Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15]

by The Curse of the Two Headed Bull (v0. 9) (epub)

  PROLOGUE

  HOW IT ALL BEGAN

  Over four hundred years ago, a large British merchantman 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 discover 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 disastrous. In a furious battle, the entire crew of the merchantman 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 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 son will follow me."

  This was the Oath of the Skull that Kit and his descendants would live by. In time, the pygmies led him to their home in Deep Woods in the center of the jungle where he found « large cave with many rocky chambers. The mouth of the: cave, a natural formation, carved 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 strangei costume. He found that the mystery and fear this inspired helped him in his endless battle against worldwide piracy

  For he and his sons who followed 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.

  Generation after generation was born, grew to manhood„ and assumed the tasks of the father before him. Each wore the mask and costume. 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 his son and grandson would see the Phantom fifty' years after 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 the legend inspired was a great help in his endless battle against evil. Only his friends, the pygmies, knew the truth., These tiny people, to compensate for their stature, mixed deadly poisons for use on their weapons in hunting or defense. But it 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. There was another reason to stay away from the Deep Woods—it soon became known that this was a home of the Phantom, and none wished to trespass.

  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 aerie 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 Walks. In Europe, deep in the crumbling cellars of an an cient castle ruins, 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, 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, used only in the needless battle against evil.

  Thus, twenty generations of Phantoms lived, fought, and died, usually 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, always, a day would come when their great friend would lie dying. Then, alone, a strong young son would carry his father to the burial crypt of his ancestors where all Phantoms rested. As the pygmies waited outside, the young man would 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 Curse of the Two-Headed Bull is an adventure of the phantom of our time—the twenty-first generation of his line. He has inherited the traditions and responsibilities created by four centuries of Phantom ancestors. One ancestor 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, 1975

  CHAPTER 1

  If you were on the beach that sunny afternoon, you’d have seen an unusual sight. Two full-grown jungle cats, a Bengal tiger and an African lion, galloping shoulder to shoulder like circus animals on the sand. Standing on their backs, one foot on each huge beast, balancing like a circus rider to remain upright, was a tall man clad only in a loincloth. His skin was bronze from the sun, and his body might have been carved by Michelangelo, so perfect were the proportions of his powerful physique. Thundering behind like children following a circus parade was an odd mixture of animals—a giraffe, a leopard, a zebra, a black panther, several varieties of antelope, an elephant, a gorilla. Watching them, you’d have the impression they’d shout and laugh like children if they could. If you looked at the lagoon next tp the beach, you would see two large dolphins leaping through the shallow water, keeping up with the parade. Beyond the lagoon and the sharp coral reefs that protected it from the open sea, you might have noticed a body floating on the gentle waves.

  The man, busy keeping his balance on his galloping mounts, had not seen it yet. For he was no circus rider, and these were not circus animals. None of them, with the exception of the gorilla, had ever seen a cage. The man was the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks, and the animals were his pets, living on his Isle of Eden.

  When the Phantom wanted to get away from it all, he often came to this remote little island. Eden is separated from the jungle by a broad river filled with piranha. These voracious fish, known to strip a full-grown steer down to bones in minutes, protect Eden from jungle animals, and keep the island animals from crossing as well. On the ocean side, coral reefs keep ships and swimmers, fish or mammals, from the island.r />
  Getting away from it all meant leaving the jungle proper and his home in his Skull Cave in the Deep Woods which was also home to his friends, the Bandar, the dreaded pygmy poison people; getting away from the many responsibilities placed upon him by the jungle tribes and twenty generations of Phantom ancestors. Among his duties were: Keeper of the Peace (it is said that in Phantom country, a beautiful woman clad only in jewels could walk the dark paths at midnight without fear); Arbitrator of Argumentation (this covered property disputes, water-rights disputes, stolen goods, lovers’ quarrels, wagers, territorial rights, etc.); Guardian of the Eastern Dark (this referred back to olden times of slavery, when cruel slavers invaded the jungle Trom the Misty Mountains to the east). In addition, the Phantom attended chiefs’ parleys, manhood initiation rites, weddings (“kiss the bride”

  . . . “my pleasure”), births (“brings the baby good luck”) and funerals. Added to all that, his role as unknown Commander of the far-flung Jungle Patrol. It is no wonder that often, as on this day, he sought the quiet and seclusion of Eden.

