Story of the Phantom (10 page)

He was excited by all this and also somewhat awed and frightened by what he must become. He dismissed the thought. It was a long way off. He was only eleven going on twelve.

His father explained the name "The Ghost Who Walks," which he was sometimes called. Ages ago, the legend began that the Phantom was the Man Who Could Not Die. This happened because generation after generation of Phantoms looked alike in their costumes and were thought to be always the same man. Often, the Phantom was reported fatally wounded or dead. Yet months or years later, what appeared to be the same man would appear unhurt, young, and vigorous. So the

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legend grew.

Then, the matter of the rings. Kit had always noticed the heavy rings on his father's hands. They are curious rings; one bears a skull, a death's head. This is worn on the right hand. When the hard right fist of the Phantom strikes the jaw of an evil-doer, the mark in the ring is left on his jaw. And the mark cannot be removed. The other ring, on the left hand ("closer to the heart"), is a symbol of the Phantom's protection. The one who receives it is under the protection of the Phantom. This mark is rarely given: to an individual who has saved the Phantom's life, or in special cases like Dr. Axel's jungle hospital.

These rings have been handed down from father to son. Someday, Kit would inherit them. He was also told that the Phantom is always masked; that his face is never to be seen by anyone save his wife and children. Because of this strict tradition, another legend has sprung up; "he who looks upon the face of the Phantom will die ... horribly." The Phantom has done nothing to discourage this legend. It helps his mystery and his work by creating fear in his opponents. For the Phantom works alone, and Kit began to see him as a mysterious figure moving in darkness, battling immense odds of evil-doing and criminality. To be effective, to survive, and to win, the Phantom needed immense strength, dedication, and all the help that the legend could give him. For these reasons, Kit had been carefully schooled and trained thus far in his young life. At eleven going on twelve, he was an expert in all the arts of self-defense and the handling of weapons. Exercise and training from the day he could walk had developed him physically far beyond his years.

Kit had seen the Golden Beach, the Whispering Grove and the Isle of Eden. He knew about the Phantom Hide-outs elsewhere; the castle ruins in the Old World; the high flat-topped mesa called

"Walker's Table" (after "The Ghost Who Walks") in the New World Desert.

Thus Kit was taught the secrets, traditions and duties which he would inherit one day. So many secrets, so many things to learn and remember. His young head ached. But there was one thing he was not told about. A chain on the Skull Throne. It was about three feet long, made of heavy iron links, and was hanging down from one corner of the back of the throne, behind a stone skull. This was not attached, merely hung there, and once Kit started to pull it away. Guran stopped him and told him sharply to leave it alone.

"Why?" asked Kit.

"Because your father wishes it to be left alone," said Guran.

"Why?"

"Ask your father."

"Do you know, Guran?"

"Yes."

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Ask your father."

Kit did ask his father as they ate that night, sitting on the ground near the Skull Throne.

"Why is that chain hanging there?"

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"Because I put it there," said his father.

"Why did you put it there? Why won't Guran tell me?"

The Twentieth looked at his wife and they smiled.

"Your father put it there to remind him of something when he loses his temper," said beautiful mother. She got up and went to her husband and kissed him, then sat next to him.

"That chain was very important to us, Kit," she said softly.

"What is it supposed to remind you of, and why won't Guran or anyone tell me what it is?"

demanded Kit, irritated by the mystery.

"Because it might be helpful to you to hear it a little later. Perhaps Guran will find some opportunity to tell it to you in America," said his father glancing at beautiful mother, who suddenly looked wide-eyed and anxious.

Kit forgot the chain.

"America?" he said. "Me?"

His mother came to him and held him.

"Yes, dear," she said.

It was in this way, as he neared his twelfth birthday, that he was told about the big change coming into his life. Shortly he would leave the Deep Woods, leave the jungle, and go to America for his education!

