DesiGuru's World

Little Kit's world was deep jungle, largely unexplored, and unknown to outsiders. The closest town was five hundred miles of trackless jungle away. It was a thousand miles from the ocean on one side, at the capital of Bangalla called Mawitaan, to the Misty Mountains on the other side, the land of the feudal mountain princes. In between, deep jungle filled with all the grass-eaters: hippo, elephant, rhino, antelope, and all the great predatory cats that fed upon them. Also people, friendly tribes, like the great Wambesi and Liongo; hostile, suspicious people like the smaller Oogaan; in some remote areas, avoided by the others, cannibals; and the nomadic Tirangi, said to be headhunters, ever on the move with their goats and sheep.

In the very center of this vast area, known as the Deep Woods, lived the pygmy Bandar, the little poison people. Entrances to their land were hidden and secret. But no one in the jungle, including headhunters and cannibals, attempted to find them. On the contrary, all avoided the Deep Woods, a dreaded and mysterious place. For there was a greater mystery in the Deep Woods. A few lucky ones-or unlucky ones depending on circumstances-have seen with their own eyes the Skull Cave and the Skull Throne. Some had even seen the Phantom. Lucky ones who returned home talked about it for the rest of their days. And their tale was retold by their Sons and grandsons.

But to baby Kit, the Deep Woods were neither dreaded, mysterious, nor awesome. He learned to crawl in the Skull Cave. He took his first steps there, watched by the anxious eyes of his beautiful mother and father. To the toddler, the Cave was gigantic. Its rocky walls soared above him like a vast cathedral. And as he learned the use of his legs and raced around like a frisky puppy, he found endlessly fascinating places to explore. There were many rocky chambers. One was filled with objects that flashed like fire. Another was gloomy, shadowy, and cold. Another had long rows of things he learned were books. Yet another had recesses hung with garments such as his father wore. And another was filled with marvelous objects he longed to touch, and one day did. He climbed up on a case and touched a long shining metal thing that hung on the wall. It was sharp, and pricked his finger.

A shining object caught his eye. He knew what that was-like his drinking cup-but larger, and heavier, as he found when it fell from his hands. His father came into the chamber at that moment, and quickly picked up the cup, examining it carefully. For the first time in his young life, Kit heard the sharp voice of his father admonishing him. Pretty mother came in and took the weeping child in her arms. He rarely heard harsh words between his parents; this was an unusual occasion. "The diamond cup of Alexander," his father said in an angry voice. "He might have broken it. He must not come in here." "He's only a child. He didn't know," said mother. Father forgave him, but several years passed before he was taken into that chamber again.
The toddler learned to talk, as toddlers do. Kit's learning was different from most children's. It didn't seem unusual to him that every object had many names, and that there were numerous ways to say all the things he began to say. His mother and father were fluent in a dozen languages and used them interchangeably, almost without thinking. And so Kit grew up learning to speak many tongues. The pygmies were his constant companions-as soon as he was old enough to be outside the Cave-and he learned their language and several other jungle tongues they knew.

The world outside the Cave held endless fascination. There were the pygmy children, of course. He ate with them, played with them, ran with them, and fought with them. When he had barely mastered the art of walking, they taught him the use of bow and arrow, how to throw a lance, and how to stalk wild animals. One pygmy in particular became his constant companion. He was Guran, son of the chief. Guran was ten years older than Kit and had been selected by his father to teach Kit the pygmy skills and to act as a bodyguard for the child. This kept Guran busy, as anyone knows who has tried to keep up with an active little boy. There were the usual things that fascinate boys: sharp-pointed objects, thorn bushes, boiling liquids, animal traps, campfires, wells, pools, streams, swamps, cliffs, and high trees. In addition, the jungle offered army ants, tarantulas, poisonous snakes, quicksand, and other special attractions. Kit managed to investigate all of them, with the panting and exhausted Guran always a step behind him, pulling him up, pulling him down, pulling him away from wherever or whatever it was.

Then there were the animals. Even before he could walk, Kit was always surrounded with young animals. Lion and leopard cubs, fawns, and young monkeys. As he toddled outside the Cave, the young animals gamboled with him, Fuzzy the lion cub, Stripes the tiger, and Spots the leopard. They rolled and ran and tumbled together. The furry cubs slept with him. At this tender age, Kit began to learn the care and training and handling of animals under the expert tutelage of his father. When the fangs and claws grew too large for the child to play with, the animals were sent off to a secret place that he would learn about later on.