  The gallop ended when the Phantom lost his balance and somersaulted onto the sand. The lion and tiger nuzzled him happily, and were rewarded with petting; then they turned into the water, as the other animals crowded about their master, whistling, grunting, braying and coughing their delight. He petted each in turn, calling each by name (Baldy the gorilla, Stretch the giraffe, etc.), then followed the great cats into the water to cool off. The lion and tiger had gone to have lunch. The lagoon was heavily stocked with fish of all sizes, from fingerlings to twenty- or thirty-pound sea bass. From the time they had been kittens, he had raised all the cats on fish, gradually teaching them to catch their own. None of them had ever tasted warm-blooded meat, so they could live in peace with the grass-eaters, their normal prey. The lagoon was kept stocked with live fish by the Mori fisherfolk, old friends of the Phantom.

  As he swam lazily, fish veered toward him, then flashed away. As soon as the cats caught their lunch and returned to the sand to eat, the huge dolphins leaped through the shallows toward their master. They always waited until the cats left the water, never trusting them. They nuzzled him gently from either side, Solomon (the wise) and Nefertiti (the beautiful). He stroked them. They persisted in their nuzzling, and he knew what they wanted. He went to a tree near the beach where leather straps and a knife hung from a bough. Returning to the water, he placed a harness over each dolphin’s head. In a moment, they were off, leaping at high speed, while he hung on behind, holding onto the reins, wa-terskiing over the surface on his bare feet—a difficult trick performed only by experienced waterskiers. The dolphins loved this game and headed toward the coral reef which barely broke the surface. When they reached it, they leaped into the air over it. The Phantom, following, dove headlong over the reef, clearing the sharp edges by inches, then regained his stance behind the plunging dolphins as they headed into the open sea. It was exciting sport, touched with the danger that intrigued all jungle folk.

  Free of the shallow lagoon, the dolphins raced at top speed—thirty or forty land miles an hour. The water was cooler out here, the waves higher, and the Phantom thrilled to the speed and spray. Suddenly, the dolphins stopped, so suddenly that he pitched forward, almost landing on them. They looked at him, then circled slowly. He knew what that meant. Something' nearby—probably a shark.

  He looked about quickly. Yes, indeed. Several sinister fins, like small dark sails over the surface. He had brought the knife along for just such a possibility. However, with the dolphins, he had little fear of sharks. It was the other way around. Of all the creatures of the sea, the one sharks probably fear most are dolphins. Dolphins are faster and smarter than the slow-moving, myopic shark. Perhaps there’s some ancient enmity between these smart mammals of the sea and the prehistoric, cartilaginous beast called shark. Observers tell us the dolphin leaps about the shark like a relentless fury, hitting him hard, one side, then the other, rupturing the shark, butting him to death.

  He dropped the reins. Solomon and Nefertiti moved in slow, wide circles toward the moving fins. Then he saw something floating just beyond the sharks. A form—human —bobbing on the waves. Man or woman, adult or child, he couldn’t tell. Alive or dead? He swam toward it, knife in hand.

  There was sudden foamy churning to his left. Solomon had reached a shark. For a moment, a twenty-foot man-eater was visible at the surface as Solomon banged into him like a battering ram. Then both moved out of sight. To the right, closer, Nefertiti leaped above the surface in an arc, then landed snout-first below another fin. He could hear that encounter. A wham—like a fist pounded into a palm. Both sank out of sight He swam on toward the floating figure. A third fin was near it. He took a deep breath and dove deep in its direction. The shark was a whopper—another twenty-footer. It was nosing about close to a trousered leg that dangled below the surface. A man. One snap of those great jaws could remove that leg as cleanly as a surgeon’si scalpel. Sensing his approach, the shark turned toward him. He was now beneath the monster. He sliced his knife deepi into the gray belly above him, near the heart. Blood poured from the wound, staining the water. Now there was no timei to lose. He knew what would happen next.

