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, purified oil.
The native spared no effort or ingenuity, but it was all in vain; nothing would induce the rifle to utter its terrifying thunder and lightening: the deadly magic which could slay from a distance and cause his enemies to flee in terror, or provide meat for his lodge.
The native's experience of the world was not sufficient to unlock this particular secret, even if he spent his life studying the workings of that rifle. The simple mystery of gunpowder would forever be concealed from him, in a parallel reality he would never know.
This scenario is from a story I read many years ago. I sometimes feel that it is a metaphor for my own life, as I stumble forward in darkness.
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