason looks frantically about for a weapon. Dixon quickly reverses the bushy Tail.
"Surprize!"
"Not funny."
"Don't like me Shappo? Well Ah hadn't done Punch's Voice yet...?" At Mason's blank look, "Tha mean, tha've never done this with thy Wig? The children love it."
"Fascinating. Apparently I was never allow'd the Opportunity,— my older son,— William,— having learn'd quite soon to remove mine from my head, and convert it into a toy Cudgel, with which, charmingly of course, he would pretend to smash his baby brother's head in. The powder always made him sneeze, altho' this did not affect the sincerity of his Assault."
But the word always has slipp'd in, fatal to any attempt at Wit, or even lightness of tone, and may be Mason's way of asking for sympathy, fully as supplicatory as a tremor in the voice, a fugitive tear. He has blunder'd on into a Remark about Hats, cock'd and not.
"Sir?" Dixon giving Beef.
"Surely, Sir, I meant no disrespect to the Quakers, among whom I number,—
" Tis the dismissive Use of Metonymy, Sir. We are particularly earnest upon the Topick of Hats, having invested in them more than insurance against the Rain.—Our history as a Sect having begun with a Hat that remain'd upon its Head,— and mercifully the Head upon its Body,—
Later, Mason seeks revenge. Dixon having drifted into a hypnagogic passage in which, amid a profligacy of stars rushing by, he is traversing straight upward, Zenithward,— "Eeh! Eeh!" He is awake and screaming. Mason is ringing a small iron Bell rapidly in front of his Nose. "Indians? Americans? Where's my Rifle? Whah'?"
' 'Tis Capella," smirks Mason, "about to culminate, and tho' I do prefer the Clock myself, as it is your, ye might say, Work-Station, reluctantly must I yield it to you, I suppose, and go clap me Eye to the old Snout once again."
"I wasn't asleep...?"
" 'Fair Blapsia, I am thine'? Pray you Sir, a moment's Mercy."
"Who said than'... ? Ah didn't say thah'... ?"
Mason's look is pois'd between Pity and Annoyance.
"I've been awake. I remember when Farlow and Boggs came by...? with their Voucher Situation... ? a lively whim-wham for fair."
"Boggs and Farlow didn't,— Hum, that is to say,—
"Ha! Happen 'twas thee asleep then...? I puzzl'd that they spoke so quietly."
"I was awake, all the time, they were never here, you must have dream'd it.”
"Oh, tha look'd awake, but Ah mind thy gift of sleeping with thine Eyes open wide."
"I can't help that, my father did it too, it's given me Nightmares for Years. I couldn't bear to look at it,— how can you? Doesn't it trouble you?"
"Me? Why, no. Why should it? Some individual pretending to stare at me, whilst his Soul's off God knows where, having Adventures imperfectly recall'd,— why should any of that trouble me, particularly the Question of what, in thy Absence, is doing the Staring for thee? What caretaker, what Verger of the Temple of the Self... ? Eeh!"
"Yes. And, and the Stare you speak of,— do my Eyes, in a sense, roll upward into blind white Ovoids, and are your Dreams not invaded by that sinister unseeing Gaze, ever-charg'd with some imminent Act you must upon no account remain there to witness,—
"Aye!" screams Dixon, " - aye, they're blank as boil'd Eggs, and worse,— for Irisless and unpupil'd yet do they go on squinting at me, as if,- "
"Yes, yes?"
"Eeh, never mind."
"No, pray you, I'm interested, very interested indeed." Wind shoves against the Tent. Rainwater somewhere drips into a kettle. The flames of the Tallow Dips are ever uncertain. From the Forest now proceed Sounds, real ones, that neither Surveyor has heard before, and that each is too embarrass'd to mention to the other. Dixon, having the finer tolerance for mysterious intrusion, breaks first. "All right, I know you hear it too. It's rhythmic, and high-pitch'd, aye? I say it's Indian Drums, and they're talking about huz...?"
"And I say, 'tis a Dog," Mason somber. "A particular Dog, with a syncopated Bark— Oh yes, a Dog well known and much fear'd in this Region,— withal a Dog...."
"Eeh, wait then, wheer's my Flask, if we're having a Toast to the Animal. ..?" Outside something is creeping by. "Hold!" Dixon seizing a Pistol and diving out the tent-flap, into the rain with a smoothness Mason has rarely observ'd. There is some jingling and shuffling. "It's the young McClean!" cries Dixon.
"Felicitude," mutters Mason. "What next? Invite him in for a Drink, I suppose."
In pokes Dixon's head, considerably wetter. "Nathe's of your Mind,— thinks it's a Dog. I still say it's a Drum, though perhaps of unconventional Design,— say, how much of that Stuff in the Bottles is to hand?" They now are join'd by other crew members who have heard, and are unhappy with, the pulsing, uncertainly Distant Noise. Wearily Mason pulls on Oil-cloths, tugs his Service-Grade Beaver over his Nob, and emerges to mill about as perplex'd as the rest, hoping no one will look to him for Leadership. Soon the place is so full of Crew that they decide to move on into the Mess tent, where already Mr. Barnes and his Band have been conversing separately.
"Gents, we are all agreed," the Overseer greets them, " 'tis the," whispering for the first time since they've known him, "Black Dog."
"Probably out seeking to relieve himself upon one or more of his personal Trees," adds Matt Marine, "which will no longer be there, having been chopp'd down for our Visto. The B.D. will likely be very put out at this, for he does like his personal Trees, ye see."
"Shall he retaliate?" wonders Mason. "What Measures should we be taking?"
"Eeh, Mason...?"
"May I suggest that this is all but a form of Joint Mirage," offers the Revd, "something very like it having been reported in the Philosophical Transactions not long ago, as you may recall?"
Dixon's "Why, aye" and Mason's "I do not" are spoken simultaneously. The Surveyors glare at each other. "Someone wrote in to the R.S. about this Black Dog?" inquires Mason.
"Careful," warns Mr. Barnes, "you're not suppos'd to use any of Its names, really."
"Really? 'The Black Dog'? Can't say, The Black— ' "
"Sh-shh! Tis one of the Things That Are Never Said."
"Oh?" Dixon curious. "And the others are...?"
"An extended List, Sir."
"And of course tha'd rather not recite it aloud...? is it not yet enough, the Catholick axmen blessing their Bits each morning with holy water,— the Astrologites newly reluctant to work when the Moon
is void of Course,— the Presbyterians ever brewing Potions, and scrying the entrails of Toads,— and now a List of Things That May Not Be Said?"
"Ahrr,— " Mason a-squint, "finely set these Days? Am I not given to understand that no Geordie can ever quite bring himself to pronounce the name of—
"Don't say it,— "
- of a certain farm animal? noted for its wallowing, and, and oinking,—
"Be a Gent, Mason, I concede the point."
"And you promise not to say, 'The Black D— ' ehhp,— that is,—
"Folk out here advise," says Dixon, "that all else failing, the Names most likely to matter, spoken aloud, are those of the Holy Trinity,— accompanied by a Cross, drawn in the air at the same time."
"Same time as what? as the Dog is leaping for my Throat?"
"Eeh,— disputes with Phantom Dogs are not in my Line, Mason. Dogs love me, I'm a Dog Person."
"Are you really."
"All my Life."
"So,— if I threw a Stick, and cried Fetch, you would actually run, and,— " Mason places a Finger crosswise between his teeth, and nods, inquiringly.
"No, no, not that kind of Dog Person.—Though happen I did see something like, once at Darlington Fair...?"
"Hark ye," calls Moses Barnes, "— Gentlemen. Has the Wind only shifted, or has this damn'd Howling come nearer?"
All attend the Night outside the canvas walls. "Ain't it more likely to be no Dog, but Indians pretending to be a Dog?" Mr. Farlow inquires calmly, thereby throwing the Company into a Panick. Countrymen set their fur hats mistakenly upon the Heads of others, or grab the wrong Rifle whilst it is yet in its Owner's Hands. Powder is spill'd, strewn, left by the Fire. Ev'ryone is shouting at once.
"Leadership," Mason mumbling to himself. Turning to Dixon, "One of us,— "
"Me. As usual." Pulling his Hat down over his Ears, he prepares to exit.
"Mr. Dixon is going out to have a look," Mason announces, quite chirpy. "If it is a Dog, he'll know what to do."
"What if it's Indians?"
"I'll bite them...?" Dixon lifts the Flap, clears his Sensorium, and steps outside. There is a long Silence. Mason has drifted into a curious daydream about Philadelphia, where he has just been elected Dog-Catcher, on the basis of his adventures upon South Mountain, when Dixon comes back.
"Wasn't the Creature yese spoke of. It was the Glowing Indian."
"What, the Glowing Indian of South Mountain? Hasn't been seen for years."
"Perhaps it was something else...?" Dixon accepts a Pewter Mug of Maize-Whiskey. "What would tha call a very large Native American, with a net output of light, comparable to that of a Forge?"
"Dunno.. .Glowing Indian?"
"Just so,— Hatchet and Musket-Barrel and Knife-Blades, all a-glow, Steam billowing up when he stepp'd in the Creek...?"
Mason has no command of his Tongue. He keeps trying to say, "Too far, Dixon, you never know where the Crease of Credulity's been set." He is disappointed at not having seen it, whatever it is,— believing it a Spiritual Demonstration, that Dixon almost certainly has fail'd to appreciate. Dixon, for his part, the further West they chain, finds himself with a need for some new Jostling daily to his Sensorium, and tonight's Glowing Indian, in this numbing torrent of American Stimuli, seems just the Ticket, tho' he wouldn't have minded some whim-wham with the Black Dog. "Wading down toward Antietam, last I saw. Seem'd a pleasant enough Lad. Not much to say. Too tall, of course—"
Over South Mountain, among the Springs that fall to Antietam Creek, on September 21st, they pause at 96 Miles, 3 Chains, near the House of Mr. Staphel Shockey, who tells them of a remarkable Cavern beneath the Earth, about six miles south of the Line. In the winter, English Church services are held in it. Mason's Hat begins to move, as from some Agitation beneath it. Accordingly, the next day, Sunday, they pay a visit, in company with Mr. Shockey and his Children, whilst Mrs. Shockey
remains at home with a thousand Chores that Sunday does not release her from.
The entrance is an arch about 6 yards in length and four feet in height, when immediately there opens a room 45 yards in length, 40 in breadth and 7 or 8 in height. (Not one pillar to support nature's arch)...On the Sidewalls are drawn by the Pencil of Time, with the tears of the Rocks: The imitation of Organ, Pillar, Columns and Monuments of a Temple; which, with the glimmering faint light; makes the whole an awful, solemn appearance: Striking its Visitants with a strong and melancholy reflection: that such is the abodes of the Dead: thy inevitable doom, 0 stranger; soon to be numbered as one of them.
- So it reads in the Field-Book."
"They handed that in?" Ethelmer in surprise.
"Part of the official record," Uncle Ives's Eyebrows descending.
"However, where Mason saw a Gothick Interior, Dixon saw 'pon ev'ry Surface, ancient Inscriptions, Glyphs unreadable,— Ogham, possibly."
Mr. Shockey has little to add. "The Indians, it seems like they stay'd away from here,— bad Spirits or something. So if it's writing, it'd have to be older 'n them."
"Could've been Welsh Indians," offers one of his Sons. "Mov'd on West long before our Time, said to be cross'd beyond the Illinois. You'll be seeing Captain Shelby soon, he knows more."
Mason is looking about, precisely like someone planning to furnish a room. "Nor Summer's Heat," he will whisper later that Night, unable to quit the Fire "nor Winter's Freeze, need bother us, snug in the Earth...those Ceilings! high as Heaven...."
Dixon is not quite so entertain'd. The Cave oppresses him. He has mentally measur'd it, as Surveyors do, and is trying to imagine what form of Life might be calling something as spacious as this Home. And what might become of the Anglican Population out here, should the Dweller show up unexpectedly one Sunday, during the Service.
All the way back to the Visto, Mason is seiz'd by Monology. "Text,— he cries, and more than once, "it is Text,— and we are its readers, and its Pages are the Days turning. Unscrolling, as a Pilgrim's Itinerary map
in ancient Days. And this is the Chapter call'd 'The Subterranean Cathedral, or, The Lesson Grasp'd.' You must make sure I do not attempt to return. Didn't you feel anything? You people, with your second sight and Eldritch Powers,— why I've seen betterr at Painswick Fairr."
"Eeh, a Lad brings in a Well or two, and right away 'tis Wizard me this, Wizard me thah'... ?"
"Can you stretch me a bit o' Chain today, do ye guess?" "Thank thee for asking,— I'd been planning to crowd thee...?" They neck-rein their Horses in opposite directions, till they're as far apart upon the Road as they can manage, and continue their return from the World beneath the World, to the Line beneath the Stars.
52
The crossing of Conococheague, with its dismal history, proves particularly unsettling. Providentially, no ten minutes of Arc terminate upon either Bank,— that burn'd and bloodied little huddle of Cabins, can provide no Object of Pilgrimage, any Prospect of lingering as much as a Fortnight, among these Ghosts, and the Desolation in which they wait, would have sent the Expedition on to some Station less haunted,— extra Chaining and Calculating and all.
Lancaster as a scene of horror had been bearable because of the secular Town upon ev'ry side, pursuing its Business, begging Attendance at ev'ry turn,— yet what in Lancaster was but an hour's Thrill, out here in this sternly exact Desert might become an uncontrollable descent into whatever the Visto was suppos'd to deny,— the covetousness of all that liv'd.. .that continued to press in at either side, wishing simply to breach the long rectified Absence wherever it might,— to insist upon itself.
Between two roads leading to different ferries across Potowmack, they calculate and change course, and at last, 117 miles, 12 chains, and 97 links west of the Post Mark'd West, they fetch up against the flank of the North Mountain, having enter'd the personal Zone of Influence of Capt. Evan Shelby. They pack the Instruments and leave them in his Care, for the Winter.
Not till they turn and head east again, do they find any time for rememb'ring anything. Going west has been all Futurity. Now, moving against the Sun, they may take up again the past.
Trudging one day into the wind, all hats impossible, hair in streams, struggling to keep the brass instrument on its tripod over one shoulder, Dixon at last saw the logic of Emerson's notorious back-to-front coat.
"Of course 'tis back-to front," Emerson had sigh'd, "Plutonians, give some Brain to it,— in all animals, isn't it the Ventral or Belly-side that needs most protection,— the Dorsal or Back-side being stronger and harder? And won't half the walking I'm to do in my Life, be into the Wind? Bonny. At such times, then, I'd rather be a few degrees above Freezing, thankee, and let me Back look after itself."
"Then why does ev'ryone else go about with Coats open in front?"
Emerson gazed upon the assembl'd young Scholars with a great pretense of mildness and forbearance. "My entire life as a Teacher, lesson after futile lesson, is time thus pitiably squander'd,— an old man's Folly. Not that I ever was a Teacher, really, I'm a Man of Science, between patrons at the moment, only doing this so I can pay my laboratory expenses, tho' Mrs. Emerson takes a slightly different View...' 'Tis the Grub-Street of Philosophy!' she laments. 'Durham Prison were better!' Howsobeit, the Question, mercifully, was not about Marriage— The Modern Coat, as we know it," he explain'd, "is bas'd upon the attire of the Nobility and Gentry and other assorted Thieves, who could ever afford Servants to put their clothes on for them. At such intimate moments, 'twas believ'd more prudent to keep a Servant in front of one, than allow him behind. For today's Discussion, therefore, speculate for me if yese will, what might have happen'd to the Structure of England, had ev'rything fasten'd in back, obliging Servants,— let us here include America, the Indies, and black Slaves as well,— to spend more time behind their Masters than before, and so close as to be invisible?"
Long before the Soldiers came in sight, People in their Path could hear the drums, upon fitfully directed Winds, clattering off the walls of old quarries where Weld flower'd in glows of orange, yellow, and green, raking the hillside pastures all but empty, with the lambs just sold and the breeding ewes resting up for winter, their cull'd sisters off to auctions and fates less ritual, whilst the rams were soon to go up to spend winter
in the hills. Vast flights of starlings, fleeing the racket, beat across the sky at high speed, like Squall-clouds,— Evening at Noon-tide. In the little one-street villages, women stood among the laundry they'd just put out, looking at the Light, reckoning drying time and marching time, and Cloud-speed, and how wet ev'rything might be when they'd have to bring it in again. Soon the mercilessly even drumbeat fill'd the Day, replacing the accustom'd rhythms of country People with the controlling Pulse of military Clock-time, announcing that all events would now occur at the army's Pleasure, upon the army's schedule.
"Then they began with the Bagpipes." For demonstrative purposes,
Wolfe from time to time in the easy march up to Stroud would order his
troopers to dismount, take up skirmish positions, and fire at whatever
took their Fancy. Later, in Pennsylvania, deep within the Glades of
Death, crossing the road upon which Braddock and his forces had met
their unhappy end, Mason would wonder if the effects of the late Tragedy
in America upon Army morale in general, and upon Wolfe in particular,
might not also have play'd their part in this idle Musketry, which left
splash'd behind them a path scarlet with hundreds of small innocent
lives wild and domestic,— far beneath the notice of a dragoon, of course,
but often of moment to local residents,— the Fowl running into the
Fields, no sleep for fear of ev'rything that might happen
"For all we know, Wolfe may have felt the same contempt for British Weavers as did Braddock for American Indians,— treacherous Natives, disrespectful, rebellious, waiting in Ambuscado, behind ev'ry stone wall."
"British firing upon British,— " Dixon charging his Pipe absently, "I thought thah' was all done with. Are your Weavers Jacobites, then?"
"They're people, Dixon, whom I saw daily, they work'd, they ate when they came off-shift, good for a Cob or a Batch-Loaf a day. Or a Mason's Bap,— that was my Dad's own specialty, baked upon the bottom of the Oven, white Flour in clouds, he'd sell 'em whole, or by the Slice.
"Some aspir'd to be master-weavers, most would have settl'd for a living wage, but their desires how betray'd, when in 'fifty-six the Justices of the Peace, upon easily imagin'd arrangements with the Clothiers, reduced by half the Wages set by law, and the troubles came to a head.”
He pauses as if reaching a small decision. "Rebekah's people were weavers."
Dixon lighting his Pipe, "Hahdn't knoawn thah'."
"Wool-workers upon her father's side, silk upon her mother's,— she liked to say it accompted for the way she was."
Dixon puffs, nodding slowly, evenly, eyes cross'd as if scrying in the glow of his pipe-bowl.
And that wondrous night, in the High Street, they were all there, brothers and cousins and uncles,"— Mason's pause seems but for breath, tho' Dixon already is beaming an unmistakable inquiry,— "/ was there, now that I think of it."
Dixon nods. "Been out upon the Pavement m'self.. .Tyne Keelmen, back in 'fifty. No business over there, understand, none at all, yet..."
Mason reaches for his Pipe. "Oh, aye."
"More than once, perhaps...?"
"I have look'd on Worlds far distant, their Beauty how pitiless."
"Yet thah' night— "
"The Streets, Jere! thousands of angry men in Streets that ordinarily see no more than, oh, a dozen a day,— 'twas back'd up to Slad Brook! it spill'd out into both branches of the High Street,— " he puffs, in a sub-merriment Dixon recognizes, "— down the Lower Street, and up Parliament, and all that Hill-side between,— torches ev'rywhere, Looms dress'd in Mourning, songs of the 'Forty-five (their Throbbing within those prim corridors of Stone, how savage), effigies of hated Master Weavers, hang'd in their own Bar-chains so dishonorably set, and the Murmur,— ever, unceasingly, the great, crisp, serene Roar,— of a Mobility focus'd upon a just purpose."
"Aye...aye, of course in Newcastle 'twas more the Brick type of wall,— quite different sound,— more like Philadelphia...?"
"What did they do in Durham with the ones they caught?"
"The Keelmen? transported,— I know, not as entertaining as the gallows in Painswick,— yet, as we aren't quite such devotees of the Noose in Durham, a good many Tyneside Keel-men ended up in America,— hereabouts, in fact. If we'd stopp'd longer in Philadelphia, we'd've run into a few of 'em by now....”
"And, would I've enjoy'd that?"
"Tha might not've been along...? I mean, of course, having at the last minute decided they weren't thy sort, all that coal-grime and ale-drinking and such,— nor as clean as thy Loom-worker, out there by the babbling Brook, neat as a Pin and All,—
"Wait. You're saying that ceteris paribus, the Company of Keelmen is preferable to that of Weavers? That's clearly impossible, for 'tis widely allow'd, that Weavers are the soul of Jollification."
"You've nothing in Gloucester nay, nor in the Kingdom, to match the night Billy Snowball thought the Old dasher's head was an Ale-Can! Eeh! Eeh! Eeh!"
Mason gazes until the laughter subsides. "Tho' evidently a source of Cheery Memories for you,— ''
"Kept grabbin' him by his Noahse...? 'And whah's this?' Eeeh! Eeh!"
"— yet in Stroud, how ill-advis'd,— even in so tolerant and cosmopolitan a Room as The George Inn,—
"Where, let us recall, back in 'fifty-six, tha witness'd a Congress of Clothiers leaping from the Upstairs windows,—
"Thankee,— some indeed with their Punch-cups still upon their Fingers, and lit Pipes in their Mouths, and the Cards scatt'ring ev'ry-where,— '
At home he found his father in some Anxiety. "Weavers a-riot, troops coming in,—
"I ought to stay, then."
"What'll you do, point your Telescope at them? You'll be worse than useless, they'll shoot you the moment you present them that vacant Face."
"Perhaps I can ask them at Greenwich for another—
"Release yourself,— your mother and I will get through, between the thieving Mob and the thieving Soldiers, there're still places to hide an odd Loaf...but you,— better that you repair to Greenwich, Kent, young Sirr,— remain upon your Hill-top, farr from this poorr defeated place."
He sought his Mother's eyes,— receiving only a quick Sweep, as from a Broom, her face distress'd, as if whispering, You see how you distress him...
The open countryside seem'd made only to pull coal out of and run a few sheep on, and to harbor all the terrors imaginable to a boy. "I was only comfortable in the towns," Dixon one day would admit, "or in Raby, protected by the Castle,—yet never car'd for the territory between."
Mason looks on in some perplexity. "Rum affliction for a Surveyor, isn't it?"
"Say that it provided me an incentive, to enclose that which had hitherto been without Form, and hence haunted by anything and ev'rything, if you grasp my meaning,— anything and ev'rything, Sir."
"I was well acquainted with such terrors, whilst yet I crept and bab-bl'd, Sir. Despite the roads steep and toilsome, was I taken, like most children born in that part of Bisley Parish, truly bouncing Babes all, to Sapperton Church, to be Christen'd,— for Bisley lies across a great treeless Plain, known at our end as Oakridge Common, and at the other as Bisley Common, haunted by wild men and murderers, and its Wind never ceasing,— a source of limitless Fear."
"Cockfield Fell to the double-dot," Dixon recalls. "Ev'ryone put in great effort to avoid crossing it."
"When I got older and began watching the Stars, of course, 'twas another Story. The Sky was suddenly all there, in its full Display. I couldn't wait for Night, to be out under it."
"Eeh, stop, I'm a-shiver now."
"Nothing for Miles, unprotected 'neath those Leagues innumerable, in which, at any moment,—
"Eeeehh!" Dixon, to appearance in a true Panick, runs about the Tent looking for someplace to hide, and finding nothing but a Feed-Sack handy, attempts to insert himself into it.
Emerson smoaked it all right away. "If it's but the empty places between the Towns," he advis'd Dixon, "your worries are at an end, for look what you can do. You can get above it." He spoke these words with an emphasis Dixon cannot describe the full strangeness of. Something was up,— as so, shortly, would he and his classmates be,— but before they learn'd to fly, they had to learn about Maps, for Maps are the Aides-memoires of flight. So Dixon came to discover as well the great Invari-
ance whereby, aloft, one gains exactitude of Length and Breadth, only to lose much of the land's Relievo, or Dimension of Height,— whilst back at ground level, traveling about the Country, one regains bodily the realities of up and down, only to lose any but a rough sense of the other two Dimensions, now all about one.
"Earthbound," Emerson continued, "we are limited to our Horizon, which sometimes is to be measur'd but in inches.—We are bound withal to Time, and the amounts of it spent getting from one end of a journey to another. Yet aloft, in Map-space, origins, destinations, any Termini, hardly seem to matter,— one can apprehend all at once the entire plexity of possible journeys, set as one is above Distance, above Time itself."
"Altitude!" cried out a couple of alert youths,— as, in Emerson's class they were encourag'd to do.
"Altitude, being the Price we pay for this great Exemption, is consid-er'd as an in-house Expense, to be absorb'd in an inner term of a lengthy Expression describing Location, Course, and Speed. If you're interested, wait for my book upon Navigation, currently all but in Galley-proofs, for a detail'd Account."
Some were preoccupied with questions less modern. "Where is Hob Headless in this aerial View?" Dixon was not alone in wanting to know. "What of the Shotton Dobby, and the Old Hell-Cat of Raby with her black Coach and six? She can rise above the Land-scape too,— how does an innocent Cartographer deal with that?"
"Professional courtesy is the usual rule," Emerson replied. "You salute in the other her Gift of Flight, and move on. Briskly, if possible."
"And uhm, vice versa, too, you're quite sure of that, Sir...?"
"Tut, tut, alas and what shall we do, 0 the Lamentations of Jeremiah.—Have you then been squandering your precious Skepticism, over at Raby, upon this Gothickal Clap-trap?"
Why aye, and so he had, and even worse than that, he'd fallen into a Fascination with the "Old Hell-Cat" herself,— Elizabeth, Lady Barnard, who'd died back in '42 after a life of embitter'd family warfare over who was to inherit the Castle, whose Battlements she continued to walk with a pair of brass knitting-needles, whilst awaiting her Coach. The great thing, of these Needles, was, that they glow'd in the Dark, because they were Very Hot, hotter than a Coal-fire, more like the fires
of Hell, which feed upon substances less easily nam'd. 'Twas as a further conundrum presented to them to solve (or not solve) that Emerson won-der'd aloud, What Yarn could she possibly be knitting with, that would not burn at the touch of Heat like that? Wool from a Hell-Sheep? Those who tried to imagine it were rewarded, though in ways they later found difficult to describe.
Many is the night young Dixon sees her up there, the angles between the two bright Lines ever varying as she paces to and fro— One night at last, probably (he says he is no longer sure) disappointed in early Love, which is to say devastated, he decides, with nothing more to lose, that he'll go up and have a closer look. By now he knows the Castle like a Cat, no perch too precarious nor roof-slate too slippery, as he goes a-flowing one to the next among holds upon the facial features of Gargoyles known, perforce, with some intimacy, across Counter-scarps, to and through Machicolations in the Moon-light— If the Spectre, without her Coach, be relatively slow-moving, how difficult shall it be to spy upon her?
That's if. As Dixon draws close, he can hear her muttering. "Never on Time. Always delay'd, always another excuse. The 'late' Lady Barnard, indeed. Yet what is the point of cursing the fool, Eternally curs'd as he was ever?" By now, there's a peculiar sound out in the night, bearing the same relation to Hoofbeats as pluck'd Strings to Drum-beats, and seeming to approach—
Dixon must suppress a Gasp. Assembling itself from the Darkness about them appears the most uncommonly beautiful Coach he's ever seen. Its curves are the curves of a desirable Woman, its Lacquering's all a-flash, Bright as a wanton Eye. Its coal-color'd Arabs, scarcely sighing, bring it in a glide to a spot near her Parapet, holding it then pois'd, hooves stirring in the empty Air, above the Grounds invisible in the Darkness below,— whilst the Coachman, with a face as white as his Livery is black, descends to the Parapet to open her Door.
"Late again, Trent."
"Sorry Milady— traffick."
"Traffick!" she raises the Brass needles above her head, one in each trembling fist, as if to strike. "I've heard the lead horse went insane,—
I've heard the Wife she's not so clivvor this se'ennight,— I've heard, the Wind was in my teeth, and the Clock ran down, and the Dog made off with me Coachwhip, but this, Trent, this begins to approach the truly maddening. What possible Traffick can there be above Cockfield Fell? Are we not in fact the only flying Coach-and-six in the Palatinate?"
"They,— they come over from Hurworth, Milady,— swarms of them." "Oh, it's Emerson and that lot. Ragged children. Swarms, quotha. You may as well have been delay'd by a flock of Ducks. Really, Trent, these excuses grow more and more enfeebl'd, and tiresome pari passu— What are you up to, honestly, when I leave you alone with this lovely Machine? Hmm? Trent? Come, come, you can tell Her Ladyship all." With an athletic readiness that surprizes the young Lurker, she vaults up into the quilted black velvet interior, and Trent swings shut the Door and climbs smirking to his seat. Through the Window she leans then to stare back out, unmistakably and directly at Dixon, and calls, "Perhaps another time, Jeremiah." They are gone,— horses, perfect Shine, curves and all, leaving Dixon's nape and shoulders mantl'd in unearthly cold.
That is how he remembers first hearing of Emerson, though the Leg
end by then was well under way in Durham. Though he keeps chuck
ling it away, Dixon also suspects he sought out Emerson from his
Desire to be one of those ragged Kids, and that "another Time" happen
some Evening when he and Lady Barnard were both aloft. Down
here she held too much advantage. Altitude might help his odds. He
didn't know whether he was planning seduction, or combat,— these, at
fourteen, being the only categories of Pleasure he recogniz'd. That
it might have been something else altogether would never occur to
him until years later, at Castle Lepton, in the wilderness of America,
well entangl'd in gambling debts, Romantick Intriguing, and political
jiggery-pokery, all punctuated by a Liver Episode he may have worried
himself into, unless 'twas all that Drinking he was doing. "Ah Mason,"
he cried, tho' Mason, who in fact was not doing too much better, lay
snoring in a Corner,— "she has it all,— Beauty, Money,...um...what
ever else there is “
Whilst yet in the steep Mountains, they take to Sledding in the Year's early snow-Falls, upon folded pieces of Tent-Canvas. One day, just as they start down a long slope neither can remember from earlier, coming the other way and climbing, an Autumnal Squall comes snapping up like a Blanket being shaken into a Spread of chill Cloud, and Snow begins abruptly, it seems, to fall. Both Surveyors feel their Velocity increasing ominously.
"Ehp, Dixon? Still over there? Can you see where we're going?"
"Snow's coming down too thick!" Dixon calls from someplace, because of the change of acousticks between them, unmeasurable.
Both shrill with the Predicament, blind, together, separate, they plunge down the imperfectly remember'd Steep. They pass the Commissary-Waggon, and one, then two more Supply-Waggons, each brak'd in its Snowy Descent by a late-fell'd Tree dragged behind, the Drivers looking 'round wildly, the Horses beginning to grow anxious, till Mason and Dixon are swept once again behind the stinging Curtain of Snow-Crystals. They hear voices ahead, then are suddenly zooming out of Invisibility, in among the Axmen, who, believing them pitiless crazy predators in this place lonely as any in Ulster or the Rhineland, scatter for their Lives back into the Trees. The Day is medium-lit, the Snow more Fall than Storm. The look of all things, thro' the white Descent, is amplified,— the Brass of Instruments back beneath Canvas, the droppings of the Horses, the glow of a clay pipe-ful of Tobacco— Each is aware of how easily a Tree unfell'd, even a Stump left high enough to protrude from the Snow, rearing too quickly to swerve 'round, might mark their personal Termini.
"Dixon! Can you hear me?"
"I'm just here, tha' don't have to shout...?"
"Look ye, I am going entirely too fast, and as the First Derivative 'round here shows no sign of lessening, what I thought I'd do is self-brake,— that is, lean over gradually like this, until I fall o-o-o-ve-r-r-r!...," his voice abruptly fading behind, leaving Dixon alone to face whatever continues to rush upon him a Snowflake's breadth ahead of his Nose.
"Eeh, thah's a bonny Pickle tha've put me in, for fair...." His Reflections are interrupted by the seemingly miraculous Advent, directly in his Path, of a Pile of Cushions, usually located 'neath the Waggon-Canopy, where they intervene 'twixt the Instruments and the excursions of the secular Road-way, but here rather set in the Snow-fall to air out, lest the tell-tale Aura of Tobacco-Smoak testify to a slothful and indeed unacceptable proximity of Instrument-Bearers to Instruments. "Fate is Fate...?" he supposes aloud, opening his arms to embrace this by no means discomfort-free heap of Upholstery.
"Stogies, I believe...?" when all has subsided to a Halt.
"Sir," replies the Waggoner, Frederick Schess, "my personal Opinion of Tobacco,—
"Freddie, consider the Crossing of Paths here,— why, it has likely sav'd my Life...? Miraculous, for fair...? How can I report thee? yet at the same time, how can I commend thee for it?"
"Cash is acceptable,— " calls Tom Hickman.
"Jug of Corn now and then'd be pleasant," adds Matty Marine.
They discharge the Hands and leave off for the Winter. At Christmastide, the Tavern down the Road from Harlands' opens its doors, and soon ev'ryone has come inside. Candles beam ev'rywhere. The Surveyors, knowing this year they'll soon again be heading off in different Directions into America, stand nodding at each other across a Punch-bowl as big as a Bathing-Tub. The Punch is a secret Receipt of the Landlord, including but not limited to peach brandy, locally distill'd Whiskey, and milk. A raft of long Icicles broken from the Eaves floats upon the pale contents of the great rustick Monteith. Everyone's been exchanging gifts. Somewhere in the coming and going one of the Children is learning to play a metal whistle. Best gowns rustle along the board walls. Adults hold Babies aloft, exclaiming, "The little Sausage!" and pretending to eat them. There are popp'd Corn, green Tomato Mince Pies, pickl'd Oysters, Chestnut Soup, and Kidney Pudding. Mason gives Dixon a Hat, with a metallick Aqua Feather, which Dixon is wearing. Dixon gives Mason a Claret Jug of silver, crafted in Philadelphia. There are Con-
estoga Cigars for Mr. Harland and a Length of contraband Osnabrigs for Mrs. H. The Children get Sweets from a Philadelphia English-shop, both adults being drawn into prolong'd Negotiations with their Juniors, as to who shall have which of. Mrs. Harland comes over to embrace both Surveyors at once. "Thanks for simmering down this Year. I know it ain't easy."
"What a year, Lass," sighs Dixon.
"Poh. Like eating a Bun," declares Mason.
53
The Ascent to Christ is a struggle thro' one heresy after another, River-wise up-country into a proliferation of Sects and Sects branching from Sects, unto Deism, faithless pretending to be holy, and beyond,— ever away from the Sea, from the Harbor, from all that was serene and certain, into an Interior unmapp'd, a Realm of Doubt. The Nights. The Storms and Beasts. The Falls, the Rapids,...the America of the Soul.
Doubt is of the essence of Christ. Of the twelve Apostles, most true to him was ever Thomas,— indeed, in the Acta Thomae they are said to be Twins. The final pure Christ is pure uncertainty. He is become the central subjunctive fact of a Faith, that risks ev'ry-thing upon one bodily Resurrection— Wouldn't something less doubtable have done? a prophetic dream, a communication with a dead person? Some few tatters of evidence to wrap our poor naked spirits against the coldness of a World where Mortality and its Agents may bully their way, wherever they wish to go—
— The Reverend Wicks Cherrycoke, Undeliver'd Sermons
She had found in her Kitchen, the Kitchen Garden, the beehives and the Well, a join'd and finish'd Life, the exact Life, perhaps, that Our Lord intended she live.. .a Life that was like a Flirtation with the Day in all its humorless Dignity...she was at her window, in afternoon peaceable autumn, ev'ryone else in town at the Vendue, Seth too, and the Boys, when They came for her,— as it seem'd, only for her. The unimagin'd dark Men. The Nakedness of the dark and wild men.
