Fr. Christopher Maire, far from pallid, wearing no black beyond his Queue-Tie, neither wiry nor unnaturally fit, in Manner as free of the suave as of the pinguid, seems scarcely any Englishman's idea of a Jesuit. Yet he will confess, that earlier in life, during his Adventures in Italy with Fr. Boscovich in fact, he took time better us'd in spiritual Work to cultivate a more Loyolan Image,— proving quite unsuccessful at it, however,— remaining fair and spindle-shap'd as when he stepp'd off the boat, failing to rid his speech of Geordie coloration, nor ever achieving that opaque Effect of a Stiletto-Waver stuff'd into a Churchly Frock, which distinguishes El Auténtico.
Maire awaits Dixon in Emerson's front parlor,— outside, the traffic in and out of Hurworth creaks, and whistles, and clops. Those bound from Teeside across the Fells take a last opportunity to hark human Speech, before the long miles and unspoken-of but too well known Visits toward the end of the Day, when the cool'd light above the spoil-heaps favors them. And if any hint of the sinister were to accompany this Priest, 'twould be well in that Northern, bones-and-blood tradition, of beings like Hob Headless, said to haunt the road between Hurworth and Neasham, all of whose former Neighbors were agreed upon what a whole?some individual he once seem'd.
Emerson, bustling into the room bearing the remains of the Bloat Her?ring from Breakfast, directly adjoining upon the Plate an Ox-Tail from several Meals ago, and something that may once have been a Haggis, cries, "Now clap yersel's down," in an unnaturally vivacious tone.
Tis no great leap for most to imagine William Emerson a Wizard. Interest in the Dark Arts is ever miasmatick in Durham, as if rising from the coal-beds,— old as Draconick Incursion, the scaly Visitors drawn by the familiar odors of Sulfur and Burning,— not to mention Ghosts in ev'ry Tavern, and Cannibals, impossible to Defeat, ranging the Fells— Seekers come in from all 'round to Hurworth, where Emerson is ever available to cast a Horoscope, mix up a Philtre, find a stolen Purse. Not all his feats are benevolent,— once, out of Annoyance, he kept a neigh?bor Lad in a Tree for most of the Day, unable to stir, let alone descend...using a form of the very Technique which has found its late Exponent in Dr. Mesmer.
"In Paris," comments Cousin DePugh, his father happening for a Moment to be out of the Room, " 'tis all the Rage— indeed, / have been Mesmeriz'd."
"What,— " Ethelmer needling in among a general murmur of Dubi?ety, "by Mesmer himself, I suppose."
"Yes and Dr. M. was also kind enough to instruct some of us in what he knew,—
"Mesmer charges an hundred Louis, 'tis well known," cries Euphie, "That's eighty-five pounds Brit, where's your poor Father getting money like that?"
"Oh, Franz gave us a Price, as there were so many of us, who wish'd to learn. By forgoing one Pint per Evening, for a Stretch somewhat longer than Lent, I soon had replenish'd my Funds. In fact, I don't ever recall telling Pa about it, and would be oblig'd, dear Cousin, um, that is..."
"Peach Not is ever my Policy, DePugh."
"I've become quite good at the Mesmerick Arts,— indeed I'm think?ing of setting up a practice in America."
"New-York's the Place," advises Brae, "they've ev'rything there. But stay out of this Town, Coz, if you're looking to turn any Profit.”
"Brae!" cries her father in a mock-offended Tone. "Anyone with the necessary Drive can make a go of it here. As Mr. Tox says in his Penn-sylvaniad,— twenty-first or -second Book,
'A young man seeking to advance himself,
Will get him to the nearest Source of Pelf.—
And few of these are more distinctly Pelfier,
Than,— Long Life, Queen of Schuylkill!— Philadelphia.'''
"I was thinking more of the West," says DePugh. "Little or no Med?ical equipment to weigh down one's Progress...the necessary Herbs, in those Wilds,— so 'tis said,— ev'rywhere to be found...and the Powers being already long known to Indian medicine-men, Business opportunities await the alert Practitioner, among Red, even as White, customers."
"More likely," his Uncle suggests, "any Doctors who're already there will run you out of town, if they don't kill you first, because they don't want the Competition."
"But it's America, Sir! Competition is of her Essence!"
"Nobody here wants Competition," Ives LeSpark re-entering, shaking his head gravely. "All wish but to name their Price, and maintain it, without the extra work and worry all these damn'd Up-starts require."
"More work for you, Nunk," supposes Ethelmer.
"We are like Physicians, there is always enough Work for us, as we treat the Moral Diseases," replies the Attorney, "nor are we any more dispos'd than our Brother Doctors to meeting other folks' Prices,— hence our zeal in defending Monopoly."
"A form of Sloth," notes the Revd, "that only Brutality can maintain for long, soon destroy'd if 'tis not abandon'd first."
"Rubbish," several Voices pronounce at once.
"Looks as if I'll need Fire-Arms," reckons DePugh.
"You know the Uncle to see, then," advises Aunt Euph.
"Already your Load increases," Brae puts in. "A Man oughtn't to be too weigh'd down."
"Franz told us we need bring but the proper Gaze."
"Hmm. Let us see.”
