DesiGuru's World

The book tells the story about Kit Walker, son of the 20th Phantom, who will one day grow up to take over the mantle from his father and become the 21st Phantom.

The book starts with Kit's birth in the Skull Cave. Several chapters are dedicated to him growing up in the Bangalla jungle, where the readers get to see events and lessons that shape him to the man he will once become.

When Kit reaches the age of 12, he travels to Clarksville, USA, to receive a proper education (it is a tradition in the Phantom family that the children are sent away to their mother's homeland for education). Kit lives with his mother's sister and her husband in Clarksville.

Kit is a brilliant student, and receives excellent grades in every subject. Kit proves to be a talented sportsman, and is predicted to become the world champion of a number of different genres (he even knocks out the boxing champion of the world in a match when the champion visits Clarksville.

Kit also meets his future wife-to-be, Diana Palmer, on a Christmas party on his school.

Despite being able to choose practically any career he wants, Kit faithfully returns to Bengalla to take over the role of the Phantom when he receives word from his childhood friend Guran that his father, the 20th Phantom, is dying from wounds he received in a battle with pirates trying to rob a jungle hospital.

You can read this book online by clicking the individual chapter links:

[Chapter - 01]
[Chapter - 02]
[Chapter - 03]
[Chapter - 04]
[Chapter - 05]
[Chapter - 06]
[Chapter - 07]
[Chapter - 08]
[Chapter - 09]
[Chapter - 10]
[Chapter - 11]
[Chapter - 12]
[Chapter - 13]
[Chapter - 14]
[Chapter - 15]
[Chapter - 16]
[Chapter - 17]

For offline reading, download the files:

PDF Download - Formatted and ready for print.
TXT Download

Hope you enjoy this classics Phantom Novel!

CHAPTER 17

LONG LIVE THE PHANTOM

As he stepped into the torchlight, a roar came from the pygmies. Every man, woman, and child of the tribe of pygmies was there.

"The Phantom is dead. Long live the Phantom," they cried, using the ancient formula a long-dead Phantom had taught them.~ The smiling little people crowded about him to touch him. They had all loved his father. But there was no more sadness. These jungle people lived close to the earth and to the eternal cycles of life and death and the renewal of life in all living things. So there was no sadness. Their old friend was gone, but he had returned young and strong again. Now Kit realized the wisdom and importance of the Phantom costume. He was accepted without question, receiving all the acclaim and honors his ancestors had earned before him. It was his duty to uphold this honor.

He walked slowly to the Skull Throne while the laughing little people swarmed about him. To them, life was normal and good again. The Phantom was back. He sat on the stone throne with its stone skull carved on either side. This throne symbolized his role in the jungle as Keeper of the Peace. And on occasion, the tribal chiefs would gather here to discuss their problems with him or to settle disputes. But no Phantom had ever attempted to rule, and was not regarded as a ruler by any of the jungle folk. He was their ancient friend, whose only mission was to help bring peace among the perpetually warring tribes, and to help punish evildoers.

"Phantom, Phantom," the Bandar shouted, as they prepared a great feast in the clearing before the throne. Their shouts could be heard even beyond the roaring waterfall, and careless jungle folk who had wandered too close to the Deep Woods left hurriedly, wondering what strange ceremony was occurring among the pygmy poison people.

As he watched the preparations for the feast-which included the carcass of a small elephant and would go on for a week-images were racing through his mind. Clarksville, Harrison, Diana. Kit Walker Day. What had happened at the stadium? He would ask Diana someday, for he intended to see her again as soon as he could. But not as Kit Walker.

Now as he sat on the ancient Skull Throne, the seat of his ancestors, with the Bandar cries of "Phantom, Phantom," ringing in his ears, he was no longer Kit Walker, the Harrison phenomenon. That Kit Walker was gone, dead. He had become nameless, or many-named. For men of many nations would use many names for him in their own tongues, some of them unprintable. He would move in the shadows, his face never to be seen again except by his wife and the children of his blood. His would be a life of mystery and danger, and he was to create terror in evildoers and happiness for people of goodwill. And he would work alone, for this was the Phantom credo. The Ghost Who Walks. The Man Who Cannot Die.

