Mason & Dixon (97 page)

In a letter dated November 9th, close to Mason's departure from Donegal, Maskelyne as A.R. is wallowing in the pleasure of good Instruments to work with at last. The defective Bob-Suspension is now but a distasteful Pang of Memory, causing him at his Morning Shave to grunt, and avoid his Eyes in the Mirror. The Sector Telescope he finds "charming." "I have also used a ic-foot telescope with a micrometer. Your moral reflections on the subject I approve of, as becoming an astronomer, who ought to make this use of these sublime speculations."

"What was he talking about?"

"In Maskelyne's Letter, which we have, he says he's responding to a letter of Mason's dated October fifteenth, which no one can locate, including me,— indeed, I've not found any of Mason's Letters, tho' there are said to be many about."

"Make something up, then,— Munchausen would."

"Not when there exists, somewhere, a body of letters Mason really did write. I must honor that, mustn't I, Brother Ives?"

Ives snorts and chooses not to contend.

"Why not gamble they'll never be found?" wonders Ethelmer.

"Just because I can't find them doesn't mean they're not out there. The Question may be rather,— Must we wait till they are found, to speculate as to the form 'moral reflections' upon a ten-foot telescope, with a Micrometer, might take?" The Presence of this Device, as well as the Instrument's Length, suggests an accuracy to perhaps two further degrees of Magnitude, than the Instrument it replac'd at Greenwich. "Sublime speculations"? Accuracy and Sublimity? Is the A.R. being ironickal? Whatever Mason had to say, almost certainly included G-d.

Was he off the deep end again? "Make this use..." suggests Mason had advanc'd some Program. Suppose he'd written to Maskelyne,—

"...Tis the Reciprocal of 'as above, so below,'...being only at the finer Scales, that we may find the truth about the Greater Heavens,.. .the exact value of a Solar Parallax of less than ten seconds can give us the size of the Solar system. The Parallax of Sirius, perhaps less than two seconds, can give us the size of Creation. May we not, in the Domain of Zero to One Second of Arc, find ways to measure even That Which we cannot,— may not,— see?"

"Many of us in the parsonical line of work," admits Wicks Cher-rycoke, "find congenial the Mathematics, particularly the science of the fluxions. Few may hope to have named for them, like the Reverend Dr. Taylor, an Infinite Series, yet such steps, large and small, in the advancement of this most useful calculus, have provided us a Rack-ful of Tools for Analysis undreamed-of even a few years ago, tho' some must depend upon Epsilonics and Infinitesimalisms, and other sorts of Defective Zero. Is it the Infinite that tempts us, or the Imp? Or is it merely our Vocational Habit, ancient as Kabbala, of seeking God there, among the Notation of these resonating Chains...."

"Reminds me of America. Strange, some mornings I get up and I think I'm in America." Half Mountain, half Bog, ev'ry other Soul in it nam'd O'Reilly, Oakboys with night Mischief in mind all about, this is frontier Country again, standing betwixt Ulster and the Dublin Pale, whilst of neither,— poor,— at the mercy of Land-owners... such as Lord Penny-comequick, the global-Communications Nabob, who now approaches Mason upon the Lawn, carrying in Coat-Pockets the size of Saddle-Bags four bottles of the Cheap Claret ev'rywhere to be found here, thanks to enterprising Irishmen in Bordeaux. "In my family since the Second Charles," he calls in greeting.

"Isn't a hundred years consider'd old for Wine?" Mason having risen kickish this morning.

"Oh, but I meant the Coat?" Pennycomequick having decided, with Legions before him, that Mason, because he speaks in the hurried and forc'd Rhythms of at least a Tickler of Children, is a professional Wag of

 
some sort. "Aye, 'tis call'd a Morning Coat, the yellow symbolizing the Sun, I imagine,— several theories about these Aqua bits, here," examining them the way we examine our Waist-coats for spill'd Food, "being of course our famous historically subversive Color Green,— should have been a hanging Offense as long ago as Robin Hood, if you ask me,— yet disguis'd cleverly, you see, by the addition of Blue. Perhaps a touch of Buff as well. Ha! ha ha do not look so concern'd, Sir, being all Whigs here staunch and true, yes well do come along, ye've not seen the Folly yet have ye."

What cannot escape Mason's notice, as they come round the Butt End of the Topiary Elephant, is a sudden Visto of Obelisks, arrang'd in a Double Row too long to count, forming an Avenue leading to the Folly. In this Sunlight they have withdrawn to the innocence of Stone, into being only Here enough, to maintain the Effect of solemn Approach...yet it isn't hard for Mason to imagine them in less certain Light, at a more problematick time of day, taking on more Human shape,— almost Human Shape...somewhat larger than human size...almost able to speak,—

"There 'tis. What do you think?" The Lord has halted, Pockets a-sway, to help Mason admire it, this being a task inadvisable for but one person.

