CHAPTER 10
THE SCHOOLBOY WONDER
With Guran no longer waiting at the house for him, Kit began to remain at the academy after school hours to watch the teams practicing. The track and football teams were on the playing fields outside. Boxing, wrestling, and fencing teams worked out in the gym. He watched them all, comparing their techniques with those he'd learned in the Deep Woods.
But he did not participate in anything, still uncertain about his acceptance by his classmates. One afternoon, he was fascinated to see an archery lesson in progress on the school lawn. It was a class of seniors, run by Mr. Hobbes, Kit's English literature teacher who was also the school's track coach. Mr. Hobbes was an archery enthusiast, and during summer vacations went into the north woods or the Western mountain country to hunt with bow and arrow.
Kit sat on the grass and watched. He was surprised by the size of the long bows and the straight steel-tipped arrows. Quite different from the crude pygmy weapons he had grown up with. He was amused by the awkwardness of the big boys, and by their lack of skill. But he hid his amusement behind an impassive expression. Mr. Hobbes, in his demonstration, was not bad at it, Kit decided, though he wouldn't last long in the jungle. Too slow and inaccurate. That night, Kit thought about those beautiful big bows and arrows and longed to try one. The next afternoon, he returned to watch them again. Mr. Hobbes had noticed him and was pleased to see him. He was curious about this somber boy from the jungle who rarely spoke in his class but learned quickly.
Near the end of the class, Mr. Hobbes called to Kit, asking him if he'd like to try. Kit hesitated. The seniors, seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, looked at him with interest and no hostility. They'd heard about this strange boy, but as upper classmen, had no contact with him. Kit's eagerness to hold the bow overcame his shyness, and he grasped it with obvious delight. If only Guran could be here to see this beautiful bow! It was twice as long as the bows he had used. It was strung tightly, but so were the pygmy bows.
"Maybe that is too hard for you," said Mr. Hobbes. "I can adjust it to a lighter pull."
"No, it's okay," said Kit, using an expression he had heard in the schoolyard.
He flexed the bow several times, then examined the arrow, holding it horizontally extended from his eye to observe its trueness. Beautiful. Mr. Hobbes watched him sharply. As an archer, he recognized the experienced feel that Kit was showing. Then Kit threaded the arrow in the bow and took his stance facing the target a hundred feet away.
"You can get closer if you want," suggested Mr. Hobbes.
"This is okay," said Kit.
He bent the bow in a wide arc, as far as it would bend. Mr. Hobbes and the seniors stared. They knew the tough quality of this bow, and how hard it was to bend. This slim seventh grader was stronger than he looked. Then Kit released the arrow. It hid the outer edge of the bull's-eye. All applauded, but he turned in annoyance to Mr. Hobbes.
"May I try another?" he asked. "I'm not used to this bow."
Amazed, Mr. Hobbes handed him another arrow. Once more, the bow was bent into the wide arc. Twang! Bull's-eye, dead center.
More applause.
"Fantastic!" said Mr. Hobbes. "Can you do that again?"
Kit nodded. He did it five more times. All bull's-eyes, the arrows bunched in a tight clump.
"That's the most perfect shooting I've ever seen," said Mr. Hobbes enthusiastically. "It's remarkable!"
"Not so remarkable," said Kit thoughtfully. "I've been using a bow ever since I learned to walk, since I was two, or three."
They all sat on the grass.
"What did you shoot? Tell us about it," said Mr. Hobbes.
The biggest animal he'd ever killed was a wild boar that had charged out of the bushes at him one day when he was hunting with Guran, he told them. But he had shot many smaller animals-for food, he added quickly-he did not hunt for sport in the jungle. Mr. Hobbes and the boys were fascinated. They wanted to hear more, but Kit had talked enough that day. He said he had to go home to do his homework. "English lit.," he added, smiling at Mr. Hobbes.
That afternoon broke the ice for Kit. He had a few more sessions with the archery class. Word spread about his ability and the student audience grew each day- among them, his classmates from the seventh grade. They watched his amazing shooting and his easy camaraderie with the seniors and Mr. Hobbes. Now, in the cafeteria and the schoolyard, Kit no longer sat alone. He was sought after by many boys in other grades as well, and friendly rivalry developed as to who would sit with this interesting boy.
