Hawaii Liberty Chronicles

By Ken Schoolland

Sam Slom, President of Small Business Hawaii, launched an economics education program twenty years ago that has been changing the world. Begun as a dramatic radio series in Hawaii, The Adventures of Jonathan Gullible: A Free Market Odyssey, has now been published in 58 editions in 43 languages, including serialization in numerous periodicals such as the Keizai Seminar Magazine (Japan), The Boss (Nepal), SEDEM Weekly (Bulgaria), Neo Typos (Greece), and The Hong Kong Economic Journal.

Additional thousands of copies have been downloaded from the internet, either from HawaiiReporter.com or JonathanGullible.com. Next is the International Policy Network (IPN) project for distribution of 100,000 CD’s to less developed countries. Plays based on the book have been written for stage in Kenya, Nigeria, and Slovenia. An animated version of the epilogue, known as “The Philosophy of Liberty,” is now available in 35 languages and has been hugely popular with hundreds of thousands of viewers on the internet.

This project has not only been supported by the SBH Entrepreneurial Education Foundation, but by more than two dozen international public policy institutes and endorsed by such economics luminaries as Milton Friedman, Walter Williams, Mark Skousen, and Fred Foldvary. Along the way it has won several awards for economics education, most notably from the Foundation for Economic Education and the Freedom’s Foundation at Valley Forge.

And, not once but twice, book distributors in Hawaii informed us that they would not carry the book in the islands.

What are the latest developments?

Arabic

The publishing house Dar Al Ahlia in Jordan, just released Jamal Attayib, the Arabic name for Jonathan Gullible (JG).

This is the culmination of a very long effort, begun with translation sponsorship by Nicholas Dykes in England, publication through Nouh El Harmouzi, Haitham al- Zubbaidi, and Tom Palmer of the Cato Institute.

Sindhi & Urdu

Dr. Khalil Ahmad [below] has announced two new editions of JG, published by the Alternate Solutions Institute in Lahore, Pakistan.

Awaami Falaahi Riasat Ki Kahaani, Becharay Jonathan Ki Zabaani is the Sindhi translation of JG by Dr. Zulfiqar Ali Rahujo, General Secretary of Liberal Forum Pakistan. Sales of the first Urdu edition were so successful that Dr. Ahmad has also published a second edition in Urdu.

Bulgarian

Kalin Manolov reported great news about the second Bulgarian edition of JG.  Says Kalin, “The great news is that Overgas, a private company which provides resources for the construction and operation of gas distribution networks - www.overgas.bg , supported the publication and will give the book as a present to their pupils. They support 14 classes in various Bulgarian schools. Other good news: the Bulgarian Ministry of Education and Science will buy books for 30 high ranking Bulgarian secondary schools in the towns of Sofia, Plovdiv, Varna and Bourgas.”

Next Kalin hopes to organize the Liberty English Camps in Bulgaria, on the line of so many more liberty camps springing up throughout Eastern Europe. It is the perfect opportunity to use this kind of book for discussions, debates, and skits. My family will be teaching and lecturing at such events in Lithuania this summer, organized by Virgis Daukas. Others are organized by Glenn Cripe and others in Poland, Slovakia, Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, India, and Egypt.

Nigerian Play

Dr Samuel Ayedime Kafewo wrote this from Nigeria, “This is to inform you that the assessments of the MA students of the play ‘A Letter from Jonathan Gullible’ will be staged and assessed by both internal and external Examiners at the Drama Village of Ahmadu Bello University Zaria Kaduna-State Nigeria. After this, it will then be open to public for three days for public viewing June 12-14. The recorded assessment will be sent as soon as possible.”

The producer, Thomas Adedayo, and director, Dr. Samuel Ayedime Kafewo, welcome contributions toward the production.

Japanese

Thanks to Hiroshi Yoshida, JG continues to be a serialized comic strip on the website of Japanese for Tax Reform. [Below, left to right, Masaru Uchiyama (Mr.you) JTR President, Maruko Maruyama JTR Cartoonist, Ken, Hiroshi Yoshida IPSA, Jyunichi Miyakawa Editor].

100,000 JG Distribution

Linda Whetstone, Chairman of The International Policy Network (IPN), reports,

“In order to fill the known demand for the CD made apparent by the first edition IPN is about to produce 100,000 of the second edition of this CD which should be available by the end of June 2009. The goal of the CD is to enable many more opinion leaders in less developed countries to have access to the compelling intellectual foundations of the free society.”

Poland

Kris Haladus [below] has long promoted the new book and audio edition of JG in Poland so why not do some hot marketing? For one thing, Kris has developed a whole line of JG T-Shirts from the latest color illustrations in the Polish edition of the book.

By Ken Schoolland

The streets grew quieter as Jonathan trudged down yet another row of drab houses. He noticed a group of poorly dressed people gathered in front of three tall buildings labeled BLOCK A, BLOCK B, and BLOCK C. BLOCK A was vacant and in appalling condition—the masonry crumbling, the windows broken, and any remaining panes filthy with grime. Next door at BLOCK B, people huddled on the front steps. Jonathan heard loud voices coming from inside and the sounds of lively activity from all three floors. Laundry hung untidily from sticks that protruded from every available window and balcony. It literally burst at the seams with tenants.

Across the street, stood BLOCK C, immaculately maintained and, like BLOCK A, empty of people. Its scrubbed windows sparkled in the sunlight, stucco walls smooth and clean.

As he gazed at the three buildings, Jonathan felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turning, he faced a young girl with long sandy brown hair. Her light gray clothes fitted her poorly and she wasn’t especially pretty, but Jonathan thought she looked alert and kind.

“Do you know of any apartments for rent?” she asked in a soft, pleasant voice.

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan. “I’m not from around here. But why don’t you check on those two vacant buildings?”

“It’s no use,” she responded softly.

“But,” said Jonathan, “they look empty to me.”

“They are. My family used to live over there in BLOCK A before rent control.”

“What’s rent control?” asked Jonathan.

“It’s a law to stop landlords from raising rents.”

“Why?” probed Jonathan.

“Oh, it’s a silly story,” she said. “Back when the Dream Machine came through our neighborhood, my dad and other tenants complained about landlords raising rents. Sure, costs were up and more people were renting, but my dad said that was no reason for us to pay more. So the tenants—or former tenants, I should say—demanded that the Council of Lords prohibit the raising of rents. The Council did just that and hired a slew of administrators, inspectors, judges, and guards to enforce the new rules.”

“Were the tenants pleased?”

“At first, sure. My dad felt secure about the cost of a roof over our heads. But then the landlords stopped building new apartments and stopped fixing the old ones.”

“What happened?”

“Costs kept going up—repairmen, security guards, managers, utilities, taxes, and the like—but the landlords couldn’t raise the rents to pay for it all. So they figured ‘Why build and fix just to lose money?’”

“Taxes went up, too?” asked Jonathan.

