The native knew what the rifle could do; he had seen it work, and now he was trying everything in his power to make it do that thing. He carefully twisted wads of grass, cuts of bark, and stuffed them into the chamber. He tried using stones, earth, a burning ember; he used incantations and interpretive dance; he prayed; he anointed the rifle with sacred dust, with purified oil.
The persistent native spared no effort or ingenuity, but it was all in vain; nothing would induce the rifle to utter its terrifying lightening and thunder: the deadly magic which could slay from a distance and provide meat for his lodge, or cause his enemies to flee in terror.
The native's considerable experience of the world was not sufficient to unlock the secret, even if he spent his life studying the inner workings of the rifle. The simple mystery of gunpowder would forever be concealed, in a parallel reality separate from his.
This scenario is from a story I came across many years ago. I sometimes feel that it is a metaphor for my own life, as I stumble forward in darkness.