CHAPTER 6
GOING AWAY
For many years, Kit had been told that one day he would visit his aunt and uncle in America. It was vague and meant nothing to him. But now, it was startling news. Go? When? In a month. Why? For proper education. Why can't I stay here and study with you, mother? Because I've taught you all I can. You need proper education. Why America? Because your aunt, my sister, is there.
The different generations of the Phantom had found their wives in many countries. Some were from northern and western Europe; some from Middle Eastern and Mediterranean countries; some from the continents of Asia and Africa, some from the Americas, north and south, some from the islands of the oceans. And traditionally, the male child was sent to the nation of his mother for higher education, if such existed there, or to the nearest nation that supplied it. Kit's mother had been raised in America, her sister now lived there in a small Midwestern town, and that is where he would go to continue his education.
Kit was an even-tempered boy, but for a time he brooded and sulked. What was America? A strange, frightening place. He didn't want to go. He considered running away and talked over the plan with Guran. Guran discouraged the idea. He couldn't run far in this jungle with headhunters and cannibals out there. Besides, no matter where he went, his father would find him quickly. There was one happy note. Guran was to go with him. Guran was now a full-grown man of twenty-two, a sinewy strong pygmy, a half-foot shorter than the twelve-year-old Kit.
There were many instructions for Kit, about traveling, about the people he was to live with, and about his behavior away from home. There was the matter of city clothes, and-worst of all-shoes. Neither Guran nor Kit had ever worn foot covering of any kind. After a brief trial, Guran flatly refused to wear shoes, but accepted simple sandals. Trousers and shirts annoyed him, but he pretended to accept them, vowing to shed them at the first opportunity. Kit was less fortunate. He had to learn to wear shoes, and they were sheer torture for him. The clothes were less annoying, though he had expected to wear a skintight suit and mask like his father. He learned that men in America did not dress that way.
Finally, the day came. The entire pygmy Bandar was on hand to watch the departure of Kit and Guran, son of the chief. Kit raced through the Cave, having a hurried last look at the crypt, the Chronicles, the costumes, the treasure rooms. Then he held back his tears as he kissed his beautiful mother and father good-bye at the entrance of the Cave. He carried a small duffel bag holding his few needs. He would get what he needed in America. His clothes for the voyage-and his shoes-were also in the duffel bag. Guran carried only a slim sheath made of hide, containing his bow, arrows, and lance. He and Kit would make the trip through the jungle in their customary loin- cloths. Kit's father handed him a small leather sack to put in his duffel.
"These are funds for your upkeep and education. Give it to your uncle when you get there," he said.
Beautiful mother stood in the shadow of the Cave. She could not hold back her tears.
"Good-bye darling," she whispered, kissing him again. That was his memory of her, trying to smile, standing in the Cave entrance with his father towering beside her. He would never see her again.
Accompanied by a dozen pygmies, they all started away at a slow jog, and, without looking back, passed through the roaring waterfall to leave the Deep Woods. His father's words, his last words remained clearly in his mind for years to come. "Remember all we've taught you, Kit. We love you and are proud of you. Write to us. Remember us."
Remember? How could he forget them, the Cave, the animals, the Golden Beach, the Isle of Eden, and the jungle?
A half day from the Deep Woods, in thick jungle, a party of one-hundred Wambesi warriors awaited them by prearrangement. They did not know who the boy was, only that word had come from the Skull Cave asking for the escort. The Wambesi joined the party, but kept clear of the tight escort of the pygmy Bandar. Like all jungle folk, they respected and feared the small poison people. Further on, another group waited, one hundred Llongo warriors. They too joined the procession. As the long column passed through the jungle trails, more tribes sent their warriors. By the time the procession reached the sleepy seaport capital, it was a thousand strong-warriors from the central jungle, bright in their feathers, ornaments and ceremonial paints. Bells jangled at their ankles, their laughter and delighted shouts sounding like an approaching storm. Few of them had ever been out of the jungle and they were amazed by the sights of civilization. For their part, the natives of civilization were equally amazed, and terrified as well. The column looked like an invading army. Alarmed phone calls poured into the Jungle Patrol headquarters. But the Jungle Patrol had been alerted. Two of their vehicles headed the column, guiding it to the wharves. At the head of the column strode Kit and Guran.
Kit had paused at the edge of the town and donned his clothes and shoes, and bravely tried to conceal a limp as the crowds on the sidewalk stared at him. Guran was wearing his sandals, but he refused to go any further. The pygmies were the great revelation. No one in the town had ever seen one of the pygmy Bandar, but everyone had heard about them, and their deadly weapons. Apprehensive glances were cast at the quiver of arrows on each small shoulder and at the short lance each carried. The town was buzzing with this event. Why were they here? Who was the boy?
A large tourist ship stood at the wharf. Hundreds of passengers lined the rails to look at the colorful parade. Some thought it had been staged for their benefit. But when Kit stepped to the gangplank and waved his hand in farewell, a wild roar came from the thousand jungle throats. And townspeople and tourists alike wondered who this boy might be. A prince? Son of a king? Or of a president? Who was to tell them this was the twenty-first generation of the Phantom? Not Kit. Not Guran, who smiled somewhat fearfully at his side. This was Kit "Walker" (for the Ghost who Walks), off to America, to go to school.
They stood at the railing and looked out to the small town and the forest and mountains behind. The jungle escort was filing away from the docks, headed for home. The roar of the ship's whistle momentarily panicked the warriors before they realized what it was. Then shrieking, and with much laughter, they raced out of the town. Kit and Guran watched them as the big ship moved slowly into the bay. They avoided looking at each other, for both had tears in their eyes. Good-bye Bangalla.
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