Kit had flexed the bow, but he had not yet really flexed his muscles. That came one day when he wandered into the playing field to watch the track and football teams at work. Mr. Hobbes, the coach, was the first to get him involved. He invited him to join the runners in the sprints and the longer runs. When Kit agreed, Mr. Hobbes told him he could find some track shoes or sneakers in the locker room, as well as a track suit.
Kit removed only his jacket, shirt, socks and shoes, running barefoot on the cinder track. And he ran like a deer that first day. Even the football players working in the center of the big field stopped to watch him.
The milers were getting in shape that day, and Kit joined them, eight times around the big oval. The coach timed them casually with a stopwatch. Time wasn't important yet. Training had just begun. But when Kit lapped the others at the halfway mark and raced on, his long hair flying like a mane, other runners and football players alike crowded around the track coach and his stopwatch. They began to shout encouragement to Kit as he raced by. When he finished the laps and walked over to the group, untired and breathing easily, they stared at him.
"This stopwatch must be broken," said Mr. Hobbes. Kit examined it with interest.
"You were timing me. If I had known that, I would have run faster."
Later the stopwatch was checked. It was not broken. It was accurate.
"It would appear," said the coach, his eyes bugging slightly, "that this schoolboy ran a second slower than the world's record. And according to him, he wasn't even trying.
Such news gets around. A crowd was out to watch Kit run the next day. But he was watching javelin practice. He asked if he might try. He knew about this. They gave him the javelin. With an easy swing, he threw it into the stands, farther than anyone at Clark Academy had ever done. Then he tried everything the team offered. Discus, high jump, broad jump, and sprints. He excelled in all the events. Obviously, the new boy was a phenomenal athlete.
The football coach, Mr. Hackley, reached out for him. Kit was unfamiliar with the game, but after watching a few scrimmages, joined in, again barefoot. Receiving the ball, he sped to the goalpost without a hand touching him. On a second try, he drove right through the line, where an open hole was supposed to be. But wasn't. That didn't stop him. He moved like a racing tank, bowling over teammates and opponents alike and made another touchdown. He trotted over to the coach, smiling, for he enjoyed this rough-and-tumble game.
"Was that all right?" he asked.
Mr. Hackley nodded blankly, his mouth hanging open in amazement. This boy wasn't real.
Kit remained with the football team, but also took time out for boxing and wrestling, two sports he knew and enjoyed. No one at the school knew either judo or karate, so he taught them. His prowess at sports increased ~his popularity with his classmates, and this acceptance made him happy and lessened his loneliness. He hadn't forgotten the Deep Woods, and wrote to his parents every week. He had not told them about running away. Why worry them, now that it was all over? He told them about the fun he was having on the teams. His father's letter was to be expected: "Don't forget your books." The letters from home, with the exotic stamps, intrigued Bessie and Ephraim, as well as the boys at school, some of whom saved stamps. Kit didn't tell them the letters were written by torchlight in a cave, and carried by fast relay runners to the seaport. That would be hard to believe. But Kit took his father's advice, and worked as hard on his books as on his teams.
When the practice period was over, and the games and meets began, fame came quickly to Clark Academy and their star athlete whom some dubbed, "The Schoolboy Wonder." He ran like a whirlwind through the schoolboy teams, still barefoot. As the ground became harder and colder, Mr. Hackley convinced him to wear shoes. Kit settled for sneakers. In the indoor track meets that winter, he broke a dozen junior records in the sprints and longer runs, and in several field events such as javelin, broad jump, pole vault, and discus. In boxing and wrestling, he was unbeaten in his division.
It is not too surprising that Kit excelled in these sports. From the moment of his first steps in the Deep Woods, he had had rigorous daily physical training so that his body development and coordination were superb. Boxing and wrestling were good for Kit. Here he learned to fight for sport rather than for survival. It amused him when the school paper's sports column described him as having a "killer instinct" in the ring. He no longer tried to kill, only to win, as the ship's captain had advised so long ago.
