Mason & Dixon (3 page)

Mason, having expected some shambling wild Country Fool, remains amiably puzzl'd before the tidied Dixon here presented,— who, for his own part, having despite talk of Oddity expected but another overdress'd London climber, is amus'd at Mason's nearly invisible Turn-out, all in Snuffs and Buffs and Grays.

Mason is nodding glumly. "I must seem an Ass."

"If this is as bad as it gets, why I can abide thah'. As long as the Spirits don't run out."

"Nor the Wine."

"Wine." Dixon is now the one squinting. Mason wonders what he's done this time. " 'Grape or Grain, but ne'er the Twain,' as me Great- Uncle George observ'd to me more than once,— 'Vine with Corn, beware the Morn.' Of the two sorts of drinking Folk this implies, than' is, Grape People and Grain People, You will now inform rne of Your membership in the Brotherhood of the, eeh, Grape...? and that You seldom, if ever, touch Ale or Spirits, am I correct?"

"Happily so, I should imagine, as, given a finite Supply, there'd be more for each of us, it's like Jack Sprat, isn't it."

"Oh, I'll drink Wine if I must...?— and now we're enter'd upon the Topick,— "

"— and as we are in Portsmouth, after all,— there cannot lie too distant some Room where each of us may consult what former Vegetation pleases him?"

Dixon looks outside at the ebbing wintry sunlight. "Nor too early, I guess...?"

"We're sailing to the Indies,— Heaven knows what's available on Board, or out there. It may be our last chance for civiliz'd Drink."

"Sooner we start, the better, in thah' case...?"

As the day darkens, and the first Flames appear, sometimes reflected as well in Panes of Glass, the sounds of the Stables and the Alleys grow louder, and chimney-smoke perambulates into the Christmastide air. The Room puts on its Evening-Cloak of shifting amber Light, and sinuous Folds of Shadow. Mason and Dixon become aware of a jostling Murmur of Expectancy.

All at once, out of the Murk, a dozen mirror'd Lanthorns have leapt alight together, as into their Glare now strolls a somewhat dishevel'd Norfolk Terrier, with a raffish Gleam in its eye,— whilst from somewhere less illuminate comes a sprightly Overture upon Horn, Clarinet, and Cello, in time to which the Dog steps back and forth in his bright Ambit.

Ask me anything you please, The Learned English Dog am I, well-Up on ev'rything from Fleas Unto the King's Mon-og-am-eye,

Persian Princes, Polish Blintzes, Chinamen's Geo-mancy,—

 
Jump-ing Beans or Flying Machines, Just as it suits your Fan-cy.

I quote enough of the Classickal Stuff To set your Ears a-throb, Work logarith-mick Versed Sines Withal, within me Nob, - Only nothing Ministerial, please, Or I'm apt to lose m' Job, As, the Learned English Dog, to-ni-ight!

There are the usual Requests. Does the Dog know "Where the Bee Sucks"? What is the Integral of One over (Book) d (Book)? Is he married? Dixon notes how his co-Adjutor-to-be seems fallen into a sort of Magnetickal Stupor, as Mesmerites might term it. More than once, Mason looks ready to leap to his feet and blurt something better kept till later in the Evening. At last the Dog recognizes him, tho' now he is too key'd up to speak with any Coherence. After allowing him to rattle for a full minute, the Dog sighs deeply. "See me later, out in back."

"It shouldn't take but a moment," Mason tells Dixon. "I'll be all right by myself, if there's something you'd rather be doing...."

With no appetite for the giant Mutton Chop cooling in front of him, Mason mopishly now wraps it and stows it in his Coat. Looking up, he notes Dixon, mouth cheerfully stuff'd, beaming too tolerantly for his Comfort.

"No,— not for me,— did you think I was taking it for myself?— 'tis for the Learned Dog, rather,— like, I don't know, perhaps a Bouquet sent to an Actress one admires, a nice Chop can never go too far off the Mark."

Starting a beat late, "Why aye, 'tis a...a great World, for fair...? and Practices vary, and one Man certainly may not comment upon—

"What...are you saying?"

Dixon ingenuously waving his Joint, eyes round as Pistoles. "No Offense, Sir." Rolling his Eyes the Moment Mason switches his Stare away, then back a bit late to catch them so much as off-Center.

"Dixon. Why mayn't there be Oracles, for us, in our time? Gate-ways to Futurity? That can't all have died with the ancient Peoples. Isn't it worth looking ridiculous, at least to investigate this English Dog, for its obvious bearing upon Metempsychosis if nought else,—

4

There is something else in progress,— something Mason cannot quite confide. Happen he's lost someone close? and recently enough to matter, aye,— for he's a way of pitching ever into the Hour, heedless, as Dixon remembers himself, after his father passed on— "I'll come along, if I may...?"

"Suture Self, as the Medical Students like to say."

