The Old Man -- A Short Story
Created | Updated Oct 6, 2004
 I had been camping in the wilderness. Hiking actually. I had never meant to stay overnight. So there I was, sitting under a tree, resting, when this grizzly old man walked out of the woods.
Did I say grizzly? That hardly describes him. He had long white hair, but thin, like spider's silk. He had a ratty beard that must have once been black. There were a few black hairs left in the mat. His face was tanned. Not tanned, like from the sun. It looked
like leather. He was tallish. Maybe once six feet, but now somewhat stooped. And thin, the kind of thinness that instills thoughts of blown away in a strong wind. He had on bib overalls. And an old faded flannel shirt. And new boots. Good leather high-top work boots.
He walked right up to me. I was so frightened I jumped to my feet. I thought he was going to attack me. He had that crazed look about him. No doubt because his eyes were nearly colorless. Or should I say his eyes were so light blue, they seemed colorless. So he
walked up to me and stopped about two feet away.
"I'm not religious," he said. "And I'm not going to lecture you about religion. But the Book of Genesis tells us God gave man dominion over the earth. It says he let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth."
"Right," I said.
"Are you a semanticist?" he asked.
"No."
"Then you might not know. Dominion is the power or right of governing and controlling. Sovereign authority. It does not mean rape. And that's what you've done to the earth. Raped it."
Now, wait a minute, I though. What's this got to do with me? The earth is billions of years old. And I'm barely 30. I didn't do anything.
I didn't respond to him. I didn't know what to say. We just sort of stared at each other for a couple of moments. Then he said, "Come."
I must be crazy, I thought. But I followed him. I was no longer afraid of the old geezer. Just curious. Still, I told myself, it would pay to be cautious.
We walked along the trail for about half a mile. Then he turned left, right into the brush. I turned where he did. To my surprise, there was a path. It would have taken a seasoned, experienced woodsman to find it, but it was there. We walked maybe for
another mile and came to a small clearing.
Now, I'm not much for exaggerating, but this place looked like it was right out of a fairy tale. The clearing was maybe an acre; acre and a half at most. It was surrounded by forest. Deep, dark thick pine forest. Impenetrable is the word that comes readily to mind.
The grass was close cropped, not cut, like it had been eaten. And it had the look and color grass has in early spring. If I failed to mention it, it was mid-October.
In the center of the clearing was a small cabin. I guessed it had three or four rooms. It was constructed of logs, chinked with adobe. The roof looked like cedar shakes, but the shakes could have been oak. The foundation was made of creek rock. Not little stones,
but basketball size rocks. And they were laid in such a way that ... well ... they didn't have any mortar. I thought it strange, but then reasoned, maybe the old man had used adobe that had washed out over time and the weight of the house had settled the rocks so they wouldn't really need to be cemented. There was a small porch that nearly ran the full face of the cabin and a stone chimney. If you're wondering, it had no mortar either, but then a good engineer could have probably designed it to stand the test of time. A wisp of smoke curled from the top of the chimney and was disbursed by the breeze. The curl of smoke
never rose above the treetops.
We entered a quaint living room. The old man pointed to a chair and said, "Sit."
I sat. He walked to the fireplace and threw on a log. He stirred still hot coals until the wood caught, and its warmth and glow pushed the chill and strangeness away from the room. Then he picked up a kettle and poured hot water into a ceramic teapot. I was distracted by the room's furnishings. They weren't hand-made, but they didn't look like anything I'd ever seen in a store. The table and chairs had a rough-hewn look about them, but they obviously were professionally assembled. The table cloth and upholstery fabrics also looked like they were woven on a hand loom, yet the designs were intricate, and the
fibers had a sheen and finish only an automated machine could impart. There were no animal trophies on the walls, but they would not have been out of place. Instead, there was a collection -- really a display -- of the most beautiful, delicate water colors I'd ever seen.
There were pictures of high alpine meadows, intimate portraits of winsome wild flowers, waterfalls and sunsets. And there were plants. The room was full of plants, robust and obviously well kept.
"Here."
I nearly jumped out of the chair. The old man was standing close to me again, holding what I thought was tea. It looked and smelled like tea, but I couldn't identify it. It certainly wasn't Lipton's. But it tasted good.
"You lived here long?" I ventured to make conversation.
The old man had an incredulous look, one that said if I didn't know by now, I would never understand, so why ask. "Some years," he said. "I like it here."
"I can see why. So, what do you do? Work for the Park Service?"
"Enough," he curtly cut me off. "You listen. I'll talk."
I listened. And what I am about to report is just what I heard the old man tell me. Take it for what it's worth. Think about it. And see what you make of it.
"When God gave you dominion over the earth, He didn't license you to rape it. So why have you?"
"Me," I answered defensively. "I didn't do anything."
"At least, you tell the truth," he said. He sat down on a chair made of black walnut that had been hand rubbed until the wood gleamed.
"But you, and every man and woman, has victimized the earth."
"How's that?" I asked. He smiled, like a fox must smile just before it slips into the henhouse.
"When the earth was formed, it was in perfect balance. If you know the history of science, you know the early earth had no oxygen atmosphere, and the major life forms were mostly anaerobic bacteria. They made the oxygen that sealed their fate. Because eventually they changed the balance of nature and created an environment they couldn't live in. The giant reptiles did the same thing. Of course, they were helped by an asteroid. And now humankind is about to repeat the cycle.
"You see, there are just too many of you."
"Too many people?" I asked. "I remember reading somewhere if you stacked all the people together like sardines, they wouldn't fill a space any bigger than Iowa."
"That may be true," he said, "But you affect far more than the space you stand on. Why, every problem the earth has can be traced to too many people."
