Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan
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About this ebook
Cambridge, England, 1905. Jane Porter is hardly a typical woman of her time. The only female student in Cambridge University's medical program, she is far more comfortable in a lab coat dissecting corpses than she is in a corset and gown sipping afternoon tea. A budding paleoanthropologist, Jane dreams of traveling the globe in search of fossils that will prove the evolutionary theories of her scientific hero, Charles Darwin.
When dashing American explorer Ral Conrath invites Jane and her father to join an expedition deep into West Africa, she can hardly believe her luck. Africa is every bit as exotic and fascinating as she has always imagined, but Jane quickly learns that the lush jungle is full of secrets—and so is Ral Conrath. When danger strikes, Jane finds her hero, the key to humanity's past, and an all-consuming love in one extraordinary man: Tarzan of the Apes.
Jane is the first version of the Tarzan story written by a woman and authorized by the Edgar Rice Burroughs estate. Its publication marks the centennial of the original Tarzan of the Apes.
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Robin Maxwell
ROBIN MAXWELL is the national bestselling author of eight historical fiction novels featuring powerful women, including Signora da Vinci and the award-winning Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn, now in its twenty-fourth printing. She lives in the high desert of California with her husband, yogi Max Thomas.
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Reviews for Jane
54 ratings15 reviews
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5First Line: Good Lord, she was magnificent! Edgar thought.It's April, 1912 in Chicago, Illinois, and Ed Burroughs can't believe the strength of mind and purpose that Jane Porter possesses. In fact, he finds that almost more remarkable than the subject of her talk. Everyone else has spent the past hour shouting her down, refusing to believe anything she has to say about a race of beings that represent the missing link between apes and humans, but Miss Porter refuses to back down from what she knows to be the truth.Afterwards, Burroughs follows this fascinating woman, and she agrees to talk with him, asserting that his pulp fiction readers might be more amenable to the truth than all the imminent scientists and doctors who refuse to believe the proof she puts right before their eyes.Jane Porter's story begins in 1905. As the only female student in Cambridge University's medical program, she's much more comfortable in a lab coat than an evening gown. She longs to travel around the world searching for fossils that will prove the evolutionary theories of-- not only Charles Darwin-- but of her beloved father. When Ral Conrath, an American explorer, persuades Jane and her father to join him on an expedition into West Africa, father and daughter can't believe their luck.Jane finds Africa and the jungle every bit as exotic and spellbinding as she'd imagined, but when disaster strikes the expedition, she finds the answers to her questions all wrapped up in one extraordinary man: Tarzan of the Apes.I wanted to read this book because I've loved the story of Tarzan and Jane ever since the local television station showed old Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O'Sullivan on the weekends. Like Jane in Maxwell's novel, the usual feminine pursuits held no allure for this tomboy, and I was attracted to the idea of people living up in trees (since I spent so many hours climbing them) and having wild animals as friends. The local library also had all of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan novels, so I spent some of my arboreal free time reading of the ape man's adventures.Maxwell's novel is the first version of the Tarzan story to be written by a woman and authorized by the Edgar Rice Burroughs estate. Its publication marks the 100th anniversary of the original Tarzan of the Apes. Maxwell knows her stuff, and the book contains everything old and new fans of the Tarzan story will want to read. Problem is, the older fans who know the tale by heart may find large portions of the story very slow going, as I did. I almost put the book down never to pick it up again because of the glacial pace.It wasn't because the character of Jane isn't alluring; she is. But ask any fan who's been disappointed in the new remakes of Tarzan films, and you'll hear one familiar refrain: the story doesn't work until Tarzan and Jane are together. They are a team. The details of Jane without Tarzan may be interesting, but there's no real spark until Tarzan appears-- and the very same holds true of Tarzan. They are the perfect soulmates: willing to learn everything the other has to teach, and both containing the wildness the other craves.Once Maxwell gets the two of them together, the book does pick up speed, but my interest didn't fully engage until the last fifth of the book when the author adds new grist to the mill. Once those new elements to the plot are included, I began reading with a smile on my face. This book may be slow going for those readers-- like me-- who are very familiar with the story, but what I'm hoping is that Maxwell's work will draw in many new fans because it's an irresistible story that's weathered an entire century very well indeed.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Fun retelling of Tarzan from Jane's POV but laughably distracting in points; I didn't really need a half-page where Jane describes Tarzan's butt, to be brutally honest.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5very excellent book, highly recommend. provides an interesting twist on the tarzan story, told from Jane's point of view. wouldn't mind seeing this as a movie
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I was very disappointed this wasn't entirely what it was advertised as being. Instead of the Tarzan story from Jane's POV, this was a wholly different story. A bit more realistic, perhaps, but it was different in virtually every possible way from ERB's story. However, once I accepted that, it was a quite enjoyable story.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This book stands as the back story to Burrough's Tarzan series and it is told from Jane's view point. Jane and her Dad are suckered into joining and funding an expedition into West Africa by American Ral Conrath.When Conrath leaves Jane behind to satisfy a leopard, Tarzan rescues her and transports her to his 'nest'. He heals her and protects her as he trains her to the ways of the jungle, even as she begins to slough off the proper lady-like behavior of English Society.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I read this book because a friend on GoodReads.com suggested it. I found the book very entertaining and full of adventure. I remember reading a few Tarzan adventures when I was in late high school. I found it very fulfilling to read the adventure told from Jane's point of view. I was a little saddened to read about what happened to Tarzan's clan, but it also was believable. The animal mating was tastefully done. The author has a smooth writing style. I will seek out this author again in the future.