by Lee Falk
The Slave Market of Mucar - Lee Falk
PROLOGUE
HOW IT ALL BEGAN
Over four-hundred years ago, a large British merchant-man was attacked by Singg pirates off the remote shores of Bangalla. The captain of the trading vessel was a famous seafarer who, in his youth, had served as cabin boy to Christopher Columbus on his first voyage to discov¬er the New World. With the captain was his son. Kit, a strong young man who idolized his father and hoped to follow him as a seafarer. But the pirate attack was disas¬trous. In a furious battle, the entire crew of the merchant-man was killed and the ship sank in flames. The sole survivor was young Kit who, as he fell off the burning ship, saw his father killed by a pirate. Kit was washed ashore, half-dead. Friendly pygmies found him and nursed him to health.
One day, while walking on the beach, he found a dead pirate, dressed in his father's clothes. He realized this was the pirate who had killed his father. Grief-stricken, he waited until vultures had stripped the body clean. Then on the skull of his father's murderer, he swore an oath by firelight as the friendly pygmies watched. "I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty and injustice, and my sons and their sons shall follow me."
This was the Oath of the Skull that Kit and his descen¬dants would live by. In time, the pygmies led him to their home in the Deep Woods in the center of the jungle where he found a large cave with many rocky chambers. The mouth of the cave, a natural formation formed by the water and wind of centuries, was curiously like a skull. This became his home, the Skull Cave. He soon adopted a mask and a strange costume. He found that the mystery and fear this inspired helped him in his endless battle against world-wide piracy. For he, and his sons who fol¬lowed, became known as the nemesis of pirates everywhere-a mysterious man whose face no one ever saw, whose name no one knew, who worked alone.
As the years passed, he fought injustice wherever he found it. The first Phantom and the sons who followed found their wives in many places. One married a reigning queen, one a princess, one a beautiful red-haired barmaid. But whether queen or commoner, all followed their men back to the Deep Woods, to live the strange but happy life of the wife of the Phantom. And of all the world, only she, wife of the Phantom, and their children could see his face.
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Generation after generation was born, grew to manhood, assumed the tasks of the father before him. Each wore the mask and costume. The folk of the jungle and the city and sea began to whisper that there was a man who could not die, a Phantom, a Ghost Who Walks. For they thought the Phantom was always the same man. A boy who saw the Phantom would see him again fifty years after; and he seemed the same. And he would tell his son and his grandson; and the grandson's son and grandson would see the Phantom fifty years alter that. And he would seem the same. So the legend grew. The Man Who Cannot Die. The Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom.
The Phantom did not discourage this belief in his immortality. Always working alone against tremendous- sometimes almost impossible-odds~ he found that the awe and fear that the legend inspired was a great help in his endless battle against evil. Only his friends, the pygmies, knew the truth. To compensate for their tiny stature, the pygmies mixed deadly poisons for use on the tips of their weapons, in hunting or defending themselves. II was rare that they were forced to defend themselves. Their deadly poisons were known through the jungle, and they and their home, the Deep Woods, were dreaded and avoided. Another reason to stay away from the Deep Woods: it soon became known that this was a home of the Phantom.
Through the ages the Phantoms created several more homes or hideouts in various parts of the world. Near the Deep Woods was the Isle of Eden, where the Phantom taught all animals to live in peace. In the southwest desert of the New World, the Phantoms created an eerie on a high sheer mesa that was thought by the Indians to be haunted by evil spirits and became known as "Walker's Table"-
for The Ghost Who Walks. In Europe, deep in the crumbling cellars of an ancient, ruined castle, the
Phantom had another hideout from which to strike against evildoers.
But the skull cave in the quiet of the Deep Woods remained the true home of the Phantom. Here, in a rocky chamber, he kept his chronicles, the written records of all his adventures. Phantom after Phantom faithfully wrote his experiences in the large folio volumes. Another chamber contained the costumes of all the generations of Phantoms. Other chambers contained the vast treasures of the Phantom, acquired over centuries and used only in the endless battle against evil.
Thus twenty generations of Phantoms lived, fought, and died-often violently-as they followed their oath. Jungle folk, sea folk, and city folk believed him the same man: the Man Who Cannot Die. Only the pygmies knew that a day would always
come when their great friend would lie dying. Then, walking alone, a strong young son would carry his father to the burial crypt of his ancestors where all
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the Phantoms rested. As the pygmies waited outside, the young man would finally emerge from the cave, wearing the mask, the costume and the skull ring of the Phantom; his carefree happy days as the Phantom's son were over. And the pygmies would chant their age-old chant, "The Phantom is dead. Long live the Phantom."