"Every one?" I countered, feeling somewhat smug.
"Name one that isn't."
I thought for a moment. Nothing prophetic came to mind, and I lost the opportunity.
"Starvation," he said, beginning what sounded like a litany. "Too many people to feed with too little food. Disease. Too many people crammed into spaces that are too small. Pollution. Too many people fouling the earth's air and water, and scattering garbage about the land. Loss of the rain forest. Too much farming on unsuitable land that grows too little food. Loss of other animals because there's no land left for them.
I opened my mouth to respond. He held up his hand. I closed my mouth.
"You pump oil and strip coal from the earth. You burn it and defile the atmosphere with sulphur and carbon dioxide. Then you dump ash laden with toxins back onto the land.
"You instigate nuclear reactions to heat water and then having started a process that takes tens of thousands of years to complete, a process you barely understand, you have no idea what to do with it.
"You pour an incredible amount of filth into the water -- water you absolutely must have to survive. The earth is like a giant sponge. When you pour your waste into a river, it not only flows into the oceans, where it wreaks havoc on all life there, but it seeps into the groundwater, where it waits to poison you.
"You feed animals grain to fatten them and then you kill and eat them. Do you not know, the grain itself would feed far more people than the animals do?
"You manipulate plants to grow monocultures that have higher yields and endure transportation to crowded cities. But you cheat future generations out of the genetic diversity that was the earth's gift to you.
"All of these problems have arisen because there are just too many people on the earth."
"What are you suggesting?" I ventured. "Should we kill off half the population?"
"I am not the harbinger of death," the old man said, "But of life. What is the alternative?"
I thought about it. He sat in his polished chair and stared at me. My brow furrowed. I thought some more. He waited. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire.
"I guess the alternative to killing people is to prevent them from being born in the first place."
"Ah, ha," he said. "There is hope. By controlling births you can restore the balance and save yourselves.
"The first thing you must do is understand and accept that humankind is not separate and distinct from the earth. You didn't just drop in here from some other place, you know. You evolved here. It is your misconception that only humanity is the child of creation. It's understandable. It's a notion you could have easily perceived from the
chauvinistic phrase, the Son of God.
"But look around you. What do you see that wasn't created by God -- or however you define your notion of the Creator? How is man different from a housefly? In God's eyes, I assure you, there is no difference.
"The key is to learn that God is the life force of creation. Everything from the largest, most powerful galaxy to the tiniest atomic mote is imbued with the life force. Why you've even measured it? In 1965, two radio astronomers detected what they called the background radiation of the Big Bang. How were they to know what they heard was the joyous chorus of life energy permeating creation?
"So when you say Son of God, you must include all creation, not just man."
"That," I said, "will surely upset some fundamentalists."
"It will. It will indeed. But whether they are Christian, Jew, Moslem, Buddhist, Hindu or any other religious species, they will have to contend with the immutable fact that human
beings are an integral part of creation. They are not separate from it. They -- as you -- will have to learn that they are no different from the trees, the rocks, or even the cockroach.
"And more than that, they have no more right to life on earth than any other creature. You remember the story of Moses and the Ten Commandments? What is the Sixth Commandment?"
Now I know my Bible pretty well, and I've known the Ten Commandments since early childhood when I learned them in Sunday School. But I never paid attention to how they were numbered, so I guessed.
"Thou shalt not kill?"
"Are there any exceptions, reservations or exclusions to that law?"
"It's just those four words. So I guess not. Except that people do kill plants and animals to eat."
"Do plants and animals kill each other to survive?"
"Sure. Lots of them do."
"All of them do. In fact, it is the natural order. You might say the life force begins on a subatomic level and percolates upwards. At each stage, the higher life form feeds on the lower one and moves the life force through the cycle. It ends when galaxies collide and
explode into atoms and rejuvenate the cycle. There are swirls and eddies throughout this process that humanity has misinterpreted. You think you are not only at the top of the food chain, but that you are the most important component in the universe. You could be no further from the truth, but it is this misconception that lets you believe you have the right to usurp the rights of other creatures for you own ends. You alone kill wantonly."
"What's that got to do with birth control?" I asked.
"Every creature uses a reproduction strategy refined to meet the demands of its environment. Some fish lay tens of thousands of eggs and then swim away. The sheer number of eggs insures some offspring will survive. Some mammals bear only single progeny and invest heavily in defending and rearing that individual. No matter what the strategy to replicate genetic materials, if nature is in balance no one plant or animal can displace any other."
"Humans also have a reproduction strategy. If a man and woman are poor, they produce lots of children. Infant mortality claims some, but they need lots of working hands for all to subsist. If a man and woman are rich, they have expropriated the resources of others and use them to procreate lots of children. Some religions, cultures and ethnic
groups embrace large families as a means to expand their influence.
"But the most destructive strategy is when human beings see what they perceive as an empty niche and fill it with more people to the detriment of the plants and animals dependant on that same niche for their own survival. And because those plants and animals are not perceived as equals but as chattel, humanity feels no obligation to share and no remorse when it drives these competing species to extinction.
"So. I repeat. You alone kill wantonly."
"And the answer is birth control?" I said.
"Is it not?"
"I can see situations where fewer people would be better."
The old man nodded, like he was confirming something was seeping into my psyche.
"But can you see it on a global scale?" he asked. "You have the means, you know. Every person on earth is within the sphere of some form of government. A credit to your species. You do take pains to regulate yourself, even if you do so from a self-centered point of view.
"If every government passed a law requiring a license to bear a child, what do you think would happen?"
I smiled in spite of myself.
"Mostly it would be ignored. People aren't going to go to city hall for a pass to have sex."
"Even if it were the law?"
