Mason & Dixon (89 page)

"Three months for Surveying!" Mason marvels. "And if someone's been doing it all his Life? A-and think of the Money! Is that fifty Pounds per Act of surveying? Per Diem, perhaps?"

"Thankee, Friend Mason."

Before crossing the Big Yochio Geni, in the evening after Mess, the Surveyors gather all who've follow'd the Party undaunted this far.

"Now like Prospero must I conjure you all away, for from here to the Warpath, we'll have no time for gentle recreations, but must stand Watch and Watch for as far west as we may.”

"Whah',— no musicians? The Indians love our Musick."

"The Indians will need their Ears for other Tasks."

"We must go back to that Fort, then."

"We'll wait for them at Cumberland."

"A long way, sister. So far we've enjoy'd an Escort of Mohawk fighters, best in the Land. Who'll be protecting us on the way back?"

"Might get lucky and hook up with a band of Axmen headed home?"

"They'll be long gone. Absorb'd like Hail-Stones into the Earth."

"Well I'm not languishing by the Banks of Potowmack, I'm for someplace with Lamps outdoors, and purses full of idle Specie. Anybody for Williamsburg?"

They arrange to keep the Sector at the House of Mr. Spears, where Brad-dock's Road meets the Bank of the Yochio, and go in search of the Ferryman, Mr. Ice. "They expect a Ferryman to be silent," announces he, his eyes a-glimmer. Taking his Coat and draping it over his head so as to hood his face, "Well. Welcome aboard. Smoking Lamp's lit on this Craft." On shore his brother-in-law is letting out the line, allowing them to be taken by the Stream, as his Nephew upon the further side waits to begin hauling them in. Exactly at the middle of the River, for a moment, no one can see either Father or Son. To appearance, the passengers stand upon a raft in a boundless body of water.

"Now here is what they did to me, and mine,"— and the last Ice proceeds to tell ev'ry detail of the Massacre that took his family, in the dread days of Braddock's defeat. Time, whilst he speaks, is abolish'd. The mist from the River halts in its Ascent, the Frogs pause between Croaks, and the peepers in mid-peep. The great black cobbles of the River-bed stir and knock no longer. The Dead are being summon'd. The Ferryman's Grief is immune to Time,— as if in Exchange for a sacrifice of earthly Freedom, to the Flow of this particular Stream.

"You think this is some kind of Penance? Hey, I enjoy this. Such looks on Passengers' Faces, when they hear how the Flesh and Bones of those I lov'd were insulted! They are us'd to tales of Frederick's rank'd Automata, executing perfect manoeuvres upon the unending German Plain,— down here in the American Woods, that same War proceeded

 
silently, in persistent Shade, one swift animal Death at a time.. .no Treaty can end it, and when all are dead, Ghosts will go on contending. 'Twas the perfect War. No mercy, no restraint, pure joy in killing. It cannot be let go so easily."

The Youghiogheny, cov'd and willow'd and Sycamor'd, has no Fish in it that Mason has been able to learn of. "Yah, you'll hear that," says Ice,— "Yet ev'ryone up and down this River knows of the great School of Ghost-fish that inhabit it, pale green, seldom seen, two sets of Fins each side and a Tail like a Dragon's. They travel unmolested where they will, secure in the belief that no Angler in his right mind would dare attempt to catch any of them. And that, Sir, could be where you come in."

Dixon is trying to nudge Mason alert, but owing to the Darkness, not always connecting. Mason is already simpering like a Milk-maid. "Who, Sir? I am but a Country coarse-fisher, after the odd Chub or Roach, whatever the Mills haven't kill'd or chas'd off, actually, is usually what I settle for, and goodness, why this Fish of yours sounds far too much for my light-rod skills, being so very, as ye might say, big,—

"Mason," Dixon, not often a Mutterer, mutters.

"Up to five, some say six foot long," Ice avows, "big as a man or Woman, pale as a floating Corpse,...yet these do live...tho' few have dar'd, some of us out here have taken Ghosters,— I could show you more than one, stuft and mounted,— no question of eating them, of course...indeed, no question trying to hang one over the Hearth, given the Wives who object to looking at them for long.—
 
Or at all.

"The Yochio as it comes down off the Mountains of Virginia descends very rapidly, very dangerously. You might not want, or even be able, to wade in it. Some think it's the Fall, the very Speed of the Flow, that creates those Ghosters. No one knows. Their entire lives are engulf'd unceasingly in change. They never come to rest. They never know an Instant of Tranquillity. One wonders, what must their idea of Death be," Ice's feign'd Smile nearly unendurable, "how are they going to deal with eternal Rest? unless this World be already their Purgatory, and they no longer classifiable as living Fish."

