Authors: K Martin Gardner
His scheme worked well.
The shellfish were tepid and slimy, yet chewy, rich, and salty at the same time.
He ate continuously for nearly an hour, clutching and consuming roughly fifty mussels.
Toward the end of his feast, he forgot the cold. He felt relaxed and energetic.
He enjoyed the warmth of pleasure as his pain waned.
His suffering and anxiety melted away, and he felt sleepy again.
Sitting in the dark on the shimmering sand, he looked down at the pile of shells and then up at the stars.
For the first time, he really took the time to look at them.
He had gazed at them once or twice in Mississippi. He had been forced to look at them on the ship, but he thought of them then as mere objects for navigation. But nothing compared to the celestial view that spread out before his eyes now.
Running across the sky, a thick band of light was brighter and crisper even in the full moon light, than he had ever seen before.
The strong strand of light stood out, outlined by stark, dark holes throughout.
Along its vast length, the formation had craggy depth and structure.
Black Jack suddenly felt as though he were witnessing thousands of silver, jewel-encrusted fish swimming across the night sky.
Growing weary, he got up and returned to his cave.
He looked forward to the dawn and he began to plan the coming day.
Sleep would come first, he thought, as he was blanketed by the still calm of the bay.
Drifting off, he heard a distant lapping sound, like oars in the water. Through the slits of his sleepy eyes, he thought he saw shadowy figures rowing onto shore. The silhouettes soon dissolved in the cold mist, their ripples dying on the sand.
You’re too old to be seeing ghosts
, he told himself.
What is happening to me
? He wondered.
His motivation shifted beneath him like wet sand.
He was wavering in his purpose and plan.
Pots of gold or godly paradise
? He asked himself. At the moment, he realized that he was full, happy, and totally free, all thanks to God above.
He felt like shouting,
Hallelujah!
On a whim, he got back up and checked the breast pocket of his shirt on the bush outside. Miraculously, his harmonica had come along for the wild ride. He grabbed it and held it tight, mouthing a
thank you
toward the sky. He became so excited that he ran out onto the beach and started hopping from one foot to the other while standing in place.
He threw his arms in the air and spun in circles as he jumped for joy.
He ran back and forth across the beach, shouting, “This is my bay, Lord.
This is my bay! I’ll start my own whaling station here and get rich, Lord!”
Convinced that he had found home, he walked back to his cave playing a tune. He lay down on his mat, warmed by the dry sand of the cavern floor, intending to sleep soundly through the night.
IV
“Who the hell do you think you are, boy?” his foreman snarled as he stared down at Black Jack and kicked sand on the fire.
The man stood tall against the bright blue midday sky. Black Jack cowered in the cool shadows of his cave.
“No one asked you; gave you permission to; wanted you to build this fire.” Said the white man.
His long, brown riding leathers and his matching cowboy hat were unfamiliar to Arthur; and they made the man’s figure all the more intimidating.
“Do you want to get us all killed?”
He asked, as he kicked the last blast of sand into Black Jack’s eyes.
Black Jack awoke again, this time rubbing his eyes. The first thing that he noticed was the darkness, then the cold.
Did I make a fire?
He wondered.
He fumbled in the dark until he located an edge of moonlight and crawled toward it.
He came upon the remnants of a fire and reached out to touch it.
As his hand sank into a pile of warm ashes, his heart froze.
His mind raced through all the ways that the fire could have gotten there. He thought either he must be going mad, or he had built a fire in his sleep; or there were other people about. He wondered if it could be his would-be rescuers, or worse, the local cannibals he had heard about. He prayed that his beloved cave did not become his tomb as he crawled back in and tried to sleep.
V
Arthur’s ear stung from slapping at a phantom mosquito in his sleep.
As he began to wake, the low whining buzz sounded as though it was right outside his ear, and then far away, all at once.
It bothered him immensely, and he wrestled with the urge to slap his ear again.
As he began to focus with both ears, it became more like the twanging of a single guitar string.
Who would pluck a single string this early in the morning?
He wondered.
He sat and looked out again at the dead fire and listened to the strange music coming in tiny waves.
He imagined he heard other bizarre sounds around the instrument, and he pictured the scene of a small, primitive band. Then, from upstream he heard what sounded like moans.
The noise lasted for a time and then fell away again to silence.
The dawn got lighter.
Black Jack sat staring at the mysterious dead fire, wondering what cold thing he would have for breakfast.
