Story of the Phantom

by Lee Falk

  "Dying. How Soon?" he asked.

  "Soon. He waits for you," said Guran.

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  "What is it? Disease, accident?" asked Kit.

  "Knife-wounds," said Guran. "Bandits."

  There was no time for further details now. That would come later. Kit must leave at once. Now.

  "Now?"

  To Guran the pygmy, "now" was not tomorrow, not in four hours or ten minutes. Now was right now.

  Kit's mind raced. Tomorrow-Kit Walker Day. Exams. Graduation. Diana. Father dying. Now.

  It was now because a small chartered plane was waiting at the local airport. It was necessary to leave in the plane at once to reach the scheduled flight in the large overseas plane that made the direct trip to Bangalla. If they missed that plane, there was no other direct flight for another week. That might be too late.

  Kit was too confused at that moment to wonder how Guran had made all these arrangements. He learned later that old Doctor Axel, summoned from his Jungle Hospital to the Skull Cave, had done it all. Kit grabbed his toilet articles and threw them into a little old duffel bag. It didn't occur to him at that moment that it was the same duffel bag he had brought to America. He looked at his closet full of clothes, trousers, sweaters, team uniforms; his bureau full of shirts, and socks, and all the rest; shelves of books, notebooks, and photos. A large framed photo of Diana was on his desk. He put it in the duffel bag. Everything else would be useless in the Deep Woods. One last look at his room. He started toward the door, then stopped. There were friends in the halls. No one must see him leave. He went to the window and slid down the drainpipe, Guran following him.

  It was late at night, few people were out, most of the college was asleep. Kit and Guran moved quickly to some bushes.

  "Wait here," he said.

  "Must leave now," said Guran flatly.

  "There is one thing I must do. Wait," repeated Kit. He left the duffel bag with Guran and moved across the campus lawn, keeping behind trees and bushes to avoid being noticed by the few couples still enjoying the mild spring night. He reached the women's dormitory. He knew in which room Diana was sleeping. There was no drainpipe handy, but the large granite blocks of the wall gave him a foothold and he climbed high to the third floor. Diana's window was open and the room dark.

  "Diana," he whispered. "Diana."

  There was a frightened intake of breath from the dark room, a pause, then the soft low voice.

  "Is that you Kit?"

  "Yes, I must talk to you."

  A rustle of silk, and she came to the window, her hair hanging below her shoulders.

  "Oh Kit," she said in alarm, "You shouldn't have climbed up. Please come in. You'll fall."

  "No time, Diana, darling, I must say good-bye," he said.

  Good-bye? Was she dreaming? Or had Kit gone mad?

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  Or was he drunk? But he never drank alcohol of any kind.

  "Good-bye?" she said faintly.

  "I can't explain. I will someday. But I must go home. At once. My father is dying," he said.

  His father dying? Part of the mystery he would never speak about. Now the mystery was suddenly real, big and dark, coming between them.

  "I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else to say. Then. .. "Will you come back?"

  "I don't know. But I will write you," he said.

  "Kit Walker Day?" she said, suddenly remembering.

  "I can't wait. Diana, please tell them nothing. You haven't seen me tonight. I'll write later to Aunt Bessie and Ephraim. But I want no one to know."

  "What will they think?" she asked.

  He was sitting on the windowsill in the darkness. There was a half-moon low in the sky, and Diana's lovely face was white in the moonlight.

  "I don't know what they'll think, but I'm late now. I had to come to say good-bye."

  She put her hands on his shoulders, suddenly frantic that he was leaving.

  "How did you know about your father? What happened?" she asked.

  "A messenger came. He is waiting. I can stay no longer," he whispered. "Diana. I love you."

  He kissed her lightly on the lips, then on the forehead.

  "Good-bye."

  "Oh Kit . . ."

  But he was already on his way down. She leaned out, watching fearfully as he climbed down a story, then dropped to the lawn. He waved from the dark ground, then rushed off. She stared in the darkness, following his retreating figure.

  He disappeared among some bushes. Then, she vaguely saw his figure, followed by a small figure, disappear into the night. Was the smaller figure a child? Her mind raced back a decade. Kit and Guran the pygmy, on the banks of the swimming hole. Was that the messenger? She watched the moon move behind dark clouds. Then she stretched out on her bed, and wept into the pillow. It had all been so unreal. Maybe it was a dream, a nightmare. When she awoke in the morning, he would be waiting for her at the foot of the broad stairs. But the hollow feeling inside told her it was no dream.

  CHAPTER 14

  WHERE IS KIT WALKER

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  The day dawned bright and cool and beautiful, perfect weather for the big event. People poured into the new stadium; the twelve high school marching bands; the athletes and singers, the senators and congressmen and mayors and assorted dignitaries, and the fifty thousand friends and relatives. "Kit Walker Day" banners were stretched across the main street. Similar banners were on dozens of chartered buses that had brought people from all parts of the state and were parked in rows outside the stadium. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were there, waiting in the center box reserved for Kit himself. Diana was to come with him. But Diana didn't come. Neither did Kit Walker.