"Well, the speed limit's 65, and you see what happens on the highways."
"The consequences of exceeding the speed limit are rarely enforced. What if the consequences to bearing an unlicensed child were total sterilization?"
"Man," I said. "You'd have riots in the streets."
"Are you so selfish and so irresponsible you cannot see the benefits? You have to have a license to drive a car or fly a plane. No one riots over that. You need a license to get married. And that causes no uproar. You even need a license to fish or hunt, and except for some grumbling about inconvenience, no one marches on city hall."
"But you're not taking things away from people with those licenses."
"You're not? Do not the legal, social and economic consequences restrict people's rights?"
"You mean, can you go to jail for driving without a license? Yes."
"Well, then," he said. "Why not license each man and woman to replicate themselves? Two children for each couple. If a child dies before reaching sexual maturity, the couple can apply for another license. And if they bear an unlicensed child, the law wouldn't deny that individual life. It would only prevent a recurrence by enforced
sterilization. It's that simple."
"Wow," I said. "You're really serious."
"In time, as people died of old age or accidents, the number of human beings would begin to move back into balance. It won't happen overnight. And it won't happen without commitment. You certainly have the technology to control births and regulate population. No doubt it will be an arduous task to educate and convince and motivate people to
restore the natural balance of human beings with the rest of creation.
"You see, humanity alone must regulate itself. You have no predator, except yourself."
"We do have wars that reduce population," I said.
"And catastrophes. And pestilence. But these are not the answer."
The old man leaned toward me, narrowing slightly the space between us. He said softly, "The answer is self-enlightenment."
I had tried to absorb everything he'd been saying. At times he'd angered me, and he knew it. He had tried to shock me, but I'm a man of the 21st Century and not easily alarmed. He had tried to convince me, and I have to admit, I was hooked to a degree. He sat there, leaning forward in his chair. With a look on his face that hungered for my comprehension. I squirmed nervously, not knowing what to say or what to do. I really wanted to respond, but something was missing. I felt a rising sense of desperation.
"If we don't reduce our numbers," I asked, "what will become of us?"
He sighed. And a deep sadness slipped across his face like a shadow.
"Have you ever blown up a balloon until it is near bursting? And then let it go?"
I nodded.
"It flies faster and faster and faster as the air jets out of the lip. And when it's empty, it falls lifelessly to the ground. That is your fate."
"We're doomed," I said. "You're telling me we're all doomed?"
He leaned even closer and again he said, "The answer is self-enlightenment. If you can see the truth, you will not only survive, but every individual will have a superior life. And there's more. Every other creature with whom you share the earth will have a better life."
"All right!" I said, and he smiled.
The old man fetched his tea kettle and poured us another cup. He sipped his tea, and paused momentarily before he began again.
"There are benefits to reducing your numbers on earth. Six and a half billion people are too many. And within your lifetime -- and certainly within your children's -- the human population will double. If you have problems now, think what life will be like when there are
eleven billion people.
"Or think what life might be like if you reduce the number to -- say -- two billion. Or even fewer.
"Then if you apply all of your technologies for the benefits of all life on earth, think what the results might be."
I didn't have to think. He began at once to tell me.
"Why should nations who have worked so hard for their wealth simply give it away to poor Third World countries who not only can't create wealth, but what little they do create is sucked up by their ever increasing numbers? Would the rich nations be more willing to
help and share, if the poor nations took a dramatic stand and reduced the demands of burgeoning populations? Would the Third World nations respect the rich nations if they reduced their excessive consumption of the world's resources?"
The questions could have stimulated debate for hours, but he meant them to be rhetorical. He paused only long enough to take a breath.
"There is enough arable land in the world -- good farm land -- to feed everyone. If everyone means a lot fewer people. Why American agricultural technology alone could do the job, and Americans aren't the only good farmers.
"A substantial diet. That's what's lacking in most of the world. People don't get enough to eat. You can't be very creative if your belly's growling. You can't think about improving your mind. You certainly won't care about whether the elephants have enough to eat, or if the mountain gorillas have enough homeland to survive, or if the rain forest holds medicines to prevent catastrophic disease. If you are hungry, all that matters is that you get filled up.
"With fewer people, you'd need a lot less land to feed them. Think of how much of the world could be made into park-like settings -- full of the vitality and diversity of plant and animal life that makes the earth unique -- parks people could visit and enjoy.
"You'd also need to think about what you grow. Grains that give you complex carbohydrates are more valuable than the meat of cattle. Too much protein isn't good for you anyway. And you can get all the protein you need from plants that are easily regenerated. Why grow acres and acres of corn to feed a few cattle, when that land would
support twenty times more people than the cattle do?
"Are you saying, we should be all be vegetarians?" I asked.
"What if you were?" the old man said. "You wouldn't have herds of animals occupying land needed for wildlife. You wouldn't have cattle trampling and ruining riparian habitat needed by fish, and birds, and small mammals that occupy wetlands. You wouldn't have goat and sheep herds overgrazing grasslands and turning them into deserts. You wouldn't be subjecting these domesticated animals to the abuses they are forced to endure until you slaughter them."
I had to agree with him on that point.
"If people had a nutritious diet," he continued, "infants would have a better chance to survive, and that would reduce the pressures to have lots of children just to be certain a few make it to adulthood.
"If people were better fed, they'd surely be healthier. That alone would reduce the spread of disease. And mark my word, unless you take strong measures soon to curtail population growth there will be a germ that will decimate large numbers of people.
"With fewer, healthier people, you could redirect the phenomenal amount of wealth you spend on health care to eradicate known diseases and to prolong life well into a second hundred years. You would be able to provide people with clean water and non-toxic waste disposal, with better housing and the clothing they need.
