The Legend of the Phantom (19 page)

“Yeah, it is,” replied Stripes. “Say, could you take one last picture of the box before we go?”

“I guess so,” replied Nigel, wondering what a picture of the empty grave would do. But true to his word, he whipped out his smart phone and took one last photo.

“Can I see it?” asked Stripes in an almost too courteous way.

“Sure,” replied Nigel. “Just press, here…”

“Ah. I see it now. The box does look mighty empty, doesn’t it?”

Nigel didn’t speak. He just nodded his head dumbly. He saw what was passed over to the other man’s hand and realized his time was up.

“Goodbye, Nigel. It has been great working with you,” Stripes intoned sarcastically. The silencer let out just a small ‘pop’ as Nigel’s body filled the once empty grave.

Returning to the woman’s side, he simply stated, “I paid the man.”

She looked disgusted.

“What?” asked Stripes.

In response she handed him the vellum. Looking down Stripes read the ancient script
:

Pyrate’s treasure is cursed to all

Within the well or hid in the wall

The sword shows the way to the island purse

Where the rings are the key to the treasure
cursed

Stripes looked up. “It doesn’t say where it is.”

“But it does,” replied the woman. “There!” she announced to the bewildered Stripes
, pointing to the gravestone. “The Eyrie… as written on the outside of the grave.”

“So where is the Eyrie?”

“In the middle of the American desert.”

“The treasure is there?” asked Stripes incredulously.

“No,” she admonished. “But the map is there. So we get the map and then find the treasure.”

Stripes took a moment to digest that.
“It says we need the rings.”

The fire ignited in her eyes.
“Then we have a ghost to catch.”

Chapter 2
6

In the darker reaches of an even darker continent many thousands of miles away…The light of the torch cast shadows onto the hard rock walls of a cavern.

The girl shifted her weight as she raised her head to see how the man took the news.
Tears rolled down her cheek and collected at her tight jaw line to drip down upon her Andorra sweater. The girl wrapped herself in her own arms as she pulled her boot clad legs under her. The blue of her jeans igniting the blue of her eyes, making the whole so much more alluring.

Across from her a strong male hand picked up
a handful of precious jewels from an ancient oak chest; the colors of the many faceted gems only accentuating the purple of his skin-tight outfit that covered his obviously perfect physique as the stones fell from his fingers. He shifted his weight as well, and subconsciously adjusted the pistols that hung from his hips.

He looked her in the eyes as she brought up her head and
for once was thankful that he wore a mask. At least that way his eyes couldn’t betray the pain her words had caused him. However his voice was another story. “But, Diana, why?” he asked her unbelieving. “Was it the abduction? I recognize that couldn’t have been pleasant…”

Her face was impassive.

Searching her eyes and form for some clue or sign and not finding it, he continued, “Is it the cave? …Or the Pygmies? …” ‘Or me?’ he thought the last to himself, not daring to say the words aloud. He tried to deduce her reasoning, pulling at straws. He decided for now to stick to the idea of her not liking her surroundings. It was much less painful. “I know it’s not the best living quarters but we don’t have to live here. There’s always the Eyrie… or the castle…”

“The mesa in the middle of the desert or the dungeons of a drafty castle in the middle of what looks like werewolf country…” she replied
sarcastically.

“Ok
, yes… but maybe somewhere else…”

“Where Kit? Somewhere where you’ll look right at home dressed in purple?
Where eye masks and guns are accepted as the norm? You don’t even have a real last name!”

“Well, we’ll use Walker...” he started to reply.

“Walker, Kit? Really? And what happens when I’m asked if the name comes from some Scotttish descent? What do I say then? ‘Oh, no sir, it comes from The Ghost Who Walks. No not American Indian, He’s just a phantom, a ghost if you will…’ she trailed off the last bit dripping with sarcasm.

The Phantom flinched.

Diana paused. She knew she had hurt him. But he needed to feel it. She took in a deep breath and breathing deeply attempted to compose herself. “Look, Kit. Its not that I don’t love you… because I do. I admit that the abduction scared me. And the cave scares me… and… well… lots of things scare me. But what scares me most of all is losing you.”

“So you’d rather let me go?! That makes no sense!”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Looking around her she took in the great room around them. Nestled deep inside the Skull Cave, the legendary home of the Phantom (the man before her), was what the Phantoms called the ‘Major Treasure Room’.