Water in a Kettle somewhere was crackling into its first Roll. She risk'd looking at their Faces. The only other place to look was down at the secret Flesh, glistening, partly hidden, partly glimps'd behind the creas'd and odorous Deer-skin clouts— yet for them to come for her, this far East of Susquehanna, this far inside the perimeter of peaceable life, was for the Day to collapse into the past, into darker times,— 'twas to be return'd to, and oblig'd to live through again, something she thought she, thought all her Community, had transcended. Her Lapse had been to ignore the surprizing Frailness of secular Life. By imagining it to be Christian, she had meant to color it with the Immortality of her Soul, of her Soul in Christ, allowing herself to forget that turns of Fortune in the given World might depend upon Events too far out of her Power,...what twig-fall, Prey's escape, unintended insult, might have grown, have multiplied, until there was nowhere else for them to've come, no one else to've come for, even still as she was, and spiritless, before that violent effect of causes unknown—
The further they took her through the Forest, away from her home and name, the safer she began to feel. Sure they would have kill'd her back there, on the spot, if that's why they came? They were moving in a body, yet more slowly than they might have travel'd without her. Not at all angry, or cruel. Like a Dream just before the animals wake up, the German farms pass'd flowing by, the Towns, Equinox, New Cana, Burger's Forge, until, one morning, loud as the Sea, stirr'd to Apple-Cider turbulence from the Rains,— Susquehanna. How had they avoided the Eyes of all the Townsfolk and Farmers between, the gentry out riding, the servants in the fields, how had her Party found Darkness and Safety amid the busy white Densities? And now they'd come to it, how did they mean to cross the River?
There were boats waiting,— at the time she didn't find that as curious as their origins, for they were not Indian Canoes but French-built Bat-toes, fram'd in Timbers, she was later to learn, that grow only in the far Illinois,— And they cross'd then, as simply as the thought of a distant Child or Husband might cross the Zenith of a long Day. She knew the instant they had pass'd the exact Center-line of the River. As she stepp'd to the Western Shore, she felt she had made herself naked at last, for all of them, but secretly for herself....
Over the Blue Mountain, over Juniata, up into Six Nations Country, into the roll of great Earth-Waves ever northward, the billowing of the Forests, in short-Cycle Repetition overset upon the longer Swell of the Mountains,— a Population unnumber'd of Chestnuts, Maples, Locusts, Sweet Gums, Sycamores, Birches, in full green Abandon,— the songbirds went about their lives, the deer fell to silent Arrows, the sound of Sunday hymns came from a distant clearing, then pass'd, the days went unscrolling, the only thing she was call'd on to do was go where they went. They did not bind, or abuse, or, unless they must, speak to her. They were her Express,— she was their Message.
Northing, almost as she watches, trees, one after another, sometimes entire long Hill-sides of them, go flaring into slow, chill Combustion,— Sunsets the colors of that Hearth she may never again see, too often find her out, unprotected. Early Snowflakes are appearing. Enormous Flights of Ducks and Geese and Pigeons darken the Sky. The terrible mass'd beat of their Wings is the Roar of some great Engine above— 'Tis withal a Snowy Owl Year,— the Lemmings having suicided in the North, the Owls are oblig'd to come further South in search of Food,— and suddenly white Visitors from afar are ev'rywhere, arriving in a state of Mistrustful Fatigue, going about with that perpetual frown that distinguishes 'em from the more amiably be-Phiz'd white Gyrfalcons. At the peaks of Barns, the Tops of girdl'd gray Trees, Gleaners of Voles soaring above the harvested Acres, with none of your ghostly hoo, hoo neither, but low embitter'd Croaking, utter'd in Syllables often at the Verge of Human Speech.
The Winds are turning meantimes ever colder, the leaves beginning to curl in and darken and fall. One day, having brought her to the Shore of some vast body of water that vanishes at the Horizon, they tell her she must get into a Bark Canoe,— and for the first time she is afraid, imagining them all rowing out together into this Yellow Splendor, these painted Indigo and Salmon Cloud-Formations, toward some miraculous Land at the other side of what, even with a mild chop, would soon have batter'd the frail craft to pieces. Instead, keeping the Shore ever in view, they continue North, till they enter a great River, fill'd with a Traffick of Canoes and Battoes and Barges, with settlements upon the Banks, smoke ascending ev'rywhere, white faces upon the Shore, and a Town, and another.... For many weeks now, she has neglected to Pray. She has eaten animals she didn't know existed, small, poor things too trusting to avoid the Snares set for them. Her Captors have told her when and where she may perform ev'ry single action of her life. It is Schooling, tho' she will not discover this till later.
When they arrive at last in Quebec, the Winter is well upon them. Tho' not as grand as its counterpart in Rome, yet in Quebec, the Jesuit College is Palace enough. Travelers have describ'd it as ascending three stories, with a Garret above, enclosing a broad central courtyard,— tho' were she ask'd to confirm even this, she could swear to nothing. (Perhaps there are more Levels. Perhaps there is a courtyard-within-a-courtyard, or beneath it. Perhaps a Crypto-Porticus, or several, leading to other buildings in parts of the City quite remov'd.) Her arrival here passes too quickly for her to take much of it in, so deep in the Night, in the snow, with the black nidor of the Torches for her first Incense, their Light sending shadows lunging from corners and crevices and window-reveals, the distant choiring like tuned shouts, the open looks of the men—
At dawn, separate, she is taken into the Refectory, where at each of the hundred places upon the bare tables is set an identical glaz'd earthen bowl of Raspberries, perfectly ripe, tho' outside be all the Dead of Winter, and upon each Table a Jug of cream fresh from the Shed. An old Indian serving-man, who moves as if wounded long ago, showing not a trace of curiosity, brings in a kettle of porridge,— she is not to have Raspberries (she thanks the Lord, for who knows what unholy Power might account for this unseasonable presence, in its unnatural Redness?).
The Courtyard produces a constant echoing Whisper that can be heard ev'rywhere in the great Residence, ev'ry skin seems immediate to ev'ry other,— into the morning, Scribes carry ink-pots and quills and quill-sharpeners, in and out of Cells of many sizes, whose austerities are ever compromis'd by concessions to the Rococo,— boys in pointed hoods go mutely up and down with buckets of water and kindling,— cooks already have begun to quarrel over details of the noon meal,— in his rooftop Bureau, an Astronomer finishes his Night's reductions, writes down his last entries, and seeks his Mat,— Vigil-keepers meanwhile arise, and limp down to the ingenious College Coffee Machine, whose self-igniting Roaster has, hours earlier, come on by means of a French Clockwork Device which, the beans having been roasted for the desir'd time, then controls their Transfer to a certain Engine, where they are mill'd to a coarse Powder, discharg'd into an infusing chamber, combin'd with water heated exactly,— Ecce Coffea!
She is taken, barefoot, still in Indian Dress, into a room fill'd with books. Pere de la Tube, a Jesuit in a violet cassock, speaks to her with a thick French accent, and will not look at her face. Nearby, in smoothly kept Silence, sits a colleague whose relentless Smile and brightness of eye only the Mad may know. "Our Guest," the Frenchman tells her, "is a world-known philosopher of Spain, having ever taken interest, in heretick Women who turn to Holy Mother the Church. His observations upon your own case will of course be most welcome."
So silently that she jumps, another man now, slighter and younger, in black silk Jacket and Trousers, has appear'd in the room. When she makes out his face, she cannot reclaim her stare. As a small current of deference flows between the two Jesuits, the Spanish Visitor takes from the messenger a tightly folded sheet of paper, seal'd with Wax and Chops in two of the colors of Blood. The messenger withdraws. She watches for as long as she can.
"You have never before seen a Chinese, child?"
She has assisted at more than one Birth, has endur'd a hard-drinking and quarrelsome troop of Men-Folk,— who is this unfamily'd man in a Frock to call her child? She replies, "No, Sir," in her smallest voice.
"You must call me 'Father.' There'll be more than one Chinese here. You must learn to keep your eyes down."
The College in Quebec is head-quarters for all operations in North America. Kite-wires and Balloon-cables rise into clouds, recede into serial distances, as, somewhere invisible, the Jesuit Telegraphy goes
ahead, unabated. Seal'd Carriages rumble in and out of the Portes-Cochères, Horsemen come and go at all hours. Whenever the Northern Aurora may appear in the Sky, rooftops in an instant are a-swarm with figures in black,— certain of the Crew seeming to glide like Swifts ever in motion, others remaining still as statuary, the Celestial Flickering striking High-lights 'pon the pale damp faces. Rumors suggest that the Priests are using the Boreal Phenomenon to send Messages over the top of the World, to receiving-stations in the opposite Hemisphere.
"Twenty-six letters, nine digits, blank space for zero," a Sergeant's voice instructing a platoon of Novices, "— that suggest anything to any of you Hammer-heads?"
"An Array seven-by-five of, of—
"Think, Nit-Wits, think."
"Lights!"
"Behold, ye Milling of Sheep.—" He swings a Lever. Above, against a gray Deck of snow-clouds, a gigantic Lattice-work of bright and very yellow Lights appears, five across by seven down. Briskly stepping along ranks and files of smaller Handles of Ebony, he spells out the Sequence I-D-I-O-T-S in the Sky above their gaping faces.
"Visible for hundreds of miles. Ev'ryone beneath, who can spell, now knows ev'rything there is to know about you.—But it's not all Spectacle, all Romance of Elecktricity, no, there's insanely boring Drudgery a-plenty too, mes enfants, for you're all to be sailors upon dry land," explaining that, as the whole Apparatus must stand absolutely still in the Sky, before Weathers unpredictable, it requires an extensive Rigging, even more mysteriously complex than that of a Naval Ship...lines must ever be shifted, individual Winches adjust constantly the tension in stays and backstays and preventers, as the changing conditions aloft are signal'd by an electrickal telegraph to those below. A Coordinator in a single-breasted Soutane, or Cassock, of black Bruges Velvet and lin'd with Wolverine Fur, stands upon a small podium, before the set of Ebony Handles and Indicators trimm'd in Brass, whilst Chinese attend to the Rigging, and specially train'd Indian Converts tend a Peat-fire so as to raise precisely the Temperature of a great green Prism of Brazilian Tour-
maline, a-snarl as Medusa with plaited Copper Cabling running from it in all directions, bearing the Pyro-Elecktrical Fluid by which ev'rything here is animated. More intense than the peat-smoke, the smell of Ozone prevails here, the Musk of an unfamiliar Beast, unsettling even to those who breathe it ev'ry day.
In that harsh sexual smell, in the ice-edg'd morning, she is led past them, northern winds beneath her deerskin Shift, itching to risk raising her eyes, just once, to see who'll be watching. ("Do you think she understands?" The Visitor asks in rapid French. The other shrugs. ''She will understand what she needs to. If she seeks more..." The two exchange a look whose pitiless Weight she feels clearly enough.) Men strain at cables that pitch steeply into the sky, the enormous Rooftops anxiously a-scurry, as before some Invisible Approach. Chinese seem to flit ev'ry-where. Voices, usually kept low, are now and then rais'd. He has her arm. The other priest is behind them. She could not break free,— could she?— reaching with her arms, run to the roof's edge and into the Air, up-borne by Friendly Presences, as by Brilliance of Will, away across the Roof-slates and Fortifications, wheeling, beyond the range of all Weapons, beyond the need for any Obedience,...the Sun coming through, the River shining below, the great Warriors' River, keeping her course ever south-westward. Nor might any left behind on the ground see her again,— would they?— passing above in the Sky, the sleeves of her garment now catching light like wings.. .her mind no more than that of a Kite, the Wind blowing through...
"Careful, her head."
She is upon her back, rain is falling lightly, a Chinese is squatting beside her, holding her forearm and talking to another Chinese, who is making notes in a small, ingeniously water-proof'd Book. 'Tis he,— the same man she saw in the Jesuit's Chamber.
He smiles. Or, 'tis something in his face she sees, and fancies a Smile.
"God protect us," P. de la Tube is saying, "from all these damnable fainting Novices, Day after Day, it never ends."
The Guest's ears seem to move. "And yet, how many of us, posted upon Missions more solitary, might find the Event intriguing, and your Situation here a Paradise of charming Catalepsies,— and wonder,”
his Manner bordering upon the strain'd, "whatever you had to complain of."
"Ah of course this isn't like the Field, is it, Father, where occasions of Sin are so seldom met with,— no, here are rather Opportunities without number,— none of which may, of course, be acted upon."
"Wouldn't that depend," baring his teeth in a smile, "upon whether she is to be a Bride of Christ, or stand in some other Connexion?"
"As...?" he hesitates, as if for permission.
"His Widow. A novice in Las Viudas de Cristo." Here the Spaniard kisses the Crucifix of his Rosary, and pretends to pray a moment for the success of the Sisterhood. "Have your Indians collected you enough of these White Roses, that you might spare one? Of course, if you have a particular interest in this one,—
"No, who, I? not at all, in fact,— " fingering the Buttons down the front of his Costume like beads of a Rosary.
"— I would settle for another,—
"But we wouldn't hear of it, Father,— Las Viudas must have her, no question. I shall do my best to speed the request up through Hierarchy."
"How very generous. I go to mention you in my next report."
The other inclines his head. She understands that she is being bar-gain'd for, having remain'd all the while upon her knees, disobediently gazing up at the men, waiting as long as possible to see which may be first to notice...
S. Blondelle is a Gypsy, a child of the Sun, whom men keep mistaking for the very Type of the British Doxy, blowsy and cheeky as any who's ever delighted us in Story, or upon the Stage. For a while indeed she worked as a Covent Garden Sprite, finding herself in the company of ev'ry sort of man imaginable and not so, from quivering Neophyte to deprav'd old Coot,— it did not take her long to accumulate a great Spoil-Heap of Mistrust for the Breeched Sex.
Soldiers like Ramrods, and Sailors like Spars, Mechanicks and Nabobs, and Gents behind Bars,
Girls, there's no sort of Fellow I've ever pass'd by,—
Not even those Coolies, out there in Shang-hai—
Tis...
Men have the Sterling, and sixpences too,
So be where there's men, and 'tis meal-time for you,
Mind the Equipment as long as you can,
And don't sell yourself cheap, to some cheese-paring Man.
Ever since Adam stepp'd out of Eve's Sight, And didn't get back till the following Night, Men have been lying to Women they bed, Care-free as felons, yet easy to shed, singing,—
She is accompanied by a couple of Sisters, in close, yet, for those days, advanc'd, Harmonies. Beneath what seems but a tap-room Jig lies the same sequence of chords to be found in many a popular Protestant hymn. (Tho' I was not present in the usual sense, nevertheless, I am a clergyman,— be confident, 'twas an utterly original moment musicale, as they say in France.)
"Then," as Blondelle relates it, "just as I was about to give up Men, I discover'd Jesuits." It was like finding Christ at last,— a Bolt of Desire, to find herself, at last, beyond Desire. "Yet not like renouncing anything,— no, I lov'd the Streets, love 'em ever,— the Excitement, the Tale-a-Minute Scurrying, even the Bullies, and despite the Pox,— Girls stricken overnight,— Beauty,— gone.... Sure, Life's a gamble, just a day-and-night Pass Bank, isn't it? Why not look your best whilst the Dice yet tumble, 's how I see it, don't you?" She attends to her Hair. "Well. Would you like me to fetch a Mirror, 's what I mean."
"Oh..." For the first time since she was taken, her Voice stirs. She tries to smile but finds herself short of breath. "What must I look like...," whispering.
"Not quite ready for the Ridotto, are you," says Sister Grincheuse, with some Solemnity.
"These are from Berry-Vines?" the quiet and dewy Sister Crosier examining the scratches upon her body, closely.
She nods. "No marks from the Indians, if that's what you mean— They were uncommonly gentle with me,— although...”
S. Grincheuse's eyes sparkle like Jasper. "Must we guess, then?"
"I star'd often at the many ways they had inscrib'd their own Skins, some of the Pictures being most beautiful, others arousing in me strange flashes of fear, mix'd with...it perplexes me to say...ow!"
"Speak up."
"...with feelings of Desire—" She sets her Chin provocatively and gazes at them.
"Oh dear, just from a couple of Tattoos? Well, well, girls, whatever are we to do?"
" 'Twill be the Cilice for you, I'm afraid, my dear, and there's the first Lesson already,— Never discuss Desire. Get that one sorted out, you'll be a good Catholic in no time."
"But you bade me—
"Shh. Here it is. Here is what disobedient Novices must wear." The
Las Viudas Cilice is a device suggested by Jesuit practice, worn secretly,
impossible, once secur'd, to remove, producing what some call Discom
fort,— enough to keep thoughts from straying far from God. "If God were
younger, more presentable," murmurs Crosier, "we'd be thinking about
Him all the time, and we shouldn't need this,— " her Gaze inclining to
the Hothouse Rose, deep red, nearly black, whose supple, long Stem is
expertly twisted into a Breech-clout, to pass between the Labia as well
as 'round the Waist, with the Blossom, preferably one just about to open,
resting behind, in that charming Cusp of moistness and heat, where
odors of the Body and the Rose may mingle with a few drops of Blood
from the tiny green Thorns, and Flashes of Pain whose true painfulness
must be left for the Penitent to assess Of course, this is all for the pur
pose of keeping her Attention unwaveringly upon Christ. "Considering
what Christ had to go through," Jesuits are all too happy to point out, "it
isn't really much to complain about."
S. Grincheuse stands behind her, gripping her by the arms. "It could have been worse," whispers little S. Crosier. "Not all Indians are so honorable." She kneels at the Captive's feet, holding the Device, her fingertips already prick'd and redden'd, and cannot keep from directing wide-eyed Glances upward.
"All right, Dear," nods S. Blondelle, "step right in, and mind those long Limbs.”
She should be objecting, loudly if she must, but when has she ever done so before? and to offenses, it now seems to her, far more grave than this. Instead, her bare feet go creeping, one after the other, like docile birds, toward the waiting trap of the Cilice,— and then each, lifting, fluttering, passes into the Realm of Thorns.
Later they give her soothing Gums to rub into the tiny Wounds. The odor rises as the rubbing goes on, a single churchlike odor of incense, ungrounded by candle-wax or human occupancy, meant for Heaven, a Fume rising in Transmutation—
She is shorn of all hair, from head to Crux. "You must begin," they advise her, "absolutely naked. If you're good, if you learn what you are taught, you may someday be allow'd a Wig, a child's Wig of course, perhaps a Boy's, you look enough like one now,—
"Farm work, Madame,— Aahh!"
"Don't be insolent."
Having already seen other Sisters going about in elaborate Wigs that she imagines must be quite in the current Parisian Mode, she is soon wondering how she might look in one of these powder'd Confections. One night she sneaks into the Room where, ranked upon Shelf after Shelf, all the Wigs are kept, each upon its elegant Wig-stand made of a strangely shaded Ivory. Mischievously she idles away one Cat-hour and then another, prowling, peering, crouching, hardly daring to touch the White bevortic'd Objects, each more desir'd than the last. When she does at length reach forward, take one to her Breast, slip it onto her own shaven Pate, and only then think of finding a Mirror, and then some Light to see by, she is flank'd in the Instant by strong Presences, whose faces she slowly recognizes in the Dark as those of Blondelle and Crosier.
"Took her time about it, I must say."
"Sooner or later, they all do it. Mistress Piety here's as Vain as any Portsmouth Whore."
"Yet prettier than most," whispers Crosier.
She blushes as they remove the Wig, in the near-Dark, and she supposes, with a private Frown, she'll never see it again. Her eyes follow it back to its Wig-Stand,— which, she notices for the first time, with a Chill, is directing at her a socketed Stare. She recognizes it belatedly as a human Skull. Resolv'd never again to be call'd a fainting Novice, she looks about. Yes. Ev'ry gay elaboration in the room rests upon a staring Skull. She lets out her breath in a great Sigh. And refrains from fainting.
"The Model," the Wolf of Jesus addressing a roomful of students, "is Imprisonment. Walls are to be the Future. Unlike those of the Antichrist Chinese, these will follow right Lines. The World grows restless,— Faith is no longer willingly bestow'd upon Authority, either religious or secular. What Pity. If we may not have Love, we will accept Consent,— if we may not obtain Consent, we will build Walls. As a Wall, projected upon the Earth's Surface, becomes a right Line, so shall we find that we may shape, with arrangements of such Lines, all we may need, be it in a Crofter's hut or a great Mother-City,— Rules of Precedence, Routes of Approach, Lines of Sight, Flows of Power,—
"Hold! Hold!" objects an Auditor, "is this not to embrace the very Ortholatry of the Roman Empire?— that deprav'd worship of right Lines, intersecting at right Angles, which at last reduc'd to the brute simplicity of the Cross upon Calvary—
"Padre, Padre! which Rome is it, again, that Jesuits are sworn to?"
A grim smile. "What injury, that we are not in Spain." He is no longer surpriz'd at Impiety or Disrespect, having found them only too prevalent upon this side of the Ocean. Yet there remains little choice,— too much of Europe is unsafe now for any Jesuit. America is perplexing,— tho' all the world's expell'd and homeless be welcome here, no true soldier of Christ could ever find easy refuge among these People, for whom heresies flow like blood in the blood-stream, keeping them at the Work of their Day as Blood might keep others warm,— yet "Heresy" loses its Force in these Provinces, this far West, with Sects nearly as numerous as Settlers.—To pursue thro' the American Quotidian every act of impiety he might find, would be to fight upon more flanks than any could reckon,— where would time remain, for la Obra?
"Perhaps there is no Disjunction," he has nonetheless continu'd,— "and men, after all, want Rome, want Her, desire Her, as both Empire
and Church. Perhaps they seek a way back,— to the single Realm, as it was before Protestants, and Protestant Dissent, and the mindless breeding of Sect upon Sect. A Portrayal, in the earthly Day-light, of the Soul's Nostalgia for that undifferentiated Condition before Light and Dark,— Earth and Sky, Man and Woman,— a return to that Holy Silence which the Word broke, and the Multiplexity of matter has ever since kept hidden, before all but a few resolute Explorers."
"Hold, hold! Is it a Chinese motif we begin to hear?"— an entire Room-full of Students transferr'd here from the University of Hell,— "If Chinese Feng Shui be forbidden, how may we study such Metaphysicks as this, without risk of reprimand?"
"The risk is not so much to your Backside as to your Soul. Can any tell me,— Why must we fight their abhorrent Magick?"
A ripple of giggling.
"Pues Entonces...! was a Student once, too. I remember passing around the same wither'd packets of Paper you have been reading in secret, now, unfolded and re-folded an hundred times,— 'Secrets of the Chinese Wizards'? Aha. Even to the Name. Some of you are learning how to paint the Symbols, perhaps even beginning to experiment with combining them in certain ways?— I know, Fellows, I know ev'rything that
passes here Another of the thousand or so wonderful things about the
Sacrament of Penance, is its Utility in group situations like yours. Someone always confesses. Or in plain Spanish, Siempre Alguien derrama las Judías."
"What's he saying?"
"Something about scattering the Jewesses."
"Now 'tis Kabbalism, in a moment he'll be rattling in ancient Hebrew, and perhaps we ought to have a Plan."
"For subduing him, you mean?"
"Actually, I meant a Plan for getting out of the Room—"
"Why prevent the Chinese from practicing Feng Shui? Because it works," the Wolf of Jesus is explaining.
"How then,— if it works, should we not be studying it?"
"It carries the mark of the Adversary.—It is too easy. Not earn'd. Too little of the Load is borne by the Practitioner, too much by some Force
Invisible, and the unknown Price it must exact. What do you imagine those to be, that must ever remain so unreferr'd, and unreferrable, to Jesus Christ? And, as His Soldiers, how can we ever permit that?"
'Twas an earlier, simpler Time, Children, when many grew quite exer-cis'd indeed over questions of Doctrine. There is deep, throat-snarling Hatred, for example, as the Wolf of Jesus instructs them. "The Christless must understand that their lives are to be spent in Servitude,— if not to us, then to Christians even less Godly,— the Kings, the Enterprisers, the Adventurers Charter'd and Piratickal."
"What of those that we may Convert?"
The Priest makes a dismissive gesture, his knuckles flashing pale in the Candle-light. "Conversion is no guarantee of a Christly Life. Jews are 'converted.' Savages, English wives, Chinese, what matter?— once converted, all then re-vert. Each one, at the end of the day, is found somewhere, often out in the open, among ancient Stones, repeating without true Faith the same vile rituals,— and where is He, where are His Forgiveness, His Miracles?"
He is upon his knees, in apparent Consultation. The Students, after a while, begin to whisper together, and soon the place is chattier than a Coffee-House. The Spanish Visitor continues apart.
54
There came an evening during my novitiate when, after being fed but lightly, I was taken to a Chamber, and there laced into an expensive Corset, black as Midnight, imported, I was told, from Paris, from the very workshop of the Corsetier to the Queen. They painted my face into a wanton Sister of itself, showing me, in a Hand-Mirror,— 'twas a Woman I'd never seen before,— whom, upon the Instant, sinfully, I desir'd. I allow'd the Maquilleuses to hear my surpriz'd little Gasp as they brought out undergarments for me that might, Blondelle assur'd me, make a French whore think twice.
"The Chinaman likes these," they inform'd me, as firmly I was hook'd and knotted into this Uniform of most shamefully carnal intent, which fram'd, but did not veil, my intimate openings.
I went this way and that upon the balls of my feet, lace trimmings a-flutter, in tiny steps of Perplexity. "Chinaman? what Chinaman?"
"One of the principal Duties of a Widow of Christ is to charm the Chinese. Soon you'll begin your studies in their Language. Eventually you'll go there for a year or two."
"China?"
"Hold still.—Oui, ev'ryone here has serv'd upon that Station."
"You'll love it," cried Blondelle, "the food they eat there is delicious beyond belief,— Shrimps with Hot Chillies and Peanuts! Slic'd Chicken in Garlick and Black Bean Sauce! Cold Sesame Noodles! Sweet Biscuits with Messages folded inside upon Paper you can eat,— Ahh! making m'self hungry just thinking about it— "
The Wicked French Nuns all took a coordinated Dance-Step together, turn'd, and shook their fingers.
"Basest form o' Desire, Blondelle."
"Even to speak of it, suggests a failure of self-restraint I am all but oblig'd to report."
"Oh get on, 've ye never been starv'd for something that tastes like something, instead of this Gruel we're ever fed?"
'"Nonetheless, Sister."
I took the moment to examine my new-adorn'd Limbs, running fingertips where I could not see, trying to be my own looking-glass. It earn'd me a slap and some time upon my knees. Charming the Chinaman was serious business 'round here. "Time to bind those Feet, Child." It took a long time. I had never imagin'd my Feet as having quite so many distinct
Parts, each able to feel in its own set of ways Chinese men, in my
reveries upon the subject, grew more interesting as the binding proceeded. If this was what they lik'd...
Brae has discover'd the sinister Volume in 'Thelmer's Room, lying open to a Copper-plate Engraving of two pretty Nuns, sporting in ways she finds inexplicably intriguing...
"Oh, hullo, Brae,— aahcck...um, well what's that you're reading? Hmm," having a look, "something of Cousin DePugh's, I guess."
She gazes at him, for what seems to him a long time. "You left it for someone to find," she whispers at last.
"Perhaps I'd only imagin'd my room safe from the eyes, however big and innocent, of curious Cousins."
"You're full of Surprizes, Thelmer. Tho' I remain unclear, as to why a young University Gentleman should find Affection between Women at all a topic of interest."
"Why...sure there may be Renderings more pleasant to look upon...the Western Country at Sunset, probably,— Scenes of Religious Life, Hunting-Dogs, a Table-ful of Food... yet if one of you, beheld inti-
mately, be all but unbearably fair, you see, imagine the sentimental Delight into which a Man might be thrown, at the sight of two of you." "More than twice as much, I'd guess, wouldn't you?" "Oh, something exponential, I've no doubt," her Cousin replies. "Besides that, 'tis the next in the Ghastly Fop series, I'm oblig'd in Honor to read them all in Line, ain't I?"
"Then you must first bring me up to Date, mustn't you." Thelmer blurts a Synopsis. "The Ghastly Fop. He's seen at Ridottoes and Hurricanes, close to Gaming-Tables, as to expensive Nymphs. But he speaks to no one. No one approaches him. 'Not I, thank you,— much too ghastly,' is the postventilatory Murmur among the Belles attending. He is reported to be the Wraith of a quite dreadfully ruin'd young man come to London from the Country, who can return neither there, nor to the World of Death, until sizable Debts in this one be settl'd,— and to reside, tho' not necessarily to live, in Hampstead."
The Ghastly F., true to his legend, is engaged in the long, frustrating, too often unproductive Exercise of tracking down ev'ryone with whom he yet has unresolv'd financial dealings. To some, he seems quite conventionally alive, whilst others swear he is a Ghost. That no one is certain, contributes to his peculiar Charm, tho' Admirers must ever sigh, for but One Motrix commands his Attention and Fidelity,— the Account-Book. Some of those nam'd therein have cheated him of money he must collect, others are creditors whom he must repay, and so forth. On and on he goes, one to another, using these imbalances as a general excuse to pry into the finances of others, Fop-link'd or not. Some days he'll find a two-for-one. The Series runs to at least a Dozen Volumes by now, tho' no one is sure exactly how many,— forgeries have also found their way into the Market. Ghastly Fop sightings are increasingly reported, not only from Ranelagh or Covent Garden, but all over the Kingdom, Thornton-le-Beans, Slad, name your town, the Ghastly F. has either just been thro' or is schedul'd to arrive at any Moment. In his largely Paper Vengeance, he not only traverses England, but the World of Commerce as well, righting Injustices in Grub-Street, prematurely exploding Bubble-Schemes, making wild raids upon the Exchange, Gambling Stacks of what prove to be only Ghost-Guineas, losing all,
straightening his Wig, and vanishing before the admittedly sleep-denied Eyes of the Company.
Somewhere, as some would say ineluctably, in this wealth-spangl'd Web, is a fateful Strand leading to the Society of Jesus. Of course, being a Financial Entity, Jesuits have the same difficulties with Stock-Jobbing, Land-holdings, Officials who may not stay brib'd for quite long enough,— that is, they seem submissive as any of us, before the commands of Time, tho' their Wonderful Telegraph gives them in that Article an Edge over the rest of Christendom, who have still advanc'd no further in the Arts of the Distant Message, than training Courier Pigeons,— or small Hawks to seize those of others out of the Sky, and bring the Prey back to their Handlers, before being allow'd their own Enjoyment.
"How far in the Book did you get?"
"Up to where she meets the Chinese Boy, and they plan their Escape."
"Awkward time to break off."
"I heard you out in the Hall."
They stand quite close in the small upper room, Relations stash'd orthogonally all about, invisible tho' now and then sens'd otherwise, behind wall-paper, plaster, laths, and scantlings,— Gazes attach'd,— unable, it dawns upon each, not to regard the other with just this steady Amusement.
"Say, the next Chapter's a Pippin," Ethelmer whispers. "May I read it to you? Promise I'll keep my voice down."
"Thoughtful as ever, 'Thel," Brae looking about now for some item of Furniture to sit upon other than the Bed, and finding none.
"We might sit upon the 'Magickal Carpet' in the Corner, as we did when children," he suggests.
"We might." Adverting to the Bed, rather, with a sure domestick Touch she sweeps Pillows and Bolsters into a longitudinal Berm more symbolick than practickal, and lies down upon one side of it. "Let us have another Candle first," says she, "that we not Ruin our Eyes in this Light."
"Nor fail to see in vivid Detail, what otherwise we'd merely have to imagine.”
"Lament your own Imagination, Coz, but do not under-rate mine by quite so much."
"Say, nor's mine that feeble, Brae."
"Shh. Read away,— and if I fall asleep, pray do nothing rude."
"Fear not. All will be done with Refinement."
" 'Thel— "
And so off they minuet, to become detour'd from the Revd's narrative Turnpike onto the pleasant Track of their own mutual Fascination, by way of the Captive's Tale.
One night I dream that I have come to a Bridge across a broad River, with small settlements at either approach, and in its center, at the highest point of its Arch, a Curious Structure, some nights invisible in the river mists, Lanthorns burning late,— a Toll-House. Not ev'ryone is allow'd through, nor is paying the Toll any guarantee of Passage. The gate-keepers are members of a Sect who believe that by choosing correctly which shall dwell one side of this River, and which the other, the future happiness of the land may be assur'd. Those rejected often return to one of the Inns cluster'd at either end of the Bridge, take a bed for the night, and try again in the morning. Some stay more than one night. When the Bills become too burdensome, the Pilgrims who wish strongly enough to cross, may seek employment right there,— at the Ale-Draper's, or the laundry, or among the Doxology,— and keep waiting, their original purpose in wanting to cross often forgotten, along with other information that once seem'd important, such as faces, and their Names,— whose owners come now to my rooms to visit, and to instruct me in my Responsibilities, back wherever it is I came from. They say they have known me all my life, and seek to bring me away, "home" to where I may at least be seen to by Blood. Perhaps there is a young man, professing with the skill of an amateur actor to be my husband. "Eliza! do tha not recognize me? The little Ones,— " and so forth. Someone I cannot abide. Stubbornly, I look for some explanation of this Order to live upon a side of the River I'd rather be across from than on.
"You're bold, I'll give ye that."
"I don't belong on this side."
"What do you know of these things? Go back to your Husband."
"He is not my Husband."
"Had you cross'd this Stream, you would have liv'd a life of signal unhappiness. Go, and survive for long enough to understand the gift we have made you."
One night the Wolf of Jesus understands,— in one of those thoughtlessly fatal Instants,— that Zhang has been fluent in Spanish all the while. Zhang watches him remember, one by one, the many Utterances he has felt free to make, in the Chinaman's hearing. The traditional next Step is simply to have Zhang dropp'd off the Roof during one of the night Drills,— the usual Tragedy. But then the Spaniard may see an opportunity to remove certain memories, and substitute others,— thus controlling the very Stuff of History.
To any mind at all Inquisitorial, an appealing turn of Fate,— yet the Spaniard is disappointed, soon bitterly so, at Zhang's willingness cheerfully to forget all he may have heard, to recite whatever catechism of the Past the Spaniard prefers. The Wolf of Jesus, perhaps never aware that Lies and Truth will converge, albeit far from this Place,— takes particular Pleasure in accusing Zhang of holding something back,— a Game which Mathematickally he cannot lose. "There was another such Remark. You remember it well. Damme if the Baton won't part it from ye, along with some Skin,"— such mention of Torture increasing day by day, as if his Alternatives had narrow'd to it. 'Tis then Zhang begins to plan his Departure.