  The bands and the entertainers waited. The senators and congressmen and mayors waited. The fifty thousand friends and fans and relatives waited. All eyes were on the center box. Aunt Bessie was worried. Uncle Ephraim became more impatient as time went on. "Has he run away again?" he muttered. Ephraim couldn't know he'd guessed correctly. Phone calls were made, then students went to his room. All his clothes and books were there, everything in order. Someone thought of trying Diana. She had a headache, it was reported and would see no one. No, she knew nothing about her date, Kit Walker.

  Now impatience turned to alarm. What had happened to him? Hospitals were called; alarms went to the police; bulletins were telegraphed and broadcast. Where is Kit Walker? An accident? Had gangsters kidnapped him? Hundreds had seen him at the prom the night before. He'd been seen by many, walking Diana to the dorm. Friends had seen him enter his room that night. Kit Walker Day was a fiasco.

  Bessie and Ephraim left, to find their nephew. The program committee decided to go ahead with the entertainment, to avoid disappointment to thousands of visitors. So the bands marched and played, and the gymnasts whirled. The chorus sang, and the politicians made speeches, and all were directed at the empty center box draped with flags and banners. But it all sounded hollow, as empty as the center box itself. For the hero was gone.

  The investigation spread. A tight-lipped Diana was questioned, but had no answers. Train stations and airports were watched. Nearby lakes and rivers were dragged. Kit Walker's disappearance became a national seven-day wonder. One of the greatest athletes in the history of collegiate sport had simply vanished on the eve of his greatest honor. The mystery was discussed, probed, argued in every newspaper and home in America. Kit's past was looked into, in the hopes of finding a clue.

  That only deepened the mystery. Bangalla was remote, far away. Correspondents in that distant land had never heard of him, or any Walker family. It was a marvelous mystery. Half the girls in America were in love with this sports hero whose photo adorned their bedroom walls. To vanish, and at such a time! It was too much! It was as though the earth had swallowed him up.

  Diana kept her promise to Kit and revealed nothing. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim's despair caused her to talk to them one night.

  "If I tell
you something about Kit, will you promise never to repeat it?" she asked them. They agreed anxiously. "Cross your heart and hope to die if you ever tell?" insisted Diana, using a formula from childhood. They solemnly obeyed her. "Kit is well. He went away. You can guess where," she said.

  Their smiles and tears of relief rewarded her. Kit wouldn't have minded that.

  Where was Kit Walker? demanded a world press, intrigued by this disappearance of a national sports idol. But there was no answer. The widespread interest finally subsided, but it was a mystery that people would discuss for years to come, one of the celebrated disappearance cases. Now and then a magazine writer would rehash the story with photos of the famous athlete, asking the old question.

  "Had the earth swallowed up Kit Walker?"

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  The earth had swallowed up Kit Walker. For there would be no more Kit Walker. He had vanished into mystery.

  CHAPTER 15

  RETURN OF THE NATIVE

  When Kit and Guran left the campus that dark night, a taxi was waiting. Kit was determined to leave no clues. Guran entered the taxi which he had hired, Kit remaining in the shadows. Guran, speaking no English, gave the driver written instructions to return him to the airport. As the taxi started off, Kit came from behind, climbing onto the rear spare tire where he hung on, unseen. Near the airport, he dropped off as the taxi slowed down, and joined Guran on the field. It was late, and the few personnel on the field were sleepy and disinterested in the small chartered plane. Kit kept his face concealed from the pilot, through the use of sunglasses and a cap pulled low over his face.

  They arrived at the metropolitan airport with only minutes to spare, but it turned out the departure of the big overseas plane had been delayed. At this hour, the big terminal was largely deserted, with only a scattering of drowsy people on the benches. Kit kept separated from Guran. The little man would attract attention. Wandering through the lobby, an item in a novelties counter caught Kit's attention. A false mustache intended for children. He bought it, and going into a men's room, put it on. With the large sunglasses and cap, the big black mustache completely disguised him.

  Soon, they were in the air, bound for Bangalla. The foreign plane was half-filled, and while his face might have been recognized on most American streets, he was a stranger to these travelers to Bangalla, and did not really need the mustache. But he kept it on. There might be one person who knew his face. The secrecy and anonymity that Kit had fallen into so quickly was part of his childhood training. Without being told, he at once knew this was the expected behavior. Expected by whom? By the Phantom line, from the First to the Twentieth. And what about the Twentieth?

  As they dozed and ate on the plane crossing the ocean, Guran told him about his father. Bandits had attacked the missionary school of Father Mona in the jungle. The young priest, some elderly helpers and fifty young native girls had no arms to defend themselves. The bandits took over the school, looted the supplies and small treasury, and began to terrorize the girls when the Twentieth arrived.

  Tom-tom signals had carried news of this raid to him. He burst upon the rogues like an avenging angel, Father Mona reported later, and single-handedly overcame a half dozen. The other half dozen fled for their lives into the woods. But in the furious fight, the Twentieth was badly hurt. Father Mona bandaged his wounds, but he refused to stay in the school. He had to return to the Deep Woods, and none could stop him. To the priest's amazement, he rode off on his black stallion, a successor to Thunder. Father Mona said he never knew how he climbed onto his horse, or stayed on, his wounds were so serious. But as long as a Phantom can move, he would return to the Deep Woods, or be carried there.

