King Matt the First

by Janusz Korczak

  And so Mad Matt and the legless, one-eyed pilot set out on their journey to the land of King Bum Drum.

  THE OFFICER IN charge of the garrison was sitting with the telegraph operator, smoking his pipe and chatting on about one thing and another.

  “It’s a lousy life, I tell you. Stuck in this godforsaken African village at the edge of the desert. Since King Matt left, King Bum Drum’s been shipping wild animals in cages and sacks of gold through here every day. Those animals will get to live in Matt’s capital, a beautiful, civilized city—and me, a human being, will have to stay in the desert until the day I die. Before, the natives revolted once in a while and you could have a fight. But since they made friends with King Matt, they’ve been peaceful and haven’t attacked us once. What the hell are we doing here? Another year or two like this and we’ll forget how to shoot a gun.”

  The telegraph operator was about to say something, when suddenly the telegraph began tapping.

  “Oho, it’s a telegram.”

  Letters began to appear on the white strip of paper.

  “Ohoho, interesting news.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. One second. ‘King Matt will arrive by train tomorrow at sixteen hundred hours to fly by plane across the desert to King Bum Drum. While unloading his plane, break some part that will ground it. This is a secret.’”

  “I see,” said the captain. “Our kings don’t want Matt friendly with Bum Drum. I don’t like this order. They don’t want to make friends with the cannibals, but still they’re standing in Matt’s way. That’s really rotten. But what can I do? I’m an officer, I have to obey orders.”

  The officer immediately summoned a soldier he trusted and ordered him to disguise himself as a porter.

  “All the railroad porters are black. When Matt sees a white porter who speaks their language, I’m sure he’ll hire you to keep an eye on them. Then you can unfasten a bolt to keep the plane from flying.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the soldier. Then he disguised himself as a porter and set off for the station.

  Matt was surrounded by natives as soon as he arrived. Matt told them in sign language to unload the plane carefully, but he was afraid that they hadn’t understood. Then suddenly a white porter appeared. Matt was relieved.

  “I’ll pay you well,” said Matt. “Just explain everything to them and keep an eye on things.”

  The captain came running up as if he had just learned of Matt’s arrival.

  “What? By airplane. Ho-ho, that’s a fine trip. When, tomorrow? The king should spend a couple of days with us and rest up. Anyway, come have breakfast with us, gentlemen.”

  Matt was quick to agree, but the pilot absolutely refused to go.

  “I’d rather keep the one eye I have on what’s happening here, to make sure nobody pulls any fast ones on us.”

  “I’Il keep watch,” said the soldier disguised as a porter.

  But the legless pilot was a stubborn man. No, no. He wasn’t budging an inch until the airplane was unloaded from the train and fully assembled.

  Well, how can you beat someone that stubborn? First the black porters unloaded the wings, then the case with the motor, then the propeller. Directed by the pilot, they began assembling the plane. The disguised soldier kept trying to get rid of the pilot, but he couldn’t find a way. So he treated him to a cigar doused with knockout drops. The pilot fell asleep after a couple of puffs.

  “Let the man sleep, he’s very tired from his trip. And you’re tired from working, too,” said the soldier to the black porters. “Here’s some money, go buy yourselves a drink.”

  Now the black porters were gone and the pilot was out cold. The soldier unscrewed the most important bolt on the motor, then buried it deep in the sand by a palm tree.

  The pilot woke up an hour later, a little ashamed of having fallen asleep on the job. He put the finishing touches on the plane, which the porters had rolled to the edge of Matt’s camp.

  “And so?” the officer asked the soldier in a soft voice.

  “Everything’s under control,” answered the soldier. “I buried the part by a palm tree. Or should I have brought it to you?”

  “No, no need to. It can stay where it is.”

  Matt was up before dawn, preparing to leave. He had a four-day supply of water, a little food, and two revolvers. They filled up with gas and took along some spare oil for the motor. That was all; the airplane had to be kept light.

  “All right, we can leave.”

  Now what’s wrong? The motor won’t start. What’s the problem? After all, the pilot had packed the plane himself and then assembled it himself.

  “The main bolt is missing!” shouted the pilot suddenly. “Who could have taken it?”

  “What bolt?” asked the officer.

  “Right here, there was a bolt here. We can’t fly without it.”

  “And didn’t you bring a spare bolt?”

  “Do you think I’m crazy? I brought parts that could break or get damaged on the way, but bolts don’t break or go bad.”

  “Maybe they forgot to pack it?”

  “Not a chancel I packed it myself at the factory. And I saw it yesterday when the motor was out of its crate. Somebody took it on purpose.”

  “If it was a shiny bolt,” said the officer, “the natives might have taken it, they’re crazy about shiny things.”

  Standing by the plane, furious at his bad luck, Matt suddenly noticed something shiny in the sand. “What’s that over there? Go take a look, gentlemen.”

  Everyone was astonished—it was the missing bolt.

  “What a devilish country this is,” cried the pilot. “The strangest things happen here. I swear I’ve never fallen asleep on the job in my entire life, but yesterday I did. I’ve had all sorts of problems with airplanes, but that bolt is always on the tightest, and I’ve never seen one come loose. And how did it end up here?”

