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 Ger?man 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 turbu?lence from the Rains,— Susquehanna. How had they avoided the Eyes of all the Townsfolk and Farmers between, the gentry out riding, the ser?vants 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 song?birds 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 sud?denly white Visitors from afar are ev'rywhere, arriving in a state of Mis?trustful 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.
The Winds are turning meantimes ever colder, the leaves beginning to curl in and darken and fall. One day, having brought her to the Shore of some vast body of water that vanishes at the Horizon, they tell her she must get into a Bark Canoe,— and for the first time she is afraid, imag?ining them all rowing out together into this Yellow Splendor, these painted Indigo and Salmon Cloud-Formations, toward some miraculous Land at the other side of what, even with a mild chop, would soon have batter'd the frail craft to pieces. Instead, keeping the Shore ever in view, they continue North, till they enter a great River, fill'd with a Traffick of Canoes and Battoes and Barges, with settlements upon the Banks, smoke ascending ev'rywhere, white faces upon the Shore, and a Town, and another.... For many weeks now, she has neglected to Pray. She has eaten animals she didn't know existed, small, poor things too trusting to avoid the Snares set for them. Her Captors have told her when and where she may perform ev'ry single action of her life. It is Schooling, tho' she will not discover this till later.
When they arrive at last in Quebec, the Winter is well upon them. Tho' not as grand as its counterpart in Rome, yet in Quebec, the Jesuit Col?lege is Palace enough. Travelers have describ'd it as ascending three sto?ries, with a Garret above, enclosing a broad central courtyard,— tho' were she ask'd to confirm even this, she could swear to nothing. (Perhaps there are more Levels. Perhaps there is a courtyard-within-a-courtyard, or beneath it. Perhaps a Crypto-Porticus, or several, leading to other buildings in parts of the City quite remov'd.) Her arrival here passes too quickly for her to take much of it in, so deep in the Night, in the snow, with the black nidor of the Torches for her first Incense, their Light send?ing shadows lunging from corners and crevices and window-reveals, the distant choiring like tuned shouts, the open looks of the men—
At dawn, separate, she is taken into the Refectory, where at each of the hundred places upon the bare tables is set an identical glaz'd earthen bowl of Raspberries, perfectly ripe, tho' outside be all the Dead of Win?ter, and upon each Table a Jug of cream fresh from the Shed. An old Indian serving-man, who moves as if wounded long ago, showing not a trace of curiosity, brings in a kettle of porridge,— she is not to have Rasp?berries (she thanks the Lord, for who knows what unholy Power might account for this unseasonable presence, in its unnatural Redness?).
The Courtyard produces a constant echoing Whisper that can be heard ev'rywhere in the great Residence, ev'ry skin seems immediate to ev'ry other,— into the morning, Scribes carry ink-pots and quills and quill-sharpeners, in and out of Cells of many sizes, whose austerities are ever compromis'd by concessions to the Rococo,— boys in pointed hoods go mutely up and down with buckets of water and kindling,— cooks already have begun to quarrel over details of the noon meal,— in his rooftop Bureau, an Astronomer finishes his Night's reductions, writes down his last entries, and seeks his Mat,— Vigil-keepers meanwhile arise, and limp down to the ingenious College Coffee Machine, whose self-igniting Roaster has, hours earlier, come on by means of a French Clockwork Device which, the beans having been roasted for the desir'd time, then controls their Transfer to a certain Engine, where they are mill'd to a coarse Powder, discharg'd into an infusing chamber, combin'd with water heated exactly,— Ecce Coffea!
She is taken, barefoot, still in Indian Dress, into a room fill'd with books. Pere de la Tube, a Jesuit in a violet cassock, speaks to her with a thick French accent, and will not look at her face. Nearby, in smoothly kept Silence, sits a colleague whose relentless Smile and brightness of eye only the Mad may know. "Our Guest," the Frenchman tells her, "is a world-known philosopher of Spain, having ever taken interest, in heretick Women who turn to Holy Mother the Church. His observations upon your own case will of course be most welcome."
So silently that she jumps, another man now, slighter and younger, in black silk Jacket and Trousers, has appear'd in the room. When she makes out his face, she cannot reclaim her stare. As a small current of deference flows between the two Jesuits, the Spanish Visitor takes from the messenger a tightly folded sheet of paper, seal'd with Wax and Chops in two of the colors of Blood. The messenger withdraws. She watches for as long as she can.
"You have never before seen a Chinese, child?"
