Authors: Thomas Pynchon
When news reach'd Mason that Dixon had died, he went about for the rest of the Day as if himself stricken. "I'd meant to see him this Summer," he repeated over and over. At last, "I must go up there."
"I'll come with you," offer'd Doctor Isaac.
"The Boy works for his Bread," the elder Mason growl'd, "— he's not a Man of Science,— leave him be."
"Hire a Weaver for a Se'nnight,— there are plenty of them to choose from. I'll pay ye back any sum it loses ye."
"With what? Stardust?"
Presently, curses ringing in their Ears, Mason and his son were out upon the North Road together, bundl'd against the Cold, stopping in at ev'ry Tavern upon the Way. Mason, for some reason, found himself unable to stop looking at Doc, recalling that the Lad had never been out of these Hills, nor even down to Oxford. Out on the Road like this, he seem'd suddenly no longer a Child. They stopt overnight in Birmingham, and again in York, they ate and drank with Waggoners and Fugitives and commercial travelers.
As they lie side by side in bed, Mason finds he cannot refrain from telling his Son bedtime stories about Dixon.
"He was ever seeking to feel something he'd hitherto not felt. In Philadelphia he was fascinated by Dr. Franklin's Leyden Jar, as with the Doctor's curious History, cheerfully admitted to, of self-electrocution thereby, on more Occasions than he can now remember...."
"Here's the Lumina of the Lab," leading the Surveyors among Globes of Glass, Insulators of Porcelain, a Miniature Forge, a Magnetizing Station, Gear-trains of Lignum Vitae, and Engine out of which protrudes a great Crank, Bench-tops strewn with Lenses, Lamps, Alembicks, Retorts, Condensers, Coils,— at length to a squatly inelegant wide-mouth'd Vessel, in a dark corner of the Work-room. "Three-inch Sparks from this Contrivance are routine. And when ye hook a Line of 'em up,s in Cascade? Well. Many's the time I've found myself out upon the Pavement, no memory of Removal from where I'd been, and a Hole in the Brick Wall between, about my Size and Shape. Here now, just take hold of this Terminal,—
Mason, aghast of course, and not about to touch any Terminal, withdraws, upon the Pretext of Business with Dr. Franklin's Assistant, a gnomelike Stranger nam'd Ingvarr, whose unsettling Grin and reluctance to speak provoke from Mason increasingly desperate Monologue,— whilst for his part, Dixon is eagerly hastening to handle all the Apparatus he can find, that might have Electrick Fluid running thro' it.
"EEHH aye, thah' was a good one! And here, whah's this, with the three great Springs coomin' out?"
"Ah. Yes, two go into the Ears, thus,— and the other, with this Y-Adapter, into your...Nostrils, there we are! Now, then!"
"Master! Master!" Ingvarr scuttling near.
"Not now, Ingvarr.. .unless of course you'd like to assist in a little.. .Spark-length Calibration?"
"Aiyee! No, Master!"
"There now Ingvarr, 'tis but a couple of Toes,— callus'd quite well I see, more than enough to withstand the 'lecktrick Tension...try not to squirm, there's a good fellow,—
"It tickles!"
"Fine with me, as Howard says to Howard, only please try not to kick that Switch to the main Battery, lest Mr. Dixon,— oh, dear.—
Ingvarr. What did I just say?”
So forcefully that his Queue-Tie breaks with a loud Snap, Dixon's Hair springs erect, each Strand a right Line pointing outward along a perfect Radius from the Center of his Head. What might be call'd a Smile, is yet asymmetrick, and a-drool. His Eyeballs, upon inspection, are seen to rotate in opposite Senses, and at differing Speeds. Releasing Ingvarr, who makes himself scarce, Franklin opens the Switch at last, and Dixon staggers to a Settee. "Sir," the Doctor in some concern, "I trust you've not been inconvenienc'd unduly?"
"Suppose I us'd Tin-Foil," Dixon, upon his back, replies, "— instead of Silver,— how many of these Jars should I need, to...reproduce that Effect?"
Next morning, at Breakfast, Doc is curious to know, "Did you ever cast his Horoscope?"
"Quite early on, tho' I never told him. His natal Moon, in Aquarius...? and in Leo, the sign of his Birth, he's bless'd with a Stellium, of Mercury, Venus, and Mars,— Mars being also conjunct his Sun,— tho' both are regrettably squar'd Jupiter and Saturn. His Bread, that is, ever by the sweat of his brow...so did it prove to be,— yet Vis Martis enough, and
more, for the Journey
He may've done my Horo on the sly, for all I
know. Rum thing not to know of someone, isn't it? But he knew how to
cast a Chart, and had the current Year's Ephemeris by Memory
Damme, he knew his Astronomy,— tho' I teas'd him with it now and then....