“Sure—to pay for enforcing rent control. Budgets and staff had to grow,” said the girl. “The Council passed rent control, but never tax control. Well, when repairs and upkeep stopped, everyone started to hate the landlords.”

“They weren’t always hated?”

“Nah, before rent control, we had lots of apartments to choose from. Landlords had to be nice to get us to move in and stay. Most landlords acted friendly and made things attractive. If there were any nasty landlords, word got around fast and people avoided them like the rats they were. Nice landlords attracted steady tenants while nasty ones suffered a plague of vacancies.”

“What changed?”

“After rent control everyone got nasty,” she said with a look of despair. “The worst prospered the most.” She sat down on the curb to scratch Mices behind the ears. Mices rolled over and began to purr. Jonathan watched her, feeling slightly envious of the cat. Here was someone who spoke sensibly and clearly about the way things operated.

Aware of Jonathan’s stare, she continued confidently, “Costs went up, but not the rents. Even the nicest landlords had to cut back on repairs. When buildings became uncomfortable or dangerous, tenants got mad and complained to the inspectors. The inspectors slapped fines on the landlords. Of course, some landlords bribed inspectors to look the other way. Finally, the owner of BLOCK A, a decent man, couldn’t afford the losses or bribes anymore so he just up and left.”

“Abandoned his own building?” sputtered Jonathan.

“Yeah. It happens a lot,” she sighed. “Imagine walking away from something that took a lifetime to build? Well, fewer and fewer apartments were available but the number of tenants kept growing. People had to squeeze into whatever was left. Even mean landlords, like the one who holds BLOCK B, never had a vacancy again. Rumor has it that he takes payoffs under the table just to move applicants higher up the wait list. Those with enough cash get by okay. And that nasty owner makes out like a bandit.”

“What about BLOCK B?” said Jonathan, wanting to be helpful. “Can you get in?”

“The waiting line is awful. When Dame Whitmore passed away you should have seen the brawl out front—everyone scratching and yelling at each other for position in line. Lady Tweed’s son finally got that apartment—even though nobody remembers seeing him in line that day. My family once tried to share an apartment in BLOCK B, but the building code prohibits sharing.”

“What’s a building code?” asked Jonathan.

The girl frowned. “It started as a set of rules for safety. But the Lords now use it to determine lifestyle. You know, things like the right number of sinks, stoves, and toilets; the right number and kind of people; the right amount of space.” With a tinge of sarcasm she added, “So we ended up in the street where nothing meets the code—no sinks, stoves, or toilets, no privacy, and far too much space.”

Jonathan grew depressed thinking about her plight. Then he remembered the third building—brand new and vacant. It was the obvious solution to her problems. “Why don’t you move into BLOCK C, right there across the street?”

She laughed bitterly. “That would be a violation of the zoning rules.”

“Zoning rules?” he repeated. Leaning back on the sidewalk where he sat, Jonathan shook his head, incredulous.

“Those are rules about location. Zoning works like this,” she said picking up a stick to sketch a little map in the dirt. “The Council draws lines on a map of the town. People are allowed to sleep on one side of the line at night, but they must work on the other side during the day. BLOCK B is on the sleep side of the line and BLOCK C is on the work side. Usually work buildings are located across town from sleep buildings so that everyone needs to travel a lot every morning and evening. They say the long distances are good for physical exercise and carriage sales.”

Jonathan stared in bewilderment. A packed apartment building standing between two empty buildings and a street full of indigents. Sympathetically he asked, “What are you going to do?”

“We take one day at a time. My dad wants me to go with him to the gala ‘Thumbs Up Party’ that Lady Tweed is putting on for the homeless tomorrow. She promises to lift our spirits with games and a free lunch.”

“How generous,” remarked Jonathan drily, recalling his conversation with Lady Tweed. “Maybe she’d let you live in her house until you find something of your own.”

“Dad actually had the nerve to ask her that once, especially since Tweed led the Council in putting through rent controls. Lady Tweed declared, ‘But that would be charity! Charity is demeaning!’ She explained to him that it is far more respectable to require taxpayers give us housing. She told him to be patient and that she’d make arrangements with the Council.”

Then young woman smiled at Jonathan and asked, “By the way, they call me Alisa. Do you want to join us at Tweed’s free lunch tomorrow afternoon?”

Jonathan blushed. Maybe he could learn to enjoy this island. “Sure, I’d love to come along. By the way, I’m Jonathan.”

Alisa jumped up, smiling, “Then, Jonathan, we meet here tomorrow—same time. Bring your cat.”

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Chapter 5: “Candles and Coats”

Chapter 6: “The Tall Tax”

Chapter 7: “Best Laid Plans”

Chapter 8: “Two Zoos”

Chapter 9: “Making Money”

Chapter 10: “The Dream Machine”

Chapter 11: “Power Sale”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

A husky, jolly woman bore down on Jonathan as he stood wondering where to go next. Without hesitation, she grabbed his right hand and began to pump it vigorously. “How do you do? Isn’t it a fine day?” she said at rapid-fire speed, still working his hand with her meaty arm. “I’m Lady Bess Tweed, your friendly neighborhood representative on the Council of Lords, and I would be most grateful to have your contribution and your vote for my re-election to office and there you have it, that is the pressing situation for our fine community.”

“Really?” said Jonathan. The speed and force of her speech knocked Jonathan back a step. He had never met a person who could say so many words in one breath.

“Oh yes,” continued Lady Tweed, barely listening to his reply, “and I am willing to pay you well, oh yes, I am willing to pay you, you can’t ask for a better deal, and how about that?”

“Pay me for a contribution and a vote?” asked Jonathan with a puzzled look.

“Of course, I can’t give you cash–that would be illegal, a bribe—say no more, say no more!” said Lady Tweed, winking slyly at him and poking him in the ribs with her elbow. She continued, “But I can give you something just as good as cash and worth many times the amount of your contribution to me. It’s as easy as priming a pump. A few bills in my palm right now and you can expect a gusher of goodies later. That’s what I’ll do and how about that?”

“That would be nice,” replied Jonathan, who could see she wasn’t listening to him anyway.

“What’s your occupation? I can arrange assistance–loans or licenses or subsidies or tax breaks. I can ruin your competitors with rules and regulations and inspections and fees. So you can see, there is no better investment in the world than a well-placed politician. Perhaps you’d like a new road or a park built in your neighborhood or maybe a large building or…”

“Wait!” shouted Jonathan, trying to stop the torrent of words. “How can you give me more than I give to you? Are you so very rich and generous?”

“Me rich? Saints and bullfrogs, no!” retorted Lady Tweed. “I’m not rich. Well, not that I will admit it. Generous? You could say so, but I don’t plan to pay with my own money. Of course, you see, I’m in charge of the official treasury. And, to be sure, I can be very generous with those funds, to the right people…” She grinned, winked twice and nudge him again in the ribs. “Say no more, say no more!”

