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.
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