by Mike Resnick
Yet in this comfortable, relaxing setting, the man flung himself from the chair, closed the book he’d been trying to read, and slapped it on the polished mahogany desk before pacing from heavy-curtained window to blazing fireplace. His steps were those of a beast uneasily confined in a human space and bound by human conventions.
As Lord Greystoke twitched the curtain aside and looked at the English night washed in a cold late-autumn rain, in his mind’s eye he saw quite another landscape: the lush and untamed jungle of equatorial Africa.
Though he tried his best to look after his estates, speak to acquaintances at his club, or weigh in on issues in the House of Lords, he always felt apart from other humans. After his parents, Lord and Lady Clayton, had met untimely deaths in Africa, the infant John Clayton had been raised by Kala, from a tribe of anthropoid apes. The young boy’s ape-mother had called him Tarzan, meaning “white-skin” in ape language. He hadn’t seen another human until the age of fifteen and not seen a white man until he was twenty, the age at which he had first worn human clothing . . . and then everything had changed.
How odd it was to wear shirt and trousers, waistcoat and coat. How odd it felt to have a valet cater to his needs now. Were it not for Jane—Lord Greystoke thought, not for the first time, as he paced from the window to the fireplace. He paused to glare at the fire, that thing he’d once thought a living creature, the spawn of storm and lightning. The flames now sat confined in a stone-cased fireplace, just as Tarzan himself was held within this stone house, within his tailored suit, within the straining bonds of civilization and manners. Flaring his nostrils, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his jungle again, swinging free from branch to branch, spending time with his friend the elephant Tantor, or Sheeta the panther, or even hunting with the Waziri warriors of whom he had become king. Now, in the stuffy, clammy manor house, his skin longed to feel the warm breezes of Africa, and his feet wanted to be freed from the confinement of shoes. He could stand it no longer!
Overcoming his feigned Greystoke dignity, Tarzan had succeeded in divesting himself of shoes and socks and dug his calloused toes into the soft pile of the oriental carpet, when a soft knock sounded upon the door.
Tarzan looked up guiltily. “Yes?” He half expected the opening door would reveal his stern, uncomprehending valet, but instead, he saw the delicate features of his wife, Jane Clayton, Lady Greystoke—the daughter of an American scientist who had come to Africa and there found Tarzan in his solitude. Had it not been for Jane . . . Jane’s face . . . Jane’s sweetness . . . and the hold she had over his heart, Tarzan would never have come to England. He would rather have let the lands, fortune, and accolades fall to some relative, while he claimed his true jungle kingdom and the mastery of his anthropoid apes.
Jane’s face creased in a smile, and a gleam of amusement danced in her eyes. “May I come in? Would I be quite safe entering the domain of the king of the jungle?”
Although normal expressions still did not come naturally to him, Tarzan gave her the best smile he could command. He extended his arm to her. “You are quite safe with me, Jane. Human or ape, I am always your husband.”
She came swiftly to be enfolded in his embrace. “Don’t I know that? Have I not seen you when you still didn’t know how to form human words? And yet . . .” Her hand caressed his powerful arm, feeling the muscles beneath the shirt. “You’ve always been human to me, the best of men.”
His smile was now genuine. At that moment, he considered the freedom of his jungle well-lost for the sake of this.
Jane knew him all too well, however. “But you were dreaming of the jungle, weren’t you?”
“Only a little,” he admitted, and his hand gesture dismissed the surrounding countryside, tamed by sheep, covered in sheared grass, washed by rain. “I never liked the rain and cold, even when I was a little ap—boy, watched over by my faithful Kala.” He kissed her forehead reassuringly. “Go to bed, and I’ll be there presently. I’m only blue deviled by the rain. I shall find a book to read, and I’ll use it to lull myself to sleep.”
She wished him good night and left the study, closing the door softly behind her. As Jane was well aware, Tarzan was often unable to sleep inside the house upon the too-soft bed, so he spent many nights beneath the boughs of a tree on his estate. For her sake, he always made sure to return to the house, dress in his night clothes, and be by his wife’s side come morning.
Left alone in his study, Tarzan resumed his pacing, resisting the urge to head out into the rain-washed night. It was true he’d never liked rain, but sometimes he liked the inside of houses even less. His restless hands fidgeted with the numerous books on the shelves, and behind a row of dusty tomes, in a space he’d never before explored, he found a thin book. Out of curiosity, and remembering the many years he’d spent reading every book his late parents had left behind in the treetop jungle cabin, Tarzan brought out the small volume. It was a diary, much like the diary his father had kept. This volume purported to be the diary of . . . John Clayton, Viscount Greystoke. Another John Clayton? He carried the volume with him back to the red leather chair.
A quick perusal revealed that the diary belonged to a long-forgotten ancestor from the days of Queen Elizabeth I. After studying the unfamiliar spelling and wording, Tarzan realized that his forgotten ancestor, that other John Clayton, had been a privateer in the Drake mold who sailed all over the world, even to Tarzan’s beloved Africa.
Reliving his ancestor’s adventures, Tarzan forgot that Jane was waiting for him to come to bed; he even forgot the walls around him, and the sound of beating rain outside. Instead, he revisited the lush jungles, survived onboard mutinies, and imagined the bright pattern of the Southern Cross above.