"If people had full bellies, think of the strides you could make toward eliminating illiteracy and ignorance. Learning is exciting, and everyone has the capacity to learn. If you were to apply your imaginative technologies toward educating the world's population,
think of what a vast resource you could tap. So much of the brain power of humanity is simply wasted. How many Mozarts or Michelangelos or Einsteins have you lost to starvation and disease and ignorance? What great ideas have never been thought or shared? And at what cost to you? You cannot even conceive of the benefits you may have
lost from these ideas.
"Healthy people have a zest for life, a passion for learning. Why, if you were to create a worldwide computer network, everyone would have access to all the world's knowledge. And if you weren't forced to squander so much money and energy on perpetuating the pitiful lives of so many people, you'd have the resources to do it. Bonded together in this way, you might be able to fulfil the challenge of Genesis and truly execute dominion over the earth."
His ideas were not astounding. Most were not even new, but his vision was captivating. Still, that part of me which is the cynic compelled me to speak.
"Don't you think if everyone was bonded as you suggest, that we'd all eventually be the same? We'd lose our own individual uniqueness?
"But you already are bonded," he countered immediately. "You are all a part of Creation -- a unity. Anyway, free thinking people can never be less than unique. There will always be disagreement and arguments. It occurs every time two people are close enough to talk with one another. So I don't think you need to worry about that."
"How about war, then?" I persisted. "Won't disagreements lead to war as they've done in the past?"
"War is always possible. But the act of every nation effecting population control would give people a common bond. It would erase national and ethnic boundaries and reduce the petty bickering over what's mine and what's yours.
"Fewer people would also facilitate a more equitable distribution of wealth. I don't mean there'd never be another rich person. There will always be people who want to accumulate more wealth. It's that motivation that drives people to create wealth in the first place. But there'd be opportunity for people everywhere to work and earn a living. To contribute meaningfully to a world society.
"Do you have any idea what these people could contribute?
"They could apply solar energy to power the machines of civilization. The sun provide you with a limitless supply of energy, if you'd only take time to learn how to use it.
You'd no longer have to burn fossil fuels and pollute the earth.
"They could design trains and shuttles and moving sidewalks to transport people where they want to be and need to be. You'd no longer be dependent on cars with air fouling engines, or traffic jams, or the frustrations of changing a flat tire.
"And those vehicles could carry people to vastly improved cities -- cities where people can live. Where they can work and play and raise families. You can't do that
anywhere today. Your central cities are architectural nightmares, surrounded by moats of poverty and violence. Every one who can afford to has fled to sprawling suburbs that have become almost as unlivable as the cities from which they ran.
"With fewer people, you could plough under those suburbs and return them to natural settings. You could rebuild the cities -- plan them carefully around the needs of the people to work and shop and live there. Plan them so people wouldn't need cars, but had public transportation that was usable, and convenient, and reliable -- not like the stinking buses you depend on today. Then maybe instead of streets jammed with machines, you could have pleasant walkways through gardens and parks.
"Not many animals on earth plan very effectively for their future. They simply live in the moment. But you are different. You have the capacity to dream. The ability to make dreams come true.
"I asked you why you had raped the earth. You said you hadn't done anything. And you were right. You told the truth. You haven't done anything. And that's the problem. By not doing anything, you have despoiled your home. If you haven't done it deliberately, you
have done it through negligence and indifference.
"So. Will you plan to do something now? Or will you wait until it's entirely too late? The choice, you know, is clearly yours -- yours and every man and woman alive."
He sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. It was cold, and he grimaced. He put the cup down and said, "The shadows are getting long. It's time to go."
I just sat there. I had wanted to argue with him and refute his ideas, but I couldn't. They made sense to me. I stood to leave and looked around the room again. Then I looked at the old man.
"You've given me a lot to think about," I told him. "But why me? Why should I assume this ... responsibility for everyone?"
The old man smiled. "Two reasons," he said. "One is you can do it. You can take this message and transmit it, and it will radiate around the earth, just like the gas and dust from Mount Pinatubo. It will eventually reach everyone, and if you are as wise as you think
you are -- that is, people everywhere, collectively and in unison -- you will do what is best for all. What is right."
"That would take a miracle," I badgered him.
"Yes. But you emerged from the primordial sea and learned to live on land and breath air. That was a miracle. So why shouldn't this be a miracle? What's so different? You simply have to start it. Sometime. Somewhere. So why not here and now?"
"That makes sense," I said. "I guess I could try it."
"Good. Then we best be leaving."
"Ah. You said there were two reasons. What's the other?"
"Oh." He thought for just an instant. "You were the first person I encountered on the trail."
"I see. I think." I said.
He nodded. "So you do." Then he motioned me to the door and led me through the clearing to the path.
We walked back along the pathway to the hiking trail, where he left me. I went another 30 paces and realized I hadn't even asked his name. And I really wanted to know it. I felt he had given me a gift and wanted at least to say, thank you. I turned around and walked back.
Something was wrong. I couldn't find the path. I recognized the tree that had marked its beginning. It had a funny knob that had overgrown a broken branch. I couldn't have been wrong. But the path wasn't there. I looked frantically up and down the trail for several yards from where I had thought the path to be, pushing into the brush trying to find it, but nothing could have passed through the under story, not even a deer. The more I probed, the more the tangled brush clutched at my clothes. The path was simply not there. I wished I could climb above the trees to spot the clearing and even looked around to find a suitable tree. But even as I searched, I knew from somewhere deep inside me I wouldn't find it even if I could fly above the treetops.
