Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Poh, Sir," goads Mason, "the Provinces are alike as Stacy and Tracy."
"Except for the Negro Slavery upon one side," Dixon points out, less mildly than he might, "and not the other."
"If you think you see no Slaves in Pennsylvania," replies Capt. Zhang, his face as smooth as Suet, "why, look again. They are not all African, nor do some of them even yet know,— may never know,— that they are Slaves. Slavery is very old upon these shores,— there is no
Innocence upon the Practice anywhere, neither among the Indians nor the Spanish nor in the behavior of the rest of Christendom, if it come to that."
On June I4th, they stand atop the Allegheny Divide. From now on, any Settlers they find are here in violation of Penn's and Bouquet's Edicts. Here the Party will cross, not alone into Ohio, but into Outlawry as well. At last, running Water becomes the underlying unit of measurement,— Planets hold their Courses, Constellations stately creep on, Napier's Bones click in the Surveyors' Tents, and quietly, calmly, ev'rything keeps coming back to Water, how it inhabits the Land, how it gets on with the Dragon beneath. Mapp'd at last, "Maryland" is reveal'd as but a set of Lines meant to Frame Potowmack to the West, and Chesapeake to the East,— dry Land is included, but the Map is of Water. "Beyond the Dividing Mountain (Savage), the Waters all run to the Westward," Mason enters in the Field-Book. "The first of Note (which our Line would cross if continued) is the Little Yochio Geni, running into the Monaungahela, which falls into the Ohio or Allegany River at Pitsbourg (about 80 Miles West, and 30 or 40 North from hence)....The Ohio is navigable for small craft by the accounts I have had from many that have passed down it; and falls in to the River Mississippi (about 36.5 degrees of North Latitude; Longitude 92 degrees from London); which empties itself into the Bay of Florida." This is how far one Day at the Savage Mountain Summit takes his Desire, or his Quill.
"Who sent you boys out here like this?" There are about six of them. Some afterward will say seven. They are wearing Hats made from the fur of Raccoons, Opossums, Weasels, and Beavers,— and holding long Rifles with octagonal barrels, and packing a Pistol or two each. Even the Horses are glaring, all but carnivorously, at the Party.
A Dilemma. Say the name of either Proprietor, and they are agents of the Enemy. Say "Royal Society," and 'twill sound like working for the King, who's even less popular out here than the Penns. "Running a Line
East and West," Dixon finally says, "for some Gentlemen who'll pay for something that looks good on a Map."
"Lot o' Boys for just a simple straight Line, ain't it?"
"We could use more'n this," suggests Tom Hynes, perhaps not as aware as those Axmen who've taken refuge behind the Trees, how easily the Visitors may be provok'd. "Lot of Trees need fallin'. Ask the Steward, Mr. McClean. It's three and six the Day, and we'll keep ye fed."
"For how long?"
"Far west as they let us go. Could get day-to-day after a little,—
"Hai-ll,— sounds good to me."
' 'Tis your Wife that's Good, Lloyd,— this is 'at damn Proclamation Line, 's what it is."
"No it ain't, that runs the other way, all along the Allegheny Ridge-Line. This is something else. Why're you chopping down all these Trees?"
"You're sure welcome to haul away what you need."
"This all right with Colonel Bouquet?"
Out here, the Col° would be a ruthless sort of chap to run up against. The Hero of Bushy Run has his own plans for America, and a good many friends among the high Whiggery as well,— as who must not, in these times. His Scheme is to tessellate across the Plains a system of identical units, each containing five Squares in the shape of a Greek Cross, with each central square controlling the four radiating from it,— tho' as to their Size, no one is agreed, some saying a mile on a side, others ten, or an Hundred,— Ohio, and the western Prairie beyond, presenting such Enigma, that no one knows what scale to work at.
"A Prison," suggests Capt. Zhang. "Settlers moving West into instant Control."
"Dozens of such Schemes each year," shrugs Capt. Shelby, "and they all fail."
"Bringing closer the day," replies the Chinaman, as if receiving Instruction from Elsewhere, "when one of them succeeds.”
On August 4th, Mason reports a "great Storm of Thunder and Lightning: the Lightning in continued Streams or Streaks, from the Cloud to the ground all 'round us; about 5 minutes before the hurricane of wind and Rain; the Cloud from the Western part of the Mountain put on the most dreadful appearance I ever saw: It seemed to threaten an immediate dissolution to all beneath it."
"Thy sort of Weather," Dixon, chewing upon more than smoking a Conestoga Cigar, supposes.
"Look at that Cloud. Awful. Don't you pray, in situations like this?" "Of course. But I didn't imagine Deists did, so much...?" "This is no Pervading Influence, this is as personal as it gets, all it'd take'd be one Bolt of Lightning— " A huge, apocalyptick Peal strikes directly outside, arriving together with a Volume of light unknown even at mid-Day.
