Authors: K Martin Gardner
Suddenly, Black Jack was stricken with an odd sensation of sinking. His mind raced into focus. He realized that the sand in front of him and beneath him was pouring over the cliff like the flow through an hourglass.
He was horrified. He struggled to fight the stream of sand, but he found himself only coming closer to the edge of the cliff.
A new edge was forming as the old one dropped away, grain by grain, to the beach below.
Black Jack came to rest on the sheer face of the cliff with his buttocks perched on a small, shifting ledge. His shoulders were now below the lip of the meadow rim.
He was terrified.
Looking down, his head protruded from the cliff, his face further out than his feet, giving him a view straight down.
He hung completely vertical.
Looking around, his eyes were dead level with the grass and sand of the terrace of land behind him.
There was no sign of the stranger.
Dust blew into his eyes, forcing him to turn back and face forward.
He spread his arms and tried to dig in with his elbows.
He clawed with his heels to gain a hold, but to no avail.
He felt as though his grip was slipping.
Birds appeared around him.
Not a flock, but a handful of large, white sea foul flew here and there around the cliff and lighted on various small ledges near him.
Black Jack could tell they were not gulls, nor were they albatrosses.
They were something in between.
Boobeys? Dodos?
He wondered.
His sides and lungs tightened in panic.
He had the overwhelming sensation of continual freefall.
He felt as though a large timber had been braced from below and wedged beneath his ribs; or perhaps more to the point, that he was already speared upon the rocks so far below.
He was in the vice-like grip of perpetual death, though cursed with the remaining life to suffer it infinitely.
Finally falling would have been a relief from the hell that he hung from.
The odd-looking birds began to engage in a strange activity.
As Black Jack watched, they fell one-by-one head first from their perches and dived straight down.
Tucking their feet behind them and their wings back, they achieved full speed before snapping their wings open.
Their wings unfurled like sail sheets, with a sharp crack and a flapping sound. Then the birds swung up and around steeply to reclaim their original ledges.
It was an agonizing spectacle for Black Jack to witness, their mastery of the fall seeming to mock his perilous predicament.
Suddenly, two strong hands grasped his arms and pulled him up onto the meadow. "How did that feel?"
The man asked.
"Like slowly suffocating, or something else?
How would you like to face that for an entire day?"
Black Jack, too shaken to react with anger, stammered, "How did you ... why have you..?"
"No, no. Don't worry.
All will be revealed.
Walk with me.
I have more to explain."
Black Jack cautiously walked beside the man.
The stranger continued, "Do you recognize that bird?"
"No. It looks like a sea bird, but I don't know its name."
"That is the Booby.
Its name betrays its flying ability, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, I would say so.
I've never seen any other bird that large able to do such things."
"Ah, yes.
Very astute of you.
And do you know how it came to be known by such a derogatory name?"
"No."
"Because, when the first English sailors set foot on land here, the bird sat upon its nest and eggs as it watched the men walk straight up and bash its brains in.
Therefore, the sailors thought that the bird was the stupidest creature that they had ever encountered."
"Really."
"Yes, really.
But do you know why the bird was so trusting?"
"No."
"Because it had no goddamn predators on this entire island!
It had no reason to be scared… of anything!"
"I'm sorry, predators?"
"Nothing
ate
the Booby.
It was master of everything it saw as it sat and nested.
It was free to frolic and fly as it wished, without fear."
"Oh."
"Yes, and do you know which bird is even
more
free?"
"No."
"The Kiwi."
"The Kiwi?
But it doesn't have any wings.
It can't fly.
How can you say it is free?"
"Because it doesn't
need
any wings.
That is because it does not need to fly away from any predators.
Well, at least that was true before man came along.
But regardless, the truth is that it is a bird, and at one time it had wings.
The first one to be born without wings, once this land separated from Australia, survived.
It went on to make more wingless baby birds, none of which were eaten either.
They made more, and so on; until there was an entirely new variety of bird."
Black Jack said, "That is very interesting, but you still haven't told me how that makes the Kiwi free."
"Because, Black Jack, flying is hard work.
Have you ever tried it?
Birds came along and survived because they could fly away from their enemies; but it was still hard work.
The Kiwi doesn't have to work to survive anymore.
Therefore, it is free.
Does that make sense?"
"I don't know.
I guess so."
The man shook his head with a smile.
Their walking had brought them back to the dock and the tree.
The man said, "All right.
I've confused you.
Here, sit with me while I try to explain further."
The two sat upon the bench in the shade.
Black Jack was uncertain whether the sun had partially blinded him or whether his eyes were playing tricks. The tint of the slightly overcast sky and the grass seemed to reverse. Many colors went to gray.
The man continued, "Look, Black Jack, perhaps this will convince you."
Suddenly, the ghostly forms of Maori children, sitting in rows between the bench and the river, began to materialize.
Black Jack could make out the hazy outlines of writing slates and chalk in their hands. A man and woman walked among them as teachers.
The entire scene was an apparition in motion, a slice of the past being reenacted and projected before Black Jack's eyes.