With Guran, he learned how to build snares to trap little furry animals. Some were kept as pets. Some were eaten. In the deep jungle, hunting was never a sport, and animals were never killed except for food. He began to ride with his father on the great black stallion, Thunder. Jungle folk had given him that name because of the sound of his huge hooves. At first, Kit rode on his father's lap. Then he sat ahead of the saddle, clinging to the long black mane.

At seven, his father brought him a shaggy little pony and he rode proudly alongside his father. This was a sight to see. Little Kit on his tiny pony could almost ride under Thunder's belly. Almost every morning when his father was home and not away on some mysterious mission, they would ride, before the day became too hot. Kit loved these times best; the quiet jungle paths, the shade of the high trees, and the chattering of birds and monkeys in the branches. Unseen animals scurried among the thick bushes as they approached. Always his father would identify the unseen animals by the sound of their movement. And as they rode slowly by, his father named trees and bushes and fruits and berries, and told him which were good to eat, which were not, and which had curative powers. These little lessons were repeated daily, and gradually sank into the small head, never to be forgotten.

There were endless things to learn, but it was all fun. His father was a good swimmer, and they frequently stopped by a quiet pool. And while their horse and pony grazed, Kit learned to swim on the surface and under the water. And he learned to dive, at first from the bank, then from greater heights. And, from his father, the little boy learned the arts of self-defense boxing, wrestling, and karate. He practiced these with Guran and his other pygmy friends. At first he was no match for them, but with constant practice and exercise he grew wiry and strong, and soon could hold his own. His father was a great hunter who knew all the skills of the jungle folk and a few more they had not mastered. With him, Kit practiced shooting the bow and arrow, and throwing spears, skills the pygmies had first taught him.

Then, in a remote clearing, he learned the use of fire arms, a skill upon which his life would depend a hundred times over in the years ahead. He started target practice with small-caliber pistols and rifles, and gradually worked up to larger weapons. His father, a dead shot, was amazed by his proficiency. Within a few years, he was even out shooting his father, much to the big man's delight. But at no time did they use animals or birds for target practice. While he was being taught the deadly use of weapons, both father and mother filled him with a knowledge of the uniqueness and precious quality of all living things. Animals were only killed in self-defense, or for food. In the jungle, hunters depended on their weapons and skills for survival, never for sport. This attitude was ingrained in young Kit. Another attitude he learned concerned fighting other humans, with weapons or bare- handed. Again, in the jungle code-save for occasional ceremonial games or boyish play--fighting a man was a serious matter. Whether with knife or fist, you fought to save your own life. Such fights, in the grim jungle code, were fights to the death. Years would pass before Kit learned to box and wrestle for mere pleasure or exercise.
But there was more to learn than the skills of the jungle. There were reading, writing, and arithmetic. Kit learned these strange arts-unknown to his pygmy companions-from his beautiful mother. Sitting at her feet in the Skull Cave, or outside on the dais of the Skull Throne, he would patiently write his alphabet and multiplication tables, and struggle through the elementary readers. These books showed a strange world of houses, bicycles, automobiles, and little boys and girls in odd clothing. Kit had never seen a house, nor a pair of shoes, and his only clothing was a loincloth, like Guran's. Mother carefully explained the pictures to him, the trains and planes and cities and skyscrapers and policemen. But they were only words, and meant nothing to the little boy.

His pygmy friends were puzzled and irritated by these mysterious lessons, which seemed useless to them, and served only to take up Kit's time and cut into their fun together. But Guran watched curiously, and Kit insisted that he share his lessons with him. Guran refused at first. This made Kit unhappy, and he refused to look at his books or tablets unless Guran would do the same. So Guran joined him at the feet of his beautiful mother, and learned the mysteries of the little books. In a race history dating back to the Stone Age, Guran became the first pygmy to read and write and do arithmetic. This had a profound effect upon him, and years later, when he became ruler of the Bandar, he installed teachers and a system of education among his fierce little people.