"And what of those who seek them?"

"Ghosters are accorded a respect comparable to that shewn the Dead.... If we get out upon this River tonight," says Mr. Ice, "perhaps

 
we'll see a few. They like it just after the rain. In the sun-light, they show up against the black rocks of the River-Bed. In the Dark, they glow some,— for one another, they do. Us,— they pay no mind. In a way, that could prove an advantage...to an Angler bold enough."

"Pray you," Mason's hands upon his Bosom.

Mr. Ice abruptly turning to Dixon, "Forgive me, Sir, if I stare. Yours is the first Red Coat to be seen in these parts since Braddock's great Tragedy,— the only ones out here with Opportunity to wear one, being the Indians who from the Corpses of English soldiers, took them. Even to these Savages, even intoxicated, 'tis too much shame, ever to put a Red Coat on."

"Yet I find it a means, when in the Forest, of not being innocently mistaken for an Elk...?"

"Nor should any mistake me for a tearful fool," advises Immanuel Ice, "merely upon observing how I must battle against a daily Sadness. The Graves of my Family are in back of the Cabin, up that Meadow, near the line of Cedars...! visit ev'ry Day,— yet, Grief too Solitary breeds madness. At my Work I meet a good many of the Publick, who travel in these parts, who will sometimes, like you, let me bend their Ears with my particular Woes. It keeps away the Madness. Hey? You think it's over out here, Redcoat? It's not over. The Fall of Quebec was not the end, nor Bouquet's Success at Bushy Run, nor the relief of Fort Pitt,— for there is ever a drop in the cup left, another Shot to be fir'd, another life to be taken off cruelly, in unmediated Hate, ev'ry day in this Forest Life, somewhere. The last Dead in this have not yet been born. Young Horst will now pass among ye with a Raccoon Hat, the Contribution is sixpence. Thanks to Audiences like you, this place is proving to be an Elves' Treasury."

"But,— this is horrible," protests Mason, " - Mr. Ice, how can you use your private Tragedy for the mere accumulation of sixpences?"

"How sinful is that?" Mr. Ice wishes to know. "Were any of you out here then? Not since Westphalia, such Evil. Without Restitution, what's the Point? Here's my opportunity to redeem some of that terrible time, to convert enemy Rifle-Balls to Gold. How can any Person of Sense object to that? Meanwhile, there all of you are, accosting Strangers in Taverns, spilling forth your Sorrows, Gratis. One day, if it be his Will, God will

 
seize and shake you like wayward daughters, and you will thenceforward give nothing away for free."

Between Laurel Hill and Cheat, the Account-book shows at least in Hands on the pay-list, not including the Surveyors, various McCleans, and those forever omitted from the official Books. Once over Laurel Hill, they are in the Country of the Old Forts,— all across these hilltops are the Ruins, ancient when the Indians first arrived. Broken Walls, fallen nearly to Plan Views of themselves, act as Flues that the Wind must find its way past, in a long Moan with a Rise at the end of it, as if posing a Question. The Fort at Redstone lies upon the site of one. The Creek below is crowded with Rocks with lines of Glyphs inscrib'd on them. Nobody can read them, but all believe they are Grave Markers.

"The old stories say the Forts were built and later abandon'd by a Nation of Giants, who possess'd a magick more powerful even than that of the English or the French."

"Fortifications?" says Dixon. "Against what?"

The Indians laugh. "Each other, maybe."

"Now and then you'll find these Gigantick Bones," says Hugh Crawf-ford.

"Human?" inquires Mason.

"Sure seem to be. Been there a long time."

Ev'ryone out here knows of the Old Forts. When it becomes very
Dark, and Thunder-Gusts come sailing in over the Ridge-line, fanciful
Uncles tell Nieces and Nephews that the Giant People are back, loud as
ever, seeking to reclaim their Country. Redeem it. Some bite at this,
some do not. Within the broken Perimeters lie Monoliths that once stood
on end,— recumbent, the Indians believe, " - they are dead or sleep
ing,— upright, they live,— likenesses neither of Gods, nor of men,— but of Guardians
       
"

"Guardians,— of...?"

"Helpers. They live. They have Powers."

"In England, you see," Mason feels impell'd to instruct the Indians, "They mark the positions of Sun, Moon, some say Planets, thro' the Year.... They are tall, like Men, for the same reason our Sector is Tall,— in order to mark more closely these movements in the Sky."