I stood there. Feeling a sense of loss and disappointment I had not known sincechildhood when a favorite pet collie had been killed by a car. I wondered now who the old man was. And where he had come from. And where he had gone.
I guess I'll never know.
Did I say grizzly? That hardly describes him. He had long white hair, but thin, like spider's silk. He had a ratty beard that must have once been black. There were a few black hairs left in the mat. His face was tanned. Not tanned, like from the sun. It looked
like leather. He was tallish. Maybe once six feet, but now somewhat stooped. And thin, the kind of thinness that instills thoughts of blown away in a strong wind. He had on bib overalls. And an old faded flannel shirt. And new boots. Good leather high-top work boots.
He walked right up to me. I was so frightened I jumped to my feet. I thought he was going to attack me. He had that crazed look about him. No doubt because his eyes were nearly colorless. Or should I say his eyes were so light blue, they seemed colorless. So he
walked up to me and stopped about two feet away.
"I'm not religious," he said. "And I'm not going to lecture you about religion. But the Book of Genesis tells us God gave man dominion over the earth. It says he let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth."
"Right," I said.
"Are you a semanticist?" he asked.
"No."
"Then you might not know. Dominion is the power or right of governing and controlling. Sovereign authority. It does not mean rape. And that's what you've done to the earth. Raped it."
Now, wait a minute, I though. What's this got to do with me? The earth is billions of years old. And I'm barely 30. I didn't do anything.
I didn't respond to him. I didn't know what to say. We just sort of stared at each other for a couple of moments. Then he said, "Come."
I must be crazy, I thought. But I followed him. I was no longer afraid of the old geezer. Just curious. Still, I told myself, it would pay to be cautious.
We walked along the trail for about half a mile. Then he turned left, right into the brush. I turned where he did. To my surprise, there was a path. It would have taken a seasoned, experienced woodsman to find it, but it was there. We walked maybe for
another mile and came to a small clearing.
Now, I'm not much for exaggerating, but this place looked like it was right out of a fairy tale. The clearing was maybe an acre; acre and a half at most. It was surrounded by forest. Deep, dark thick pine forest. Impenetrable is the word that comes readily to mind.
The grass was close cropped, not cut, like it had been eaten. And it had the look and color grass has in early spring. If I failed to mention it, it was mid-October.
In the center of the clearing was a small cabin. I guessed it had three or four rooms. It was constructed of logs, chinked with adobe. The roof looked like cedar shakes, but the shakes could have been oak. The foundation was made of creek rock. Not little stones,
but basketball size rocks. And they were laid in such a way that ... well ... they didn't have any mortar. I thought it strange, but then reasoned, maybe the old man had used adobe that had washed out over time and the weight of the house had settled the rocks so they wouldn't really need to be cemented. There was a small porch that nearly ran the full face of the cabin and a stone chimney. If you're wondering, it had no mortar either, but then a good engineer could have probably designed it to stand the test of time. A wisp of smoke curled from the top of the chimney and was disbursed by the breeze. The curl of smoke
never rose above the treetops.
We entered a quaint living room. The old man pointed to a chair and said, "Sit."
I sat. He walked to the fireplace and threw on a log. He stirred still hot coals until the wood caught, and its warmth and glow pushed the chill and strangeness away from the room. Then he picked up a kettle and poured hot water into a ceramic teapot. I was distracted by the room's furnishings. They weren't hand-made, but they didn't look like anything I'd ever seen in a store. The table and chairs had a rough-hewn look about them, but they obviously were professionally assembled. The table cloth and upholstery fabrics also looked like they were woven on a hand loom, yet the designs were intricate, and the
fibers had a sheen and finish only an automated machine could impart. There were no animal trophies on the walls, but they would not have been out of place. Instead, there was a collection -- really a display -- of the most beautiful, delicate water colors I'd ever seen.
There were pictures of high alpine meadows, intimate portraits of winsome wild flowers, waterfalls and sunsets. And there were plants. The room was full of plants, robust and obviously well kept.
"Here."
I nearly jumped out of the chair. The old man was standing close to me again, holding what I thought was tea. It looked and smelled like tea, but I couldn't identify it. It certainly wasn't Lipton's. But it tasted good.
"You lived here long?" I ventured to make conversation.
The old man had an incredulous look, one that said if I didn't know by now, I would never understand, so why ask. "Some years," he said. "I like it here."
"I can see why. So, what do you do? Work for the Park Service?"
"Enough," he curtly cut me off. "You listen. I'll talk."
I listened. And what I am about to report is just what I heard the old man tell me. Take it for what it's worth. Think about it. And see what you make of it.
"When God gave you dominion over the earth, He didn't license you to rape it. So why have you?"
"Me," I answered defensively. "I didn't do anything."
"At least, you tell the truth," he said. He sat down on a chair made of black walnut that had been hand rubbed until the wood gleamed.
"But you, and every man and woman, has victimized the earth."
"How's that?" I asked. He smiled, like a fox must smile just before it slips into the henhouse.
"When the earth was formed, it was in perfect balance. If you know the history of science, you know the early earth had no oxygen atmosphere, and the major life forms were mostly anaerobic bacteria. They made the oxygen that sealed their fate. Because eventually they changed the balance of nature and created an environment they couldn't live in. The giant reptiles did the same thing. Of course, they were helped by an asteroid. And now humankind is about to repeat the cycle.
"You see, there are just too many of you."
"Too many people?" I asked. "I remember reading somewhere if you stacked all the people together like sardines, they wouldn't fill a space any bigger than Iowa."
"That may be true," he said, "But you affect far more than the space you stand on. Why, every problem the earth has can be traced to too many people."
"Every one?" I countered, feeling somewhat smug.
"Name one that isn't."
