Authors: Thomas Pynchon
of Hell, which feed upon substances less easily nam'd. 'Twas as a further conundrum presented to them to solve (or not solve) that Emerson won-der'd aloud, What Yarn could she possibly be knitting with, that would not burn at the touch of Heat like that? Wool from a Hell-Sheep? Those who tried to imagine it were rewarded, though in ways they later found difficult to describe.
Many is the night young Dixon sees her up there, the angles between the two bright Lines ever varying as she paces to and fro— One night at last, probably (he says he is no longer sure) disappointed in early Love, which is to say devastated, he decides, with nothing more to lose, that he'll go up and have a closer look. By now he knows the Castle like a Cat, no perch too precarious nor roof-slate too slippery, as he goes a-flowing one to the next among holds upon the facial features of Gargoyles known, perforce, with some intimacy, across Counter-scarps, to and through Machicolations in the Moon-light— If the Spectre, without her Coach, be relatively slow-moving, how difficult shall it be to spy upon her?
That's if. As Dixon draws close, he can hear her muttering. "Never on Time. Always delay'd, always another excuse. The 'late' Lady Barnard, indeed. Yet what is the point of cursing the fool, Eternally curs'd as he was ever?" By now, there's a peculiar sound out in the night, bearing the same relation to Hoofbeats as pluck'd Strings to Drum-beats, and seeming to approach—
Dixon must suppress a Gasp. Assembling itself from the Darkness about them appears the most uncommonly beautiful Coach he's ever seen. Its curves are the curves of a desirable Woman, its Lacquering's all a-flash, Bright as a wanton Eye. Its coal-color'd Arabs, scarcely sighing, bring it in a glide to a spot near her Parapet, holding it then pois'd, hooves stirring in the empty Air, above the Grounds invisible in the Darkness below,— whilst the Coachman, with a face as white as his Livery is black, descends to the Parapet to open her Door.
"Late again, Trent."
"Sorry Milady— traffick."
"Traffick!" she raises the Brass needles above her head, one in each trembling fist, as if to strike. "I've heard the lead horse went insane,—
I've heard the Wife she's not so clivvor this se'ennight,— I've heard, the Wind was in my teeth, and the Clock ran down, and the Dog made off with me Coachwhip, but this, Trent, this begins to approach the truly maddening. What possible Traffick can there be above Cockfield Fell? Are we not in fact the only flying Coach-and-six in the Palatinate?"
"They,— they come over from Hurworth, Milady,— swarms of them." "Oh, it's Emerson and that lot. Ragged children. Swarms, quotha. You may as well have been delay'd by a flock of Ducks. Really, Trent, these excuses grow more and more enfeebl'd, and tiresome pari passu— What are you up to, honestly, when I leave you alone with this lovely Machine? Hmm? Trent? Come, come, you can tell Her Ladyship all." With an athletic readiness that surprizes the young Lurker, she vaults up into the quilted black velvet interior, and Trent swings shut the Door and climbs smirking to his seat. Through the Window she leans then to stare back out, unmistakably and directly at Dixon, and calls, "Perhaps another time, Jeremiah." They are gone,— horses, perfect Shine, curves and all, leaving Dixon's nape and shoulders mantl'd in unearthly cold.
That is how he remembers first hearing of Emerson, though the Leg
end by then was well under way in Durham. Though he keeps chuck
ling it away, Dixon also suspects he sought out Emerson from his
Desire to be one of those ragged Kids, and that "another Time" happen
some Evening when he and Lady Barnard were both aloft. Down
here she held too much advantage. Altitude might help his odds. He
didn't know whether he was planning seduction, or combat,— these, at
fourteen, being the only categories of Pleasure he recogniz'd. That
it might have been something else altogether would never occur to
him until years later, at Castle Lepton, in the wilderness of America,
well entangl'd in gambling debts, Romantick Intriguing, and political
jiggery-pokery, all punctuated by a Liver Episode he may have worried
himself into, unless 'twas all that Drinking he was doing. "Ah Mason,"
he cried, tho' Mason, who in fact was not doing too much better, lay
snoring in a Corner,— "she has it all,— Beauty, Money,...um...what
ever else there is
“
Whilst yet in the steep Mountains, they take to Sledding in the Year's early snow-Falls, upon folded pieces of Tent-Canvas. One day, just as they start down a long slope neither can remember from earlier, coming the other way and climbing, an Autumnal Squall comes snapping up like a Blanket being shaken into a Spread of chill Cloud, and Snow begins abruptly, it seems, to fall. Both Surveyors feel their Velocity increasing ominously.
"Ehp, Dixon? Still over there? Can you see where we're going?"