A
historian's dream come true the room contains articles which were thought to be lost forever. Things from centuries past that have been either gifted to or found by the various Phantoms over the ages. Items with no real value being far beyond the scope of a price tag; to name a few, the contents of the Major Treasure Room include: the sword of King Arthur – ‘Excalibur’, as well as the sword of Roland – ‘Durandal’, along with the ivory horn of Roland. Additionally the asp that bit Cleopatra, Cleopatra's wedding ring from Mark Antony, and more. Some items lesser known to the world, such as the tiny ark made from the wood of Noah's ark, a golden flower, Caesar's laurel crown, and the Diamond Cup of Alexander the Great which legend says that when Alexander wept because there were no more worlds to conquer, his tears fell into this cup. And some more well known but now lost to the world itself such as the original script of Hamlet in Shakespeare's own handwriting, the wig of Juliet from the original Romeo and Juliet (a part played by the third Phantom), the great ring of Nebuchadnezzar, the necklace of Nefertiti, the lyre of the blind poet Homer, and even one of Alfred Nobel's first sticks of dynamite.

Diana let her eyes wander across the opening on the far side that was filled with the ‘pocket change’ the Phantom used as currency to get from place to place
; coins and jewels of every kind.

Nearby the Major Treasure Room, as the name implies, there is also a Minor Treasure Room, so filled with chests of precious metals and stones that were they to be sold
all at once into the world, the value of such would drop the world’s market value so drastically as to make them nearly worthless. There was no denying that her life as the Phantom’s wife would be a luxurious one.

However, as her gaze continued on, it encompassed yet another opening.
Across from the Major Treasure Room stood the Crypt, a chamber which contains the tombs of 20 Phantom generations. They were all killed on duty. Among them, also buried there, are a couple of extras including a pirate and a Viking. Here it may be mentioned that no Phantom has ever seen his own grandfather. The Phantom's life is a violent one; and the life of the wife of the Phantom one of exceeding joy… yet equally excessive heartache.

That last thought set her resolve. ‘Fine,
I’ll let him have his violent fun, but I’ll not be part of it until he realizes what I am going through for him.’

“You’re right
, it makes no sense,” she agreed with him, “but… I’m leaving you.” She pulled herself up, and having walked over to the dumb-struck giant of a man, grabbed him firmly by his head and drawing him near, kissed him hard. Then drawing back her hand she slapped him, hard; across his chiseled jaw. “Goodbye, Kit.” she intoned, her back already to him.

As she approached the cave entrance
she called out to Guran, the Pygmy chief, to escort her out of the jungle.

The Phantom, a
man of quick decisions, a man that plays with life and death on a nearly daily basis by making life altering decisions within the blink of an eye, simply stood silent. Unconscious of the act he slowly raised his hand to cover where her hand had contacted his face. Numbly he watched through collected tears as the love of his life, Diana, in all of her perfect form, incredible mind and firm resolve, walked out of his cave and out of his life.

Chapter 27

The Phantom worked his way through the crowds of the Paris international airport. Dressed as Kit Walker, a name derived through ancestry (Kit – all first born males for generations since the first Phantom have been named Kit) and through legend (Walker – after the Ghost Who Walks) he was finally returning to the recluse of the Deep Woods. It had been a few months since he had lost Diana and though he was better, he was still emotionally a mess.

Ah, Diana! With her dark hair and auburn highlights, her electric blue eyes and that perfect form that comes from years of training in pursuit of perfection, in this case as an Olympic swimmer. Little did he know that her obsession for the gold was driven by her desire to become his equal, or at least as close as she could be
come without the help of his superb gene pool to rely on. Why, they were childhood sweethearts. Having met her when he was shipped as a youth to America to live with his mother’s in-laws, to earn an education and prepare his mind and body for the eventual role of assuming the legacy of the Phantom.

And yet here he was, hav
ing taken over for his father upon his father’s death. The Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks, the Keeper of the Peace, the Unknown Commander of the Jungle Patrol… the list went on. Yet for all of it, he stood alone. Only now he was truly alone.

Though dressed in his skintight attire of the Phantom, he
currently had it covered with his urban attire: a soft fedora hat, wrap around sunglasses, a long overcoat cinched at the waist, and tan slacks that covered his boots to below the ankles. His right arm, though not visible to the public, was bandaged, having had a bullet graze him; not enough to do any lasting harm, but enough to keep it covered while it healed.

He half pitied the man that had shot him. He knew he had punched him much too hard. A normal punch by the Phantom is enough to tattoo a man’s jaw with the
death’s head motif ring he wore. But this time he had heard the thug’s jaw shatter. On the other hand, he certainly deserved it, and he did get off a lucky shot.