  “Let’s hurry,” said Matt. “We’ve already lost an hour.”

  The officer was very surprised by what had happened, and the soldier who had stolen the bolt was the most surprised of all. Those black devils have played some sort of trick, he thought. And he was right.

  When the natives went to the tavern, they began talking about the strange machine they had unloaded from the train.

  “It’s like a bird. The white king will fly in the bird to see Bum Drum the cannibal.”

  “What won’t those people think of next.” They nodded their heads in amazement.

  “But for me,” said one old native, “that white porter is even stranger than the bird. I’ve been working with white people for thirty years, and I don’t ever remember a white man feeling sorry because a black worker was tired, and giving him money before the work was done.”

  “And where did he come from? Did he come with them?”

  “I tell you he’s one of the white men from around here disguised as a porter. He speaks our language too well for a white man.”

  “And didn’t you notice the man with no legs fell asleep when the white porter gave him a cigar? It must have had knockout drops in it.”

  “There’s something going on here.” They all agreed to that.

  The white porter had left when the job was done, and then the natives sat down not far from the palm tree where he had buried the bolt. Suddenly one young native cried: “This sand’s been freshly dug. Something’s been buried here. I remember that the sand by this palm tree was smooth when we started working.”

  They began to dig, found the bolt, and figured out the rest.

  What to do? The white people wanted to play a dirty trick on Matt, but the blacks loved Matt. After all, weren’t they earning plenty of money unloading the cages, boxes, and sacks from Bum Drum’s camels and loading them onto that fire-breathing dragon which the white people called a train?

  But what should they do? If they went to Matt and gave him back the bolt, the officer from the garrison would punish them severely. After talking i
t over, they decided to slip into the camp that night and dig away some sand so the bolt could be spotted.

  And so it was that, with the help of some honest natives, Matt was again on his way, in spite of a three-hour delay.

  THEY WERE LOST!

  If you’ve never been lost, you can’t know what it’s like. At least, if you’re lost in a forest, there are trees around you and you might come upon a forester’s cottage. There are berries and streams in the forest; you can drink some water and fall asleep under a tree. If your ship goes off course, the other people on board can cheer you up and make you feel better. There’s always food on a ship, and sooner or later you’ll catch sight of an island. But to lose your way in the air above a desert is probably the most terrible thing that can happen to anyone. There’s no one to ask directions from, no landmarks, and you can’t even take a nap when you’re tired.

  You just sit there in that god-awful bird, which is flying like an arrow, though you have no idea where. All you know is that it will fly as long as it has fuel and oil, and then it will drop like a stone. When the bird dies, your hopes die with it, and that means certain death on the hot desert sand.

  Two days ago they flew over the first oasis, yesterday they flew over the second oasis, and they were supposed to fly over the third today at seven o’clock in the morning and then land in Bum Drum’s country at four in the afternoon. The time had been calculated by twenty learned professors. Everything had been figured out, even the force and direction of the winds. And they had been flying straight all the time because there were no obstacles to be avoided in the air.

  So what had gone wrong?

  They were supposed to fly over the third oasis at seven o’clock in the morning, and here it was seven-forty and all they could see was sand and more sand.

  “How long can we stay up in the air?”

  “Nine hours at most. There might be enough fuel for more, but the beast drinks too much oil. What can you do? It’s hot here, the beast wants to drink, nothing surprising about that.”

  That made sense to them, because their own water supply was running low.

  “Your Royal Highness should drink some water,” said the pilot. “I need less than you, because I left my legs back home.”

  He was trying to joke, but Matt saw that the brave pilot had tears in his eyes.

  Seven forty-five.

  Seven-fifty.

  Eight o’clock.

  No oasis in sight.

  “I wouldn’t mind dying in a storm or something. But everything had been going so well. We passed the first oasis ten seconds ahead of schedule, and the second oasis four seconds behind. We’ve been flying at the same speed, so we might have been five minutes late. But not a whole hour.”

  And they were so close to their destination! And this journey was so important! Now what?

  “Maybe we should change direction,” advised Matt.

  “It’s easy to change direction. My airplane only needs one little turn of the wheel. It flies so beautifully! It’s not to blame for what happened. So don’t you worry, my little bird. Change direction, but why? And where to? I think we should keep flying. Maybe it’s another devilish trick, like what happened to the bolt. How did it get lost, then turn up again right away? The motor wants another drink of oil. Here’s another glassful, you silly plane, but don’t get drunk, that’s asking for disaster.”

  “An oasis!” cried Matt, who had kept his eyes glued to the binoculars.

  “All right,” said the pilot, who was just as calm now when he was happy as he had been a moment before, when he was worried.

  “Any oasis is good. We’re an hour and five minutes late. But that’s not so terrible. We have enough gas for an extra three hours, because we’re not heading into the wind. And so let’s have a drink.”

  The pilot poured a cup of water for himself and tapped it against the oil tank, saying: “To you, buddy.”

  After he gave the plane a good squirt of oil, he drank the whole cup of water.

  “Would Your Royal Highness allow me to have the binoculars for one moment, so I can see this miracle with my one good eye?