Observing him, learning infallibly where he may be at any given Hour, she understands when he will leave, and in the instant decides to go with him,— dropping her Errands, as her Habit, stealing from the Indian Quarters a Boy's Breech-Clout, Robe, and Leggings, finding an unus'd Confessional Booth, sliding her unbound feet into soft Moccasins, dressing in deer-skin,— hoping to be taken for a Boy, she joins Zhang, who, with no choice but to take her, pretends no interest in her bared limbs and sleek muscles ever in motion, as the Fugitives cautiously seek exit from the City, in a Departure as bound to the Terrain as her dream'd one had been sky-borne.
In their Instruction of the Novices, the Jesuits spoke of early European Arrivals upon the Continent,— Winters, long and Mortal and soon enough productive of Visitants from beneath the Ice, have ever been among the Terms of Settlement here. This northern Desert was too cruel to winter in at all separately, the only way thro' till Spring was to gather as many people as possible into a Hall. "The Disadvantage to this Method," according to P. de la Tube, "being, that in crowded Quarters, one crazy Swede could lead to a deterioration in living conditions, up to and not excluding a House-ful of Corpses, come the Springtide."
What moral instruction does th' American Winter bring them, hiding upon the stark hill-side, the River remote as Heaven, below? Jesuits on horseback, in black riding-Habits with divided Skirts, patrol the Streets. From some avian drama above, long black Feathers blow one by one down toward where the Battoes once landed to take the City. The Wind keeps remorselessly Northern, and she wraps herself as she may into the Robe. She understands, at some turn in this, that she has not yet pray'd,— nor should she pray, not now. That is over. This is a journey onward, into a Country unknown,— an Act of Earth, irrevocable as taking Flight.
All the way down the River, keeping to the south shore, into Six Nations territory, not so much fleeing Jesuit pursuit, as racing their own Desire. One day, when they have gain'd the Mohawk, the Ice upon the River begins its catastrophic Rip and Boom, Blocks of it piling up into Pinnacles and Edifices, and Spring has caught up with them.
Guided by Captain Zhang's miraculous Luo-Pan, they proceed inland and south, to Fort Stanwix, and then on to Johnson Castle, above the Mohawk, arriving at the end of their Strength, moving down a Colonnade of Lombardy Poplars, slow as a Dream, observing about them Indian men smoking together in the clement Afternoon, or shaking Peach-Pits in a Bowl and betting upon the Results, whilst children run about with Sticks and Balls and women sit together with their Work, and there he is, himself the Irish Baronet, wearing Skins, and a Raccoon Hat, out among his People, the Serfs of Johnson Castle, moving easily among the groups, switching among the English, Mohawk, Seneca, and Onondaga Languages as needed.
The Chinaman presents him a curious sort of Metallick Plate, which Sir William scrutinizes, before relaxing into a less guarded Smile. The two exchange a complicated Hand-shake that seems to her to go on as long as an item of Town Gossip might, between Women. "And how is the old Pirate these days?"
"He bade me remind you,—
"— of that which, as a cautious man, you may not mention immediately. Good. Who's this Lad with you? Bit weedy, 's he not? Could use a couple of Bear Chops, fry him some Mush, few Pints of Ale, be well on the way to recovery." Sir William approaches her. "Do you speak any English, boy?"
"Little," she whispers.
Something alerts him. He takes her chin gently by the side of his Index, and raises her Face, and narrows his Gaze. "The way of a Warrior is not to be chosen lightly," he advises her, "as a Girl might choose a Gown."
"She knew that," says the Chinaman. "That is, he.—He knew that."
"It's all right, Captain," in what she's surpriz'd to hear is her own Voice of old. "Sir, I am Eliza Fields, of Conestoga. This Gentleman has been kind enough to help me escape the French."
"Why bless me,— but he's not an Indian, either!" cries Sir William Johnson. "I am reputed the Soul of Subtlety in these parts, yet am I now the Bumpkin,— well, even a Churl may be taught, Sir. Tell me. What's the Story?"
They tell him.
"Then sure as Mahoney's Mother-in-Law there'll be a Jesuit Pursuit Party thro' here, and soon. Don't expect your Spaniard to wait for Summer. Blood that hot, they bring their own Seasons with 'em."
"I know him," says Zhang. "He is very patient.”
"Howbeit,— a few more Mohawks about can't hurt. And you won't stay here forever. Will ye?"
"And you will of course present my Compliments to your Masonick Lodge," Capt. Zhang twinkling resentfully.
They arrange, thro' Sir William, for a safe-passage as far down the Delaware as they will need. In all the journey, the Chinaman has never attempted to force his Attentions upon her. Any Relief she may feel is undone by her anxiety over when and how the subject will arise,— that is, come up,— that is, one night in an abandon'd Beast-pen in New-Jersey, as they hold one another for warmth, feeling reckless, she reaches down, as she has been taught by the Order, and discovers his Wand of Masculinity in earnest Erection.
"Perhaps we'd do better to skip over this part," gallant Thelmer suggests.
"I've already read to the bottom of the next Page," coolly replies Brae, "so there's not much to do about it, save read on."
Thro' the Gloom, close enough for her to see, he smiles. Zhang does.
"Now then, Zhang," she whispers. "It's been there ev'ry day. Hasn't it."
"Yet,— observe." And as if at his Command, it wilts, no less dramat-ickally than it arose.
"What did I do?" she mutters.
"Mistress, to you and me, any, what we style, in Chinese, Yin-Yang, is forbidden," he tells her. "We were not born to play Theatrickal roles assign'd us by others, for their Amusement."
"What are you talking about? The first man I approach in my life, and he says no. Aahhh!"
"Attend me,— I get into a lascivious state now and then.—I'm Chinese all the time. That doesn't make me a Lascivious Chinaman. Nor you, mutatis mutandis, a Debauch'd Heretick Maid."
"Yet,— suppose that's what we really are. Really ought to be."
"As you will, Mistress. Meanwhile, either we are trying to escape these Assassins, or we're not. Do you wish to return?"
For a moment she is all in a Daze. Her Eye-Lashes a-cycle, "What contempt you must have for me....”
"On the contrary," he whispers. "I adore you. Especially in that 'cute Deerskin Costume."
"Then...?— "
"It's a Sino-Jesuit Affair. Nothing you'd even wish to understand."
Well, then. Why didn't Blondelle mention anything like this? In his Particulars, Zhang corresponds to few, if any, of her Mentrix's detail'd Notions about the other Sex...Blondelle, whom she will never again climb into bed with as the cruel Rain assails the Windows— That is, unless she be caught, and return'd. Somewhere in the Jesuit Maze, she's been told, waits a special windowless Cell lin'd entirely in Black Velvet, upon which wink various bright Metal Fittings...a mysterious Space she has more than curiously long'd to enter...'tis where they put the Runaways who come back. Who wish to come back— Her thoughts thus in a whirl, she falls asleep in his Embrace, not waking till the Dawn of the cloud-drap'd Day, to feel him hard as ever, and press'd against her. She begins hoping they'll find some population soon.
The smell of wood-smoke is more and more with them, as often, thro' the newly green Trees, Cabins and out-buildings appear. They are chal-leng'd by Bulls, and chas'd by farm-dogs whose meanness is not improv'd by the doubtful Edibility of their intended Prey.
"That's what they call 'Chinese,' Buck."
"Not sure I'd want to eat that."
"Not sure you're going to catch that."
The other Dogs are pacing and posing like Wolves, putting on tight-lipp'd Smiles. "Well, they're fast, but,— "
"— not that fast...."
The fugitives learn to carry Staffs. Soon they look like Pilgrims, soon after that they begin to feel like Pilgrims. All the while, the Luo-Pan is trembling and growing hot to the Touch.
At last, as the Green Halations about the Hillsides reduce to material Certainty, they arrive at the West Line, and decide to follow the Visto east, and ere long they have come up with the Party. They are greeted by most of the Commissary, headed by Mo McClean,— the Hands more agog than they should be allowing themselves, by now, to be sent, by
such Apparitions,— and assign'd Quarters separated by a good Chain and a Half's worth of Gazes, Stares, and Glares—
"Shall I see you more?" she mutters more than pleads.
"Shall you continue to question your choice?"
"Yes.—Pleas'd you're smiling, for a Change. You must think we're all amusing."
"What non-Chinese people find of Importance, may now and then be
very amusing indeed Will you return to Canada?"
"It wasn't all bad there," she lets him know.
"Easy for you to say,— Viudita."
"Sir."
"You are provoking me. My own experience was a bit different."
"Oh, you weren't having such a bad time of it, that I could see, missing few if any mess calls, indeed quite plump, and ever in good Humor, not as you are now. Why should you've ever wanted to leave, is past me."
"In China 'tis consider'd greatly unwise, to escape one Captivity in order to embrace another. To my Sins, so must I add Foolishness."
"Why, you're free as a bird. What Captivity,— " But he is gazing at her with those enigmatic Chinese Eyes she pretends she cannot read. She turns her head a bit, then looks back sidewise. "And will the Spaniard come after us?"
"Because he believes I stole you."
"Another Reason, then, for me to be upon my Way. Once, I would have sigh'd. Please, one Day, imagine me as having sigh'd."
"Shall you return to your Husband, then?"
"Either to the Jesuits, or to him?— That's my full list of Choices? Poh upon ye, Zhang, and poh upon your Yin-Yang, too." She twirls her Nose in the air, and departs.
She is bunking with Zsuzsa Szabo, the operator of the automatick Battle of Leuthen, a pleasant-looking young woman who, wearing the dress uniform of the Nádasdy Hussars, had one day, astride a splendid Arab Horse, overtaken the Party. "Hello, Boys,— it's Zsuzsa." She has a charmingly un-English way of saying this. Axmen arrest their swings, so
violently that Axes stand still in the Air, their Recoils sending some of their axmen a-whirl the other way,— Indians crouch'd in the Brush gaze, and marvel at how she's painted her face, the Milk-maids whisper together at length. She has been on the move since the Battle of Leuthen, in 1757, in which, disguis'd as a Youth, riding in a detachment of light cavalry, she was not so much visited by understanding, as allow'd briefly to pay Attention to what had been there all the time,— seeing then her clear duty, to bring word of what was about to emerge into the World from the Prussian Plains. From a simple recital, with gestures, of the Events of the Battle, has develop'd a kind of Street-Show, with Accordion musick, Dog tricks and Gypsy Dancing, and an automatick miniature or Orrery of Engagement, displaying the movements of the troops as many times as the curious Student may wish.
Later, the Surveyors come by the Tent, each for a short Visit. Dixon, now that Eliza knows what to look for, seems to her fully as fascinated as the Chinaman, with her Deerskin Costume. As he leaves, backing out the tent-flap, all a-hum, he nearly collides with Mason, who mutters, "That likely, is it?" glaring Dixon upon his way before adverting to the young Woman,— whereupon he is seiz'd with what later he will describe to Dixon as an "Ague of Soul,"— fierce heat, deep shivering,— for a moment, she assumes 'tis the Indian turnout again, till she sees his so pale and sadden'd Face.
"Excuse me." He sits in an oblate Heap upon the tent-floor, removes his Hat, fans himself. "You resemble far too faithfully One whom I have not beheld,— not in Body,— for seven years. More than merely some general Likeness, Madam,— you are her Point-for-Point Representation."
She runs a hand over her Crop. "I can't imagine her Hair was the same." This was how the Widows taught their Novices to Flirt. "Or,— deciding Hair may be a safe Topick with this one, but little else, she doesn't go on.
"Allowing for all that, of course." His eyes shifting about in their Sockets like insects about Candle-flames.
"Sir. ..I am the elder daughter of Joseph Fields, of Conestoga Creek. Last Winter, I was taken by a band of Shawanese,—
"Be easy, Child. I shan't insanely presume you to be she, I'm merely Torpedo-struck,— it's not only the separate Parts, but your Bearing of them as well...your bodily Gesturing, your Voice— Attend me,— do you believe that the Dead return?"
"Sir, you are distraught, perhaps even about to behave irresponsibly?— Eeoo, Mr. Mason!— I think not!— Is there by chance a Chaplain attach'd to your Party?"
"Regrettably, yes. I try never to seek his Counsel."
"I meant, that I might wish to."
"Of course. Our Reverend Cherrycoke. Excellent man."
("You're making that one up," Uncle Lomax now wagging a Finger he eventually hits himself in the Nose with.
"And did she seek your counsel?" inquires Ives.
"Oh, I got into the matter, after a bit," recalls the Revd. "Tho' Mason was the one who needed Spiritual Advice.")
"Is it Transmigration, Rev?" all but pleading, following me ev'ry-where, even out to the Latrine, "What are the Chances? Come, Sir. You can give it to me straight."
The Revd cannot help having a fast look over at the Visto, and remarking in his own Tap-room cadence, "Around here? how else?" Squatting over the noisome Trench, as Mason paces to and fro, he speculates that the Resemblance so confounding Mason is less likely the Transmigration of a Soul, than the Resurrection of a Body,— in enough of its Particulars to convince him 'tis she. Yet the Soul he imagines as newly inhabiting their Guest, must in any case have forgotten its previous life as Rebekah Mason. "The Slate cleanly wash'd,— no way to prove who she's been. As in Plato's Tale of Er, she'll have drunk from Lethe, and begun anew."
"And if she comes,— or is sent,— as a sort of Corporeal Agent, to finish, in behalf of my Wife's Spirit, some Business that only the Body knows how to transact?" His Voice much too high and loud, about to careen upon him.
The Revd runs thro' the possibilities, now and then, he fears, clucking. "Well I do hope not. That is, you are titular Party-Chief here, and may come and go as you please,— yet...”
"Yet I grow, I fear, not more bestial as you imply, but less,— even the activity you now so freely engage in, being denied me for longer than I now remember."
"Ye've taken Daffy's Elixir?"
"It means first asking Dixon, who holds the Key to the Dispensary. It thus means, as well, a certain Smirk, that I am not sure I can abide."
"He is, I collect, an Habitue of that Compound." The Revd, having wip'd his Arse with a handful of Clover, draws up his Breeches again.
"Just so. I have felt oblig'd to abstain from it, even as he superdoses himself,— for the sake of Equilibrium in the Party."
"Admirable, of course, as are all acts of self-denial. Usually. Are you certain you're telling me ev'rything?"
"Being clench'd in all other Ways," remarks Mason, "there likely is something I'm holding back."
That night, or perhaps the next, Mason wakes from a dream, one he has had before. Trying to get back to the mill in Wherr, he keeps being set down by carts and coaches farther and farther away.. .all at once he and Rebekah are traveling together, on foot, till they are pick'd up by a Stranger in a Coach and taken to a House whose residents she knows, where she is seduced, not entirely against her will, by this band of foreign, dimly political, dimly sinister men and women. She lies still, passive, allowing them all to handle her. Mason, in despair, watches a kind of lengthy Ritual. He does not intervene because she has told him, in painfully direct language, that he no longer has the right. Once she flicks her eyes toward him, as if to make sure he's looking...but only once, and briefly. Who are they? what is their mission? their Name?
Structur'd servitude, a fore-view of Purgatory, a Prison that works thro' bribes, threats, favors, with rules it may be fatal not to know...she, perhaps willingly, taken into it, under it,— he cannot follow. Can as little charm as sing his way in. He knows only straightforwardly squalid Pelhamite arrangements,— here all is illegible, in a light forever about to fail.
Worse, he shall have to return in dreams to this same place, again and again, the layout of the rooms ever the same, the same doors having but
just closed, the invisible occupants having only just gone away,...the whispering across the Wall he can almost hear— He wakes with his hands in fists, dried tears in cold lines 'cross his Temples. She is where the Frenchmen in their make-believe chateaux, perfum'd, intricately bewigg'd, stop all day at their toilettes, safe from the cold consensus that ignores dream in its Reckonings,—
France, French agents of Death,— at the worst of the fight between the Seahorse and l'Grand, in all that tearful fall from humanity, his Bowels seconds away from letting go, there had wrapp'd 'round him the certainty that whatever was come for him now, had also come for her then,— not in the way of a Bailiff or Assassin, at all selective, but rather as a Dredge, a Scavenger, foraging blind, unto which Mason sens'd himself about to be gather'd, as mindlessly as any seaman above-decks, forever to him nameless.
They were possessing her in ways more intimate than had ever been allow'd him...interfering at orders of minitude invisible to human Eye, infiltrated without need of light or Map, commanding the further branches of whatever flows in a Soul like blood,...she and her Captors whispering together incessantly, in a language they knew, and he did not, and what language could it be? not any French as he'd ever heard it,— too fast and guttural and without grace...they all spoke at incredible Speed, without pause for breath. For where breath has ceas'd, what need for the little pauses of mortal speech, that pass among us ever unnotic'd?
His father appear'd. "And give some thought to your spinsterr there, so abandon'd and gay. You'rre a genius at pickin' 'em, Boy. It has only now come to light, how she was the thrown-aside toy of a Leadenhall Street Nabob, who visits your dearr friends the Peaches now and then for East India business, and country Sport,— and their attentions to you are conditional upon your marrying her."
They were together in a room. She was about to depart. "I commend you upon your Forbearance, Madam. Most Christian."
"You mean considering all that your Father has said about me. Why, Sensibility,— 'tis nothing to me anymore. Pray release yourself."
He felt he had to go on. " 'Twas never you, 'Heart, 'twas me he wish'd to wound.—“
"On second thought," Rebekah swiftly return'd, "cherish your Antagonism. Let it freeze your souls, both of you. Either Choice lies far from me now."
Her representative in the waking world, pale and distant, squats by the Coffee, poking the Morning Fire. A little less solid each day, she is drifting toward her own Absence. She looks up warily as Mason makes a Loxodrome for the Pot.
"You've dreamt of her, again."
"Thankee. With your Hair growing in, you don't look like her that much anymore."
"I never did. Zsuzsa wants us to go off and be Adventuresses."
"Seth... quite out of the Picture, then, I take it?"
"If your Travels take you by Conestoga, put your Ears to the Wind, follow the sounds of merry Indulgence, and where they are loudest, there shall Seth be, and you will note how he mourns me."
"Ne'er met the Lad, of course,—
"Good Morning, kicsi káposta," Zsuzsa striding in and embracing her co-adventuress-to-be from behind. They smile and stretch, glowing like cheap iron Stoves burning Heart-Wood in the Dark, just that distance from no light at all.
Rebekah, her eyelids never blinking, for where all is Dust, Dust shall be no more, confronts him upon surfaces not so much "random" as outlaw,— uncontroll'd by any apparent End or Purpose,— in the penumbra of God's concern, that's if you don't mind comparing his Regard with a solar Eclipse. Moving water,— Mason tries to go fishing whenever he can, for there is no telling what the next Riffle may present him,— the rock Abysses and mountainsides, leaves in the wind announcing a Storm,.. .Shadows of wrought ironwork upon a wall,.. .the kissing-crusts of new-baked loaves— On the Indian warrior paths to and from triumphs, captivities, and death, in the lanes overgrown of abandoned villages at the turn of the day, in the rusted ending of the sky's light, in the full eye of the wind, she stands, waiting to speak to him. What more has she to say? He has long run out of replies. "Then I am not she, but a Rep-
resentation. This Thing,"— she will not style it, "Death." "I am detain'd here, in this Thing.. .that my Body all the while was capable of and leading me to, and carried with it surely as the other Thing, the Thing our Bodies could do, together...," she will not style it, "Love." Has she forgotten Words, over there where Tongues are still'd, and no need for either exists?
55
"Terrible Feng-Shui here. Worst I ever saw. You two crazy?"
"Because of...?" Dixon indicating behind them, in thickening dusk, the Visto sweeping away.
"It acts as a Conduit for what we call Sha, or, as they say in Spanish California, Bad Energy.—Imagine a Wind, a truly ill wind, bringing failure, poverty, disgrace, betrayal,— every kind of bad luck there is,— all blowing through, night and day, with many times the force of the worst storm you were ever in."
"No one intends to live directly upon the Visto," Mason speaking as to a Child. "The object being, that the people shall set their homes to one side or another. That it be a Boundary, nothing more."
"Boundary!" The Chinaman begins to pull upon his hair and paw the earth with brocade-slipper'd feet. "Ev'rywhere else on earth, Boundaries follow Nature,— coast-lines, ridge-tops, river-banks,— so honoring the Dragon or Shan within, from which Land-Scape ever takes its form. To mark a right Line upon the Earth is to inflict upon the Dragon's very Flesh, a sword-slash, a long, perfect scar, impossible for any who live out here the year 'round to see as other than hateful Assault. How can it pass unanswer'd?"
This is the third continent he has been doing Feng-Shui jobs on, and he thought he'd seen crazy people in Europe, but these are beyond folly. Whig country-homes, sinister chateaux, Adriatic villas, Hungarian hot springs, Danish harems in the Turkish style,— not one of their owners having hir'd him out of respect for the Dragon, nor for what he could do or find out or even tell them,— when 'twas not innocently to indulge a fascination with the exotic, 'twas to permit themselves yet one more hope in the realm of the Subjunctive, one more grasp at the last radiant whispers of the last bights of Robe-hem, billowing Æther-driven at the back of an ever-departing Deity. A people without faith,— very well, he could understand it, now and then even respect it,— yet here in America, is little but Faith,— church-spires on every town skyline, traveling ministers who draw congregations by the hundreds and thousands, across flooded pastures, beneath rain-combed skies and in under the outspread wings of their white tents, singing far off in the woods, full of fervent strange harmonies that grow louder as the traveler approaches—
Frowning at his Luo-Pan, the mystic Chinaman shakes his head and mutters, "Even the currents of Earth are with them."
" 'Them'?"
"I have an enemy in these parts, I believe,— a certain Jesuit who does not wish me well."
"French?" inquires Mason.
"Spanish, I believe. Father Zarpazo, the Wolf of Jesus, as he is known in his native Land, though I had the misfortune to meet him in my own. He has his Training directly from those who persecuted Molinos and his followers,— he is accordingly sworn to destroy all who seek God without passing through the toll-gate of Jesus. The Molinistas, as do certain Buddhists of my own land, believ'd that the most direct Way to the Deity was to sit, quietly. If this meant using Jesus as but a stage on a journey, or even passing him by, why so be it. Buddhists speak of finding it necessary, if the Buddha be blocking one's Way, to kill him. Jesuits do not like to hear this sort of thing, of course, it puts far too much into question. If access to God need not be by way of Jesus, what is to become of Jesuits? And the sheer amount of Silence requir'd,— do you think they could ever abide that?
"Zarpazo,— as relentless in his hatred of those he hunts down as they are indifferent, in their love of God, to the passions driving him. Jansenist Convulsionaries, Crypto-Illuminati, and Neo-Quietists alike have felt his cultivated Wrath, some taken before dawn by men in black, others accosted brazenly upon the steps of cathedrals,— clapp'd into
iron and leather restraints, going along amiably enough, puzzl'd, sure it must be a mistake.
"European docility,— no one with Power has ever under-appreciated its comforts. So you may imagine the loss of morale, among visitors such as Padre Zarpazo, before the fact of China, as they see how far from Docility they have journeyed,— and what they have come into the midst of. Wild Chinamen! How could they ever have deem'd us ready for their Jesus? Somehow Feng-Shui became their principal Enemy. Without it in the World,— is this what they believ'd?— Jesus would have a better chance of finding converts in China. Accordingly, 'twould be a holy Service to destroy Feng-Shui."
Zhang adverts to his Luo-Pan, and with fingers unhesitating proceeds to move various of its Rings forward and retrograde. Dixon, happening by, is drawn by the Instrument.
"Another Needle man,— so there's two of us. Ah hope Mason's not troubling thee upon the Topick,— he's unusually loyal to Heavenly Methods, is all."
"You would find even more congenial a Disciple of the Fuh-kien School, whose faith in the Needle is absolute,— whereas I am of the Kan-cheu School, which places the Dragon of the land above all else. Come, look. See here? These are the Moon-stations, the Stars fix'd and moving, signs of the Zodiack...we use all that,— but first comes the Dragon, and what the Needle responds to, is the Dragon's very Life."
"What Mason can't abide is that it never points to what he calls True North. As if the Needle's were False North."
"Zarpazo as well,— his Vows include one sworn to Zero Degrees, Zero Minutes, Zero Seconds, or perfect North. He is the Lord of the Zero. The Impurity of this Earth keeps him driven in a holy Rage.—Which is why he wants this Visto."
" 'Wants— ' "
"News of the Visto will bring him surely as a Gaze brings a Suitor. Purity of Azimuth is his Passion. He was in Italy when your Sponsor Le Maire was producing the Line from Rome to Rimini, he was in Peru with La Condamine and in Lapp-land with Bouguer,— 'tis his Destiny to inflict these Tellurick Injuries, as 'tis mine to resist them.”
"I didn't know than'. Thee come here, then, to oppose our Mission...? to seek our Failure...? Why, Sir? What possible ill Motives can we be serving, in marking out this tiny bit of a Lesser Circle?"
"Once, Monsieur Allegre had as little hesitation in slicing straight thro' the carcasses of Animals and viewing aesthetickally the patterns of Bone and Fat and Flesh thus expos'd. Now, no longer! Heaven has permitted him to see the distinction between Blade and Body,— the aggressive exactitude of one, the helpless indeterminacy of the other. In that difference lies the Potency of the Sin."
"Eeh,— but,— that's Jesuit talk. Captain.—The fell'd Trees aren't just lying there unus'd. There are plenty of Americans but a short trip away who come and fetch them for Firewood or Fences or building-Logs. How can tha think so ill of this Line? A fellow Surveyor. I cannot imagine it."
"Fret not,— my business is with the Jesuit. We happen to be the principal Persona? here, not you two! Nor has your Line any Primacy in this, being rather a Stage-Setting, dark and fearful as the Battlements of Elsi-nore, for the struggle Zarpazo and I must enact upon the very mortal Edge of this great Torrent of sha,— which at any moment either of us might slip, fall in, and be borne away, Westward, into the Vanishing-Point and gone."
"And Mason and I,— "
"Bystanders. Background. Stage-Managers of that perilous Flux,— little more."
"Eeh." Dixon thinks about it. "Well it's no worse than Copernicus, is it...? The Center of it all, moving someplace else like thah'...? Better not mention this to Mason."
P. Zarpazo being a master of disguise, Capt. Zhang, by now half insane anyway, becomes convinced that the Priest has actually penetrated the Camp, and only waits his moment to administer that poison'd Stiletto preferr'd by a Jesuit confronting Error. "It's got to be an axman," the Captain decides. "They come and go with entire freedom. Each possesses a Rifle and a choice of Blades. It could be Mr. Barnes. It could even be Stig. Yes! Yes that's it, 'tis Stig!"
"Friend Zhang," soothes Dixon, "Stig is in a number of difficulties at the moment, but none includes you. He could find neither the time, nor
the repose of Spirit, to cause you harm in any way that a Jesuit would describe as at all useful. The same is true of the other Hands. Ev'ryone is too busy."
"He's here," insists the far too bright-eyed Geomancer. "If he's not an axman, then,— he must be one of the camp-followers,— Guy Spit the Pass-bank Bully, one of those Vasquez Brothers,— even one of Mrs. Eggslap's Girls. There is no limit to his ingenuity!"
"If he were one of the Ladies, Stig would have discover'd thah' by now."
"Stig could be a Confederate!"
"Captain, pray regard yourself."
The Oriental Operative thereupon grows bodily plumb and symmet-rick,— his eyelids lower, his breathing decelerates, and presently he bows in Apology. "You're right, of course. I'm behaving like Chef Armand with his Duck. Which of us doesn't have an Unseen Persecutor? My case is probably no worse than your own."
"Mine...? Why," Dixon again fumescent, "I'm brisk as a Bee these Days. Not a care in the World. Who'd be after me?" Yet he avoids meeting Zhang's eyes.
' 'Tis widely assum'd that you are here on behalf of the Jesuit Le Maire, co-engineer with Boscovich, fifteen years ago, of yet another long, straight Europeans' Line, the Two Degrees of Latitude sliced across Italy from Rome to Rimini. Ever since then, Sha has flow'd unremittingly across that miserably Empoped and beduked and Dismember'd Peninsula, Tuscany and Milan taken by Austria, Modena and Genoa by the French, despotism ev'rywhere...."
"Come, come, beg to differ, even a simple child of the Pit country knows that since that last peace Treaty, why Italy's been enjoying a long and wonderful era of prosperity and improvement. If this be Despotism,...?"
"Go to Italy," scolds the Captain, "and look."
"Well,— what about Maria Theresa, then...?"
"The Jesuit Protectress,— a charming exception to the reign of Brutality uncheck'd, throughout the rest of Christendom,— whilst your Jesuits go on attempting to eradicate Feng-Shui from human awareness, and to promote the inscription upon the Earth of these enormously long straight Lines,— as in Lapp-land, in Peru, Encyclopédistes in expedi-
tionary Costume, squirting Perfume about, and taking these exquisitely
precise Sights whilst neglecting to turn their Instruments.... Tho'
Degrees of Longitude and Latitude in Name, yet in Earthly reality are they Channels mark'd for the transport of some unseen Influence, one carefully assembl'd cairn, one Oolite Prism, one perfectly incis'd lead Plate, to the next,— when these are dispos'd in a Right Line aim'd at Ohio, it is natural to inquire, what other scientifick Workings may lie in the area— Who'd benefit most? None, it would seem, but the consciously criminal in Publick Life as in Private, who know how to tap into the unremitting torrent of Sha roaring all night and all day, and convert it to their own uses. Howling like a great Boulevard of souls condemn'd to wander up and down the grim surfaces."
"Moreover," now interjects Mr. Everybeet the Quartz-scryer, "west of here, in the Hills 'round Cheat and Monongahela, are secret Lead Mines, which the Indians guard jealously." These Deposits occur not as Flats, as in Durham, nor as Veins, as in Derbyshire, but rather as spherickal Caverns, of wondrous Regularity, fill'd with a Galena, remarkably pure, nearly free of other Minerals. "Perfect Spheres of Lead ore, that is, are situated inside those Mountains, often dozens of Yards across, exerting Tellurick Effects unfathomable." Mr. Everybeet now produces a powerful Glass, beneath which he places samples of finely divided Rock. "The Limestone Matrix thro' which these Plumbaginous Orbs are distributed, proves to be of a peculiar sort, already familiar to you."
"Oolite," Mason and Dixon suppose.
"Plenty out here, ev'ryplace ye go, they sure didn't need to import it from England." The Surveyors have a look thro' the Glass, which reveals a fine structure of tiny Cells, each a Sphere with another nested concen-trickally within, much like Fish Roe in appearance. " - Your own Linear Emplacement of Marker-Stones, whatever the reason, requires this sort of Fine structure, weakly tho' precisely Magnetick,— Lime, in certain of the Cells, having been replac'd with Iron,— whereas the fam'd Egyptian Pyramids, whose ever-mystickal Purposes, beyond the simply Funerary, are much speculated upon, requir'd Limestone with another sort of Fine Structure altogether,— containing numberless ancient Shells, each made up of hundreds of square Chambers, arrang'd in perfect Spirals.”
He has been out to the secret Ore-diggings, at Night, amid a maze of Hills and Hollows, with Sentries at ev'ry turn of the Trail. Out-croppings of Limestone, whiter than they ought to be, shone in the Star-light. He was met by Native Vendors, with Coils, and Foils, and Bars of Lead, half-inch Balls and small unflattering Toy images including those of the King, and Mr. Franklin. The odor of Sulfur was ev'rywhere. The Valleys were lit with many small Fires, at each of which Ore was being burn'd to a Regulus of the Metal. Among the Indian smelters, Proximity to Fumes and Dust had produc'd a number of Ailments, from chronick Melancholy to haunting without Mercy, to early Death. They gap'd at the Scryer with blunted, sorrowing faces, some screaming words that no one offer'd to translate.
"Most unhappy," recalls Mr. Everybeet. "Not at all the Paradise one has been led to expect. Lead out here is a much-needed metal,— who controls Lead controls the supply of Ammunition, for all sides in ev'ry Dispute, not to mention a segment of the Tellurick-energy Market. Celeron's lead Plates may indeed have been but the visible Calibrating Devices for a much more extensive Engine below,— perhaps an Array of them, and a City to surround that...a Plutonian History unfolding far below our feet, all unknown to us above, but for occasional Volcanoes and Earth tremors. A complete, largely unsens'd World, held within our own, like a child in a Womb, waiting for some Summons to Light...."
"I consider'd myself not unacquainted with Mania," records the Revd, "but until the Spectacle I and, by now, ev'ryone else in camp are witnessing Capt. Zhang make of himself, I have known, I collect, as yet but few of its Flow'rings. 'I shall wear black robes,' he declares, '— if El Lobo de Jesus may, why so shall I.' And he does. Spanish phrases increasingly creep into his Conversation, and a small Beard is one day visible upon his chin."
"Spend enough time in these Mountains," as Capt. Shelby avers, "and sooner or later you see ev'rything. This has happen'd out here before, tho' they usually change into real Wolves...?”
"Well I can't understand it," frowns Mason, "— the Chinese are known far and wide as a learned and sagacious People, quite beyond behavior of this sort,—
"Except," Dixon points out, "that this one is insane, of course."
Mason spreads his hands. "Which of us can say?"
"Falls a few Links short of a Chain, for fair...?"
"Yet,— if he were telling the truth? and there were a dangerous Spaniard on his way here? 'twould be trouble for the Party, without Doubt. Either way, we might have to ask the Captain to leave."
"Eeh,— now they're chucking Stilettos about, it's 'we' again...?"
"Look ye, Dixon, only you can get him to go. He already thinks you're a Jesuit Agent. All you have to do is advise him to stay, and he'll do the opposite."
"If he believes that his enemy may arrive at any moment, he'll prefer to wait, won't he...?— feeling safer, as who would not, among arm'd Protestants...?"
"¡Andale, mis Hijos!" 'Tis the Chinaman himself. It had better be. Axmen nonetheless go scattering, spilling coffee, clutching what's left of evening Mess. Capt. Shelby puts on a Pair of Philadelphia Pebble-Lenses to verify what he seems to be seeing. Mason, making encouraging gestures, urges Dixon, "Go on,...go on," in loud whispers, as he takes himself behind the Cook's Waggon. Dixon stares. The Metamorphosis is alarming. Violet Piping outlines the Captain several times over against the perfect Black of the Soutane. He turns, revealing upon the back a gigantick and Floridly render'd Chinese Dragon, in many colors, including Heliotrope and Prussian Blue.
"By the time he finally arrives in this Camp," announces Capt. Zhang, "no one will be able to tell, which is the real Zarpazo. We Two will meet then in a struggle to the death, witness'd by all...the axmen will place bets.. .there will be beer and Dutch Pretzels, a bottomless Urn of Coffee, depending how long the contest takes, perhaps a free Luncheon as well."
"And if only one of you shows up...?"
"How could you ever be sure which one it was?— Oh, and meaning no offense,— for an Insolent Question like that, the 'real' Zarpazo would have you publickly aflame in the nearest Glade, before you even under-
stood what you'd done. His Chinese impersonator might wait but a few minutes more."
"Mighty harsh talk, Captain," says Shelby. "But you know, I'm a Captain too, and now I wonder'd if I might just have a chat with you, Captain to Captain, as you'd say."
"You do me honor, Captain."
"What troubles us, Captain, about your Spanish friend, is his way of wanting to kill anyone who doesn't agree with him. Hardly do around here, you see. Likely, after a short while, to be no one left. Withal, if one of us gets lucky and prevails, then we have the problem of a dead Jesuit, thousands of miles from home, inside a Territory where he ought not to be. Others, some sooner or later with real power, will be making inquiries. In either case, you would have to flee."