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Released in the centennial year for the publication of Tarzan of the Apes original publication and endorsed by Edgar Rice Burroughs' estate, Jane is an involving, detailed, engrossing, and yet, original retelling of a well-loved and widely known story. Robin Maxwell is my first exposure to actually reading the mythos of the Tarzan world (watching the 1999 Disney animated movie clearly does not count), and her updated version, while clearly paying homage to the source material, is indelibly her own. Jane is a novel rife with adventure, credible characters, excitement, betrayals, and revelations. An engaging read from the get-go, the spotlight on protagonist and narrator Jane makes for a fast but highly enjoyable read for those all too-short 320 pages. I had planned to read Burroughs' original version, but now I wonder if that one will hold up as well in my opinion as what Maxwell has recreated here. As the title character and first-person narrator for the eponymous novel, Jane will either make or break this novel for readers. I, for one, unabashedly loved her. Her voice is strong and clear; I identified with and rooted for this intelligent and unique woman as she grapples with society's unforgiving attitudes, as she grows and learns about herself, Africa, and what she wants from her life. I loved Jane's strident attitudes, her analytical approach to any and all situations, her unflinching convictions and stalwart self-esteem. She's an unconventional woman for her time but not so much as to be entirely anachronistic for the era and setting the novel takes place during. She may eventually want a man, but unlike her society peers, she definitely doesn't need one. While her views and opinions can approach the unrealistic, the sincere motivations at the heart of Jane's actions ring true and keep her character from sticking out as improbable. An aspiring paleoanthropologist, the beginning flashbacks illustrate clearly how committed and devoted Jane is to her field and establish a more than credible reason for her journey to Africa and the events that transpire there. The growing dynamic between Tarzan and his more "civilized" mate evolves maturely and with aplomb under less than ideal circumstances. Tarzan himself is a bit romanticized (both by Burroughs and by Maxwell here) - and the romance between him and Jane does provide a lot of internal debate for the title character - but he is realistic and engaging in his distant role. His relationship with Jane is complicated and hard-won, but it is a real partnership of equals, unlike what she could have expected back in her "civilized" home country. Theirs is a true give and take - each teaches the other essential skills for living in their respective worlds. Their interactions are a bit simpler and overcome more easily than I had expected (the language barrier most noticeably) but it doesn't jar too much. Under Maxwell's able hand as storyteller, the bits and pieces of Tarzan's tragic history and life are teased out into the more action packed events evenly and keep the sentimentality on par with the action and excitement of life as The Wild Ape Man.The vibrant setting of Africa is one of the very best aspects of the novel. The place-as-character is superb here. It's really topnotch - from the port town of Libreville to the boat trip down the Mbele Ogowe River to the Great Bower, every scene and setting pops from the page with a burst of color. As one character so aptly said to Jane early on: "You do not live in Africa, my dear. Africa lives in you." Under Robin Maxwell's pen and talent, I certainly felt like I was seeing the jungles, forests, villages myself. This is a creative author with an obvious ability to set and describe a scene; her talent for place as character is one of the more prominent things I will take away from reading Jane. I haven't read many other historical novels set on this particular continent, but upon, reluctantly, concluding this one, I can't imagine I will wait long to search out another. Maxwell touches upon so many issues of that plagued continent - colonization by European powers, the deforestation of jungles for trade routes, King Leopold of Belgium's genocide of 10 million natives - that some areas do feel slightly shortchanged, but all serve to create an even bigger, more authentic view of Africa and its problems. This is a book that started out good, one that easily progressed past my initial lukewarm feelings due a bit of an infodump and into "great" territory, and one that ends with a bang (and a hint at a possibility for more down the line?!). A clear departure both from its source material and the sanitized Disney version, Jane is no wilting violet but a strong protagonist with great depth and characterization, more than able to carry the weight of the novel on her own. A great read and reinvention of one of the most beloved stories, Jane is a credit to both Edgar Rice Burroughs' original tale and to Robin Maxwell's immense individual talent. With characters crafted so well, with vibrant settings and a plot that moves at a brisk and involving pace, this is a novel retelling that will stand out and stand the test of time equally well. Highly recommended and highly enjoyable -- those on the lookout for a new era/setting in historical fiction need look no further than Jane.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Do not start this book right before bed. I did and found myself still reading at 2:30AM. The story of Tarzan's Jane told by Robin Maxwell was in its beginning chapters very enthralling. I love anthropology so the inclusion of the early studies of fossils and the debates on Darwin's theories were fascinating to me. Ms. Maxwell has that magic with words that draws you into time and place and time flies as you read Jane's tale of meeting Tarzan and her telling the story to a young Edgar Rice Burroughs - a delightful conceit to get the story rolling.Jane Porter is a very self possessed woman, brought up by a liberal father in straight laced Victorian Times. He has encouraged her study of science despite her mother's objections. Upon meeting a slick explorer who knows exactly how to sell himself and how to appeal to the desires of Jane's father a trip is planned to find Darwin's missing link; but Ral Conrath has his own agenda and is not what he purports to be. Jane has her reservations but her father tells her to leave it to the men - a surprising response from such a forward thinking type.As all who know the story realize, Jane finds herself in the jungle, rescued by an ape-man. But this Tarzan is not like any other. In fact he is a bit too much of a 90's man - 1990s. He is a bit in touch with his feelings for a soul raised by an ape like tribe in the jungle but the story rolls along. I found the second half to be not quite as compelling as the first - it seemed to drag a bit as Jane sorted through Tarzan's backstory and Tarzan taught Jane the ways of the Jungle. I got a bit bored but it picked right back up when Jane and Tarzan teamed up to defeat the evil Mr. Conrath. The ending was an unexpected jolt and makes me wonder if there are going to be further adventures for Jane and Tarzan. There are questions left unanswered and I would love to know how Jane came to be telling her story as she was. This was, overall, an exciting and truly different book that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. Jane is certainly a character to be applauded and she deserved a book of her own. Ms. Maxwell had the vision and the talent to bring her to vivid life.