His hunger took hold of him more than his fear of the unknown noises. He reckoned that he could face any danger in the light of day.
He told himself that he would not go looking for the source of the fire makers or the noises. He was ready for a fight should the occasion arise.
Obtaining food was job one at the moment.
Not knowing how to rekindle the fire, he decided on cold mussels again for his morning meal.
Eyeing the surrounding fruit as is they were poison, Black Jack shot off to the rocks to grab some shellfish.
When he arrived, he found himself staring down through the tidal pool at his familiar, rich bed of mollusks.
It was high tide.
Bugger
, he thought, happy to use a word he had picked up on the ship.
He would have to wade into cold water, or forego the better part of his breakfast.
He stared out over the bay toward the rising sun. Suddenly, he was stunned by a blast of sound from behind.
It was like a blow from the Master’s hunting horn, only twofold deeper and more striking. Black Jack’s neck spun around to face the threat. His eyes met a sight ten times more frightening than the sound itself.
Across the beach he had crossed only moments before were a hundred huge men, with the massive conch shell blower standing in their midst.
Black Jack’s eyes filled with horror. He surmised that these men were natives. Their bulging eyes seemed to mimic his.
He suddenly forgot about his nakedness. He lost control of his faculties. The men launched into a march toward Black Jack. He remained anchored to his spot like cold iron.
The men wore facial tattoos, their long hair tied back, and a loincloth in lieu of the white man’s clothes.
They seemed extremely angry at Black Jack.
He watched, frozen, as they advanced in unison.
They each threw out a foot and lunged down on their forward bent leg, slapped their knee, lunged forward again onto the other leg, slapped their chest with both hands, snapped their head to the side, stuck out their tongues as far as possible, and protruded their eyes again; all in a heavy, jerky rhythm dominated by what sounded to Black Jack like loud, mad cursing.
After a few seconds, Black Jack realized that their movements had the timing and coordination of a precise ritual, rather than an act of aggression; and his fear abated at least as much as he was sure that they were not going to charge upon him and kill him immediately.
They did seem intent on scaring the hell out of him, though, he thought.
Aside from the fear of being killed and eaten for breakfast, Arthur began to view the onslaught as a loud, scary show. The men wielded spears, which they twirled like batons; and made threatening gestures in the air.
They were obviously warriors; however, they occasionally pranced as if dancing.
The rhythm they created came mostly from their voices with low, loud blasts of
ooh
and
ah
. Their chests and legs served as drums.
It was a far cry from the prim and proper parade detail of the militia back home, Arthur thought, but different still from the snatches of primitive dance that the old-timers had often demonstrated to him late at night.
If the African beat he knew was rich, heavy and musky in character; then the rhythm being displayed before him was slightly lighter and sweeter, with a dash of harmony tying the music into a mixed melody and heavy overtones.
As for the words, Black Jack swore that they were profane insults.
Some of them sounded English, and his mind began to piece together recognizable syllables.
The chant went, in English sounds:
TALK-ee, TALK-ee, TALK-in-TAH-mee;
NOT, MAN-you, O THE WRONG-ee
FALK AT YOU, AH REE KEE;
FALK AT YOU, AH REE KEE;
WHERE you, KEE tay, RAY cow, FALK AH RAH;
WHERE you, KEE tay, RAY cow, TAP POO;
WHERE you, KEE tay, RAY cow, FALK ah WAH HA;
RAY ah, TAY ee hee
RAY ah, TAY MAH HA
RAY ah, TAY TAP POO
Unbeknownst to Black Jack, the heavy chant actually contained a beautiful spiritual meaning:
Arise and come forth
Illustrious offspring of the gods;
Come forth illustrious ones;
Come forth illustrious ones;
Here the token of alertness;
Here the token of sacredness;
Here the token of acceptance;
Reveal your excellence,
Reveal your power,
Reveal your sacredness.
As he extolled his ballad, one warrior broke from the ranks, pranced in front of Black Jack with high kicks, and retreated.
Black Jack felt threatened by this sudden advance, and he held his ground.
Soon, another warrior advanced and retreated with similar gesturing.
Finally, a third warrior moved forward and placed something on the ground.
At the precise moment that the third warrior fell back into line, all of the men stopped moving and went silent. They all stared bug-eyed at Black Jack from their frozen positions.
The entire experience was overwhelming. Black Jack was unsure what to do next. He guessed that the object on the ground was either a welcome or a warning.
The men seemed to be waiting for Black Jack to make the next move. He thought that the object could be an offer of some sort.