Again are the Party returning Eastward, into Memory, and Confabulation. The physickal World, from Gusts to Eclipses, must insist upon itself a bit more, so claim'd are the Surveyors in their contra-solar Return by Might-it-bes, and If-it-weres,— not to mention What-was-thats.
Next day, whilst yet west of Gunpowder, crossing Biter-Bit Creek, they pass near a House which is just reaching the Cusp of a Monthly, indeed Lunar, Whim-Wham they have on previous Occasions manag'd to avoid. It seems that each time the full Moon ascends to bathe in her flavid Stain the Steeps and Crevices of that country, Zepho Beck creeps from his Bed, waking his Wife, Rhodie, who then waits for as many heart-beats as she may bear before stealing out after Zepho as he proceeds to the Creek-side and, selecting a young Birch of a certain Diameter, crouches before it, bares his Teeth, Finger-combing his hair back from his face with Creek-Water, approaching the Tree closely enough to sniff the Bark, and smell the Fluids of life coursing beneath, before falling upon it, and in a short tho' hideous turn of Gnawing,— his Eyes throwing crazed yellow flashes all about,— bringing it down—With his Wife watching secretly and in some Agitation, Zepho sheds his clothing to reveal a dense fur covering his Body,— enters the Water, dragging with him the slain Tree, and moves up-stream,— flapping his feet, now grown webb'd to propel and steer him,— sleekly 'round several bends, till coming upon a great Dam being built by legitimate Beavers, who of course all go swimming for their Lives as soon as they see Zepho, for they know him, as this has been happening ev'ry full Moon. Perhaps indifferent to their social Rejection, he sets to work separating his Tree into Poles, Sticks, and Withes, and placing them wherever in the Structures of Dam or Lodge he feels they need to go. The next morning he is found down-hill from his House, beside the fishing-Pond, lying among remnants of gnaw'd Shrubs, with fragments of half-eaten water-lilies protruding from his Mouth.
"Kastoranthropy," Professor Voam shaking his head, "And haven't I seen it do things to a man. Tragick."
"Yes and you might ask the Indians that you meet, how all the other Beavers like it," says Rhodie.
" 'Other,' Madam?"
"Well you've but to look at him, when he's...the way he is, the Hair, the Teeth? the Tail, for goodness' Sake, they seem to regard him as another breed of creek life,— welcoming his help with the Construction,— yet in the month's Lull before his next Fit, oblig'd to waste their Time putting much of it right again. I love him but Zepho's no Carpenter. Look at this place, Lord in his Mercy. And it gets worse. He believes that Indians are out setting traps for him, aiming to capture him and trade his Pelt for Weapons. Sometimes he does say 'Scalp,' but mostly 'tis 'Pelt.'''
"An advanc'd case," nods the Professor. They are in the Barn, where Zepho has been brought, much to the perplexity of the Animals there,
who must conflate the Being who feeds them with this wild creature. "The Indians I have consulted, know ev'rything that's going on, and if it's any comfort, at least Zepho's not alone, there's been an Ulster Scot with a Taste for Swamp Maples, paddling about all summer, up Juniata,— a Son of Dublin, down by Cheat,— in fact, enough Kastormorphism among White folks out here, since we first started settling, to populate a good Lake of our own."
These Indians are certainly no strangers to the idea of a Giant Beaver. He figures importantly in Tales of how they and the World began,— he claims a fourth of the Delaware Nation under the Beaver Totem,— he is a protector, sustainer, worker of Miracles. Zepho during the Full Moon, however, is not exactly what they have in mind, failing somehow to be sinister or powerful enough,— nor, to be direct, do they ever find him quite Beaver enough, as the Phenomenon lasts but a Night and a Day, whilst beneath ev'ry other Phase of the Moon, he appears to be the Zepho of old.
"How can you go on wanting me as your husband?" he cries.
"Beaver for a Day don't seem like much, Zepho,— you've seen ev'rything I can turn into."
"Mighty kind of you, Rhodie,— in fact, too kind. What is it you're cooking up now?"
"Nothing, Zepho. Just how women flit from one daydream to another,— and all at once I had this idea for a Contest,—
"Rhodie?"
"Make us a Fortune! Suppose you and that Swedish Axman Stig were to—
"Wait, wait,— Dear, it wouldn't work,— a dozen things must be perfect,— the Bark has to taste right,— the age of the Tree,— its Vital Emanations,—
"Nor's it quite fair," Professor Voam adds, "for Stig's indifferent to what he chops down, knowing he can fell anything with that Swedish Bit and custom Handle, a Hickory or an Alder, an Oak or a Peach, it matters little to Stig, the Equations are the same but for the Arboreal Coefficients,— Details of importance to a Beaver are absorb'd in a single brutal downswing,— after which, all is over."
