Were the Visto to’ve cross’d the Warrior Path and simply proceeded West, then upon that Cross cut and beaten into the Wilderness, would have sprung into being not only the metaphysickal Encounter of Ancient Savagery with Modern Science, but withal a civic Entity, four Corners, each with its own distinguishable Aims. Sure as Polaris, the first structure to go up would be a Tavern,— the second, another Tavern. Setting up Businesses upon the approaches, for miles along each great Conduit, there would presently arrive waggon-smiths, stock auctioneers, gun-makers, feed and seed merchants, women who dance in uncommon Attire, Lanthorns that burn all night, pavements of strange metaling brought from afar, along with all the other heavy cargo that now streams in both directions, the Fleets of Conestoga Waggons, ceaseless as the fabl’d Herds of Buffalo, further west,— sunlit canopies a-billow like choir-sung promises of Flight, their unspar’d Wheels rumbling into the soft dairy night-falls of shadows without edges, tho’ black as city soot.
Festive Lanthorns, by contrast, shine thro’ the Glass of the swifter passenger conveyances that go streaking by above the Fields, one after another, all hours of the day and night. . . . Aloft, these carry their wheels with them, barely scuff’d by Roadway, to be attached whenever needed. Singing and Gaiety may be heard passing thro’ the Airy Gulfs above. Newcomers to the Ley-borne Life are advis’d not to look up, lest, seiz’d by its proper Vertigo, they fall into the Sky.— For ’t has happen’d more than once,— drovers and Army officers swear to it,— as if Gravity along the Visto, is become locally less important than Rapture.
One night, yet east of Laurel Hill, Mason asks, “Where is your Spirit Village?” The Indians all gesture, straight out the Line, West. “God dwells there? At the Horizon?” They nod.
“And where is yours?” asks Hendricks. Mason rather uncertainly indicates Up.
Dixon cocks a merry eye. “What’s this,— only at the Zenith . . . ? Not something a little more . . . all-encompassing?” waving an arm to illustrate.
Surveyors and Indians have been out looking at the Stars, discussing the possibility of Life upon other Worlds, whether and how much our Awareness of such Life might figure in our Awareness of God, God, then, vis-à-vis Gods, and other Topicks, of such interest to my Profession that I felt oblig’d to listen in.
“What puzzles us about Star-gazing,” says Daniel, “is that you are ever attending them, and never they you.”
“Have They attended you?” Mason unprepar’d to believe it.
“Many times. Never all at once, usually but one at a time,— yet, they do come to us.”
“Sounds like Fishing,” supposes Dixon.
The Indians like that. “Sky-fishing,” says Hanenhereyowagh.
“Shouldn’t someone explain about the Bait?” young Jemmy whispers, loud enough to receive a number of Looks from his Party, ranging from amus’d to annoy’d.
“Eeh,” Dixon encourages him. “Tell me and I’ll give thee the secrets of my Amazing Bread Lure, famous the length of the Wear and beyond, for bringing them in.”
“You spoke of it first,” Hendricks reminds the Lad.
“ ’Tis the Safety of your Soul,” says Jemmy. He has lately been out upon his Trial of Passage from child to adult, having found his Protector,— a Bear, who walk’d toward him on her back feet, with her Arm extended in the precise Six-Nations Gesture for Peace. Now, however perilous the Trails may grow, She can be summon’d in an Instant. “Yet I had to risk all,— to bring her in, I had to fasten all that I was, upon a Line I could not break,— and wait, sleepless, starving not only with my Body but with— ”
(“Parsonickal interpolation!” shouts Uncle Lomax.
“ ‘— my Spirit.’— What, Lomax, may not a Mohawk youth possess a needful Spirit?
“ ‘Thank thee, Jemmy,’ at any rate, Dixon now replied. ‘My Bread Lure’s a bit safer than thah’, and here’s how it’s done,—’ Whereupon they withdrew out of my hearing, so that regretfully I quite miss’d the Information.”
“Oh, Coz, what Stuff.”