Jonathan still did not understand what she meant. “But, if you buy my contribution and my vote, isn’t that sort of like, well, the same as bribery?”

Lady Tweed gave him a shrewd look. “I’ll be blunt with you, my dear friend.” She draped one arm over his shoulder and pulled him uncomfortably tight against her side. “It is bribery. But it’s legal when a politician uses money from other people rather than from his or her own pocket. Likewise, it is illegal for you to give me cash for specific favors, unless you call it a ‘campaign contribution.’ Then everything is okay. You can buy a hundred copies of my memoirs and not read a single one. Feel uncomfortable giving cash to me directly? Just ask a friend or a relative or an associate to offer permanent loans, stock options, or benefits to me or my kin–now or later.” She paused expectantly. “Now, do you understand?”

Jonathan shook his head; “I still don’t see the difference. I mean, bribing people for votes and favors is still bribery no matter who they are or whose money it is. The label makes no difference if the deed is the same.”

Lady Tweed smiled indulgently, “My dear, dear friend, you’ve got to be more flexible. The label is everything.” With her free hand, she gently grasped his chin and turned Jonathan’s head sideways “What’s your name? Did you know you’ve got a nice profile? You could go a long way if you ran for public office. If you’re flexible, I’m sure that I could find you a nice post in my bureau after re-election. Or is there something else you want?”

Jonathan shook his head free and managed to wriggle out from under her arm. “What do you get by giving away taxpayers’ money? Can you keep the money that’s given to you as contributions?”

“Oh, some of it is useful for my expenses and I have a fortune promised to me should I ever retire, but mostly it buys me recognition or credibility or popularity or love or admiration or a place in history. All this and more for me and my progeny!” Lady Tweed chuckled softly. “Votes are power and there is nothing I enjoy more than having influence over the life, liberty, and property of every person on this island. Can you imagine how many people come to me—me—for big and little favors? Every tax and regulation presents an opportunity for me to grant a special exception. Every problem, big or little, solved gives me more influence. I award free lunches and free rides to whomever I choose. Ever since I was a child I dreamed of such importance. You, too, can share the glory!”

Jonathan tried to free his hand. But Lady Tweed kept him firmly in her eel-like grip. “Sure,” said Jonathan, “you and your friends have a great deal, but don’t other people get upset when you use their money to buy votes, favors, and power?”

“Certainly,” she said, lifting up her plump, double-chinned jaw proudly. “And I hear their concerns. So I’ve become the champion of reform.” Finally releasing Jonathan’s hand, Lady Tweed thrust her large, bejeweled fist into the air. “For years I’ve drafted new rules to take the money out of politics. I always say that campaign money causes a crisis of major proportion. And I have won a fair share of votes with promises for reform.” She paused to smirk and continued, “Fortunately for me, I always know a way around my rules so long as there are valuable favors to sell.” She winked and nudged again, “Know what I mean, know what I mean?”

Lady Tweed eyed Jonathan critically, taking in his tattered appearance. “No one pays you a penny for favors because you, as yet, have no favors to sell. Don’t you see? But, with your innocent looks–and the right backing from me, you could go far. Hmm…a new set of clothes, elevated shoes, a stylish haircut, and the proper fiancée. Yes, I could definitely triple the beginner’s vote tally for you. Then, after ten or twenty years of careful guidance—well, there’s no limit to the possibilities! Look me up at the Palace of Lords and I’ll see what I can do.” Lady Tweed spotted a group of workers that had gathered across the street, looking forlornly at the shuttered factory. She abruptly lost interest in Jonathan and marched swiftly away, searching for fresh prey.

“Spending other people’s money sounds like trouble,” mumbled Jonathan.

Her ears keenly tuned to any sound of disagreement, Lady Tweed stopped and turned quickly, “Did you say ‘trouble’? Ha! It really is like taking candy from a baby. What the people don’t give to me out of duty, I borrow from them. You see, I’ll be long gone and fondly remembered when their yet-unborn-babies get the bill. What’s your name, boy?”

“Ah, Jonathan Gullible, ma’am.”

Lady Tweed’s face turned hard and cold. “I’ll remember you, Jonathan Gullible. If you’re not with me, you’re against me. I reward friends and punish enemies. You can’t stand in the middle, understand me? There you have it, that is the pressing situation for our fine community. Say no more!” In a blink, her face snapped back into a broad, beaming smile. Then she vanished down the street.

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Chapter 5: “Candles and Coats”

Chapter 6: “The Tall Tax”

Chapter 7: “Best Laid Plans”

Chapter 8: “Two Zoos”

Chapter 9: “Making Money”

Chapter 10: “The Dream Machine”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

How would Jonathan ever get home? He was a hearty, honest lad, willing to do any kind of work. Perhaps he might find a job with a ship’s crew. Surely an island had to have a harbor and ships in it. As he pondered the problem, a thin man struggled to load a bulky machine onto a big, horse-drawn wagon. He wore an eye-catching red suit and a stylish hat with a large feather stuck in the band. Catching sight of Jonathan, the man hollered, “Hey kid, I’ll pay you five kayns to help me load.”

“Kayns?” repeated Jonathan curiously.

“Money, paper payola. Ya want it or not?”

“Sure,” said Jonathan, having no better idea of what to do. It wasn’t work on a ship, but he needed to earn his keep. Besides, the man looked shrewd and could offer some advice. After much pushing and shoving, they managed to heave the unwieldy machine on board. Wiping his brow, Jonathan stood back panting and looked at the object of his labor. The machine was large with beautiful designs painted all over. On the top was a large horn, such as the one Jonathan had once seen on a hand-cranked phonograph back home.

“Such beautiful colors,” said Jonathan, feeling dizzy while staring at the intricate, pulsating patterns. “And what’s that big horn on top?”

“Come around front, and see for yourself.” So Jonathan climbed up on the wagon and read the sign painted with elegant gold letters: “GOLLY GOMPER’S DREAM MACHINE!”

“A dream machine?” repeated Jonathan. “You mean it makes dreams come true?”

“It sure does,” said the sharp-faced man. He twisted out the last screw and removed a panel in back of the machine. Inside were the works of a simple phonograph. Instead of a hand crank, it had a spring with a wind-up key. A switch turned the turntable on.

“There’s nothing but an old music box in there!” declared Jonathan.

“What’d you expect,” said the man, “a fairy godmother?”

“I don’t know. I thought it would be a little, uh, mysterious. After all, it takes something special to make people’s dreams come true.”

A sly grin spread across the man’s thin face and he gave Jonathan a long hard look. “Words, my curious friend. It just takes words to make some dreams come true. The problem is you never know just who will get the dream when you wish for something.”

Seeing Jonathan’s puzzled expression, the man reached into his pocket and produced a crisp white, tiny business card. He introduced himself in his staccato nasal twang, “Tanstaafl’s the name. P.T. Tanstaafl.” Just then he noticed that he had given Jonathan the wrong card, one that read “G. Gomper” instead. He snatched it back. “Excuse me, son, that’s yesterday’s card.”