"You are all safe, so long as I have,"— thumb and Index together, he twirls his wrist and is immediately holding up a dark Red sphere about the size of a Cherry,— "this. 'Tis a Pearl, yet not from beneath the Sea. Once it was a Cyst, growing within the Brain of a Cobra. None but expe-rienc'd Harvesters are able to tell which Cobras bear them and which are not worth killing. The pearls are taken north into the Himalayan Mountains, where they find use in the Tibetan Medicine— Therefore fear not the Advent of the Wolf, for here is the soul of the Cobra, yet living, yet potent."
"I'll buy one!" Dixon cries. Mason looks upward, patiently.
That night, at Zsuzsa's Exhibition, in Torchlight, before the gleaming eyes of lovesick Axmen, "Great Frederick has chang'd the face of War, created a new Power upon the Continent,...lo, the Prussian columns,— keeping ever their Intervals, and each precisely upon his mark, wheeling,... the Angles of the Hats, as of the Wigs, calculated as to the Field of Vision, for most efficient Fire."
When it is time for questions from the audience,— "Began at Ramil-lies, in fact," notes Professor Voam, to all nearby, "— 'twas well before the first Charles, that men envied and sought to copy, nay, outdo, the loos'd Locks of the other half of humanity. All the history of England since that discredited Dynasty has been about Hair,— and nothing else,
the tied-back wigs of Marlborough's riflemen at Ramillies being so ideally Hanoverian, so perfected a compromise between the Stuart wantonness and the shorn Republican Pate, that today any hair worn forward of the shoulders, is but Jacobitism by means of Coiffure,— a wordless sedition, that places in question all our hard-won Arrangements."
"Do you mean," Zsuzsa cries, "a perfect balance between the Feminine and the Masculine? English Soldiers? My Brain,— ah, I must think...."
"My good young Woman." Captain Shelby flourishing his Brows. "Whilst Europe was enjoying such tidy doings as yours,— over here, in our own collateral wars, we rather suffer'd one by one, in terror, alone among the Leagues of Trees unending. The only German precision we know of's right here," patting the octagonal Barrel of his Lancaster Rifle, as if 'twere the Flank of a faithful Dog.
"Geometry and slaughter!" ejaculates Squire Haligast, "— The future of war, yet ancient as the mindless Exactitudes of Alexander's Phalanx."
"Perhaps," the Revd suggests, "we attribute to the Armies of old, a level of common Belief long inaccessible to our own skeptical Souls. Making the Prussian example all the more mystical,— whom or what can any modern army believe in enough to obey? If not God, nor one's King... ?"
"They submit," Zsuzsa replies, "to the preemptive needs of the Manoeuvre,— a Soldier's Faith at last must rest in the Impurity of his own desires. What can Hansel possibly wish for, that Heinz in front of him, and Dieter behind, and a couple of Fritzes on either side, have not already desir'd,— multiplied by all the ranks and files, stretching away across the Plain? The same blonde from down the Street, the same Pot of beer, the same sack of Gold deliver'd by some Elf, for doing nothing. Who is unique? Who is not own'd by someone? What do any of their desires matter, if they can be of no use to the Manoeuvre, where all is timed from a single Pulse, each understanding no more than he must,—
" 'Tis he!" screams Capt. Zhang, leaping to the Platform and taking a position as if astride a Horse, extending his hands precisely before him. Zsuzsa, her eyes very wide, swiftly undoes some buttons of her Tunic, to reach for a Pistol of British make, and a Lady's Powder-Flask with a Stopper of strip'd blue Venetian Glass, purring, "Captain, Captain, not in here. Run along now, take it outside, you have all the Forest to play in.”
"Reveal yourself, Wolf of Jesus. Zhang does not kill Fools, nor may he in honor kill you, whilst you linger within that contemptible disguise."
"What, this old Rongy?— Will someone explain this to me? Don Foppo de Pin-Heado, here, seems upset."
"Perhaps if Mademoiselle, as a gesture of good intent, would put aside her,— ehm,— " cajoles Mr. Barnes.
"We call it a Pistol, the same as men do," twirling the Weapon by its trigger-guard. "Now that you have spoken to the Lady in Breeches, perhaps you could have a word with the man in skirts."
"He's not a real Jesuit," Mason assures her.
"Or, perhaps all too real!" the Captain with a look of evil glee,— "for suppose I was never Zhang, but rather Zarpazo, all the Time! HA,— ha-ha!" His Laugh, tho' hideously fiendish enough, seems practis'd.
"Or," replies Mr. Barnes, "that you are neither, but yet another damn'd Fabulator, such as ever haunt encampments, white or Indian, ev'ry night, somewhere in this Continent."
"Too many possible Stories. You may not have time enough to find out which is the right one."
"Best thing's draw up a Book, for there's certain to be wagering upon the Question?" offers Guy Spit.
Ethelmer, downstairs, alone, at the Clavier, hair loos'd, apostrophizes a Thermometer,— throughout which the Listener may imagine a series of idiotic still-life Views, first of the Thermometer, registering some low temperature,— then of Ethelmer, singing to it, then back to the Thermometer again, and so forth.
Say, Mister Fahrenheit,
She doesn't treat me right,
Wish you could warm up that Lady of mine,— [then back to
'Thelmer, &c.]
Look at you, on the wall,
Don't have a, care at all,—
Even tho' our love has plung'd,
To minus ninety-nine,— now, Doctor
Celsius, and ev'ryone else, yes,
Say, you've plenty to spare,—
Don't let us freeze, can't you
Send some Degrees, from where-
-Ever you are, out there,—
Damme,
Mister Fahrenheit,—
Here comes another night,
I shall once again be shiv'ring through,
With no help from your Scale,
Tie all Ice and Hail, and
I'll turn-into a Snow-man, too.
"Where's Brae, Thelmer?" DePugh, self-Mesmeriz'd, having lost his way to the Larder.
"Dreaming. As to what, I can only say with certainty, that 'tis not of me." "Romance, you did your best." "Ah. But not my worst.”
56
"Now here is something curious." The Revd produces and makes available to the Company his Facsimile of Pennsylvania's Fair Copy of the Field-Journals of Mason and Dixon, "copied without the touch of human hands, by an ingenious Jesuit device, and printed by Mr. Whimbrel, next to The Seneca Maiden, Philadelphia, 1776."
"Cycles, or if you like, Segments of eleven Days recur again and again. Here, in 1766, eleven days after setting out southward from Brandywine, is Mason paus'd at Williamsburg, the southernmost point of his journey,— next day he leaves for Annapolis, and eleven days later departs that City, to return to work upon the Line,— a very Pendulum. In April, just after crossing the North Mountain, they must wait in the Snow and Rain, from the sixth thro' the sixteenth before resuming. The culminating Pause, of course, is at the Line's End, between 9 October of '67, when the Chief of the Indians that were with them said he would proceed no farther west than the Warrior Path, and the 20th, when the Party, turning their backs for the last time upon the West, began to open the Visto eastward— unto their last Days in America,— " turning the Pages, - from 27 August of '68, when accounts were settl'd and the work was officially over and done with, till 7 September, their last night in Philadelphia before leaving to catch the Halifax Packet at New-York. Again and again, this same rough interval continues to appear,— suggesting a hidden Root common to all. And Friends, I believe 'tis none but the famous Eleven Missing Days of the Calendar Reform of '52.”
Cries of "Cousin? we beseech thee!" and "Poh, Sir!" "Those of us born before that fateful September," observes the Revd, "comprise a generation in all British History uniquely insulted, each Life carrying a chronologick Wound, from the same Parliamentary Stroke. Perhaps we are compell'd, even unknowingly, to seek these Undecamerous Sequences, as areas of refuge that may allow us, if only for a moment, to pretend Life undamaged again. We think of 'our' Time, being held, in whatever Time's equivalent to 'a Place' is, like Eurydice, somehow to be redeem'd.—Perhaps, as our Indian brothers might re-enact some ancient Adventure, correct in all details, so British of a certain Age seek but to redeem Eleven Days of pure blank Duration, as unalienably their own—
"Pull not such faces, young Ethelmer,— one day, should you keep clear of Fate for that long, you may find yourself recalling some Injustice, shared with lads and lasses of your own Day, just as uncalmable, and even yet, unredeem'd."
Mason for a while had presum'd it but a matter of confusing dates, which are Names, with Days, which are real Things. Yet for anyone he met born before '52 and alive after it, the missing Eleven Days arose again and again in Conversation, sooner or later characteriz'd as "brute Absence," or "a Tear thro' the fabric of Life,"— and the more he wrestl'd with the Question, the more the advantage shifted toward a Belief, as he would tell Dixon one day, "In a slowly rotating Loop, or if you like, Vortex, of eleven days, tangent to the Linear Path of what we imagine as Ordinary Time, but excluded from it, and repeating itself,— without end."
"Hmm. The same eleven days, over and over, 's what tha're saying... ?" "You show, may I add, an unusual Grasp of the matter." "Why then, as it is a periodick Ro-tation, so must it carry, mustn't it, a Vis centrifuga, that might, with some ingenuity, be detected...? Perhaps by finding, in the Realm of Time, where the Loop tries either to increase or decrease its Circumference, and hence the apparent length of each day in it. Or yet again not rotate at all, the length of the Day then continuing the same,—
"Dixon. Everything rotates.”
"A Vorticist! Lord help us, his Mercy how infrequent!" Emerson, believing Vorticists to be the very Legion of Mischief, had so instructed ev'ry defenseless young Mind he might reach.
"Very well,— if you must know,— lean closer and mark me,— I have been there, Sir."
"'There,'Sir...?"
Mason is gesturing vigorously with his Thumb, at the Eye, much wider than its partner, that he uses for Observation.—"Tho' I've ever tried not to recollect any more than I must,— at least not till a zealously inquisitive Partner insists upon knowing,— yet the fact is that at Midnight of September second, in the unforgiven Year of 'Fifty-two, I myself did stumble, daz'd and unprepared, into that very Whirlpool in Time,— finding myself in September third, 1752, a date that for all the rest of England, did not exist,— Tempus Incognitum."
"Eeh..."
"Don't say it,— I didn't believe it myself. Not until it happen'd, that is,— no Discomfort to it, only a little light-headedness. At the Stroke of the Hour, whilst I continued into the Third, there came an instant Trans-halation of Souls, leaving a great human Vacuum, as ev'ryone else mov'd on to the Fourteenth of September."
"Not sure what that means, of course "
"You'd have felt it as a lapse of consciousness, perhaps. Yet soon
enough I discover'd how alone 'twas possible to be, in the silence that
flow'd, no louder than Wind, from the Valleys and across those Hill-
villages, where, instead of Populations, there now lay but the mute
Effects of their Lives,— Ash-whiten'd Embers that yet gave heat, food
left over from the last Meals of September Second, publick Clocks frozen
for good at midnight between the Second and the day after,— tho' some
where else, in the World which had jump'd ahead to the Fourteenth, they
continued to tick onward, to be re-wound, to run fast or slow, carrying on
with the ever-Problematick Lives of the Clocks
"Alone in the material World, Dixon, with eleven days to myself. What would you have done?"
"Had a Look in The Jolly Pitman, perhaps...?"
A look of forbearance. "Aye, as my first thoughts were of The George in Stroud,...yet 'twas the absence of Company, that most preoccupied
me,— seeking which, in some Desperation, before the Sun rose, I set out. Reasoning that if I had been so envortic'd, why so might others— breaking off abruptly, a word or two shy (Dixon by now feels certain) of some fatal confidence, that Rebekah would have stood at the heart of.
Young Charles was to reason eventually, that the pain of separation had lain all upon his side, for she was to bid him good morrow upon the fourteenth, as she had good night upon the second, without a seam or a lurch, appearing to have no idea he'd been away cycling through eleven days without her. Nor had whatever he liv'd through in that Loop, caus'd any perceptible change in the Youth she kiss'd hello "the very next day" in the High Street in Stroud, brazen as a Bell.
Meanwhile there he was, alone, with the better part of a Fortnight before he'd be hooking up again with his Betroth'd, as smoothly as if he'd never been gone,— and, Damme, he would be off. "Were there yet Horses about?" Dixon wishes to know.
"Animals whose Owners knew them, made the Transition along with them, to the fourteenth. 'Most all the dogs, for example. Fewer Cats, but plenty nonetheless. Any that remain'd by the third of September were wild Creatures, or stray'd into the Valley,— perhaps, being ownerless, disconnected as well from Calendars. I found one such Horse, a Horse no one would have known, as well as two Cows unmilk'd and at large. I rode past miles of Crops untended, Looms still'd and water-wheels turning to no avail, Apples nearly ripe, Waggons half-laded, the Weld not yet a-bloom, nor the Woad-mills a-stink, till at length from the last ridge-line, there lay crystalline Oxford, as finely etch'd as my Eyes, better in those days, could detect, nor holding a thread of Smoak in it anywhere—"
"You were making for Oxford... ?"
"Aye, with some crack'd notion I'd find Bradley there— Being a young Bradleyolator, as were all Lens-fellows of that Day, especially 'round Gloucestershire...tho' later, in my Melancholy, I might see more vividly his all-too-earthly connections with Macclesfield and Chesterfield, and beyond them, looming in the mephitic Stench, Newcastle and Mr. Pelham. At that Moment, in my Innocence, I believ'd that Bradley, our latter-day Newton, insatiately curious, must have calculated his way into this Vortex,— with the annoying Question of why he should, kept beyond the Gates of conscious Entertainment.”
"Did you find him there?"
"I found Something...not sure what. What surpriz'd me was the sensible Residue of Sin that haunted the place,— of a Gravity, withal, unconfronted, unaton'd for, lying further than simple Jacobite Persistence.... I'd of course collected, in some dim way, that Bradley had advis'd Macclesfield,— his great Benefactor, after all, perhaps even in partial return upon Milord's Investment,— as to ways of finding the movable Feasts and holy Days and so forth, under the New Style,— and that Macclesfield had taken credit for the philosophical labor, as Chesterfield for the Witticisms and Bonhomie, that it took eventually to bring the Calendar Act into Law. Yet, though Bradley seldom sought Acclaim, preferring to earn it, neither would he refuse credit due him, unless there were reason to keep Silence,— such as the unexpected depth of his complicity in an Enterprise so passionately fear'd and hated by most of the People."
Both reach for the coffee at the same time, Dixon elaborately deferring to Mason's over-riding need for any Antistupefacient to hand.
"I don't know that in the entire Cycle I caught a Wink of Slumber,— 'twere but a Devourer of precious Time, when all the Knowledge of Worlds civiliz'd and pagan, late and ancient, lay open to my Questions."
"Yet I guess I know this Tale,— 'tis the German fellow,— Faust isn't it?"
"But that he, at least, was able to live in the plenary World,— I, alas, was alone."
"Eeh...?"
"Well,...as it turn'd out, not alone, exactly...."
"I knew it,— some Milk-maid, out on a tryst, eeh! am I near it? stray'd too close to the Vortex? Whoosh! Pail inverted, Skirts a-flying,— So! how'd it go?"
"Pray you.—'Twas something I never saw,— certainly not Mr. Bod-ley's Librarian, Mr. Wild,— and they were more than one. After Night-Fall, as I burn'd Taper 'pon Taper wantonly, only just succeeding in pushing back the gloom about me, would I hear Them rustling, ever beyond the circle of light, as if foraging among the same ancient Leaves as I."
"Mice, or Rats, maybe...?”
"Too deliberate. They seem'd to wish to communicate."
"And this was down among those Secret Shelves, where none but the Elect may penetrate?"
"You know about that?"
"Of course,— Emerson gave us a brief inventory. Aristotle on Comedy, always wanted to read thah',— all the good bits that Thomas left out of the Infancy Gospel... ? Shakespeare's Tragedy of Hypatia... ?"
"What sav'd me," impassively on, "was hunger,— an abrupt passage of indecipherable Latin returning my attention at last from lighted Page to empty Stomach. I recall'd that Pantries and Wine-cellars all over the Town lay open to my Hungers,— apprehensive, light-headed, I rush'd from the Library, too a-tremble to keep a taper lit, up ladders creaking in the absolute Dark, down corridors of high bookshelves,— Presences lay everywhere in Ambuscado. I dared not lift my eyes to what all too palpably waited, pois'd, upon the ancient Ceilings, wing'd, fatal— Then! a sudden great whir at my face,— scientifickally no doubt a Bat, tho' at the moment something far less readily nam'd,— provoking a cry of Fear, as at last I broke out into the open air of a Quadrangle, yellow in the Moonlight...."
"Wait! that's it! The Moon,— "
"Indeed, among any amateur Astronomer's first questions. How should the Moon behave, seen from inside this Vortex?"
"And, and?"
"Ever full,— ever fix'd upon the Meridian." An insincere Chuckle. "Yes, eleven days of Light remorseless, to be fac'd alone in a city of Gothickal Structures, that might or might not be inhabited, whilst from all directions came flights of the dark Creatures I hop'd were only... Bats."
"Tha don't mean,— "
"As the Timbres, nearly Human, of the ceaseless Howling I hop'd
came only from.. .Dogs "
"Not,— "
"Oh, and more.—'Twas as if this Metropolis of British Reason had been abandon'd to the Occupancy of all that Reason would deny. Malevolent shapes flowing in the Streets. Lanthorns spontaneously going out. Men roaring, as if chang'd to Beasts in the Dark. A Carnival of Fear.
Shall I admit it? I thrill'd. I felt that if I ran fast enough, I could gain altitude, and fly. I would become one of them. I could hide beneath Eaves as
well as any. I could creep in the Shadows. I could belong to the D——l,
— anything, inside this Vortex, was possible. I could shriek inside Churches. I could smash ev'ry Window in a Street. Make a Druidick Bonfire of the Bodleian. At some point, however, without Human prey, the Evil Appetite must fail, and I became merely Melancholy again."
"Thee abandon'd thy Studies of the Ancient Secrets? For a mere Tickling of thy Sensorium, done with how swiftly... ? Mason,— dear Mason."
"In fact," Mason unmirthfully, "I was prevented from ever returning. Exil'd from the Knowledge. As I cross'd into the Courtyard before Duke Humfrey's, I encounter'd a Barrier invisible, which I understood I might cross if I will'd, tho' at the Toll of such Spiritual Unease, that one Step past it was already too far. What that Influence was, I cannot say. Perhaps an Artifact of the Vortex. Perhaps an Infestation of certain Beings Invisible. I receiv'd, tho' did not altogether hear, from somewhere, a distinct Message that the Keys and Seals of Gnosis within were too dangerous for me. That I must hold out for the Promises of Holy Scripture, and forget about the Texts I imagin'd I'd seen."
"Tha didn't want to hear thah', I guess?"
Mason seizes, cradles, and hefts his Abdominal Spheroid. "Meditating upon bodily Resurrection, I arriv'd at the idea of this being resurrected, and without delay proceeded to a Bacchic interlude, in which you'd not be interested, being too prolong'd, and besides, too personal."
"Well...now...?"
"Gone was the Chance that might have chang'd my Life. It lay at the Eye of that Vortex,— to cross the Flow of Time surrounding it, was I oblig'd to aim a bit upstream, or toward the Past, in order to maintain a radial course to the Center—"
"And there, whilst with Taurean stubbornness tha kept at i'...?"
"Well now, odd as it may seem, soon as I'd penetrated the Barrier, I understood my Holiday was over,— I tried to pull back, but too late,— I
was in the vortickal Emprise.... To my Relief, some, at least, of the dark
Presences that had caus'd me such Apprehension, prov'd to be the Wraiths of those who had mov'd ahead instantly to the Fourteenth, haunting me not from the past but from the Future,— drawing closer, ever closer, until,— First I heard the voices of the Town, then at the edges of my Vision, Blurs appear'd, and Movement, which went suddenly a-whirl, streaking in to surround me, as in the mesh of prolong'd Faces, only hers stood firm.—And when I join'd her again, before I could think of what to say, she kiss'd me and declar'd,— 'Somebody got in late last night.'
"The only proof I had that 'twas not a Dream was the Bite I receiv'd whilst in my Noctambulation of the City.—
"This Life," runs the moral he is able by now to draw for Dixon, "is like the eleven days,— a finite Period at whose end, she and I, having separated for a while, will be together again. Meanwhile must I travel alone, in a world as unreal as those empty September dates were to me then...."
" 'Bite,' Mason?"
"Nothing, nothing. Likely a Dog."
"How likely?"
"What else? If the People of Stroud, pursuing ordinary Lives eleven days ahead of me, could 'morphose to such sinister Beings, why not their Dogs?"
"Show me."
"Well that was the rum thing, Dixon, for about ten minutes later,—
"Eeh! I am the Sniffer sniff'd, as Parker said when he put his Head in the Bear's Den...?”
57
Early in 1766,— New Style,— reversing the Directions taken the year before, Mason sets off southward "to see the Country," whilst Dixon,— mention'd in the Field-Book only upon Mason's return, as having left Philadelphia, upon the eighteenth of March, to meet with the Commissioners at Chester Town,— in fact heads north for the lighted Streets of New-York.
At a Theater with no name, no fix'd address,— this night happ'ning to be upon Broad-Way,— printing no Handbills, known only by word of mouth, Dixon upon the advice of a Ferry-Companion attends a Stage performance of the musical drama The Black Hole of Calcutta, or, The Peevish Wazir. Before a backdrop of Fort William (executed with such an obsessively fine respect for detail, that during the Work's Longueurs, with the aid of a Glass, one may observe, pictur'd upon the Tableau, sub-ordinate Dramas as if in progress,— meetings of the Management, hands clutching throats or leveling Pistols, farewells by the landing, the steaming pale forever-unreachable Hooghly and the Ships waiting to go away, leaving behind the Unspeakable), a Corps of two dozen Ladies appear, strolling about in quasi-Indian Dress and singing, to the (as some would say) inappropriately lively Accompaniment of a small Orchestra,
In the Black Hole of Calcut-ta, One scarcely knows quite what t' Make of Things they groan and mut-ter, Why, 'tis cheerier in the Gut-ter.—
Being dark and ooh so stuf-fy, Little Su-gar for one's Cof-fee, And the Na-tives, rah-ther huf-fy,— And the Pil-lows far from fluf-fy,—
Ask of an-y, Bengal-i,
How's the Black Hole, to-night,—
Don't expect him, to be jol-ly,
For there's something, not-quite right! as
The Lamps begin to sput-ter, All will not be Scones and But-ter, When the door's at last been shut to That Black Hole of Cal-cut-ta! La,— la,— la-la, la-la, la-la...
The Story, as near as Dixon can make out, is about a British officer whose Rivalry with a comically villainous Frenchman for the Affection of a Nabob's Daughter, brings on the war in Bengal. There are some catchy Tunes, and an Elephant, promis'd in the first Act, which incredibly, at the very end of the Show, is deliver'd. The audience sits stunn'd in the vacuous Purity of not having been cheated. The Elephant, within its elaborate trappings of red, blue, and gold, watches everything carefully,— someone's Elephant, perhaps, but no one's Fool. Girls emerge from the Howdah in impossible numbers, wearing Costumes as variously hued as the Rainbow, and as diaphanous. They place their stocking'd Toes precisely upon Elephant pressure points, long known to Chinese Healers, strung along his Ear Meridians,— the Elephant rolls his eyes appreciatively. 'Tis this part of the Show that the Girls, as well, enjoy the most, or so they tell Dixon afterward, when he wanders back-stage to see what might be up, in all Innocence following the Scents of Womanly Exertion, to the Dressing-Room.
"Here he is!"
"Took him long enough, for a Kiddy got up so flash."
"Oh ye'll bore him, Fiona! Come over here m' Darling, you can sleep later.”
"Ooh! Cow."
"Anyone in here for a Turtle Feast? My foolish Lad has a Coach waiting?" Dixon is swept in a rush of Polonaises, Sacques, and Petticoats into the Vehicle, and with great cheering away they clatter, out the Greenwich Road to Brannan's and an unsequenc'd two days of Revelry, ever punctuated by someone rising to cry, "I haven't felt this excited,— " turning to the Others, who roar back, " - since Eyre Coote won the Battle of Wandiwash!"— being a famous Moment from the Comedy,— Party ending up back in the Town, at Montague's Tavern, upon Broad-Way, near Murray Street, which proves to be Head-quarters of the local Sons of Liberty, as well as thick with Intrigue, regardless of the Hour.
He is soon aware of Captain Volcanoe, who in the Year since Mason saw him has been well in the Crucible of the Troubles attending the Stamp Act. Some of the old gang have fled,— others have decided to gamble ev'rything, unto their Lives, to see the British gone,— tho' beyond this, there is little agreement. "Even if this Act is repeal'd or in practice never enforc'd, any ministry of this King, even one that somehow includes Mr. Pitt, will be certain to tax us. 'Tis our Duty to resist, tho' it take up all our Days, and Nights as well. The Communications are now well establish'd, despite British Interceptions. We do well. More and more are resolv'd,— our Numbers ever growing. For the first time, we had a trans-Provincial Congress here in October,— yet, the Expense, reckon'd so far, must be borne most heavily by the warmer Sentiments, for we are become a colder lot. Tell your co-adjutor he was lucky we caught him last Winter, and not this, or Blackie might have had his way."
"From what he'll be pleas'd to hope a safe distance, then, Mr. Mason sends his Compliments to your Niece."
"She ran off with an Italian Waggon-smith," the Captain shaking his head, "and they went to live in Massapequa, upon Long-Island. His mother is teaching her to cook."
"Mason will be perplex'd."
"How do you think we feel? A sort of Club, at whose Gatherings she might meet a possible Husband,— that's all the use we ever were to her. Politics? Poh. She may never care about any of this. The road's not for ev'ryone, 's all's it is.”
"Hallo, Cap'n. This un's a likely one,— hey?" A muscular, untended dark cloud of an Indiv. has appear'd upon Dixon's starboard Quarter.
"No, Blackie, he's another Astronomer,— you recollect the one last year? Well, this is his Partner."
"Mais oui, mais oui," Dixon sweeping off his Hat and making his Notion of a Bow. "You hate Engleesh bastaird? Want to keel them, eh? Haw, haw! Me too!"
"Much rather kill you," sighs Blackie. "But, as I mayn't, you shall have to stand me a pint instead."
"Seems fair." Tho' by now broad daylight outside, in here 'tis forever Midnight,— Resolutions proper to the hour being made and kept all 'round them, Windows shutter'd, lamps few. Good thing I'm a jolly straight-ahead Lad, Dixon reminds himself,— or I'd start to imagine all kinds of things—
"To the 'Sixty-six!" Pewter clanking, ale spilling and commingling, much of it upon the Clothing of the Company.
"What d'ye think, then?" Blackie asks abruptly of Dixon.
"Eeh,— not Philadelphia, is it?"
"Nor Boston neither!" Blackie assures him, with a clap upon the shoulder. "Tho' it little matters."
"Aye,— ev'ry Province is agreed in this Business. All speak as One."
"What a terrible thing, that British Governments should mis-read us so, when we wish to believe in their Wisdom, their better grasp of History, as of Secular Likelihood,— yet they will keep finding ways to nourish our Doubts."
"Will their Stupidity prove beyond the reach even of Mr. Franklin, our American Prometheus?"
"Why bother to educate 'em? The stupider the better."
"Yet too stupid, and the only Choice left is Battle."
"There's the Ticket!" cries Blackie.
"At the Peak of the Riots, Blackie was running about a Thousand Sailors," remarks Capt. Volcanoe.
"And they're still in Town," Blackie with an eager Nod, "thanks to Cap'n Kennedy." Who, in Command of H.M.S. Coventry, is regulating Traffick in the Harbor, allowing ships to enter, but detaining as many as
he may who attempt to leave with their Clearance Papers unstamp'd. "Here comes one of my Lads now, in fact."
Who does it prove to be but Foretopman Bodine, once of the Seahorse, who, as he now relates, having jump'd that ship in Madras, watching from shore as she sail'd away to the Capture of Manila, had then hir'd on to a China ship, which was set upon in mid-Ocean by Pirates, who took him to South America, whence he escap'd, making his way North, among Typhoons and Hurricanoes, Jungle and Swamp, Alligators and Boas, Indians and Spaniards, till fetching up in Perth Amboy in the company of a certain Roaring Dot, belle of the Harbor.
"Woman of my dreams," Fender-belly vilely chuckling.
"Nought but a Snotter waiting for a Sprit," his Lady controverts him. "Happen'd to be this 'un, 's all."
"Sav'd his arse from a musket ball before Fort George in November."
"Aye!" Blackie all a-grin, "What a Night! Thousands of us! A fierce Wind, coming in off the Harbor at our backs... Sparks from the Torches flying ev'rywhere!"
"Blackie kept imagining his Hat was a-fire," recalls the Captain. "All shouting up at them, 'Liberty!' Daring them to shoot Buggers. Tho' Major James could have ta'en easily a thousand Souls at the first Volley, he held his fire, and our War with Britain did not begin. But good Fender could have provok'd it, if anyone could." Whilst he was exposing his Hind-Parts to the Gaze of those in the Fort, prudent Dot, recognizing signs of Trouble ahead, remov'd a Sap from her Stocking, and bestow'd the Pygephanous Tar a Memento, from which he did not awaken until the next day, by which time he'd been convey'd to her Barge at the Amboys.
"Well met, Friend," says a quiet Voice at Dixon's Elbow. "I'll not tell if you won't." Peering thro' the Smoke, he recognizes Philip Dimdown, now as un-Macaronickal as possible, a serious young man upon a Mission whose end may not be predicted. They make their way to a Corner with a Clavier, from whose top Dixon must remove a Madeira bottle, two cold Chops, and a severely tatter'd Periwig in order even to lounge against it. "So, tha're not a Fop after all? I may pass Fop Remarks, make Fop-Joaks, without giving offense?”
' 'Twas the best way to get by them," Dimdown causing his Tankard to nod, amiably. "Rattling quite discomposes these Brits, some of whom may go for weeks without saying any more than they have to. Yet as no true Macaroni would, in non-Macaronick Company, behave too Maca-ronickally, in that was the impersonation you saw, defective. That is, I might have been more subdued about it."
"Fool'd me, for fair."
"I was probably indulging Fop Sentiments long kept under, unknown even to myself. Yet, even a Son of Liberty needs to have a little Diversion, given that scarcely a day passes when one doesn't have to step lively if one wishes to remain attach'd to one's Arse, and for me, say,— being a Fop's just the ticket. Right now I'm obsess'd with Wigs. I find I have to change them once a week at least in order to remain unidentified. What think ye of this one? Just snatch'd it up and threw it on,— in Town but for the night,— been trav'ling about in a French Bomb-Ketch, taken in the late War, La Fougueuse, two Mortars in the Cock-Pit, spot of Bother with the Trim in any kind of a Chop, dates back to 'forty-two, but she gets us where we want to go, she gets us 'round the Communications," seeming by this to denote, the total Ensemble of Routes by which Messages might in those days pass among Americans,— by which Selves entirely word-made were announc'd and shar'd, now and then merging in a plasma, like the Over-soul of the Hindoo, surging to and fro along the lanes, from hillside to bluff, by way of Lanthorn-Flashes, transnoctial hoofbeats, Sharpies and Snows, cryptograms curl'd among Macaronick Wigs, Songs, Sermons, Bells in the Towers, Hat-Brims, letters to the Papers, Broadsheets at the Corners, Criers at Town Limits facing out into the Unknown in the dead of Winter, in the middle of the Night, and shouting, never without the confidence that someone is listening, somewhere, and passing the Message along,— upon Water as upon Land, La Fougueuse in Company with Ferries coming and going 'round the Clock, linking coastal Connecticut, New-York, the Jerseys, all up and down Chesapeake, a single great branch'd Creature, impulses trav'ling Creeks and Coves at the speed of Thought,— Virginia, the Car-olinas, well into and beyond the Mountains, into the water-Prairie of Ohio, and thence...
" 'Tis vast," Blackie assures Dixon. "Ain't never been nothing like it. Been living in Brooklyn all my life, seen some 'shit' some English Gents wouldn't even know if they stepp'd in it,...and by t'en, 'twould be too late. But what's going on wit' t'ese Lawyers," pollicating the Captain, "hey,— yese don't want to know. It's vast, all right? Know what I'm saying,— vast."
Dixon shrugging, shakes his head to indicate ignorance upon the Top-ick. "Christ's Return...?" he guesses.
"That's next, after us."
"Yese are paving the way?"
"Very likely put, Sir,— " cries an ecclesiastickal-looking Personage, "I should add, 'inspiringly' but for the prepond'rance of Deists among us, whom Christ makes uncomfortable. They will have their day. And later, a generation, or two, from now, when the People are at last grown disenchanted enough, 'twill be time for Christ to return to the Hearts of His own."
"Why Asaph, poh to ye and your 'they'! ye're a d——'d Voltaire
Reader yourself, what kind of Thorns-and-Angels Stuff is this?"
"Mr. Dixon, being a Quaker, can hold little love for any King, Blackie, do calm down a bit,— tho' his love for Christ may be another matter, and 'twas that I was deferring to, that's if you don't mind?"
'' 'Course not," Blackie replies with the smugness of one who believes he has scor'd a Point.
"Tho' rear'd a Friend," Dixon feels he must clarify, "I was expos'd at a receptive Age to a Rush of Deistick thoughts, aye very Deistick indeed...?— all in a great tumble, by way of Mr. Emerson of Hur-worth,— so I've a Sentimental Foot in each, as tha'd say...?"
"As a Quaker, you'd surely rather see us independent of Britain?" inquires Mr. Dimdown.
' 'Tis not how British treat Americans," Dixon amiably rubescent, " 'tis how both of You treat the African Slaves, and the Indians Native here, that engages the Friends more closely,— an old and melancholy History.... My allegiance, as a Quaker born, would lie, above all Tribes, with Christ,— withal, as a Geordie, for reasons unarguably Tribal, I can have no sympathy for any British King,— not even one who's paid my Wages, bless 'im. Call me an ungrateful Cur, go ahead, I've been call'd
worse.—Eeh, lo, thy Jack's empty...? Can't have thah', allow me, all who're dry, no problem, Mr. McClean shall enter each into his Ledger, and in the fullness of Time will all be repaid,— aye then, here they come! how canny, with those greeaht Foahm Tops on 'em, what do tha call thah'?"
"That is a 'Head,' " Blackie quizzickal. "They don't have that, back wherever you're from? What kind o' Ale-drinker are you then, Sir?"
"Shall we quarrel, after all?"
"Innocent question," Blackie looking about for support.
"Very well, as tha did ask,— I'm a faithful and traditional Ale-Drinker, Sir, who does thee a courtesy in even swallowing this pale, hopp'd-up, water'd-down imitation of Small Beer."
"Far preferable," replies Blackie, "- - even if slanderously and vilely untrue,— to that black, sluggish, treacly substitute for Naval Tar, Sir, no offense meant, that they swill down over in England?" with a look that would have been meaningful, could it get much beyond a common Glower.
Dixon sighs. Ale Loyalty is important to him, as part of a pact with the Youth he wish'd to remain connected to. He lifts and drinks, as calmly as possible, the entire Pint of American Ale, without pausing for any Breath. Having then taken one at last, "0 Error!" he cries, "How could I've so misjudg'd this?"