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5As soon as I saw Jane Goodall’s enthusiastic recommendation for this retelling of Tarzan from Jane’s point of view I knew I had to read it. In this version set in the early 1900’s Jane is a lively, adventuresome young women determined to challenge the conventions of the day by becoming a scientist. Her heroes are women like Mary Kingsley, the Victorian era African explorer, and Jane and her father head to Africa seeking fossil evidence of Darwin’s missing link between ape and man. Unfortunately their African expedition is led by a man who turns out to be a ruthless treasure hunter, and when things go horribly wrong and Jane is attacked by a leopard she wakes up high in a jungle canopy nest under the care of Tarzan. At first Jane is completely dependent on Tarzan, but when her wounds heal she learns to run along tree branches, swing from vines, hunt for food and wrestle. After figuring out how to communicate, Tarzan teaches Jane the ways of the jungle and she tells him about the wider world. For an adventure story this is not breathlessly paced, but it’s rich with setting details and character backstories. Both Jane and Tarzan have discoveries to make and family to avenge. In a funny, ingenious twist the novel is written as if Jane is recounting her story to Tarzan author Edgar Rice Burroughs, and he appears as a character at the beginning and end of the book. Loved it.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is one book when it's perfectly fine to judge a book by its cover. The pages between take the reader on a trip back into time, with a portrayal of Jane that is fresh, captivating, and spirited. I realized about half way through that I've never read the original Tarzan book(s) and only know the story from comics, hearsay, and the movies. I'm curious now how close to the original this book flies, especially with the ending (which seemed like something out of an old Hollywood adventure.) Robin MAxwell's Jane is intelligent and willful, determined to pursue her interests in anthropology, biology, and archaeology, even if such interests deny her a husband, and leave her tottering on the edge of spinsterhood at age 20. Yet despite all the objections of society (and her mother's despair), she leaves with her father to head into Africa in search of the bones of missing link between apes and humans. What she finds instead is treachery, adventure, some pretty cool learning curves to climb, and a glimpse of various societies that give her much to ponder. Oh, and she also find this perfect specimen of manhood that seems to fancy her, too. Not bad for the jungle. Actually, the meeting occurs after Jane has been mauled by a panther, and is saved by Tarzan. As he nurses her back to health, the two begin to build a common language and understanding. Together they try and make sense of some mysteries in their world, and together, they must face not one, but two evils. I was pretty captivated up until the very end, when the novel moved into some realms of big screen adventure film stuff. That's why I'm interested to know if that bit was in the original book, or movies (I can't remember. Indiana Jones has clouded my mind.) This particular novel was authorized by the Edgar Rice Burroughs Estate, so I guess the ending fits into something somewhere in the Tarzan lore. It wasn't bad, just not to my taste: a little too over the top/fantastic/tomb raider-ish. It by no means diluted my sheer enjoyment of the first 3/4 or more of the novel, and definitely lived up to the cover.Sent to me by Tor books. Thanks!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5When I first heard about this book, I was really excited. It seemed unique and original. I read several reviews, all of which had different opinions, usually to one extreme or the other. After reading this, I can see where both sides may come from, but I really, really enjoyed this book.For full disclosure, understand that I have never read the original Tarzan. The only Tarzan I know well is Disney's version. I know several reviewers have hated this book because they didn't feel it was accurate to the original story line. I can't say if it is or not, so I read this as a general, un-knowledgeable reader who was just looking for a good story.With that aside, I really loved this book. Jane Porter is a woman who wants more for herself than what society and her mother say she needs, aka a good husband and a quiet, demure attitude. Jane doesn't want this. Her heart longs for adventure, education, and discoveries. She longs for a life where she is seen as an equal to a man, and she refuses to marry anyone who would not see her as an equal. When a dashing exploring, Ral Conrath, invites her and her father on a mission to find the 'missing link', she is overjoyed. Little does she know what this African jungle has in store for her.Jane is an excellent protagonist. Being a scientist, she has great observation skills, so the jungles and forests are described beautifully. It isn't everyday that a writer can make really gross things (in my opinion) like cadavers and blood thirsty battles (neither of which are dominant, but both have their parts) sound fascinating and natural.My favorite part of this book was the development of the characters and their relationship. Jane, being Jane, didn't just fall in love with the first 'savage' man she saw. She takes time to get to know him, and even then, her level head never goes to far away. Their love is not a 'love at first kind' type. Though their situation is far from normal, the way they fall in love over time is shown in a beautiful and universal way. They don't let the situation take control of how they feel. You get to see Tarzan as more than his 'ape-man' label. You get to see the true humanity in him, the traits that the most civilized man has long forgotten, but is found through this 'simple' man. You see that it wasn't just his cave-man-ness nor her being the first white female of his age that he has ever seen that made their love possible. It was how their personalities, their hearts, really complimented each other in a way that only the best couples have.Told with a strong voice and an intense plot, Jane is a wonderful book for people who want a good story and want to find out what Jane thought about all this.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is the first version of Tarzan written by a female and authorized by the Edgar Rice Burroughs estate. It wasn’t quite what I was expected. There was a lot of literary license used to make a semi-original story and so there are a lot of changes from the original Tarzan story. Tarzan is raised by the Managi, a missing link species in human evolution rather than by gorillas. He’s also taken up when he’s four years old not one. Names were mixed around, new human tribes living nearby, hidden pyramids and cities in the jungles of Gabon, etc. I didn’t mind most of the changes in the end, and some of them did make some sense, but some of them caught me off guard and I never did fully embrace them. It’s an interesting story and I did appreciate the perspective being from Jane. I think I would recommend it to any Tarzan fan with a warning not to go into it with too many preconceptions about what is going to happen.