One day, word came that a large wounded tiger was terrorizing the fields of the Wambesi. The Wambesi had no weapons to cope with this marauder and asked the Phantom to help them. People were always surprised to learn that tigers lived in this jungle. It is well-known that lions and tigers do not inhabit the same areas, yet here they both were in the Bangalla jungle, avoiding each other whenever possible. Lions had been the lords of this jungle for eons, lording it over leopards, panthers, and all the rest. When the tigers appeared, the lions tried to assert their authority and destroy them, but the lions soon changed tactics. They learned that a full-grown male lion was barely a match for a male tiger. The battles that were staged were bloody, with the tiger winning the advantage. So the great cats respected each other, and divided territories accordingly. But how did tigers get to Bangalla? The answer-as his father explained to young Kit one day-is a curious one. A shipload of wild animals bound for the European zoos was wrecked, during a storm, on Bangalla's rocky coast. While the ship shook itself apart in the violent surf, most of the animals escaped onto the land. Many of them had never before been seen in Bangalla. Kangaroo, Indian elephants (with the small ear~), bears, mountain wolves, and many others, including a dozen tigers. Some were destroyed by animals and hunters. Some survived and multiplied. The tigers were among the latter.

In a few short generations, they had become native to Bangalla.

But the tigers was still a strange and awesome cat to the jungle folk. News that a wounded man-eater was abroad chilled their blood. Phantom!

Kit begged to go along with his father. He went, over his mother's strenuous objections, when his father promised he'd come nowhere near the battle. Guran went along as an extra precaution. Kit rode proudly on Shaggy, his little pony, next to his father on mighty black Thunder. Guran followed on a little mare named Natala, after an ancient queen. As they neared the Wambesi village, they saw evidences of the tiger. A few oxen, brutally slain, and barely eaten. "This tiger must be berserk," commented the father. "Unlike leopards who occasionally kill out of pure bloodlust, the tiger kills to eat. This one is mad." The boys shivered. A mad tiger!

The Wambesi were waiting behind closed gates in their compound. It should be said that the Wambesi, old friends of the Phantom, were among the bravest warriors in the jungle. Occasionally they captured big cats in pits or even with massed spears. But this great mad tiger was too much. They took him where they had last seen the monster, thrashing through their barley fields. The Phantom had brought along a heavy rifle, a single-shot type that could bring down an elephant, if properly aimed. He also carried a heavy spear and two pistols at his belt. He instructed Kit and Guran to remain in the village. The Wambesi looked curiously at Kit, not knowing who the boy might be and too agitated to care at that moment. Kit was unhappy. He wanted to go along, but his father said no, sternly, and the dispute ended there, followed by a shout and an uproar in the village.

Horrified, all at the gates looked inside the compound. A terrifying sight! The tiger had gotten into the village, over the wall, and was stalking a group of terrified women and children running toward the gate. There was sudden pandemonium. All ran in all directions, shouting and screaming. All save Guran, Kit, and his father, who put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "Wait here," be said, and ran forward with his heavy spear. His rifle was left behind. With people milling in all directions between him and the stalking tiger, he couldn't shoot.

The uproar had one good result. It halted the tiger momentarily. It crouched near a hut, snarling, watching the terrified screeching crowd crisscrossing, falling, jumping, and running round him. Then, as the crowd scattered, there was a clearing. The Phantom, spear in his hands, faced the crouching monster. And monster it was. He'd never seen a bigger tiger. It has been said that no one man in all history ever faced a full-grown Bangalla tiger with only a spear. An entire war party of warriors has been known to spear a great cat to death with a score of spears, but one man? Never.

Now, as the Wambesi froze and stared from all sides, there was a sudden deathly silence. Back at the gates, Kit and Guran watched. Trembling, Guran touched Kit's shoulder to comfort him. The little boy seemed attentive, but completely unafraid. Perhaps he was unaware of the danger his father faced. Perhaps, to him, it was just another illustrated lesson.

