Tarzan and the Revolution, page 1
part #8 of The Wild Adventures of Edgar Rice Burroughs Series
THE WILD ADVENTURES OF EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS® SERIES
Tarzan and the Revolution™
Thomas Zachek
COVER & INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS BY MIKE GRELL
Tarzan and the Revloution
First Edition © 2018 by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher, except for brief passages quoted in a review.
Trademarks including Tarzan®, Edgar Rice Burroughs® and Tarzan and the Revolution ™ owned by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.
Cover art and interior illustrations by Mike Grell © 2018 Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.
Special thanks to Bob Garcia, Gary A. Buckingham, Joan Bledig, John Martin, Mike Conran, Scott Tracy Griffin, and Tyler Wilbanks for their valuable assistance in producing this novel.
Number 8 in the Series
TO THE READER
You hold in your hands a new Tarzan novel.
Since Edgar Rice Burroughs created the character more than a hundred years ago, Tarzan of the Apes has become one of the most enduring characters in all of popular fiction. In addition to the original twenty-six novels, the character has been popularized for decades in movies, television programs, comics, Disney animated features, and even a Broadway musical.
This is my second Tarzan book, after Tarzan Trilogy, published in 2016. I am one of a privileged group of writers licensed by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc., to write new stories about our hero to add to the Greystoke legacy. Others include Will Murray, Gary Buckingham, Michael Sanford, Ann Johnson, and Ralph Laughlin.
As an author trying to create new stories for such a well-established character, I am inclined to try new directions, approaches, and storytelling styles. This story is set in the latter half of the Twentieth Century, and the Tarzan of this story is an older man who sees the Africa of his younger days changing in many ways. He is called out of semi-retirement to aid his adopted tribe, the Waziri, one more time.
It features a visit to the ancient, mysterious lost city of Opar. It has flashbacks to Tarzan’s earlier years. It also involves a group of young Peace Corps volunteers who become embroiled in the unfolding events.
You may already be familiar with the Lord of the Jungle, perhaps one of the thousands of devoted fans who have kept the Burroughs flame burning over the decades. I believe you will find my Tarzan solidly in the Burroughs tradition, and I hope you will be rewarded with an exciting and satisfying tale. Along the way, perhaps you will also find something new to ponder. It is all any author can hope for.
But perhaps you are new to the Tarzan universe. Even if you are unfamiliar with the backstory of our hero and his many exploits, I believe you will find this tale accessible and compelling. And I hope it will spark your interest in further exploring the amazing and wondrous worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs.
I welcome any comments and feedback you have. You can email me at zachekbooks@gmail.com.
My thanks to Jim Sullos and the staff at ERB, Inc., for giving me this opportunity.
My gratitude to my faithful readers Lin Courchane, Chris Schoggen, and Dan Roskom for their willingness to read all my drafts and their enthusiastic encouragement. My gratitude also to Peter Lee, who served in the Peace Corps in Thailand, for his valuable background and information about Peace Corps life.
And my thanks and appreciation to my wife Amy for all her support.
Thomas Zachek
Menomonee Falls, WI
January, 2018
Prologue
From the journal of Eric Benton, September 30, 1974:
Tomorrow we leave for Africa. I still can’t believe it. To be accepted, to be actually going. No turning back now.
All the preliminaries are finished. The long application process, the background check, the physical. More than I expected. Plus three months of training on the UW-Madison campus—four hours a day of language training, four hours a day of skills training. Whew. But after all that, I’m still excited, still pumped to go.
I wonder what I’ll be doing in a month, six months, a year from now?
Scott says I should keep a journal and write down what I see and do and think. He says it might be interesting and valuable to look back on. He says the Peace Corps changes you. So I’m going to try. We’ll see how it goes, I guess.
Eric Benton paused to look up from his desk and found himself staring out his second-story bedroom window at the split-level homes, the manicured lawns, and the white sidewalks of his Oshkosh, Wisconsin, subdivision. He was trying to think of what to write next in his journal when the final chord of Sgt. Pepper’s sounded and the turntable arm lifted off. He walked over to the stereo, plucked out his cassette, and slid it into its case. He was just placing the record back onto the shelf next to the Dylan, the Airplane, and the Fleetwood Mac LP’s when he heard a rap on the doorway behind him and the soft voice of his mother saying, “Hey, there, whatcha doing?”
He turned and said to her, “Just finishing up dubbing my records to tapes. I think I’ve got enough.” Eric was five-foot-nine, slim of build, with unruly brown hair. His high cheekbones and dark brown eyes sometimes gave him an air of seriousness beyond his twenty-two years.
“How are you going to play them with no electricity?” she said.
“Batteries, Mom, batteries.”
His mother stepped into the bedroom bedecked with rock music posters and high school band awards. The woman in her forties, with slightly disheveled brown hair, print housedress, and the beginnings of worn features, looked around the room. She noted the bookshelves straightened and the desktop cleaned off, and said, “So, are you all packed?”
“I think so,” Eric said. He pointed to the suitcase and duffel bag on the end of the bed.