Shuffling through his wallet he found another card of a slightly different size and color presenting today’s name. He then pulled out a poster with elegant gold lettering that he pasted over the original name on his sign. It now read, “DR. TANSTAAFL’S DREAM MACHINE.”

The man explained smoothly, “People have their dreams, right? It’s just that they don’t know how to make dreams come true, right?” Dr. Tanstaafl nodded his head every time he said “Right?” Jonathan began nodding dumbly in unison.

“So you pay money, turn the key, and this old box plays a certain subtle instruction over and over again, right?” Tanstaafl nodded again, Jonathan followed with a bob. “It’s always the same message and there are always plenty of dreamers who love to hear it, right?”

“What’s the message, Mr. Tanstaafl?” asked Jonathan, suddenly conscious of his head bobbing up and down.

The man corrected Jonathan, “Please! Doctor Tanstaafl. As I was saying, the Dream Machine tells people to think of whatever they would like to have, and…” The man glanced around to see if anyone else was listening, “Then it explains to the dreamers what to do. And in a very persuasive manner, right?”

“You mean it hypnotizes them?” asked Jonathan, his eyes widening.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no!” objected the man. “It tells them that they are good people and that what they wish for is a good thing, right? It’s so good that they should demand it, right!”

“Is that all?” Jonathan said in awe.

“That’s all.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jonathan asked, “So what do these dreamers demand?”

The man pulled out an oilcan and proceeded to oil the gears inside. “Well, it depends a lot on where I put this machine. I frequently put it in front of a factory like this one—Bastiat Builders.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of a squat two-story building across the street. “And sometimes I set up by the Palace of Lords. Around here, people always want more money. More money is a good thing, ya know, ‘cuz prices are always going up and people always need more, right?”

“So I’ve heard,” said Jonathan, rolling his eyes. “Do they get it?”

The man pulled back and wiped his hands on a rag. “Some do—just like that!” he said with a snap of his fingers. “The dreamers stormed down to the Palace and demanded laws that would force the factory to give them a threefold increase in pay and benefits.”

“What benefits?” said Jonathan.

“Like security. More security’s a good thing, right? So the dreamers demanded laws that would force factories to buy insurance for them. Insurance for sickness. Insurance for unemployment. Insurance for death, right?”

“That sounds great!” exclaimed Jonathan. “Those dreamers must have been very happy.” He turned to look back at the factory and noticed that there didn’t seem to be much going on. Faded paint made the buildings look tired and no lights shined from the dirty, broken windows. Pieces of shattered glass lay scattered over the sidewalk.

The man finished his oiling, replaced the back panel and tightened the screws back into place. With a final wipe of his rag over the polished surface of the box, he bounced out of the cart and went to check the harness. Jonathan jumped down and turned to the man repeating, “I said they must have been very happy—I mean to get all that money and security. And grateful, too. Did they give you a medal or a banquet to celebrate?

“Nothing of the sort,” said Dr. Tanstaafl curtly. “I nearly got tarred and feathered. They almost destroyed my delicate Dream Machine last night with rocks, bricks, and just about anything else they could throw. You see, their factory closed yesterday and the workers’ blamed me.”

“Why’d the factory close?”

“It seems the factory couldn’t earn enough to pay the workers’ raises and benefits. Now they’ve got to retool and try making something else.”

“But, then,” said Jonathan, “that means the dreams didn’t come true after all. If the factory closed, then nobody gets paid. And nobody gets security, either. Nobody gets anything! Why, you’re just a swindler. You said that the Dream Machine…”

“Hold on there, chap! The dreams came true. What I said was,” stressed the man slowly, “that you never know just who will get the dream when you wish for something. It so happens that every time an old factory closes here on the isle of Corrumpo, that very dream comes true across the waters on the Isle of Nie. A new factory recently opened there, just a week’s sail from here. Plenty of new jobs and security over there. As for me, well, I collect my money from the machine no matter what happens.”

Jonathan thought hard about the news of Nie, realizing that there was another island, one more prosperous than this one. “Where’s this Isle of Nie?” he asked.

“Far over the horizon to the west. The people of Nie have a factory just like this. When factory costs rose here, the factories over there got a lot more orders. They understand that having more customers is the best way of getting more of everything—pay and security. The workers on Corrumpo can’t just demand more from the customers. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, ya know. Everything has a cost.”

Dr. Tanstaafl chuckled as he tied the machine down with straps. He paid Jonathan for his help then climbed onto the driver’s seat and shook out the reins. Jonathan looked at the money he had been given and suddenly worried that it was soon going to be worth less. It was the same ‘legal tender’ the couple had shown him in front of the Official Bureau of Money Creation. “Hey, Dr. Tanstaafl, wait!”

“Yeah?”

“Could you pay me with some other kind of money? I mean, something that’s not gonna lose value?”

“It’s legal tender, pal. Ya gotta take it. Do you think I’d use this stuff if I had a choice? Just spend it quickly!” The man yelled at his horse and he was off.

Jonathan shouted after him, “Where are you going now?”

“Where there’s good for the takin’!”

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Chapter 5: “Candles and Coats”

Chapter 6: “The Tall Tax”

Chapter 7: “Best Laid Plans”

Chapter 8: “Two Zoos”

Chapter 9: “Making Money”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

In the company of Mices, Jonathan pressed on. The buildings grew larger and more people filled the street. Sidewalks made walking easier, even for the ones on their knees. As he passed a large brick building, he heard the roar of machinery coming from above. The rapid clickety-clack sounded like a printing press.  “Maybe it’s the town newspaper,” said Jonathan to his new companion.

“Good! Then I can read all about this island.”

Hastily he rounded the corner looking for an entrance and nearly bumped into a smartly dressed couple walking arm-in-arm along the paved street. “Excuse me,” apologized Jonathan, “is this where they print the town newspaper?”

The lady smiled and the gentleman corrected Jonathan. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, young man. This is the Official Bureau of Money Creation, not the newspaper.”

“Oh,” said Jonathan in disappointment. “I was hoping to find a printer of some importance.”

“Cheer up,” said the man. “There is no printer of greater importance than this bureau. Isn’t that right dear?” The man patted the woman’s gloved hand.

“Yes, that’s true,” said the woman with a giggle. “The Bureau brings lots of happiness with the money it prints.”

“That sounds wonderful!” said Jonathan excitedly. “Money would sure make me happy right now. If I could print some money then…”

“Oh, no!” said the man in disapproval. He shook a finger in Jonathan’s face. “That’s out of the question.”

“Of course,” said the woman in agreement. “Money printers who are not appointed by the Council of Lords are branded ‘counterfeiters’ and thrown behind bars. We don’t tolerate scoundrels.”

The man nodded vigorously. “When counterfeiters print their fake money and spend it, too much money circulates. Prices soar; wages, savings, and pensions become worth less. It’s pure thievery!”

