Authors: K Martin Gardner
Black Jack looked around the city in bewilderment, amazed and terrified at the glimpse of the future the man had projected.
The man continued, "I found out I didn't need my wings, Black Jack.
Now I'm free.
Let me show you." Huge, leathery, venous appendages unfurled from the man’s back as his coat tore away.
Black Jack realized that he was in mortal danger. He backed away toward the boat.
The man said, "That's it.
Run have a look see at that shop on the corner, the first place of business in the Beaver.
Who is that you saw on your little evening stroll, do you reckon?
The illustrious husband of the late Kueka, you suppose?
That's right.
That's what a man does when drowning his own sorrows will not kill the pain.
He seeks to drown others!
I can give you everything, Black Jack.
All you need to do is sign this letter.
Come here, I want to give you something.
Right, Kumari?"
Again her verbal nod came.
Black Jack, realizing that the boat would be too slow, began to run past the man toward the stairs.
The man said, "Don't go, Black Jack, I want to give you something.
Please, you'll like it!"
Black Jack glanced over his shoulder as he ran.
He saw Kumari lift her head. Her tongue protruded, having become one with the specter's shiny, wet scepter.
It sawed back and forth over her lips, as she looked back at Black Jack.
He turned his head and ran for his life.
Up the steps and into the main street he scurried, hearing the man's fleeting words as he fled.
The man finished with "All your valiant talk to Robulla about the soul being free.
Ha!
I can kill your soul, Black Jack.
What do you think of that?
I can kill your soul!
Where would you be then?
Someone's going to own you again, Black Jack.
Trust me, I know.
If not me, then someone!
Someone's coming, Black Jack.
There'll be
more plagues, floods, and earthquakes.
He's gonna own you!"
The ground began to shake as Black Jack ran.
It trembled as violently as it had years before; and he was knocked to the ground, falling unconscious as bells clanged chaotically around him.
Expanding in all directions, the big head floated toward him with a solemn look of determination.
In a flash, the figure flipped upside down and melted into a warped and wavy form staring him in the eyes.
Wobbling and shimmering, the man hovered just in front of him, beginning to disappear into fog.
Black Jack turned the spoon over again and stroked the surface with a fine cloth until the brilliant gleam returned his reflection to its former glory.
Ebony on silver complemented the crystal well, he thought, as he stood setting the table in the large dining room.
He admired his mirror image some more, straightening his black tie, the knot being secured tightly around his muscular neck.
He was the picture of a man who had accomplished so much; and yet this was the first time that he had stopped to visibly reflect.
Indulging in a taste of vanity as he polished, he allowed himself the luxury of looking at his own timeworn face. He pondered why, after so many events in his life, he had not paused to actually peer upon himself before.
Looking at his own distinguished features, he told himself that at his age he deserved to admire his own good looks and to reflect upon everything that had occurred over the years.
His mind wandered back through time as he put the final touches on the place settings for the evening’s honored guests.
A small folded card on one plate read, “Thank you for attending our special dinner party, Reverend Ironside.
With best wishes from Kennington and the Baillie family.
Sunday, March Ninth, Eighteen-Hundred and Seventy-Three.”
Having had limited success in his role as the Maori Moses, Black Jack then became a Noah figure for the surrounding plains that flooded twice.
He came to grips with his fate as a farmhand and flaxmiller. But the floods of unwanted water and people had driven him to higher ground and a lower existence. In his settled mellowness as butler, he now looked upon certain events less bitterly. Like the day that everything changed at his quiet little hut in the valley.
Dashing in the distance, to and fro, through the valley over tracts of land still undeveloped, the couple rode red-breasted on horseback.
With hunting caps on, horns blowing, and hounds in tow, they cantered regally, relentlessly pursuing their elusive quarry and maintaining a purposeful appearance.
Obviously lost, but till refusing to show any sign of doubt or deterrence, they strode confidently up to Black Jack's shack.
He was home in the cool and shade, counting his tins of flour that he kept to mark his months in service.
The man and wife, remaining mounted as they jockeyed upon their unsteady steeds, called out from the yard.
Black Jack, happy to offer his help to the hapless horsemen, humbly stepped outside.
"Yes?"
Said Black Jack, standing in the late afternoon sun.
"Good fellow, have you happened to see any hares?"
Asked the gentleman hunter.
"No."
He had never seen one. That fact was in keeping with his knowledge of the entire missing menagerie whose list he had amassed in his head.
"I’ve never seen anything worth huntin' 'round here except pigs."
He added, looking down and around contemptuously at the panting dogs in his yard.
"Well, I say, that is odd.
Something should surely be done about such a sorry state of sport."
Said the gentleman, exchanging glances with his wife.
