Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  “They’ll be curious. Good idea to satisfy them on all questions. Wagering that they may not ask the fatal one,— ‘Why are you doing this?’ If that happens, your only hope is not to react. ’Tis the first step into the Quagmire. If you be fortunate enough to emerge, ’twill not be with your previous Optimism intact.”

  “Why am I doing this?” Mason inquires aloud of no one in particular, “— Damme, that is an intriguing Question. I mean, I suppose I could say it’s for the Money, or to Advance our Knowledge of,— ”

  “Eeh,— regard thaself, thou’re reacting,” says Dixon. “Just what Friend Cresap here said not to do,— thou’re doing it . . . ?”

  “Whine not, as the Stoick ever says? You might yourself advert to it profitably,— ”

  “What Crime am I charg’d with now, ever for Thoo, how convenient?”

  “Wait, wait, you’re saying I don’t take blame when I should, that I’m ever pushing it off onto you?”

  “Wasn’t I that said it,” Dixon’s Eyebrows headed skyward, nostrils aflare with some last twinkling of Geniality.

  “I take the blame when it’s my fault,” cries Mason, “but it’s never my Fault,— and that’s not my Fault, either! Or to put it another way,— ”

  “Aye, tell the Pit-Pony too, why don’t tha?”

  “Children, children,” admonishes the Patriarch, “let us be civil, here. Am I not a Justice of the Peace, after all? Now,— which is the Husband?”

  This is greeted by rude Mirth, including, presently, Dixon’s, though not even a chuckle from Mason, who can only, at best, stop glowering. This is taken as high Hilarity, and the “Corn” continues to pass ’round, which Mason is oblig’d to drink,— the unglaz’d Rim unwipably wet from the loose-lipp’d Embraces of Mouths that may recently have been anywhere, not excluding,— from the look of the Company,— live elements of the Animal Kingdom.

  Dixon, being a Grain person, is having a generally cheerier Drinking Life than Mason, as, the further West they go, the more distill’d Grains, and the fewer Wines, are to be found,— until at last even to mention Wine aloud is to be taken for a French Spy. At Cumberland, as yet, Mason hasn’t dar’d ask,— tho’ if it’s to be found anywhere, ’twill be at the Market, ev’ry day, Sundays as well, lying spread up to the gray stone Revetments, beneath the black guns, the shadows of the Bastions, the lookouts curiously a-stare, Indians from the far interior with not only furs to trade, but medicinal herbs too, and small gold artifacts,— drinking-cups, bangles, charms, from fabl’d Lands to South and West. Upland Virginians come with shoes by the waggonload, Philadelphia Mantua-makers with stitch-by-stitch Copies of the Modes of London and Paris, Booksellers from the brick ravines of Frederick, with the latest confessions from Covent-Garden, Piemen and Milkmaids and Women of the Night, life stories spread upon blankets, chuck-farthing games in the Ditch, ev’rywhere sounds of metal, a-clang in the Forges, squeaking rhythmically in the mud street,— bells in the church, iron nails pour’d in jingling heaps, Specie in and out of Purses. The skies are Biblically lit, bright yellow and slate-blue and purple, and the munitions waggons, whose horses in a former life were humans who traffick’d in Land, pass, going and coming, laden and empty, darkly gleaming in long streaks down their Sides, from what storm-light the condition of the Sky will allow . . . Dogs run free, feel hungry and accordingly impatient, often get together in packs, and hunt.

  “Has no one heard of the Black Dog in these parts, then . . . ?” wonders Dixon.

  “The South Mountain Dog? He’d best step cautious ’round my Snake.”

  “Here’s half a Crown says your Snake won’t last a minute with my Ralph.”

  “Done, ye Bugger.” No one of course is asking the Dogs, who would prefer sleep or a good meal. But these packs are running according to different plans. Life here is not quite so indulgent or safe as back East, in the Brick Towns. There, you forage for food already dead. Here, they encourage you to answer to the Wolf’s Commandments to kill what you eat and eat what you kill. And somehow to try to resist the Jackal within, ever crying for carrion. Not all do. At the Fort you may always find commissary garbage, tidbits from officers who want Favors,— more temptation than a dog ought to resist. Ev’ry Dog upon the Post, at one time and another, has succumb’d. This helps enhance the Harmony within the Pack, for they are sharing a Sin.

  Snake, who has a reputation as a Ratter, is less fond of eating his Prey, than of killing them. Chasing Rats is a good Pastime, combining Speed and the art of getting a step ahead, as well as perfecting solitary fighting skills, for he cannot depend on the Pack being there every time he might need it so, and he figures that if he can slay a rat, he can slay a Squirrel with no trouble, up a tree, down a hole, the idea being never to let it get there,— to interdict.

  When Mason approaches him in a friendly way, he decides to trust him, rather than take the trouble to bare his Teeth for nothing. All about, the humans and their children come and go, eating upon the run, flirting, having disputes about money. The scents of food, small fires, and other Dogs are ev’rywhere.

  “Hul-lo, Snake . . . ?” the man down on his Haunches, keeping a fair distance, no wish to intrude. Snake raises his head inquiringly. “I’m assuming that Norfolk Terriers, like other breeds, maintain a Web of Communication among ’em, and I was but curious after the whereabouts these Days of the Learnèd English Dog, or as I believe he is also known, Fang.”

  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 thah’?”

  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 Hickman 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. . . . Some times 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, Sawattiss, 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 thah’ 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.