Jonathan frowned. What had he missed? “I thought you said that printing lots of money makes people happy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s true,” replied the woman. “Provided…”

“…that it’s official money printing,” the man interjected before she could finish. The couple knew each other so well that they finished each other’s sentences. The man pulled a large leather wallet from his coat pocket and took out a piece of paper to show Jonathan. Pointing to an official seal of the Council of Lords, he noted, “See here. This says ‘legal tender,’ and that makes it official money.”

“The printing of official money is called ‘monetary policy,’” she proceeded, as though reciting from a memorized school text. “Monetary policy is all part of a master plan.”

Putting his wallet away, the man added, “If it’s official, then those who issue this ‘legal tender’ are not thieves.”

“Certainly not!” said she. “The Council of Lords spends this legal tender on our behalf.”

“Yes, and they are very generous,” he said with a wink. “They spend that official money on projects for their loyal subjects—especially those who help them get elected.”

“One more question, if you don’t mind,” continued Jonathan. “You said that when counterfeit money is everywhere, prices soar and wages, savings, and pensions are worth less. Doesn’t this also happen with that legal tender stuff?”

The couple looked at each other gleefully. The gentlemen said, “Well, prices do rise, but we’re always happy when the Lords have more money to spend on us. There are so many needs of the employed, the unemployed, the exceptional, the unexceptional, the young, the unyoung, the poor, and the unpoor.”

The woman added, “The Lords research the roots of our pricing problems scrupulously. They’ve identified bad luck and poor weather as the chief causes. The whims of nature cause rising prices and a declining standard of living—especially in our woodlands and farmlands.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed her escort. “Our island is besieged by cataclysms that ruin our economy with high prices. Surely the high prices of lumber and food will mean our downfall one day.”

“And low prices,” she cried. “Outsiders, with their dog-eat-dog competition, are always trying to sell us candles and coats at ruinously low prices. Our wise Council of Lords deals severely with those monsters as well.” Turning to her companion she tugged impatiently at his sleeve.

“Quite right,” he told her. “I hope you will excuse us, young man. We have an engagement with our investment banker. Must catch the boom in land and precious metals. Come dear.” The gentleman tipped his hat, the lady bowed politely, and both wished Jonathan a cheerful farewell.

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Chapter 5: “Candles and Coats”

Chapter 6: “The Tall Tax”

Chapter 7: “Best Laid Plans”

Chapter 8: “Two Zoos”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

Dull two- and three-story wooden row houses with an occasional taller apartment building lined the streets of the town. Then Jonathan noticed one grand, elegant home, standing apart from the row houses, isolated on an expansive green lawn. It looked solidly built, adorned with attractive latticework and freshly painted white walls.

Curious, Jonathan approached the house and found a crew wielding heavy sticks, attacking the rear of the home and trying to tear it down. They weren’t very enthusiastic and moved very slowly at the job. Nearby, a dignified, gray-haired woman stood with her hands clenched, visibly unhappy at the proceedings. She groaned audibly when a piece of the wall came down.

Jonathan walked over to her and asked, “That house looks well-built. Who’s the owner?”

“That’s a good question!” the woman shot back vehemently. “I thought I owned this house.”

“You thought you owned it? Surely you know if you own a house,” said Jonathan.

The ground shook as the entire rear wall collapsed inside. The woman stared miserably at the cloud of dust billowing up from the rubble. “It’s not that simple,” yelled the woman over the noise. “Ownership is control, right? But who controls this house? The Lords control everything—so they’re the real owners of this house, even though I built it and paid for every board and nail.”

Growing more agitated, she walked over and ripped a paper off a single post left where a whole wall had stood moments before. “See this notice?” She crumpled it, threw it down and stamped on it. “The officials tell me what I may build, how I may build, when I may build, and what I can use it for. Now they tell me they’re tearing it down. Does that sound like I own the property?”

“Well,” ventured Jonathan sheepishly, “Didn’t you live in it?”

“Only so long as I could keep paying the property taxes. If I didn’t pay, the officials would have booted me out faster than you can say ‘next case’!” The woman grew red with fury and continued breathlessly, “No one really owns anything. We merely rent from the Council so long as we pay their taxes.”

“You didn’t pay the tax?” asked Jonathan.

“Of course I paid the cursed tax!” the woman practically shouted. “But that wasn’t enough for them. This time, the Lords said that my plan for the house didn’t fit their plan—the master plan of ’superior owners,’ they told me. They condemned my house—gave me some money for what they said it was worth. And now they’re going to clear it away to make a park. The park will have a nice big monument in the center—a monument to one of their own.”

“Well, at least they paid you for the house,” said Jonathan. He thought a moment and asked, “Weren’t you satisfied?”

She gave him a sidewise look. “If I was satisfied, they wouldn’t have needed a policeman to finalize the deal, now would they? And the money they paid me? That was taken from my neighbors. Who’ll compensate them? The Lords won’t pay ‘em!”

Jonathan shook his head in bewilderment. “You said that it was all part of a master plan?”

“Ha! A master plan!” the woman said sarcastically. “That’s a plan that belongs to whoever has political power. If I spent my life in politics, then I’d be able to impose my plans on everyone else. Then I could steal houses instead of building them. It’s so much easier!”

“But surely you need a plan in order to have a wisely built town?” said Jonathan hopefully. He tried to find a logical explanation for the woman’s plight. “Shouldn’t you trust the Council to come up with such a plan?”

She waved her hand at the row houses. “Go see for yourself. The worst plans are the few that they actually complete—shoddy, costly, and ugly.”

Turning to face Jonathan, she looked straight into his eye, “Think of this, they built a sports stadium where nine of every ten spectators can’t see the field of play. Because of their shoddy work, it cost twice as much to repair as it cost to build in the first place! And their great meeting hall is only available to visitors, not for the taxpayers who paid for it. Who did the planning? The Lords. They get their names emblazoned in stone and their friends get fat contracts.”

Jabbing a finger into Jonathan’s chest, she declared, “Only foolish plans have to be forced on people. Force never earned my trust!” Fuming, she glared back at her house. “They haven’t heard the last from me!”

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Chapter 5: “Candles and Coats”

Chapter 6: “The Tall Tax”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

As Jonathan strode through the town he immediately noticed a dignified well-dressed man kneeling in the street, trying painfully to walk. Yet, the man didn’t appear to be crippled—just short. Jonathan offered a helping hand, but the man brushed him aside.

“No, thank you!” said the man, wincing in pain. “I can walk okay. Using knees take some getting used to.”

“You’re okay? But why don’t you get off your knees and walk on your feet?”

“Ooooh!” moaned the man, squirming in discomfort. “Just trying to adjust to the tax code.”

“The tax code?” repeated Jonathan. “What’s the tax code have to do with walking?”

“Everything! Ow!” By now the man settled back on his heels, resting from his torturous ordeal. He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped his brow. He shifted his balance to massage one knee, then the other. Many layers of worn-out patches had been sewn on at the knees. “The tax code,” he said, “has recently been amended to level the field for people of different heights.”

