The Phantom

by Rob MacGregor

He needed an energy boost, something that would give him the power and strength to scale the wall. There was only one thing he knew of that could provide such a jolt of power. Still on his knees, he took the skull ring on the finger of his right hand and turned the skull inward to the palm side of his hand.

  The skull ring was only to be used in dire circumstances—when death was the only alternative. He took a deep breath, then exhaled as he pressed the skull to his solar plexus, closing his eyes and concentrating. Warmth suffused his body. He felt as if he were glowing.

  He pulled the ring away from his chest and blinked his eyes open. The pain in his side had receded. He felt as if he’d just slept ten hours. He stood up and turned to Zak, who was watching him closely.

  “Are you okay?” Zak asked.

  “We’ll see soon enough. The Phantom grabbed the vine and tested its strength. “Okay, climb on my back. We’re going up.”

  The Phantom looked up and imagined himself moving smoothly and easily up the wall. Then he did just that, pulling himself and Zak arm over arm along the vine, striding like a fly along the smooth wall.

  “That was easy,” he said when they reached the top. Then the pain returned, and his legs began to wobble. Quickly he whistled, and a few moments later, Hero pranced out of the forest. After the surge of strength on the wall, the Phantom was barely able to mount Hero. He lifted Zak up to sit behind him, wincing at the resulting bite of pain.

  “Take me home, Hero.”

  Corporal Samuel Weeks pulled into the Bangalla Jungle Patrol Headquarters and slammed on the brakes. He bounded out of his patrol truck as several patrolmen hustled two prisoners from the rear compartment.

  One of the prisoners, a smart-mouthed fellow named Morgan, cursed as he was led to the main building. The other one, Breen, was injured and being held up by two patrolmen. Both were bonos, a local term for the foreigners who hung around Zavia. Over the years, the bonos had turned the fishing village into a denizen of depravity, and Weeks was grateful he didn’t have to patrol the place.

  Patrolling the jungle was another matter altogether. Just when you thought nothing interesting was ever going to happen, something unexpected turned up. That was the case today. A tribesman had stopped their patrol vehicle and relayed a message from deep in the jungle that looters had been seen breaking into an old burial site.

  They had no trouble finding the one named Morgan. He was battered and crazed when they had arrested him and babbling about a purple giant. Some of the men thought he had jungle fever, but Weeks took his comments seriously. He asked Morgan to describe the so-called giant. All the details fit what Weeks knew, but he didn’t bother to tell Morgan.

  The official policy was to ignore all reports about anything related to the Phantom, the legendary Ghost Who Walks. The theory, Weeks supposed, was that if you ignored something long enough, it eventually would disappear. But it was a theory to which Weeks didn’t subscribe.

  Morgan had led them to his buddy, Breen, and they’d recovered two sacks of jewels and gold artifacts, which Weeks now slung over his shoulder. Their arrival set off a flurry of activity in the usually sedate outpost at the jungle’s edge. Weeks dropped the sacks and saluted his commander, Captain Philip Horton, who had just stepped out of the main building to see what was going on.

  “What do you have here, Corporal—poachers?” Horton’s disdain was evident in his voice, in his sour expression. He was a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and dark bulging eyes. Weeks was thin and wiry.

  “Looters, Captain. They broke into an ancient burial cave and stole some jewels.” He opened one of the bags for the captain. “Really upset some of the natives. They revere their ancestors, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Weeks turned to the patrolmen. “Put them in the guardhouse.”

  Morgan struggled and two other patrolmen rushed forward to subdue him. “You got a problem, Captain!” Morgan yelled. “You got a ‘thing’ out there, a big, strange-looking purple thing! On a horse . . . with a wolf!”

  Horton motioned for Morgan to be taken away. “Get him out of here.”

  Horton turned on his heels and walked toward a drab wooden one-story building. Weeks picked up the sacks and fell into step beside him. “That man’s been chewing on the wrong kind of jungle growth,” Horton said. “He’s out of his mind.”

  “You know what he’s talking about, Captain. We both do.”