The Phantom caressed his arm as he thought through the events:
Not caring who saw him or not, and without the desire to live now that Diana was gone, he had no reason to curb his anger. He saw no reason for anything anymore. All he had wanted was some means to forget. Unfortunately he wasn’t a drinking man, nor were any of his ancestors for as far back as the chronicles went. So without an outside means to drown his woes, instead he had sought out the worst of the worse. He went straight to the Mexican cartel and with guns ablaze dropped down into the midst of them. When he had smashed them, he moved onto the next group… And the next. Never had so many self made men been put into their place so quickly.

The Phantom laughed aloud as he thought of how wide the officer’s eyes became as the Phantom dropped off the
first load of trussed-up out-cold men at the precinct’s office.

The therapy
worked in part. He now felt a bit less angry, a bit more in control. Plus, the wound on his arm reminded him of his mortality, and despite the loss of Diana, he had a family legacy to adhere to… didn’t he? Well, didn’t he?

The thought kept running through his head.

‘The third nearly quit the line. It has been some 21 generations of Phantom now. Should I quit now? But if I did, what would I become? I’ve all the riches I could ever use, but really, would anything else be as rewarding or worthwhile?’

Thus thought
the Phantom as he made his way through Charles de Gualle International Airport. He continued in his thoughts as he left the smaller section of Terminal 3 for the international Terminal 1. There he had purchased a ticket for the next flight to Bangalla. Always alert to his surroundings, it was no surprise that he noticed the headline of the Paris
Le Monde
Newspaper at the kiosk to his right.

Nestled in among other news that had made the front cover of
some newspapers, including, “Mob ring decimated. Masked crusader named Hero” (his latest work), and “Guard found dead, while Whitby Abbey cemetery desecrated” was the main headline: “Pirates steal Columbus’ Pirate Gold”.

The headline
instantly caught his attention. He picked up the paper, and handing the proprietor some money, walked away.

“Hey, monsieur! Your
change!”

The Phantom didn’t stop.
Since Diana’s departure he wasn’t worried about his surroundings; besides, he was much too engrossed in the article. Purposely. Anything to help forget the woman that haunted his dreams and made his body desire to be close to hers. By the time he had walked the short path to where he had to wait to board his plane; he had read the paper completely. By result of 21 generations of superior genes being passed on from Phantom father to son, not only did he have a perfect physique, but he had a perfect memory with perfect recall as well; and could speed read to boot. By the time he had taken a dozen steps he had the whole newspaper read, stored and ready for retrieval at any time.

Upon arrival at the airport in Mawitaan, the capital of Bangalla, the Phantom
shed his urban attire. In place of the overcoat, slacks and fedora stood a mountain of a man. Leaving his clothes with Toma, the stable boy, the Phantom rose, settling his holsters on each hip. He inhaled the Bangallan air, inflating his massive chest, relishing in the scents of the Jungle and the lack of smog and other impurities commonly found in the cities of the world. Then he strode over to the stables, with a light tread peculiar for so large a man; yet with perfectly proportioned muscularity, that carried his giant frame effortlessly.

A
t the stables he picked up his horse, Hero.

Hero,
a rare true-white Anglo-Arabian, was a large horse encompassing the best examples of its breed… having inherited the refinement, bone and endurance of the Arabian, and the speed and scope of the Thoroughbred. There was no other horse in all of Bangalla that was more intelligent and faster; it had no equal. Similar to its master. Hero loved the Phantom as much as the Phantom loved Hero.

As h
e mounted Hero he whistled for Devil who had been eagerly awaiting his return. Bidding goodbye to Toma, off they shot, as if racing against time itself, while Devil, the pale-blue eyed, iron jawed, tireless mountain wolf that the Phantom had raised from a pup paced them down the Phantom Trail.

It is f
rom this swift movement that legends grew. For a jungle hunter or traveler would see a flash of motion followed by a muted sound. Only an insubstantial imprint of a huge man on a great white horse followed by a wolf would be left upon the retinal imprint. It must have been the Phantom! Oh, let me tell you the story! Yet with each retelling the story became more, larger, until the legend surpassed the reality.

Through the jungle he fled.
The Bangallan jungle is not a place for the timid. A land of snakes, warring tribes and large carnivores, not to mention physical dangers of every kind abound there. Yet for Kit, the ride back was nothing but therapeutic.

The Phantom Trail followed a varied terrain: the wide open grasslands, followed by the wooded hills, skirting the Great Swamp, and finally into the Deep Woods. Each hoof beat bringing him closer to the land of the Bandar,
the Phantom forest, the crystal waterfall, and Skull Cave…bringing him home.

By the time Kit arrived b
ack in the Deep Woods, he finally felt relaxed.