“I have witness’d this Bait in action, Madam. I saw Dixon bring in fish not even native to the Region, let alone the Creek. Fish never seen before in those parts, Salmon-Trout out of farm-ponds you’d think couldn’t hide a Frog, Chesapeake Rock-Fish well over the Allegheny Ridge,— the rarely encounter’d Inland Tuna . . . ?— all with that miraculous Compound of his. I have personally taken with it Sea-Bass of weight unknown, but that it requir’d two of us to carry one back to the Cook-Tent,— withal, Trout innumerable, even as, close by, other Anglers drows’d at their Rods, hoping at best to intercept some unwary Perch. Believe me, if I knew the Secrets, I should be producing this Receipt from a Mill, by the Hogshead, and wallowing in Revenue.”)
“See that group of stars over there?” Daniel points to the Big Dipper.
“We call it the Great Bear,” Mason instructs them.
“So do we.” Betraying no surprise. “And that bent Line of Stars by it?”
“The Bear’s Tail.”
The Indians are merry for some Moments. “Bears in your country have long Tails.”
“That is a very long-tail’d Bear.”
“Are you sure it’s not something else?”
“Those Stars you call a ‘Tail,’ are the Hunters who come after the Bear. Where are your Hunters?”
Mason indicates Boötes, and the Hunting Dogs. “So styl’d officially, tho’ in practice we call ’em the Hounds.”
Mason remembers from his youth a Market-Night, all of them in the bed of the Waggon, lumbering home late from Stroud. The Sun went down, and the Stars came out, and Charlie went on about the Stars. “The school-Master calls it Ursa Major, The Bigger of two Bears, and that’s the Little one, there.”
“My Father call’d it ‘the Baker’s Peel,’” his father told him.
“Mine always said ‘Charles’s Wain,’” recall’d his mother. “Charles was the Name of a great king, over in France.”
“Hurrah!” cried Hester, “— here we all are, riding in Charles’s Wain!” and it was one of the few times he could remember his Father laughing too.
Mason look’d up at his Parents’ Faces, turn’d aside, under a great seeded Sky without a moon, under the unthinkable leagues of their Isolation. He would remember them all together like that, as if they liv’d at the edge of some great lighted Sky-Structure, with numberless Lanthorns hung and Shadows falling ev’rywhere, and pathways in, upon which once having ventur’d, he might account his life penetrated, and the rest of it claim’d.
He thought he knew ev’ry step he had taken, between then and today, yet can still not see, tho’ the dotting of ev’ry last i in it be known, how he has come to the present Moment, alone in a wilderness surrounded by men who may desire him dead, his Kindred the whole Ocean away, with Dixon his only sure Ally. “Are we in danger?” he sees little point in not asking.
“Oh, sure and ask the Mohawk,” cries Daniel, “— if the Topick be Danger, he knows all,— and let’s not omit Violence, Terror, Weaponry, am I leaving anything out?”
“Sorry . . . I’m sorry,” Mason mumbles.
Daniel sniffs and shakes his head. “Scalp but one White man, ev’ryone starts assuming things. Yes, of course you are in Danger. Your Heart beats? You live here?” gesturing all ’round. “Danger in ev’ry moment.”
“May I ask about Vegetables, at least? Esculents notable for their Size,— that won’t offend anyone?”
“I am not one of your Vegetable-wise Mohawks. You need to talk with Nicholas.” All the way back to the Tents, Mason catches Daniel casting him glances, no longer of Curiosity, but of Judgment render’d.
In Camp, they find Nicholas conducting a Discussion upon the very Topick. He is amiable in responding to Mason’s Inquiries, even when these carry an anxious under-surge. “Far, far to the North and West,” Hugh Crawf
ford translates, “lies a Valley, not big, not small . . . a place of Magick. Smoke comes out of the Mountains . . . the Earth rumbles . . . Springs of Fire run ev’rywhere.”
“Volcanickal Activity,” Mason helpfully.
“In this Valley, plants,— Vegetables,— grow big,— very big. Big Corn. Each Kernel’s more than a Man can lift. Big Turnip. Six-man crew to dig out but one. Big Squash. Big enough for many families to eat their way into, and then live inside all the Winter. Very big, BIG,— Hemp-Plant.” The Mohawk is upon his feet, pretending to look in Astonishment at something nearly straight overhead.
Dixon, as if suddenly waking, inquires, “Well how big’s thah’, Nicholas . . . ?