One day in the late autumn, a terrible thing happened at the Clarksville zoo. The black panther had turned on his keeper, badly mangling him, and had escaped from its cage. Kit remembered the animal from his earlier visits to the zoo, the glittering yellow eyes, the restless beast prowling in its cage, stalking everyone who passed by. And he recalled that the keeper's own words were, "Look at those eyes! Crazy! He's a killer. Loves to kill. Never turn your back on him." Evidently, the keeper had forgotten his own advice. He had turned his back momentarily while cleaning the cage and the animal had leaped upon him. He had been taken to the hospital in critical condition, and the killer was loose on the town.
The news created an instant furor in Clarksville. The schools were uncertain whether to keep the children there or send them home. Most of them decided on the latter course and told their children to rush straight home. The children didn't need to be told twice. Many of them had seen the black panther in its cage, and there was no loitering that day or stopping at the corner candy store.
The police and firemen spread across the town, searching. The streets were empty as tradesmen shut their shops and people in automobiles headed for their garages. Shotguns and rifles and handguns were taken from closets as people anxiously watched their yards. It was a frightening thing to have this creature loose in the town.
Several dogs in the park near the zoo were the first victims. They went after the big black cat, perhaps not realizing it was different from the cats they usually chased. After all, it looked like a cat, and smelled like one. Two were destroyed at once. A third managed to escape, badly mauled. Then the black beast vanished into the thick bushes.
Police moving with the keepers carefully searched through the area. They carried heavy nets and guns but the keeper's advice was to shoot on sight. It would be difficult to take this big cat alive.
Kit had been on the way to an archery class with Mr. Hobbes when the news came. Everyone in the school was promptly dismissed and told to go home at once. Kit rushed off with the bow and a quiver of steel-headed arrows over his shoulder. In the excitement, no one at the school noticed this. Alone, he prowled the empty streets. Houses were shut tight and frightened faces peered through the windows. An occasional adult or child dashed breathlessly to a house and hurried inside. A policeman shouted at Kit to go home. He nodded and went on. He finally reached the park. All the nursemaids and baby carriages had long since fled. Even the usual bums sunning on the benches were gone. A few police and keepers moved in the distance, carefully combing the bushes.
Kit found the dead dogs that had been killed by the panther. The sight did not disturb him. He had seen jungle kills before. He looked about quickly, trying to guess the direction the panther might have gone. There were thick bushes on two sides. The police were moving through them. On a third side, there was a low wall with bushes and a lawn beyond. This was a school for girls. He knelt near the slain animals which were within a few yards of each other. There were tiny flecks of blood among the pebbles, barely noticeable. He visualized the drops falling from the claws or fangs of the panther as it raced away. Bending down close to the path, he followed the flecks. They led directly to the wall. On the wall, he found a faint smear. The panther had leaped over the wall, lightly touching it. He looked about for the keepers and police, but they had disappeared into the bushes.
He climbed over the wall, and carefully examined the ground beyond. It was lawn, worn away in some places with patches of dirt or dust. It was not difficult for Kit to follow the panther's trail. Its claws dug slightly into the grass and dirt as it sped over the open ground. The trail led over a hill toward a clump of bushes and trees near a group of brick buildings. This was the girls' school, and as he moved cautiously toward it, he was alarmed to see the big doors open and the young girls pour out. This was one school that had not sent the children home at once, having decided they'd be safer there. But so many phone calls came from anxious parents that they finally decided to send the girls out with strict orders to go directly home.
Kit ran toward them. Some deep instinct coming out of his training told him he was near his prey. It was an almost subconscious tightening of muscles, a sudden increase in alertness and a quickening of breath and heartbeat as his adrenals pumped into his bloodstream. It was a familiar feeling, common to hunters and hunted in the jungle.
There was a scream from the girls. Some of them were running under a huge oak tree. They were looking up, screaming as they ran. Several fell down on the path. Above them on a big branch, partially concealed by brown autumn leaves was the black panther. It was crouched, ready to leap.
Teachers and students on the steps, in the doorway, and at the windows, all screamed. Girls in their uniforms of blue-black skirts and white shirts, ran in all directions, their braids flying. Books and papers fell to the ground as they bumped into each other in their panic. Perhaps it is fair to say there was only one cool head at that moment: the hunter's.
