Mason & Dixon (80 page)

"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
        
"