“Level the field?” asked Jonathan.

“Please stoop over so I don’t have to shout,” pleaded the man. “That’s better. The Council of Lords decided that tall people have too many advantages.”

“Advantages of tallness?”

“Oh, yes! Tall people are always favored in hiring, promotion, sports, entertainment, politics, and even marriage! Ooooh!” He wrapped the handkerchief around the newest of many tears on his gray pants. “So the Lords decided to level us with a stiff tallness tax.”

“Tall people get taxed?” Jonathan glanced sideways and felt his posture begin to droop.

“We’re taxed in direct proportion to our height.”

“Did anyone object?” asked Jonathan.

“Only those who refused to get on their knees,” the man said. “Of course, we’ve allowed an exemption for politicians. We usually vote tall! We like to look up to our leaders.”

Jonathan was dumbfounded. By now he found himself slouching, self-consciously trying to shrink. With both hands pointing down at the man’s knees he questioned incredulously, “You’ll walk on your knees just to get a tax break?”

“Sure!” replied the man in a pained voice. “Our whole lives are shaped to fit the tax code. There are some who have even started to crawl.”

“Wow! That must hurt!” Jonathan exclaimed.

“Yeah, but it hurts more not to. Ow! Only fools stand erect and pay the higher taxes. So, if you want to act smart, get on your knees. It’ll cost you plenty to stand up.”

Jonathan looked around to see a handful of people walking on their knees. One woman across the street was slowly crawling. Many people scurried about half-crouching, their shoulders hunched over. While a few walked proudly erect, ignoring the sanctions completely. Then Jonathan spied three gentlemen across the street sitting on a park bench. “Those three men,” indicated Jonathan. “Why are they covering their eyes, ears, and mouths?”

“Oh, them? They’re practicing,” replied the man as he leaned forward on his knees to shuffle along. “They’re practicing for a new series of tax proposals.”

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Chapter 5: “Candles and Coats”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

Jonathan accompanied the forlorn woman and her boy a couple miles to her relatives on another farm. They thanked him warmly and invited him to stay. One look told him that the house could barely contain the whole family, so he excused himself and continued on his way.

The road took him to the edge of a river with bridge leading toward a walled town on the other side. “What an odd bridge,” thought Jonathan. The narrow bridge held an imposing divider. On the right-hand side of the bridge, an arrow pointing to the town read, “ENTER STULTA CITY, ISLE OF CORRUMPO.” On the other side of the divider, another similar sign simply read, “EXIT ONLY, DO NOT ENTER.”

That was not the oddest feature of the bridge, however. Piles of sharp rocks and massive boulders blocked the entire entry side of the bridge. To cross in to town, you had to climb over the jagged rocks. Several travelers had dropped their parcels by the way or into the river rather than haul them over the craggy barrier. Others, especially the elderly, simply turned back. Behind one feeble traveler, Jonathan spied a familiar yellow-striped cat with a ragged right ear, sniffing and pawing at a bundle that had been discarded. As he watched, the cat extracted a piece of dried meat from the torn bundle.

In contrast, the exit side of the bridge was smooth and clear. Merchants carrying goods out of town departed with ease.

Jonathan clambered over the entrance side of the bridge, slipping on the uneven footing and hauling himself over the larger rocks. He finally arrived at a great stone wall with a pair of thick wooden gates thrown wide open. People riding horses, people carrying boxes and bundles, and people driving all manner of wagons and carts traversed the roads inside. Jonathan straightened his shoulders, dusted off his tattered shirt and pants and marched through the gateway. The cat slipped in behind him.

Just inside, a woman, holding a rolled parchment, sat behind a table that was covered with bright little medallions. “Please,” asked the woman, giving a wide smile and reaching out to pin one of the medallions onto Jonathan’s shirt pocket, “won’t you please sign my petition?”

“Well, I don’t know,” stammered Jonathan, “But I wonder if you could direct me toward the center of town?”
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t know the town?”

Jonathan hesitated, noting the chilly tone that had crept into her voice. Quickly, he said, “And where do I sign your petition?”

The woman smiled again. “Sign just below the last name, right here. You’re helping so many people with this.”

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders and took up her pen. He felt sorry for her, sitting all bundled in heavy clothing, sweating profusely on such a pleasant, sunny day. “What’s this petition for?” asked Jonathan.
She clasped her hands in front of her as if preparing to sing a solo. “This is a petition to protect jobs and industry. You are in favor of jobs and industry, are you not?” she pleaded.

“Of course I am,” said Jonathan, remembering the enterprising young woman who was arrested for threatening the jobs of tree workers. The last thing he wanted was to sound disinterested in people’s work.
“How will this help?” asked Jonathan as he scribbled his name badly enough so that no one could possibly read it.

“The Council of Lords protects our local industries from products that come from outside of town. As you can see, we’ve made progress with our bridge, but there’s so much more to be done. If enough people sign my petition, the Lords have promised to ban foreign items that hurt my industry.”

“What is your industry?” asked Jonathan.

The woman declared proudly, “I represent the makers of candles and coats. This petition calls for a ban on the sun.”

“The sun?” gasped Jonathan. “How, uh, why ban the sun?”

She eyed Jonathan defensively. “I know it sounds a bit drastic, but don’t you see—the sun hurts candle makers and coat makers. People don’t buy candles and coats when they’re warm and have light. Surely you realize that the sun is a very cheap source of foreign light and heat. Well, this just cannot be tolerated!”
“But light and heat from the sun are free,” protested Jonathan.

The woman looked hurt and whined, “That’s the problem, don’t you see?” Taking out a little pad, she tried to draw a few notations for him. “According to my calculations, the low-cost availability of these foreign elements reduces potential employment and wages by at least fifty percent—that is, in the industries which I represent. A heavy tax on windows, or maybe an outright prohibition, should improve this situation nicely.”
Jonathan put down her petition. “But if people pay for light and heat, then they will have less money to spend on other things—things like meat or drink or bread.”

“I don’t represent the butchers, or the brewers, or the bakers,” the woman said brusquely. Sensing a change in Jonathan’s attitude, she snatched away the petition. “Obviously you are more interested in some consumer whim than in protecting the security of jobs and sound business investment. Good day to you,” she said, ending the conversation abruptly.

Jonathan backed away from the table. “Ban the sun?” he thought. “What crazy ideas! First hatchets and food, then the sun. What will they think of next?”

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Chapter 4: “The Food Police”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

Paths converged with the dirt trail as it broadened into a gravelly country road. Instead of jungle, Jonathan passed rolling pastures and fields of ripening crops and rich orchards. The sight of all that food growing reminded Jonathan of how little he had eaten for lunch. He detoured toward a neat white farmhouse, hoping to find his bearings and maybe another meal.