This story of the mysterious slave markets of Mucar is an adventure of the Phantom of our time-the twenty- first generation of his line, He inherited the traditions and responsibilities created by four centuries of Phantom ancestors, one of whom created the Jungle Patrol. Thus, today, our Phantom is the mysterious and unknown commander of this elite corps. In the jungle, he is known and loved as The Keeper of the Peace. On his right hand is the skull ring that leaves his mark-the Sign of the Skull-_known and feared by evildoers everywhere. On his left hand, closer to the heart, is his "good mark" ring. Once given, the mark grants the lucky bearer protection by the Phantom, and it is equally known and respected. And to good people and criminals alike-in the jungle, on the seven seas, and in the cities of the world--he is the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die,
Lee Falk
New York
1972
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CHAPTER 1
THE OLD TRADE LIVES
The shriek of a tropical bird disturbed the heavy silence of the afternoon. Thin shafts of burning sunlight found difficulty in penetrating the steaming recesses of the jungle. A snake slithered across the path and a water-buck, pausing to drink by a muddy stream, lifted its head, startled. For it was not the wind, hot and heavy, blowing off the furnace of the desert beyond the forest, that disturbed the wild and savage creatures of the jungle, but a man-made intrusion.
The twentieth century had penetrated even to the edge of the desert, bringing with it schools, factories, and other improvements of man. But in the desert itself little had changed in a thousand years and in the jungle beyond life-and death-went on much as it always had. Though the footsteps of man were not unknown, even here in the jungle, the creatures of the wild had learned to fear man with good reason.
Today the cries of men, the creak of leather and straps, and the occasional agonized groan of a camel, were the causes of the disturbance. The striped skin of a tiger, rippling with muscle, blended with the stippled sunlight filtering through the fronds as the beast jumped down from the bole of a fallen tree. The shuffling footsteps of the camels passed not a dozen yards away, but the great animal had already passed like a shadow into the deeper forest beyond.
There were about thirty camels in the bedraggled procession that passed from the bleak spaces of the desert into the grateful shade of the forest rim. The men riding the camels were mostly Arabs and Berbers from the border tribes. They wore ragged clothing and their turbans were worn askew on their greasy hair,
hut their knives and other weapons were well cared for and the hard look in their eyes betrayed the fact that they were ready to kill quickly and ruthlessly if there was profit in it for themselves.
At the head of the procession rode an Arab whose soft leather boots, gold rings on his fingers and jeweled kris at his belt proclaimed him to be of superior quality. His piebald pony kept deferentially a few paces or so behind the white horse ridden by his companion, who was evidently in charge of the entire caravan and whose followers treated him with respect. This rider, who gazed so arrogantly forward as he eased himself in the saddle, had a brutal, high-cheekboned face with the skin tanned the color of old leather. His close-cropped blond hair showed gold in the sunlight as he removed his pith helmet momentarily to wipe the sweatband with a red and white handkerchief.
A gold tooth glinted in his mouth, re-echoing the pale shade of his hair. He replaced the helmet with a sigh and spurred his horse forward. He wore a sweat-drenched open-neck shirt and brown riding breeches held in with a heavy buckled black belt that strained against his stomach. His thickset body exuded perspiration at every pore. A Luger in a black holster slapped gently against his thigh as he rode.
"This desert gets hotter with every year that passes." he told his companion in a hoarse, guttural voice. 'If ever I give the trade up, heat will be the cause.'
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The man at his side, who had a narrow face bisected by a black pencil mustache, smiled a lopsided smile.
"You say that every trip, sir. That is why the jungle comes as such a refreshing change. Now, to a man of the desert like myself..." The thickset man spat heavily over the pommel of his saddle.
"Desert men, Zadok," he said. "Don't talk to me of them. We all know what desert men are like. Cruel, degenerate, and infinitely cunning. As I've cause to know."
He pointed meaningfully to a thin white scar which ran down over one high cheekbone on the right side of his face.
The man called Zadok flushed beneath his dark skin. "You must speak as you believe, sir," he said. "But as in all nations there are good and bad. There are desert men and desert men."
The big man grunted and spat again.
"Perhaps," he rejoined grimly. "You are of the desert, Zadok. Things are different for you. I have yet to find a good one."
He smiled a cruel smile, his fleshy lips drawn back from his strong yellow teeth, and passed a hairy forearm across his mouth. He glanced at his wrist-watch frowningly.
"Another three hours," he sighed. "Then we reach Mucar, not ahead of schedule."
He turned to regard the stumbling line of men that stretched out hundreds of yards in the rear.
"Though God knows what this lot will fetch in the market," he said disgustedly. "Some trips it seems hardly worth the bother. They are a poor lot, Zadok, even for this country."
Zadok reined in his horse a little in order to drop back from his master, and shrugged.
"If you would rest them more, sir," he said, "they would be in better condition. More food and water, perhaps."
The big man in the pith helmet swore. He looked back over his shoulder sardonically.
"You wouldn't last five minutes alone in this trade," he snarled. "Your methods would liquidate any profit in no time. Men have changed. In my day the human frame was built to stand more."
Zadok fell silent as the procession got into its stride again. It was useless to argue with the big one. But Zadok smiled quietly to himself, his head turned aside into his face scarf, as he thought of the excellent profit he made each time they came to Mucar.