A dozen little hands pulled him from the throne to the waiting feast. And what a feast! The pygmies had labored over it, and expended the energy of the whole tribe to gather and prepare it. Some was cooked, some raw, some skinned, some unskinned, some with feathers or scales intact; animals, fish, and fowl. And there were roots, herbs, nuts, and berries. The pièce de resistance, placed directly before Kit, was a hulking portion of elephant meat, half scorched for his benefit. It had been a major triumph for the little people to kill this monster, and it was a special treat for their guest of honor. He realized that this was his first chore, and it was not an easy one. Like Aunt Bessie so far away, they'd be unhappy if he didn't eat.

He looked at the mountain of rancid flesh before him. There was no escape. All eyes were watching him. There were no knives and forks here. He reached forward and ripped off a greasy morsel. They waited. He looked around at the rows of anxious little faces. Like hosts everywhere, they were awaiting his verdict.

"Here goes," he thought to himself, and holding his breath, began to chew.

That was a signal for happy bedlam among the Bandar.

They danced arid shouted.

"Phantom, Phantom. Long live the Phantom."

"Not for long, if I have to eat like this," he thought. There'll be some changes made in the menus of the Deep Woods. Still watching him, the pygmies began to gorge themselves. He took another deep breath, held it, and began chewing the greasy tough chunk again.

His father's last words had been: "There will be good times and bad times."

"I wonder which he would call this," he thought, grinning. But as he looked around at the friendly faces, so happy to please him and so happy to be with him, he knew the answer. He was home again.

CHAPTER 16

THE CRYPT

As he entered the cave, he instinctively looked for his beautiful mother. She had always been waiting there for him, just inside the entrance, out of the hot sun. He realized with a sickening feeling that she was no longer there. How long ago had she died? Five, six years? There had been that letter. He ran out, past the chamber of costumes and the Chronicles, past the major and minor treasure rooms with their glittering contents ("A whole roomful?" Uncle Ephraim had said, looking at the handful of jewels.) Now he reached the large rocky chamber where his father lay on a pile of furs. Two pygmies sat near him. They rose when Kit entered and quickly left.

His father was clad only in a loincloth. His chest, legs, arms, shoulder and forehead were wrapped in white bandages, covering more than a dozen wounds. His eyes were closed as Kit approached him.

"Father," he said.

The Twentieth opened his eyes. He had been expecting his son and was not surprised. He looked up at him, at this son grown to powerful young manhood. He smiled faintly, and in a soft voice said words uttered by parents in all ages.

"How you have grown."

Kit remembered the mighty body of his father from the days of swimming on the beaches of Keela-Wee and Eden, and from dips in jungle pools. Now, the attrition of his deadly battles was evident. He had lost weight, and the movement of his hand was slow and weak as he touched Kit's arm~ Kit sat beside him.

"You're going to get well, father," he said. His father shook his head. Again his deep voice was faint so that Kit leaned forward to hear him better.

"I'm living on borrowed time. Axel predicted I'd be gone by now. I fooled him." He laughed softly, an effort that turned into a wracking cough. Kit took his hand.

"Kit I am dying. I stayed alive to see you. There is not much time. Remember the Oath?"

Kit nodded, pressing his father's hand.

"Yes," he said, "I remember."

His father began the Oath of the Skull, pausing after each phrase so that Kit might repeat it.

"I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice, and my sons and their sons shall follow me."

That done, the Twentieth raised his left hand weakly.

"The rings, Kit."

Kit hesitated.

"Are you certain, father?" he asked. The rings were the final step.

"The rings," said his father, his voice more urgent and hurried now.

Kit removed the ring from the left hand and gave it to his father. Trembling, the father placed it on the ring finger of Kit's left hand.

"For the protection of good people," he whispered, fighting for breath. "The other."

He could no longer raise his hands. Kit removed the ring from the right hand. This was the death's-head ring, bearing the skull, the ancient symbol of the Phantom, known to all the jungle folk, to pirates of the seven seas, and to evil doers everywhere.

With Kit's help, his father slipped the skull ring onto his right hand.

"The ring of the Oath, Kit. Be faithful to it."

"I will be faithful to it."

"You know the rest-the mask-" began his father.

Kit bent low, speaking near his father's ear, "The mask for secrecy," he answered.

"The treasure."

"The treasure, used only for the good," he answered.