On the front porch, he found a young woman and a small boy huddled together crying. “Excuse me,” said Jonathan awkwardly. “Is there any trouble?”

The woman looked up, eyes wet with tears. “It’s my husband. Oh my husband,” she wailed. “I knew one day it would come to this. He’s been arrested,” she sobbed, “by the Food Police!”

“I’m very sorry to hear about that, ma’am. Umm, did you say ‘Food Police’?” asked Jonathan. He patted the dark head of the boy sympathetically. “Why did they arrest him?”

The woman gritted her teeth, fighting to hold back tears. Scornfully, she said, “His crime was—well, he was growing too much food!”

Jonathan was shocked. This island was truly a strange place! “It’s a crime to grow too much food?”

The woman continued, “Last year the Food Police issued orders telling him how much food he could produce and sell to the country folk. They told us that low prices hurt the other farmers.” She bit her lip slightly, then blurted out, “My husband was a better farmer than all the rest of them put together!”

Suddenly Jonathan heard the roar of laughter. A heavyset man strutted up the walk from the road to the farmhouse. “Ha!” he sneered, “I say that the best farmer is the one who gets the farm. Right?” With a grand sweep of his hand, the man glared at the woman and her son and commanded, “Now get your things packed and out of here! The Council of Lords has awarded this land to me.”

The man grabbed up a toy dog that was lying on the steps and thrust it into Jonathan’s hands. “I’m sure she can use the help, bud. Get moving, this is my place now.”

The woman stood up, eyes snapping in anger, “My husband was a better farmer than you’ll ever be.”

“That’s a matter of debate,” the man chuckled rudely. “Oh sure, he had a green thumb. And he was a genius at figuring what to plant and how to please his customers. Quite a man!” he added with a sneer. “But he forgot one thing—the Council of Lords sets the prices and crops.  And the Food Police enforce the Council rules.”

“You parasite!” yelled the woman. “You always guess wrong, you waste good fertilizer and seed on everything you plant, and no one wants to buy what you grow. You plant in a flood plain or on parched clay and it never matters if you lose everything. You just get the Council of Lords to pay for the rot. They’ve even paid you to destroy entire herds and crops.”

Jonathan frowned, “Is there no advantage in being a good farmer?”

“Being a good farmer is a handicap,” answered the woman as her face reddened. “My husband, unlike this toad, refused to flatter the Lords and tried to produce honest crops and real sales.”

Shoving the woman and her boy off the porch, the man growled, “Enough! He refused to follow the annual quotas. No one bucks the Food Police and gets away with it. Now get off my land!”

Jonathan helped the woman carry her belongings. The woman and her son walked slowly away from their former home. At a bend in the road, all turned to take one last look at the neat house and barn. “What will happen to you now?” asked Jonathan.

The woman sighed, “I can’t afford to pay the high food prices. Luckily, we’ve got relatives and friends to rely on for help. Otherwise, I could beg the Council of Lords to take care of Davy and me. They’d like that.” Bitterly she muttered, “The dependency of others is the source of their strength. The strength of others is the source of their generosity.” She picked up the young boy’s hand and a large bundle in the other. “Come along Davy.”

Jonathan gripped his stomach—now feeling a little more sick than hungry.

Chapter 1: “A Great Storm”

Chapter 2: “Troublemakers”

Chapter 3: “A Commons Fish Tale”

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

The trail widened a bit as it cut through the dense jungle. The midday sun burned hot overhead when Jonathan found a small lake. As he scooped up some water to refresh himself, Jonathan heard someone’s voice warning, “I wouldn’t drink the water if I were you.”

Jonathan looked around and saw an old man kneeling at the shore, cleaning a few tiny fish on a plank. Beside him were a basket, reel, and three poles propped in the mud, each dangling a line in the water. “Is the fishing good?” inquired Jonathan politely.

Without bothering to look up, the man replied, somewhat crossly, “Nope. These little critters were all I got today.” He proceeded to fillet the fish and to drop them into a hot skillet that was set over a smoldering fire. The fish sizzling in the pan smelled delicious. Jonathan spotted the rough yellow-striped cat that he had followed already picking at scraps of fish gut. His mouth watered.

Jonathan, who considered himself an accomplished fisherman, asked, “What did you use for bait?”

The man looked up at Jonathan thoughtfully. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my bait, sonny. I’ve caught the best of what’s left in this here lake.”

Sensing a solitary mood in this fisherman, Jonathan thought he might learn more by just remaining silent awhile. Eventually, the old fisherman beckoned him to sit beside the fire to share some fish and a little bread. Jonathan devoured his meal hungrily, though he felt guilty about taking a portion of this man’s meager lunch. After they finished, Jonathan kept quiet and, sure enough, the old man began to talk.

“Years ago there were some really big fish to catch here,” the man said wistfully. “But they’ve all been caught. Now the little ones are all that’s left.”

“But the little ones will grow, won’t they?” asked Jonathan. He stared at the lush grasses growing in the shallow waters along the shore where many fish might lurk.

“Nah. People take all the fish, even the little ones. Not only that, people dump garbage into the far end of the lake. See that thick scum along the far side?”

Jonathan looked perplexed. “Why do others take your fish and dump trash in your lake?”

“Oh, no,” said the fisherman, “this isn’t my lake. It belongs to everyone—just like the forests and the streams.”

“These fish belong to everyone…” Jonathan paused, “including me?” He began to feel a little less guilty about sharing a meal that he had no part in making.

“Not exactly,” the man replied. “What belongs to everyone really belongs to no one—that is, until a fish bites my hook. Then it’s mine.”

“I don’t get it,” said Jonathan, frowning in confusion. Half speaking to himself, he repeated, “The fish belong to everyone, which means that they really belong to no one, until one bites your hook. Then, the fish is yours? But do you do anything to take care of the fish or to help them grow?”

“Of course, not,” the man said with a snort of derision. “Why should I care for the fish just so someone else can come over here at any time and catch ‘em? If someone else gets the fish or pollutes the lake with garbage, then there goes all my effort!”

With a mournful glance at the water, the old fisherman added wistfully, “I wish I really did own the lake. Then I’d make sure that the fish were well tended. I’d care for the lake just like the cattleman who manages the ranch over in the next valley. I’d breed the strongest, fattest fish and you can bet that no fish rustlers or garbage dumpers would get past me. I’d make sure…”

“Who manages the lake now?” interrupted Jonathan.

The weathered face of the fisherman grew hard. “The lake is run by the Council of Lords. Every four years, the Lords are elected to the Council. Then the Council appoints a manager and pays him from my taxes. The fish manager is supposed to watch out for too much fishing and dumping. Funny thing is, friends of the Lords get to fish and dump as they please.”

The two sat and watched the wind stir a pattern of ripples across the silver lake. Jonathan noticed the yellow cat sitting erect, sniffing and staring at a fish head on his plate. He tossed it and the cat caught the head neatly with one hooked paw. It looked very tough, with one ear torn from some old battle.