I thought for a moment. Nothing prophetic came to mind, and I lost the opportunity.
"Starvation," he said, beginning what sounded like a litany. "Too many people to feed with too little food. Disease. Too many people crammed into spaces that are too small. Pollution. Too many people fouling the earth's air and water, and scattering garbage about the land. Loss of the rain forest. Too much farming on unsuitable land that grows too little food. Loss of other animals because there's no land left for them.
I opened my mouth to respond. He held up his hand. I closed my mouth.
"You pump oil and strip coal from the earth. You burn it and defile the atmosphere with sulphur and carbon dioxide. Then you dump ash laden with toxins back onto the land.
"You instigate nuclear reactions to heat water and then having started a process that takes tens of thousands of years to complete, a process you barely understand, you have no idea what to do with it.
"You pour an incredible amount of filth into the water -- water you absolutely must have to survive. The earth is like a giant sponge. When you pour your waste into a river, it not only flows into the oceans, where it wreaks havoc on all life there, but it seeps into the groundwater, where it waits to poison you.
"You feed animals grain to fatten them and then you kill and eat them. Do you not know, the grain itself would feed far more people than the animals do?
"You manipulate plants to grow monocultures that have higher yields and endure transportation to crowded cities. But you cheat future generations out of the genetic diversity that was the earth's gift to you.
"All of these problems have arisen because there are just too many people on the earth."
"What are you suggesting?" I ventured. "Should we kill off half the population?"
"I am not the harbinger of death," the old man said, "But of life. What is the alternative?"
I thought about it. He sat in his polished chair and stared at me. My brow furrowed. I thought some more. He waited. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire.
"I guess the alternative to killing people is to prevent them from being born in the first place."
"Ah, ha," he said. "There is hope. By controlling births you can restore the balance and save yourselves.
"The first thing you must do is understand and accept that humankind is not separate and distinct from the earth. You didn't just drop in here from some other place, you know. You evolved here. It is your misconception that only humanity is the child of creation. It's understandable. It's a notion you could have easily perceived from the
chauvinistic phrase, the Son of God.
"But look around you. What do you see that wasn't created by God -- or however you define your notion of the Creator? How is man different from a housefly? In God's eyes, I assure you, there is no difference.
"The key is to learn that God is the life force of creation. Everything from the largest, most powerful galaxy to the tiniest atomic mote is imbued with the life force. Why you've even measured it? In 1965, two radio astronomers detected what they called the background radiation of the Big Bang. How were they to know what they heard was the joyous chorus of life energy permeating creation?
"So when you say Son of God, you must include all creation, not just man."
"That," I said, "will surely upset some fundamentalists."
"It will. It will indeed. But whether they are Christian, Jew, Moslem, Buddhist, Hindu or any other religious species, they will have to contend with the immutable fact that human
beings are an integral part of creation. They are not separate from it. They -- as you -- will have to learn that they are no different from the trees, the rocks, or even the cockroach.
"And more than that, they have no more right to life on earth than any other creature. You remember the story of Moses and the Ten Commandments? What is the Sixth Commandment?"
Now I know my Bible pretty well, and I've known the Ten Commandments since early childhood when I learned them in Sunday School. But I never paid attention to how they were numbered, so I guessed.
"Thou shalt not kill?"
"Are there any exceptions, reservations or exclusions to that law?"
"It's just those four words. So I guess not. Except that people do kill plants and animals to eat."
"Do plants and animals kill each other to survive?"
"Sure. Lots of them do."
"All of them do. In fact, it is the natural order. You might say the life force begins on a subatomic level and percolates upwards. At each stage, the higher life form feeds on the lower one and moves the life force through the cycle. It ends when galaxies collide and
explode into atoms and rejuvenate the cycle. There are swirls and eddies throughout this process that humanity has misinterpreted. You think you are not only at the top of the food chain, but that you are the most important component in the universe. You could be no further from the truth, but it is this misconception that lets you believe you have the right to usurp the rights of other creatures for you own ends. You alone kill wantonly."
"What's that got to do with birth control?" I asked.
"Every creature uses a reproduction strategy refined to meet the demands of its environment. Some fish lay tens of thousands of eggs and then swim away. The sheer number of eggs insures some offspring will survive. Some mammals bear only single progeny and invest heavily in defending and rearing that individual. No matter what the strategy to replicate genetic materials, if nature is in balance no one plant or animal can displace any other."
"Humans also have a reproduction strategy. If a man and woman are poor, they produce lots of children. Infant mortality claims some, but they need lots of working hands for all to subsist. If a man and woman are rich, they have expropriated the resources of others and use them to procreate lots of children. Some religions, cultures and ethnic
groups embrace large families as a means to expand their influence.
"But the most destructive strategy is when human beings see what they perceive as an empty niche and fill it with more people to the detriment of the plants and animals dependant on that same niche for their own survival. And because those plants and animals are not perceived as equals but as chattel, humanity feels no obligation to share and no remorse when it drives these competing species to extinction.
"So. I repeat. You alone kill wantonly."
"And the answer is birth control?" I said.
"Is it not?"
"I can see situations where fewer people would be better."
The old man nodded, like he was confirming something was seeping into my psyche.
"But can you see it on a global scale?" he asked. "You have the means, you know. Every person on earth is within the sphere of some form of government. A credit to your species. You do take pains to regulate yourself, even if you do so from a self-centered point of view.
"If every government passed a law requiring a license to bear a child, what do you think would happen?"
I smiled in spite of myself.
"Mostly it would be ignored. People aren't going to go to city hall for a pass to have sex."
"Even if it were the law?"
"Well, the speed limit's 65, and you see what happens on the highways."