  When the Twentieth reached the Deep Woods, he fell off his horse in a dead faint. Guran's father, the old chief, knew that his big friend was badly hurt, that he might be dying. He had lost much blood from his terrible wounds. He was beyond pygmy help. They put him on his fur pallet in the Skull Cave. Guran's father, the old chief, remembered Dr. Axel. He had been one of the warriors who had brought the young doctor to the Deep Woods to assist at Kit's birth. Now Dr. Axel had his Jungle Hospital a day's run away. The chief sent Guran and a few other pygmies for him. Dr. Axel, twenty-two years older now and wiser in the ways of the jungle, knew who these pygmies were this time, and immediately understood what they wanted. Thus, a generation later, he returned to the Deep Woods. Once again, he was blindfolded as on that first trip. But this time he was not afraid.

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  He had seen his big masked friend once or twice during the years. There had been other wounds that needed healing; and once, his hospital had needed the help of the protective mark as the Phantom had promised. But now he was dismayed when he saw his friend. He used his medicines, and did what he could. He brought the Twentieth back to consciousness, but told him the truth. He could not live more than a few days. He was wrong about that. The Twentieth had no intention of dying without seeing his son. He simply refused. Guran, the only pygmy who had ever seen foreign shores-which made him a celebrity among his people-was dispatched once more. So it happened that he found himself that night beneath Kit's window at Harrison University.

  Kit listened somberly to the story. If Dr. Axel was right, his father might be dead now. Guran shook his head at that. "He said he would wait for you. He will," said the little man seriously. Such was the faith of the Bandar in the Twentieth. He had never gone back on his word. He would not do so now.

  Though saddened by this journey, Kit was thrilled by the faith his father inspired in these people, and the old admiration of the little boy for the father came back strongly.

  On this trip, the strangeness between Kit and Guran was partially dissipated. Kit told him of his adventures in America, asked many questions about his friends in the Deep Woods, and the two laughed and joked as they had in the old days. For despite the seriousness of the mission, life goes on, and youth is strong and hopeful. The strangeness disappeared only partially. Not completely. For both had matured, and Kit felt that Guran was looking at him in a new way. Beneath the camaraderie, there was a new respect in Guran's manner, a new deference that Kit did not yet understand.

  When they arrived at the airport at Mawitaan, the sleepy seaport capital of Bangalla, the trip began to be real for Kit. The air, the distant mountains, the sounds and smells, the smiling black faces, the melodious accents, the bright costumes, it was like returning to an old dream. This feeling would increase with every step he took toward the Deep Woods.

  Leaving the airport, they went by carriage to the edge of the jungle. They had only walked a short distance, when they were met by a group of Wambesi warriors, ten in all. They looked at Kit curiously, wondering who he was. Word had come from the Deep Woods to escort this stranger who would arrive with Guran, Prince of the Bandar. Possibly some of them had been among the thousand-strong warriors that had taken him to the town a decade earlier. If so, none of them would see that boy in this young bronze giant. Perhaps giant was a misnomer for Kit. He was tall, a half foot over six feet. But his muscles were so powerfully developed from his years of sports, that he seemed like a true giant.

  As soon as they were well into the jungle, Kit and Guran both began to discard their outer clothing.

  Off went the shoes, socks, coat, trousers, shirt, everything! Kit fashioned a loincloth from his shirt.

  Guran was wearing his own. They jogged along the quiet trail with the Wambesi. The Clarksville-Harrison years were rapidly slipping away. A warrior handed Kit a spear. He paused, then hurled it into a distant tree trunk where it sank in a foot, quivering.

  The warriors, all expert spearsmen, applauded this stranger. In the few days that followed, they learned that he was no novice in this jungle. He hunted with them for meat, and gathered edible roots and berries. To their amazement he spoke their language fluently. Halfway on the journey, an escort of Llongo waited. The Wambesi departed with good memories of this friend of the Phantom. Kit chatted amiably with the Llo
ngo in their dialect, instantly winning their friendship. None suspected his true identity. For to the Liongo, Wambesi, and all jungle folk, the Phantom was the Ghost Who Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die. It followed that he had no sons, no heirs. He needed none. Of all the jungle, only the pygmy Bandar knew the truth.

  Now the jungle had become thicker, denser. The Liongo became nervous. They were beyond their 86

  own boundaries. This was no-man's-land. A place of headhunters and cannibals, it was said. Little Guran found trails and openings in the thick bush that no one else could see. Then the Llongo suddenly stopped. They had gone far enough. If one listened carefully, one could hear the distant roar of a waterfall. This was definitely forbidden land. As if to reinforce this decision, a pygmy suddenly stood up in the bushes. His arrow was in his bow. Another appeared in a tree, arrow pointed at them. Then another. And another. Guran held up his arms in greeting. The arrows remained in the bows. Kit thanked the Llongo as they began a slow retreat. They then turned and ran.