"You can't say it isn't something," is Mason's comment.

"Of course if you've read Mr. Halfpenny's Rural Architecture in the Chinese Taste, you'll recognize those bits there at the Roof-corners... our Great Buddha, half-scale regrettably.... Here,— therapeutick Pool, Peat Baths, good morning, Rufus, I trust your good woman has recov-er'd...Excellent! (She ran that Department, Chaos since she left),— Ah! the Electrick Machines, yes a good many of them, all the way down to the end there, can you make it out? On the rare chance you have an appetite when you emerge, lo, a Summer-Kitchen, complete with gesticulating Chef,— Yes yes, Soup du Jour, Armand! clever fellow, claims to know you, 's a matter of fact,—

"Meestair Messon! Meestair Messon!" 'Tis the very Frenchman,— is it not? yet why then is his figure illuminated so much less than ev'rything else about, this time of Day?— why is he moving so smoothly, as a Boat upon still Water, looming ever closer, aiming, it now becomes apparent, a Kiss at Mason's Cheek, his Color at close range aberrating toward Green, as he sweeps in a cold wind, upon and past the shiv'ring Mason, with an echo, like an odor, trailing after. Mason turns,— the Lawn is empty. At some moment he has fail'd to mark, Lord Pennycomequick has left him. He stands by an Oven, with Moss between its Stones, that he wishes upon no Account to look into.

The Rain has rais'd in ev'ryone an insomniack Apprehension, in which all talk of Bog-bursts is avoided,— yet 'tis but a Question of where the black Flood shall break thro'. The longer it rains, the higher too the level of Nerves and Vapors. No-one here, or for miles, will need to be awak-en'd for it. At last, one Midnight,—

"Bog-burst! Out upon McEntaggart's piece,— good evenin' to ye Sir, and regretfully must I now be tellin' ye,— ye've been, as they say in yeer Royal Navy, impress'd, Sir."

"Oh, I am impress'd," Mason agrees, "really,— the efficiency with which you are able to turn all these Wretches to, is nothing short of impressive, indeed."

"Excuse me, Sir,— 'tis me English no doubt,— I meant, that you too must come out and work in the company of these very 'Wretches.''

"Of course,— Man of Science, ever happy to advise. Restoring the Berm, is that how we'll be at it?"

"Someday when all's calm, I'd love to chat over wi' ye the finer points of Bog-Burst Management,— yet now, would I suggest Boots and Gloves, Sir, and smartly too, if ye'd not be mindin'?"

Little McTiernan at the Door is giving out short-handl'd Peat-Cutters styl'd, by the Irish, "Slanes."

"Not sure I know how to cut a Sod," mumbles Mason.

"Quickly's best,— before he can pick up a Weapon...?"

"Let him be, Dermy,— not his fault he's English."

"Bogs," Mason to himself, as they go along, bearing Candles in hol-low'd out Turnips, not certain if he is speaking aloud, "are my Destiny. I imagin'd Delaware, not merely the end, but years past the end, of this sort of Journeyman's Humiliation...even fancied that I had earn'd passage, at last, into a purer region, where Mathesis should rule, with

 
nothing beyond an occasional Ink-Smudge to recall to me that unhappy American Station of the Cross. Arrh! Stars and Mud, ever conjugate, a Paradox to consider,— one...for the Astronomer-Royal, perhaps?" His current scheme being, to assail Maskelyne's Sanity, by now and then posing him Questions that will not bear too much cogitating upon— most lately, Uber Bernouillis Brachistochronsprobleme, 17 oz, by Baron von Boppdorfer ("Mind like a Spanish Blade. Read it at the Risk of your Self-Esteem.") having almost done the Trick.

Slodging the wet Tracks, dress'd all in the local Frieze, Mason, by Neep-Lantern light, looks like a wet, truculent Sheep. The rain comes down. They cross the River, passing 'round Keadew and Kinnypottle, where more come creeping from sleepless Dwellings to join them. Mason might be traveling with a Herd of Ghosts, felt but invisible, bearing him into Country Unknown. The Sky tonight has nothing to show him. Now and then, very much closer to the Earth, he begins to see Lights, moving, flickering, soon gone. "Who are they?" Mason inquires of his faceless Companions.

"Hush," come a half dozen voices at once. "They are going their Way, as we go ours," whispers someone behind his right Ear. "They are not often out in the Rain, nor particularly helpful in a Slide."