"The Chronicles."

"It will be written."

Kit was repeating the words he had learned as a child. His father's hand suddenly grasped his, desperately.

"Kit, your mother missed you so much-wanted to see you once more-must wait-now-"

He was struggling to say something else. His body trembled with the effort, and his hoarse whisper was so soft Kit could barely hear him.

"Kit, there will be good times-and bad times-"

Kit waited for more, his ear near his father's lips, but there was no more. A rush of breath, his hand relaxed. Breathing stopped. He was dead.

Kit lowered his head and sat in silence. Guran had said, "He said he will wait for you. He wills it."

He was right. Such was the strength of this amazing man. By some mysterious force in him, he had held off death long enough to see his son. He had willed it so.

Kit sat for some time in meditation next to his father in the flickering light of the torches set in the rocky walls. Then, from the early training, he knew what was required. He picked up his father and carried him to that musty cool chamber called the Crypt. He must do this alone, for that was the tradition of his ancestors. The chamber was lined with their vaults, from the First to the Nineteenth. Next to the latter was the undated tablet, the Twentieth. Near it on the floor was a stone box containing old iron tools. When had his father put that there? With the tools, he removed the undated tablet. Behind it was a metal casket. When had his father obtained that? It was the morbid task of each Phantom to select and install his own casket. Kit removed the casket, and carefully placed his father in it. He bent down and kissed the still-warm cheek, and memories of this patient generous man flooded his eyes with tears.

"Good-bye father," he whispered.

He replaced the metal cover and slowly returned the casket to its niche in the wall. Then, the next duty. Among the iron tools were a hammer and chisel. This was also his task, since none but the Phantom or his family could enter the Crypt. After marking numerals on the tablet with a crayon also found in the stone box, he began to chisel slowly and carefully: Below, the Twentieth, the years of his birth and death. That done, he hammered the tablet into place. After sweeping the floor and replacing the tools, he wearily surveyed his work. Now, the ancient line stretched from the First to the Twentieth. Twenty generations of bold unselfish men who had dedicated their lives to the fight against evil, and to promote the good. Now that he knew the outside world and had studied the past, Kit realized that this Phantom line was unique and without a parallel anywhere that he knew in the entire history of mankind. His sadness was replaced by pride as he looked at the vaults. "My family," he thought. "I am one of them."

He looked again at the freshly chiseled plaque covering his father's vault. Next to it was another undated plaque. That would be his someday. The Twenty-first. That was an odd thought. But it did not disturb him. To youth, as to soldiers going into battle, death is for other people.

Now he stepped out of the vault to the room of costumes, as was prescribed. There, on a stone bench, was a costume waiting for him, mask, hood, tights, trunks, gun- belt, and guns. How long had this been waiting for him? He put on the outfit. It fit. He almost smiled at that. Through the years in America, his parents had asked him to write his height and weight each year, so they could follow the growth of their absent son. It was a sentimental request. With those annual reports and photographs they felt closer to the development of their child as he grew to manhood. But in the last years, it had a practical use as well. The costume fit.

He often wondered about this particular costume. It seemed unsuited for the jungle. His father explained. The First had created the costume to fit the superstitious image of a certain avenging spirit that people of the jungle and coast believed in, in that era. The fear his appearance created helped him in his battle against the wild barbarism and savagery of his time. His son and those that followed continued the use of the same costume, and the legend of immortality started, that he was always the same man. That too was a major aid in the single-handed struggle against evil.

By the light of a burning torch, he looked at his image in the long metal mirror that had been his mother's. His appearance surprised and almost shocked him. Until one looked very closely, he looked just like his father. Roughly the same size, and the same outline. He picked up the two guns. They had been his father's. Beautiful polished deadly weapons. How soon would he have to use them, he wondered? A fleeting thought crossed his mind. Of those bandits who had attacked Father Morra's missionary school-the battle that caused his father's death-six had been overcome, but six had escaped by fleeing into the jungle. They must be found and brought to justice. He put the guns in the holsters, then drew quickly, as he had practiced so many times. He knew his life might depend on the quickness of that draw. Replacing the guns, he walked to the next chamber containing the Chronicles. Here, torches burned. A large new volume lay on the podium near the shelves of the volumes containing all the adventures of twenty Phantoms. He opened the new volume. The pages were blank. There was a quill pen and a small container of ink made of wild berries. He wrote the date at the top of the page and made his first entry.

