Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Happen I may have audibly wonder'd, how one with so much Investment in the matter of the Eleven Days, could be much offended when the Hysteresis be express'd in Degrees...?"
"And taken at the correct Scale," declares Captain Zhang, "what is there to choose? both are Experiences of that failure of perfect Return, that haunts all for whom Time elapses. In the runs of Lives, in Company as alone, what fails to return, is ever a source of Sorrow."
"And a lively Issue among the Metaphysickal I am sure," Mason attempts to beam, "the even yet more compelling Question, just now,
however, being, Are you planning on growing particularly violent any time soon?"
"You cannot shame me. I have lost Shame, as one loses a Bore at an Assembly, creeping behind, whispering, 'You should have left her in Quebec. Your Fate was never to bide this long, amid this Continental Folly.—
Folly that you, yourself, are now fallen into.''
"Sounds like half the Axmen," notes Mason.
"The half who aren't past themselves over that Zsusza...?" adds Dixon.
"This quite exceeds, Sirs, the unsophisticated Grunting of Back-Woodsmen,— She was the captive Ward of my Life's great enemy. Tho' any sight of her, even at a distance, begin in Delight, soon enough shall his evil features emerge from, and replace, those belov'd ones...yet do I desire...not him, never him...yet...given such Terms, to desire her, clearly, I must transcend all Shame,— or be dissolv'd beneath it."
"And you're doing an excellent job!" exclaims Mason, "Isn't he, Lads?"
They return to Harlands' in early December, and get busy with the Royal Society's Degree of Latitude. No telling if they'll ever take the West Line west of Allegheny. All is in the hands of Sir William Johnson.
"Pleasant Gentleman," recalls Capt. Zhang. "Tho' what in distant parts be judg'd Madness, the wanderer may not say, or even know." Like others of the Party, he is apt now and then to drop in without prior Notice, at the Harlands', who are ever happy to have the Company. Advent sees the forming of something near a Club, for the purpose of Discourse upon the Topick of Christ's Birth, repairing after dinner to the Horse-Barn, Capt. Zhang and the Revd Cherrycoke being observ'd among those in faithful Attendance. The Astronomers prove less consistent, tho' willing to pronounce upon points of Chronology, or Astronomy,— or both, such as the Star that brought the Magi.
" 'Twas either a Conjunction of Planets," Dixon opines, "or a Comet."
"In seven B.C., according to Kepler, Jupiter and Saturn were conjunct three times,— and the next year, Mars join'd them," Mason declares. "No one who was out at night could have fail'd to notice that. It must have been the most spectacular Event in the Sky."
"Again, in perhaps twelve B.C.," Capt. Zhang points out, "appear'd the late Comet of 'fifty-nine, whose return to our Era Dr. Halley pre-
dieted,— the Tail, taper'd ever toward the Sun, thus able to direct your Magi,— or perhaps mine,— after each Sunset, to the West."
"Gentlemen, surely," the Revd, as mildly as he may, advances, "Christ was not born any time Before Christ?"
"If," says the Geomancer, "like all Christian nations, you accept the reckoning of Dionysius Exiguus,— then, Herod died in four B.C.,— yet the Gospels have him alive when Christ was born,— the taxation decree that brought Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem may've been as early as eight B.C. There are a number of these... strange inconsistencies."
"Unless the death of Herod be wrongly dated,— for Dennis the Meager, as we know him,— was an agent of God."
"God should've found another Agent," remarks Dixon, in the same side-of-the-mouth delivery as Mason.
"Mr. Mason!" the Revd turning to shake his Index.
"I didn't say that," Mason protests, "— Did I?”
"Just talk, Stig...." Spring Winds howl outside the Tent. Mrs. Eggslap is in an Emerald-green Sacque with Watteau pleats, all disarrang'd at the moment, as is her Hair. A stout Candle of Swedish Wax burns in a Candlestick of Military design.
"To Thorfinn Karlsefni's settlement at Hop," relates Stig, who in lieu of smoking a Stogie, has begun to inspect his Ax-blade for flaws perceptible to him alone,— "at the mouth of one of the Rivers of Vineland, the Skraellings come, to trade pelts for milk. What they really want are weapons, but Karlsefni has forbidden anyone to sell them. Upon the second visit, Karlsefni's wife Gudrid is inside the House, tending Snorri the baby, when despite the new Palisado and the Sentries, a strange, small Woman comes in, announc'd only by her Shadow, fair-hair'd, pale, with the most enormous eyes Gudrid has ever seen, and asks, 'What is your Name?'