She respectfully poked through the contents of the open duffel for a moment. His suitcase had been carefully packed and bound with netting to protect against rough transit, as instructed.
“Is that going to be enough?”
“It’ll have to be, Mom. Forty pounds. That’s it,” her son said, smiling.
“Well, take a break and come on down. Your father’s home and dinner’s ready.”
She hesitated a moment, drawing a breath, and then continued, “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
Eric stopped to look up at her. “Mom. We talked about this. It’s decided. I can’t change it now. And, yes, it’s the right thing.”
“But it’s so far. And it could be dangerous. Isn’t there another way?”
“Another way to do what? That war is still going on, and you know the draft could be reinstated at any time. Now that I’ve graduated from college, I lose my deferment, but I’m still 1-A, and nobody in town wants to hire 1-A’s. I can’t afford grad school right now. Dad wants me to serve my country, but I’m not going to fight in that damn war I don’t believe in. So, what are my options? Would you rather I ran off to Canada? At least in the Peace Corps, I can feel that I’m doing some good. I want to see the real world. I want to be able to help people, make a difference. That’s what President Kennedy said we need in the world, remember? And it’s only for two years. I’ll be back.”
He felt he had recited that speech almost from memory. He had made those points a dozen times in the past two months, to family and friends. He knew that his mother accepted his decision rationally, but in her heart, she was still troubled. She recognized his maturity but still remembered the eight-year-old who had been reluctant to ride his bike more than six blocks away. She knew very little about Africa, and what she had heard was worrisome: disease, dictators, revolutions, the dangers of the wilderness, and so much crushing poverty. The land was so big, so mysterious. She did not know what to expect, and she feared the unknown.
Eric knew that there was only so much he could say to calm her fears, but he also knew that no matter what, she would let him go.
He smiled the winning grin that his mother had always loved. Taking her thin shoulders in his arms, he looked into her eyes and added, “I’m just going to try to help people. Isn’t that a good thing? What could happen?”
Chapter 1
Interview
John Clayton sat on his spacious veranda and gazed out over the magnificent African landscape that stretched before him to the north and west. The early afternoon sun glistened off the waters of the river in the distance that meandered through acres of open plains and grassy vistas dotted with clusters of boulders and patches of scrub trees.
A few miles away, the rain forest commenced, first in tangles of brush, and then gradually thickening to verdant richness. Farther off in the distance, the land undulated upward into lush, forested hills, and beyond that, saw-tooth mountains rose majestically, some of their peaks flecked with snow even at this time of year. The gentlest of breezes wafted across the veranda, the leaves and fronds of the potted plants on the porch quivered with its caress.
Clayton was totally absorbed in the tranquil moment until, for an instant, the faint, disquieting notion crossed his mind that what he was about to do today would spoil all this.
He did not entirely relish the prospect of seeing the man who had an appointment with him today. He had met this reporter socially in London and, in an unguarded moment of generosity, agreed to an interview “sometime,” never expecting that the fellow would follow through. Until he called. But no, Clayton
The veranda stretched the full width of the two-story wood frame house, a modest villa by European standards but more spacious than any other dwelling in the area. A broad roof spread out over the porch to shield it from the midday sun, and above the roof rose the second story, four gables jutting out at well-spaced intervals. The home was continental in design but complemented by distinctly African touches, such as the use of bamboo, mahogany, and other native woods, as well as the lush flower beds and the stately palm and hardwood trees flanking the yard.
Baaku, his manservant, emerged from the main entrance bearing a dining tray and proceeded to clear the remnants of Clayton’s lunch and tidy up.
From around the shrubbery at the side of the house, a monkey came scampering across the yard, chasing something, but suddenly skidded to a stop, pausing while sniffing the air, and looked up at his master and then back out across the landscape.
“Master…,” Baaku said, looking up and out over the lawn.
“Yes, I see it.”
Off in the distance they watched a cloud of dust made by someone approaching. A moment later, Clayton recognized a Range Rover driving down the road from the northeast. The monkey scampered away toward the rear of the house as the dusty vehicle slowed to turn off the road and pull into the long driveway.
“I will quickly finish cleaning up, sir,” said Baaku.
“No, that’ll do. Thank you, Baaku,” Clayton said to the servant, who withdrew.
Clayton rose and walked forward to stand between the bamboo supporting pillars on either side of the steps leading down to the yard. He calmly watched the vehicle pull up and park. The driver got out, strode across the yard, and climbed halfway up the four wooden steps. He appeared to be in his forties, fashionably dressed in a rather new field jacket with the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, cotton trousers crisp, hiking boots barely broken in. Other than his well-barbered light brown hair being somewhat windblown from the ride, he presented the appearance of a clean-cut, urbane reporter who preferred to get his stories from interviews in air-conditioned offices or hotel lounges rather than dusty streets or war-torn cities.
“Lord Greystoke?” he asked, extending his right hand. “Dennis Fletcher, from the World Chronicle. It was a bit of a journey getting here. I hope I’m not late.”