She has assisted at more than one Birth, has endur'd a hard-drinking and quarrelsome troop of Men-Folk,— who is this unfamily'd man in a Frock to call her child? She replies, "No, Sir," in her smallest voice.
"You must call me 'Father.' There'll be more than one Chinese here. You must learn to keep your eyes down."
The College in Quebec is head-quarters for all operations in North America. Kite-wires and Balloon-cables rise into clouds, recede into serial distances, as, somewhere invisible, the Jesuit Telegraphy goes
 ahead, unabated. Seal'd Carriages rumble in and out of the Portes-Cochères, Horsemen come and go at all hours. Whenever the Northern Aurora may appear in the Sky, rooftops in an instant are a-swarm with figures in black,— certain of the Crew seeming to glide like Swifts ever in motion, others remaining still as statuary, the Celestial Flickering striking High-lights 'pon the pale damp faces. Rumors sug?gest that the Priests are using the Boreal Phenomenon to send Mes?sages over the top of the World, to receiving-stations in the opposite Hemisphere.
"Twenty-six letters, nine digits, blank space for zero," a Sergeant's voice instructing a platoon of Novices, "— that suggest anything to any of you Hammer-heads?"
"An Array seven-by-five of, of—
"Think, Nit-Wits, think."
"Lights!"
"Behold, ye Milling of Sheep.—  " He swings a Lever. Above, against a gray Deck of snow-clouds, a gigantic Lattice-work of bright and very yellow Lights appears, five across by seven down. Briskly stepping along ranks and files of smaller Handles of Ebony, he spells out the Sequence I-D-I-O-T-S in the Sky above their gaping faces.
"Visible for hundreds of miles. Ev'ryone beneath, who can spell, now knows ev'rything there is to know about you.—  But it's not all Spec?tacle, all Romance of Elecktricity, no, there's insanely boring Drudgery a-plenty too, mes enfants, for you're all to be sailors upon dry land," explaining that, as the whole Apparatus must stand absolutely still in the Sky, before Weathers unpredictable, it requires an extensive Rigging, even more mysteriously complex than that of a Naval Ship...lines must ever be shifted, individual Winches adjust constantly the tension in stays and backstays and preventers, as the changing conditions aloft are signal'd by an electrickal telegraph to those below. A Coordinator in a single-breasted Soutane, or Cassock, of black Bruges Velvet and lin'd with Wolverine Fur, stands upon a small podium, before the set of Ebony Handles and Indicators trimm'd in Brass, whilst Chinese attend to the Rigging, and specially train'd Indian Converts tend a Peat-fire so as to raise precisely the Temperature of a great green Prism of Brazilian Tour-
 maline, a-snarl as Medusa with plaited Copper Cabling running from it in all directions, bearing the Pyro-Elecktrical Fluid by which ev'rything here is animated. More intense than the peat-smoke, the smell of Ozone prevails here, the Musk of an unfamiliar Beast, unsettling even to those who breathe it ev'ry day.
In that harsh sexual smell, in the ice-edg'd morning, she is led past them, northern winds beneath her deerskin Shift, itching to risk raising her eyes, just once, to see who'll be watching. ("Do you think she under?stands?" The Visitor asks in rapid French. The other shrugs. ''She will understand what she needs to. If she seeks more..." The two exchange a look whose pitiless Weight she feels clearly enough.) Men strain at cables that pitch steeply into the sky, the enormous Rooftops anxiously a-scurry, as before some Invisible Approach. Chinese seem to flit ev'ry-where. Voices, usually kept low, are now and then rais'd. He has her arm. The other priest is behind them. She could not break free,— could she?— reaching with her arms, run to the roof's edge and into the Air, up-borne by Friendly Presences, as by Brilliance of Will, away across the Roof-slates and Fortifications, wheeling, beyond the range of all Weapons, beyond the need for any Obedience,...the Sun coming through, the River shining below, the great Warriors' River, keeping her course ever south-westward. Nor might any left behind on the ground see her again,— would they?— passing above in the Sky, the sleeves of her garment now catching light like wings.. .her mind no more than that of a Kite, the Wind blowing through...
"Careful, her head."
She is upon her back, rain is falling lightly, a Chinese is squatting beside her, holding her forearm and talking to another Chinese, who is making notes in a small, ingeniously water-proof'd Book. 'Tis he,— the same man she saw in the Jesuit's Chamber.
He smiles. Or, 'tis something in his face she sees, and fancies a Smile.
"God protect us," P. de la Tube is saying, "from all these dam............