“Late in the Season, to climb to the top of a Female Plant is a Journey of many Days, Red Coat.”
They beam mischievously at one another, a Look that Mason in his Excitement does not pick up, babbling, “Because of the Volcanick Soil, obviously. A Marvel! Crawfford, ask him about Carrots.”
“Big,” the Indian replies directly, smiling and nodding. Mason notices that ev’ryone is nodding.
“Hemp-Plant,” Dixon reminds Nicholas.
Many people, he explains, even from far away, make the Journey and Ascent. In earlier times, they climb’d to a Limb wide enough not to roll off of, and camp’d there overnight. But ’twas a fix’d season, and a growing Demand,— soon the great Limbs grew crowded. Some Travelers were not careful with their campfires, starting larger fires soon put out, tho’ not before producing lots of Smoak. Big Smoak. Depending upon the Winds, often climbers were delay’d for days.
The first long-houses began to appear upon the sturdier Branches, each season’s Pilgrims sleeping in them overnight, then traveling on upward, others remaining to wait for them, smoking meanwhile Resin broken from some Bud nearby, and wrapp’d in a piece of Leaf, the whole being twisted into a great Cigar. Soon sheds were added to the Limb-side Inns, serving as Depots for the Jobbers who buy direct from the Bud. Bands of Renegadoes arrive to attack and rob the Enterprizers, who accordingly must band together in arm’d Convoy. Yet desperate men will assault even these vertical Caravans. ’Tis a lively time out there upon the Stalks.
“This Valley,— how far away is it?” Dixon with a dark breathlessness, as if, upon the right answer, he will immediately rush off into the night.
Gesturing toward gentle Alioth, “Too far. You would not go, Red Coat.”
“Perhaps I might.”
Nicholas is laughing now.” ’Perhaps’ no need to.” Patiently, he tells the story of the Giant Hemp-Plant again, making his Voice loud on words such as Jobber, and Resin.
Mason gets a Glimmer. “He’s trying to sell us something.”
Frantic now, the Mohawk is making wild smoking gestures, puffing imaginary Smoak right in their Faces. “Smoak?” says Dixon. “Thee mean, Smoak? O sublime Succedaneum!”
“He thinks he’s back at the Cape,” Mason’s eyes cast skyward. “Where he grew so abstracted that I had to keep reminding him of the date of the Transit, aye, even upon the Day itself. How he attended the Clock and Telescope as closely as he did, remains a Mystery.”
“Dagga hath many Mysteries,” Dixon replies.
One being, that talking about things, while not exactly causing them to happen, does cause something,— which is almost the same, tho’ not quite. Unless it is possible to smoke a Potatoe. That is, the first of the Giant Vegetables does not seem all that large,— remarkable at some Fair in the Country perhaps, but hardly the Faith-challenging Specimens that lie yet a Ridge-line or two away, further West, where they are soon to be found ever larger, abandoning the Incremental, bringing into question the very Creation. . . .
“Ah don’t see it,” Dixon apologetick. “There’ll always be a few very large Specimens of anything tha like . . . ?”
“This is Acre upon Acre, and cannot be God’s Work.”
West of Cheat, they discover Indian Corn growing higher than a Weather-cock upon a Barn. What they take for a natural Hill, proves but the Pedestal for a gigantick Squash-Vine thicker than an ancient Tree-trunk, whose Flowers they can jump into in the mornings and bathe in, sometimes never touching the Bottom. Single Tomatoes tower high as Churches and shiny enough to see yourself in, warp’d spherickal, red as Blood, with the whole great sweep of Forest and River and Visto curving away behind. And the Smell, apotheckarial, œstral, musk-heavy,— one must bring along a Bladder fill’d with fresh Air, and now and then inhale from it, if one does not wish to swoon clean away, in these Gardens Titanick.
“Did ye hear someone going Fee Fie Fo Fum?” Mason frowns.
“And yet . . . might these not be the products of Human Art . . . ?”
“Folly. No philosopher, however ingenious, not Mr. Franklin himself,— look at it, for Heaven’s sake! You can’t see the top! Like some damn’d Palm Oasis here!”
