Author's note: This, and most likely the chapters following, will be hypothetical scenes after the facts of the movie involving our favorite characters.
Thank you!
Tarzan hated ships. Given her experiences first associated with the vessels, James couldn't blame her.
But when a docking port and general store were planned and in fact being built, the wild woman had understandably been displeased.
"They can't come here." she snarled at him, looking in the direction of the shore from the tree house they'd renovated.
James was quick to reassure her, "Tarzan, darling, the people who are working with these ships aren't going to be like Clayton's people from the last one, and they'll only be at the port. I promise. No one is going to hurt the family, or us." He sighed as she growled and continued to glare with a hunter's intent.
He, too, felt some distaste in the 'tainting' of this place.
But such a renovation was necessary, and in fact unavoidable.
England had searched for a foothold to the ports of the more populated places of the African mainland.
Tarzan's land provided such a foothold, especially since it was now recognized by the Symposium as a point of interest for research.
Fortunately, Tarzan's fame and the Porter research allowed James' mother to negotiate the land as a supply stop only, by law to be untouched by poaching, resource procurement, or settling, except for those recognized by Tarzan, who was acknowledged as a rudimentary dignitary by other lands.
Plus, and James wouldn't tell Tarzan this, he and his mother still needed a connection with Mother England, however much of a paradise this place was. He figured he was slightly spoiled or selfish in this regard, but contact to old friends, supplies, and such comforts like tea and coffee, were luxuries he'd missed.
However, that man who was becoming superintendent of the port unnerved James. What was his name? Ren...Renard Dumont, Frenchman.
That Dumont fellow had taken an awfully friendly interest in Tarzan, James' wife.
His wife.
He glanced at the ring around his finger, already gaining a slight patina, and then its counterpart on Tarzan's own hand.
Hers was scuffed, chipped, and dull, and looked slightly awkward on her instinctively curled fingers, but it was cherished, even if its shine had kept startling her in the first days of her bearing it. He'd catch her thumbing it with the other hand, scrubbing it carefully in water, turning her appendage this way and that to try and catch that shine again. The wedding had certainly been memorable, and the engagement long.
First, they'd had to contact and convince a priest to come marry them, as Tarzan wouldn't and couldn't leave her land.
Several letters to this effort had been met with insulted confusion, disbelieving humor, asking whether Tarzan was accepted into the faith, or, in fact, criticizing whether she qualified in any human sense for any legal documentation, and that she should have been in England under a 'doctor's care'.
James had an admittedly vindictive pleasure of destroying that particular letter.
Eventually, a rather odd priest had come along, but by that time James was willing to thank any man who'd come.
It had been a bit surreal, indeed humorous, for the priest to meet Tarzan's 'parent/guardian', a lovely gorilla named Kala who had long given her consent and with much bemusement had questioned why such a thing took so long. Such were the silly ways of humans, she'd supposed.
Likewise, there were explanations necessary for Tarzan during the engagement period. She had no prior understandings (or patience, among other things) for such a procedure, her understandings being such that the engagement had been a tempestuous, tempting wreck for James, but that was another matter altogether. As it was, the priest had managed to have a lengthy, private talk with his fiancée before the ceremony was arranged. He never knew what he told her, but had found the woman a lot more thoughtful afterwards. He wanted to question, of course, to discuss, what did she understand? How did she feel?
But somehow...he never did, and somehow never felt he had to.
They had the rings, the priest, the groom, his mother had modified a white dress, which had, along with Tarzan's beautiful vitality, made the picture-perfect bride. The bridesmaid was a spunky gorilla named Terk, the best man had been Tantor, an African elephant who had a remarkable affinity for hygiene, and the wedding reception had been a virtual food free-for-all between the gorilla troop acting as guests. Mum and the priest had joined in too.
It was then that he learned that Tarzan did not have high tolerance for sugar.
Just another delightful thing to discover about his new wife.
It had been a wonderful wedding, and the wedding night...well, a greater matter altogether.
This didn't, however, change that she had a base, straightforward hatred for ships, and all things associated with them.
Or at least, it seemed. Perhaps her hostility would dim, with adjustment. He hoped.
Tarzan waited until James was busy with his books.
She sneaked into Porter-Mum's nest-room, and looked at Porter-Mum's books, Porter-Mum's things, and found what she often did.
Here was the map, telling her how far England was from Tarzan's place.
Here were the pictures of ships, now 'nice', big and fat and full of nice England things that made James happy.
Here were the pictures of England females, strange, and interesting, and not Tarzan.
Here were the small, thin books that Porter-Mum thought she hid well. These were full of all things for the England female, the colors, the clothes, the pretty, shiny hair that looked so much like James' own: soft and good-smelling, and not Tarzan.
These small thin books told Tarzan how these females with their things were far more desirable for England males.