  “Not now, Weeks. I’m not in the mood.” He took the sacks of jewels from the corporal. “I’ll see that these artifacts are returned to tribal authorities,” he said and walked on.

  “The Ghost Who Walks,” Weeks called after him. “The Phantom.”

  “It’s nonsense!”

  “When you’re in the jungle long enough, anything is possible,” Weeks muttered.

  In the two years that Weeks had spent patrolling the tribal territories, rarely a month went by without word of a sighting of the notorious purple marauder. Weeks figured that the Phantom was real enough, all right, but he wasn’t sure how much of the legend was true. As far as he was concerned, no one lived four hundred years.

  He didn’t know if people could fly around outside their bodies or do all the strange things the tribal people said the Phantom could do. A lot of that was folklore, but he’d heard other things that people had actually seen.

  One night when they were sharing a bottle of Bangalla blue brandy Horton had told Weeks that the Phantom had once taken out half a regiment of goons from the Sengh Brotherhood by himself. He went on to say that even though the Sengh Brotherhood was the most vicious and greedy outfit around, they had repeatedly failed to eliminate their nemesis. Since the patrol had very little success in countering the Brotherhood, Horton was pleased with the Phantom’s deeds, and that he was still around. Or so he’d said on that one occasion when he’d admitted the man existed.

  But it was still a confusing matter, because he’d also heard from more than one source that the secretive Sengh Brotherhood had killed the Phantom a decade ago. Then a couple of years later, reports of sightings of the Phantom started up again. At first, they were disregarded. But over time, more and more people saw the purple specter. Horton might now call it nonsense, but as far as Weeks was concerned, the Phantom was alive and well and an asset to Weeks’s own work.

  Horton reached the steps leading to the porch of his office. He paused, one foot on the first step, turned, and stroked his thick mustache.

  “Look up the word ‘phantom’ in the dictionary. It means something that isn’t there. Just like this ghost of yours . . . He isn’t there. He’s something people see when they’ve got nothing better to talk about. Got it, Corporal?”

  Weeks straightened his back. “Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir.”

  Horton sighed deeply, shook his head, and continued up the steps.

  “Captain! Captain!”

  Weeks turned and saw that another patrol vehicle had just pulled in, and Sergeant Cummings was lumbering toward them, huffing, his fat jiggling. He was at least thirty pounds overweight and reminded Weeks of a bulging sack of flour with legs. He ran past Weeks and stopped at the bottom of the steps. “The bridge . . . sir . . . the bridge . . .”

  Horton placed his hands on his hips. “What is it, Cummings? Speak up.”

  “The old rope bridge . . . It’s out.”

  “Well, that was bound to happen. It’s at least fifty years old.”

  “But, sir . . . there was a truck on it.”

  “What do you mean there was a truck on it?”

  Cummings gasped for air. “The truck is at the bottom of the gorge, and . . .”

  “And, what?” Horton snapped impatiently. “Get it out, man.”

  “We found a man who saw it go down. One of the bonos from Zavia. He said . . . he said that the Phantom was in the truck.”

  Horton’s back stiffened. “What man? Who said that? Where is he?”

  Cummings looked uneasy. “Um, we gave him a ride out to the m
ain road.”

  “You what?”

  “I didn’t think to bring him here. I mean, he didn’t do nothin’ wrong or anything. I don’t think.” His words trailed off, and he scuffed his boot against the ground and coughed.

  “I’ll agree with that. You don’t think.” Horton pointed to the patrol truck. “Go find him. Weeks, you go with him. I want to talk to that man.”

  “You want us to go to Zavia to bring in a bono?” Weeks asked incredulously.

  For years the patrol had considered the town off-limits. There was an unwritten agreement that the Brotherhood handled law enforcement in the town. The only time the patrol got involved was when an incident involved the tribal peoples.

  “Find him, wherever he is,” Horton ordered.

  The Phantom sat upright, his back rigid. He breathed evenly, telling himself over and over that there was no pain, no pain. He felt nothing, only numbness.

  “Hold still now,” said Guran, a gray-haired native who was the Phantom’s trusted assistant and the caretaker of Skull Cave.