Behind the two leaders, forty-five men and five women stumbled and fell, rose and fell again, as they walked behind the camels, grass head-ropes about their necks, their hands bound firmly behind their backs. The old slave caravans, once banned under a wise and liberal government, lived again, and the ancient, forbidden routes were alive once more in the twentieth century. And the ancient city of Mucar, a timeless, forgotten town at the edge of the desert, had the largest and most profitable slave market of them all.
It was dusk when the caravan came to Mucar, the sun throwing long bars across the sand dunes as the camels once again turned into the fringe of the desert, away from the dim, green edge of the jungle seen beyond the horizon of shifting sand. But the air was cooler now and a chill wind blew, whirling minute
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grains of sand in their faces, so that the slavers and camel drivers pulled their head- dresses round their faces.
The shadows of the camels were long, thin silhouettes on the stippled edges of the dunes and the high, lonely cry of a muezzin calling from a tower in the city came to their ears. Even the big man was silent and affected by the weird beauty of the scene until they presently came to the principal gate of the city, which was guarded by sullen, bearded men with ancient Martini-Henry rifles in their dirty hands.
Zadok spurred his horse forward and made themselves known to the guards, who were strangers to him.
Mucar was one of the most heavily guarded of the desert cities and its trade was not advertised to the outside world. Had the caravan not been accredited and expected the slavers might have been massacred on the spot or, at best, turned back into the desert again. Even the man with the cropped head looked with respect at the hard-bitten faces of the sentries as the gates were unbolted for them to pass.
He had now donned a large black mask which covered the upper half of his heavily jowled features, and he would keep this on while he was in the public places of the city. He swiftly made for a tavern where he was known and expected, while Zadok whipped the weary band on to the great central markets where the auction would begin at midnight.
The slaver was back well before then, in rare good humor; with him were other slavers from the far parts of the desert, who were his drinking companions. They strode up and down the stalls in the private parts of the market which had been put aside for the slavers' use. Here the wretched human wares which would soon be on view were meagerly fed and rested until they could put on a show of simulated vitality when their turn came to go under the hammer. The big man laughed with satisfaction as the nude forms of five fine-looking Circassian women- the only females in his group-cowered under the buckets of water emptied over them by the grinning Arabs.
He sold one of the girls, a particularly desirable and nubile beauty of eighteen, to a colleague at a good price. He was in high good humor when it was his turn to present his wares soon after 1:00 AM
His was the second batch of the night and prices were warming up. He got better than average prices for the men and the women sold for sums which even he felt to be satisfactory. This was saying a great deal for a character compounded of ninety percent greed and ten percent self-interest. The big man was humming under his breath as he carried his clinking leather bags from the rostrum to a private stone-walled room at the rear of the market.
Gold was the only currency in use here-gold coins, glittering and jingling through the fingers and on to the cold surface of the stone table lit by the flickering flare of two hurricane lamps. Zadok's eyes gleamed as he watched the master count out the ever-growing piles. The addition was finished at last and the slaver pushed his pith helmet to the back of his head and filled his whiskey glass. He poured another for Zadok and the two men drank silently.
"To increasing prosperity," he said. He smacked his lips and refilled their glasses. The whiskey was provided by the city of Mucar, so he could afford to be generous.
Zadok stretched himself and arched his thin form languorously on the rough wooden bench opposite his companion. He wondered idly where all the slaves went once they had cleared the city. Some back to the desert tribes undoubtedly; others to hidden oases or mountain castles where no white man could guess their fate, much less interfere with the age-old trade. By dawn the inhabitants of Mucar would go about
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their business once again and no one-especially those in authority-would ever guess that an illegal auction had taken place
during the small hours of the night.
The big man yawned and scratched beneath his mask.
"I'm tired," he said. "But I suppose I'd better see Prince Selim before I sleep."
Zadok nodded, getting up from the bench.
"It's been a good night's work, Saldan," he said.
The big man snarled. Purple showed on his cheeks beneath the mask. He stepped forward, the muscles on his forearms quivering. Zadok staggered as Saldan's hand struck. The crack of the blow sounded like a pistol shot in the quietness of the room. Zadok fell against the wall. His face showed an ugly yellow where Saldan's open palm had cut across it. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of his mouth.
"Fool!" the big man hissed, his breath whistling through his mouth. "How many times have I told you never to use my name in public?"
Hatred flickered in Zadok's eyes as he stepped forward.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "It won't happen again."
"Just see that it doesn't," said the slaver grimly, picking up the loaded bags on the table before him.
Zadok passed his hand across his face; it came away scarlet. He went silently out into the night.
It was almost dawn when Saldan's white horse clattered into the courtyard of a heavily guarded villa in the Old City. The moonlight glinted on swords and pistol barrels as guards came forward to take his horse.
They relaxed when they saw who it was and one went running on ahead, opening the great iron-bound doors and bounding up the marble steps. Saldan knew that by the time he had reached the ornate mosaic-floored hall of Prince Selim's residence, his arrival would have already been noted by the ruler of Mucar.
His footsteps echoed hollowly through the corridors as he made his way towards the old man's private apartments. Nubians, heavily armed and with naked scimitars in their hands, stood before the entrance to the women's quarters.