"June 17: Today, my father died of wounds suffered at the hands of bandits who had attacked Father Mona's missionary hospital. He killed or wounded six. Six escaped. It will be my purpose to capture those six as soon as possible and see that they are properly punished by law."

He walked slowly through the treasure rooms. The "minor" treasure room heaped with jewels and gold. How Uncle Ephraim would love to see this! Then the major treasure room with its priceless objects of antiquity. He picked up the heavy glittering cup of Alexander, carved from a single giant diamond. He smiled, remembering how he had dropped it and his father's anger; and his father's description of Alexander. "Some call him Great." He had been in these rooms a thousand times. But now it all seemed different. The responsibility for all this was now his.

He knew the Bandar were waiting outside for him. He walked back through the vast cave, stopping once more at the Crypt. He stood there in silence. For a fleeting moment, he had the strange impression that a host of smiling masked faces looked down upon him from the walls and ceiling. A whisper seemed to come from them, and it echoed and re-echoed in the rocky chamber.

"Welcome. We trust you."

He shook himself. The faces were gone. Imagination is a strange thing. But he looked proudly at the line of vaults, from the First to the Twentieth.

"I will do my best," he said.

And he walked slowly out of the cave where a hundred torches burned, to where the gathered Bandar awaited him.

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.

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 Llongo 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 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. They were brave, but the poison weapons of the pygmies were well known. A simple scratch meant death, in agony, or so it was reported, and none wished to prove the point. In moments, they were gone.

The pygmies looked curiously at Kit. None could see the little boy who had left so long ago. Guran explained rapidly in the clicks and clacks that formed their tongue. Kit greeted them in the same way. They came out of the bushes and down from the trees, and embraced him like the long lost friend that he was. Some of them had been children with him.

But the happy greeting was heavy with sadness.

"Is my father alive?" Kit asked them.

"He is alive," they told him, but they said it without joy. Kit raced toward the waterfall, filled with anxiety and anticipation. Other pygmies came out of the bushes to greet them. Ahead was the roaring, foaming waterfall, the secret entrance to the Deep Woods. Surrounded by the pygmies, Kit rushed through the torrent. The cold mountain water drenched him, washing off the dust of days, and invigorating his tired body.

As he came out of the waterfall, the entire village was waiting for him. The little men, women and children stood silently watching him. The big bronze man was little Kit! A few smiled shyly, but this was not a happy homecoming.

Kit's breath quickened. There was the Skull Throne, and the Skull Cave as he had seen it a hundred times in his dreams and in his daydreams. The old chief, Guran's father, stepped forward. "Welcome, Kit," he said, with quiet dignity. "You have returned in good time. Your father is waiting for you." Kit ran into the cave.

CHAPTER 14

WHERE IS KIT WALKER

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?"

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

CHAPTER 13

THE RETURN OF GURAN

"Guran," Kit called, leaning out of the window. The little man nodded, satisfied he had come to the right place. Kit was about to tell him to wait, and to go down to meet him, but Guran didn't wait. There was a drainpipe on the wall, and he quickly climbed up to Kit's window. He came into the room and the two faced each other.

Ten years had passed since they'd seen each other. A full decade. Guran, now thirty-two (Kit figured rapidly), seemed unchanged, a stocky little figure whose head barely reached above Kit's waist. Guran looked up at Kit. He had left a slim boy. He now faced a powerful young giant. They looked at each other awkwardly. Kit's first impulse had been to embrace his old friend. But Guran seemed stiff and formal, and, at a second glance, had changed. He was heavier, his face lined, and more mature. In the brief moment before Guran spoke, Kit had a sinking feeling of apprehension. Why was he here?

"I bring you a message from the Deep Woods," said Guran in his simple pygmy tongue. "Your father asks that you return at once."

"Is he sick?" said Kit, trying to read the stolid face.

"He is dying," said Guran. Like all his people, he did not mince words. He came to the point. Dying? His father, the Twentieth? As strong as an oak, as solid as granite? It was not possible. His legs suddenly felt weak. He sat in a chair.

"Dying. How Soon?" he asked.

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

"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?

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.