The man said, "You see, Black Jack, these children were being taught to read and write in English by Christian missionaries, much like Tamihana was."
"But when... who are they?"
"Ah, Black Jack.
I think you know.
You see, on a day when so many had turned out to mourn the loss of someone you know so well, a man who fought and died so bravely, who was given a proper hero's burial by the white men..."
Black Jack, beginning to realize something, stood and said in a desperate, crowing moan, "No!"
Coming down the river, he saw a canoe filled with what seemed to be several Maori warriors.
The man continued, "The same white men who could not forgive their losses at your fallen hero's hands so long before..."
"No, please."
"Oh, yes.
And with so many Maori in attendance at his funeral, it made such perfect sense to the Pakeha to take what they wanted from the few who remained..."
"Oh, God."
"The few innocents from a tribe living inland, who were slowly making their way back to the coast.
It was such a beautiful spot to stop and camp for awhile; on their way back to a seaside home so long ago forsaken..."
Black Jack, now in panic, ran from the bench toward the phantom group as the warriors leapt onto the shore.
He said, to no one in particular, "Stop it!
Please, stop it."
The man said, "You see, Black Jack, you thought all along that you were helping to change history for the better.
Well, you couldn't have helped this day... not while the others were stuffing their face at Robulla's grave!"
The warriors began wading into the crowd, chopping wildly as they went.
Small heads, hair, and limbs began to fly.
Black Jack ran back and forth among the figures, passing through them in futile attempts to rescue them.
The man went on, "But this was prime property Black Jack!
Sakes alive, flat farm land along a river so close to the ocean:
Why, it was to die for!"
The man said with wild sarcasm.
Black Jack began to scream and yell with tears of rage and despair, now recognizing members of his old tribe from up the valley.
The man said, "What better day and more appropriate way to extract revenge and avoid revenue than to ambush a bunch of innocent people, eh Black Jack?
There they were, learning the good Word of the righteous Pakeha, on their little tablets carried straight down from the Mount, when lo and behold, along came a pack of out-of-work whalers, desperate to help the Crown in any way they could.
They were more than happy to dress up, play savage, and kill some luckless Maori for a price.
Hell, they'd been doing that for years!"
The man kept up his smiling soliloquy spiked with cynicism, until Black Jack fell to his knees and cried, "Havoc!" at the top of his lungs.
The slates, tumbling to the ground, resembled tiny, scattered headstones.
As the bloody fallen figures faded and the whalers went to wisps, Black Jack turned toward the man on the bench.
There seated beside the man was Kumari.
The man was holding the letter from before.
His skin seemed darker than ever, now with a gray turning toward dusky purple.
His eyes shone brightly blue from the shadows.
He said, "What do you think of intervening in people's lives now, Black Jack?
Still like the idea?"
The man smiled a toothy grin. He stroked Kumari along the back and shoulders with his left hand. He set down the letter and unbuttoned his long oilcloth coat with the right.
Standing from the man's left side at a distance, Black Jack could only make out shadows and patches beneath the coat. He could see that the man wore only his leathery skin underneath.
Pulling up the flap of his coat, the man gently pushed Kumari's head down.
She began to drool, her eyes crossed.
Her face descended into the folds of the stranger’s jacket.
Black Jack watched what looked like a tail slither and whip once before it dipped out of sight again.
It was not a tail, Black Jack suddenly realized. It was slimy and skinless, like the sign of the excited bull.
Kumari made the muffled sound of a delightfully surprised child, and her head began to move slowly up and down.
The man, picking up the letter, looked Black Jack in the eye and said, "You want to know the future?
I can show you that.
Right Kumari?"
She made a giggling noise, humming her muffled agreement with a full smile.
The man waved his hand, and all the tints of the landscape shifted to metallic reds and yellows.
"Take a look, Black Jack!"
The man said.
Suddenly, there were fantastic carriages, made of steel and glass, racing up and down the main street of the town, now grown to a small city.
The machines belched gases and loud noises as they moved.
Women walked about in tight men's trousers and blouses that seemed to form a second skin, exposing the sleek lines over their calves, buttocks, and breasts.
The protrusion of these outlines into the air was accentuated by long, narrow pegs placed beneath the heel of their shoes; which gave them all the appearance when they walked, thought Black Jack, of the half-human hoofed beasts he had seen in pictures of Greek mythology.
A great tower stood overlooking the center of town, crowned with a huge engine that roared and whined at regular intervals.
The man continued, "This will be a great center one day, Black Jack.
Livestock will be sold by the thousands, orchards uprooted and overturned by the mile, and vines planted by the millions; all to make way for the mighty grape!
This entire valley will flow with wine, and every year a great festival will be held in tribute to the god of the grapes.
There will be much consumption and many drunken souls will take to the town in blind revelry.
Men, women, and children, all stumbling and staggering about the streets; and I'll be there, in all my glory, to oversee the celebrations.
People will come from all over the world every year to partake of pleasure in this peaceful place; and every year a single soul will be sacrificed for the sake of the harvest.
Don't you want to be there?
Sign up now!"