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5For an reader of adventure stories, some of the most stirring words are perhaps, “Me, Tarzan. You, Jane”. The story of the ape-man who was an English lord, and his mate, Jane, a young woman on safari is one that I have always been a huge fan of. From comic books to movies, the Tarzan legend has always been a favorite. Now, Robin Maxwell has written, Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan, telling the myth from the female point of view. I found this a great story, a thrilling adventure that is rooted firmly by the author’s research into both the setting and the history of the area.The release of this book was timed for the centennial year of Edgar Rice Burroughs classic tale, and has the approval of the author’s estate. Her use of the original author as a character in her story, made for a cohesive and intriguing plot line. The ending of this book is also a homage to the original “pulp fiction” aspect of Tarzan. I have a feeling that Edgar would approve.The only petty criticism I can offer is that the book had a slow start, perhaps a little too much time was spent in giving us Jane’s background and showing her to be a modern woman in a era that is on the brink of huge change. Once the book had launched the Parkers on the expedition, the storyline picked up and the action was pretty much non-stop.For me Jane: The Woman Who Loved Tarzan was a perfect blend of an electrifying adventure with a spellbinding love story, a winning combination.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This book is a first person narrative told by Jane Porter to Edgar Rice Burroughs, the author of the Tarzan books. The conceit is, of course, that Burroughs took the real story and adapted it for his reading public, perhaps already familiar with his "Princess of Mars". This allows the book to keep the main characters and yet to change the story quite a bit. The author doesn't have a gift for period language, and there was the odd malapropism, but I'ld say that it is rather clever in its retelling. Many fans of the original tales are likely to enjoy this one, as it is not wholly untrue to their spirit.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Do not start this book right before bed. I did and found myself still reading at 2:30AM. The story of Tarzan's Jane told by Robin Maxwell was in its beginning chapters very enthralling. I love anthropology so the inclusion of the early studies of fossils and the debates on Darwin's theories were fascinating to me. Ms. Maxwell has that magic with words that draws you into time and place and time flies as you read Jane's tale of meeting Tarzan and her telling the story to a young Edgar Rice Burroughs - a delightful conceit to get the story rolling.Jane Porter is a very self possessed woman, brought up by a liberal father in straight laced Victorian Times. He has encouraged her study of science despite her mother's objections. Upon meeting a slick explorer who knows exactly how to sell himself and how to appeal to the desires of Jane's father a trip is planned to find Darwin's missing link; but Ral Conrath has his own agenda and is not what he purports to be. Jane has her reservations but her father tells her to leave it to the men - a surprising response from such a forward thinking type.As all who know the story realize, Jane finds herself in the jungle, rescued by an ape-man. But this Tarzan is not like any other. In fact he is a bit too much of a 90's man - 1990s. He is a bit in touch with his feelings for a soul raised by an ape like tribe in the jungle but the story rolls along. I found the second half to be not quite as compelling as the first - it seemed to drag a bit as Jane sorted through Tarzan's backstory and Tarzan taught Jane the ways of the Jungle. I got a bit bored but it picked right back up when Jane and Tarzan teamed up to defeat the evil Mr. Conrath. The ending was an unexpected jolt and makes me wonder if there are going to be further adventures for Jane and Tarzan. There are questions left unanswered and I would love to know how Jane came to be telling her story as she was. This was, overall, an exciting and truly different book that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. Jane is certainly a character to be applauded and she deserved a book of her own. Ms. Maxwell had the vision and the talent to bring her to vivid life.
Book preview
Jane - Robin Maxwell
Chicago Public Library, April 1912
Good Lord, she was magnificent! Edgar thought. Infuriatingly bold. He had many times fantasized about women such as this Jane Porter, but he honestly believed they existed only in his imagination. The vicious heckling she had endured for the past hour in the darkened room would have broken the strongest of men, yet there she stood at the podium casting a shadow on the startling image projected by the whirring episcope on the screen behind her, back straight as a rod, head high, trying to bring order back into the hall.
Her age was indeterminate—somewhere approaching thirty, but her presence was one of striking vitality and self-assurance. She was tall and slender beneath the knee-length suit coat of fine brown wool. Her honey-colored hair was tucked up beneath a simple toque of black felt, not one of those large frivolous feathered creations that these days hung perilously cantilevered over a woman’s face. Emma wished desperately for one of those freakish hats, and Edgar was secretly glad they were still too poor to afford it.
These claims are preposterous!
cried a man seated halfway back in the crowded room. He had the look of an academic, Edgar thought.
These are not claims, sir. They are the facts as I know them, and physical evidence, here, right before your eyes.
There were hoots of derision at that, and catcalls, and Jane Porter’s chin jutted an inch higher.
This is clearly a hoax,
announced a portly bearded man who brazenly walked to the table in front of the podium and swept his hand above the massive skeleton displayed on it. And a bad hoax at that. Why, you haven’t even tried to make the bones look old.
The audience erupted in laughter, but the woman spoke over the commotion in a cultured British accent with more equanimity than Edgar thought humanly possible.
"That is because they are not old. I thought I made it clear that the bones came from a recently dead specimen."
"From a living missing link species," called out another skeptic. The words as they were spoken were meant to sound ridiculous.
All you’ve made clear to us today, Miss Porter, is that you should be locked up!
Can we have the next image, please?
the woman called to the episcope operator.
I’ve had enough of this claptrap,
muttered the man sitting just in front of Edgar. He took the arm of his female companion, who herself was shaking her head indignantly, and they rose from their seats, pushing down the row to the side aisle.
This first defection was all it took for others to follow suit. Within moments a mass exodus was under way, a loud and boisterous one with rude epithets shouted out as hundreds of backs were turned on the stoic presenter.
Edgar remained seated. When someone threw on the electric lights, he could see that the episcope operator up front in the center aisle was wordlessly packing up the mechanism of prisms, mirrors, and lenses that threw opaque images onto the screen as the speaker began her own packing up.
Finally Edgar stood and moved down the side aisle to the front of the meeting hall. He rolled the brim of his hat around in his hands as he approached Jane Porter. Now he could see how pretty she was. Not flamboyantly so, but lovely, with an arrangement of features—some perfect, like her green almond eyes and plump upward-bowed lips, and some less so, like her nose, just a tad too long and with a small bump in it—that made her unique.
