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.
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