CHAPTER 6

For many years, Kit had been told that one day he would visit his aunt and uncle in America. It was vague and meant nothing to him. But now, it was startling news. Go? When? In a month. Why? For proper education. Why can't I stay here and study with you, mother? Because I've taught you all I can. You need proper education. Why America? Because your aunt, my sister, is there.

The different generations of the Phantom had found their wives in many countries. Some were from northern and western Europe; some from Middle Eastern and Mediterranean countries; some from the continents of Asia and Africa, some from the Americas, north and south, some from the islands of the oceans. And traditionally, the male child was sent to the nation of his mother for higher education, if such existed there, or to the nearest nation that supplied it. Kit's mother had been raised in America, her sister now lived there in a small Midwestern town, and that is where he would go to continue his education.

Kit was an even-tempered boy, but for a time he brooded and sulked. What was America? A strange, frightening place. He didn't want to go. He considered running away and talked over the plan with Guran. Guran discouraged the idea. He couldn't run far in this jungle with headhunters and cannibals out there. Besides, no matter where he went, his father would find him quickly. There was one happy note. Guran was to go with him. Guran was now a full-grown man of twenty-two, a sinewy strong

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pygmy, a half-foot shorter than the twelve-year-old Kit.

There were many instructions for Kit, about traveling, about the people he was to live with, and about his behavior away from home. There was the matter of city clothes, and-worst of all-shoes.

Neither Guran nor Kit had ever worn foot covering of any kind. After a brief trial, Guran flatly refused to wear shoes, but accepted simple sandals. Trousers and shirts annoyed him, but he pretended to accept them, vowing to shed them at the first opportunity. Kit was less fortunate. He had to learn to wear shoes, and they were sheer torture for him. The clothes were less annoying, though he had expected to wear a skintight suit and mask like his father. He learned that men in America did not dress that way.

Finally, the day came. The entire pygmy Bandar was on hand to watch the departure of Kit and Guran, son of the chief. Kit raced through the Cave, having a hurried last look at the crypt, the Chronicles, the costumes, the treasure rooms. Then he held back his tears as he kissed his beautiful mother and father good-bye at the entrance of the Cave. He carried a small duffel bag holding his few needs. He would get what he needed in America. His clothes for the voyage-and his shoes-were also in the duffel bag. Guran carried only a slim sheath made of hide, containing his bow, arrows, and lance. He and Kit would make the trip through the jungle in their customary loin- cloths. Kit's father handed him a small leather sack to put in his duffel.

"These are funds for your upkeep and education. Give it to your uncle when you get there," he said.

Beautiful mother stood in the shadow of the Cave. She could not hold back her tears.

"Good-bye darling," she whispered, kissing him again. That was his memory of her, trying to smile, standing in the Cave entrance with his father towering beside her. He would never see her again.

Accompanied by a dozen pygmies, they all started away at a slow jog, and, without looking back, passed through the roaring waterfall to leave the Deep Woods. His father's words, his last words remained clearly in his mind for years to come. "Remember all we've taught you, Kit. We love you and are proud of you. Write to us. Remember us."

Remember? How could he forget them, the Cave, the animals, the Golden Beach, the Isle of Eden, and the jungle?

A half day from the Deep Woods, in thick jungle, a party of one-hundred Wambesi warriors awaited them by prearrangement. They did not know who the boy was, only that word had come from the Skull Cave asking for the escort. The Wambesi joined the party, but kept clear of the tight escort of the pygmy Bandar. Like all jungle folk, they respected and feared the small poison people. Further on, another group waited, one hundred Llongo warriors. They too joined the procession. As the long column passed through the jungle trails, more tribes sent their warriors. By the time the procession reached the sleepy seaport capital, it was a thousand strong-warriors from the central jungle, bright in their feathers, ornaments and ceremonial paints. Bells jangled at their ankles, their laughter and delighted shouts sounding like an approaching storm. Few of them had ever been out of the jungle and they were amazed by the sights of civilization. For their part, the natives of civilization were equally amazed, and terrified as well. The column looked like an invading army. Alarmed phone calls poured into the Jungle Patrol headquarters. But the Jungle Patrol had been alerted. Two of their vehicles headed the column, guiding it to the wharves. At the head of the column strode Kit and Guran.