She was handling the bones as if they were made of Venetian glass, taking up the skull, shoulders, arms, and spine and laying them carefully into a perfectly molded satin receptacle in a long leather case.
She looked up once and gave him a friendly, close-lipped smile, but when he did not speak she went back wordlessly to her task. Now it was the lower extremities that she tucked lovingly away, using special care to push the strange big-toe digits into narrow depressions perpendicular to the feet.
Edgar felt unaccountably shy. Can I give you a hand?
No, thank you. They all fit just so, and I’ve had quite a lot of practice. London, Paris, Moscow, Berlin.
I have to tell you that I was completely enthralled by your presentation.
She looked at Edgar with surprised amusement. You don’t think I should be locked up?
No, quite the contrary.
Then you cannot possibly be a scientist.
No, no, I’m a writer.
He found himself sticking out his hand to her as though she were a man. The name’s Ed Burroughs.
She took it and gave him a firm shake. He noticed that her fingernails were pink and clean but altogether unmanicured, bearing no colorful Cutex nail polish,
the newest rage that Emma and all her friends had taken to wearing. These were not the hands of a lady, but there was something unmistakably ladylike about her.
What do you write, Mr. Burroughs?
He felt himself blushing a bit as he pulled the rolled-up magazine from his jacket pocket. He spread it out on the table for her to see. My literary debut of two months ago,
he said, unsure if he was proud or mortified.
"All-Story magazine?"
Pulp fiction.
He flipped through the pages. This is the first installment in the series I wrote. There was a second in March. My pen name’s Norman Bean. It’s called ‘Under the Moons of Mars.’ About a Confederate gentleman, John Carter, who falls asleep in an Arizona cave and wakes up on Mars. There he finds four-armed green warriors who’ve kidnapped ‘the Princess of Helium,’ Dejah Thoris. He rescues her, of course.
She studied the simple illustration the publisher had had drawn for the story, something that’d pleased Edgar very much.
"It really is fiction," she observed.
Fiction, fantasy…
He sensed that the woman took him seriously, and he felt suddenly at ease. It was as if he had always known her, or should have known her. She exuded something raw and yet something exceedingly elegant.
When I was ten I came home from school one day and told my father I’d seen a cow up a tree,
Edgar said, startling himself with his candor with a complete stranger. I think I said it was a purple cow. I was punished quite severely for lying, but nothing stops a compulsion, does it?
When she shook her head knowingly, he felt encouraged. A few years later I moved to my brother’s ranch in Idaho and stayed for the summer. By the time I was enrolled at Phillips Academy I could spin a pretty good yarn about all the range wars I’d fought in, the horse thieves, murderers, and bad men that I’d had run-ins with. It was a good thing my father never heard about them.
A slow smile spread across Jane Porter’s features. Well, you’ve shown him now, haven’t you. A published author.
I’m afraid my old man has yet to be convinced of my myriad talents.
She snapped both cases closed and took one in each hand.
Here, let me help you with those.
No, thank you. Having the two of them balances me out.
I was hoping you’d let me take you out to dinner. Uh, I’d like very much to hear more about your ape-man.
She stopped and looked at him. Honestly?
Yes.
You must pardon my suspiciousness. I have been booed and hissed out of almost every hallowed hall of learning in the world. This is the last. I tried to have my paper heard at the Northwestern and Chicago universities, but I’m afraid my reputation preceded me and they said absolutely not. That’s why you had to listen to my presentation at a meeting room at the Chicago Public Library.
So will you come out with me?
The woman thought about it for a very long moment. She set down her cases and walked to the man at the episcope, quietly conferred with him, and returned. It’s really not a good idea for us to talk in public, but my hotel is nearby. You and I can go up to my room.
I wouldn’t do that if I were you,
Edgar said. Chicago police keep an eye on even the nicest hotels. They might arrest you for soliciting. But my apartment’s not too far. The wife and kids have gone to her mother’s for the weekend. I mean … sorry, that sounds…
Mr. Burroughs, your apartment’s a fine idea. I’m not afraid of you. But don’t you care about the neighbors?
He eyed the woman’s bulky luggage. I’ll tell them you’re selling vacuum cleaners.
She smiled broadly. That will do.
They were largely silent on the taxi ride across town to his Harris Street walk-up, except for the exchange of pleasantries about the lovely spring weather they were having and how April was almost always horrible in England.
It was just Edgar’s rotten luck that the only neighbor who saw them come in was the landlord, a petty, peevish little man who was looking for the rent, now more than a week late. Edgar was relieved to get Jane Porter up the three flights and inside, shutting the door behind them, but he cringed to see the empty cereal bowl and box of Grape-Nuts that he’d left on his writing desk. There was a pile of typewritten pages on letterhead lifted from the supply closet of the pencil sharpener company he worked for, a mass of cross-outs and arrows from here to there, scribbled notes to himself in both margins.
"It’s a novel I’m writing, or should say rewriting … for the third time. I call it The Outlaw of Torn. Edgar grabbed the bowl and cereal box and started for the kitchen.
I turn into a bit of a bachelor when my wife is away. By that I don’t mean…"
It’s all right,
she called after him. You have children?
A boy and girl, two and three. Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you something to drink? Tea? A glass of sherry?
Yes, thank you. I’ll have a cup of water. Cool, please.
When Edgar returned from the kitchen, his guest was sitting at the end of the divan in an easy pose, her back against the rounded arm, her head leaning lazily on her hand. She had taken off her suit coat, and now he could see she wore no stiff stays under the white silk blouse, those torturous undergarments that mutilated a woman’s natural curves. She wore no jewelry save a filigreed gold locket hanging between shapely breasts, and it was only when she was opening the second of the two cases holding the skeleton that he saw she wore a simple gold wedding band. He could see now where she had meticulously pieced together the shattered bones of the apelike face.