Clayton reached down to shake his hand and then, and smiling, replied, “Not at all. Right on time.”
“Nice place you have here.”
“Thank you. Care to look around?”
“Definitely.”
They descended the steps and strolled around to the landscaped yard on the eastern side of the house. “How long have you been here?” Fletcher asked.
“Oh, more than thirty-five years. I lose track of time.”
Clayton guided the reporter across the shaded patio and through the manicured grounds. He pointed out the stables and then the garden, where Fletcher noted the straight rows of well-tended flowers and clusters of herbs.
“Very impressive,” Fletcher admired. “You seem quite the gardener, Lord Greystoke.”
“Not really. I employ one. I have always enjoyed the outdoors, but I’ve been more of a hunter and traveler than a gardener.”
“Are all these beautiful flowers imported?”
“Oh, no. Nearly all are native. That one, for instance.” He pointed to a patch of striking yellow flowers in full bloom, their petals the color of golden wheat enfolding bright orange filaments. “That’s a Ghana daylily. It has remarkable restorative powers. There’s a story behind that.”
The brief tour moved around to the back of the yard and into the house. Inside, Fletcher regarded the variety of drums scattered around the rooms, pausing to tap on a few and listen to their tone. He then moved on to admire the collection of African masks, spears, and bows arranged artfully on the walls, asking, “Are these local?”
“Yes, most of them gifts. Some I made.”
Fletcher nodded and looked at his host. “The place is lovely, quite impressive. Thank you for the tour. Shall we get down to business?”
“Certainly,” said Clayton. “How about doing this on the porch? Care for iced tea?”
“Love some.”
Clayton gestured to Baaku, who had remained unobtrusively nearby, and then led Fletcher out to the veranda.
Taking a seat, Fletcher unslung his leather bag from his shoulder, opened it, and produced a portable cassette recorder, which he set up on the table in front of him. He unwound the black cord from around the plastic microphone, plugged its end into the recorder jack, and propped the microphone up on the table, pointing it across to Clayton. He slipped a new cassette into the recorder and turned to fetch a pen and notebook as he said, “I hope you don’t mind. I tape all my interviews. Wouldn’t want to get it wrong, would we?” Clayton nodded his assent.
The iced tea arrived in tall, sweating glasses crowned with lemon slices. Fletcher tasted his and nodded approvingly, saying, “I swear, only the British know how to make tea.”
The reporter regarded the man who sat in front of him. Lord Greystoke was tall and rugged. A scar of considerable length stretched down across his temple. That, along with various other scars and nicks, suggested that this ostensibly upper-class British gentleman had been through more than a few struggles in his life. Yet, though strands of gray flecked the neatly-clipped hair that must have once been jet black, and a few age lines stretched from around the eyelids and nostrils across his otherwise healthy, tanned skin, this man hardly looked old. His gray eyes were still piercing, his jaw still firm, his voice still resonant, and the short-sleeved, cotton polo shirt he wore hardly concealed the large chest, the firm abdomen, or the still-solid biceps.
Fletcher set his glass down and took up his notebook. “So,” he began. “You’ve been around for a while. In your sixties, I’m guessing? Older?”
“A little older,” Clayton said cagily.
“You look well for a man that age. Quite fit. What’s your secret, if I may ask?”
Clayton smiled a bemused, noncommittal smile. “I’ve kept active most of my life. Fresh air, exercise, unadulterated food.”
“Now, you inherited your title from your parents, Lord Greystoke and Lady Alice?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you born?”
“Here, in Africa.”
“When did your parents die?”
“I was quite young.”
“But you inherited the family fortune, the Greystoke title. And after seeing England and the continent, and despite your status as a peer of the Realm, you decided to live here.”
“For much of the year, yes.”
“And your wife?”
“She’s in London. She’s coming back in three weeks.”
“I regret that the timing of my visit did not allow me a chance to chat with her as well. But that brings me to the subject of my article. What do British peers do after they retire? I see for one thing, you’ve traveled.”
“I’ve traveled to a few countries, such as France and America, but other than in Africa, I’ve not traveled all that extensively.”
“According to the peerage records, you were absent from the House of Lords quite a bit during most of your years there.”
“You’ll find that many peers are absent a fair amount. The position is an entitlement and doesn’t really require much of a commitment. As for me, I had affairs here in Africa which occupied my attention.”
“Such as what?”
“Various things,” Clayton replied noncommittally. “I’ve helped some of the tribes with their affairs.”
“Oh? Like what?” the reporter pressed.
Clayton put down his glass and reached over to press the stop key on Fletcher’s tape recorder. He then sat upright, his gray eyes still able to manage a steely stare, and said, “You’re not really doing a story on retired British Peers of the Realm, are you? You could have found at least a half-dozen of them sitting on Hyde Park benches any day of the week. Why did you really come all the way down here?”
Fletcher stiffened slightly and tried to manage a bit of a smile without making it look like a retreat, and said, “Actually, I’ve come to talk to you about Tarzan.”