Blackie is as short of Time as anyone here. This thing that is now taking shape has an Inertia that may yet bear all before it.. .he can no longer indulge himself in what once, not long ago, would have prov'd a lively Contest,— nowadays, all energy, all attention, is claim'd by Futurity, unwritten as unscryable, the Door wide open.
Thus, "I once took Joy, 's a matter of fact, in many a British Pint," recalls Blackie, "and go ever in the Faith that so I shall again, some day. Meanwhile, as with our Tea, we brew American."
"Believe I'll have another of those...?" replies Dixon. "Would tha join me?”
58
Upon the Roads of Mason's journey South, the scene is alarming. In Maryland, in September, the Mob had pull'd down the house of Zachariah Hood, who, refusing to resign as the Province's Stamp Distributor, fled to New-York, and was granted refuge in Fort George, in time to witness Foretopman Bodine's Bi-Lunar Exhibition. Tho' 'twas now possible to clear Vessels out of Chesapeake Ports unstamp'd, pleading a lack of Stamps, Maryland was somehow among the last of the American Provinces to do so. As if, having paus'd self-amaz'd at their bold deed, the Mobility were now considering their next step. As Autumn rusted toward Winter, Youths went careering along the high roads firing long Rifles from Horse-back at any target that might suggest a connexion with stamp'd Paper, Puffs of Breath and Smoke decorating the way. Groups of farm Girls stood at crossroads and sang to them, "Americans All." Their Fathers, not always with better things to do, offer'd Jugs and Pipes, and their Mothers Tea. Traveling Sons of Liberty never had to pay a farthing for Drink,— and were ever the objects of Suggestions that, for even the liveliest of them, would have taken more time away from their Itineraries than Duty would allow. Massachusetts Bay accents were heard for the first time, out in the Allegheny, up in the Coves, or "Coves," as Folk there were pronouncing it, purs'd as the Yankees were broad. New-Yorkers in Georgia, Pennsylvanians in the Caroli-nas, Virginians ev'rywhere, upon Horses perhaps better looking than suited to the Work,— all took time to appreciate the musick of Voices from far away, yet already, unmistakably, American.
Out in the Field, Down by the Sea, The Hour has peal'd, Whoever ye be,
Daughter of Erin, Scotia's Son, Let us be daring,— Let it be done.
It is time for
The Choosing,—
Americans all,
No more refusing
The Cry, and the Call,—
For the Grain to be sifted,
For the Tyrants to fall,
As the Low shall be lifted,—
Americans all...
Till the end of the Story, Till the end of the Fight, Till the last craven Tory Has taken to Flight,
Let us go to the Wall, Let us march thro' the Pain, Americans all, Slaves ne'er again.
At Williamsburg, Mason, as well as being invited to the College of William and Mary, to inspect the Philosophickal Apparati, is introduc'd, at the State House, to a Party of Tuscarora Chiefs, upon a Mission to bring out the last of their people from the Carolinas, and conduct them safely back under the Protection of the Senecas, where they will join the rest of their Tribe, the sixth of the Six Nations.
The Escort have some apprehension about crossing Pennsylvania, with an hundred, perhaps two hundred, Tuscaroras, for they have heard
of the Paxton Massacres. But along the way they are to be join'd by Protectors from various Nations, principally Mohawks. Tho' their Territory lies hundreds of Leagues to the North, the Six Nations are ever a-bustle thro' the Forests of Pennsylvania, observing all Movement, regardless of Size, vigilantly. "Any of Paxtonian Disposition," Mason tries to reassure the Chiefs, "being usually bless'd with a Marksman's Eye, know who's in the Woods, and why,— yet will not at ev'ry Opportunity choose to engage."
He is staying at Mr. Wetherburn's. One morning a note appears tuck'd into a Frame full of cross'd Ribbons, from Col° Washington, in Town and seeking a quiet game or two of Billiards. Their Tranquillity is not long preserv'd, as more and more arrive in Raleigh's Billiard-Room, 'round the fam'd great Table.
"Even as Clearings appear in the Smoke of a Tavern, so in Colonial matters may we be able to see into, and often enough thro', the motives of Georgie Rex and that dangerous Band of Boobies.... Henceforth, it seems, the Irish and the Ulster Scots are to be upon the same terms with them as the Africans, Hindoos, and other Dark peoples they enslave,— and so, to make it easier to shoot us, with all Americans,— tho' we be driven more mystically, not by the Lash and Musket, but by Ledger and Theodolite. All to assure them of an eternal Supply of cheap axmen, farmers, a few rude artisans, and docile buyers of British goods."
"Not only presuming us their Subjects, which is bad enough,— but that we're merely another kind of Nigger,— well that's what I can't forgive. Are you sure?"
"Civility, Sir! The word you have employ'd, here in this quiet Pool of Reason, is a very Shark, which ever feels its Lunch-Hour nigh."
"Excuse me, do I hear that Word again? In this Smoak, 'twould seem, so are we all."
"Eeh!" Washington grabbing Mason.
"Colonel, Sir," twitching away, " 'twould be far preferable,—
"That voice, Mason! 'tis my Tithable, Gershom!"
"And furthermore, here's the latest news of the King." Several hoots and whistles. "King goes in a Tavern, bar-tender says, what'll it be, George, King says, I'm in disguise here, how'd you know who I was,— bar-tender says, that Crown on your Head,— King says, Only a Madman
would walk around wearing a Crown,— bar-tender falls on his knees,— Your Majesty!"
Half the Company seem to believe this is a white Customer, impersonating an African. Others, having caught Gershom's act before, recognize him right away.
"Hey Gersh, do the one about the Crocodile that can talk."
"The Rabbit in the Moon!"
"Wait a bit, somebody say there's a real Negroe in here?"
"Hell, maybe even more 'n one."
For the rest of the evening, ev'ryone suspects ev'ryone else of being Gershom. Now and then someone, tho' the Bellows are never quite fast enough to reveal who, tells another King-Joak.
"King's Alchemist presents him with a Philtre that can transport him where'er he wishes.—
Mason's turn to put the Clutch upon Washington. "Baby-Phiz Nathe McClean, or I'm a Sailor."
"King decides he'll journey to the Sun," the invisible Youth continues, "— Alchemist says, 'Your Majesty! The Sun?— it burns at thousands of Fahrenheit's Degrees,— far too hot there for anything to remain alive.' King says, 'So, where's the Difficulty?— I'll go at Night.' "
Young Nathe, back in Classes at William and Mary, daily more woven into Continental Realities, here, seen thro' what he and his School-mates style the Room-Brume, appears already less fit, more slothful than the narrow and restless Camp-Factotum of the summer previous. "I left that Party just in time," he confides. "I should have been crazy as Captain Zhang, had I remain'd a week more."
"Crazy enough," remarks his friend Murray.
"That bad, was it?" Mason a bit reserv'd.
"All respect, Sir, the Captain wasn't just Pipe-Smoaking in the Article of that Sha. We all felt it, as, to Appearance, did you and Mr. Dixon. Surveying a Property Line, that may be one thing,— clearing and marking a Right Line of an Hundred Leagues, into the Lands of Others, cannot be a kindly Act."
"Should we have refus'd the Commission, then?" Mason in ever-sharpening Nasality, "— We didn't invent Parallels of Latitude. Your
Dispute is with Hipparchus, and Eratosthenes before him,— both, I believe, dead?"
"Perhaps no harm will come of it. So must we pray. Remember me to Mr. Dixon. Your Servant, Sir," as Nathe once more is subsum'd into Nicotick Vapors opaque as Futurity, leaving Mason feeling guilty as foolish, unable to rely as much as before upon Remembrances of the cheerful Boy who pass'd like a Shuttle, ever to and fro and amidst, as if weaving the very Party on into the West, Day upon Day.
59
The Surveyors return to the North Mountain at the end of March, to find the Shelby Seat engulf'd as ever in Turmoil. Six neighbors having but lately petition'd Governor Sharpe to remove him and his co-Adjutor Mr. Joseph Warford as Justices of the Peace, the Captain's secular Woes have multiplied sensibly toward a State of irremediable Chaos, owing to the great Scandal over the winter involving Tom Hynes, Catherine Wheat, and their Baby.
"You recall how last September,— not long before you Boys arriv'd,— Conrad Wheat, one of our Distillers hereabouts, 's Girl Catherine goes up before Cap'n Price holding in her Arms her newborn Baby, swearing under Oath that Tom Hynes is the Father. She doesn't appear at November Court in Frederick's Town, so the matter's put over till March."
Tom wonders what she's up to. Some other Swain behind the Smokehouse he don't know about? He's all perplex'd. His own father is happy to advise him. "This is my grandson. Know what that means?"
"Um, no Sir."
"A Grand-Son means a man can quit worrying at last. Means the chain goes on unbroken. The Miracle of Fatherhood. That's as long as the little sucker's Daddy ain't some contemptible Fool, who'd gladly run away, but for his own Father, who'd beat him so roundly he'd be running nowhere for a long while, o' course."
"Wha." Tom a-gape. "Marry the bitch?”
"We dwell among people of the Kirk, lad," advises the elder Hynes, "_ recalling the Sampler your dear Mother made, that hangs o'er the Hearth,— "
" 'EXPECT INDIANS; " nods Tom.
"Exactly in the same daily Spirit, must a man, aye and Woman too, at ev'ry Moment, expect Law-Suits out here, from any Direction, for any reason, or none. In a Presbyterian World, 'tis best to keep a tidy Life. Marry her."
"She.. .um, she'd never have me,—
"Proving she's got good Sense,— all the more reason why you need to marry her. Now tonight I'm going to lock you in this Shed here,—
"Dad!"
"To-night, Tom, you must be sober and alone with your Soul, not out rowdy-dowing. Take note I've been holding back the Hickory, so far. This is too important. Think about it."
So young Hynes obeys, tho' his Thoughts aren't quite as spiritual as his Father might have hop'd for. Rather, Tom thro' these dark Hours slowly pieces together what, even in the sunlight of the next day, to his redden'd eyes, continues to look like a clever Plan.
"Forget the Bitch," he announces, "we'll seize the Baby," dashing off before William can comment, to call upon Capt. Shelby and ask him, as Peace Commissioner, to write him a Warrant to repossess the Baby. The Captain, hearing the Story, is amus'd. His blood gets to racing at the possibility of yet another lawsuit. He goes thro' a great Rigmarole with good Paper, Pens and Inks of several Colors, and Wax Seals as well, and Tom, who can't read any of it, figures he's as good as got that Baby in his Hands.
That Monday Night, about nine or ten, they go to serve the instrument,— Tom, and the Constable, along with Moran, Dawson, a couple of others, Nathan Lynn, and John Gerloh, show up at Wheat's House, pretending at first they only want a Quart of Whiskey. Six of 'em, they're planning to share a Quart? The German, suspicious already, now spies Tom Hynes among the Company. "A Pint, I can only sell you."
"Well come on out here, Conrad, we want you to look at something." Conrad thinks about it,— there are women and children in the house, his nearest Pistol is too far away. He shrugs and steps into the night, leaving
the Door open a little, with only the Thrusts of light from candles inside, moving to and fro, to see by. "We've come for the Baby, Conrad," says the Constable, Barney Johnson. "Will you give him up?"
"Why should I?"
"Court Order."
"May I see it."
"Too dark."
"Read it to me?"
Barney sighs. "Here, Moran, you've the Lanthorn,—
What Shelby wrote proves to be a Search Warrant for Stolen Goods,— more of the Welshman's peculiar notion of Mirth. Catherine pops out the door to remind the Constable that her Child ain't Goods, stolen or however. Tom, jumping down off his horse, goes after her, and she slams the Door in his face. Ev'rybody's feeling edgy.
"Who sign'd this Order?" Conrad shouts.
"Don't tell him anything!" warns Tom in a Temper.
"Tom, 'tis all legal," says the Constable. "And Conrad, now,— the Warrant is Captain Shelby's, but,—
"Shelby! Some Court Order, Barnett,— shame, so. Captain Shelby's Demand?— more of his Bullying,— it means nothing. My daughter has already given Security to Justice Price, and her Child is safe here."
"Catherine Wheat having fail'd to show up in Justice Price's Court last Month," Constable Johnson in a small hurried voice proclaims, "is deem'd in violation of the Law, and pending Disposition, for the good of the Child must I order my Deputies to lay hands upon it, forthwith."
"Lay hands upon this!" cries one of the Girls of the House, and shakes out a great Wing of Dish-Water, whose pinguid Embrace not all escape, whilst another sets the Hounds who live in the back, upon the Party. The House of a sudden is seen to be fill'd with more people than anyone might have imagin'd.
"Why then Conrad, I am personally sadden'd to think you would lie thus in wait for us,— " the Constable unable to finish his thought as he must struggle to remain atop his Mount. Out the Door, and a Window or two as well, come Barkley, Steed, and the Rush brothers,— Brooks and Flint remaining within, to see to the Ladies,— advancing upon the Constable's Men, who with back-Country Whoops come a-charging, Cudgels
ready to strike, Tom in his not altogether subdued way screaming, "He's mine Bitch and I'll have him alive or dead!" One of Wheat's boys, roughly push'd, falls, is hurt. A sister swoops in to snatch the Baby, and bring him in his Swaddling, looking like a little stuff'd Cabbage-Leaf, back to the Kitchen, whilst the others in the House shut and bar the Door, tho' not for long, as the Rioters, close behind, begin breaking it in. The Boy has a compress of Arnica Tea upon his Thump by now, and will be all right. Conrad has a lot invested in the Door, which he's carpen-ter'd, carv'd, and hung all with his one set of hands,— he watches, not yet able to believe that these men he thought he knew could become a Band of Raiders who mean him harm, and his Grand-son as well, it seems, for now in this ear-batt'ring Kitchen Melee the Baby is suddenly become a Ball in a Game, being toss'd in short high arcs from one Party to another 'bout the House, as the Shelbyites go beating upon anyone in their Reach, injuring some so badly they won't make it in to Court. No more hazardous than the usual North Mountain Wedding. Young Tom is beating the Mother of his Child, informing her, in a Voice not entirely in his Control, of his intention to kill her,— passionate lad, tho' not in any way women are apt to find welcome, is it? Nathan Lynn grabs the Baby and runs out the Door, then one of Wheat's Women, chasing after, gets him back, runs on into the Field with Barney after her and John Gerloh close behind. They catch her and beat her till she gives the Child up, all out in the Dark where they can't see her as well as they could back in the Candle-light,— they've no sense of depth here, and don't know how hard to strike. All are Phantoms to one another. At last, she reclines in a frozen Furrow, weeping, trying to get one of them to look her in the face. Gerloh will not, and Barney is too occupied with the Baby,— who, upon assessing the Constable, has begun to cry.
Well, "cry" is perhaps not it exactly. All the way to Ralph Matson's House, that little Banshee lets out a Protest that echoes for miles off these Hills,— Irish Folk cross themselves, needlewomen drop Stitches not to mention Beaux. "For the Days then teeter'd 'round us all," comments Capt. Shelby, "- - we'd soon enough ourselves be upon the March from Frederick Town down to Annapolis, riding as a Troop, two and three a-breast, with inexpensive Comparisons made to the Paxton Boys, tho' 'twas the Stamp Dispute that brought us out, and whether the Assembly
would pass its Journal. Tom's domestick Drama gave us a practice run, as you'd say, for Acts of Publick necessity impending."
At last they convey the Goods successfully across to Matson's, upon the Pennsylvania side,— Capt. Shelby's there waiting, with Will Hynes,— the Baby crying to chill the Bones of Pontiac himself. "Give it here, Barney," says the Cap'n, "ye're doing that all wrong,— " and takes the Baby, who abruptly falls silent, gazing up at the Captain's Eyebrows. "Aye, you like that, do you? Can't say you look much like a Hynes. Just as well." He Orbs one by one the bleeding, dishevel'd Escort. "Do I take it the Mother was unwilling to give the Infant up?"
"I made the Dutch Bitch's blood fly," Tom Hynes informs the Company.
"Say it three times quickly, Tom, and we'll believe you."
"That, incidentally, is the Exclamation verbatim," Uncle Ives here asserts, "— see Proceedings of the Council of Maryland, for the Year 'sixty-five. Your Uncle has been telling the story as depos'd much later by people wishing to have Shelby dismiss'd as a Peace Officer, perhaps to get even for some wrong committed during the Crisis attending the Stamp Act, or perhaps more ancient. But here he crossed the Line,— a Pennsylvanian raid upon a Maryland Farmer. 'Twas more, than whose Warrant should have effect where,— Shelby ignor'd the Power of the Line, and chose to defy it. So it became a matter for Annapolis."
" 'Tis all there," allows the Revd, "the whole squalid Tale, transcending the usual Neighborly Resentment, tied in to that strange rising of Spirit throughout the Countryside,— from a certain cock of the Hat, to the Refusal of all further Belief in Boundaries or British Government,— a will'd Departure from History."
Captain Shelby's personal Peeve is the lack of respect for his Signature upon writs and orders, which he seems to run into at ev'ry Turn, either Side of the Line. The Law, in its Majesty, can look after itself,— 'tis the Disrespect for him personally, that Shelby cannot abide. "Damn the Dutchman, he'd better stay over there in Maryland or he'll be well thrash'd. Refusing my Writ! Good thing I wasn't along with you, Barney, Fd've burn'd his house down." No one reminds him that he wrote the Baby-Repossession Order in jest. He refuses in turn, to accept Security from Flint and Brooks on behalf of the Wheat girl,— "If my Writ means
nothing over there, why should your Security mean any more over
here?"-- taking instead the Hyneses' Note for £100 as Bond to keep the Baby off the Parish.
The Captain's troubles are not over, for now Conrad Wheat brings Suit over the Riot at his House, obliging all Parties to show up at Justice War-ford's House for a Hearing preliminary to Court. Tom Hynes the merry Bachelor, tho' bobbing Corklike as ever, beginning to feel remorse, no longer alludes to his recent blood-letting Activities. No one wants to hear about it anyway. When the moment to appear before the Justice arrives at last, he's all but desperate to see Kate.
Shelby comes in a-bellowing after a Warrant for Catherine Wheat's Fine. "Mrs. Warford advises against it," replies Joseph Warford, "her Gifts in this area being widely known,— and Evan don't try to squeeze this one dry, for there's not that much in it."
"Damme! Joe! My old Colleague-at-Law,— his worthy Wife at whose table I've ever been happy to dine. Betray'd! Who'd've thought it of either one, here, hey Will? Hey, Tom?— Tom?" Tom Hynes is not immediately visible.
Amazingly to all, Mrs. Warford and a resolute Candle-flame reveal the North-Mountain Casanova retir'd to a Stuft Chair in a dim corner, with Catherine Wheat upon his Lap, whilst he strokes her intently. "You wounded me," she is advising him, "I was bleeding,— I've the Marks yet,— here,— can you see my back?"
''Twas but a Willow Switch, and you were curl'd up so tight...I'd never harm you, Katie."
"Why, you lying snake, of course you would,— and you did."
"How was I suppos'd to feel?— ev'ryone staring,— without even telling me first, you just went to Captain Price— I believ'd it our own secret child, the secret of our love, thah' no one need know—
"Are you crazy?— hide a Baby! You know what Babies are, net? You've been in the House with ours, for even a Minute? What Secret?"
"Well,.. .maybe I know that now— Maybe I was young then,— maybe even, even foolish."
"Then was three months ago, you could've just married me then,— sav'd us all this." She doesn't care by now who thinks what, not even Tom, whom she is looking schlag in the eye.
Firmly propell'd from behind by his Wife,— her Version of a suggestive Nudge,— Mr. Warford abruptly enters the Tête-à-Tête, rumbling, "Hynes as you have spoil'd this Girl, and taken her Credit from her, you ought to marry her."
Both young people regard the Avuncular Apparition, and the bobbing Arc of Faces behind, with strangely calm'd Expressions. She rests her head upon Hynes's shoulder, exhales, and continues to gaze at the Company, her face, if not smug, then at least innocently relaxing after a long struggle. "So, Tom," a confidence in her voice he's never heard, but were he quicker, might have felt concern'd about, "what d'ye think, my Boil'd Potato?"
"Oh," his Face drap'd in a slow Daze, "I haven't much against it. Sure, I'll consider of it."
Intending to offer twenty-five, but mov'd by the Spirit in the Room, Conrad Wheat declares, "Ye shall have thirty pounds from me. And a five-pound wedding, so."
"Hurrah," cries Mrs. Warford. "Now,— when were you thinking of, young man, exactly?"
"When." Tom Hynes, not sure what today's date is, notes, with some alarm, that all this whole Rioting, Baby-snatching, litigious Time, it has been Christmastide. Has Christmas come and gone and he's miss'd it in all the Commotion? "Before year's end, Miss's," he supposes.
"Just a minute," cries Capt. Shelby, who's been busy scribbling. The Merriment subsides. "There's yet this matter of the Girl's Fine. Joe, if ye'll not write me a Warrant, p'raps ye'll at least, kindly, sign one of my own, here?"
Mr. Warford peers over at his Wife, who for the second time tonight desuperpollicates, with a mischievous tho' unwavering smile for the Captain. "Sorry."
"I don't know how much more, as a man, I can really take of this," mutters the Welshman. "Damn'd Dutchman with his five-pound Ridot-toes and his Indian-Corn Poison,— oh, much too grand to comply with my lawful Writ, and now, old Joe, you refuse me once, and then again,— this night am I thrice denied,— then Damme, I'll sign it myself,— there! Now someone, seize the young Lady forthwith!”
"My pleasure!" cries the dim Tom Hynes, clasping his sweetheart, who squeals.
Will Hynes frowns at Shelby. "What new Thievery's this?"
"I'll take your Note happily, Tom," the Captain prompts.
"Dad?"
"I think he wants you to be here for the Wedding," explains Will Hynes.
"Before the Year is out," intones Mrs. W.
Thus, upon the night of December 31st, all are gather'd at Mr. War-ford's House, in clean Clothes and hopeful Spirits. Snow drifts in the corners of Window-panes distant from the Fire. Mrs. Warford has made a great dark, spirit-soak'd Fruit-Cake, and iced it for good Measure, in bridal White. Conrad Wheat has brought a Waggon-load of his lately run Conoloways White, whose drinking requires close attention, lest it prove but one more way of falling asleep. Stamp Act rumors fly among small gatherings of young Men, in and out of doors. An assortment of Calathumpians are there, with a full Battery of cowbells tun'd to the Pen-tatonick Scale, Drums with 'Possum-skin Heads, Whistles and Gongs and a Military Bugle found in the woods after Braddock's Defeat.
"Not as cold as last winter this time, d'ye remember?"
"Cold enough for me."
"Never hope to see another like that one."
"This morning my Dogs wanted to stay in."
"Your Dogs have to lean against the Wall to bark, Gus."
Captain Shelby recites the Service as if it were Poetry. "Will you Thomas Hynes, take Catherine Wheat to your lawful wedded Wife?"
"Aye, Sir, I will."
"And Catherine Wheat, Thomas Hynes to your lawful wedded Husband— "
"I will."
- Then, barring some further act of Disrespect toward yet another Signature of mine, acting within my Authority as Officer of the Peace, I am delighted to be able at last to pronounce,— Jump, Dog! Leap, Bitch! And I'll be damn'd if all the men on Earth, can un-marry you!"
"Tell 'em, Captain!"
"Oh, Tom you've broken my heart!”
"And several others as well!"
The Fiddler raises his Bow and attacks "The Black Joke." Feet rediscover Steps that are their own, and not those of the Day and its Demands.
When Tom wakes next morning, only slowly recognizing the bed Mrs. Warford is charging him five shillings for, the first thing he notices is the wallpaper, pattern'd all over with identical small blue Flowers, upon a Ground of glowing Vermilion. He lies there for a long time in the crescent light, doing nothing but regarding this floral Repetition. He finds that if he comes close enough to the Wall, and lets his eyes drift slightly out of Focus, each Blossom will divide in two, and these slide away to each Side, until re-combining with a Neighbor,— and that the new-made images appear now to have Depth, making an Array of solid Objects suspended in a quivering bright /Ether.
It may have been a difficult night,— only one or two things stand out. He does recall Capt. Shelby performing the Marriage. He looks over beside him, now, and sure enough, there's Katie asleep, with an Egg-shap'd drop of Sunlight about to touch her Shoulder. So that was real.... He also recalls getting up in the middle of the night to piss, and being
confronted with a Figure he at first imagines as the D——l, because it
bears a Pitchfork,— but which he presently recognizes as Capt. Shelby.
"Been waiting, Mr. Hynes. Thought ye'd never come. Look at them, they're all asleep." In every dark nook lay revelers, under and upon the Furniture and Stairs. "All except me, I'm the only one who stay'd up, for I knew ye'd try to escape. Now,— get your Arse back into that Chamber, and if you dare to leave your lawful Wife, tonight or ever, this," waving the Fork, "gets jobb'd in your Guts, are we in Agreement?"
"Captain, all's I got up for was to piss,— and I was thinking more of outside the Judge's House than in?"
"Why didn't you say so? Come on, then. We'll see. We'll go piss in the snow."
Threading their way among snoring celebrants, trying not to blunder onto drooling Faces or disarrang'd Skirts, they go outside, and together piss in the Snow. Shelby writes his name, sweepingly, as if at the bottom of some Blank and all-powerful Warrant of the Winter, whilst Tom draws
a simple Heart, unpierc'd, unletter'd, whose outline he fills in carefully, completely, and then some. The Captain looks over. "You certainly did have to piss. Hallelujah. Attend me. Give up the pleasures of Town,— those brick Defiles are not for you...your Fate lies rather to the West. When those Surveyors return in the Spring, they'll be needing Hands. You can be head of Shelby's Men, a sort of Party within the Party, what say you?"
"Did me a service," Tom Hynes will declare, when anyone asks. "I'm forever oblig'd to the Captain,— Catherine Wheat is the best thing that ever happen'd to me,— without her I'd be lost. He sure knew what was best."
They are reluctant to quit the freezing Night. Tom asks, quietly, "May she come along?"
"She'll be in Foal again. Hey?"
"Forgot about that."
Shelby regards him silently and at length. "I had ye calculated for a Renegade. Why ye're going to be another damn'd Grandfather Cresap, Tom,— you'll see.”
6o
In the strong twilight over the Mountains of Wales, draining of light League upon League of darkly forested Peaks...to the eye familiar, the occasional interruption of a Cabin or Plantation...chimney Smoke, a gray patch of girdl'd Trees amid the green pervading...a Shade ascending one hollow at a time, the wind acquires at the Dark a potency it did not possess in the light. An ax-bit's blow quench'd in living wood. A dog after a Squirrel. A percussive "Sandwich" of hammer, anvil, and the Work between. Night over all this watershed how vast, that covers each soul in it like a breathing Mouth, humid, warm, carrying the odors of living and dying, that takes back ev'rything committed upon the Land that Day, without appeal, dissolving all in Shadow.
They have caught up with this era in the settlement of this West. Though not in all ways insane, yet Capt. Shelby, avid for any occasion to quarrel, exhibits signs of mania upon the topic of Land-Disputes, being often preoccupied from well before sun-up till far into the early Darknesses with litigations great and petty, engrossments Ditto, with Boundary issues a particular Passion,— a fallen Tree, a wand'ring Chicken, the meanders of a Stream, any pretext, any least scent of Inconvenience, will do. He admires this West Line for its great Size, tho' he's puzzl'd as to why there can't be a few angles someplace, to accommodate a close friend, for example,— or even more than one.
"Kings," Mason with a what-can-we-poor-Sheep-do look, which Shelby declines to join him in. "This is how they reason, in Map-siz'd sweeps of the Arm. 'Divide it thus, I command you!' They can't be both-er'd with the fine details."
"Having ink'd a Map or two, I know that impatience, tho' my Sympathy reaches no further. Out here the King has few to count upon, and his troops will be fools, to come much past Cumberland,— you be certain to tell 'em I said so."
"Tell whom?"
"Whoever may be asking."
"Do tha believe we're Spies, Captain...?" Dixon, with genial Tap-Room Menace, moving as if into Range.
"Sirs. I've been out here since before the late War, and have offer'd my Hospitality to many a Spy, of ev'ry persuasion, for, as Spies must travel, so, it follows, some Travelers must be Spies,— yet I bar my Door to no one. 'Tis a Pursuit of men, away in the distant World, no more sinful than the making of Rifles, or the charging of Quit-Rent, yet do I prefer an honest Quarrel out in the open, myself, 'tis more manly somehow, don't ye think?"
Dixon ambles closer, beaming. "Yet 'tis a gormless Spy indeed, who'd lurk where there are no more Secrets to steal."
"How so?"
"What is there that has not been visited, intentionally and not, an hundred times? Gathering Ginseng would be more profitable."
Shelby is of course also a Surveyor, who ranges these Mountains all about, bearing and wielding his Instrument like a Weapon. "Oh, I saw 'pon the Instant how this was," darkly to Dixon, "I saw how the ancient Sorcerers must have enjoy'd what they did. At our Pleasure, we may look thro' this brazen Tube, thro' Glass mathematickally shap'd, and whatever desirable Scene sweeps by as we turn it,— why 'tis ours for writing down the Angle! Good Heavens, what Power!"
There is a love of complexity, here in America, Shelby declares,— pure Space waits the Surveyor,— no previous Lines, no fences, no streets to constrain polygony however extravagant,— especially in Maryland, where, encourag'd by the Re-survey Laws, warranted properties may possess hundreds of sides,— their angles pushing outward and inward,— all Sides zigging and zagging, going ahead and doubling back, making Loops inside Loops,— in America, 'twas ever, Poh! to Simple Quadrilaterals.
"Eeh," Dixon nodding vaguely. He's never regarded his Occupation in quite this way before. His journeyman years coincided with the rage then sweeping Durham for Enclosure,— aye and alas, he had attended at that Altar. He had slic'd into Polygons the Common-Lands of his Forebears. He had drawn Lines of Ink that became Fences of Stone. He had broken up herds of Fell sheep, to be driven ragged and dingy off thro' the Rain, to Gates, and exile. He had turn'd the same covetous Angles as the Welshman,— tho' perhaps never as many, for Shelby seem'd seiz'd with Goniolatry, or the Worship of Angles, defining tracts of virgin Land by as many of these exhilarating Instrumental Sweeps, as possible.
"Thing's to survey your Domain. Even if you don't own it. Here at the Allegheny Crest, ye may stand and look either way, down mile after mile of the Visto ye've cut, and from your Eminence pretend that you own it. Ev'ry Girl, ev'ry Gambler, Tonick Salesman, and Banjo Player that comes down that Line, could easily be paying Tribute to somebody. Not a lot,— no worse than Quitrent,— a Nuisance-Levy really, even if it's a song or a Card-trick or ten minutes in the Hay-Loft."
Shelby accompanies them over North Mountain, whereupon it begins to rain and snow, and continues so for the next ten days. The Cards come out, and the Chap-books and Dice and Bottles. Mason goes to sleep, requesting that he be waken'd only in case of Spring. Dixon tries to learn from Capt. Zhang something of the Luo-Pan, in exchange for Instruction as to the Sector. "The Attention we are paying these Zenith-Stars," he suggests, "has brought me to imagine an Anti-celestial, or backwards Astrology, in which the Stars must be...projected inward, somehow...? mapp'd from the Celestial Sphere onto the Surface of our Globe...? At Greenwich, for example, the Zenith-Star is Gamma Draconis, putting Britain into the Terrestrial Sign of Draco, the Dragon."
"Just so!" The Geomancer twinkles.
- Yet in Durham We mean something different when we say 'Dragon.' Ours are not at all the Chinese Variety. Some, like the Lambton Worm, lacking Wings and a fire-breathing Capacity, may indeed be of a distinct Species."
"You've seen such a Creature?"
"Heard the story, when growing up. As Lambton Castle lies almost upon the North Sea, we at Cockfield knew it as a Wear Valley tale, that like an ageless Salmon had work'd its way over the years upstream to us....At the Market Square in Bishop, as at Darlington Fair, the Tale was often perform'd by troupes of traveling Actors, six of whom would be needed for the part of the Worm. The Drop was painted to suggest the Sea-Fret whispering along the walls, mysterious shapes in the Park beyond, as Romantick as you please. Today the country 'round Lambton is thick with collieries, and pretty much given over to staithes and shoots and waggon-rails,— but the river then was purer and wilder, not yet altogether converted to the service of the Christian God,— tho', as it hap-pen'd, fishing in it on Sunday, in these parts, had long been forbidden." They take out Pipes, which Capt. Zhang fills with a Blend of cur'd Vegetation that he will describe only as "Chinese Tobacco,"— courteously igniting both, with Embers from the Fire.
"The heedless John Lambton, his Lordship's heir, a young man as malapert in company as he was masterly in a stream,— his own reach of the Wear in particular,— has long refus'd to honor this rule. One Sunday, instead of the salmon-trout he believes his due, he pulls in a small snakelike thing, with a double row of horrid little Vents either side of it, from its head down the body, gasping open and shut,— nine pair of them. At first he takes it for a Lamprey,— but Lampreys have only seven pair. This thing is different. He feels a strange cold at his temples,— a conscious vibration in the fishing-line. It seems to him almost that the creature is gazing into his eyes, with a look of intelligent Evil...."
Just then his friend Reginald comes galloping up, with a couple of pack-horses. "All right then John, come along, there'll be no Moors left by the time we get to Jerusalem."
"What?"
"The Crusade...? Oh, bother, you said you'd come. I say what's that on your line? Ghastly thing. Throw it back in, let's go bash old Abdul, whatwhat?"
"Yes but Reggie I'm not sure the River's quite the place for it, best interests of the fish and so on. Here, look ye, here's this hole, with some stones 'round the edge, I'll just chuck it in here, shall I."
"But,— isn't it someone's Well?”
"Some tenant or something, who cares?" and with one of those knightly flourishes, the young fool, damn'd in the instant, actually tosses the Worm into the Well.
"Oh, John," cries Reggie, "that's so amusing!" And thus cheerily, the lads are off to the East, where a number of desperate Adventures wait them.
Meanwhile the Worm is far from idle, having almost immediately begun, in that Womb of wet stone, to grow,— local people hear it thrashing about, and the bravest, as they peer down into the echoing dark, may almost see it. Soon, the water has acquir'd an unpleasant taste, metallic, sour, heavy with a reptilian Musk. Buckets let down do not come back up, creaking noises are heard at night as the well's Casing is brought under some enormous Force,— till one morning, as the Sun rises, so up over the Rim of the Well, appears a great blazing pair of Eyes, the closely set, purposeful eyes of a Predator. Slowly, with no appearance of effort, it begins to ascend from the Well, accompanied by a terrible, poisonous odor,— flowing up over the edge...indeed, it keeps coming for longer than it should. Everything living in the area, including the vegetation, stop what they're doing, and attend. The Worm seems quite hungry.