He set the water down and sat across from her. Now she sighed deeply.
Are you sure you want to do this?
Edgar asked, praying silently that she did.
Well, I’ve never told this in its entirety. The academics don’t wish to hear it. But perhaps your ‘pulp fiction’ readers will. I can tell you it’s a story of our world—a true story, one that will rival your John Carter of Mars.
Is it about you?
A good part of it is.
Does what happened to you in the story explain your fearlessness?
I told you, I’m not frightened of you. I…
I don’t mean me. You took an awful lot of punishment this afternoon … and in public, too. You’re a better man than I.
She found Edgar’s remark humorous but grew serious as she contemplated his question. I suppose they did toughen me up, my experiences.
She stared down at her controversial find, and he saw her eyes soften as though images were coming into focus there.
Where does it begin?
he asked.
"Well, that depends upon when I begin. As I’ve said, I’ve never told it before, all of it. She did some figuring in her head.
Let me start in West Central Africa, seven years ago."
Africa!
Edgar liked this story already. Nowhere on earth was a darker, more violent or mysterious place. There were to be found cannibals, swarthy Arab slave traders, and a mad European king who had slaughtered millions of natives.
It just as well could start in England, at Cambridge, half a year before that.
She smiled at Edgar. But I can see you like the sound of Africa. So, if you don’t mind me jumping around a bit…
Any way you like it,
Edgar said. But I know what you mean. It’s not easy figuring out how to begin a story. For me it’s the hardest part.
Well then … picture if you will a forest of colossal trees. High in the fork of a fig, a great nest has been built. In it lies a young woman moaning and delirious. Her body is badly bruised and torn.
Is it you?
Edgar asked.
Jane Porter nodded.
I have it in my mind. I can see it very well.
Edgar could feel his heart thumping with anticipation. He allowed his eyes to close. Please, Miss Porter…
There was a hint of begging in his voice. Will you go on?
July 1905
It was the hurt that woke me—white-hot needles at shoulder and calf, and deep spasms the width and length of my back. My head throbbed. Fever seared. Limbs like lead. Bright patterns dancing behind closed lids. Too much effort to move a finger, a toe. Frightening. Did I have the strength to open my eyes? And what was the cause of my agony? What had happened? Where was I? Then I remembered. Recalled the last sensation that was pure terror made corporeal.
I was a leopard’s next meal.
Why was I not dead? Was I even now in the cat’s lair? Would I open my eyes to a pile of bones and rotting corpses of its earlier prey? Was the cat waiting an arm’s length away to finish me?
No. Beneath me was softness. My arms and legs were gently positioned and cushioned. But this was not a bed. The air was fresh, fragrant. I was outdoors. I could make no sense of it. I strained to remember. Called out for help.
I dared to hope.
Father?
My voice was so weak. How would he ever hear me? I drew a long breath to give me strength, but that small act was a knife to my ribs. I fought to raise my lids, but the minuscule muscles defied me.
Fah-thah.
It was a male voice, deep and resonant, even in its youth. Fevered as I was, a chill ran through me.
Who was this stranger? Dare I speak again?
A wave of pain assailed me and crushed the words into meaningless cries and moans. I was so weak, buffeted, helpless in a sea of suffering. Then two strong, comfortable arms cradled me, lifted me tenderly, held me to a broad male breast as a father would a small, ailing child.
Relief flooded me and I sank gratefully into my protector’s chest. The skin was smooth and hairless, the scent richly masculine. The throbbing heartbeat against my ear was strong and I heard the mindless humming, a familiar lullaby. I was rocked so gently that I fell into a swoon of safe repose.
* * *
How long it was before I awoke again I did not know. But with the pain having substantially subsided, when I opened my eyes this time I could see very clearly indeed, and my mind had regained sense and order.
I was in the crook of a tree where four stout limbs came together, lying on a thick bed of moss. I saw the naked, heavily muscled back of the man I remembered only for his fatherly embrace. He squatted beside me in what could rightly be called a nest.
His skin was mildly tanned, marred only by several fresh scratches and puncture wounds, the hair a matted black mass hanging down below his shoulders.
When he turned, he was spitting a just-chewed blue-green substance from his mouth into his hand, and was as startled at my waking state as I was at the entirety of him.
We were equally speechless. He never took his eyes from me as he finished chewing, then spat the rest of the paste into his palm. I lifted onto my elbows but winced at the pain this caused my left shoulder. I turned my head and saw the appalling injury—four deep gouges in the flesh.
He gently pushed me down and began to pack the green substance into the wounds. His ministrations were straightforward, and in the silence as he tended the shoulder scratches and another set on the back of my right calf, I gazed steadily at his face, overcome with a sense of wonder and unutterable confusion.
He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Perhaps twenty, he was oddly hairless on his cheeks, chin, and under his nose, with only a soft patch at the center of his chest. The face was rectangular with a sharp-angled jaw, the eyes grey and widely set, and alive with intensity and inquisitiveness. Jet-black brows matched the unruly mane.
Though a stranger and clearly a savage, he touched me intimately, but he did so unreservedly, like a workman at his job, and I felt no compulsion to recoil from that touch.
Then he did the strangest thing. He raised his hand to my face and, turning the palm up, laid the back of it on my forehead, as a mother would to her child to check for fever. I thought I detected satisfaction in what he’d found, and indeed, I felt the fever had gone from my body.
Now he met my gaze and held it with terrible intensity. His lips twitched for several moments before any sound emerged. Then finally he spoke.
Fah-thah,
he said.
Fah-thah?
I repeated. Then understood. Father.
The sound of the word and the thoughts it evoked suddenly tore through my being and, lacking all restraint, I began to wail. Where was my father? Was he alive or dead? Did he have any knowledge of my whereabouts?
Everything in me hurt, but most of all my heart.