In a motion so fast it was almost a blur; Kit pulled an arrow from his quiver and threaded it into the bow. Then the panther leaped, a bloodcurdling snarl coming from its open jaws.
The long bow was bent in a wide arc. Then ... twang! The steel-headed arrow met the panther in midair striking it in the side. The beast crashed to the ground only a few feet from several fallen girls. But it was not dead. It whirled, furious, on the ground, trying to grasp the arrow in its jaws. The nearest girl on the ground started to crawl away frantically. During these split seconds, the panther managed to get the arrow in its teeth and jerk it out. Then it crouched, panting from exertion, dripping red foam from its jaws. The "crazy" yellow eyes darted from side to side as the girls screamed and ran, and crawled in all directions. It was at its most dangerous now, a wounded animal at bay. Not far from it, one young girl was having trouble moving away. She had twisted her ankle and was crying and in pain as she tried to move on one foot, and knee, and hands. She could be the first victim, and this beast could move among the children like a tornado, destroying a dozen in moments. Now it made a tentative move toward the hobbling girl. She screamed in terror, but a figure flashed between her and the panther. Again, the bow was in a wide arc. The crazy eyes focused on the upright figure, the jaws widening, and with a bloodcurdling roar, it leaped at him. Twang! The steel-headed shaft drove a foot into the beast's body, through the heart, cutting into the spine. And the panther dropped like a rock, stone-dead.
For moments that seemed endless, the entire crowd of onlookers, girls and teachers, were silent, frozen by the utter terror of the scene. It was during this silence that Kit picked up the girl, her little body shaking with sobs.
"It's all right. Don't cry. He can't hurt you now," he said.
With the girl in his arms, he turned to the crowd. "He's dead," he said. There was an outcry of relief from everyone. Some of the students wept, still terrified by the event. But girls and teachers alike swarmed around Kit, carefully avoiding the beast on the path. Several women took the weeping girl from his arms, and a fat woman with a big pile of white hair, silver pince-nez glasses, and an enormous bosom, embraced him.
"Oh you wonderful boy, you wonderful boy," she said, laughing and sobbing. She was the headmistress of the school. Other teachers crowded about him, patting him on the back, shaking or kissing his hand. He endured it stoically, not trusting himself to speak yet. For tension and fear had gripped him violently, and now that it was over, his body trembled. He hoped no one would notice.
The teachers called their students back into the building. There was no reason to go home now. The headmistress asked him to come into her office for tea. He nodded and said he would join her in a few moments. He walked over to the dead panther. A few of the school children and teachers watched him from the steps and from the windows.
The beast was lying in a pool of its own blood, lips curled up over white fangs, the yellow eyes open, no longer "crazy." This type of big cat was never friendly, he knew. But what had made it so abnormally vicious? Suspicious, evasive, stalking.... Someone, a trapper, a dealer, or a keeper had mistreated it badly when it was small, so much so that it feared all beings with the human scent. He tugged at the arrow. It wouldn't come out. The first arrow, chewed in half, was still in its side. This worried him. He had taken the equipment without permission. Would Mr. Hobbes be angry with him, he wondered. He knew the archery sets were Hobbes's private property and did not belong to the school. Oh well, he thought, as he walked away from the panther, arrows didn't cost too much. He could replace them.
He refused the headmistress's offer of tea, but accepted a glass of milk. She then wanted him to come to the auditorium where the student body and faculty were waiting to greet him. But he couldn't face this, and excused himself, saying he had to get back to school. He walked between rows of admiring teachers and students in the corridor, then ran down the stairs. A garbage truck was standing on the path, and the men were lifting the panther.
"Wow, a heavy one. How much you figure?"
"Three hundred pounds anyhow," said the other one.
"Heard a kid shot him with that arrow."
"Wow."
They tossed the body on the truck. Kit trotted after the truck as far as the school gates. He felt remorse for the animal lying on top of the garbage. It was an ignoble end for the powerful creature. He ran all the way to the school, and went down to the locker rooms to return the bow. The school was almost empty, having been dismissed-but a few were still there, among them Mr. Hobbes.