"I do say, Charles, it sounds like a good opportunity to demonstrate your expertise in stocking. "
She said with an insidious grin.
The two looked at one another for some time.
Black Jack became annoyed with their secretive smiles.
"Righto, we're off then."
Said the man finally. The pair bolted as their dogs leapt to attention and followed.
Black Jack thought them completely rude, and he went back to watching his eighty-one containers of now wormy wheat powder that he had continued to receive for each month of service.
Days later, the couple returned.
Carrying covered cages, they carefully dismounted and looked around.
The dogs had been left behind.
The two were smiling arrogantly again as they surveyed their surroundings.
They gave Black Jack the creeps, in their pretentious hunting jackets and riding pants.
"Sir, we bring good tidings from Picton."
Said the gentleman.
"Picton, where is that?"
Asked Black Jack.
"Why, haven’t you heard, good man?
They changed the name just over a fortnight ago."
Said the gentleman.
"No, I hadn't heard that.
I don't get much news out here."
Said Black Jack.
"Well here, take a look at this."
The gentleman handed Black Jack an official piece of paper.
"Sir, I cannot read.
I'm sorry."
Said Black Jack.
With a look of skepticism, the gentleman retracted the sheet and said, "Very well, I will read it aloud to you then:
'The Governor doth hereby, in further pursuance of his plans, constitute the town of Picton, heretofore called Waitohi, to be capital of the said province of Marlborough, designated to be the upper region of the South Island of New Zealand east of the mountains to the sea, this first day of November, eighteen-hundred and fifty-nine.'
Now, how does that sound?"
Black Jack said, "That's the ugliest name I’ve ever heard. I remember getting ‘picked on’ by the guys on the ship.
Is that English?
What was wrong with Waitohi?"
The gentleman eyed Black Jack suspiciously and said, "Yes, it's English.
The other name was Maori, as I'm sure you know.
Besides, good man, how did you file for your property without knowing how to read or write?
Did you employ a solicitor?"
"A what who? File, sir?
However do you mean?"
asked Black Jack.
"For this tract of land which you occupy:
Surely you have the paperwork to prove ownership."
Said the gentleman.
Black Jack said, "Sir, I have filed no such paperwork, nor is any in my possession."
"Well how is it that you claim rights to this land?
I notice that your accent is not British.
I was under the distinct impression that this land had been purchased and cordoned off for subjects of the Crown."
"Sir, I have more rights to claim this land than you will ever know.
I have been here for many years on this same spot. If this land is not mine by squatters' rights alone, then I don't know why not."
The gentleman gained a gleam in his eye. "Well, it is not a matter for me to debate.
I was simply curious.
My wife and I had seen this big empty tract for some time, and thought what lovely hunting grounds it would make.
Didn't we, Pooch?"
"Quite right, Hunter."
Said the woman.
"Right.
Now, we have some business to attend to.
We were hoping that it would be all right if we started a little project out here in the middle of the valley, my good man."
The gentleman uncovered the cages, revealing their contents. “These are four of the finest Dutch rabbits known to man. We brought two males and two females. Would it be all right if we released these on your land for the purpose of stocking the Wairau area?
It will be a momentous occasion, and a monumental achievement if successful."
Black Jack was amused. “Well, I don't know.
I don't see why not.
I'd be curious to see if we can't get something else to eat around here besides birds, fish, and hogs.
I'll be surprised, though, if they stick around these parts."
The gentleman, anxious to do his deed, ignored Black Jack's last comment. He was already opening the cages.
He shooed the rabbits, and they all hopped a few yards in different directions.
Suddenly, all four stopped and sniffed the air.
Noses wriggling and eyes wide and glistening, they slowly began to converge on one spot. Once together, they suddenly ran off into the low bush following one cardinal direction.
They all stood and watched the rabbits dissolve into obscurity across the scruffy plain. For a time, Black Jack could make out their tails when they stopped to rest. They reminded him of picking cotton.
Finally the man said, "Right.
Well perhaps we will see them again some day.
For now, it’s farewell to you good man.
Thank you for all your help."
"No worries."
Said Black Jack.
A month later, more people came. Dressed in their Sunday best, they arrived in a caravan of uncovered carts.
A gentleman dismounted and stepped to the door of the shack.
He stroked his muttonchops beard, fiddled with his military sword, and smiled back at a finely-dressed woman holding the reigns from the driving bench.
Finding no one about, he rejoined his family troop and sat purveying the vast plot before them.
“According to the deed, it runs from the Tua Marina stream up there at the eastern boundary, for five hundred yards to the base of the foothills on the western end for the same width. It’s surely nicer than that swamp the Governor gave me up near Nelson, wouldn’t you say?”