The young man moved to take me into his arms as he’d done before, but now I began to struggle, pushing him away, crying out with pain of my torn shoulder and thoughts of my father. With a stern countenance, the man opened his palms and, spreading them across my chest, pushed me back down in the moss.
My face and body went slack in surprise, and I ceased struggling. He withdrew his hands and in time I calmed. I never took my eyes from him. Now I placed my own hand on my chest and spoke again.
Jane,
I said.
He was silent, eyeing me closely.
Jane,
I repeated, this time tapping my chest.
Understanding glittered in his eyes.
Jane,
he said.
I refused to give in to false or premature hope, but I rewarded his victory with a small smile.
He grew excited. He tapped his own chest and said, Tarzan.
So this was his name? Odd. Tarzan. He placed his hand over my hand, then said his name once more.
But I shook my head and finally said no.
He nodded his head yes. Tarzan. Tarzan,
he repeated.
I laid my head back, closing my eyes and sighing deeply. I wanted to shout, No, I am not Tarzan. You are Tarzan!
But I must be patient.
And then very suddenly, as though he, too, was spent from the frustrating conversation, he left me and climbed from the nest, disappearing from my sight.
I lay there alone, trying to order my mind. There had been a brief moment when I thought the savage might possess intellect, and my heart had soared. He was able to mimic words. I must have uttered Father
in my delirium, and he’d remembered it. And he had repeated Jane
instantly and clearly, and even appeared to understand that this was who I was. And then … oh, I grew heavy with disappointment—he had called us both by the same strange name: Tarzan. He was clearly an imbecile, a feral child, grown up. A freak of nature. And while he was at least gentle and had nursed me so carefully, I despaired that this creature was the one and only key to my salvation, if that was in fact a possibility.
Now that he was absent from the nest, I gazed around. It was a rough home to be sure, but a home all the same. I saw a depression in the moss beside where I lay—long and deep. It was clearly where the tameless man had been sleeping—so close to me. There were few artifacts. A stone-tipped spear. Near my head a pair of half coconut shells, and next to them a pith helmet—my own?—all of them filled with clear water.
But where was I?
I looked up and around me. I recognized the tree as a fig, and a large one at that.
It seemed that this nest was quite high off the ground. How on earth had I gotten here? Certainly it was by virtue of the gentle savage, but I had been injured. As a deadweight, I’d been carried up a tree!
Although every movement was still an agony, my mind was clearing moment by moment. But still I found myself tumbling fearfully in an avalanche of questions.
How serious were my injuries? Will I live or die? Where was my father? We had come together into this forest. Was he even alive? Deathly ill? What has he been told about my whereabouts? Was he searching for me even now? And who or what, in heaven’s name, was this man … my savior?
Then suddenly, unaccountably, the pain subsided like an outgoing tide. I found myself soothed, lulled into comfort by the sounds and the scents around me. It was an incessant thrum—trilling, piping, and whistling of birdsong. Calls and answers. Clicking and chip-chipping of insects. The rumbling roar of a distant waterfall.
I should think! Plan! But I could not. The sudden absence of pain, the delicious stillness of my body, the comfort of the bed, the sweet and pungent fragrances and the sounds. Oh, the sounds made me lazy, indolent. I allowed my mind to drift. Not like me. Not like me at all. Always too busy. So much to accomplish. So much to prove. Here there was no accomplishing. Here there was only being, and gratitude that I was alive and safe and not a leopard’s dinner …
Only then did I think to look down at my body. My left shoulder was bare—the sleeve from my bush jacket gone. The terrible wound packed with green-blue paste no longer throbbed. Was it this strange medicine that relieved the pain? The rest of my jacket, I could see, covered me, but the front—still buttoned—was lying atop my chest like a small blanket. I felt with my right hand. The jacket’s back was beneath me, the two parts unattached, the seams apparently ripped apart.
I needed to lift my head to observe my lower body, but the spasm that racked my neck and back with even the smallest movement forced a speedy look. It revealed a similar configuration. The lower right trouser leg was gone. A dull ache in my right calf reminded me of the claw wounds there and the blue-green poultice that packed it. The front of my trousers loosely covered my bottom half, and I assumed the backs were underneath my buttocks and legs.
The thought struck me that such an arrangement of my clothing had to have been accomplished by my new friend, and I wondered at his inventiveness. Would an imbecile have achieved so ingenious a sickbed? He had applied medicine that appeared to have prevented infection of my wounds, ones that while severe showed neither redness nor swelling nor suppuration, and provided substantial analgesia.
How long had I been unconscious? I realized with horror that my modesty must certainly have been compromised. What of my bodily functions? I felt clean and dry below, and detected no unsavory odors from my nether regions. Stop! I ordered myself. The accomplishment of urination and defecation in the presence and with the help of a strange male was certainly an embarrassment, but it was far from my greatest concern.
Suddenly a tight packet of leaves plopped down on the opposite side of the nest and a moment later came the man, leaping with utter grace and agility up over its side. Thankfully, his private parts were covered with a loincloth of sorts, really just a short animal skin tied at the waist covering the front of him, with what appeared as the wooden hilt of a large weapon protruding across his taut, rippling belly. His long legs were exquisitely muscled, as were his buttocks, and even his feet, bare of coverings of any kind, possessed great definition and obvious strength. As he came close and squatted unselfconsciously beside me, I thought that the sinuous toes, flexible and as powerful as fingers, were much like an ape’s—good for climbing.
He held my gaze, seeming pleased at the clarity he saw in my eyes, and spoke.
Tarzan,
he uttered with great certainty.
All right, I thought, he is not an imbecile. We have simply not learned proper communication with each other. I touched the center of my chest lightly with my right hand.
Jane,
I said and nodded my head, smiling. I touched my breastbone again. Tarzan…
I shook my head with definitive negativity and frowned.
His expression was at first quizzical. Then he smiled. He tapped my chest lightly. Jane,
he said. Then he tapped his own. Tarzan.
He understood!