"Snow's coming down too thick!" Dixon calls from someplace, because of the change of acousticks between them, unmeasurable.
Both shrill with the Predicament, blind, together, separate, they plunge down the imperfectly remember'd Steep. They pass the Commissary-Waggon, and one, then two more Supply-Waggons, each brak'd in its Snowy Descent by a late-fell'd Tree dragged behind, the Drivers looking 'round wildly, the Horses beginning to grow anxious, till Mason and Dixon are swept once again behind the stinging Curtain of Snow-Crystals. They hear voices ahead, then are suddenly zooming out of Invisibility, in among the Axmen, who, believing them pitiless crazy predators in this place lonely as any in Ulster or the Rhineland, scatter for their Lives back into the Trees. The Day is medium-lit, the Snow more Fall than Storm. The look of all things, thro' the white Descent, is amplified,— the Brass of Instruments back beneath Canvas, the droppings of the Horses, the glow of a clay pipe-ful of Tobacco— Each is aware of how easily a Tree unfell'd, even a Stump left high enough to protrude from the Snow, rearing too quickly to swerve 'round, might mark their personal Termini.
"Dixon! Can you hear me?"
"I'm just here, tha' don't have to shout...?"
"Look ye, I am going entirely too fast, and as the First Derivative 'round here shows no sign of lessening, what I thought I'd do is self-brake,— that is, lean over gradually like this, until I fall o-o-o-ve-r-r-r!...," his voice abruptly fading behind, leaving Dixon alone to face whatever continues to rush upon him a Snowflake's breadth ahead of his Nose.
"Eeh, thah's a bonny Pickle tha've put me in, for fair...." His Reflections are interrupted by the seemingly miraculous Advent, directly in his Path, of a Pile of Cushions, usually located 'neath the Waggon-Canopy, where they intervene 'twixt the Instruments and the excursions of the secular Road-way, but here rather set in the Snow-fall to air out, lest the tell-tale Aura of Tobacco-Smoak testify to a slothful and indeed unacceptable proximity of Instrument-Bearers to Instruments. "Fate is Fate...?" he supposes aloud, opening his arms to embrace this by no means discomfort-free heap of Upholstery.
"Stogies, I believe...?" when all has subsided to a Halt.
"Sir," replies the Waggoner, Frederick Schess, "my personal Opinion of Tobacco,—
"Freddie, consider the Crossing of Paths here,— why, it has likely sav'd my Life...? Miraculous, for fair...? How can I report thee? yet at the same time, how can I commend thee for it?"
"Cash is acceptable,— " calls Tom Hickman.
"Jug of Corn now and then'd be pleasant," adds Matty Marine.
They discharge the Hands and leave off for the Winter. At Christmastide, the Tavern down the Road from Harlands' opens its doors, and soon ev'ryone has come inside. Candles beam ev'rywhere. The Surveyors, knowing this year they'll soon again be heading off in different Directions into America, stand nodding at each other across a Punch-bowl as big as a Bathing-Tub. The Punch is a secret Receipt of the Landlord, including but not limited to peach brandy, locally distill'd Whiskey, and milk. A raft of long Icicles broken from the Eaves floats upon the pale contents of the great rustick Monteith. Everyone's been exchanging gifts. Somewhere in the coming and going one of the Children is learning to play a metal whistle. Best gowns rustle along the board walls. Adults hold Babies aloft, exclaiming, "The little Sausage!" and pretending to eat them. There are popp'd Corn, green Tomato Mince Pies, pickl'd Oysters, Chestnut Soup, and Kidney Pudding. Mason gives Dixon a Hat, with a metallick Aqua Feather, which Dixon is wearing. Dixon gives Mason a Claret Jug of silver, crafted in Philadelphia. There are Con-
estoga Cigars for Mr. Harland and a Length of contraband Osnabrigs for Mrs. H. The Children get Sweets from a Philadelphia English-shop, both adults being drawn into prolong'd Negotiations with their Juniors, as to who shall have which of. Mrs. Harland comes over to embrace both Surveyors at once. "Thanks for simmering down this Year. I know it ain't easy."
"What a year, Lass," sighs Dixon.
"Poh. Like eating a Bun," declares Mason.
The Ascent to Christ is a struggle thro' one heresy after another, River-wise up-country into a proliferation of Sects and Sects branching from Sects, unto Deism, faithless pretending to be holy, and beyond,— ever away from the Sea, from the Harbor, from all that was serene and certain, into an Interior unmapp'd, a Realm of Doubt. The Nights. The Storms and Beasts. The Falls, the Rapids,...the America of the Soul.