"Small Differences mean much to you. There is Power in these?”

"The finer the Scale we work at, the more Power may we dispose. The Lancaster County Rifle is precise at long range, because of microscop-ick refinements in the Finish, the Rifling, the ease with which it may be held and aim'd. They who control the Microscopick, control the World."

"Listen to me, Defecates-with-Pigeons. Long before any of you came here, we dream'd of you. All the people, even Nations far to the South and the West, dreamt you before ever we saw you,— we believ'd that you came from some other World, or the Sky. You had Powers and we respected them. Yet you never dream'd of us, and when at last you saw us, wish'd only to destroy us. Then the killing started,— some of you, some of us,— but not nearly as many as we'd been expecting. You could not be the Giants of long ago, who would simply have wip'd us away, and for less. Instead, you sold us your Powers,— your Rifles,— as if encouraging us to shoot at you,— and so we did, tho' not hitting as many of you, as you were expecting. Now you begin to believe that we have come from elsewhere, possessing Powers you do not— Those of us who knew how, have fled into Refuge in your Dreams, at last. Tho' we now pursue real lives no different at their Hearts from yours, we are also your Dreams."

As they have come West, the Visto has grown sensibly wider, and the Hands have tended more and more to be in it as little as they may, in the Day-time, as to sleep up and down its Center-Line at Night.

The Axmen begin to depart unannounc'd,— as the Army might say, desert. Cheat is the Rubicon, Monongahela is the Styx. At last there are the Indians, and fifteen Axmen newly hired, and Tom Hynes ("Somebody has to cook..."). And after the first terrible Poker invisible up the Arse, after allowing themselves a moment to see if they wish to begin screaming and flinging themselves about, Mason and Dixon notice the Indians, politely enough, yet unarguably, watching them, to see how they will react.

Hendricks seems fascinated. "What do they believe waits them, on the other side of the River, that sends them away so fast?"

"They said Shawanese, Delawares, Mingoes,— someone said, a tribe whose Name they've never heard."

"A Tribe with no name?" He translates quickly for his Companions, as if trying to finish before being careen'd by the gathering Sea of Mirth.

"We know that Tribe,— we are afraid of them, too, the Tribe with no Name." The Indians sit and smoke, continuing to laugh for what, to Europeans, might seem a length of time far out of proportion to the Jest. The Day passes, the night deepens, the Absence of the Axmen is felt at Ear-drums and Elbow-joints, as in the sleeplessness attending Watch and Watch, as the Days of their Westering, even the most obtuse of the Company can see, are rapidly decremented, as in a game of Darts, to Zero, waiting moment upon moment the last fatal Double.

69

One day, yet east of Cheat, a light Snow descending but scarce begun to stick, several of the Party observe a Girl chasing a Chicken across the Visto, when an odd thing happens,— smack at the very Center, directly upon the Line, the Chicken stops, turns about till its head points West and Tail East, and thenceforward remains perfectly still, seemingly fallen into a Trance. The Girl, after Guarantees from both Surveyors of the Chicken's Safety, moves on to other chores, whilst the day wheels over and down into Dusk, and ev'ryone in the Crew comes by to have a look at the immobile Fowl, for as long as their Obligations may allow.

' 'Tis well known," various ancient Pennsylvanians and Marylanders assure the Surveyors, "that placing a Chicken 'pon a Straight Line'll send it nodding faster than ever a head put under a wing." The Girl, returning to fetch her Hen, agrees briskly. "Chicken on a Line? Thought ev'rybody knew that."

Dixon's idea of Thrift is offended. "Well that's an attractive nuisance, isn't it? what's to keep them all from wandering in at any moment...? ev'ry Clucker clear to Ohio and back to Cheapeake,— lining up, going into a Daze, presently throngin' the Visto? We could have a Chickens' Black Hole of Calcutta, here,— except that, being in America, they'd all have to be remov'd gently, one by one, wasting Days, lest any fowl-keeper whose stock has suffer'd even a Feather's molestation call down, among these Lawyer-craz'd People, a Vengeful Pursuit after Reimbursement, upon a Biblical scale, that may beggar our Mission.”

Mason groans, "Shall wise Doctors one day write History's assessment of the Good resulting from this Line, vis-a-vis the not-so-good? I wonder which List will be longer."

"Hark! Hark! You wonder? That's all?" One of the Enigmata of the Invisible World, is how a Voice unlocaliz'd may yet act powerfully as a moral Center. 'Tis the Duck speaking, naturally,— or, rather, artificially. "What about 'care'? Don't you care?"