“My guess is it’s the top of a Carrot,” replies Dixon, “tho’ of some Size, of course,— yet let us further imagine, that where there is a vegetable patch, there must be someone,— some thing,— tending it. I suggest we— ”
“Too late.”
“You’re welcome, Sirs, tho’ you’re not suppos’d to be here.” ’Tis a group of Farmers despite whose middling Age and Height, Proximity to any of the Plants in their Care, gives the look of serious Elves. “Rifle’s back at the Barn, so I can’t kill ye. Yet you’re Brits by the look of ye, so we cannot trust yese neither.”
“Why keep it a Secret? Why not rather notify the Pennsylvania Gazette?”
“We but look after these, for Others who are absent, pending their Return, in the meantime being allow’d the free use of all we may grow.” They are invited to follow.
The Seeds are stor’d in Sheds especially built for them, each able to shelter one, at most two, for the Winter. In the Spring, planting but a few of them is a communal Task, easily comparable to a Barn-Raising. Last Year’s Potatoe, lying in the giant Root-cellar dug beneath the nearer Pasture, is assaulted by Adze and Hatchet, and taken by handcarts to the Kitchen to be boil’d, bak’d, or fried in as many ways as there are Wives on hand with personal Receipts. “Nothing!” cries the Head Gardener. “Wait’ll yese see the Beet!”
The Beet is of a Circumference requiring more than one Entry-way. All who pass much time going in and out, whether for reasons of Residence, or Investigation, or indeed Nutrition, eventually acquire a deep red-indigo Stain that nothing can wash away.
“Like Geordie Pitmen, tho’ more colorful,” it seems to Dixon. “And which is less reasonable, all ’round,— ever to place thy Life’s Wagers upon a large tho’ finite Vegetable upon the Earth, or a like-siz’d Vein of Coal beneath it? The Beet, at least, yese can see . . . ?”
“Yet, does it live,” declares their Guide.
“You don’t mean,—” Mason markedly less eager to have a look inside now.
“We are as Garden Pests, to It. It suffers us. We being unworthy of Its full Attention.”
“It . . . understands what we say?” Mason’s eyes fallen into an Alternating Squint, with one right-left-right Cycle taking about a Second.
“There are schools of Thought, as to that. Another Lively Question is, Does it remember the Days, when we were bigger than Beets, yes, by about the same Proportion, ’d you notice, that Beets are now bigger than us? Now that the Tables are turn’d, do, do they harbor Grudges? Do they have a concept of Revenge, perhaps for insults we never intended?”
68
By this time, they’re making a mile or two per day. On the seventh of August, they cross Braddock’s Road at 189 miles and 69 Chains. Thirty-two Chains further on, they cross the Road a second Time. The next Day, a Mile and 35 Chains beyond that, they cross it a Third Time.
“I’m not content with this, Dixon, not at all.”
Three agents for Philadelphia land-speculating Intere
sts are said to be out here this summer, scouting real estate,— Harris, Wallace, and Friggs. The Metropolitan cabal back there, ’tis said, goes upon the hope of the next Purchase of the Indians, of as much trans-Alleghenian Land as possible. The settlers having been serv’d Eviction Notices last year by Capt. Mackay and the Highland Forty-second, and withal Surveying itself about to be proclaim’d a Crime,— fifty Pounds’ fine and three months in Jail,— these Gentlemen suppose they may take over the Rights out here for virtually nothing.
“Three months for Surveying!” Mason marvels. “And if someone’s been doing it all his Life? A-and think of the Money! Is that fifty Pounds per Act of surveying? Per Diem, perhaps?”
“Thankee, Friend Mason.”
Before crossing the Big Yochio Geni, in the evening after Mess, the Surveyors gather all who’ve follow’d the Party undaunted this far.
“Now like Prospero must I conjure you all away, for from here to the Warpath, we’ll have no time for gentle recreations, but must stand Watch and Watch for as far west as we may.”
“Whah’,— no musicians? The Indians love our Musick.”
“The Indians will need their Ears for other Tasks.”
“We must go back to that Fort, then.”
“We’ll wait for them at Cumberland.”
“A long way, sister. So far we’ve enjoy’d an Escort of Mohawk fighters, best in the Land. Who’ll be protecting us on the way back?”
Mason & Dixon Page 73