'' 'My name is Gudrid,' replies Gudrid. 'What is your name?' ' 'My name is Gudrid,' she whispers, staring out of those Eyes. And all at once there is a violent crash, and the woman vanishes,— at the same Instant, outside, one of the Northmen, struggling with one of the Skraellings, who has tried to seize his weapon, kills him. With terrible cries, the other Skraellings run away,— the Northmen decide not to wait their return, but to go out to them, upon the Cape. The Sea roars against the Land, the Sea-Wind bears away the cries of the Wounded, Blood leaps, Men fall, most of those slain are Skrasllings, their Bodies splay'd and vaporous in the Cold. None but Gudrid ever saw the woman whose visit announc'd this first Act of American murder, and the collapse of Vineland the Good,— in another year Karlsefni's outpost would be gone, as if what they had done out upon the Headland, under the torn Banners of the Clouds, were too terrible, and any question of who had prevail'd come to matter ever less, as Days went on, whilst the residue of Dishonor before the Gods and Heroes would never be scour'd away. Thereafter they were men and women in Despair, many of whom, bound for Home, miscalculated the Route and landed in Ireland, where they were cap-tur'd and enslav'd."
"Oh, Stig."
"These are Tales of the Westward Escapes, of Helgi and Finnbogi, and Thorstein the Swarthy, and Biarni Heriulfsson. Rogues and Projectors and Fugitives, they went without pretext, no Christ, no Grail, no expectation beyond each Day's Turnings, to be haunted by Ghosts more material, less merciful, than any they'd left at their backs.
"They found here, again, as in Greenland and Iceland, Firths and Fjords,— something Immense had harrow'd and then flooded all these Coasts.—
"
"So that's why the Swedes chose to sail between the Capes of Delaware,— they thought it was another Fjord! You fellows do like a nice Fjord, it seems. Instead, they found Pennsylvania!"
"Some Surprize?"
"Some Surprize.—
Stig?"
"Yah, Pa-tience?"
"Do we really need the Ax right here, like this?"
This Season, hanging just over the Horizon, spreading lightless Mantle and pale fingers across the sky, the great Ghost of the woods has been whispering to them,— tho' Reason suggests the Wind,— "No...no more...no further." Such are the Words the Surveyors have been able to bring to their waking Bank-side, from this great fluvial Whisper.
"Reminds me of a Lass from Escombe...," remarks Dixon. Jointly and severally, they have continu'd to find regions of Panick fear all along the Line,— Dixon, in the great Cave whose Gothicity sends his partner into
such Raptures, but wondering, in some Fretfulness, what might be living in it large enough, to need so much space,— whereas 'tis Mason who stands sweating and paralyz'd before the great Death-shade of the Forest between Savage Mountain and Little Yochio Geni, "...a wild waste," he will write, "composed of laurel swamps, dark vales of Pine through which I believe the Sun's rays never penetrated," which evokes from Dixon, at his lengthiest, "Great uncommon lot of Trees about...?" Together, they are apt to be come upon at any stretch of the Chain, no telling when, by the next unwelcome Visitor that waits them. Nor,— tho' Night-fall is traditional,— will any Hour be exempt. This is none of the lesser Agents, the White Women or Black Dogs, but the Presence itself, unbounded, whose Visitations increase in number as the Party, for the last time, moves West.
One Day, having fail'd to fall asleep, and, as they often did, continue to sleep, through the nightly death of the Sun,— up instead, faces vermil-ion'd, amid the clank and bustle of preparations for the evening Mess,— Mason and Dixon hear the Voice, stirring the tops of Trees in a black swift Smear down the Mountainside and into the Shade, more to plead than to pronounce,— "You are gone too far, from the Post Mark'd West."
It is there. Neither Surveyor may take any comfort in Suspicions of joint Insanity. "Thankee," Mason mutters back to it, "as if we didn't already know."
"Myself...? Ah'd love to see the canny old Post again," adds Dixon, helpfully. They know by now where they are, not only in Miles, Chains, and Feet, but respecting as well the Dragon of the Land, according to which anyplace beyond the Summit of the Alleghenies, wherever the water flows West, into the Continental Unknown, lies too far from the Countryside where, quietly, unthreaten'd, among the tall gray stalks of the girdl'd trees, beneath Roofs tarr'd against the Rain, the Wives knead and flour, and the Dough's Rising is a Miniature of the great taken Breath of the Day,... and where voices in the Wind are assum'd into the singing of the Congregations, the Waggon's rumbling upon the roads of pack'd and beaten earth, the lowing, the barking, the solitary rifle-shot, close to supper-time, from over in the next Valley. Here the Surveyors,— as many of the Party,— have come away, as if backward in Time, beyond the Range of the furthest spent Ball, of the last friendly Pennsylvania
Rifle. The Implication of the ghostly Speech is clear to them both.— They will soon be proceeding, if indeed they are not already, with all Guarantees of Safety suspended,— as if Whatever spar'd them years ago, at Sea, were now presenting its Bill. Here, the next Interdiction, when it comes, will be not with the clamorous stench of Sea-Battle, but quieter than wind, final as Stone.