"Meant to bring you to see him one day. He'd heard enough about you...."
"You spoke of me?"
"You, Willy, the Babies. We talk'd about our Children. He had two Girls, young Women I should say,—
"Arrh.. .and you were hoping...?"
"Who? What? D'you take me for a Village Busybody such as your Aunt Hettie?"
"Two Sons," explains Doc, "Two Daughters. And a Father wishing, as Fathers do, to be a Grand-Father."
"Sure of that?”
"Mason-Dixon Grand-Babies." He risks casting at his Father a direct look of provocation, that Mason finds he may no more flinch from, than answer to. For the next Hours, then, neither speaks more than he must,— at ease, for the first time together, with the Silence of the Day. 'Twas what Dixon ever wish'd from him,— to proceed quietly.
"I thought if ever I did this," Doc tells his father later, out upon the Road, " 'twould be alone. And headed the other way,— to London."
"You're like me. At your Age, I couldn't wait to be out of the Vale."
"Why'd you ever come back?"
"You were here, and Will.. .and your Mother...."
Doc flashes him a thoughtful look. "You never speak of her." Here they are, fallen upon the Drum-head of the Day.
" 'Tis twenty years. Perhaps I've pass'd beyond the need to."
"But then— "
Mason sees the struggle the Lad is having between going on, and keeping silence. "Of course. We must speak of her. Whatever you wish to know of her. I shall try."
"It doesn't have to be right away."
Snow is nearly upon them, and night soon to descend. Shelter has not so far presented itself. At the last of the Day-light, providentially, at the Edge of York, they smell wood-smoke with a sensible Fat Component, and follow their Noses to The Merry Ghosts, which is in fact a Haunted Inn, as the apple trees planted too close to it testify, growing directly away from the Structure, as far as their roots will permit, often at quite unstable Angles.
"Not promising," mutters Mason.
"What choice?"
As they step into the busy Saloon, all, to the wiping of Mouths, falls dead silent. Faces gather'd in a Circle about a Dark-Lanthorn and a Heap of stolen Purses, look up in varying degrees of annoyance. A gigantick and misanthropick Tapster comes out of the Shadows. "Private Party tonight, Gents."
"Where's the next Inn?" Mason is about to inquire, when Doc speaks up,— "Here then, Coves, 'tis Mason and Mason, High Tobers of Greenwich, rambling Bearward, and Zoot Cheroot sez me early-and-late, or 'tis
be-wary of the Frigidary, for the Gloak that quiddles.—
Oh and Pints for all, that's if we may...?"
' 'We'?" inquires Mason. The Tapster withdraws, the Bitter flows, those staring resume Business. Mason and Doc find a Corner where they may pretend themselves confederates upon the Toby, plotting Deeds dark enough to allow them to be left in Peace.
' 'Tis a Ring," explains Doc. "They're dividing up the Day's Spoils. Later we'll see the night Brigade come on."
"How do you know all this?"
"Read about it in Ghastly Fop. 'Tis a Weekly, now, did you know?"
"I didn't."
"The Coach brings it to Stroud."
'Round the Footpads' table perplexity rules. "What did he say?" asks the Brum Kiddy. "Is that London Canting?"
"Clozay le Gob," he is advis'd. "You're too young, yet."
"But what's it mean?" the Kiddy persists.
"Here's what you do, Kid,— just go over there and ask 'em what they said."
Mason and Mason get an identifiable Joint for Supper, and the best room upstairs to sleep in. "They'll murder us in our sleep, suggests Mason.
"We're not going to sleep." By and large Doc is correct. The Traffick in front, as back in the Courtyard, of The Merry Ghosts is prodigious and unceasing. Confidences at best dangerous to hear are scream'd heedlessly back and forth all night.
"I thought it was suppos'd to be haunted," Mason objects. "How can anyone tell, in this Tohu-Vabohu?"
"Unless..." Doc looks out the Window. Among all the roarings, whistles, wheel-rumbling, and low Song, there is not a Visible Soul below. The snow is falling now. Mason sits by the window waiting for traces of these outspoken Spirits to show up against the white Descent. At some point, invisible across the room, Doctor Isaac will ask, quietly, evenly, "When did you meet? How young were you?"
At Bishop they learn'd that Dixon had been buried in back of the Quaker Meeting-House in Staindrop. Doctor Isaac stay'd with his Father, step for
step. At the grave, which by Quaker custom was unmark'd, Mason beseech'd what dismally little he knew of God, to help Dixon through. The grass was long and beaded with earlier rain. A Cat emerg'd from it and star'd for a long time, appearing to know them.