Not a sound anywhere. Even the crackling and chattering from the surrounding jungle seemed to have hushed. All eyes-of the people on the ground, of birds and monkeys in the trees, furry animals in the bushes-all eyes were watching. The Phantom, spear held poised in two hands, pointed toward the crouched tiger and studied the beast. A broken spearhead protruded from a flank. The beast had been wounded by a careless or terrified spearsman. A painful wound ... hence its fury. The Phantom knew cats. He would have liked to have helped this one to escape, but it was too late. The tiger had focused upon him. The enemy. Man with a spear. His jaws widened and a great roar surged from him, a roar that froze every vestige of animal- or birdlife for a mile around. And then he leaped-ten feet long, eight-hundred pounds of iron muscle, six-inch fangs-leaped at the man. There is no more frightening sight in all nature than the charge of the tiger. The great bulk moves like a flash. The roar paralyzes. The Phantom met the charge by driving the point of his heavy spear into the heart of the tiger. His powerful body strained, held for a moment that was brief but long enough, then went down under the momentum and weight of the tiger's charge. All watched without moving. A tiger on top of a man, the man hidden under the huge body. Then movement, from under the tiger, as one arm emerged . . . then a leg, as the man crawled out from under the beast. The tiger was dead when he hit the ground.
The man stood silently for a moment, looking at the dead animal. There was no feeling of triumph in him, only sorrow that this had had to be. He loved all animals. All about him respected this moment of silence. Then he turned slowly and smiled toward Kit in the background.

Kit shouted happily and ran toward him. That was the signal for all. There was bedlam in the Wambesi village. Hundreds poured in from outside the walls, from the fields and hills where they bad hidden. The jungle came alive with crackling and chattering as the birds, the monkeys, and furry animals passed on news of the event in their own manner. And the tom-toms began to beat, passing on the story from valley to valley, over jungle and desert, so that all the world might know.

After a kiss and embrace, Kit stood proudly by his father as the Wambesi swarmed about him. A few boys started hitting the dead tiger with sticks and stones. The Phantom called to them. "Stop," he said. "Skin the tiger for the value of its hide. Then carry the body to the fields where the carrion may feed upon it. For such is the chain of life in the jungle. But do not dishonor yourselves by mistreating the dead beast. It only followed its nature." Shamefaced, the boys did as they were told, and the Wambesi who were wise in the ways of jungle life cheered and applauded this wisdom. And Kit looked up at his father in admiration. Another lesson to be remembered. And like many another boy with a father he admires, Kit told himself that day, "When I grow up, I want to be like him." He told as much to Guran and Guran agreed that it would be a good thing.

His father was not always in the Deep Woods. Sometimes he was away for days and weeks, sometimes for months. He called these absences "missions," and Kit was uncertain what they meant, only that his father was busy somewhere doing something. But during these missions, the people around Kit were tense. The pygmies kept watch at the secret entrances, and his mother waited up at the Cave mouth until long after dark each night. Sometimes she would sit with Kit until he was asleep on his pile of furs. She read to him, but sometimes she couldn't continue because she was too worried and nervous. Usually, warning shouts of welcome from the woods told them be was near, and all rushed to the clearing before the Cave to await him. Then would come the sounds of hooves like an approaching storm as Thunder came racing through the waterfall bearing the powerful masked figure. That was a time of rejoicing, kissing, and hugging. He rarely spoke of where he had been, or what he had done, but was happy to relax before a fire with his wife and son, his pygmy and animal friends, and enjoy a homecoming feast.

Once or twice he came back nursing wounds, a knife cut in his shoulder, a grazing bullet wound on his arm. Then beautiful mother anxiously cleansed and bound his wounds as he assured her they were trivial and didn't hurt. Once they were not trivial. This time there were no distant welcoming cries from the pygmy sentries. Thunder raced through the falls with his master clinging to his neck. When Thunder stopped before the Skull Cave, the father slid to the ground in a dead faint. Six pygmies carried the massive figure into the Cave to his pallet of animal furs. This time he was badly wounded, suffering from a dozen knife and bullet wounds. It was a month before he could come out of the Cave, and another month before he could ride on Thunder.

He told Kit and Guran the story. He'd been in a desperate battle with river pirates who had been terrorizing villages along the banks. Though the boys were avid for details, he told them only that he had boarded the steamer, met a few of the pirates, made his way to the ship's ammunition magazine, and ignited it, blowing up the ship and sinking it. "How many pirates?" Kit wanted to know. "A few dozen, I guess. I didn't have time to count," was the reply. "What happened to them all when the ship sank?" The father answered, "The ones able to swim made it to shore, where the people were waiting for them." One of the ones who made it to shore was his father, but barely. That was all he had to say about the event, but word trickled through the jungle via messengers, tom-toms, and travelers. Single-handed, he had overcome a dozen vicious armed bandits and blown up their ship, scattering the remaining two dozen bandits to the tender mercies of the river crocodiles or the warriors waiting on the shore. There were no policemen in the jungle. No law. Only the Phantom. But Kit would learn more about that in time to come.