Abdominal Fear and Thoracick Indignation at the same moment visit both Surveyors. To have come this far...and yet, by the Scale it has assum'd, the Denial is so clearly meant to be heeded—
Be they heedful or not, 1767 will be their last year upon the Line. Conditions hitherto shapeless are swiftly reduc'd to Certainty. Having waited upon Sir William Johnson to negotiate with deputies from the Six Nations, assembl'd at German Flat, upon Mohawk, as to the continuation of the Line beyond the Allegheny Crest, the Surveyors loiter week upon week in Philadelphia, Drinking at Clubs, dancing with City Belles at Shore-parties, along the sand Beaches, playing two-handed Whist, their judgment in ev'rything from Fish to Pipe-Fellows grown perilously unreliable, as the Air oppressively damp,— howbeit, they get a late start this Year, not reaching the Allegheny Front until July, a full year since they left off their Progress West. Sir William Johnson is to be paid £500 for his Trouble.
Their last Spring out, passing by way of Octarara, they find the Redzingers and their neighbors all at a barn-raising nearby. A geomet-rick Maze of Beams, a-bang with men in black Hats. Luise waves to Peter up straddling a lower Girt, smiling over at one of the Yoder Boy's Hardware-Joaks. Mason and Dixon drop ceremonial Plumb-lines here and there, and Capt. Zhang pronounces the location acceptably within the Parameters of his Luo-Pan. He has re-join'd the Party after a mysterious Absence over the Winter, during which the Cobra-Brain Pearl he'd shown them has deflected at last the will of the Jesuit. Thro' its influence, there had appear'd in P. Zarpazo's path an irresistible offer to travel to Florida and be one of the founders of a sort of Jesuit Pleasure-Garden, of Dimensions unlimited by neighboring Parcels, tho' the Topick of Alligators has so far adroitly remain'd unaddress'd—
There are Parsnip Fritters, breaded fried Sausages, Rhubarb Dumplings, Souse and Horse-radish, Ham-and-Apple Schnitz und
Knepp, Hickory-Nut Cake and Shoofly Pies. Armand, bravely spruc'd up, even drops by,— tho' his heart, he will assure anyone who asks, is desolated,— with a strangely festive Pudding he has whisk'd together, loaded with Currants, candied Violets, dried apricots, peaches, and cherries chopp'd fine with almonds and rejuvenated in Raspberry Brandy. He is surrounded immediately by various small Children.
Luise leads her Husband over, by the hand with the sacred Finger, and the men meet formally at last. Armand finds himself looking upward at this very large German, who continues to grip the equally oversiz'd Hammer with which he has been whacking at Beams and Plates all day,— meanwhile regarding Armand as a Boy might a Bug. Or perhaps—
"How is the Duck?" Peter blurts. "She told me about it. Luise."
Armand almost blurts back, "The Duck is excellent," but wagering it is a religious question, replies, "I see the Duck seldom of late. Perhaps, by now, she has taken in her charge so many other Souls as troubl'd as my own, that there remains less time for me,— perhaps, as she has con-tinu'd upon her own way, I have even pass'd altogether from her Care."
"But, Time, surely, by now, no longer matters to her?" Peter now curious, "- - no longer passes the same way, I mean."
The Frenchman shrugs. "Yet we few, fortunate Objects of her Visits, remain ever tight in Time's Embrace," sighing, as if for the Duck alone....
"She, then,.. .enters and leaves the Stream of Time as she likes?" Luise, tossing her eyes vigorously skyward, slides away to attend to an Oven-Load of loaves and biscuits. The lads, whose flow of saliva has begun to escape the best efforts of their lower lips to contain it, proceed to eat their way from one end of a long trestle table to the other, thro' Hams and Fowl, Custards and Tarts, fried Noodles and Opossum Alamodes, all the while deep in discourse upon the deepest Topicks there are.
The instruments arrive on the seventh of July at Cumberland, throng'd and a-blare with skin-wearers and cloth-wearers ever mingling, Indian and White, French and Spanish. Ladies pack Pistols and Dirks, whilst
coarser Sisters prove to be saintlier than expected. Poison'd by strong