"The consequences of exceeding the speed limit are rarely enforced. What if the consequences to bearing an unlicensed child were total sterilization?"
"Man," I said. "You'd have riots in the streets."
"Are you so selfish and so irresponsible you cannot see the benefits? You have to have a license to drive a car or fly a plane. No one riots over that. You need a license to get married. And that causes no uproar. You even need a license to fish or hunt, and except for some grumbling about inconvenience, no one marches on city hall."
"But you're not taking things away from people with those licenses."
"You're not? Do not the legal, social and economic consequences restrict people's rights?"
"You mean, can you go to jail for driving without a license? Yes."
"Well, then," he said. "Why not license each man and woman to replicate themselves? Two children for each couple. If a child dies before reaching sexual maturity, the couple can apply for another license. And if they bear an unlicensed child, the law wouldn't deny that individual life. It would only prevent a recurrence by enforced
sterilization. It's that simple."
"Wow," I said. "You're really serious."
"In time, as people died of old age or accidents, the number of human beings would begin to move back into balance. It won't happen overnight. And it won't happen without commitment. You certainly have the technology to control births and regulate population. No doubt it will be an arduous task to educate and convince and motivate people to
restore the natural balance of human beings with the rest of creation.
"You see, humanity alone must regulate itself. You have no predator, except yourself."
"We do have wars that reduce population," I said.
"And catastrophes. And pestilence. But these are not the answer."
The old man leaned toward me, narrowing slightly the space between us. He said softly, "The answer is self-enlightenment."
I had tried to absorb everything he'd been saying. At times he'd angered me, and he knew it. He had tried to shock me, but I'm a man of the 21st Century and not easily alarmed. He had tried to convince me, and I have to admit, I was hooked to a degree. He sat there, leaning forward in his chair. With a look on his face that hungered for my comprehension. I squirmed nervously, not knowing what to say or what to do. I really wanted to respond, but something was missing. I felt a rising sense of desperation.
"If we don't reduce our numbers," I asked, "what will become of us?"
He sighed. And a deep sadness slipped across his face like a shadow.
"Have you ever blown up a balloon until it is near bursting? And then let it go?"
I nodded.
"It flies faster and faster and faster as the air jets out of the lip. And when it's empty, it falls lifelessly to the ground. That is your fate."
"We're doomed," I said. "You're telling me we're all doomed?"
He leaned even closer and again he said, "The answer is self-enlightenment. If you can see the truth, you will not only survive, but every individual will have a superior life. And there's more. Every other creature with whom you share the earth will have a better life."
"All right!" I said, and he smiled.
The old man fetched his tea kettle and poured us another cup. He sipped his tea, and paused momentarily before he began again.
"There are benefits to reducing your numbers on earth. Six and a half billion people are too many. And within your lifetime -- and certainly within your children's -- the human population will double. If you have problems now, think what life will be like when there are
eleven billion people.
"Or think what life might be like if you reduce the number to -- say -- two billion. Or even fewer.
"Then if you apply all of your technologies for the benefits of all life on earth, think what the results might be."
I didn't have to think. He began at once to tell me.
"Why should nations who have worked so hard for their wealth simply give it away to poor Third World countries who not only can't create wealth, but what little they do create is sucked up by their ever increasing numbers? Would the rich nations be more willing to
help and share, if the poor nations took a dramatic stand and reduced the demands of burgeoning populations? Would the Third World nations respect the rich nations if they reduced their excessive consumption of the world's resources?"
The questions could have stimulated debate for hours, but he meant them to be rhetorical. He paused only long enough to take a breath.
"There is enough arable land in the world -- good farm land -- to feed everyone. If everyone means a lot fewer people. Why American agricultural technology alone could do the job, and Americans aren't the only good farmers.
"A substantial diet. That's what's lacking in most of the world. People don't get enough to eat. You can't be very creative if your belly's growling. You can't think about improving your mind. You certainly won't care about whether the elephants have enough to eat, or if the mountain gorillas have enough homeland to survive, or if the rain forest holds medicines to prevent catastrophic disease. If you are hungry, all that matters is that you get filled up.
"With fewer people, you'd need a lot less land to feed them. Think of how much of the world could be made into park-like settings -- full of the vitality and diversity of plant and animal life that makes the earth unique -- parks people could visit and enjoy.
"You'd also need to think about what you grow. Grains that give you complex carbohydrates are more valuable than the meat of cattle. Too much protein isn't good for you anyway. And you can get all the protein you need from plants that are easily regenerated. Why grow acres and acres of corn to feed a few cattle, when that land would
support twenty times more people than the cattle do?
"Are you saying, we should be all be vegetarians?" I asked.
"What if you were?" the old man said. "You wouldn't have herds of animals occupying land needed for wildlife. You wouldn't have cattle trampling and ruining riparian habitat needed by fish, and birds, and small mammals that occupy wetlands. You wouldn't have goat and sheep herds overgrazing grasslands and turning them into deserts. You wouldn't be subjecting these domesticated animals to the abuses they are forced to endure until you slaughter them."
I had to agree with him on that point.
"If people had a nutritious diet," he continued, "infants would have a better chance to survive, and that would reduce the pressures to have lots of children just to be certain a few make it to adulthood.
"If people were better fed, they'd surely be healthier. That alone would reduce the spread of disease. And mark my word, unless you take strong measures soon to curtail population growth there will be a germ that will decimate large numbers of people.
"With fewer, healthier people, you could redirect the phenomenal amount of wealth you spend on health care to eradicate known diseases and to prolong life well into a second hundred years. You would be able to provide people with clean water and non-toxic waste disposal, with better housing and the clothing they need.
