Mason & Dixon (70 page)

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.