I returned the smile to encourage him, though to be honest, my smile was entirely sincere. There was hope to communicate with this creature. No, I corrected myself. Not a creature. A man.
And a beautiful one at that.
I lay still and quiet as he opened the banana leaf he had tied up with thin vine and revealed inside it wood mold and nuts, and the fruit of the pawpaw tree.
He first applied the delicate fuzz to my wound, and the moist paste caused it to disappear. Then he grabbed the flat rock from the nest’s rim and, pulling out his blade, broke the nuts’ shells with the hard handle. He offered the nut meat to me in the palm of his hand. Yet I did not take or eat them. I was staring hard at the blade.
He held it out flat in front of me to see.
Boi-ee,
he said proudly.
"Bowie?" I said, astonished. What was this man, this Tarzan,
doing with a Bowie knife, and how on earth did he know its proper name? My father had such a blade in his collection of weapons. I had heard the story of Jim Bowie, the frontiersman who had died at the American Battle of the Alamo and had given the famous knife its name. There was nothing else about the man squatting beside me, or his home, that remotely bespoke of the civilized world.
And suddenly a Bowie knife.
This was a mystery, but perhaps more confounding was my trust in the man—Tarzan. I’d not questioned the grey mold he had rubbed into the poultices on my shoulder and calf, but I somehow assumed that it would improve my condition. How had I come to trust this wild man, a being whose life and mind were becoming more bewildering to me with every passing moment?
He again extended his hand holding the nuts, and though I felt no hunger I was moved to accept them. It was a token of faith and friendship. Indeed, he seemed pleased when I put them in my mouth and chewed. He smiled and went to work peeling the pawpaw, gutting it of its black seeds.
When he held out a portion to me—the simple sharing of food between members of a family—I wondered how it had come to this so very quickly.
I brought the yellow fruit to my lips and took a bite. Nothing I had tasted in my life, I thought, had ever been so sweet.
Together we quickly devoured the meal, and when he rose again, I knew that he was off to gather more. As he stood on the lip of the nest preparing to slide the Bowie knife into its sheath, a rare ray of sunlight pierced the thick canopy above to glint blindingly off the blade. I closed my eyes and saw …
* * *
… reflected January sunlight glittering off the razor-edged scalpel in its small wooden chest. The sight of the serrated bone saw, knives and drills and probes with their ebonized handles filled me with satisfaction. My very own dissection kit.
Yet standing there alone in the bright high-ceilinged chamber with two rows of sheet-draped cadavers—alone if one did not count the bodies of the deceased—I could feel a nervous flutter in my chest. The sickly sweet and acrid smell of formaldehyde, and the flesh it prevented from putrefying, stung my nose. Get your bearings, girl. You’re in the gross-anatomy laboratory at Cambridge. No time for floundering!
The medical students would be arriving any moment. Would it be the jocular, shoulder-bumping playfulness that I saw in the lecture hall, courts, and arches, I wondered, or would they quiet and grow still in this strange sepulcher?
There was a clattering at the door as a laboratory servant, his arms piled with tin pails, hurried in and began placing one at the foot of every table, for discarded parts I guessed.
I recognized the young man, Mr. Shaw, a graduate of the medical college who had yet to find a position in the world. The professor of human anatomy had happily taken him on to this posting that was both lowly in its tasks and most necessary to the smooth functioning of the laboratory. Servants, though they were called, were valued very highly, and the best of them, like Mr. Shaw, fetched and carried and mounted specimens that were produced by the students’ work. Some servants were paid as much for their services as college lecturers.
Your first day, Miss Porter?
Shaw inquired.
I nodded.
Make sure you keep the face covered,
he said of the corpses. That’s the bit that can give you a nasty shock. My first day the towel fell off and I found myself staring at a granny with half of her skin flayed down to the muscle and an eyeball hanging down by the optic nerve. I retched into one of these buckets every few minutes till the end of the session.
He set down one of the pails near my feet. Apparently it was a record-breaking spew … my classmates never let me forget it.
I’ll take your advice, Mr. Shaw. I’ll wait a bit to uncover the face.
Good luck to you, miss.
The laboratory was filling with young men, two to a table. Presently one of them took his place across from me. He was a fresh-faced boy with skin so pale and translucent that blue veins formed a delicate map across his cheeks and forehead.
I’m Woodley,
he said. You’re Jane Porter.
I could hear snickering from the tables on either side of us and the row across the aisle. I’d prepared myself for all manner of derision. The first woman to gain entry into this hallowed laboratory was sure to stir controversy and even indignation. I have every right to be here, I repeated to myself for the hundredth time that day and almost unconsciously pulled back my shoulders and thrust out my chin.
The movements, subtle as they were, did not go unnoticed by a too-handsome young man I knew from the anatomy lecture hall. Arthur Cartwright’s family was old, and they had managed to preserve their wealth and prestige in the previous century that had seen so many of them collapse into genteel poverty. Cartwright wore his arrogance like a badge of honor. All he did was smirk at me.
Shall we?
Woodley asked.
Leaving the face covered with a small towel, Woodley pulled the sheet away, revealing what looked to be a middle-aged man. It was already a partly dissected cadaver, as I had joined the class in the middle of its term. I could see that the skin of one forearm had been peeled away, revealing musculature that looked decidedly like the stringy meat on a dried-out turkey carcass. A large opening in the abdomen exposed the intestines and multitudinous folds of the mesentery tissue. A repulsive odor wafted up from the belly and hit me with a force that knocked me back on my feet.
I know,
said Woodley. The gut stinks far worse than the rest. You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t.
I was aware that even though work had begun on all the tables around mine and Woodley’s, everything that was being said here, and probably my reel backward from the odor of the abdominal cavity, was being closely observed by Cartwright and the others. They were all most certainly waiting for an opportunity to chime in with a barb, a pun, or their idea of a witty rejoinder … at my expense, of