Kit had paused at the edge of the town and donned his clothes and shoes, and bravely tried to conceal a limp as the crowds on the sidewalk stared at him. Guran was wearing his sandals, but he refused to go any further. The pygmies were the great revelation. No one in the town had ever seen one of the pygmy Bandar, but everyone had heard about them, and their deadly weapons. Apprehensive glances were cast at the quiver of arrows on each small shoulder and at the short lance each carried. The 48

town was buzzing with this event. Why were they here? Who was the boy?

A large tourist ship stood at the wharf. Hundreds of passengers lined the rails to look at the colorful parade. Some thought it had been staged for their benefit. But when Kit stepped to the gangplank and waved his hand in farewell, a wild roar came from the thousand jungle throats. And townspeople and tourists alike wondered who this boy might be. A prince? Son of a king? Or of a president? Who was to tell them this was the twenty-first generation of the Phantom? Not Kit. Not Guran, who smiled somewhat fearfully at his side. This was Kit "Walker" (for the Ghost who Walks), off to America, to go to school.

They stood at the railing and looked out to the small town and the forest and mountains behind. The jungle escort was filing away from the docks, headed for home. The roar of the ship's whistle momentarily panicked the warriors before they realized what it was. Then shrieking, and with much laughter, they raced out of the town. Kit and Guran watched them as the big ship moved slowly into the bay. They avoided looking at each other, for both had tears in their eyes. Good-bye Bangalla.

CHAPTER 7

The first few days at sea, Kit could not persuade Guran to leave their cabin. The Bandar are shy little people, unused to outsiders, suspicious of strangers, and content only in their quiet shadowy jungle.

It had taken a good deal of courage for Guran to leave the Deep Woods. Only his love and loyalty to Kit and his father had enabled him to do it. The curiosity of the normal-sized warriors of the Wambesi and Liongo, to whom a pygmy was a rarity, was bad enough. Stares and comments of the townspeople whom he had passed in the seaport town had been worse. But there, at least, he could keep moving. Now, he was trapped on shipboard among hundreds of strange white people. So he remained in the cabin where Kit joined him for meals and sleep.

Kit had no such inhibitions. He explored all the decks, from engine room to bridge, and chatted briefly with all who talked to him. It was natural that passengers and crew were curious about him.

He had arrived at the docks with an escort of a thousand jungle warriors, and with a personal bodyguard, a muscular little man who, everyone was informed, was a genuine wild pygmy. Kit and Guran were the main conversation piece during the entire voyage. The name "Kit Walker" told little.

The purser spread the news that the palatial cabin the boy traveled in had been purchased with a large diamond. After an appraisal of the gem, the ticket office had to get a bank loan to make change for the difference between the diamond's value and the ticket price. Kit was obviously the scion of some potentate or unknown millionaire. But who? Passengers on the decks plied him with questions as he strolled by.

He was polite, answered briefly, but gave no specific information about himself. His mother had warned him about talking to strangers, but he was also curious about these strangers, and had more questions than answers. Two things about the boy amazed them. First, his age. It was hard to believe he was only twelve. Not only was he far taller and heavier than was average for his age, but his manner was grave and mature beyond his years. So he appeared to them. Inside, he was bubbling with excitement about this new world. The other thing about him that amazed the passengers was his facility with languages. There were many nationalities aboard, and he seemed to speak easily with all of them, going from language to language without a second thought.

Kit reported to Guran about the ship and his various conversations as they ate together in the cabin.

The little man's curiosity finally overcame his shyness. But there was the problem of dress. He'd discarded the outfit he'd been given during the hot jungle trek, and retained only his loincloth and sandals. Kit gave him a shirt to wear, which covered Guran to his knees like a nightgown. But it was

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comfortable and he was pleased with it.

