Mason & Dixon (87 page)

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.

67

Within the Fortnight, they are join'd by a Delegation of Indians, sent by Sir William Johnson, most of them Mohawk fighters, who will remain with the Party till the end of October, when, reaching a certain Warrior Path, they will inform the Astronomers that their own Commissions from the Six Nations allow them to go no further,— with its implied Corollary, that this Path is as far West as the Party, the Visto, and the Line, may proceed.

This will not come as an unforeseen blow, for Hugh Crawfford, accompanying the Indians, informs the Surveyors of it first thing. "Sort of like Death,— you know it's out there ahead, tho' not when, so you'll ever be hoping for one more Day, at least.

"We'll be crossing Indian trails with some regularity,— these don't trouble the Mohawks in particular. But ahead of us now, there's a Track, running athwart the Visto, north and south, known as the Great Warrior Path. This is not merely an important road for them,— but indeed one of the major High-ways of all inland America. So must it also stand as a boundary line,— for when we come to it, we shall not be allow'd to cross it, and go on."

"It'll take us a quarter of an hour. We'll clean up ev'ry trace of our Passage,— what are they worried about, the running surface? their deerskin shoes? we'll re-surface it for them, we'll give 'em Moccasin Vouchers,—

"Mr. Mason, they treat this Trail as they would a River,— they settle both sides of it, so as to have it secure,— they need the unimpeded Flow. Cutting it with your Visto would be like putting an earthen Dam across a River."

"And how far from Ohio?" with a slight break upon the word.

"Some thirty, forty miles," Crawfford as kindly as he can, having himself a history of disappointments out here, again and again, "yet the Path is over Monongahela," silently adding, "Socko Stoombray," as he's heard the Western Spanish say,— one gets used to it. His is a face, however, difficult for Mason, or for many, to read much Sentiment in, so written upon is it, by so many years of hard Sunrises, Elements outside and in, left to rage as they might. "It's a fine road, I've had to use it now and then, if the wind and moon are right, you can fly along— Sometimes they chas'd me, sometimes it was me after them,— we've chased

these d——'d mountains through and through, canoeing for our lives

down these mean little rivers,— made some respectable Fortunes, lost 'em in the space of a rifle-shot, as many of us taken or destroy'd over the years as got back safe. Ups and downs steeper'n the Alleghenies, Gents,— I've been captur'd, I've escap'd. We've been friends and enemies. They owe me years out of my life, parts of me not working so good,— you'd have to ask them what they think I owe back.—
 
But I know 'em,— not in any deep or magickal way,— rather as you may know those that you've shar'd matters of life and death with,— and although on paper it may look like only a few short steps from the Warpath to the River Ohio, I beg you both, be most careful,— for Distance is not the same here, nor is Time."

"At least they told us beforehand...?" Dixon supposes.

Watching an Indian slip back into the forest is like seeing a bird take wing,— each moves vertiginously into an Element Mason, all dead weight, cannot enter. The first time he saw it, it made him dizzy. The spot in the Brush where the Indian had vanish'd vibrated, as an eddying of no color at all. Contrariwise, watching an Indian emerge, is to see a meaningless Darkness eddy at length into a Face, and a Face, moreover, that Mason remembers.

He grows apprehensive and soon kickish. "I respect them, and their unhappy history. But they put me in a State of Anxiety unnatural," he complains to the Revd, "out of all Measure. Unto the Apparition of Phantoms.”

"How's that?"

"I see and even touch things that cannot possibly be there. Yet there they are."

"Can you give me examples?"

"There may lie a Problem, for I am closely sworn not to."

"Makes advising you difficult, of course."

"Yes, and some of them are Pips, too. Shame, really."

"Whilst you so amiably quiz with me," says the Revd, "Mr. Dixon seems quite content in their company."

"Who, Young Jollification? drinks with priests, roisters with Pygmies,— aye, I've seen that. What cares has he, as long as the Tobacco and Spirits hold out? And withal, throughout, from first Sip to empty Bottle, he is troubl'd by no least Inkling of Sin, nor question of Fear,— he is far too innocent for any of that. No,— 'tis I who am anxious before the advent of these Visitors how Strange, who belong so without separation, to this Country cryptick and perilous,...passing, tho' never close, as shadowy and serene as Deities of Forest or River.... So!" cries Mason, turning desperately to the Visitors, "- - You're Indians!"

"Mason, that may not be quite—

As Hugh Crawfford is translating,— they hope that's what he's doing,— the Mohawk Chiefs Hendricks, Daniel, and Peter, the Onondaga Chiefs Tanadoras, Sachehaandicks, and Tondeghho,— the Warriors Nicholas, Thomas, Abraham, Hanenhereyowagh, John, Sawat-tiss, Jemmy, and John Sturgeon,— the Women Soceena and Hanna,— all are examining Mason and Dixon, and the Instruments,— having earlier observ'd the Sector arriving in its pillow'd Waggon, mindfully borne by the five-shilling Hands, impressive in its assembl'd Size. Learning that 'tis us'd only late at Night, some, presently, are there each time to watch, as the Astronomers lie beneath the Snout, the Brass elongating into the Heavens, the great curv'd Blade, the Sweeps of Stars converging at the Eye, so easily harm'd even at play, hostage, like this, beneath the Instrument pois'd upon it—

The first time they see the Sector brought into the Meridian, the Indians explain, that for as long as anyone can remember, the Iroquois Nations as well, have observ'd Meridian Lines as Boundaries to separate them one from another.