However his relaxation was short lived. Upon his return,
he found a number of small matters to attend to. As Keeper of the Peace, a title bestowed upon the first Phantom, he had a small tribal matter to judge. As the Ghost Who Walks, he was expected to attend the coronation ceremony of the Mori, a local fisher tribe, elder’s son. Meanwhile, the pygmy Bandar insisted on a feast in his honor; and the Jungle Patrol’s activities had to be monitored. Among the many duties he had, he still had to find time to chronicle the events that lead up to his bandaged arm. All the while looking forward to taking a little time to himself. The only consolation was that the constant need for the Phantom to intervene kept his mind free from the thoughts that had been plaguing him since Diana’s departure.

Chronicling his own last few months took some time,
especially as his thoughts kept returning to Diana rather than the most recent past escapade, yet by the time he was done with it he was ready to allow his mind to work on something new.

Again h
is thoughts turned back to Diana, and with conscious effort he centered his thoughts instead on the newspaper article he had read on the plane.

For some, a challenging Sudoku puzzle or crossword puzzle is enough to get them going in the morning. For others, investigation is something more. Those type
s of people quench their mental necessity through work as historians, genealogists, scientists, detectives, and more. The Phantom encompassed all of those roles rolled into one.

Kit mentally brought up what the newspaper had printed:

…"Intrinsically, for coin research, it's a very
exciting find," Sosa told La Nación. "This is an amazing numismatic find. The coin is beautiful and in excellent preservation. It is the heaviest gold coin with the highest contemporary value of any coin ever found in the Americas."

Sosa said the coin weighs almost one ounce (27.71 grams), while most pre-Columbian gold coins weighed about 4.5 grams. Where it was minted is still an enigma, as well as how it arrived at its present locale.

The obverse, or 'head' of the coin, portrays a death’s head, lower jaw intact, mouth closed.

The reverse, or 'tail,' illustrates two "crossed sabers, resembling
rotating capital ‘P’s," according to the AASA (Association of Antiquities of South America).

In the parlance of antiquities experts, the coin's denomination is currently registered as "unknown," and as of yet it is being cross-referenced with known coins for categorization…

To Kit
, the coin depicted in the newspaper was clearly of the same origin as his own rings. The crossed sabers and death’s head were made in
exactly
the same manner.

And yet i
t appeared to be a type of pirate treasure. The placement of the coin also suggested the same, but the date assigned to the coin was that of around the time of Columbus, assumedly around 1490
AD
— 1520
AD
.

‘
That would place it around the time of from the Grandfather through to the Father of the First!’ he mused! ‘So the First obviously took those two ancient symbols from another source…’

But what source? Pirates?
Why? That didn’t seem to make any sense, as he was the nemesis of all pirates.

‘
Maybe I could get Diana to research…’ he began and then mentally kicked himself.

It was time to search the chronicles.

I
n the interior of Skull Cave, the Phantom settled back to read from the chronicle of the First Phantom. He lounged back against the natural stone seat, an outcropping of the wall, sinking into the soft alpaca throw. Above him, propped high on the same wall was one of the many brightly burning torches that lined the cave. Across the interior of that grand chamber were bookcase upon bookcase filled with large tomes of his ancestors; chronicling the births, adventures, and deaths of generations of men that called themselves the Phantom.

He crossed his feet at the ankles under the desk
that was positioned in front of the ‘chair’. It was an antique oak writing desk, blackened through age, which was brought back from England; and as he understood it, was the very writing desk of the Grandfather of the First, a man whose name had been erased through time.

The heavy leather book he propped
up on it, and having opened the first vellum page read the first entry, dated
“
13 October 1536
”
. Kit read on, noting the firm longhand of the First.

The first entry was that of the
Oath of the Skull. Kit paused. To him, the oath was his reason for being. Diana aside, it was as symbolically important to him as many religious texts are to their followers. Though he had read it a thousand times, and could have recited every word easily from the first reading with his near perfect photographic memory, he never tired of the story… of the way it made him feel, of the sheer awe and magnitude that those simple words had on so many lives through so many generations. It made him reflect again on why he wore the Phantom mantle.

The story, as
it was unfolded throughout the chronicle as told by the First, was a simple one. The sole survivor of the Singh Pirate attack was a young man named Kit, who, as he fell off the burning ship, saw his father killed by a pirate. Kit was washed ashore, half dead, and friendly pygmies found him and nursed him to health. They took him in and gave him a home. In return he gave them freedom.

Then, w
alking on the beach one day, he found a dead pirate dressed in his father’s clothes, and realized this was the pirate who had killed his father. Grief-stricken, he waited until vultures had stripped the body clean…