Taking its time, the Worm proceeds to one of the Batts or Islands in the River, where it sets up its base of operations. Its needs are simple,— Food, drink, and the pleasure to be had from killing. It eats sheep and swine, it drains milk from cattle nine at a time,— the number nine recurs in the Tale, tho' the reason is dark,— and careless dogs, cats, and humans are but light snacks to it. Around it, a circle of Devastation appears, pale and soil'd, which no one enters, and which the World must keep shifting for, a little at a time, as it goes on widening,— the Worm each day venturing a little further from its base, till at length the circle of terror advances to include a direct view of the Battlements of Lambton Castle itself, the final sanctuary, surely inviolable,— although the people in the Castle dare not try to organize an exodus, for the Worm when it must can travel at great speed, faster than horses can gallop,— they have watch'd in terror many Chases to the death across the Tide-Plain below, as, once alerted, the Worm has easily cut its Victims off in the open, far from any refuge or escape.
So there begins an Obsession by the Worm,— The Chapel is never empty now, the Steward has begun taking inventory, rationing lists are in early but serious negotiation. Days once idle are now fill'd with defensive chores. Engineers try to get the Trebuchet on the roof into working order, tweaking the shape of the Sling-Release Hook— The Worm is by now grown so large that it may comfortably coil 'round the entire Castle. One day, there will come to it some Sign,— the call of a Raven, the exact shape of a Moon, the racing shadow of a cloud,— which will lead, by an unreadable train of Serpent thought, to a convulsive breaching of these walls and a merciless search within, a Face suddenly looming in the roofless Sky, a Feast. No one can say when. The Evil One has Lambton Castle literally in Its Embrace. The local folk keep a vigil, blending in against the brush on the somber hillsides, calculating how fast they'll have to move when the creature turns its attention to them. Days pass,— presently, weeks. The Worm continues to enlarge its Zone of emptiness, but with a change of Center,— returning now after each excursion to coil about the Castle, where it lies all night digesting loudly its day's preda-tion. It is into this increasingly desperate Siege, that John Lambton now returns from his Crusade.
At first look, impaling foreigners seems to have agreed with him,— he is tann'd and fit and easy in the Saddle. But beneath the hearty Mask lies a Dread of what he will encounter. Approaching the Castle, he can smell the Worm long before he sees it. He would have much preferr'd a Dragon, Dragons having from time to time, in County Durham, chosen to infest the roads and lay desolate the countryside,— it falling, usually, to such known antidraconical families as the Latimers, Wyvils, or Mow-brays, to respond. But those creatures were winged and claw'd, fire-breathing, noble in conformation, the reptilian detailing ever harmless, almost an afterthought. Nothing like what John Lambton, rounding the last bend before home, beholds, recognizes, and understands as his own creation, something he must now before God deal with.
Time has not been kind to the Worm he threw in the well. It had been unpleasant enough to look at when only elver size,— now, despite what he has seen in the East, he must labor not to turn away. The eighteen vents have grown astonishingly, and hang, pulsating, each surrounded by a deep black annulus of something glist'ring and corroded. The Face
has lost the youthful malevolence that Lambton remembers,— has rather become, deep in its abandonment, now purely a Weapon in the service of blood-lust, a serpent's gift for paralyzing its prey with a certain Gaze that the potential Luncheon, once returning it, is helpless to defy. Even Lambton, though at a safe enough distance, finds it strangely attractive.
He has not exactly been to the Holy Land,— where he ended up, in fact, was Transylvania,— this being one of the very last Crusades, taken up more in a privateering spirit by one Cardinal Cassarini and a party of adventurers from many lands, who by breaking the Truce of Szeged and then losing at the battle of Varna, helped prepare the way for the Turks who were to capture Constantinople a few years later. During a long Iliad of hard soldiering and small, mortal, never-decisive engagements amid dramatic hilltops, haunted castles, mysterious flocks of Bats that always seem'd to be lingering about, Lambton one night, seeking diversion, had visited the encampment of a band of Gypsies, who included in their number a Sibyl widely respected for having successfully foretold every wedding, birth, adultery, and flow of wealth in this Locality for longer than anyone could remember. Solemnly, she inform'd him of the exact situation prevailing at Lambton Castle. "Then must I hasten home, to destroy this Monster. Shall I prevail?"
"Bocsánat,— I do not do Deaths. I am far too cheerful. You want to see a Roumanian for that sort of thing."
" 'Twould be little more than a sporting contest...?" young Lambton talking fast, "no more violent than jousting, really...?"
"Milord, please,— my time is as precious as yours. What I can do is bring in a priest here, divide the Fee, arrange an Oath for you."
"Anything," he assur'd her, "but quickly."
The Oath was fairly simple, he read it over a few times, couldn't find much wrong with it, so willingly knelt beside his sword and vow'd, that if God should allow him victory over the Worm, he would sacrifice unto Him the first living thing he then happen'd to see. "There are penalty clauses," the priest helpfully pointing them out, upon the long piece of parchment he'd just sign'd.
"If I prevail, then so drench'd in blood shall I be, that Bloodshed will weigh less upon my conscience, than it does even here, in Transylvania,”
avow'd the open-faced yet somber young Heir. "Therefore, I shall not default."
Once back in Durham, however,— having come to think of God under the aspect more of Fortune than of anything more Churchly,— he understands that his Duty also includes providing what he can, himself, on Earth, to shorten his odds.
Choosing from among the small crowd of youths always to be found, when the Worm is away, about the approaches to the Castle seeking Engagement as Runners, Lambton arranges for his father, immediately the Worm's destruction shall be signal'd by a blast upon a hunting horn, to send out one of the Castle Hounds. Neither Lambton thinks of this as cheating. It will be a legitimate sacrifice. Every one of those dogs is like family.
Young Lambton next rides up to Washington,— the Colonel's ancestral home, in fact,— to consult with the Armorsmith who fitted him out for his Crusade. Galloping toward the glow of the forge,— visible for miles, now and then reflected in the Wear,— he considers his basic tactical problem, which is the Worm's reported ability, even hack'd into separate pieces by conventional sword-work, to reassemble itself and fight on.
"I've been looking into this very difficulty," the Armorer greets him. "Glad you came by,— here, come and see." Inside the shop, lit by the lurid glow of the coals, with a sweating apprentice staring at them unfathomably, gleams a suit of Armor, to young Lambton's exact measurements, provided all over with hundreds of firmly attach'd sword-quality Blades, whose honed edges flicker with sanguinary light.
"Perfect. It won't be able to use its coils,— it'll have to come head-on, and happen I'll get lucky with m' Pike... ?"
They discuss tactics far into the night. He returns with the Armor, pack'd in Straw. For the first Time, he understands that ev'rywhere about, for leagues, sleep Souls in real Bodies, mortal as any in Hungary, impossible longer to ignore, and that at Dawn, by way of their dreams, will all wake knowing what is to happen that day.
Young Lambton chooses to wait out upon the Worm's own Batt, the river flowing swiftly by on either side. Birds are subdued, treed. For the benefit of observers, of whom there are many, he kneels a moment, appearing to repeat his sacred Oath, before rising to put on, very care-
fully, piece by razor-keen piece, his bloodletting suit,— till all at last is ready. Then he hears it,— the unimagin'd tons of wet and purposeful Flesh, moving a-clatter through the reeds, ever closer, till out of the riparian mist emerges, towering, the savage Head, the deathlike Face, of the great Worm. It hisses, in a long exhalation. When the smell reaches him, young Lambton smiles grimly. "Plenty of time to vomit when we're done, thanks."
The fight is slow, bloody, repetitive. A Dream,— fever-shot, unwak-ing. It lasts most of the day. Small boys approach as close as they dare. Adolescent Rogues comment upon the weaponry, the suit, the hacking technique. Townsfolk watch from the Hill-sides the red, thrashing immensity filling the river, and the tiny, glitt'ring Knight. To his Obstinacy there seems no limit. Those who remember him as a flighty and lazy Child marvel at the change. "Before he went off to Jerusalem...?— he'd've run away, the bugger." Young Lambton fights on. At last, after too many cuts, deep and deeper, the Worm's capacity for self-repair is overcome, it lets out a series of last liquid hateful screams, echoing up the Valley all the way to Chester-Le-Street, and perishes, to be borne away, most of its blood ahead of it, already halfway to Dogger Bank, chunks of Flesh forever separate, out into the North Sea, where even the most voracious of the fish will only pick at it.
With the last of his strength, Lambton climbs to the now deliver'd Castle, stands before it, and blows upon his Oliphant. The dogs inside hear it and all start barking at once. They grow so agitated that none of the Lambton servants dares approach them. Meanwhile, blissfully having forgotten about the terms of the Oath, vertiginous in a Storm of emotions, the Elder Lambton can think only of seeing his son again. He is an aged man, but he runs as he can over the drawbridge, arms held out. "John! Oh, my Boy!" He is of course the first living thing young Lambton sees.
"Eeh!" Young John just stands there, almost too tired to realize what has happen'd. Now, by the terms of his Contract, 'tis his father he must kill. It would be easy,— so foolish in his transport is the old man that a single embrace, folding him tightly but without mercy into the bladed Vambraces and Breast-Plate of the Worm-stain'd armor, would do the job. He could say he had been too exhausted to think. Then again, the Oath
was taken in Hungary.... As God exempts England from many of Europe's less agreeable obligations to History, so, surely, must Oaths taken in foreign lands, at which foreign Priests and Gypsies attend, be without force here? He allows himself this sophistry,— it delays acting upon what he already knows,— that he cannot kill his father, that he must break the Oath, as he once consciously broke the Truce of Szeged... thus already corrupted, why shouldn't he? He lets go his sword, the image of the Cross he has sworn upon, lets it fall, turns, walks away, looking for someone who can help him out of the edg'd, and now perhaps even venomous, iron weapon he is wearing. Henceforth, when attending to internal business, he will put it on again and again, for the rest of his Life.
"The penalty stipulated in the Contract, to remain in force for nine generations,— one for each pair of holes in the Creature,— was that no Lord of Lambton die in his bed. Under this Gypsy curse, one by one, they drown'd, they were kill'd in battle,— Wakefield, Marston Moor,— sure 'twas, none died in bed. The last, the ninth Lord, was Henry Lambton, and one of my letters from Durham, brought me, whilst at the Cape, news that he'd died, three weeks after the Transit of Venus, riding 'cross the new Lambton Bridge in his carriage."
"Halfway between Shores," murmurs Mason, "his mortal Transit how brief. Never to reach Lambton, his own bit of Earth,—
"Actually, he was heading the other way," says Dixon, "out over the Wear, into the world,— another Adventure."
"Cruelly serv'd," it seems to the Revd. "Nine innocent Generations. Whatever aid against the Worm young Lambton invok'd, its Source requir'd Blood Sacrifices. Because he spar'd his own Father's Life, it curs'd him and his Line most grievously for hundreds of years? What Agency could be so remorselessly cruel? Is it possible that at the battle in the Wear, the wrong forces won?"
"Why, Christ won, that Day...?" Dixon,— whose present state of religiosity is a puzzle to everyone,— appears to find it curious that anyone could think otherwise.
"Hum. Christians won, anyway," pronounces Capt. Shelby.
"Howbeit," Revd Cherrycoke suggests, "the Worm may have embodied... an older way of proceeding,— very like the ancient Alchemists' Tales, meant to convey by Symbols certain secret teachings.”
' 'Tis that Worm in that Well, that's the Signature here.—" Set in an open doorway, twilight breeze off the Mountain flowing in around him, flaming autumn sky behind him, Evan Shelby is suddenly taller, more sly and cruel than he seem'd at first meeting, with a way of rolling his eyes to convey Celtic madness. "The Ancient figure of the Serpent through the Ring, or Sacred Copu-lation,— a much older magic, and certainly one the Christians wanted to eradicate."
"Thoughts that in my Line of work are too often denounc'd as 'Stukeleyesque,' or at the least 'Stonehengickal,' " adds the Revd.
"Not to mention 'Masonick,' " Dixon broadly pollicating his partner,— but Mason is hundreds of Chains remov'd into Morosity, accepting without full attention a glaz'd jug of the local white corn Whiskey from the Captain, who continues,—
"Nevertheless, Sir, the Serpent-mound which is at Avebury in England, looks very like one I have seen to the West of here, across Ohio. They might have been built by quite similar races of People."
"Red savages, in Britain?" Revd Cherrycoke a bit puzzl'd.
"Sir, when you go out there and talk to them about it," Capt. Shelby insists, "the Indians tell you that the Serpent, as the other earthworks unnumber'd of that Country, was already ancient, by the time their own people arriv'd. Indians speak of a race of Giants, who built them— I had to hide all night once, within the Coils of some Serpent.. .they fancy the fiercer Animals.... All night, the Shawanese kept their distance, and I even managed to sleep,— briefly but in great comfort, somehow certain they would never venture close enough to find me. I woke strangely ener-giz'd, the Foe had vanish'd, the Dawn was well under way."
In the distance a Wench shouts, "There, Tom,— you've ripp'd me Bodice again!" Capt. Shelby rolls a paternal eye outdoors, in her direction. Nothing that passes here must escape him.
The Surveyors, enjoying previous acquaintance, eastward of here, with wilderness Squires upon the model of Capt. Shelby, have already discuss'd his Character. "Large Eyebrows," Mason had opined, "betray a leaning to pugnacious eccentricity,— there is a passage in Pliny to that effect. Or, there ought to be."
"We're about as far from Philadelphia, here, as Durham from London," Dixon offer'd, "— much further, if you figure in the Trees and
things, Precipices, Gorges,— and it seems quite like home, West being for Americans what North is for Geordies, an increasing Likelihood of local Power lying in the Hands of Eccentrics, more independence, more Scotismus, as tha'd say."
And, "Brows/ Of dauntless courage and considerate pride/ Waiting revenge...," the Revd had quoted them Milton, upon Satan.
"And really the odd thing," the Captain's Eye now rolling back, fiendishly, to play full upon Dixon, "is that from the level of the ground, why, it seems but a high wall of dirt.—The only way even to make out the Serpent shape of it, is from an hundred feet straight up,"
Dixon reddens, believing, for no reason, that Shelby somehow knows of his childhood flights over the Fells. "There must be a hilltop... ? a tall Tree, close by... ?"
"Not close enough to 'spy down upon it from, regrettably, Sir." Anyone who wonders what Imps look like in their Middle Years would be perhaps more than satisfied with Shelby's Phiz at the moment,— Malice undiminish'd, with a Daily Schedule that leaves him too little time to express it.
"Then— " Mason catches himself about to ask how Capt. Shelby can know what the Plan View looks like, unless he has himself gain'd an impossible Altitude, noting also the thicketed eyebrows of the Welshman waiting, rearrang'd, for just this question.
"You must appreciate this is no idle Drudgery,— not some band of Savages, groping about earthbound for the correct Shape. Rather, 'tis a sure Artist's line, the Curves sweeping in preordain'd accommodation to the River,— if I grow too Rhapsodic, pray set the Dogs upon me. You would need to see one of these Works to understand.”
61
So,— quite early the next morning there they both are, about to go visit one of the local Mounds with the possibly unstable Capt. Shelby as their Guide,— the frost along the Tent-Rigging bleach'd in the last of the Moon,— their breaths upon the Air remaining white for longer than 'twould seem they ought. Mason and Dixon step out of the Perimeter, into the Wild, now as entirely subject to the Captain's notions of Grace as any Romans, lur'd by promises of forbidden Knowledge, in the Care of an inscrutable Druid. "Come along," cries the Captain jovially. "We need to be there just at Sunrise."
"Folly," Mason mutters.
"Aye," Dixon replies, "you'd've pre-ferr'd the Moonlight, I guess, and an Owl or two." Down by the creek they fall in with the Path Shelby means to follow,— the North-Mountain rears above them, soon to catch the first light at its crest. Trees fill with whistling. Squadrons of cloud go rushing in the sky. The breeze has a cold edge. Dead leaves are everywhere. Soon all odor of woodsmoke has faded behind them. That of Ripeness, come and gone, enfolds them. And then something else.
"There's a new barrel-mill in the neighborhood,— smell it?" They are coming near the bank of a creek. Shelby, Eyebrows wrinkling together, takes hold of his Shot-Bag and begins to toss it lightly in his Hand. He seems eager to begin firing at any target that may present itself.
"Grist-millers," he declares, "discover there is more money in grinding out cheap barrels for rifles for the Savages. Philadelphia money. Here, up this way."
Mist is gather'd in the hollows, thick and cohering, blinding whilst carrying to each the Breaths and Mutterings of the others. Ev'rywhere between these white Episodes, the clarity of the Dawn slowly, piercingly, emerges. "This Ridge, another Valley," the Captain exhorts them, "and we are there." Over the crest and down to ford and then follow the creek through a gap in the hills to another Stream, where, in the angle of Confluence, its tip just catching the first rays of the Sun, stands Capt. Shelby's "Mound."
"Eeh!" cries Dixon. "Why, 'tis a great Cone!"
"Reg'lar as Silbury Hill," Capt. Shelby's head at an admiring angle.
Mason, slow to enthusiasm, sniffs the air. "No fermented Maize fumes about, but then, 'tis Still, so to speak, early in the Day."
"My Sacred Word," the Welshman rolling his eyes Heavenward, producing, however, an effect more of Madness than of Piety. "Come, Boys. Come." They are boys. They approach the giant Solid, alone upon its Promontory, as light slowly envelopes it, dyeing it a cold, crystalline Rose. Mason's first question, though he refrains from asking it aloud, is, Might it be under invisible Guard,— and how zealous are they? Shelby, watching his face, knows gleefully enough his Apprehensions.
"How do the Indians here about fancy Spectators like huz?" Dixon asks.
"They laugh. They but appear a solemn People,— worshiping Laughter, rather, as a serious, indeed holy, Force in Nature, never to be invok'd idly. This Mound is something they understand perfectly,— that white people do not, and show no signs of ever doing so, is a source of deep Amusement for them."
"Is there a way inside?"
"There shouldn't be, but there is." The Welshman's eyes tighten. "It was broken into years ago, perhaps by some larcenous Fool who had it confus'd with a Pyramid. His disappointment was the only good to come of it, for he found nothing,— no ancient corpses, nor even Copper bracelets or Tobacco-Pipes, for Indians never built it."
"Eeh!" cries Dixon, who's been peering into the opening. "D'yese see this, how these Layers are set in?— Mason! That Device Mr. Franklin
show'd us,— his Leyden Jar! Remember thee all that Fancy Layering inside it...?"
"Yes," impatiently, "but those were Gold-leaf, Silver foil, Glass,— Philosophickal Materials," a quick glance toward Shelby, "whilst these,— " having a Squint, " - seem but different kinds of Refuse,— dirt...ashes...crush'd seashells...not likely to be an ancient Leyden Battery, Dixon, if that's what you're thinking."
"A Marvel no one taught you this, Mr. Mason, for there is lengthy Knowledge of such things,— according to which, alternating Layers of different Substances are ever a Sign of the intention to Accumulate Force,— not necessarily Electrical, neither,— perhaps, Captain, these Substances Mr. Mason so disrespects may yet be suited to Forces more Tellurick in nature, more attun'd, that is, to Death and the slower Phenomena."
Mason is shaking his head, having no idea how to control Ranting like this, genial though it be. He's long known that Leadership is not his best Quality. Captain Shelby is staring at them both, with apprehension more than curiosity, for he has seen the Deep Woods and its mysteries quite derange more than one visitor from the Sea-coast and beyond. Deciding to place his faith in Reason, "Ye'll note, how the Sun-light has been creeping down the Cone. A Progressive warming of the Structure. The Diameters of each infinitesimal Ring, at each moment, being the crucial values. Did either of you bring a Compass?"
"Here's one...eeh!" Dixon, regarding his Needle, feels himself begin to drift somewhere else, off at an angle to the serial curve of his Life— Mason peers over his shoulder,— "Hum!" right into Dixon's Ear.
"Aagghh!" leaping away. "Mason, don't do that.—" He struggles to refocus,— in fact, to remember where he is. The Needle is swinging wildly and without pause, rocking about like a Weather-Vane in a storm, Dixon pretending to gaze at it knowingly.
Mason a-squint, "— Well, thank you for allowing us to witness your Experience, aye very helpful indeed—"
Shelby would have preferr'd the slow chatter of three Men, in the early morning, with nought more to discuss than the Day ahead. "This Structure happens to be quite in the projected path of your Line," he informs them, " - When at length your Visto is arriv'd here, the Mound will become active, as an important staging-house, for.. .whatever it may be,”
with an attempt at a Chuckle, tho' it comes out too loud, and imperfectly controll'd. "To quote Mr. Tox, in his famous Pennsylvaniad,—
'A "Force Intensifier," as 'tis styl'd,
A geomantic Engine in the Wild,
Whose Task is sending on what comes along,
As brisk as e'er, and sev'ral Times as strong.'
- Welsh in origin, it goes without saying."
"How so? Welsh Indians?"
"Oh! Absolutely. Only a few days west and south of here— 'Twas in The Turkish Spy but a few years since...?" The Cymry, Capt. Shelby explains, having first come to Britain from far to the East,— some say Babylon, some Nineveh,— their Fate ever to be Westering,— America but one of their dwelling-places, the Ocean nearly irrelevant. "Hugh Crawfford believes they are the Tuscaroras. Come along."
He leads them uphill again, to what seems the Ruin of a Wall, encircling part of the hill-top,— where he stoops and brushes away some Dirt. Here, inscrib'd in a roughly dress'd Stone, they see a Line of brief Strokes, some pointing up, some down, some both ways. "These are all over the British Isles,— 'tis a Writing call'd Ogham, invented by Hu Gadarn the Mighty, who led the first Cymrick Settlers into Britain. As ye'll note, 'tis useful for those who must move on quickly, yet do wish to scribble down something to commemorate their presence."
"What does it say?"
"Well...as nearly as I can make out,— 'Astronomers Beware. Surveyors too. This means you.' Of course I haven't read any of this for Centuries...yet 'tis indisputably Old Welsh."
"As you describe this Line," opines the Professor, back at Camp, "— the Marker Stones set at regular intervals,— a cascaded Array of Units each capable of producing a Force,— I do suspect we have the same structure as a Leyden Battery,— and, need I add, of a Torpedo." "With the head aim'd close by New Castle?”
"Or the other way, were the Cascade reversible,— the emitted Blast, being as easily directed Westward as East? Either direction, 'twould be a Pip of a Weapon, even with your Marker Stones placed no further than Sideling Hill."
"Why fire at Sideling Hill?" Dixon all innocence.
"Not at the Hill," chuckles Capt. Shelby, "— at what's coming over the Hill."
"Pontiack? The French?"
"Too late for them. One day, one of you'll risk a Peep over the Ridge-line, and then you'll see."
"More mountains," says Mason.
"Exactly,— Mountains such as these, which may be liv'd among the
year 'round. Therein ever rocks the cradle of Rebellion. Sooner or later,
something up here will grow hungry or hopeless enough to want to
descend to the plain, to stoop like Hawks upon rich Chesapeake, aye the
Metropolis itself— If the Black Boys so easily had their way with the
British Regulars at Shippensburg, who knows what Wonders are yet pos
sible out here, over the North-Mountain "
Yet removing Trees to create a pair of perfectly straight Edges, is to invite Sha, as Captain Zhang, ever eager upon the Topick of the Line and its Visible expression upon the Landscape, with its star-dictated indifference to the true inner shape, or Dragon, of the Land, will be happy to indicate to them.
"They came from the Sky, they prepar'd to emplace these Webs of right lines upon the Earth, then without explanation they went away again. Their work is being continued by the Jesuits, inscribers of Meridians, whether in blind obedience to some ancient Coercion, long expir'd, or in witting Complicity with it, who can say?" Captain Zhang can of course imagine Jesuits guilty of anything, including conspiring with Extra-terrestrial Visitors, to mark the living Planet with certain Signs, for motives of their own, motives they do not discuss, especially not with their Jesuit hirelings.
"Hearken, Gentlemen,— Someone wants your Visto. Not your Line, nor the Boundary it defines. Those are but a Pretext for the actual clear'd straight Track. In the Domain of very slow Undulations we're discussing
here, Wood is as much an Element as Air or Water,— living Trees in particular producing a Force that might interfere in too costly a way with whatever is to be sent up and down this Line.
"Earth, withal, is a Body, like our own, with its network of Points, dis-pos'd along its Meridians,— much as our medicine in China has identified, upon the Human body, a like set of Lines invisible, upon which, beadwise, are strung Points, where the Flow of Chee may be beneficially strengthen'd by insertions of Gold Needles. So, this arrangement of Oolite Shafts, at least partly inserted into the Earth,— you see, it is suggestive."
"Do we want to hear this?" Capt. Shelby inquires, plaintively.
"Hold, 'twill be legal evidence of his insanity, allow him to— ah, yes then Captain you were saying and how fascinating that you believe the Planet Earth to be a.. .living Creature? Hum?"
"Exactly as the creatures Microscopic upon your skin believe you to be a Planet. They may be arguing even now about whether or not you are a form of Life. Each time you step into a Tub, there comes upon them another universal Flood, with its Animalcular Noah, and another Re-inhabiting, another Chain of Generations, to them how timeless, till the next Wash."
"Some reason that Bottle isn't moving more briskly?" Dixon wishes to know. "Thankye,— now Mason, don't ta'e the Hoomp, but the Captain's right,- "
" 'Right'?"
"Consider. We've an outer and an inner surface, haven't we, which mathematickally, 'tis easy, using Fluxions, to warp and smooth, by small, continuous changes, into a Toroid, with openings at either end, leading to—
"Hold," cries Mason, "— An Inner Surface? Are you by chance seeking analogy between the Human Body and the planet Earth? The Earth has no inner Surface, Dixon."
"Have you been to its End, to see?"
"Tho' I come from pret-ty far North," Stig puts in, "yet there's a lot more North, North of even that,— out of which, now and then, a Sail will appear upon the Horizon, a Snow-craft approach, all the day long, and at Evening at last put in at our little Village,— Ev'ryone crowds into the Inn, by the light of bear-fat Candles, to drink Cloud-berry Flip, and lis-
ten to the Visitor's tales of a great dark Cavity up there, mirror'd overhead, as by a Water-sky,— Funnel-shap'd, leading inside the Earth...to another World."
"Grant me Patience 0 Lord," Mason with a bleak Expression, holding his head. "When 'tis not the Eleven Days missing from the New Style, or the Cock Lane Ghost, yet abides the Hollow Earth, as a proven Lure and Sanctuary to all, that too lightly bestow their Faith."
"Why," snorts Dixon, "half of all the Philosophers in Durham are Hollow-Earthers."
"That accounts for Emerson," hisses Mason. "Who was the other, again?"
"Lud Oafery," glowers Dixon, "marvelous chap, and he ever spoke highly of thee,—
"Dixon,— pray you. Think. If Newton's figure is correct,— if the density of the Earth, on average, is between five and six times that of water, then the shell of this Hollow Earth of yours, be it hundreds of miles thick, would have to possess some quite impossibly high density to make up for the empty interior,— at least, say, twelve times that of water, maybe more. Where is the evidence of this? Solid Rock is but two and a half times as dense as water. What more could be down there?"
"Precisely what the Royal Society would wish to know."
"You've not, ehm that is, mention'd this to,— " pausing to consider how not to give offense.
"Some believ'd me, some didn't. Some took me for a Jes-uit Agent, angling for a Northern Expedition of some kind. Mr. Birch, bless him, immediately went off to make converts. Others asked questions tha'd have to term more or less rude...? My mining background, and so forth...? A Geordie descends into the Earth just once, and right away everyone starts to get ideas." Dixon on now like a tree-ful of ravens, with his Hollow Earth, an enthusiasm, Mason judges, too developed to be argued away without investing more time and patience than he possesses. Withal, he is too open himself to the seductions of Melancholy and its own comfortless phantoms, to call anything even as remotely hopeful as this into question,— no more Doubts for Mason just at the moment, thank you,— considering how ever less serviceable to him, as his days spin onward, they are proving to be.
"China may once have been another Planet," Capt. Zhang is now speculating, "embedded into the Earth thro' some very slow collision,— long ago, all populated, with its Language and Customs, arriving from the East Northeast, aiming for the Pacific,— over-shoots, plows into Asia, pushes up the Himalaya Range,— comes to rest intact, which is how, until the first Christian Travelers, it remains,—
Taking this courteously if not perhaps seriously, Dixon replies, "Yet, from all we know, from Newton onward, how could the mechanism of its approach have been other than swift and Cataclysmick?"
"Why, if, within the last few miles of mutual approach, a Repulsive Force were to come into play, between the Earth and the Chinese Planet, acting counter to, and thus slowing, the Collision,— by analogy, of course, to Father Boscovich's Theory of Repulsion, at very close distance, among the primordial Atoms of Nature."
Dixon shakes his head, as if to clear some Passage within. "This is Jesuit physics. Why are you telling us this? Why must you ever be 'subtle'? Is this what Jesuits believe to be the origin of China?"
"Zarpazo does." The Chinaman beams and nods, as if Dixon has just understood a Joke.
The night before they set out westward again, Captain Shelby, from behind a can of his own Ale, brewed in the Shed adjoining, his face com-pos'd, inquires of them, Where is the Third Surveyor?
Mason, mistrustful, looks about as if this Newcomer might be at hand. Dixon, understanding Shelby to be posing a Riddle, is pull'd between loyalty to Mason and despair at his slowness in these matters. "Pray, Captain," he feels oblig'd to play in, "what Third Surveyor is that, for we are but two."
"Why," chuckles Shelby, "you are Wise Men from the East,— and ev'ryone knows they come in Threes!"
"Eeh, eeh! That's a canny one, for fair!"
Mason is less amus'd. The Captain's discourse verges upon Impiety.— Furthermore, it seems a bad Omen. "Well. It's like the Thirteenth Guest, isn't it.”
Yet, reported sightings of the Supernumerary Figure now begin to drift in. He is seen often in the Company of an Animal that most describe as a Dog, though a few are not so sure, for its Eyes glow as if all the Creature's Interior be a miniature of Hell. The best time for a Sighting seems to be at around Sunset,— just as the Axmen are leaving off work and heading for the Mess Tent, the Wind changing, here in Pennsylvania, as between this World and the Next,— when one may catch him flitting across the Visto behind the Party, back at the edge of Visibility,— black Cloak, white Wig, black Hat, white Stock, black Breeches and so forth, on foot, carrying a three-legged Staff, with an Instrument of some kind affix'd. A rumor goes 'round that he is a Surveyor of Surveyors, independently hir'd by the Line Commissioners to keep an eye upon the first two. But where are the rest of his Party? Other interpretations are less Earthly. A Figure that might arouse no comment in Philadelphia, in these parts 'tis esteem'd a Wonder,— particularly as it shows no sign of having made the passage from there to here,— not, anyway, upon the Ground, nor through the Forest.
Presently, in camp, the phrase, "Resembles the old Gentleman," spoken low, is being heard, in reference to the Third Surveyor,— it having been long understood out here, as Capt. Shelby explains, that if one wishes to convey a certain Item of Spiritual Property in consideration of a Sum to be paid in advance, why, such a Contract may be arrang'd. "The old Gentleman is always interested, always buying,"— even this long at the Trade, as Shelby relates it, still resentful about his exile from the Infinite, descended here among the harsh Gradients of Space, subject to the cruel flow of Time,— denied the Future and the Past and thus his Omniscience,— whilst, as to drafting Contracts, left slightly worse at it than the average Philadelphia Lawyer.
"So when Brother Pritchard,— lives just over the Ridge, there,— without the Gentleman's noticing, decides to sneak in a force mojeure clause that turns out to contain the phrase 'Acts of God,' why there's a legal crisis, the Gentleman wishing to nullify the Contract and get his money back,— Pritchard seeking to keep the money, and his Soul as well. Very, very expensive lawyers, all from Philadelphia, are engag'd by both parties. The Journals and Broadsiders get hold of the story, and
quite excessive indeed grows the Commentary that follows, in Prose, Verse, and Caricature. The Gentleman, having virtually invented Pub-lick Sensationalism,— which is reckon'd, indeed, upon his own torrid shores, as Entertainment,— has no illusions about anyone's motives, or the chances for great harm to his Case, yet naively, as others would say, disingenuously,— he clings to a belief in 'Justice.''
"Well I don't know what you may have heard about what we call Justice up here," his Solicitor advises him, "but don't set your Hopes too high.—Just enjoy your Time in Town, visit the Shops, take in a Show...."
Hell, of late, has been growing so congested, that the Gentleman is happy enough to come up to Pennsylvania,— even Philadelphia in the Morning Rush seems to him a Prairie desolate,— and who even knows how many years this lawsuit may take? To him, as to the Deity, 'tis the blink of an Eye. "Damn'd Souls, you think I even like damn'd Souls? I go down to that Rout call'd 'Processing,' see them crowding in, more and more ev'ry day, I grasp the Situation, but don't enjoy it? Who could enjoy it?"
"Upon consideration, I think you're better advis'd not to sue in any of our courts. You could get fried like a Fritter, and Counsel along with you. Don't you have any, um, machinery for resolving this, out there in the Cosmos, wherever you come from?"
"A legal system? Us? Ha, ha, ha. What for? We're a Rubbish-tip, Sir! for all your worst Cases!— not that we get to pick or choose,— tho' we do have to deal with the Consequences for Eternity, of course,— yet, there I go, complaining again.. .oh and by the way, I'm anything but 'out in the
Cosmos,' no no, being but Earth's D——l, local lad, working, in fact,for
His Omnipotence these days, ha-hah yes, once an equal and respected Adversary, now but another contract employee. Ah, woe...and forget about Luncheon,— does he even write? once a century, maybe! If any of these damn'd Souls could see the misery I get, maybe they wouldn't groan so much."
"Howbeit, Milord,— my best advice is, Drop the case."
"Suppose we just go for the money. He can keep his Soul, but posting this kind of Debit isn't going to amuse my Commissioners.”
"Style it an 'Investment.' Say the huge sum was to ensure his Corruption. You were developing a damn'd Soul."
"Already us'd that one too much, they shut me down a few sessions back, alas. But you seem like a Mortal of some ingenuity. Perhaps from time to time we could chat."
"Those would, of course, be billable Hours.”
62
In the Conoloways, on the Twenty-second of April,— the first point of Aries,— it snows all night, four inches of it upon the Ground when the Axmen wake, and merrily begin to form it into Missiles or stuff it down the backs of one another's Breeches. Springtide. Mason puts his head out the Tent-Flap and is caught in an intimate Avalanche down the side of the Tent. Dixon has his hat knock'd off by a Snowball, and goes chasing Tom Hynes 'round the Cook-Waggon.
"I dreamt of a City to the West of here," Dixon tries to recall, scrying in his Coffee-Mug, the wind blowing Wood-smoke in his eyes, "at some great Confluence of Rivers, or upon a Harbor in some inland Sea,— a large City,— busy, prospering, sacred."
"A Sylvan Philadelphia...."
"Well.. .well yes, now tha put it thah' way,—
"I hope you are prepar'd for the possibility, that waking Philadelphia is as sacred as anything over here will ever get, Dixon,— observe you not, as we move West, more and more of those Forces, which Cities upon Coasts have learn'd to push away, and leave to Back Inhabitants,— the Lightning, the Winter, an Indifference to Pain, not to mention Fire, Blood, and so forth, all measur'd upon a Scale far from Philadelphian,— whereunto we, and our Royal Commission, and our battery of costly Instruments, are but Fleas in the Flea Circus. We trespass, each day ever more deeply, into a world of less restraint in ev'rything,— no law, no convergence upon any idea of how life is to be,— an Interior that grows meanwhile ever more forested, more savage and perilous, until,— perhaps at the very Longitude of your 'City,'— we must reach at last an Anti-City,— some concentration of Fate,— some final condition of Abandonment,— wherein all are unredeemably alone and at Hazard as deep as their souls may bear,— lost Creatures that make the very Seneca seem Christian and merciful."