  “I am holding still.” He took a deep breath, exhaled, and, following his training, sent a message to his side that he would feel no pain. He knew he could control pain. He’d done it before. But sometimes when he was with Guran, he felt as if he were a child again.

  He held up his purple jerkin, which was raised above his wound. Slowly and carefully, Guran applied a jungle remedy that he’d mixed together in a wooden bowl.

  The Phantom didn’t like the look of the yellow paste, so he turned his attention back to the book that was open on the desk in front of him. He was in the Chronicle Chamber, deep inside Skull Cave. The walls were lined with oversized leather-bound journals documenting the Phantom legacy, as well as books that had been collected from all over the world. Many were centuries old.

  “Ow! Don’t press so hard.”

  Guran rolled his eyes. “Did that sting a little?”

  The Phantom shot him an irritated look, then turned his attention back to the book, pushing aside the pain. He carefully turned a yellowed page of parchment. The quill-pen handwriting was florid in style and difficult to read. But a sketch of three skulls caught his attention.

  “Ah, here it is. This is what I’m looking for. The Skulls of Touganda!”

  Guran glanced at the page and nodded.

  “One is made of gold, another of silver, a third of jade,” the Phantom explained.

  “Are they valuable?”

  “More than that, Guran . . . they’re dangerous. When placed together, it’s said the three skulls harness an energy a thousand times greater than any force or high explosive known to man.”

  Guran didn’t react.

  “It’s all right here in the chronicles,” the Phantom continued. “A long time ago, the Touganda tribe possessed the skulls and knew the secret of keeping their force contained.”

  “What happened to them? I don’t know that tribe,” Guran asked as he stirred the yellow paste.

  “Their village was attacked by pirates of the Sengh Brotherhood. The tribe was destroyed, but three of their shamans hid the skulls in separate places before the final deadly assault. The shamans were all killed and the skulls were never found. That was four centuries ago, and there’s been no trace of them . . . until today.”

  Satisfied, the Phantom closed the book. Guran shrugged and started to apply his poultice again.

  “That’s enough, Guran. I’m quite fine, really. Good as new.”

  He was ready to return to his private chamber to rest and recover. There he would finally take off his outfit and give it to Guran for cleaning and repair. While Zak was in Skull Cave, though, the Phantom would avoid stepping outside his own chamber without donning his mask and garb. Except for Guran, his identity was a well-kept secret. Although he often traveled undisguised, no one, except his assistant, knew him as both the Phantom and as Kit. As it was, Guran never called him either of those names.

  “Very well, Ghost Who Walks. Maybe later. Your recovery has been impressive.” Guran picked up his bowl and left the chamber.

  The Phantom adjusted his torn jerkin and carried the journal back to the shelves. Skull Cave had a remarkable healing effect on him, and he was just glad that he’d been able to hang on to Hero until he and Zak had arrived.

  As he turned to leave, he suddenly tensed. The shrouded figure of a man stood in the shadows watching him. “Who’s there?”

  EIGHT

  The man moved out of the shadows and into the light. He was older than the Phantom, dressed in a long robe. The Phantom’s heart swelled. “Dad . . .”

  “I used to come here myself, Kit, to consult the chronicles for guidance and wisdom. Usually when I was troubled, or confused.” He smiled. “Or when I had just screwed up real bad.”

  “Guilty on all counts, Dad.” A couple of beats passed. He shook his head. “I let one of the Skulls of Touganda slip right through my fingers.”

  “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself. We all make mistakes.”

  The Phantom stepped closer to get a better look at his father, whom he hadn’t seen in a couple of years. “This one gets worse.”

  “How so?”

  “It was the Sengh Brotherhood.”

  His father frowned. “Are you sure?”

  The Phantom’s hands curled into fists, his shoulders tensed. He was angry at himself, and that anger wrapped around him like a sheet of cold air. “Yes, I’m sure. I saw the spider-web tattoo—the mark of the Brotherhood—right here on his arm.”

  His father considered the new development in silence. And somehow that silence affected the Phantom just as it had when he was a boy. Some things, he thought, never change.