"You're saying it's a mismatch? Listen, tree-for-tree I can match anything that Swede can do.”
"There's the Zepho I married!"
And so, at the full Moon of August 5th, the two Lumbermen meet upon the Visto. Mason and Dixon bring out and carefully adjust the Royal Society Clock, winch up the Weight, and set the Pendulum a-tick. The Contestants are to proceed side by side, each being responsible for half of the Visto's Breadth. At the end of two perfectly measur'd Hours, the slain trees will be counted. If the numbers happen to be equal, then Zepho and Stig will each fell one more Tree, and the fastest will be Winner.
"All set?" booms Mr. Barnes, "— Gentlemen, let's clear us some Visto!"
A chorus of Mrs. Eggslap's young Ladies have turn'd out to lend support to Stig,— "Swing that Ax! Chop that Tree! On, Stig, on! To Victo-ry!" Stig strikes for them an athletick Pose, then another,— he has more than enough time, hasn't he, to get to work, and these girls are all so,—
"Stig!"
What is this? He narrows his Gaze, looking about. Zepho is already well out of sight, over the next Rise in fact, having left behind a five-yard Swathe of Trees horizontal, and neatly separated into Trunks, Branches, and Withes. Stig grips his Ax, assaulting his side of the Visto with so much Fury that the first Tree is coming down before he is really prepar'd to avoid it. One Limb in consequence catches him fairly across the Arse, sending him a-sprawl. He takes some time to arise, and when he does, he's limping. It proves but a Sprain, that he is able in the next two hours to work out, yet not enough to come up appreciably upon Zepho.
"I thought I was perfect," as Stig will recall later, " - what hap-pen'd?"
"Sometimes," Mrs. Eggslap will begin, " 'tis hard, to be a Woman—"
By now 'tis well past Sun-set, and the Full August Moon has risen. Expecting its Rays further to enhance Zepho's performance, Guy Spit the pass-bank Bully is sending Agents 'round to make side-Wagers as to the total number of Trees fell'd. Imagine his consternation when Zepho, seeing the risen Orb, screams and runs for the nearest Shade.
"Impossible," mutters Professor Voam. "Unless..."
"The Light," Zepho screams, " - the Moon, Rhodie, it's almost,— aahh!”
Mason looks at Dixon. Dixon looks at Mason. "The Eclipse!" both cry at the same time. They have only now remember'd the Eclipse of the Moon, due to start later tonight. Zepho is 'morphosing back to Human, and not enjoying it much. Stig requests that the contest be declar'd void, and Guy Spit collapses in tears, his only intelligible Word, "Ruin."
' 'Tis well," murmurs Rhodie, trying to ignore the vast hands-ful of Fur Zepho is shedding all over her Apron. "There is a promising Lawsuit in this, if we can prove those Astronomers knew about it in advance."
"We assum'd the one would have no effect upon the other," protests Mason, "and we certainly didn't use the knowledge to win any money, did we?"
Dixon raises his eyes piously.
"How could they not be connected? Zepho, my own, speak to me!"
"Not even a Philadelphia Lawyer could win with an Argument like that."
"In ancient Days," notes Capt. Zhang, "they'd have been beheaded! Indeed, it nearly happen'd to a Pair of Astronomers legendary in China, nam'd Hsi and Ho." The next evening, Zepho yet in mental distress over his unpremeditated re-humanizing, and the Topick of Mason and Dixon's lapse having again arisen, the Captain tells,—
Once, so long ago that no one is sure of Dates anymore,— tho' some say it was during the reign of one of the Hia Emperors,— upon the first day of Autumn in the Hsiu or Moon-station of Fang, an eclipse of the Sun occurr'd, which the Court Astronomers, Hsi and Ho, fail'd to predict,— not just predict accurately, but predict at all. Instead of diligently observing the Heavens, and doing the calculations, they had been spending most of their time roistering into town at late hours, abusing wine, drunkenly pursuing notorious Courtesans, not all of whom were Women, falling into public Latrines, and losing great portions of their Royal Stipends to all sorts of thieves, from Adventuresses to Gamingtable Bullies,— until, one strangely-lit Noontide, clogg'd and neural-gick, weaving their way back to their quarters in the Palace, they notice something about the shadows of the trees.—
The sunlight that is able to pass clear of the leaves and strike the Road-way, instead of the usual more or less round Dots amid a general shade, presents instead, a mindlessly repeated Spill of identical Crescents, each growing imperceptibly narrower and sharper, as the stupefied Philosophers watch,— slowly realizing that they are seeing the Moon, moving onto the Disk of the Sun, carpeting the Ground by the bleary shimmering tens of thousands, as far in ev'ry direction as they can see.