Mulling the old fisherman’s tale, Jonathan asked, “Is the lake well-managed?”

“See for yourself,” the old fisherman grumbled. “Look at the size of my puny catch. Seems like the fish get smaller as the manager’s salary gets bigger.”

Chapter 1- A Great Storm (12/06/08)

Chapter 2- Troublemakers (12/13/08)

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

Jonathan walked for several hours without a glimpse of any sign of life. Suddenly, something moved in the thicket and small animal with a yellow-striped tail flashed down a barely visible track. “A cat,” exclaimed Jonathan. “Maybe it will lead to me to other life.” He dived through the thick foliage.

Just as he lost sight of the beach and was deep in the jungle, he heard a sharp scream. He stopped, cocked his head, and tried to locate the source of the sound. Directly ahead, he heard another shrill cry for help. Pushing through a mass of branches and vines, he clawed his way forward and stumbled onto a wider path.

As he rounded a sharp bend in the trail, Jonathan ran full tilt into the side of a burly man. “Out of my way, runt!” bellowed the man, brushing him aside like a gnat. Dazed, Jonathan looked up and saw two men dragging a young woman, kicking and yelling, down the trail. By the time he caught his breath, the trio had disappeared. Certain that he couldn’t free the woman alone, Jonathan ran back down the trail looking for help.

A clearing opened and he saw a group of people gathered around a big tree—beating it with sticks. Jonathan ran up and grabbed the arm of a man who watched the others work. “Please sir, help!” gasped Jonathan. “Two men have captured a woman and she needs help!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” the supervisor said gruffly. “She’s under arrest. Forget her and move along, we’ve got work to do.”

“Arrest?” said Jonathan, still huffing. “She didn’t look like, uh, like a criminal.” Jonathan wondered, if she was guilty, why did she cry so desperately for help? “Pardon me, sir, but what was her crime?”

“Huh?” snorted the man with irritation. “Well, if you must know, she threatened the jobs of everyone working here.”

“She threatened people’s jobs? How’d she do that?” asked Jonathan.

Glaring down at his ignorant questioner, the supervisor motioned for Jonathan to come over to a tree where workers busily pounded away at the trunk. Proudly, he said, “We are tree workers. We knock down trees for wood by beating them with these sticks. Sometimes a hundred people, working round-the-clock, can knock down a good-sized tree in less than a month.” The man pursed his lips and carefully brushed a speck of dirt from the sleeve of his handsomely cut coat.

“That woman, Danielle Drawbaugh, came to work this morning with a sharp piece of metal attached to the end of her stick. She cut down a tree in less than an hour—all by herself! Think of it! Such an outrageous threat to our traditional employment had to be stopped.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened, aghast to hear that this woman was punished for her creativity. Why, back home, everyone used axes and saws for cutting trees. That’s how he got the wood for his own boat. “But her invention,” exclaimed Jonathan, “allows people of all sizes and strengths to cut down trees. Won’t that make it faster and cheaper to get wood and make things?”

“What do you mean?” the man said angrily. “How could anyone encourage an idea like that? This noble work can’t be done by any weakling who comes along with some new idea.”

“But sir,” said Jonathan, trying not to offend, “these good tree workers have talented hands and brains. They could use the time saved from knocking down trees to do other things. They could make tables, cabinets, boats, or even houses!”

“Listen, you,” the man said with a menacing look, “the purpose of work is to have full and secure employment—not new products.” The tone of his voice turned ugly. “You sound like some kind of troublemaker. Anyone who supports that Drawbaugh woman is trouble. Where are you from?”

“I don’t even know Miss Drawbaugh and I don’t mean any trouble, sir. I’m sure you’re right. Well, I must be going.” With that, Jonathan turned back the way he came, hurrying down the path. His first encounter with the people of the island left him feeling very uncomfortable.

Chapter 1- A Great Storm (12/05/08)

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/

By Ken Schoolland

Forward

In accordance with Mr. Gullible’s last wishes, I take up the task of recounting a story that he related to me over the years of our acquaintance. Strange as this story may sound to the reader, I have made every effort to remain true to his account, despite some minor literary license.

A Great Storm

In a sunny seaside town, long before it filled up with movie stars driving convertibles, there lived a young man named Jonathan Gullible. He was unremarkable to anyone except his parents, who thought him clever, sincere, and remarkably athletic—from the top of his tousled sandy-brown head to the bottoms of his oversized feet. They worked hard in a small chandler’s shop on the main street of a town that was home to a busy fishing fleet. It had a fair number of hard-working folk, some good, some bad, and mostly just plain average.

When he wasn’t doing chores or errands for his family’s store, Jonathan would steer his rough sailboat out the narrow channel of a small boat harbor in search of adventure. Like many youths spending their early years in the same place, Jonathan found life a little dull and thought the people around him unimaginative. He longed to see a strange ship or sea serpent on his brief voyages beyond the channel. Maybe he would run into a pirate ship and be forced to sail the seven seas as part of the crew. Or, perhaps, a whaler on the prowl for oily prey would let him on board for the hunt. Most sailings, however, ended when his stomach pinched with hunger or his throat parched with thirst and the thought of supper was the only thing on his mind.

On one of those fine spring days, when the air was as crisp as a sun-dried sheet, the sea looked so good that Jonathan thought nothing of packing his lunch and fishing gear into his little boat for a cruise. As he tacked beyond the rocky point of the lighthouse, he felt as free-spirited as the great condor that he watched soaring above the coastal mountains. With his back to the breeze, Jonathan didn’t notice the dark storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

Jonathan had only recently begun to sail beyond the mouth of the harbor, but he was getting more confident. When the wind began to pick up strength, he didn’t worry until it was too late. Soon he was struggling frantically at the rigging as the storm broke over him with violent force. His boat tossed dizzily among the waves like a cork in a tub. Every effort he made to control his vessel failed, useless against the tremendous winds. At last, he dropped to the bottom of the boat, clutching the sides and hoping that he would not capsize. Night and day blended together in a terrifying swirl.

When the storm finally died, his boat was a shambles, its mast broken, sails torn, and it leaned in a definite list to starboard. The sea calmed but a thick fog lingered, shrouding his craft and cutting off any view. After drifting for days his water ran out and he could only moisten his lips on the condensation that dripped off the shreds of canvas. Then the fog lifted and Jonathan spotted the faint outline of an island. As he drifted closer, he made out unfamiliar headlands jutting from sandy beaches and steep hillsides covered by lush vegetation.

The waves carried him on to a shallow reef. Abandoning his craft, Jonathan swam eagerly to shore. He quickly found and devoured the pink guavas, ripe bananas and other delicious fruit that flourished beyond the narrow sandy beach in the humid jungle climate. As soon as he regained some strength, Jonathan felt desolate but relieved to be alive. He actually grew excited at his unintended plunge into adventure. He immediately set off along the white sand beach to discover more about this strange new land.

Visit http://www.jonathangullible.com/