Suddenly, however, his mood changed. His eyes narrowed as he read an ordeal his ancestor had endured, one that was more peculiar than even the many perils Tarzan himself had faced. With a furrowed brow, he read through the book. His toes unconsciously clenched the thick pile of the carpet. He turned the page to find a series of drawings, and stopped.
He took the small telescope from the mantel, but though he looked out the window, the overcast sky revealed no stars. Then Tarzan recalled his father’s mechanical celestial sphere, a wedding gift to the elder John Clayton on the occasion of his union with the ill-fated Lady Alice. He displayed the precious artifact on its special table in the study, and servants kept it scrupulously clean and oiled, even without being instructed to do so.
Tarzan went to the celestial sphere and referred to the crude drawing in his ancestor’s diary, comparing the notations. He felt a chill, and the deep tan of his skin became visibly paler.
His hand clenched into a closed fist. “It will not be allowed!” His tone would have frightened anyone who listened, but in the silent chamber there was only the sound of the rain against the window glass.
The butler was astonished at his enigmatic master’s request so late at night. “Milord? But—”
“See the car brought around, Jones. I must go to London. At once.”
“In a night like this, Milord? You’ll not have enough light to see by, and you—” The man was more worried than rebellious, but Tarzan couldn’t afford any delay. His eyes had first learned to see with no artificial illumination, and he had found his way through the jungle so thick that no glimmer of light penetrated to the lower levels. He would not be deterred by a rainy night in the English countryside. Pulling on his driving gloves and hat, he said, “Don’t worry, Jones. I shall be well.” He suspected the only peril ahead of him was a very boring drive at the end of which, with luck, he would secure passage to Africa.
As he got behind the wheel of his latest-model automobile, a single doubt assailed him. He ought, perhaps, to have told Jane where he was going. She would worry.
But if he revealed his plans, she might insist on joining him, and he could not put her at risk against such unearthly dangers. Tarzan, ape-man, Lord of the Jungle, would have to face this threat for all mankind. And w
in. He would not let Jane or their son, Jack, become victims of such a terrible menace.
Next morning, Jane realized that Tarzan must have spent the night sleeping out in the rain, for he had never come to bed.
She was aware that in forcing civilization upon her wild husband, she had in some unknown way injured him. Other people thought that she’d redeemed a poor savage and bestowed the great boon of culture upon him. But Jane wasn’t so sure. She remembered the sparkle in his eyes when he was in the jungle, and she wasn’t sure that bringing him to refined, and confined, England was a good thing.
At the back of her mind she held the idea that once Jack grew a little older, they’d acquire a plantation in Africa and Tarzan would be able to disappear into the jungles he loved, now and then, while she would still enjoy the comforts of civilization. Someday.
But for now Lady Greystoke had to go through the morning rituals without letting on to the household that anything might be wrong between them, or that she was worried that her very peculiar beloved hadn’t managed to slip quietly back inside before dawn, as he always did.
She allowed herself to be helped into her clothes, and she approved the menus for the day with barely more than a glance. She visited Jack in the nursery and discussed with nurse how to break the young master’s bad habit of sucking his thumb. She preoccupied herself, but Tarzan’s continued absence was very odd. It wasn’t like him to remain away from her for so long.
A few discreet questions revealed that no one had seen Lord Greystoke that day. Wondering if some accident could have befallen him in the seemingly safe environs of the manor, she hastened to his study to find a letter propped against the ornate celestial sphere. In her husband’s handwriting, the envelope said only “Jane.” She tore it open and found a single sheet of paper embossed with the Greystoke seal.
My very dear Jane, believe that I would not leave you like this if I had any other alternative. In an old diary I’ve found credible evidence that our world will shortly be invaded by a species more ruthless and determined than even our own—and I recognize all too well the place where they are supposed to land. My only chance is to go back to Africa and fight them there, before they reach the world of civilized men.
Doubt not that I will win this battle, my dear Jane—for I am Tarzan, Lord of Apes and Lord of the Jungle. I shall defeat these monsters who would use the creatures of Earth as fodder and slaves. And then I will come back to you.
Yours ever, Tarzan.
Beneath it, as an afterthought, he’d scribbled, John C., Lord Greystoke.
Jane stared in disbelief at the letter in her hands. What did he mean by the whole world being invaded? Countries got invaded, not worlds. She looked towards the mechanical celestial sphere, thinking of all those other worlds out there, and a doubtful frown formed on her delicate face. What if something came from those other globes to Earth? She shivered.
She noticed that Tarzan had left the paper askew on the desk, and his pen lying beside it, uncapped. Mechanically, she capped it.
Tarzan would have a head start of a night and a day, but it was clear where he was headed, one of the places familiar to him from his childhood. Which meant she knew where to find him. And she would. It was no part of Lady Greystoke’s intentions to let her husband face a cruel invader alone.
“Jones,” she called. “Bring our other car around.”