  He popped to the surface beside the floating man, grabbed an arm, and swam away as fast as he could, pulling the man with him. There was something tangled around the arm, a strap attached to a bulky yellow object. No time to stop for a look now. The shark, fatally wounded, was thrashing about, still searching for his prey while his cold life’s blood poured from him. As the Phantom moved away as fast as possible with his burden, another shark brushed past him. The rough filelike sharkskin scraped his leg, but the beast gave no heed to him, so intent was it on reaching its wounded fellow. Whether or not this was one of the sharks attacked by the dolphins, he didn’t know. He did know that other sharks would join it rapidly in a mad orgy of eating. They’d be drawn by the taste of blood spreading through the water.

  Sharks go crazy with the taste or scent of blood, and this is what was happening now. Several sharks were chomping at their wounded but still living fellow, churning the water, leaping and bouncing against each other in their frenzy to get at the meat. The Phantom swam on as fast as he could. The crazed sharks might turn on him at any moment. He felt a soft body brush him. Not rough sharkhide that could rip like teeth, but sleek and smooth. Nefertiti! He grabbed the trailing rein and, in a moment, was being dragged across the water at high speed, still clinging to the man. Solomon joined, circling and leaping over him, guarding against further shark attack.

  Reaching the reef, the dolphins leaped over it. He dropped the reins, and carefully, slowly climbed over the sharp coral with his burden. He paused on the rocks to look at him. The* man seemed to be dead . . . but were his lips trembling? The Phantom continued over the rocks into the lagoon. For behind in the open sea, he could still see the hungry sharks at their mad feast. As he moved through the shallow lagoon, he now saw what was tangled on the man’s arm. A yellow canvas vest, the sort usually carried on boats.

  He waded toward the beach .with the man lying limply in his arms. The dolphins leaped behind him, fish swam between his legs, and on shore the animals waited. Until now, lie hadn’t had a good look at the man’s face. It was a face he’d seen before—Old Murph.

  As he placed the old man carefully on the sand, the animals crowded around to see what plaything he’d brought them. He waved them away and searched for signs of life —a heartbeat, respiration. The signs were there, faintly. The lips barely moved, the eyelids fluttered open for a second. The eyes were unfocused. He was trying to say something. The Phantom bent close to his lips.

  “Damn thing . . . damn thing ... true . . . true . . . how you like that...”

  The voice trailed off. The old man sighed. His eyes seemed to glaze. His breathing and his heart stopped simultaneously. The Phantom instantly started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, then artificial respiration. It was too late.

  The Phantom had seen
him several times in the past years. He was a character, well known to the tribes and well liked. In his younger days, he had managed a small trading post, and went from village to village, bartering goods. Later, he served as a guide and translator for visitors from the outside. He always drank too much, but had a reputation for honesty and fair dealing. What had brought him to this remote beach to breath his last?

  He showed little sign of exposure to the sea and sun. Evidently, he hadn’t been in the water long. What had killed him? Heart failure? Shock? Amazing that the sharks hadn’t gotten to him in that infested water. This was more amazing, when in briefly examining the body, the Phantom found the cause of death. Two wounds in the area of the heart. Two parallel holes, small and deep. Apparently, this was murder.

  As he sat back to think, a fawn pressed its soft nose against his shoulder. The Phantom stroked him. Who would have killed Qld Murph? He was a harmless, likable fellow, not one to get into scrapes, and never had enough money to attract trouble. Had some desperate mugger attacked him on a dark wharf, then pushed him into the water? Had the old man grasped a discarded lifebelt floating in the harbor flotsam? Not likely. The closest coastal town was several hundred miles away. Perhaps the life vest, the sort known as a “Mae West,” could help. It did. A faded stencil on the back read: S. S. Moru Benga.

  Moru Benga. A freighter that carried goods from Mawitaan to other seaports along the coast. He had seen it that very morning at dawn, passing about ten miles away.

  He had watched it through a powerful telescope until it disappeared over the horizon. That explained it. Old Murph had only been in the water for a few hours. It should be simple to find out who aboard the Moru Benga had stabbed him with an ice pick or some similar weapon. The Jungle Patrol could follow through on the case, but a nagging little feeling told him it wasn’t going to be that simple. Not simple at all.