"If people had full bellies, think of the strides you could make toward eliminating illiteracy and ignorance. Learning is exciting, and everyone has the capacity to learn. If you were to apply your imaginative technologies toward educating the world's population,
think of what a vast resource you could tap. So much of the brain power of humanity is simply wasted. How many Mozarts or Michelangelos or Einsteins have you lost to starvation and disease and ignorance? What great ideas have never been thought or shared? And at what cost to you? You cannot even conceive of the benefits you may have
lost from these ideas.
"Healthy people have a zest for life, a passion for learning. Why, if you were to create a worldwide computer network, everyone would have access to all the world's knowledge. And if you weren't forced to squander so much money and energy on perpetuating the pitiful lives of so many people, you'd have the resources to do it. Bonded together in this way, you might be able to fulfil the challenge of Genesis and truly execute dominion over the earth."
His ideas were not astounding. Most were not even new, but his vision was captivating. Still, that part of me which is the cynic compelled me to speak.
"Don't you think if everyone was bonded as you suggest, that we'd all eventually be the same? We'd lose our own individual uniqueness?
"But you already are bonded," he countered immediately. "You are all a part of Creation -- a unity. Anyway, free thinking people can never be less than unique. There will always be disagreement and arguments. It occurs every time two people are close enough to talk with one another. So I don't think you need to worry about that."
"How about war, then?" I persisted. "Won't disagreements lead to war as they've done in the past?"
"War is always possible. But the act of every nation effecting population control would give people a common bond. It would erase national and ethnic boundaries and reduce the petty bickering over what's mine and what's yours.
"Fewer people would also facilitate a more equitable distribution of wealth. I don't mean there'd never be another rich person. There will always be people who want to accumulate more wealth. It's that motivation that drives people to create wealth in the first place. But there'd be opportunity for people everywhere to work and earn a living. To contribute meaningfully to a world society.
"Do you have any idea what these people could contribute?
"They could apply solar energy to power the machines of civilization. The sun provide you with a limitless supply of energy, if you'd only take time to learn how to use it.
You'd no longer have to burn fossil fuels and pollute the earth.
"They could design trains and shuttles and moving sidewalks to transport people where they want to be and need to be. You'd no longer be dependent on cars with air fouling engines, or traffic jams, or the frustrations of changing a flat tire.
"And those vehicles could carry people to vastly improved cities -- cities where people can live. Where they can work and play and raise families. You can't do that
anywhere today. Your central cities are architectural nightmares, surrounded by moats of poverty and violence. Every one who can afford to has fled to sprawling suburbs that have become almost as unlivable as the cities from which they ran.
"With fewer people, you could plough under those suburbs and return them to natural settings. You could rebuild the cities -- plan them carefully around the needs of the people to work and shop and live there. Plan them so people wouldn't need cars, but had public transportation that was usable, and convenient, and reliable -- not like the stinking buses you depend on today. Then maybe instead of streets jammed with machines, you could have pleasant walkways through gardens and parks.
"Not many animals on earth plan very effectively for their future. They simply live in the moment. But you are different. You have the capacity to dream. The ability to make dreams come true.
"I asked you why you had raped the earth. You said you hadn't done anything. And you were right. You told the truth. You haven't done anything. And that's the problem. By not doing anything, you have despoiled your home. If you haven't done it deliberately, you
have done it through negligence and indifference.
"So. Will you plan to do something now? Or will you wait until it's entirely too late? The choice, you know, is clearly yours -- yours and every man and woman alive."
He sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. It was cold, and he grimaced. He put the cup down and said, "The shadows are getting long. It's time to go."
I just sat there. I had wanted to argue with him and refute his ideas, but I couldn't. They made sense to me. I stood to leave and looked around the room again. Then I looked at the old man.
"You've given me a lot to think about," I told him. "But why me? Why should I assume this ... responsibility for everyone?"
The old man smiled. "Two reasons," he said. "One is you can do it. You can take this message and transmit it, and it will radiate around the earth, just like the gas and dust from Mount Pinatubo. It will eventually reach everyone, and if you are as wise as you think
you are -- that is, people everywhere, collectively and in unison -- you will do what is best for all. What is right."
"That would take a miracle," I badgered him.
"Yes. But you emerged from the primordial sea and learned to live on land and breath air. That was a miracle. So why shouldn't this be a miracle? What's so different? You simply have to start it. Sometime. Somewhere. So why not here and now?"
"That makes sense," I said. "I guess I could try it."
"Good. Then we best be leaving."
"Ah. You said there were two reasons. What's the other?"
"Oh." He thought for just an instant. "You were the first person I encountered on the trail."
"I see. I think." I said.
He nodded. "So you do." Then he motioned me to the door and led me through the clearing to the path.
We walked back along the pathway to the hiking trail, where he left me. I went another 30 paces and realized I hadn't even asked his name. And I really wanted to know it. I felt he had given me a gift and wanted at least to say, thank you. I turned around and walked back.
Something was wrong. I couldn't find the path. I recognized the tree that had marked its beginning. It had a funny knob that had overgrown a broken branch. I couldn't have been wrong. But the path wasn't there. I looked frantically up and down the trail for several yards from where I had thought the path to be, pushing into the brush trying to find it, but nothing could have passed through the under story, not even a deer. The more I probed, the more the tangled brush clutched at my clothes. The path was simply not there. I wished I could climb above the trees to spot the clearing and even looked around to find a suitable tree. But even as I searched, I knew from somewhere deep inside me I wouldn't find it even if I could fly above the treetops.
I stood there. Feeling a sense of loss and disappointment I had not known sincechildhood when a favorite pet collie had been killed by a car. I wondered now who the old man was. And where he had come from. And where he had gone.
I guess I'll never know.