Days later, Tarzan was let out of a small rowboat on the coast of Africa, and he climbed onto the familiar shore, setting foot again on the land of his birth. Just breathing the air exhilarated him! He waved good-bye as the sailors rowed back to the steamer that had carried him here. He marveled that for once he had not met with mutiny or assassination attempts or other villains intent on eliminating him. Perhaps the very fact that he was here to save humanity from a terrible fate meant there was some protection from God or Fate.
Tarzan wasn’t sure in which he believed. The anthropoid apes hadn’t believed in much, though they did have some rites of their own—and it was to the place of those rites that he must now go.
As the ship steamed away, fast disappearing on the blue horizon, Tarzan removed all his garments. It was difficult enough to wear clothes in England, but it was torture here in Africa, where he should be home.
Knowing the ship would return for him in a month, he took care to fold the clothes and store them in the valise, from which he took his breechclout and his brass ornaments for arms and legs. Then, truly Tarzan again, he turned toward the jungle. . . .
Before long, he was swinging from tree to tree, following a familiar route. First, he had to go to where the old diary said the invaders’ ship would land. There, he should find drawings on the wall, and then he would know for certain whether this had been a mere nightmare from his ancestor, or the truth.
The old treetop cabin was as Tarzan had left it, protected by the cunning lock on the door which made it impossible for the anthropoid apes or other wildlife to penetrate it. Sliding the lock open with the ease of long familiarity, Tarzan entered to find the interior largely undisturbed as well. He stowed his valise and looked wistfully at the bed where his mother had died a year after giving birth to him, and the place where his father had been killed. These reminders held no terror of sadness for him, since he’d never really known his parents. Having grown up among wild beasts, he had a very matter-of-fact view of life and death. Creatures lived and hunted and ate other creatures, and eventually one died and became food for others. He did not lament over it.
For a moment, he hesitated over his own purpose in racing back to Africa. If that philosophy were true, perhaps it held true in the greater universe, as well. Why was it any different for creatures from another world to hunt and kill the inhabitants of Earth? It was the order of nature.
His qualms were of short duration, however. Tarzan could apply such a philosophy to himself, as he had never counted himself much above the beasts. But Jane and Jack were also creatures of Earth, as were his many good friends, animal and human. Well did he remember losing Kala, his ape-mother. Though she had been rude and ugly, in the way of such things, he thought of her with all the bittersweet tenderness and respect that he would have lavished on his real mother, the late Lady Alice.
The thought that their lives should count for nothing made Tarzan’s heart tighten in his chest. Yes, he would fight these invaders—not for himself, but for all the creatures of this Earth that he loved.
He was surprised to hear something heavy throw itself against the door of the cabin. He unsheathed his knife. He had killed lions and panthers with only his sharp knife and a rope. But when a soft growl echoed outside the door, he recognized the animal voice—Sheeta the panther, who, not so long since, had helped him rescue Jack and Jane when they’d been abducted by the dastardly Rokoff.
Tarzan murred back at Sheeta, conveying thoughts that could only be implied in the panther language, “Hello, Sheeta, my old friend and ally who helped me fight evil among the humans. I am Tarzan of the Apes, and I am back.”
The soft murr that answered was all the welcome he could hope for.
With Sheeta following stealthily on the ground, Tarzan flew from tree to tree, suspended by ropes as he headed for the place he had read about in the diary. He remembered the site of his first great battle, where he’d killed Tublat, the unjust mate of his foster-mother, Kala.
He had always thought of the place as a natural amphitheater, a part of the landscape like the mountains and hills and the ocean itself. But if his ancestor’s diary was correct, this arena was not natural at all, but an alien construction, a landing pad for a sort of ship that could cross from one world to another. The idea should have made Tarzan’s head spin, but he had already been forced to adapt his view of the world to include seemingly impossible things: wheeled vehicles, large cities, great industries. Adapting his mind now to the idea of yet another complex civilization that came from beyond the sky did not cause him any greater consternation.
The open amphitheater was
circular in shape, and its unnatural strangeness was emphasized by the fact that it remained unen-cumbered by entangling vines and creepers. The encroaching jungle itself seemed to avoid the place.
The dense jungle choked off access, though, as if to deny any intruders. Giants of the untouched forest grew close, with matted growth clogging the spaces between their trunks. The only opening Tarzan could find into the level arena was through the upper branches of the trees. He knew his way.
Throughout Tarzan’s childhood, the anthropoid apes had often gathered here. In the center of the amphitheater he now saw one of the earthen drums built by the anthropoids for their strange rites, which have been heard by men across the vast unexplored jungle, but never witnessed. Tarzan was the only human who had ever seen the wild, frenzied revelry the drums inspired.
On moonlit nights, the anthropoid apes would dance in a rite that marked all important events in the life of the tribe: a victory, the capture of a prisoner, the killing of some fierce jungle denizen, the death or accession of a king. Here prisoners were dragged to be killed and devoured. Here Tarzan had defeated his first enemy and, later, had ascended as king of the anthropoid apes.
A long time had passed since then, and now another ruled the tribe, one who owed Tarzan fealty and who would recognize him as his lord. But before Tarzan would call on Akut and his people, he must first confirm that the strange symbols reported by his ancestor were indeed on the walls.