"Eeh, chirpy today...? yet do I wish thee joy of thy dreams, Mason. I knaah the ones just before tha wake are most pleasant to thee,— having myself by then been long awake, from reluctance to re-visit the Horrors of my own, and so able to observe thee."
"How, then? Do I talk in my sleep, is that what you're saying?"
"Oh, aye. But tha needn't worry, no one would make it out, 'tis all another Language."
"I'm talking, another Language, in my Sleep,— Dixon?"
"Don't see what the whim-wham's about,—
"Possession!— That is, somebody else's soul, possessing my body, whilst I sleep,— that's what it's about!"
"Why aye, whilst tha're away dreaming, that's what some would say, and others would add, What of it? Don't squint, ask the Reverend. Tha've a Dream-body, what use to thee's the solid one, for the time tha sleep? Here's some wand'ring Soul who may have been centuries without sleep, who may've indeed forgotten what sleep feels like, who, had Winding-Sheets pockets to carry it, might've offer'd pounds of Gold, for even a quarter-hour's rest...and here thy body is, as an Inn in the Wilderness, heated, drain'd, provision'd, and but for a beating Heart and a dormant Brain, vacant. Surely 'tis only the mildest of inconveniences—
"Then tell me, Mirth,— where might this alien Ghost be, whilst I'm not dreaming? In what sort of humor?"
"Busy looking for another Habitation, I'd imagine...? Apprehen-
"Well— this won't do, will it."
"Not if tha feel this way. Here,— why not have Captain Zhang 'round someday to stand just outside, listen closely, and see what he can make of it...?"
"Too intimate."
"Half the Camp hears it. Some take it for Indians. Axmen say, if so, 'tis a Nation they have not yet encounter'd."
Later in the day, as they emerge from a Woodline, Mason gesturing eastward to where the encampment has swung into view, a Flight of sail,— "Something waits, directly in the Path of our Parallel,— too sure of itself to feel oblig'd to come forward and meet us,— and Lo,— what is to become of this rolling Gypsy village we've brought with us?" late sun, early Shadow in the tent-riggings. Pots a-clattering, kitchen smoke sucked out of Vents by the wind passing over. "None of this may be about either you or me. Our story may lie rather behind and ahead, and only with the Transits of Venus, never here in the Present, upon the Line, whose true Drama belongs to others,— Darby, Cope, Tom Hynes, Mr. Barnes, some new hire we don't even see,— and when 'tis all done I shall only return to Sapperton, no wiser, and someday wake up and not know if any of this 'happen'd,' or if I merely dream'd it, even this very moment, Dixon, which I know is real—"
"Oh dear....?"
For a while, at any rate, it appears to be the Drama of Stig, the Merry Axman, with ev'ryone else scurrying 'round out of sight, switching Wigs and Coats, appearing in the Proscenium only when needed,— "and whom has Stig ever needed?" as Mrs. Eggslap is apt to sigh, even in his hearing. But Stig, working diligently upon his Ax-bit, requires as near to perfect clarity of mind as he may achieve. It is this apparently single-minded concentration that at length draws the Attention of Light-Fingers McFee, in the midst of whose rummaging thro' Stig's Sea-Chest, Stig makes his Entrance, Ax in Hand.
"What is this?" he inquires.
"Ha! What is this?" brandishing an un-roll'd Sheet of Parchment cov-er'd with elaborate Seals and antiquated writing in some other Language, possibly Swedish.
Stig holds out his hand. "Give it."
McFee gazes at the Ax-Bit's shining Edge, considering. "Indians!" he yells.
"What does it mean, 'Indians'?" Stig asks, of an empty Tent, for McFee has zipp'd away. Stig roars and chases after him, as they go kicking over Laundry-Kettles, tripping over Tent-Guys and causing Tents to
collapse, stopping at the Commissary to throw Potatoes and Onions at each other furiously for a full minute,— till in rides Capt. Shelby's co-officer out here, Mr. Joseph ("Continuation Joe") Warford, who detains them both, and after all have proceeded to the Cook-tent, has a look at the mysterious Parchment.
"Hum. Swedish is it, Stig?"
"Latin," Stig replies.
"Now then Stig, out with it," demands Capt. Shelby, " - or them yingle-yanglin' days is past and gone."
"Very well.—I am here on behalf of certain Principals in Sweden, who believe that the Penns, being secretly creatures of Rome, took illegally the original Svanssen land 'pon which Philadelphia would later come to sit,— and thus that the whole Metropolis has never ceas'd to belong, rightfully, to Sweden."
"What,— Swedish Jacobites!" exclaims Dixon, "sort of thing.. .why, -Stig...?"
"Amid the glitter of your great World, the Flame of our cause may be easily overlook'd,...yet it burns hotly enough that certain Hands long accustom'd to Thievery durst not venture too close. Swedes have been here from the beginning, living among the Indians in peace, with no need to obtain their land falsely,— indeed, for Penn, Swedes were but another tribe of Indian, residing within his American Grant, whose Priority there he found no less irksome,— which is why, at bottom, there ever was a Boundary Dispute, and these Astronomers are come here at all."
"Stig," cries Mrs. Eggslap, "I had no idea! why, you can talk! I'll go bail for him gladly, Your Grace."
"Surely," protests the Camp-Lawyer Mr. Barnes, "if this be a Swedish claim, 'tis advanced in a less than timely way, Sir.—Eighty years and more, Kings have come and gone. How do you expect to fare in this?"
"I am but an Agent, Sir. For a greater View of Motive and Interest, beyond our own simple desire for Justice, you might ask among your Jesuitick acquaintance."
"If that's a remark about me,— " Dixon in full truculency.
"Gentlemen! Ladies!" cries the Justice of the Peace. "Must I read the Riot Act? I do so, I am told, most affectingly, having been compared indeed with Mr. Whitefield,— though I take in far less in donations, of course." (This seems to many a blatant request for a Bribe, tho' others maintain 'tis but innocent Joking.) "Now then Stig, give us your account, man."
"Do any of you know," Stig inquires, "what I have come down to you
out of? The Frost eternal, the Whiteness abounding, beneath that all-
night Sun? In the Royal Library in Copenhagen lies an ancient Vellum
Manuscript, a gift from Bishop Brynjolf to Frederick the Third, contain
ing Tales of the first Northmen in America, of those long Winters and the
dread Miracles that must come to pass before Spring,— the Blood, the
Ghosts and Fetches, the Prophecies and second Sight And the melan
choly suggestion, that the 'new' Continent Europeans found, had been
long attended, from its own ancient Days, by murder, slavery, and the
poor fragments of a Magic irreparably broken.
"To enter the Capes of Delaware, was thus, for me, to pass the Pillars of Hercules,— not outward, into the simple Mysteries of an open Sea, but inward,— branching, narrowing, compressing toward an Enigma as opaque and perilous as any in my Travels. All day we ascended, and at dusk, finally approach'd Philadelphia Irredempta, ceaselessly a-clamor in the torch-light, headlong, as if in continuous Arrival from the Future,— the mesopotamian Idyll of the Svanssens, as vanish'd as Eden.
"As I stood among the hectic Mobility at Dock-Side, uncertain as to my next Step, a foreign Hand tapp'd at my mantle. A voice bade me good day, using my Christian name. I shiver'd, though I seldom do, ordinarily. 'Twas not a Voice I knew,— yet, terribly, I knew it well. Unprepared for any reception here, nonetheless I went with him through the necessary exchanges of Counter-seals and words that may never be written down and the like,— I stammer'd some kind of thanks for having been met. I can remember no longer what he look'd like. A closed Carriage approach'd,—
"Hold," cries Capt. Shelby, "— what is this,— Elect Cohens, Bavarian Rosicrucians? Come, Stig, admit it,— you're not Swedish at all...are you?"
"Sir,— 'tis for you to work out,— let us say, that my people are of the North, Northern and very White, so white in fact that you British to us appear as do Africans, to you." He pauses, as one telling a Joak pauses for laughter, but all are silent, puzzling how white that might be. Stig
presses on. "The first thing we learn to do, however, before we even learn to fish, is to impersonate Swedes,— for our Nation much prefer to remain unmolested, in return for sending south a few Emissaries now and then, like sacrificial youths and maidens, into the Sin-laden World, posing as Finns, Swedes, the odd Hungarian,— a Corps of Intermediaries for Hire, of whom I am honor'd to be one."
"Working as an agent for Swedish Jacobites unnam'd," Mr. Warford writing vigorously.
"My Contract runs for a year. By next year, Sweden, 'Dusky Olaf,' as we like to personify the place, may no longer wish to pursue his Claim. Then I shall have to be an A-gent for someone else." His Eye-lashes Stirrings of Light, his Brow pale and trackless as an Arctic Shore. "No Question I shall find Work with some American Province. After Mr. Franklin's success in London, Colonial Agents will be much in demand, as hard put to meet the Standards he has set."
"What I don't quite grasp," says Mr. Warford, "is how felling Trees all day is going to help the Swedes take Philadelphia back."
"Healthy Exercise," replies Stig. "Learning the Pioneer Arts,— in particular, the production of Vistoes. Ya, Vistoes to us may prove quite important,— as the Shape of a Lance once held within it the Shape of the Tilting-Lists wherein 'twould be us'd, so do these Lancaster County Rifles, with an amazing Fidelity, create their own Vistoes of moving Lead, straight as a Ray of Light for a Mile or more,— quite terrible for the unfortunate Squirrel over on the next Ridge-line, who imagines he has found safety."
"You anticipate an arm'd attack against Philadelphia?"
"Is that so fanciful? The Paxton Boys nearly succeeded last year, didn't they? and those were Scots, Welsh, Irish,— southern Races. Imagine next time, a Band, similarly arous'd, of healthy Swedes."
"Should you be sharing their Intentions this way, Sir?"
Stig shrugs genially. "Nothing is certain. Were the Time ever to come, the Continent should know."
"Aye, and you'll fare as well as Braddock did," declares Mr. Boggs, "for there's no room for your European Anticks over here in the Woods."
"Braddock's Vistoe was not wide enough," declares Stig. "Correctly prepar'd for and executed, techniques from the Prussian Plains, where
Science and Slaughter were ever fruitfully conjoin'd, remain unsur-pass'd...."
"Tell 'em, Soldier!" adds Zsuzsa Szabo. "If it's not fit for Cavalry, it's not fit for war. The Future's out West, not creeping 'round these Woods."
"Bugs in your Hair," notes Eliza Fields.
"Too much green in the Day-light, as Grease in the Candle-light," adds Patience Eggslap. "Yet if it hadn't been for Trees, I'd probably never have found Stig."
"Was I lost?" Stig inquires. "When?"
Terrain begins to get "banky," as Dixon styles it. There are not as many Settlements, Forges, Saw-mills, or planted Fields. The last Market-Roads are cross'd,— the three between Antietam and Conococheague, the Fort Bedford Road, and finally, Braddock's Road,— Lingering pro-long'd, gazing North and South, for whatever Traffick there might be,— each Road abruptly, too soon, behind them. They have enter'd that strewn and charr'd Theater of the late War, where Indians are still being shot by white men, and whites scalp'd by Indians, who yet pass upon their forbidden Trails, and watch invisibly from the Forests,— and there's no one who can tell the Surveyors whether or not 'tis a District any more in reach of the Treaty of Paris than were Pontiac and his Armies the summer before the Surveyors arriv'd in America.
Hickman, Gibson, and Killogh, veterans of Braddock's Defeat, depress the Spirits of the Company with Tales of that Tragedy, of how the Bears came out of the Trees to feed upon the Corpses of English soldiers, "A Defile of Ghosts growing, with the Years, more desperate and savage, to Settlers and Indians alike. You'd not wish this Line to pass too close to them, I shouldn't think."
"Do yese Damage," nods Alex McClean.
Their last ten-minute Arc-Segment, this time out, lands them about two miles short of the Summit of Savage Mountain, beyond which all waters flow West, and legally the Limit of their Commission. They set a Post at 165 Miles, 54 Chains, 88 Links from the Post Mark'd West and, turning, begin to widen the Visto, moving East again, Ax-blows the day long. From the Ridges they can now see their Visto, dividing the green
Vapors of Foliage that wrap the Land, undulating Stump-top yellow, lofty American Clouds a-sailing above, and, "This day from the Summit of Sidelong Hill I saw the Line still formed the arch of a lesser circle very beautiful, and agreeable to the Laws of a Sphere," as Mason records.
"Yet," he confides to Capt. Zhang, "this unremitting Forest,— it disturbs me. Far, far too many trees."
"Consider," replies the Geomancer, "— Adam and Eve ate fruit from a Tree, and were enlighten'd. The Buddha sat beneath a Tree, and he was enlighten'd. Newton, also sitting beneath a Tree, was hit by a falling Apple,— and he was enlighten'd. A quick overview would suggest that Trees produce Enlightenment. Trees are not the Problem. The Forest is not an Agent of Darkness. But it may be your Visto is."
"Are we in any danger at this moment?" Mason might be joking, but for an anxious under-tone.
"Sha takes time to accumulate and accelerate," explains Captain Zhang. "At this stage, only those of heightened sensitivity, like myself, can even feel it.—But I am uncomfortable. May we move off the Line a bit?
"To rule forever," continues the Chinaman, later, "it is necessary only to create, among the people one would rule, what we call.. .Bad History. Nothing will produce Bad History more directly nor brutally, than drawing a Line, in particular a Right Line, the very Shape of Contempt, through the midst of a People,— to create thus a Distinction betwixt 'em,— 'tis the first stroke.—All else will follow as if predestin'd, unto War and Devastation."
"Wait," objects Mr. Dixon. "It's as plain as pudding that Pennsylvania and Maryland are so different, that thy fatal Distinction was inflicted upon these Shores, long before we arriv'd,—
"Poh, Sir," goads Mason, "the Provinces are alike as Stacy and Tracy."
"Except for the Negro Slavery upon one side," Dixon points out, less mildly than he might, "and not the other."
"If you think you see no Slaves in Pennsylvania," replies Capt. Zhang, his face as smooth as Suet, "why, look again. They are not all African, nor do some of them even yet know,— may never know,— that they are Slaves. Slavery is very old upon these shores,— there is no
Innocence upon the Practice anywhere, neither among the Indians nor the Spanish nor in the behavior of the rest of Christendom, if it come to that."
On June I4th, they stand atop the Allegheny Divide. From now on, any Settlers they find are here in violation of Penn's and Bouquet's Edicts. Here the Party will cross, not alone into Ohio, but into Outlawry as well. At last, running Water becomes the underlying unit of measurement,— Planets hold their Courses, Constellations stately creep on, Napier's Bones click in the Surveyors' Tents, and quietly, calmly, ev'rything keeps coming back to Water, how it inhabits the Land, how it gets on with the Dragon beneath. Mapp'd at last, "Maryland" is reveal'd as but a set of Lines meant to Frame Potowmack to the West, and Chesapeake to the East,— dry Land is included, but the Map is of Water. "Beyond the Dividing Mountain (Savage), the Waters all run to the Westward," Mason enters in the Field-Book. "The first of Note (which our Line would cross if continued) is the Little Yochio Geni, running into the Monaungahela, which falls into the Ohio or Allegany River at Pitsbourg (about 80 Miles West, and 30 or 40 North from hence)....The Ohio is navigable for small craft by the accounts I have had from many that have passed down it; and falls in to the River Mississippi (about 36.5 degrees of North Latitude; Longitude 92 degrees from London); which empties itself into the Bay of Florida." This is how far one Day at the Savage Mountain Summit takes his Desire, or his Quill.
"Who sent you boys out here like this?" There are about six of them. Some afterward will say seven. They are wearing Hats made from the fur of Raccoons, Opossums, Weasels, and Beavers,— and holding long Rifles with octagonal barrels, and packing a Pistol or two each. Even the Horses are glaring, all but carnivorously, at the Party.
A Dilemma. Say the name of either Proprietor, and they are agents of the Enemy. Say "Royal Society," and 'twill sound like working for the King, who's even less popular out here than the Penns. "Running a Line
East and West," Dixon finally says, "for some Gentlemen who'll pay for something that looks good on a Map."
"Lot o' Boys for just a simple straight Line, ain't it?"
"We could use more'n this," suggests Tom Hynes, perhaps not as aware as those Axmen who've taken refuge behind the Trees, how easily the Visitors may be provok'd. "Lot of Trees need fallin'. Ask the Steward, Mr. McClean. It's three and six the Day, and we'll keep ye fed."
"For how long?"
"Far west as they let us go. Could get day-to-day after a little,—
"Hai-ll,— sounds good to me."
' 'Tis your Wife that's Good, Lloyd,— this is 'at damn Proclamation Line, 's what it is."
"No it ain't, that runs the other way, all along the Allegheny Ridge-Line. This is something else. Why're you chopping down all these Trees?"
"You're sure welcome to haul away what you need."
"This all right with Colonel Bouquet?"
Out here, the Col° would be a ruthless sort of chap to run up against. The Hero of Bushy Run has his own plans for America, and a good many friends among the high Whiggery as well,— as who must not, in these times. His Scheme is to tessellate across the Plains a system of identical units, each containing five Squares in the shape of a Greek Cross, with each central square controlling the four radiating from it,— tho' as to their Size, no one is agreed, some saying a mile on a side, others ten, or an Hundred,— Ohio, and the western Prairie beyond, presenting such Enigma, that no one knows what scale to work at.
"A Prison," suggests Capt. Zhang. "Settlers moving West into instant Control."
"Dozens of such Schemes each year," shrugs Capt. Shelby, "and they all fail."
"Bringing closer the day," replies the Chinaman, as if receiving Instruction from Elsewhere, "when one of them succeeds.”
63
On August 4th, Mason reports a "great Storm of Thunder and Lightning: the Lightning in continued Streams or Streaks, from the Cloud to the ground all 'round us; about 5 minutes before the hurricane of wind and Rain; the Cloud from the Western part of the Mountain put on the most dreadful appearance I ever saw: It seemed to threaten an immediate dissolution to all beneath it."
"Thy sort of Weather," Dixon, chewing upon more than smoking a Conestoga Cigar, supposes.
"Look at that Cloud. Awful. Don't you pray, in situations like this?" "Of course. But I didn't imagine Deists did, so much...?" "This is no Pervading Influence, this is as personal as it gets, all it'd take'd be one Bolt of Lightning— " A huge, apocalyptick Peal strikes directly outside, arriving together with a Volume of light unknown even at mid-Day.
Again are the Party returning Eastward, into Memory, and Confabulation. The physickal World, from Gusts to Eclipses, must insist upon itself a bit more, so claim'd are the Surveyors in their contra-solar Return by Might-it-bes, and If-it-weres,— not to mention What-was-thats.
Next day, whilst yet west of Gunpowder, crossing Biter-Bit Creek, they pass near a House which is just reaching the Cusp of a Monthly, indeed Lunar, Whim-Wham they have on previous Occasions manag'd to avoid. It seems that each time the full Moon ascends to bathe in her flavid Stain the Steeps and Crevices of that country, Zepho Beck creeps from his Bed, waking his Wife, Rhodie, who then waits for as many heart-beats as she may bear before stealing out after Zepho as he proceeds to the Creek-side and, selecting a young Birch of a certain Diameter, crouches before it, bares his Teeth, Finger-combing his hair back from his face with Creek-Water, approaching the Tree closely enough to sniff the Bark, and smell the Fluids of life coursing beneath, before falling upon it, and in a short tho' hideous turn of Gnawing,— his Eyes throwing crazed yellow flashes all about,— bringing it down—With his Wife watching secretly and in some Agitation, Zepho sheds his clothing to reveal a dense fur covering his Body,— enters the Water, dragging with him the slain Tree, and moves up-stream,— flapping his feet, now grown webb'd to propel and steer him,— sleekly 'round several bends, till coming upon a great Dam being built by legitimate Beavers, who of course all go swimming for their Lives as soon as they see Zepho, for they know him, as this has been happening ev'ry full Moon. Perhaps indifferent to their social Rejection, he sets to work separating his Tree into Poles, Sticks, and Withes, and placing them wherever in the Structures of Dam or Lodge he feels they need to go. The next morning he is found down-hill from his House, beside the fishing-Pond, lying among remnants of gnaw'd Shrubs, with fragments of half-eaten water-lilies protruding from his Mouth.
"Kastoranthropy," Professor Voam shaking his head, "And haven't I seen it do things to a man. Tragick."
"Yes and you might ask the Indians that you meet, how all the other Beavers like it," says Rhodie.
" 'Other,' Madam?"
"Well you've but to look at him, when he's...the way he is, the Hair, the Teeth? the Tail, for goodness' Sake, they seem to regard him as another breed of creek life,— welcoming his help with the Construction,— yet in the month's Lull before his next Fit, oblig'd to waste their Time putting much of it right again. I love him but Zepho's no Carpenter. Look at this place, Lord in his Mercy. And it gets worse. He believes that Indians are out setting traps for him, aiming to capture him and trade his Pelt for Weapons. Sometimes he does say 'Scalp,' but mostly 'tis 'Pelt.'''
"An advanc'd case," nods the Professor. They are in the Barn, where Zepho has been brought, much to the perplexity of the Animals there,
who must conflate the Being who feeds them with this wild creature. "The Indians I have consulted, know ev'rything that's going on, and if it's any comfort, at least Zepho's not alone, there's been an Ulster Scot with a Taste for Swamp Maples, paddling about all summer, up Juniata,— a Son of Dublin, down by Cheat,— in fact, enough Kastormorphism among White folks out here, since we first started settling, to populate a good Lake of our own."
These Indians are certainly no strangers to the idea of a Giant Beaver. He figures importantly in Tales of how they and the World began,— he claims a fourth of the Delaware Nation under the Beaver Totem,— he is a protector, sustainer, worker of Miracles. Zepho during the Full Moon, however, is not exactly what they have in mind, failing somehow to be sinister or powerful enough,— nor, to be direct, do they ever find him quite Beaver enough, as the Phenomenon lasts but a Night and a Day, whilst beneath ev'ry other Phase of the Moon, he appears to be the Zepho of old.
"How can you go on wanting me as your husband?" he cries.
"Beaver for a Day don't seem like much, Zepho,— you've seen ev'rything I can turn into."
"Mighty kind of you, Rhodie,— in fact, too kind. What is it you're cooking up now?"
"Nothing, Zepho. Just how women flit from one daydream to another,— and all at once I had this idea for a Contest,—
"Rhodie?"
"Make us a Fortune! Suppose you and that Swedish Axman Stig were to—
"Wait, wait,— Dear, it wouldn't work,— a dozen things must be perfect,— the Bark has to taste right,— the age of the Tree,— its Vital Emanations,—
"Nor's it quite fair," Professor Voam adds, "for Stig's indifferent to what he chops down, knowing he can fell anything with that Swedish Bit and custom Handle, a Hickory or an Alder, an Oak or a Peach, it matters little to Stig, the Equations are the same but for the Arboreal Coefficients,— Details of importance to a Beaver are absorb'd in a single brutal downswing,— after which, all is over."
"You're saying it's a mismatch? Listen, tree-for-tree I can match anything that Swede can do.”
"There's the Zepho I married!"
And so, at the full Moon of August 5th, the two Lumbermen meet upon the Visto. Mason and Dixon bring out and carefully adjust the Royal Society Clock, winch up the Weight, and set the Pendulum a-tick. The Contestants are to proceed side by side, each being responsible for half of the Visto's Breadth. At the end of two perfectly measur'd Hours, the slain trees will be counted. If the numbers happen to be equal, then Zepho and Stig will each fell one more Tree, and the fastest will be Winner.
"All set?" booms Mr. Barnes, "— Gentlemen, let's clear us some Visto!"
A chorus of Mrs. Eggslap's young Ladies have turn'd out to lend support to Stig,— "Swing that Ax! Chop that Tree! On, Stig, on! To Victo-ry!" Stig strikes for them an athletick Pose, then another,— he has more than enough time, hasn't he, to get to work, and these girls are all so,—
"Stig!"
What is this? He narrows his Gaze, looking about. Zepho is already well out of sight, over the next Rise in fact, having left behind a five-yard Swathe of Trees horizontal, and neatly separated into Trunks, Branches, and Withes. Stig grips his Ax, assaulting his side of the Visto with so much Fury that the first Tree is coming down before he is really prepar'd to avoid it. One Limb in consequence catches him fairly across the Arse, sending him a-sprawl. He takes some time to arise, and when he does, he's limping. It proves but a Sprain, that he is able in the next two hours to work out, yet not enough to come up appreciably upon Zepho.
"I thought I was perfect," as Stig will recall later, " - what hap-pen'd?"
"Sometimes," Mrs. Eggslap will begin, " 'tis hard, to be a Woman—"
By now 'tis well past Sun-set, and the Full August Moon has risen. Expecting its Rays further to enhance Zepho's performance, Guy Spit the pass-bank Bully is sending Agents 'round to make side-Wagers as to the total number of Trees fell'd. Imagine his consternation when Zepho, seeing the risen Orb, screams and runs for the nearest Shade.
"Impossible," mutters Professor Voam. "Unless..."
"The Light," Zepho screams, " - the Moon, Rhodie, it's almost,— aahh!”
Mason looks at Dixon. Dixon looks at Mason. "The Eclipse!" both cry at the same time. They have only now remember'd the Eclipse of the Moon, due to start later tonight. Zepho is 'morphosing back to Human, and not enjoying it much. Stig requests that the contest be declar'd void, and Guy Spit collapses in tears, his only intelligible Word, "Ruin."
' 'Tis well," murmurs Rhodie, trying to ignore the vast hands-ful of Fur Zepho is shedding all over her Apron. "There is a promising Lawsuit in this, if we can prove those Astronomers knew about it in advance."
"We assum'd the one would have no effect upon the other," protests Mason, "and we certainly didn't use the knowledge to win any money, did we?"
Dixon raises his eyes piously.
"How could they not be connected? Zepho, my own, speak to me!"
"Not even a Philadelphia Lawyer could win with an Argument like that."
"In ancient Days," notes Capt. Zhang, "they'd have been beheaded! Indeed, it nearly happen'd to a Pair of Astronomers legendary in China, nam'd Hsi and Ho." The next evening, Zepho yet in mental distress over his unpremeditated re-humanizing, and the Topick of Mason and Dixon's lapse having again arisen, the Captain tells,—
64
Once, so long ago that no one is sure of Dates anymore,— tho' some say it was during the reign of one of the Hia Emperors,— upon the first day of Autumn in the Hsiu or Moon-station of Fang, an eclipse of the Sun occurr'd, which the Court Astronomers, Hsi and Ho, fail'd to predict,— not just predict accurately, but predict at all. Instead of diligently observing the Heavens, and doing the calculations, they had been spending most of their time roistering into town at late hours, abusing wine, drunkenly pursuing notorious Courtesans, not all of whom were Women, falling into public Latrines, and losing great portions of their Royal Stipends to all sorts of thieves, from Adventuresses to Gamingtable Bullies,— until, one strangely-lit Noontide, clogg'd and neural-gick, weaving their way back to their quarters in the Palace, they notice something about the shadows of the trees.—The sunlight that is able to pass clear of the leaves and strike the Road-way, instead of the usual more or less round Dots amid a general shade, presents instead, a mindlessly repeated Spill of identical Crescents, each growing imperceptibly narrower and sharper, as the stupefied Philosophers watch,— slowly realizing that they are seeing the Moon, moving onto the Disk of the Sun, carpeting the Ground by the bleary shimmering tens of thousands, as far in ev'ry direction as they can see.
"We may be in trouble," says Ho.
"Thanks for doing the brain-work on that." They hurry on in the livid, decadent Noon, stepping among the slow-stirring bright lacework, their faces averted from the Event above. Dogs howl all over the City. Chickens stop what they are doing and fall asleep. Babies cry, Pigs briefly acquire the power of speech, saying, "Hush, hush." The Light continues to seep away, until all individual Shadows are dissolv'd in a general Gloom, tense and baleful.
Inside the Observatory, a great Tower of imported Rajputana Marble, a winding stairway leads upward to the Observing Platforms. Hsi and Ho ascend, bickering. "We did the Reductions correctly, didn't we? You look'd it over, right?"
"Well I didn't check ev'ry Digit, I assum'd that if you were doing your job, I wouldn't have to."
At the highest platform, they stand, two miniature rob'd wastrels, trying not to look into the black rays of Totality, whilst, far below, with an eruption of Cymbals and Fifes, a great Voice declares Hsi and Ho, henceforward unto Eternity, enemies of the Emperor,— and condemns them to death.
"For what?" Ho, terrified, squeals at his Partner. "What'd we do?"
"We made the Emperor look bad. As a Child of Heaven, he's suppos'd to know all about these Wonders in advance."
' 'Tis only an Eclipse,— only Shadows,— what harm to the Kingdom could result?"
Hsi cackles. "As above, so below. Eclipses indicate for all to see that something is wrong in the very Heart of the State,...tho' with this Emperor, if anything goes amiss, his shoes failing to fit, his Luncheon disagreeing with him, whatever it is, he'll blame it 'pon the Eclipse,— that is, upon us."
Ho groans. "Our heads, for a little indigestion?"
"Why they call them 'Heads of State,' I suppose—"
"Hsi! we are in Danger! What do we do?"
"Escape," reckons Hsi. Looking Earthward, they now see below them a body of men in dark, gleaming Armor, gathering into columns in the damag'd light.
"How," inquires Ho, his voice higher than usual, "— fly?"
"An excellent idea," Hsi now producing a gigantick sky-blue Kite, of some strong yet light silk Stuff, strengthen'd with curious Bamboo Rib-
work, furnish'd with apparatus for steering. "Quickly!" They can hear the clamor of Soldiers' feet, echoing in the Stair-well.
"But will it hold our combin'd weights?" cries Ho, as his colleague, having attach'd these Wings, now roughly embraces him.
"Depends what you ate for Breakfast,"— as together they step from the Ærial platform into pure Altitude.—
"Well, I had the rest of the Duck, about six Dumplings with Pork Sauce, then— Aaaagh!" as they go plummeting toward the Terrain below, clutching each other in terror as, above them now, upon the Platform they lately occupied, appear the first of their Pursuers, gazing after them in that afflicted light, with faces too small to read any more. They wait for Arrows. Above stares the black Disk of the Sun....
In the reduced Visibility, the Astronomers have lost all sense of how fast they're falling,— indeed have no idea of how far they have already travel'd from the Palace and their Pursuers. It is really only after considerable time has pass'd, without having smash'd into the ground at high speed, that Hsi, the quicker of the pair, grasps that they have been gliding after all. By then the Lunar Visitor has begun to pass from the Sun's Face, and the landscape to grow increasingly readable again.
"Look!" Hsi pointing behind Ho, "some Army, and on the move! Look at that Plume of Dust!"
"Where?" Ho turns to look. "And,— coming our way, too! what do you suppose it is?"
"Wait," it occurs to Hsi. "Ho, 'tis us. Elementary Opticks! If we can see them..."
"Yes, yes?" Ho waits. Hsi waits for Ho. At length, "Oh of course, you mean,— then they can see us, too?"
"For this, I am risking my life? Why don't I just drop you off here? It would also make my escape that much easier."
"Suit yourself of course."
"And my arms are getting tir'd."
"Well, so are mine. Some embrace!"
"All right then, off you go," Hsi opening his arms abruptly. Ho clutches wildly back at Hsi but is already in midair, with nothing more to expect in the way of embraces, but the Wind of his Descent.
So intently have the Astronomers been bickering, however, that Ho has fail'd to notice how closely by now their Craft has laps'd to Earth. In fact, he falls no more than ten feet, and that into a small, willow-fring'd Lake belonging to the lands of Lord Huang, a very rich trader with seven eligible daughters. As Ho flounders about in the Lake, his partner lands on top of him, and then the pair of Wings upon them both....
They haul themselves to shore and stagger about, soaking wet, beginning, as their relief at being alive fades, to argue again. "You just let me drop?" Ho recalls. "Much higher, and you would have murder'd me?— This is strange! I'm here talking to not just a murderer, but my murderer!"
"/ knew we were almost down," Hsi says. "Do you really think I'd drop you any more than ten feet?"
"Well,— I don't know. Would you have dropp'd me,— twenty feet? People can get kill'd falling twenty feet."
"Not into the water."
"Oh! Suppose it had been but a giant reflecting-pool, and only Inches deep?"
"I could see 'twas far deeper, by the color of the Water, not to mention Waves upon the Surface."
"So after this close assessment of our landing area, why did you not choose to share any of it?"
"You seem'd more interested in screaming,— I was reluctant to interrupt."
"But you let me believe you were killing me.—When I hit that lake, I thought, so, this is it, here it is, the world of the Dead.—Hmm, wet— Cold, too. They don't let you breathe. So forth. Eventually realizing I was under Water, of course,—
"Thank you, Ho,— but for the kind of help you need...your College must keep a list they can refer you to, and as I've said many times, there is no stigma, there are excellent remedial programs for cases like— excuse me, what are you doing?"
"Pissing." Somewhere out in the pale green Maze of the willows there's a chorus of merry comment, from the daughters of Huang, who customarily go about ev'rywhere in Company. Soon Ho has wander'd out of Hsi's sight, calling, "Girls! Girls! Here it is, over here!”
About then their Father shows up with a platoon of arm'd retainers, demanding to know how Hsi has penetrated so far inside his Boundaries. Unable to come up with another story on the Spot, Hsi tells the truth. The Lord thinks he is confabulating, but the Eclipse part of it has his interest. "Stargazer, eh? Can you predict when the next Eclipse will happen?"
"Of course. The Moon, you want Moon-Eclipses, I can do those too."
"I made more yuan on one deal today than you would ever have seen in your Life working for the Emperor,— all as the Result of your wond'rous Eclipse. A warehouse full of silk, let go for nothing, because its owner thought this was the End. If I'd known beforehand, I could have done more than one Deal like that. No wonder the Emperor wants your heads."
Reflexively Hsi grabs his Head, as if to assure himself of its continued Attachment. "Uh..."
"Needless to say, this would pay quite well. Same deal for your Partner, of course. Where is he, by the way?"
This is answer'd by a slow crescendo of Conversation, advancing upon them through the ornamental forest of Birches all around. "Keep those swords ready, Boys," advises Lord Huang, beginning to betray some Annoyance. Out of the trees bursts a dishevel'd and uncontrollably giggling Ho, his arm around the eldest of the girls, who is kissing him passionately whilst her sisters, aroar and roseate and smudg'd, frolick about them.
"Papa! This is Ho, and we wish to be married, this instant."
"Yes Papa, oh please," chorus the rest, as Li gives Ho a push, sending him staggering in her Father's direction. Ho's robes are torn, upon all expos'd skin are fingernail scratches, there is green scum from the Lake clinging to his hair. He leers in a friendly way at Lord Huang but isn't sure what to say.
"Have we a Deal?" mutters the Lord to Hsi, who shrugs. "I see no problem, then.—Welcome to the Huangs, my boy. Ho, is it? You, like your excellent co-adjutor here, have pass'd into a new Realm. Your Emperor was answerable to Heaven,— here must we answer to the Market, day upon day unending, for 'tis the inscrutable Power we serve, an invisible-Handed god without Mercy."