  When his father finally spoke, his words were uttered in a voice so soft that the Phantom could barely hear what he said. But with each word his voice grew louder, more intense, reflecting his concern and anger.

  “You turned over one of the Skulls of Touganda to the Sengh Brotherhood? The most evil vermin ever to draw breath!” His father lifted his head higher, and his whole being seemed to literally rise from the floor as he continued his diatribe. “I can’t believe it! They’ve tried and failed to get their hands on those skulls for the last four hundred years!”

  The air was chilly now. When the Phantom breathed, he could see his breath in the air. He rubbed his hands together, working warmth into them. “But they don’t have all three.”

  The Phantom hoped this would temporarily appease his father, but it was immediately obvious that it didn’t.

  “We don’t know for sure, do we? We don’t know how many they may have. In the wrong hands . . .” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea what it means if the Brotherhood gains control of the skulls?”

  “Yes.” He knew all too well. “They would be invincible.”

  Guran walked into the chamber. “Excuse me, Ghost Who Walks.”

  “Uh, yes . . . Guran.”

  He looked around curiously. “I thought I heard voices. Were you talking to somebody?”

  The Phantom looked over at where his father had stood; no one was there. The chill in the air had also vanished.

  Sometimes after these unexpected encounters, the Phantom wondered if he had actually been talking to a ghost. Maybe it was all his imagination; his way of working things out. After all, Guran had never seen his father. Or if he had, he’d never mentioned it.

  The only thing the Phantom knew for certain was that when he asked to see his father, demanded to see him, or asked for proof, his father never appeared. Then when he was certain that he’d never really been visited by him, the apparition would appear again.

  “Only myself, Guran. I was talking to myself.”

  Zak lay on a pile of thick blankets inside the mouth of Skull Cave. The Phantom’s home. His hideout. He’d heard that no one knew where it was, and now he was really here. This was the most exciting day of his life. Nothing like this had ever happened to him.

  He would like to stay here and se
e all the great things that the Phantom could do. Maybe he could even help him. But how could he help Ghost Who Walks? He was just a kid and not a very big kid at that.

  Then he felt the kerchief in his back pocket. His father’s kerchief. No, he couldn’t stay here. He had to get his father free from the bad men. Maybe Ghost Who Walks would help him. Zak was sure that he wanted to find out where the bad man named Quill had gone. And Zak suddenly realized that he knew where Quill would go. He would return to the ship where his father was being held captive.

  The main street of Zavia was unpaved and lined with two-story wood-frame buildings that were, without exception, badly in need of paint. Most of them were gambling dens, houses of ill-repute, and bars. There were a couple of restaurants featuring Bangalla home cooking and a couple of places to buy supplies. Most of the buildings rented out rooms on the second floors.

  The road slanted down a steep hill to the port with its long dock. There were a string of native huts along the shore and two dozen colorful fishing native boats. Occasionally foreign ships would dock here and sometimes hire new crew members from the town’s sailors and ex-cons.

  It was a squalid town, but it was a haven for outcasts. Nobody asked too many questions, and the closest thing to the law was the Sengh Brotherhood, who resolved all disputes by quick and often lethal means.

  Quill limped up the long wooden sidewalk from the harbor to the center of town with his leather satchel over his shoulder. He was tired and bruised, but he was glad he was back in town, safe and alive, and carrying the ticket to his future. Now he just wanted to go to his room to recover and lay low for a while.

  He had caught a ride to the port on a horse and wagon after he’d talked the Jungle Patrol into driving him to the main road. The officers were so astonished by the collapse of the bridge and his story about how it had happened that they hadn’t even bothered asking him what he was doing out there. Quill had told them that the Phantom had shoved him out of his truck and driven it wildly onto the bridge, causing the collapse.

  The Jungle Patrol rarely came much closer to Zavia than its outpost, headquartered a few kilometers outside the town. Off-duty patrolmen were warned to stay out of town for their own good. On rare occasions when they came into Zavia, it was usually to deal with a problem related to the tribal population. The bonos were left alone unless they made trouble with the tribal population, and even then the Brotherhood often intervened before the patrol arrived.