Soon they have reach'd one Shore of the liquefied Peat-Flow, thro' some Mirage blacker than the neighboring Night. "McEntaggart's been after that Tath for a Year, and now 'tis his, for nothing."

"He kept still, and the Premises mov'd!"

"Look out, here comes more of it!"

"What, a Re-Peat!"

In Irish perversity all a-quip, they set to work finding and cutting out Peat Sods not yet saturated by the Rain. Other countrymen appear now and then bearing Rocks, piling them laboriously against the Burst, thro' the drizzling of the Night. Cottagers, daz'd, come wobbling down the Hill. Dawn finds the tops of the Hillsides obscur'd, each Shift-mate a wan Spectre in the Vaporous Bog.

"Mr. Mason!"

"Your servant, sir." " 'Tis the Well of Saint Brendan, if you please,—

"Thought he was a Galway Lad.”

No, he pass'd thro' Cavan once, on his way to the Sea, looking for Crew, and from the spot where he slept, came forth the very water they drank in Eden, so lovely is it to taste,— now, in the general Relocation, has it vanish'd. "Tho' we've Dowsers a-plenty, yet are all in Perplexity, not to mention humility, in begging the Application of your London Arts, in discov'ring and restoring it."

"I've the very thing," Mason replies. Among his Equipment at the Pennycomequick Manor is the Krees from his Dream in Cape Town, which he has kept ever by him. "Have you water from this Spring?" He pours and rubs it over the Blade, returning to the Bog-burst, where immediately he senses a Traction, a warmth, a queer high whine along the Blade, tho' 'tis none of these... "Here, I believe."

He helps them to dig. At no great Depth a Spring is encounter'd, whose Perimeter is quickly shor'd against re-collapse. One by one Countryfolk taste the Water. Some say it is the very Spring of the Saint, others say it isn't. In fact, there is so wide a difference of opinion, that presently what will be the first of many Blows are exchang'd.

In an ordinary Dream, Rebekah appears. "No need to feel pleas'd with yourself. What you found was not their sacred Well, but only a Representation of it." He wakes up into a midnight sadness, trying to say, I have tasted it, yet he has not tasted it. Now he is afraid ever to, lest his Spring be discover'd as soil'd as the Holy Wells of Gloucestershire, and therefore the Krees, and therefore his Dreams.

He prays to see her Face in the new Comet,— each night, this time, in terror of not seeing it. He tries to will it there, yet is amaz'd that for some Minutes now, he cannot even remember her Face. Yet at last arrives a clear night of seeing, so clear in fact that sometime after Midnight, supine in the Star-light, rigid with fear, Mason experiences a curious optical re-adjustment. The Stars no longer spread as upon a Dom'd Surface,— he now beholds them in the Third Dimension as well,— the Eye creating its own Zed-Axis, along which the star-chok'd depths near and far rush both inward and away, and soon, quite soon, billowing out of control. He collects that the Heavenly Dome has been put there as Protection, in an agreement among Observers to report only what it is safe to see. Fifteen years in the Business, and here is his Initiation.

Now, nothing in the Sky looks the same. "As to the Comet,— I cannot account for how,— but there came this night, to this boggy Mias-matick place, an exceptional Clarity of the Air,...a sort of optickal Tension among the Stars, that seem'd ever just about to break radiantly

thro'
       
And there. In Leo, bright-man'd, lo, it came. It came ahead.

And 'twould be but Prelude to the Finger of Corsica,— which now appear'd, pointing down from Heaven. And the place where it pointed was the place I knew I must journey to, for beneath the Sky-borne Index lay, as once beneath a Star, an Infant that must, again, re-make the World,— and this time 'twas a Sign from Earth, not only from Heaven, showing the way."

"Quite so.... Yet I'm not terribly sure this ought to be in your report," says Maskelyne, "-- objections from the Clergy,— readily imagin'd, what-what?— leaving aside the question of, actually, well what does it mean?"

"No Idea. I was in a kind of Daze. Have ye never falPn into one of those Cometary Dazes, with the way the Object grows brighter and brighter each Night? These Apparitions in the Sky, we never observe but in Motion,— gone in seconds, and if they return, we do not see them. Once safely part of the Night Sky, they may hang there at their Pleasure, performing whatever in their Work corresponds to shifting jibs and staysails, keeping perfectly upon Station, mimicking any faint, unnam'd Star you please. Do they watch us? Are they visits from the past, from an Age of Faith, when Miracles still literally happen'd? Are they agents of the absented Guardian,— and are these Its last waves, last Reckonings, over the tops of the Night Trees? An Astronomer in such a State of Inquiry's apt to write nearly anything. How about yourself?"