Jane Clayton stood at the edge of the clearing, her khaki shirt torn at the shoulder, a thin line of blood tracing her collarbone. She had defied him—not out of malice, but out of a desperate need to prove that the civilization she had once known still lived inside her. She had walked into the native village alone, trading her father’s old compass for a tarnished locket, a trinket of the world she had left behind.
“You are not of the village,” he said, his voice a low rumble that did not rise above the hum of insects. “You are not of the white men’s towns anymore. You are of the tribe. My tribe.” tarazan shame of jane
He turned and threw the locket into the dark river. It vanished without a sound. Jane Clayton stood at the edge of the
Tarzan watched her from the low branch of a muiri tree, his bronze skin streaked with woad and dust. His eyes were not angry. That would have been easier. They were disappointed, and worse—ashamed for her. “You are not of the village,” he said,
“Forgive me,” she said, the words foreign and heavy.
The jungle held its breath. Not even a panther stirred in the velvet gloom.