"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Hobbes, that I borrowed the bow. Two of the arrows are gone, but I'll pay for new ones."
The news of Kit's feat bad already reached them. They stared at him.
"Two arrows ... gone?" Hobbes managed to stammer. "Gone?"
"I had to use them," he replied. "How much are they? I'll bring the money tomorrow."
Hobbes put his arms around Kit. "My boy," he said. "My boy, my boy." He was too moved to say anything else.
When Kit reached home, there were neighbors, newsmen, cameras, and microphones on the porch. Inside, the phone was ringing constantly and Aunt Bessie and Uncle Ephraim were bursting with pride and excitement. They embraced the boy, as the newsmen and newscasters made a rush for him. He answered their questions briefly, stood with his aunt and uncle for the cameras, then ran up to his room where he fell upon his blankets on the floor, drained and exhausted. He fell asleep at once and did not move for many hours.
He awoke when it was dark, and was amazed he had slept so long. He had not know how tired he was. Then he realized that tension and fear had drained him. The memory of his fear worried him. Except for the time he had killed the wild boar-and Guran and the others were with him-he had never faced death before. And he had never known real fear before. Deep down, was he a coward? Did his father ever feel fear? He brooded and worried about this, and wrote his father about this.
His father replied, by letter, that he always felt fear when facing real danger, that all men did, unless they were stone drunk, or lying, and that fear was part of nature's equipment for survival. "Fear and anger come from the same wells in your body," he wrote, "and in all my experience, intelligent living things are aware of both. Fear for flight, anger for attack, and often a combination of both. Yes, Kit, all men know fear. I have been afraid many times. Some are childish, are foolish enough not to admit it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Aunt Bessie wrote us about your archery feat. Mother and I are proud of you, though Mother was upset. She didn't think you'd run into a black panther in Clarksville on the banks of the Mississippi. (Neither did I.)" The letter was signed with his father's "good mark"-the symbol of the ring on his left hand-"closer to the heart."
But that letter would come a bit later. That night, when he awoke from his sleep of exhaustion, the phone was still ringing, and people were still babbling on the porch. He crept down the back stairs and entered the empty kitchen. He was hungry, and took milk and fruit from the refrigerator. Aunt Bessie entered, her eyes shining.
"You're awake. Poor boy, you must have been so tired. Oh Kit, do you know who that little girl was you picked up, the one you saved?"
He shook his head, munching on an apple.
"Her mother's a dear friend of mine, and she says her little girl knows you. Her name is Diana Palmer."
Now he remembered, the little girl who had found him on the bank of the swimming hole with Guran.
"Is she okay?" he asked.
"A sprained ankle, that's all," said Aunt Bessie. "Oh Kit, so many people are waiting to see you."
The town rang with Kit's feat for weeks. Unfortunately, there had been no cameras during the actual event, but the story was mentioned from coast to coast. It was the first time the name Kit Walker had been seen. It was not the last time.
Life returned to normal as he went back to his routine of classes, sports, and homework. It wasn't quite the same as before. He had become a town hero, and everyone in Clarksville knew him. People nodded and smiled at him when he walked through the street. People standing by the fence, watering their lawns, or working in their gardens waved and chatted. It was a warm, good feeling, as though he had been born and raised there, as though they had known him all his life. All his anxieties, fears and loneliness were at rest now. Though he had an occasional pang of missing his parents, he was content and happy in Clarksville.
Then one day, a letter came from the Deep Woods. There weren't many. The last one had been weeks before, about the black panther. He opened this one eagerly. Then he crumpled it and dropped it to the floor, and went to his room where he remained locked in for several days, refusing any food. The brief note from his father said simply that his mother had died suddenly of jungle fever. The end had come while she was asleep. She had no pain. The letter told him to stay in Clarksville, as there was no reason for him to return now. Behind his locked door, Kit wept, no schoolboy wonder, but a lonely, unhappy child. Beautiful mother. Like a jungle animal that crawled into hiding when it was hurt, Kit had to be alone with this pain. When he came from his room, thin and red-eyed, he accepted his aunt and uncle's condolences silently, and talked no more about it.
|