Doubt is of the essence of Christ. Of the twelve Apostles, most true to him was ever Thomas,— indeed, in the Acta Thomae they are said to be Twins. The final pure Christ is pure uncertainty. He is become the central subjunctive fact of a Faith, that risks ev'ry-thing upon one bodily Resurrection— Wouldn't something less doubtable have done? a prophetic dream, a communication with a dead person? Some few tatters of evidence to wrap our poor naked spirits against the coldness of a World where Mortality and its Agents may bully their way, wherever they wish to go—
— The Reverend Wicks Cherrycoke, Undeliver'd Sermons
She had found in her Kitchen, the Kitchen Garden, the beehives and the Well, a join'd and finish'd Life, the exact Life, perhaps, that Our Lord intended she live.. .a Life that was like a Flirtation with the Day in all its humorless Dignity...she was at her window, in afternoon peaceable autumn, ev'ryone else in town at the Vendue, Seth too, and the Boys, when They came for her,— as it seem'd, only for her. The unimagin'd dark Men. The Nakedness of the dark and wild men.
Water in a Kettle somewhere was crackling into its first Roll. She risk'd looking at their Faces. The only other place to look was down at the secret Flesh, glistening, partly hidden, partly glimps'd behind the creas'd and odorous Deer-skin clouts— yet for them to come for her, this far East of Susquehanna, this far inside the perimeter of peaceable life, was for the Day to collapse into the past, into darker times,— 'twas to be return'd to, and oblig'd to live through again, something she thought she, thought all her Community, had transcended. Her Lapse had been to ignore the surprizing Frailness of secular Life. By imagining it to be Christian, she had meant to color it with the Immortality of her Soul, of her Soul in Christ, allowing herself to forget that turns of Fortune in the given World might depend upon Events too far out of her Power,...what twig-fall, Prey's escape, unintended insult, might have grown, have multiplied, until there was nowhere else for them to've come, no one else to've come for, even still as she was, and spiritless, before that violent effect of causes unknown—
The further they took her through the Forest, away from her home and name, the safer she began to feel. Sure they would have kill'd her back there, on the spot, if that's why they came? They were moving in a body, yet more slowly than they might have travel'd without her. Not at all angry, or cruel. Like a Dream just before the animals wake up, the German farms pass'd flowing by, the Towns, Equinox, New Cana, Burger's Forge, until, one morning, loud as the Sea, stirr'd to Apple-Cider turbulence from the Rains,— Susquehanna. How had they avoided the Eyes of all the Townsfolk and Farmers between, the gentry out riding, the servants in the fields, how had her Party found Darkness and Safety amid the busy white Densities? And now they'd come to it, how did they mean to cross the River?
There were boats waiting,— at the time she didn't find that as curious as their origins, for they were not Indian Canoes but French-built Bat-toes, fram'd in Timbers, she was later to learn, that grow only in the far Illinois,— And they cross'd then, as simply as the thought of a distant Child or Husband might cross the Zenith of a long Day. She knew the instant they had pass'd the exact Center-line of the River. As she stepp'd to the Western Shore, she felt she had made herself naked at last, for all of them, but secretly for herself....
Over the Blue Mountain, over Juniata, up into Six Nations Country, into the roll of great Earth-Waves ever northward, the billowing of the Forests, in short-Cycle Repetition overset upon the longer Swell of the Mountains,— a Population unnumber'd of Chestnuts, Maples, Locusts, Sweet Gums, Sycamores, Birches, in full green Abandon,— the songbirds went about their lives, the deer fell to silent Arrows, the sound of Sunday hymns came from a distant clearing, then pass'd, the days went unscrolling, the only thing she was call'd on to do was go where they went. They did not bind, or abuse, or, unless they must, speak to her. They were her Express,— she was their Message.
Northing, almost as she watches, trees, one after another, sometimes entire long Hill-sides of them, go flaring into slow, chill Combustion,— Sunsets the colors of that Hearth she may never again see, too often find her out, unprotected. Early Snowflakes are appearing. Enormous Flights of Ducks and Geese and Pigeons darken the Sky. The terrible mass'd beat of their Wings is the Roar of some great Engine above— 'Tis withal a Snowy Owl Year,— the Lemmings having suicided in the North, the Owls are oblig'd to come further South in search of Food,— and suddenly white Visitors from afar are ev'rywhere, arriving in a state of Mistrustful Fatigue, going about with that perpetual frown that distinguishes 'em from the more amiably be-Phiz'd white Gyrfalcons. At the peaks of Barns, the Tops of girdl'd gray Trees, Gleaners of Voles soaring above the harvested Acres, with none of your ghostly hoo, hoo neither, but low embitter'd Croaking, utter'd in Syllables often at the Verge of Human Speech.