The two hit the decks like a minor stampede. First they terrified passengers reclining in steam chairs on deck by racing along on top of the ship's railing. There was a sheer drop of sixty feet to the rolling ocean below. Passengers hurriedly called for a steward to stop this suicidal-as it seemed to them-play.

Before he could reach them, they had climbed up the iron ladder on the ship's giant smokestack and hung by one hand, fifty feet above the deck, shouting and laughing.

The entire passenger list and crew were on deck staring up as the astonished captain called to them through a megaphone, ordering them down. They returned, slowly, casually, Kit moving headfirst down the iron ladder. By the time they reached the deck, the captain was red in the face, and a lady passenger needed smelling salts.

"You could have killed yourselves," the captain roared.

"How?" asked Kit, because he wanted to know.

"How?" roared the captain. "You could have fallen into the sea, or fallen to the deck, and broken your necks."

Kit translated for Guran, and they smiled at each other.

"There was no danger of that, sir," said Kit politely.

The captain calmed down. There was something about the boy's quiet voice and steady gray eyes that inspired confidence. He made them promise not to repeat those antics. Kit translated and they both nodded agreement. Kit liked the big captain. The authority in his voice and the kindness in his face reminded him of his father.

The next trial was the first time they entered the ship's dining salon. The head steward attempted to keep Guran out and send him to the servant's dining room. Kit refused this, explaining that Guran must remain with him. The head steward was firm. Rules were rules, and he knew a "native" when he saw one. Kit hesitated. His father and mother had both told him he must respect the laws and rules wherever he went. But he did not like this rule. 'Did that make it wrong?' he wondered. He saw the captain watching from a nearby table and went to him. He explained to the captain that no one else on the ship could understand Guran's language and that he must remain with Kit. Also, he was too shy to be without Kit. And also, he was not a servant. The captain consulted the passenger list. Kit's cabin had been reserved for two occupants, Kit Walker and Prince Guran. That settled it. A prince was welcome in the first-class dining salon. The passengers smiled at Guran in his knee-length shirt, and Guran smiled shyly back at them as he joined Kit at the table.

But several passengers did not smile. They didn't wish to dine in the same room with a "native" and loudly informed the captain of this. Kit sat quietly, listening to their loud voices. Guran understood none of it. But their friend the captain remained firm, and the passengers marched out vowing to report this outrage to the home offices. Kit puzzled over this incident. He knew things would be different in this new world. But his parents had failed to tell him about bigotry, possibly because they were unaware of it themselves.

Kit ordered their dinner. He didn't realize one chose between the main courses such as roast beef, chicken, and duck, and to the waiter's amazement, he ordered them all. All eyes in the salon were on them as they began to eat from their loaded table, this unusual boy and his strange companion. But eyes soon turned away in disgust. Though Kit had had some elementary training in the use of knife and fork in the Deep Woods, it was not the customary way to eat. "Fingers were invented before 50

knives and forks," his father used to say, and though beautiful mother was dainty about her table manners, Kit naturally took after his father. And Guran had never seen a fork before. The sight of them drinking soup from a bowl held to their lips, with their bare hands, was more than their closest table neighbors could stand. These-two thin old ladies-paused to complain to the captain and then rushed out. The captain studied the situation and then invited Kit and Guran to join him at his table.

Slowly and patiently he suggested the use of knives and forks. Flushing, Kit recalled his mother's lessons, and hurriedly translated for Guran. Guran was delighted with the utensils, holding them in his fists like hunting knives. The captain, who was an amiable man, found this amusing, and refused to correct Guran.

Not everyone found it amusing. The chief steward for one. He was outraged that the "native" had been allowed in his dining room, irritated by the animal feeding habits of the two, and furious that they had the captain's favor. For many reasons-probably dating back to faulty toilet training-the chief steward was a mean man. Others of the crew had learned to fear his quick temper and his hard fists.