"Dad?" Doc had taken his arm. For an instant, unexpectedly, Mason saw the little Boy who, having worried about Storms at Sea, as Beasts in the Forest, came running each time to make sure his father had return'd safely,— whose gift of ministering to others Mason was never able to see, let alone accept, in his blind grieving, his queasiness of Soul before a life and a death, his refusal to touch the Baby, tho' 'twas not possible to blame
him
The Boy he had gone to the other side of the Globe to avoid was
looking at him now with nothing in his face but concern for his Father.
"Oh, Son." He shook his Head. He didn't continue.
"It's your Mate," Doctor Isaac assur'd him, "It's what happens when your Mate dies."
Solitude grew upon him, despite his nominal return to the social Web-work. Neighbors near and far, including owners of textile mills he would once never have spat upon, believing him vers'd in ev'ry Philosophick Art, kept bringing him repair jobs. The work-shed grew clutter'd with shafts and weft-forks, pirn winders and pistons, silk-reels and boiler gauges. Scents of Lavender, wild Roses, and Kitchen-Smoke pass'd in and out with Bees and Wasps, thro' the unmortar'd walls, pierc'd ev'rywhere with bright openings to the sunlit Garden outside, and the abiding Day. Mason might be found sitting at a Pine Table, bow'd over a curious Mirror. The beings who visited had names, and Titles, and signs of Recognition. Often they would approach through Number, Logarithms, the manipulation of Numbers and Letters, emerging as it were from among the symbols—
His principal income in those years came from pen-and-paper Work, laborious, pre-mechanickal, his only Instrument a set of Logarithmick Tables,— reducing and perfecting Mayer's solar and lunar Data. These form'd the basis of the Nautical Almanac, which Maskelyne edited, and in whose Introduction the A.R. was generous in acknowledging Mason's work. Mason came to believe that thro' Taurean persistence he had refin'd the values to well within an error that entitl'd him to the £5,000
Prize offer'd by the Board of Longitude. But "Enemies" succeeded in reducing it to an offer of £750, which he refus'd, upon Principle, tho' Mary at the news withdrew in Dismay.
Did he now include among his Enemies Maskelyne?
The A.R. had shar'd with Mason his delight over the new Planet,— he had taken it for a Comet,— wishing Mr. Herschel joy of his great Accomplishment. Suddenly the family of Planets had a new member, tho' previously observ'd by Bradley, Halley, Flamsteed, Le Monnier, the Chinese, the Arabs, everyone it seem'd, yet attended to by none of them. 'Twas impossible to find an Astronomer in the Kingdom who was not wandering about in that epoch beaming like a Booby over the unforeseen enlargement of his realm of study. Yet to Mason was it Purgatory,— some antepenultimate blow. What fore-inklings of the dark Forces of Over-Throw that assaulted his own Mind came visiting?— small stinging Presences darting in from the periphery of his senses to whisper, to bite, to inject Venoms...Beings from the new Planet. Infesting— Mason has seen in the Glass, unexpectedly, something beyond simple reflection,— outside of the world,— a procession of luminous Phantoms, carrying bowls, bones, incense, drums, their Attention directed to nothing he may imagine, belonging to unknown purposes, flowing by thick as Eels, pauselessly, for how long before or after his interception, he could never know. There may be found, within the malodorous Grotto of the Selves, a conscious Denial of all that Reason holds true. Something that knows, unarguably as it knows Flesh is sooner or later Meat, that there are Beings who are not wise, or spiritually advanced, or indeed capable of Human kindness, but ever and implacably cruel, hiding, haunting, waiting,— known only to the blood-scented deserts of the Night,— and any who see them out of Disguise are instantly pursued,— and none escape, however long and fruitful be the years till the Shadow creeps 'cross the Sill-plate, its Advent how mute. Spheres of Darkness, Darkness impure,— Plexities of Honor and Sin we may never clearly sight, for when we venture near they fall silent, Murdering must be silent, by Potions and Spells, by summonings from beyond the Horizons, of Spirits who dwell a little over the Line between the Day and its annihilation, between the number'd and the unimagin'd,— between common safety and Ruin ever solitary....
The Royal Society by then had divided into "Men of Science," such as Maskelyne and Mr. Hutton, and "Macaronis," such as Henry Cavendish and Mr. Joseph Banks, a Dispute culminating for Maskelyne, with his own set of Enemies, at the Instant he found his name absent from the List of Royal Society Council Members for 1783-84, and had an Excursion into Vertigo unsought. At this Cusp of vulnerability, Mason, with the Exquisiteness of a Picador, launch'd his Dart.