"Be warn'd, Cousin...."
"He's Magnetick," says Thelmer.
Most of Hurworth (the Revd has meanwhile continu'd) believe William Emerson a practicing Magician. Sheep-tenders have reported flights, usually at dusk, Passages of shadows aloft that can only have been one of Emerson's classes out upon a Field-Trip, for he is teaching them to fly. Toward Sunset, when ev'ry least Ruffle in the Nap of the Terrain is mag?nified as Shadow, they'll be out looking for traces of Roman and earlier ruins. In the Twilight they ascend, one by one, dutiful Pupils, Caps tied firmly down, Rust Light upon the Wrinkles in their Clothing, to flock above the Village, before moving out across the Fells, following south?westerly the Ley-Lines he shows them, sighting upon the Palatine Resi?dence at Bishop Auckland, whilst Chapel-Spires, roadside Crosses, pre-historic standing Stones, holy Spring-heads, one by one in perfect Line, go passing directly beneath,— until just at the river, over ancient Vinovium, the Flock will pause to re-group. He is teaching them to sense rather than see this Line, to learn exactly what it feels like to yaw too much to its port or starboard. The Ley seems to generate, along its length, an Influence,— palpable as that of Earth's Magnetism upon a Needle,— "That is," Dixon will avow years later to Mason, with every appearance of sincerity, "I knew I could feel those Lines."
"Bisley Church," recalls Mason, "with a history of unending village Meannesses,— false Surveys, 'cursed Wells, vicious Hoaxes, ruin'd cer?emonies, switch'd Corpses...and on into Stultification unending, tradi?tional accounts of its construction suggesting, if not the intervention,
then at least the cooperative presence of the D——l,— was meant for a
field near Chalford,— but each night the stones were removed and trans?ported in a right line, through the air, at brisk speed, to the church's present site. You can take a Map, draw a straight line from the Barrow near Great Badminton we call the Giant's Caves, to the Long Barrow near The Camp, and you'll observe it passes directly over Bisley, and might have been the church stones' route of transport, the ancient Barrows being known sources of, and foci for, the Tellurick Energies.”
"Oh,— well our Leys were nowhere near as evil as thah'...? Flying them was indeed quite pleasant, yes quite pleasant indeed,—
Over Wearside, here at Nightfall, exactly upon this Edge between sunlight too bright to see much by and moonlight providing another reading in coal-blue or luminous bone,— when spirits also are said in these parts to come out,— so beneath them now do the Dark-Age Maps, the long, dogged Roman Palimpsest, the earlier contours of Brigantum itself, emerge at a certain combination of low Sun-angle and Scholarly Altitude above the Fell,— coming up through the Spoil-heaps and the grazing, in colors of evening, in Map-makers' ink-washes, green Walnut, Weld, Brazil-wood, Lake, Terra-Sienna, Cullens-Earth, and Burnt Umber,— as Emerson meanwhile points out to his Flock the lines of the Roman baths and barracks and the temples to Mithras, the crypts in which the mysteries were pass'd on to novices, once long ago invisibly nested at the Camp's secret core, now open to anyone's curiosity. "The moral lesson in this," declares Emerson, "being,— Don't Die."
"The Romans," he continues, in class the next day, "were preoccu?pied with conveying Force, be it hydraulic, or military, or architec?tural,— along straight Lines. The Leys are at least that old,— perhaps Druidic, tho' others say Mithraic, in origin. Whichever Cult shall gain the honor, Right Lines beyond a certain Magnitude become of less use or instruction to those who must dwell among them, than intelligible, by their immense regularity, to more distant Onlookers, as giving a clear sign of Human Presence upon the Planet.
"The Argument for a Mithraic Origin is encourag'd by the Cult's known preference for underground Temples, either natural or man-made. They would have found a home in Durham, here among Pit-men and young Plutonians like yourselves,— indeed, let us suppose the ear?liest Coal-Pits were discover'd by Mithraist Sappers...? from the Camp up at Vinovia, poking about for a suitable Grotto,— who, seeking Ormazd, God of Light, found rather a condens'd Blackness which hides Light within, till set aflame.. .mystickal Stuff, Coal. Don't imagine any of you notice that, too busy getting it all over yerselves, or resenting it for being so heavy, or counting Chaldrons. Pretending it solid, when like light and Heat, it indeed flows. Eppur' si muove, if yese like."
Flow is his passion. He stands waist-deep in the Tees, fishing, con?
templating its currents, believing, as Dixon will one day come to believe
of the Wear, that 'twill draw out the Gout from his leg. Emerson has no
patience with analysis. He loves Vortices, may stare at 'em for hours, if
he's the Time, so far as they remain in the River,— yet, once upon Paper,
he hates them, hates the misuse,— and therefore hates Euler, for exam?
ple, at least as much as he reveres Newton. The first book he publish'd
was upon Fluxions. He is much shorter than Dixon. He has devis'd a
sailing-Scheme, whereby Winds are imagin'd to be forms of Gravity act?
ing not vertically but laterally, along the Globe's Surface,— a Ship to
him is the Paradigm of the Universe. "All the possible forces in play
are represented each by its representative sheets, stays, braces, and
shrouds and such,— a set of lines i............