  “Ah, what beautiful trees Bum Drum has. Is Your Royal Highness certain that Bum Drum has quit being a cannibal? Being eaten is not so bad if you know that you’ll taste good. But I’m tough and stringy, of course, and without legs there’s not much meat on me. And a soup made from my carcass wouldn’t be very nourishing.”

  Matt could not help wondering why this quiet man who had said practically nothing the whole trip had now suddenly become talkative and cheerful.

  “Is Your Royal Highness certain that this is the right oasis? Should we keep flying over these cursed sands, or should we land here?”

  Matt couldn’t tell from the air, but landing was out of the question—they’d end up surrounded by desert bandits or wild animals.

  “Maybe we should descend and have a closer look.”

  “All right,” said Matt.

  They had been flying very high to keep the plane cool and conserve their oil. But now they had no need to be afraid, because there were only a few hours between them and their destination.

  “What was that?” asked Matt in surprise. Then he suddenly cried: “Up, up, as fast as you can!”

  There were a dozen arrows stuck in the plane’s wings.

  “Are you hurt?” Matt asked the pilot, worried.

  “Not at all. That was a nice reception those devils gave us,” he added.

  A few more arrows whizzed past the airplane as they rose to a higher altitude to escape them.

  “Now I’m certain that was the right oasis. The desert robbers always stay near the oasis. There’s more chance of robbing people there. They wait near the oasis closest to Bum Drum’s forest.”

  “Is Your Royal Highness certain that we’ll be returning by camel?”

  “Of course. Bum Drum will send us back the same way he did the first time. You might be able to find oil in Bum Drum’s country, but there won’t be any fuel, of course.”

  “In that case,” said the pilot, “we can risk it. When a good railroad engineer is running late, he speeds up to arrive on time. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go full speed so we can land on schedule. This may be the last flight of my life, I might as well enjoy myself.”

  He pulled the throttle, and a minute later they had left the oasis and the robbers far behind.

  “Won’t the arrows be a problem?” asked Matt.

  “Not at all. Let them just dangle there.”

  They flew and they flew and they flew. The well-oiled motor worked perfectly. Finally, a few bushes and low trees began to appear again.

  “Ho-ho, my little horse can smell the stable already,” joked the pilot.

  They drank all their water and ate the rest of their food, because they had no idea how long the welcoming ceremonies would last before they were fed. Besides, it wouldn’t be polite for them to arrive ravenously hungry.

  They began to descend carefully, reducing their speed. Matt had already spotted the gray strip of Bum Drum’s forests in the distance.

  “All right, then,” said the pilot. “Is there a clearing in the forest? We can’t land on top of the trees, after all. I did land in a forest once, though it was the airplane that did most of the landing. That’s when I lost my eye. I was still a young man then, and the planes were young, too, and didn’t always obey.”

  There was a large glade in front of Bum Drum’s palace. And now, swinging low over the forest, the plane began heading for that glade.

  “A little to the right,” cried Matt, looking through his binoculars. “Too far, go back.”

  The plane circled back, tried again, and missed again.

  “To the left, less of a turn, good.”

  “Oh, I see it, I see it, that’s the clearing, but what’s that?”

  “Go back up!” shouted Matt with fear in his voice.

  The plane roared up and away from what sounded like a screaming forest.
/>   The entire field in front of the royal tent was full of people standing shoulder to shoulder.

  Something must have happened. Either Bum Drum had died or it was some sort of holiday.

  “All right, then, but we can’t land on their heads, you know.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to keep going up and down until they understand that if they don’t get out of our way we’ll come crashing down on them.”

  Seven times they rose in the air and came back down before the tribesmen realized that the great bird wanted to land in the clearing. Finally, they moved away into the forest, which wasn’t easy because there were so many of them, and Matt’s airplane landed without any more problems.

  Matt’s feet had barely touched the ground when a curly-haired little creature came running up to him and squeezed him with all its might.

  A moment later, no longer dizzy, Matt saw that it was a black child. And when the child raised its head and looked him in the eye, Matt knew at once who it was—nice little Klu Klu, King Bum Drum’s daughter.

  MATT HAD NO idea what was going on. Everything happened so fast that Matt thought he was dreaming or seeing things.

  The first thing he saw was Bum Drum tied up with ropes and lying on a pyre surrounded by witch doctors. All the witch doctors were fearsome-looking, but one was more fearsome-looking than the rest—he had two wings, two heads, four arms, and two legs. That was his costume. In one hand the witch doctor held a board on which something had been drawn or written in human blood, and in the other a flaming torch. Matt realized they were going to burn Bum Drum. Off to one side were Bum Drum’s hundred wives—they, too, were bound with ropes, and each one held a poison arrow to her heart. Bum Drum’s children were crying something terrible and crawled around on all fours or did sad little somersaults. Little Klu Klu pulled Matt by the hand toward her father and said something, but Matt didn’t understand. Just to be on the safe side, he pulled out his revolver and fired twice in the air.

  Right then, Matt heard a cry from behind him. It was the pilot shouting and flapping his arms; his legless torso flew up in the air, he turned blue, and fell dead to the ground.