They go out a back door, into the innyard. A leafless tree arches in the light of a single Lanthorn set above a taut gathering of card-players, their secret breathing visible for all to try to read, and Wigs, white as the snow on the Roofslates, nodding in and out of the Shadows.

Sailors, mouths ajar, lope by in the lanes. Sailors in Slouch-Hats, Sailors with Queues, puffing on Pipes, eating Potatoes, some who'll be going back to the Ship, and some who won't, from old sea-wretches with too many Explosions in their Lives, to Child-Midshipmen who have yet to hear their first,— passing in and out the Doors of Ale-Drapers, Naval Tailors, Sweet-shops, Gaming-Lairs, upstart Chapels, calling, singing Catches, whistling as if Wind had never paid a Visit, vomiting as the Sea has never caus'd them to.

"Happen his Dressing-Room's close by," Dixon suggests, "• - in with the Horses, maybe...?"

"No one would keep a talking Dog in with Horses, it'd drive them mad inside of a Minute."

"Occurs often, does it, where you come from?"

"Gentlemen," in a whisper out of a dark corner. "If you'll keep your voices down, I'll be with you in a trice." Slowly into their shifting spill of lantern-light, tongue a-loll, comes the Dog, who pauses to yawn, nods, "Good evening to ye," and leads them at a trot out of the stables, out of the courtyard, and down the street, pausing now and then for nasal inquiries.

"Where are we going?" Mason asks.

"This seems to be all right." The Learned English Dog stops and pisses.

"This dog," Mason singing sotto voce, "is causing me ap-pre-hen-sion,— surely creatures of miracle ought not to, I mean,...Flying horses? None of them ever—

"The Sphinx...?" adds Dixon.

"My Thought precisely."

"Now, Gents!" 'Tis a sudden, large Son of Neptune, backed by an uncertain number of comparably drunken Shipmates. "You've an interest in this Dog here?"

"Wish'd a word with him only," Mason's quick to assure them.

"Hey! I know you two,— ye're the ones with all the strange Machinery, sailing in the Seahorse. Well,— ye're in luck, for we're all Seahorses here, I'm Fender-Belly Bodine, Captain of the Foretop, and these are my Mates,— " Cheering. " - But you can call me Fender. Now,— our plan, is to snatch this Critter, and for you Gents to then keep it in with your own highly guarded Cargo, out of sight of the Master-at-Arms, until we reach a likely Island,—

"Island..." "Snatch..." both Surveyors a bit in a daze.

"I've been out more than once to the Indies,— there's a million islands out there, each more likely than the last, and I tell you a handful of Sailors with their wits about them, and that talking Dog to keep the Savages amused, why, we could be kings."

"Long life to Kings!" cry several sailors.

"Aye and to Cooch Girls!"

"— and Coconut-Ale!"

"Hold," cautions Mason. "I've heard they eat dogs out there."

"Wrap 'em in palm leaves," Dixon solemnly, "and bake 'em on the beach...?"

"First time you turn your back," Mason warns, "that Dog's going to be some Savage's Luncheon."

"Rrrrrraahff! Excuse me?" says the Learned D., "as I seem to be the Topick here, I do feel impelled, to make an Observation?"

"That's all right, then, Fido," Bodine making vague petting motions,

- trust us, there's a good bow-wow...."

A small, noisy party of Fops, Macaronis, or Lunarians,— it is difficult quite to distinguish which,— has been working its way up the street and into Ear-shot. Thro' several window-panes, moving candlelight appears. Hostlers roll about disgruntled upon feed-sack Pillows and beds. Unengaged Glim-jacks look in, to see if they can cast any light on matters.

The Dog pushes Mason's Leg with his Head. "We may not have another chance to chat, even upon the Fly.”

"There is something I must know," Mason hoarsely whispers, in the tone of a lover tormented by Doubts, "- - Have you a soul,— that is, are you a human Spirit, re-incarnate as a Dog?"

The L.E.D. blinks, shivers, nods in a resign'd way. "You are hardly the first to ask. Travelers return'd from the Japanese Islands tell of certain religious Puzzles known as Koan, perhaps the most fam'd of which concerns your very Question,— whether a Dog hath the nature of the divine Buddha. A reply given by a certain very wise Master is, 'Mu!''

" 'Mu,' " repeats Mason, thoughtfully.

"It is necessary for the Seeker to meditate upon the Koan until driven to a state of holy Insanity,— and I would recommend this to you in particular. But please do not come to the Learned English Dog if it's religious Comfort you're after. I may be preternatural, but I am not supernatural. 'Tis the Age of Reason, rrrf? There is ever an Explanation at hand, and no such thing as a Talking Dog,— Talking Dogs belong with Dragons and Unicorns. What there are, however, are Provisions for Survival in a World less fantastick.