"Not Rivers, nor Crest-Lines?" Capt. Zhang is amaz'd. "What did the Jesuits think of that?"

"We learn'd it of them."

"One Story," Hendricks adds. "Others believe 'twas not the Jesuits, but powerful Strangers, much earlier."

"Who?"

"The same," declares Zhang, "whose Interests we have continu'd to run across Evidence of,...who for the Term of their Absence are represented by Jesuits, Encyclopedists, and the Royal Society, who see to these particular Routings of Sha upon the Surface of the Planet by way of segments of Great or Lesser Circles."

"Shall we resign our Commissions? Is that what you're saying?"

"Then somebody else does the same thing," the Geomancer shrugs.

"Then tha'll go to work on them, for thy Commission is to stop it, not so? All thah' about Zarpazo was Snuff. He than' would hang, after all, his Dog first gives out that he is mad."

"Excuse me," Mason says, "I think that's 'He who would hang his Dog, first gives out that he is mad.''

"Why would anyone hang his Dog? No, 'tis he who wishes to hang, sends his Dog to run 'round acting peculiar, perhaps wearing Signs about its neck, or strangely costum'd, so that whenever its owner does hang, people can say, 'Yese see, 'twas Madness, for the Dog gave out he was mad.' "

"Yes that would all no doubt be true if that were how it goes, but 'tis not how it goes at all. It goes..."

And so on (records the Revd). This actually very interesting Discussion extended till well past Midnight, that Night. If I did lose full Consciousness now and then, 'twas less from their issueless Bickering, than from the Demands of the Day, as part of the Tribute we must pay, merely to inhabit it.

That night I dream'd,— I pray 'twas Dream,— that I flew, some fifty to an hundred feet above the Surface, down the Visto, straight West. First dream I had that ever smell'd of anything,— cut wood, sap, woodsmoke, cook-tent cooking, horses and stock,— I could see below the glow of the coal we cut from outcrops so shining black they must be the outer walls of Hell, almost like writing upon the long unscrolling of the land, useful

 
about the waggoners' Forge, a curiosity beneath Mr. McClean's Oven, and to Mr. Dixon, who knows his way 'round a bit of Coal, a quotidian delight. His brother George learn'd years ago how to make Coal yield a Vapor that burns with a blue flame,— and with a bit of ingenuity with kettles and reeds, and clay to seal the Joints, why it may even be done in the midst of this wilderness, as Mr. Dixon promptly demonstrated. And that is how I verify 'tis no Dream, but a form of Transport,— that unearthly blue glow in the otherwise lightless Desert night. The Indians come to look, but they never comment. They have seen it before, and they have never seen it before.

The Line makes itself felt,— thro' some Energy unknown, ever are we haunted by that Edge so precise, so near. In the Dark, one never knows. Of course I am seeking the Warrior Path, imagining myself an heroick Scout. We all feel it Looming, even when we're awake, out there ahead someplace, the way you come to feel a River or Creek ahead, before anything else,— sound, sky, vegetation,— may have announced it. Perhaps 'tis the very deep sub-audible Hum of its Traffic that we feel with an equally undiscover'd part of the Sensorium,— does it lie but over the next Ridge? the one after that? We have Mileage Estimates from Rangers and Runners, yet for as long as its Distance from the Post Mark'd West remains unmeasur'd, nor is yet recorded as Fact, may it remain, a-shimmer, among the few final Pages of its Life as Fiction.

Were the Visto to've cross'd the Warrior Path and simply proceeded West, then upon that Cross cut and beaten into the Wilderness, would have sprung into being not only the metaphysickal Encounter of Ancient Savagery with Modern Science, but withal a civic Entity, four Corners, each with its own distinguishable Aims. Sure as Polaris, the first structure to go up would be a Tavern,— the second, another Tavern. Setting up Businesses upon the approaches, for miles along each great Conduit, there would presently arrive waggon-smiths, stock auctioneers, gun-makers, feed and seed merchants, women who dance in uncommon Attire, Lanthorns that burn all night, pavements of strange metaling brought from afar, along with all the other heavy cargo that now streams in both directions, the Fleets of Conestoga Waggons, ceaseless as the

 
fabl'd Herds of Buffalo, further west,— sunlit canopies a-billow like choir-sung promises of Flight, their unspar'd Wheels rumbling into the soft dairy night-falls of shadows without edges, tho' black as city soot.

Festive Lanthorns, by contrast, shine thro' the Glass of the swifter passenger conveyances that go streaking by above the Fields, one after another, all hours of the day and night— Aloft, these carry their wheels with them, barely scuff'd by Roadway, to be attached whenever needed. Singing and Gaiety may be heard passing thro' the Airy Gulfs above. Newcomers to the Ley-borne Life are advis'd not to look up, lest, seiz'd by its proper Vertigo, they fall into the Sky.—
 
For' t has happen'd more than once,— drovers and Army officers swear to it,— as if Gravity along the Visto, is become locally less important than Rapture.