In the weeks and years to follow, Hsi and Ho, ever one step ahead of the Emperor's hir'd Blademen, travel far, gain respect, and make fortune
upon fortune, not the least of their Successes being Erotick, at one time and another, in varying Combinations, too, some of them quite entertaining, with all seven Daughters. Hsi and Ho are frequently mistaken for one another,— in their early Careers an Inconvenience, in their later Years a source, ever fresh, of Occasion for Glee. Periodickally, one or the other, repenting of his life, makes Atonement to Heaven by forswearing Drink, or Gluttony, or Mah-Jongg,— as seldom, if ever, are both Astronomers repentant at the same time, at least one may pay his Duties close Attention. As a result, no longer do Hsi and Ho fail to plan for Eclipses, solar or lunar. Lord Huang, however, continues to extend himself upon a faith in the Astronomers ever in need of re-convincing, wagering ever more stupendous Sums upon the ecliptick Innocence of ev'ryone else, not only Silk-Merchants but presently Bankers, other Lords, and their Generals, until the terrible Day when Hsi or Ho, or both, whilst casting Calculations for an upcoming Total Solar Eclipse, with fingers Greas'd from the giant platter-ful of Dim Sum, which, having given their personal gold Chop-Sticks away as tokens of desire to the operatick Personage Miss Chen, they are absent-mindedly eating from by Hand, happen to mis-count enough critical Beads of the Abacus to throw their Prediction off by hours. Meanwhile, dress'd as a Chinese Sub-Deity in red, yellow, and blue and a number of Gem-Tones, having already commanded the Sun to darken, with no result, Lord Huang finds himself far from home, waiting before a fateful River-bank and a humorless Army. The contempt in the front ranks grows more and more open, as the loss of Huang's credibility spreads backward thro' the Host. The Sky continues as blank as a hir'd Astronomer's face, the Sun as relentlessly beaming as an Idiot. In one version of the Tale, Huang is sav'd just in time, and in his rage banishes Hsi and Ho, who end their lives in the western Desert, beggar'd and holy, living on what few drops of water and grains of Rice the Day may bring them,— in the other version, Huang is assassinated by his own fretful Troops, whereupon the Sun at last begins to darken, the Army is smitten with Terror and Contrition, and the Astronomers, who appear to have been waiting but this Moment all their lives, are easily able to take over Huang's Lands, Fortune, Army, and Harem of Daughters, who ageless as the Pleiades (which Chinese girls know as the "Seven Sisters of Industry") attend the Star-Gazers faithfully till their Days be run.
65
All the month of November, Mason and Dixon run the East Line, 11 miles, 20 Chains, 88 Links from the Post Mark'd West in Mr. Bryant's Field, now mark'd East as well,— eastward to the shore of Delaware, from which the five degrees of Longitude in the original Grant were to extend. It is a task they might have sub-contracted out to any of dozens of local Surveyors.
"Industrious Pair," speculates Capt. Zhang. "Unless you be, rather, jealous, to possess the Line in its entirety."
"As who would not?" Dixon replies. "Five degrees. Twenty minutes out of a day's Turn. Time enough for all sorts of activities,— eat the wrong Fish, fall in love, sign an order that will alter History, take a Nap...? A globe-ful of people, and not one is ignorant of the worth of twenty minutes, each minute a Pearl, let slip, one after the next, into Oblivion's Gulfs."
"Or twenty-one minutes, if you add another Quarter of a Degree," twinkles the Chinaman, "Crossing Ohio, as you might say. It was five and a Quarter Degrees that the Jesuits remov'd from the Chinese Circle, in reducing it to three hundred sixty. Bit like the Eleven Days taken from your Calendar, isn't it? Same Questions present themselves,— Where'd that Slice of Azimuth go? How will it be redeem'd? Perhaps your five Degrees of Visto were meant to be a sort of.. .Repository?"
The Surveyors exchange Grimaces. What now? Can he be serious? Have they another fictitious Spaniard in the Offing? "Wouldn't each Degree simply've been widen'd by just a hair, to make up for the loss?" Dixon gently, in a voice Mason has heard him use with pack-horses that the Killogh brothers, their Pack-Men, vouch are "daft." "So that in some way, so should I imagine, congenial to the Oriental Beliefs...?, thy missing Degrees are distributed indistinguishably thro'out the Entirety of the Circle...?"
"And what may that slender Blade of Planetary Surface they took away, not be concealing?" Zhang dementedly on, oblivious, "— twenty-one minutes of Clock-Time, and eleven Million Square Miles,— anything may be hiding in there, more than your Herodotus, aye nor immortal Munchausen, might ever have dreamt. The Fountain of Youth, the Seven Cities of Gold, the Other Eden, the Canyons of black Obsidian, the eight Immortals, the Victory over Death, the Defeat of the Wrathful Deities? Histories ever Secret. Lands whose Surveys will never be tied into any made here, in this Priest-tainted three-sixty,— blue Seas, as Oceanick Depths, call'd into Being by Mathesis alone...without Shores, nor any but their own Weather blowing in from no-where upon the official Globe—
"Nor ought we to be forgetting the Heavens,— as above, so below!— Stars beyond numbering, Planets unsuspected, Planets harboring Life! Morally Intelligent Life! an extra sign of the Zodiack, tho' of course running a bit narrower,— yet might it stretch out North to South, perhaps even all the width of the Semi-Circle,— a Dragon? a Pennsylvania Rifle? a Surveyors' Line?"
"Am I content with this? Was that your Question, Dixon?"
"Ah didn't say anything...?"
"Of course you did. You were muttering over there, I heard it."
"Happen I may have audibly wonder'd, how one with so much Investment in the matter of the Eleven Days, could be much offended when the Hysteresis be express'd in Degrees...?"
"And taken at the correct Scale," declares Captain Zhang, "what is there to choose? both are Experiences of that failure of perfect Return, that haunts all for whom Time elapses. In the runs of Lives, in Company as alone, what fails to return, is ever a source of Sorrow."
"And a lively Issue among the Metaphysickal I am sure," Mason attempts to beam, "the even yet more compelling Question, just now,
however, being, Are you planning on growing particularly violent any time soon?"
"You cannot shame me. I have lost Shame, as one loses a Bore at an Assembly, creeping behind, whispering, 'You should have left her in Quebec. Your Fate was never to bide this long, amid this Continental Folly.—Folly that you, yourself, are now fallen into.''
"Sounds like half the Axmen," notes Mason.
"The half who aren't past themselves over that Zsusza...?" adds Dixon.
"This quite exceeds, Sirs, the unsophisticated Grunting of Back-Woodsmen,— She was the captive Ward of my Life's great enemy. Tho' any sight of her, even at a distance, begin in Delight, soon enough shall his evil features emerge from, and replace, those belov'd ones...yet do I desire...not him, never him...yet...given such Terms, to desire her, clearly, I must transcend all Shame,— or be dissolv'd beneath it."
"And you're doing an excellent job!" exclaims Mason, "Isn't he, Lads?"
They return to Harlands' in early December, and get busy with the Royal Society's Degree of Latitude. No telling if they'll ever take the West Line west of Allegheny. All is in the hands of Sir William Johnson.
"Pleasant Gentleman," recalls Capt. Zhang. "Tho' what in distant parts be judg'd Madness, the wanderer may not say, or even know." Like others of the Party, he is apt now and then to drop in without prior Notice, at the Harlands', who are ever happy to have the Company. Advent sees the forming of something near a Club, for the purpose of Discourse upon the Topick of Christ's Birth, repairing after dinner to the Horse-Barn, Capt. Zhang and the Revd Cherrycoke being observ'd among those in faithful Attendance. The Astronomers prove less consistent, tho' willing to pronounce upon points of Chronology, or Astronomy,— or both, such as the Star that brought the Magi.
" 'Twas either a Conjunction of Planets," Dixon opines, "or a Comet."
"In seven B.C., according to Kepler, Jupiter and Saturn were conjunct three times,— and the next year, Mars join'd them," Mason declares. "No one who was out at night could have fail'd to notice that. It must have been the most spectacular Event in the Sky."
"Again, in perhaps twelve B.C.," Capt. Zhang points out, "appear'd the late Comet of 'fifty-nine, whose return to our Era Dr. Halley pre-
dieted,— the Tail, taper'd ever toward the Sun, thus able to direct your Magi,— or perhaps mine,— after each Sunset, to the West."
"Gentlemen, surely," the Revd, as mildly as he may, advances, "Christ was not born any time Before Christ?"
"If," says the Geomancer, "like all Christian nations, you accept the reckoning of Dionysius Exiguus,— then, Herod died in four B.C.,— yet the Gospels have him alive when Christ was born,— the taxation decree that brought Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem may've been as early as eight B.C. There are a number of these... strange inconsistencies."
"Unless the death of Herod be wrongly dated,— for Dennis the Meager, as we know him,— was an agent of God."
"God should've found another Agent," remarks Dixon, in the same side-of-the-mouth delivery as Mason.
"Mr. Mason!" the Revd turning to shake his Index.
"I didn't say that," Mason protests, "— Did I?”
66
"Just talk, Stig...." Spring Winds howl outside the Tent. Mrs. Eggslap is in an Emerald-green Sacque with Watteau pleats, all disarrang'd at the moment, as is her Hair. A stout Candle of Swedish Wax burns in a Candlestick of Military design.
"To Thorfinn Karlsefni's settlement at Hop," relates Stig, who in lieu of smoking a Stogie, has begun to inspect his Ax-blade for flaws perceptible to him alone,— "at the mouth of one of the Rivers of Vineland, the Skraellings come, to trade pelts for milk. What they really want are weapons, but Karlsefni has forbidden anyone to sell them. Upon the second visit, Karlsefni's wife Gudrid is inside the House, tending Snorri the baby, when despite the new Palisado and the Sentries, a strange, small Woman comes in, announc'd only by her Shadow, fair-hair'd, pale, with the most enormous eyes Gudrid has ever seen, and asks, 'What is your Name?'
'' 'My name is Gudrid,' replies Gudrid. 'What is your name?' ' 'My name is Gudrid,' she whispers, staring out of those Eyes. And all at once there is a violent crash, and the woman vanishes,— at the same Instant, outside, one of the Northmen, struggling with one of the Skraellings, who has tried to seize his weapon, kills him. With terrible cries, the other Skraellings run away,— the Northmen decide not to wait their return, but to go out to them, upon the Cape. The Sea roars against the Land, the Sea-Wind bears away the cries of the Wounded, Blood leaps, Men fall, most of those slain are Skrasllings, their Bodies splay'd and vaporous in the Cold. None but Gudrid ever saw the woman whose visit announc'd this first Act of American murder, and the collapse of Vineland the Good,— in another year Karlsefni's outpost would be gone, as if what they had done out upon the Headland, under the torn Banners of the Clouds, were too terrible, and any question of who had prevail'd come to matter ever less, as Days went on, whilst the residue of Dishonor before the Gods and Heroes would never be scour'd away. Thereafter they were men and women in Despair, many of whom, bound for Home, miscalculated the Route and landed in Ireland, where they were cap-tur'd and enslav'd."
"Oh, Stig."
"These are Tales of the Westward Escapes, of Helgi and Finnbogi, and Thorstein the Swarthy, and Biarni Heriulfsson. Rogues and Projectors and Fugitives, they went without pretext, no Christ, no Grail, no expectation beyond each Day's Turnings, to be haunted by Ghosts more material, less merciful, than any they'd left at their backs.
"They found here, again, as in Greenland and Iceland, Firths and Fjords,— something Immense had harrow'd and then flooded all these Coasts.—"
"So that's why the Swedes chose to sail between the Capes of Delaware,— they thought it was another Fjord! You fellows do like a nice Fjord, it seems. Instead, they found Pennsylvania!"
"Some Surprize?"
"Some Surprize.—Stig?"
"Yah, Pa-tience?"
"Do we really need the Ax right here, like this?"
This Season, hanging just over the Horizon, spreading lightless Mantle and pale fingers across the sky, the great Ghost of the woods has been whispering to them,— tho' Reason suggests the Wind,— "No...no more...no further." Such are the Words the Surveyors have been able to bring to their waking Bank-side, from this great fluvial Whisper.
"Reminds me of a Lass from Escombe...," remarks Dixon. Jointly and severally, they have continu'd to find regions of Panick fear all along the Line,— Dixon, in the great Cave whose Gothicity sends his partner into
such Raptures, but wondering, in some Fretfulness, what might be living in it large enough, to need so much space,— whereas 'tis Mason who stands sweating and paralyz'd before the great Death-shade of the Forest between Savage Mountain and Little Yochio Geni, "...a wild waste," he will write, "composed of laurel swamps, dark vales of Pine through which I believe the Sun's rays never penetrated," which evokes from Dixon, at his lengthiest, "Great uncommon lot of Trees about...?" Together, they are apt to be come upon at any stretch of the Chain, no telling when, by the next unwelcome Visitor that waits them. Nor,— tho' Night-fall is traditional,— will any Hour be exempt. This is none of the lesser Agents, the White Women or Black Dogs, but the Presence itself, unbounded, whose Visitations increase in number as the Party, for the last time, moves West.
One Day, having fail'd to fall asleep, and, as they often did, continue to sleep, through the nightly death of the Sun,— up instead, faces vermil-ion'd, amid the clank and bustle of preparations for the evening Mess,— Mason and Dixon hear the Voice, stirring the tops of Trees in a black swift Smear down the Mountainside and into the Shade, more to plead than to pronounce,— "You are gone too far, from the Post Mark'd West."
It is there. Neither Surveyor may take any comfort in Suspicions of joint Insanity. "Thankee," Mason mutters back to it, "as if we didn't already know."
"Myself...? Ah'd love to see the canny old Post again," adds Dixon, helpfully. They know by now where they are, not only in Miles, Chains, and Feet, but respecting as well the Dragon of the Land, according to which anyplace beyond the Summit of the Alleghenies, wherever the water flows West, into the Continental Unknown, lies too far from the Countryside where, quietly, unthreaten'd, among the tall gray stalks of the girdl'd trees, beneath Roofs tarr'd against the Rain, the Wives knead and flour, and the Dough's Rising is a Miniature of the great taken Breath of the Day,... and where voices in the Wind are assum'd into the singing of the Congregations, the Waggon's rumbling upon the roads of pack'd and beaten earth, the lowing, the barking, the solitary rifle-shot, close to supper-time, from over in the next Valley. Here the Surveyors,— as many of the Party,— have come away, as if backward in Time, beyond the Range of the furthest spent Ball, of the last friendly Pennsylvania
Rifle. The Implication of the ghostly Speech is clear to them both.— They will soon be proceeding, if indeed they are not already, with all Guarantees of Safety suspended,— as if Whatever spar'd them years ago, at Sea, were now presenting its Bill. Here, the next Interdiction, when it comes, will be not with the clamorous stench of Sea-Battle, but quieter than wind, final as Stone.
Abdominal Fear and Thoracick Indignation at the same moment visit both Surveyors. To have come this far...and yet, by the Scale it has assum'd, the Denial is so clearly meant to be heeded—
Be they heedful or not, 1767 will be their last year upon the Line. Conditions hitherto shapeless are swiftly reduc'd to Certainty. Having waited upon Sir William Johnson to negotiate with deputies from the Six Nations, assembl'd at German Flat, upon Mohawk, as to the continuation of the Line beyond the Allegheny Crest, the Surveyors loiter week upon week in Philadelphia, Drinking at Clubs, dancing with City Belles at Shore-parties, along the sand Beaches, playing two-handed Whist, their judgment in ev'rything from Fish to Pipe-Fellows grown perilously unreliable, as the Air oppressively damp,— howbeit, they get a late start this Year, not reaching the Allegheny Front until July, a full year since they left off their Progress West. Sir William Johnson is to be paid £500 for his Trouble.
Their last Spring out, passing by way of Octarara, they find the Redzingers and their neighbors all at a barn-raising nearby. A geomet-rick Maze of Beams, a-bang with men in black Hats. Luise waves to Peter up straddling a lower Girt, smiling over at one of the Yoder Boy's Hardware-Joaks. Mason and Dixon drop ceremonial Plumb-lines here and there, and Capt. Zhang pronounces the location acceptably within the Parameters of his Luo-Pan. He has re-join'd the Party after a mysterious Absence over the Winter, during which the Cobra-Brain Pearl he'd shown them has deflected at last the will of the Jesuit. Thro' its influence, there had appear'd in P. Zarpazo's path an irresistible offer to travel to Florida and be one of the founders of a sort of Jesuit Pleasure-Garden, of Dimensions unlimited by neighboring Parcels, tho' the Topick of Alligators has so far adroitly remain'd unaddress'd—
There are Parsnip Fritters, breaded fried Sausages, Rhubarb Dumplings, Souse and Horse-radish, Ham-and-Apple Schnitz und
Knepp, Hickory-Nut Cake and Shoofly Pies. Armand, bravely spruc'd up, even drops by,— tho' his heart, he will assure anyone who asks, is desolated,— with a strangely festive Pudding he has whisk'd together, loaded with Currants, candied Violets, dried apricots, peaches, and cherries chopp'd fine with almonds and rejuvenated in Raspberry Brandy. He is surrounded immediately by various small Children.
Luise leads her Husband over, by the hand with the sacred Finger, and the men meet formally at last. Armand finds himself looking upward at this very large German, who continues to grip the equally oversiz'd Hammer with which he has been whacking at Beams and Plates all day,— meanwhile regarding Armand as a Boy might a Bug. Or perhaps—
"How is the Duck?" Peter blurts. "She told me about it. Luise."
Armand almost blurts back, "The Duck is excellent," but wagering it is a religious question, replies, "I see the Duck seldom of late. Perhaps, by now, she has taken in her charge so many other Souls as troubl'd as my own, that there remains less time for me,— perhaps, as she has con-tinu'd upon her own way, I have even pass'd altogether from her Care."
"But, Time, surely, by now, no longer matters to her?" Peter now curious, "- - no longer passes the same way, I mean."
The Frenchman shrugs. "Yet we few, fortunate Objects of her Visits, remain ever tight in Time's Embrace," sighing, as if for the Duck alone....
"She, then,.. .enters and leaves the Stream of Time as she likes?" Luise, tossing her eyes vigorously skyward, slides away to attend to an Oven-Load of loaves and biscuits. The lads, whose flow of saliva has begun to escape the best efforts of their lower lips to contain it, proceed to eat their way from one end of a long trestle table to the other, thro' Hams and Fowl, Custards and Tarts, fried Noodles and Opossum Alamodes, all the while deep in discourse upon the deepest Topicks there are.
The instruments arrive on the seventh of July at Cumberland, throng'd and a-blare with skin-wearers and cloth-wearers ever mingling, Indian and White, French and Spanish. Ladies pack Pistols and Dirks, whilst
coarser Sisters prove to be saintlier than expected. Poison'd by strong
Drink, Pioneers go bouncing Cheese-and-Skittle-wise from one Pedestrian to another, Racoon-Tails askew, daring Hooves and Wheel-Rims, and the impatience of a Street-ful of Business-Folk who must mind their Watch-Time, often to the Minute, all day long. Riflemen sit out on the Porches of Taverns and jingle their Vent-Picks in time to the musick of African Slaves, who play upon Banjos and Drums here, far into the Night. The Place smells of Heart-wood, and Animals, and Smoke. Great Waggons with white Canopies, styl'd "Conestogas," form up at the western edge of town, an uncommon Stir, passionate shouting, Herds filling the Street, as one by one each Machine is brought 'round, and its Team of Horses hitch'd on,— proceeding then to the end of a waiting line, where all stand, be it snow or summer, patient as cows at milking time.
"Thing about out here," cackles Thomas Cresap, when they go to pay him a visit, "is it's perfect. It's 'at damn U-topia's what it is, and nobody'll own to it. No King, no Governor, nought but the Sheriff, whose Delight is to leave you alone, for as long as you do not actively seek his attention, which he calls 'fuckin' with him.' As long as you don't 'fuck' with him, he don't 'fuck' with you! Somethin', hah? About as intrusive as Authority ought to git, in m' own humble Opinion, o' course. And there's to be sure the usual rotten apple among Sheriffs, that, 'scuse me Gents, Got-damn'd Lancaster Sheriff... Old Smith?... We had pitch'd musket battles with him and his Army of Pennite Refuse. 'Course back there you probably only heard their side of it."
"Mr. Sam Smith entertain'd us with an account, at Pechway, two, perhaps three years ago."
"We sure entertain'd him, that night."
"Said it was fifty-five to fourteen... ?"
"Close enough."
"Call'd you the Beast of Baltimore."
"That I was and the Maryland Monster as well, and I'm even more dangerous today than I was then, for there's little I fear in this World, and nothing I won't undertake, long as these damn'd Knees don't betray me, that is. Ask any of these Louts how I do with a Pistol. Eh?" He produces a Highwayman's model, with a short, rounded-off grip and a twelve-inch octagonal Barrel. "All flash, you say, meant but to strike Fear,—
"I didn't say that," says Mason. "Nor I...?" adds Dixon.
"Here, you,— Michael's one,— Get out there about to the first Fence and throw this,— here, this Jug up in the air for the old Bible Patriarch, 'at's a good boy."
"But it's full of— "
"Whatever your name is,— now we don't want to bore our guests, do we, with the details of the Tax Laws and how they differ as between the two Provinces, so just git your wrong-side-the-creek arse out to that Fence— " The boy is running, already halfway there. Cresap gazes after him. "See that Attitude? Don't know where he gets it. Just as happy to have a Sheriff about, if you want the truth. I thought I was an untamable kid, but that young Zack, there,—
"Ready, Grampa!"
Patch, Ball, Grease, Rod, Powder fine and coarse, all in a strange blur, the fastest loading job anyone there, including the Revd, who's seen a number of them, can recollect. "Heads up!" hollers Cresap. The Jug sails slowly end-over-end in an Arc skyward, as Cresap, arm straight, aims, tracks and fires, whereupon, being struck, the Jug explodes in a great Ball of Flame whose Wave of Heat fans their astonish'd Faces.
"Sam'l Smith tell you about that one? That Army o' his started off with eighty-five men, but thirty ran away after the first couple of these Jugs exploded, so it was more of an even fight. I took a few precious Breaths to curse myself for ever settling so close to the limits of Maryland, yet, as I foolishly trusted, south of the Forty-Degree Parallel,— and wagering that the real Susquehanna would prove a more potent Boundary than any invisible Line drawn by Astronomers or Surveyors,— oh, that's right you're one of each in't you, so sorry,— and that surely no Sheriff of Lancaster would mount the naval Expedition he did. Gawwwd, Boats? There was sailboats and there was rafts, there was Battoes oar'd by match'd twenty-six-man African slave crews, there was even Sailing Ships out there upon broad Susquehanna that night in the dark of the Moon, thirty years ago now, but I'm no closer to forgetting it. For most of the settlers about, in the places they'd come from, troops of Horsemen upon the Roads late at night were far from rare,— but being invaded out of that midnight River, by a small Brigade,— betray'd by me own Bound'ry Line, as ye'd say, taken by total Surprize,— I suppose once in ev'ry lifetime it's necessary. They descended upon my Land with all the
pitilessness of an Army in full Sunlight, and proceeded to build a camp and dig in to obsess us. And 'twas my young Daniel who was Hero of the Battle."
The younger Cresap, now forty, who's been eating enthusiastically though in Silence, pauses and shrugs. "Active sort of Lad," his father says. "Ran about making one mistake after another. They catch him, set him out of their way,— when they're not looking he finds their Powder, wraps what he can in his Handkerchief, throws it in the Fire."
Daniel grimaces, shaking his head. "Dove for cover, waited,— Nothing. The Handkerchief got a little charr'd. Then they were really angry,— what a sight they made, trying to retrieve that powder out of the Fire. Ev'rybody waiting for some great Blast. I didn't know if I should be laughing, or pleading for my Life. 'Twas their Call, as it is ever."
"Our house burn'd down, one of us murder'd with his hands in the air,— " Father and Son are exchanging Looks, "the rest dispers'd into the Woods,— they took me back across Susquehanna to stand trial in that dismal,— let me put it this way. If America was a Person,— and it sat down,— Lancaster Town would be plunged, into a Darkness unbreathable.
"On the way over the River, I was able to put one of my bold Captors in the water, where they all set upon him with Oars and Rifle-stocks, thinking 'twas me, some of them in their eagerness losing their balance and falling in as well. I couldn't get the Ropes off, and was trying to stay out of the River, in this water-borne Panick of Oxen. To be fair, 'twas vile Sam Smith sav'd my life, for most of them would as soon have tipp'd me in and let me sink. 'Twas only when we got to Columbia, across the River, that they plac'd me in chains, though I did knock the Blacksmith cold with 'em,— the Shame,— a Brother-immigrant, who more than any should have known better than to manacle another such, at the bidding of some jump'd-up Pea-wit working for the Penns. Sirs, that is my side of it. How does it match up with that of Smith, who must've known that sooner or later you'd see me?"
"He seem'd not quite as hale as you," Dixon recalls.
"Can I forgive him his Life? I've done with all my crying about that. And howbeit, I was releas'd at last,— Justice not so much prevailing, as Injustice, having early exhausted itself, retiring,— and leaving it to
Providence as to Sam'l Smith's capacity for further Harm outside of Lancaster County, my Family and I removed Westward, settling in Antietam, at that time upon the Frontier,— where, by trading honestly enough in skins and furs, we soon found ourselves at the Verge of a Fortune. Alas, our shipload of Pelts, upon which we had borrow'd heavily, approaching the Channel, was surpriz'd by one of Monseer's Privateers and like that, ta'en. Our creditors all show'd up in a single stern-faced crowd, so many that some were oblig'd to walk and stand in animal shit. I wav'd this very High-Toby Special about, appeal'd to their Shame, but we were all too perilously extended,— the seat by Potowmack, which at last I had begun to feel was mine, was thereupon seiz'd as pitilessly as our Fortune at Sea, and we must again reassemble, and take up our Lives and move West, eventually settling here, where Potowmack forks, and ways converge, from all over the Compass, and the Fort lies less than a day away. Perhaps I am not meant to govern a great Manor, like the scalp-stealing Fiend Shelby. Perhaps I am ready for this sort of Village life. Third-time-Lucky sort of thing.''
"Nor must we ever be moving again." It is Megan, another of Michael's batch. Hair all a-fire, spirited, no respect at all for Traditional Authority. She knows how to read, and she is reading him Tox's Pennsylvaniad.
' 'Twas after Braddock fell, that times out here got very difficult indeed. Nemacolin and I put that road in, years earlier. Chopp'd damn near ev'ry tree. We were th' original Mason and Dixon. We cut our Visto too narrow for poor Braddock, but who was expecting an Army? We went by Compass. I felt that cold magick in the Needle, Sirs. Something very powerful, from far beyond this Forest, 'Whose Bark had never felt the Bit's Assault,' as Tox puts it so well. As for Nemacolin, I believe that he liv'd in a World where Magick is in daily operation, and the magnetick Compass surely is small Turnips."
"What will the Mohawks that are to join us think of our Instruments, then?" Dixon wonders.
"They'll be curious. Good idea to satisfy them on all questions. Wagering that they may not ask the fatal one,— 'Why are you doing this?' If that happens, your only hope is not to react. 'Tis the first step into the Quagmire. If you be fortunate enough to emerge, 'twill not be with your previous Optimism intact.”
"Why am I doing this?" Mason inquires aloud of no one in particular, "— Damme, that is an intriguing Question. I mean, I suppose I could say it's for the Money, or to Advance our Knowledge of,—
"Eeh,— regard thaself, thou're reacting," says Dixon. "Just what Friend Cresap here said not to do,— thou're doing it...?"
"Whine not, as the Stoick ever says? You might yourself advert to it profitably,—
"What Crime am I charg'd with now, ever for Thoo, how convenient?"
"Wait, wait, you're saying I don't take blame when I should, that I'm ever pushing it off onto you?"
"Wasn't I that said it," Dixon's Eyebrows headed skyward, nostrils a-flare with some last twinkling of Geniality.
"I take the blame when it's my fault," cries Mason, "but it's never my Fault,— and that's not my Fault, either! Or to put it another way,—
"Aye, tell the Pit-Pony too, why don't tha?"
"Children, children," admonishes the Patriarch, "let us be civil, here. Am I not a Justice of the Peace, after all? Now,— which is the Husband?"
This is greeted by rude Mirth, including, presently, Dixon's, though not even a chuckle from Mason, who can only, at best, stop glowering. This is taken as high Hilarity, and the "Corn" continues to pass 'round, which Mason is oblig'd to drink,— the unglaz'd Rim unwipably wet from the loose-lipp'd Embraces of Mouths that may recently have been anywhere, not excluding,— from the look of the Company,— live elements of the Animal Kingdom.
Dixon, being a Grain person, is having a generally cheerier Drinking Life than Mason, as, the further West they go, the more distill'd Grains, and the fewer Wines, are to be found,— until at last even to mention Wine aloud is to be taken for a French Spy. At Cumberland, as yet, Mason hasn't dar'd ask,— tho' if it's to be found anywhere, 'twill be at the Market, ev'ry day, Sundays as well, lying spread up to the gray stone Revetments, beneath the black guns, the shadows of the Bastions, the lookouts curiously a-stare, Indians from the far interior with not only furs to trade, but medicinal herbs too, and small gold artifacts,— drinking-cups, bangles, charms, from fabl'd Lands to South and West. Upland Virginians come with shoes by the waggonload, Philadelphia Mantua-makers
with stitch-by-stitch Copies of the Modes of London and Paris, Booksellers from the brick ravines of Frederick, with the latest confessions from Covent-Garden, Piemen and Milkmaids and Women of the Night, life stories spread upon blankets, chuck-farthing games in the Ditch, ev'rywhere sounds of metal, a-clang in the Forges, squeaking rhythmically in the mud street,— bells in the church, iron nails pour'd in jingling heaps, Specie in and out of Purses. The skies are Biblically lit, bright yellow and slate-blue and purple, and the munitions waggons, whose horses in a former life were humans who traffick'd in Land, pass, going and coming, laden and empty, darkly gleaming in long streaks down their Sides, from what storm-light the condition of the Sky will allow...Dogs run free, feel hungry and accordingly impatient, often get together in packs, and hunt.
"Has no one heard of the Black Dog in these parts, then...?" wonders Dixon.
"The South Mountain Dog? He'd best step cautious 'round my Snake."
"Here's half a Crown says your Snake won't last a minute with my Ralph."
"Done, ye Bugger." No one of course is asking the Dogs, who would prefer sleep or a good meal. But these packs are running according to different plans. Life here is not quite so indulgent or safe as back East, in the Brick Towns. There, you forage for food already dead. Here, they encourage you to answer to the Wolf's Commandments to kill what you eat and eat what you kill. And somehow to try to resist the Jackal within, ever crying for carrion. Not all do. At the Fort you may always find commissary garbage, tidbits from officers who want Favors,— more temptation than a dog ought to resist. Ev'ry Dog upon the Post, at one time and another, has succumb'd. This helps enhance the Harmony within the Pack, for they are sharing a Sin.
Snake, who has a reputation as a Ratter, is less fond of eating his Prey, than of killing them. Chasing Rats is a good Pastime, combining Speed and the art of getting a step ahead, as well as perfecting solitary fighting skills, for he cannot depend on the Pack being there every time he might need it so, and he figures that if he can slay a rat, he can slay a Squirrel with no trouble, up a tree, down a hole, the idea being never to let it get there,— to interdict.
When Mason approaches him in a friendly way, he decides to trust him, rather than take the trouble to bare his Teeth for nothing. All about, the humans and their children come and go, eating upon the run, flirting, having disputes about money. The scents of food, small fires, and other Dogs are ev'rywhere.
"Hul-lo, Snake...?" the man down on his Haunches, keeping a fair distance, no wish to intrude. Snake raises his head inquiringly. "I'm assuming that Norfolk Terriers, like other breeds, maintain a Web of Communication among 'em, and I was but curious after the whereabouts these Days of the Learned English Dog, or as I believe he is also known, Fang."
Snake ponders,— his policy with strangers, indeed with his very Owner all these years, being never to reveal his own Power of Speech, for he's known others, including the credulous Fang in fact, who've trusted Humans with the Secret only to find themselves that very Evening in some Assembly Room full of Smoke and Noise, and no promise of Dinner till after they've perform'd. Not for Snake, thank you all the same. Something must be getting thro' by way of his Eyebrows, however, for the Man is now smiling, lopsidedly, trying to seem cognizant. "You are said to be fond of Rats. Our Expedition Chef, M. Allègre, is preparing, as we speak, his world-famous Queues du Rat aux Haricots, if that be any inducement."
More like an Emetick, Snake thinks, but does not utter. "Fond of Rats,"— who is this Idiot, anyway?
"All I'd require would be a Nod, after I say,— has he gone North? South? You haven't nodded.—East? Then, only West remaining, I'll take that as a Nod, shall I..."
"Mason," Dixon looming, vaporous of Ale, the bright Glacis behind him, "Are tha quite comfortable with the Logick of than'?"
The man grumbles to his feet. "Snake, Snake, Snake. If there remain'd a farthing candle between us and Monongahela yet unsnuff'd, be certain, Ensign Enthusiasm here would find and snuff it. Yes once again Dixon you have sav'd me from my own poor small Hopes how relentless, thanks ever so much."
"Happen thy Impetuosity be no Candle, rather an ill-consider'd Fire...?”
From watching Humans out here over the Course of several Winters, Snake recognizes between these two a mark'd degree of Acidity. They walk away now, gesturing and shouting at each other. Snake puts his head back upon his Paws and sighs thro' his Nose. Old Fang. Who after all could claim to know Fang's true Story? Some saying he did it to himself,— others blaming the Humans who profited from his Strange Abilities. Tis not Snake's way to inform on another Dog, and withal, who knows what that Human was up to, wanting to see him after so much time?
The Surveyors face each other before a hazy Ground of blue Distance and Ascension,— the blue Silences that await them. "I know something
is out there, that may not happen till we arrive I am a Northern Brit,
a semi-Scot, a Gnomes' Intimate,— we never err in these things."
"Gone too far, as usual. When will he learn. Never."
"I know what tha wish to happen, what tha hope to find. 'Twould be the only thing that could've brought thee to America."
"And you say you think you can feel...?"
"Don't know what it is. Herd of Buffalo as easily as Light from Elsewhere,— something of about that Impact."
"You promise,— you're not just trying to be encouraging, in that cheery way you put on and off like a Wig... ?"
"I wouldn't joak about thah'...? Not with thee...? With young Hick-man perhaps, or Tom Hynes,—
"Who are,— what? twelve? ten? They think they'll live forever, of course you can all joak about it."
The Gents locate an Ale-Barrel in the Shade. A Virginia Boy, seven or eight or thereabouts, comes running up to quiz with them. "I can show you something no one has ever seen, nor will anyone ever see again."
Mason squints in Thought. "There's no such thing."
"Ha-ha!" The lad produces an unopen'd Goober Pea-Shell, exhibiting it to both Astronomers before cracking it open to reveal two red Pea-Nuts within,— "Something no-one has seen,"— popping them in his mouth and eating them,— "and no one will see again." The Gents, astonish'd, for a moment look like a match'd pair of Goobers themselves.