"Viz.—
 
Once, the only reason Men kept Dogs was for food. Noting that among Men no crime was quite so abhorr'd as eating the flesh of another human, Dog quickly learn'd to act as human as possible,— and to pass this Ability on from Parents to Pups. So we know how to evoke from you, Man, one day at a time, at least enough Mercy for one day more of Life. Nonetheless, however accomplish'd, our Lives are never settled,— we go on as tail-wagging Scheherazades, ever a step away from the dread Palm Leaf, nightly delaying the Blades of our Masters by telling back to them tales of their humanity. I am but an extreme Expression of this Process,—

"Oh I say, Dog in Palm Leaf, what nonsense," comments one of the Lunarians, " - really, far too sensitive, I mean really, Dog? In Palm Leaf? Civiliz'd Humans have better things to do than go about drooling after Dog in Palm Leaf or whatever, don't we Algernon?"

"Could you possibly," inquired the Terrier, head cocked in some Annoyance, "not keep saying that? / do not say things like, 'Macaroni Italian Style,' do I, nor 'Fop Fricasee,'—

"Why, you beastly little— "

"Grrrr! and your deliberate use of 'drooling,' Sir, is vile.”

The Lunarian reaches for his Hanger. "Perhaps we may settle this upon the spot, Sir."

"Derek? You're talking to a D-O-G?"

"Tho' your weapon put me under some Handicap," points out the Dog, "in fairness, I should mention my late feelings of Aversion to water? Which may, as you know, signal the onset of the Hydrophobia. Yes! The Great H. And should I get in past your Blade for a few playful nips, and manage to, well, break the old Skin,— why, then you should soon have caught the same, eh?" Immediately 'round the Dog develops a circle of Absence, of about a fathom's radius, later recall'd by both Astronomers as remarkably regular in shape. "Nice doggie!" " 'Ere,— me last iced Cake, that me Mum sent me all 'e way from Bahf. You take i'." "What think yese? I'll give two to one the Fop's Blood'll be first to show."

"Sounds fair," says Fender Bodine. "I fancy the Dog,— anyone else?"

"Oughtn't we to summon the Owners...?" suggests Mr. Dixon.

The Dog has begun to pace back and forth. "I am a British Dog, Sir. No one owns me."

"Who're the Gentleman and Lady who were with you in the Assembly Room?" inquires Mason.

"You mean the Fabulous Jellows? Here they come now."

"Protect you from sailors?" wails Mrs. Jellow, approaching at a dead run over the treacherous Cobbles of the Lane, "Oh, no, thank you, that was not in our Agreement." Her husband, pulling on his Breeches, Wig a-lop, follows at a sleepy Amble. "Now you apologize for whatever it was you did, and get back in that Stable in your lovely straw Bed."

"We were wondering, Ma'am," Bodine with his hat off, quavering angelically, "would the li'oo Doggie be for sale?"

"Not at any price, Topman, and be off wi' you, and your rowdy-dowing Flock as well." At her Voice, a number of Sailors in whose Flexibility lies their Preservation from the Hazards of Drink, are seen to freeze.

"Do not oppose her," Jellow advises, "for she is a first-rate of an hundred Guns, and her Broadside is Annihilation."

"Thankee, Jellow,— slow again, I see."

"Oh dear," Bodine putting his hat back on and sighing. "Apologies, Sir and Madam, and much Happiness of your Dog."

"You are the owners of this Marvel?" inquires Mason.

"We prefer 'Exhibitors,' " says Mr. Jellow.

"Damme, they'd better," grumphs the Dog, as if to himself.

"Why, here is The Pearl of Sumatra!" calls Dixon, who for some while has been growing increasingly desperate for a Drink, "And a jolly place it seems."

"Fender-Belly is buying!" shouts some mischievous Sailor, forever unidentified amid the eager Rush for the Entry of this fifth- or sixth-most-notorious sailors' Haunt upon the Point, even in whose Climate of general Iniquity The Pearl distinguishes itself, much as might one of its Eponyms, shining 'midst the decadent Flesh of some Oyster taken from the Southern Sea.

"How about a slug into y'r Breadroom, there, Fido?"

"Pray you, call me Fang— Well, and yes I do like a drop of Roll-me-in-the-Kennel now and then...."

Inside, seamen of all ranks and ratings mill slowly in a murk of pipe-smoke and soot from cheap candles, whilst counter-swirling go a choice assortment of Portsmouth Polls in strip'd and floral Gowns whose bold reds, oranges, and purples are taken down in this light, bruised, made oily and worn, with black mix'd in everywhere, colors turning ever toward Night. Both Surveyors note, after a while, that the net Motion of the Company is away from the Street-Doors and toward the back of the Establishment, where, upon a length of turf fertiliz'd with the blood and the droppings of generations of male Poultry, beneath a bright inverted Cone of Lanthorn Light striking blue a great ever-stirring Knot of Smoke, and a Defaulter merry beyond the limits of cock-fight etiquette suspended in a basket above the Pit, a Welsh Main is in progress. Beyond this, a Visto of gaming tables may be made out, and further back a rickety Labyrinth of Rooms for sleeping or debauchery, all receding like headlands into a mist.