He liked to fight. The more he thought about this arrogant boy who had come to the wharf with a thousand "natives" and pranced about as though he were a prince who owned the ship, the angrier he got. The captain had countermanded his own rules, and humiliated him in front of all the stewards and passengers. So he brooded over a bottle of brandy in his own cabin. He came out, eyes bloodshot, looking for the boy. He found him with Guran at the stern of the ship on the second deck, watching the ship's wake. They turned as he approached. Jungle trained, they both recognized menace in his manner, and watched him carefully. He glared at Kit, and swore at him, a string of nasty, violent swearwords. Kit knew none of the words, so they meant nothing to him. He stood quietly, which enraged the chief steward even more. "Is that your brother? Got to eat with your brother?" he said to Kit. Kit was surprised. It was obvious to anyone that Guran was not his brother. He smiled, puzzled, and shook his head. The chief steward was getting no normal response here. He lashed out with his open hand, hitting Kit hard on the cheek.

"Little punk, you afraid to fight?" he shouted. Two crewmen, at the railing in the background, heard this, and started toward them. Guran also moved toward the chief steward but Kit held his arm.

"I do not wish to fight you," said Kit quietly. "But I am not afraid." The steward had worked himself into a rage. The top of Guran's head barely reached the steward's chest. But the angry man lashed at him with his big fist, knocking him against the railing. Kit's reaction was almost instantaneous, "like a jungle cat" one of the crew reported later. He leaped at the steward. A quick karate chop dropped the big man to the deck, and Kit was upon him, his strong hands at the steward's throat. The steward's anger suddenly drained, replaced by fear. For the face above him was deadly and grim, and the hands were choking the life out of him. He struggled and tried to roll over, but he was helpless.

The two crewmen reached them, and tried to pull Kit off the man. They couldn't move him. The steward's eyes were popping, his face was red as Kit pounded his head against the deck. The cries of the crewmen brought others, and it took a half dozen of them to drag the boy from the steward. "Like holding a wild cat," they said. They fell to their knees and swayed with the struggling boy. Guran darted among them and whispered to Kit. He relaxed. The steward lay curled on the deck, whimpering, blood on his face. "Another minute and the kid woulda killed him," they reported later on.

Kit stood relaxed, calm now.

"I am sorry," he said. "He hit Guran. He had no right. I lost my temper. That is bad."

"You might have killed him," said a crewman, kneeling by the whimpering steward.

"Of course," said Kit quietly.

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They all stared at him.

"You wanted to kill him?"

"No," said Kit. "But when one fights, one fights to kill. Or one does not fight."

Examination revealed that the steward had no bones broken. The captain received the full story from the crewmen who saw it all, and he placed the steward in the brig. Then he brooded about his strange passenger, Kit Walker. Word of the battle spread rapidly among the passengers and the crew. A few of the men tried to congratulate him, but they were worried and a little fearful of this pleasant young boy. He had beaten a grown man and, it was said, almost killed him. Would have if half the crew hadn't dragged him off. When -he and Guran walked on the deck, or entered the dining salon, they were watched in silence. The captain brought Kit and Guran to his cabin.

"I know the man started the fight and got what he deserved, but I'm told you tried to kill him. Could you, with your bare hands?" asked the captain.

"Perhaps," said Kit.

"Would you?"

"Not now. It is over," said Kit. -

"Would you then, if they hadn't stopped you?" persisted the captain.

"Yes," said Kit. "When a man fights with you, he tries to kill you. You must kill him to save your life."

The captain considered the serious boy and the grave face of Guran who listened without understanding a word.

He realized, without exactly knowing why or where, that these two were from another world, the jungle.

"In our world, Kit," he said, "men sometimes fight in anger to settle an argument or a grudge. It is a stupid way to settle anything, but they sometimes do. And usually it is enough to beat the other man, to win, to settle the argument. But not to kill. Do you understand?"

"I hear you," said Kit. It would take time for him to understand.

CHAPTER 8