These were things James' thought Tarzan didn't know he missed. She heard the males on the ships talk of their females, about their red lips and dark eyes and pretty clothes and all things that Tarzan didn't see in herself. She looked at the pretty ring on her finger, and clenched her hand.
It hadn't taken her long to understand 'pretty', and its different types. She was worried that she wasn't the right type.
James was hers, he told her so, and she was his, they both knew so, and reminded each other often.
But Tarzan wasn't an England female, and James was an England male, but he was here, so she hadn't worried.
But now these ships were here, full of things of England, surely James would miss it, and the ships would take him away.
She really didn't worry any more about ships taking away her family. Now she worried about them taking away her James.
Tarzan couldn't let this happen, she couldn't let England, or an England female, take James back.
She didn't want to share him.
She thought about it, and decided the best way to prevent sharing James was to become as desirable as an England female.
So now she studied the books of Porter-Mum's.
The hair was easy enough, she'd pulled a lot of it back into a tail, which kept it out of her face.
Baring the face must be a sign of availability, openness, and so, desirable.
Then, the red lips. Easy enough, find some red fruit, smashing out the juice and spreading it over them colored them easily.
Maybe this meant that the female hunted or fed well, and so would be a good mother for bearing and caring for children? If so, desirable.
She wasn't sure about the dark eyes, but she was sure it didn't mean to color the eyes directly. She found some cooled dark ash from the fire pit and smoothed and ground it gently in around her eye sockets, blinking. She looked at herself in a mirror, frowning. Maybe mud would've been better.
Perhaps this was to make the female look intimidating, a good protector, a watchful mate. If so, desirable.
The clothing, though, was where she was lost.
She glared at the pictures in the small, thin book, wanting to threaten these females at spear-point to tell her why they wore what they did.
They showed as much skin as Tarzan, if paler, but she couldn't do anything about that.
She turned another page, and blinked. She turned the book over in her hand, and a bunch of connected pages fell out to show a big picture.
She stared. Oh.
So that was why. Nice, removable plumage, indicating good health underneath. Desirable. Alright.
So she needed nice, removable plumage to prove her health and desirability.
She searched through more of Porter-Mum's things.
She found something in an old trunk like what she saw in the pictures of the females, but it looked much too small for Porter-Mum.
She used the book as a reference, and tried to put the shell-thing on, and almost couldn't breathe while trying.
It was almost too small for Tarzan.
She was in the middle of trying to turn it around, when an oil-lamp shown in the doorway.
She turned to the door to see Porter-Mum. She didn't know whether to smile or run away.
Porter-Mum looked at Tarzan and screamed.
Tarzan quickly jumped up, trying to find what threatened Porter-Mum, when the woman backed away before stopping.
"Th-that's you, isn't it, Tarzan?" she asked.
Tarzan nodded, a bit ashamed at the mess she made of Porter-Mum's nest-room.
"Oh, thank heavens..." the female sighed, putting a hand to her chest.
"Are you alright, Mum?!" James called out from below, running up the stairs, and Tarzan tensed. She wasn't ready.
"I'm just fine, dear, sorry for the scare!" Porter-Mum called back, after quickly looking at Tarzan, "Just a surprise jungle visitor, of a fascinating specie, and, oh, er, womanly things, all that! Nothing to concern you with! Don't come up here!"
"Er, alright... I'll...be down here...?" he replied hesitantly, out of sight, stopping just a few steps below.
"Good boy!" she called back, and then firmly shut the door behind her, setting the oil-lamp on the dresser. Tarzan hunched miserably.
They heard James stand on the step for a moment, a creak of shifting weight, before they heard him go back down.
"Well..." Porter-Mum said after a moment, sitting on the bed and clasping her hands on her lap, "I'm not one to discourage war paint, womanly or otherwise, but this, er, surprised me, dear. I adore you when I say this, but, whatever you're doing, you're doing it wrong, and I'm not sure for an entirely right reason."
Tarzan blinked, confused at the words and the woman's stare, and noticed that she was staring at the book at Tarzan's feet, the one with the Big Page.
She quickly kicked it under the bed, and the shell-thing she'd been trying to put on sagged, unclosed at the back.
Porter-Mum chuckled, "That's a corset, love, slightly out of fashion and not very practical for a young lady such as yourself."
"It is for the England ladies, their females." Tarzan pointed out, trying to catch the strings, turning circles in doing so.
". . . Ah."
Porter-Mum smiled, patting the bed, "Well, let me help you with it then, and then let's see how much you think it's worth."
Tarzan hesitated, uncertain, but sat/perched on the bed next to Porter-Mum, back facing the woman.
She felt the elderly female brush aside her hair and tug at the strings.
"My, my, your efforts made a veritable Gordian Knot back here, Tarzan, this'll take a moment..."
Tarzan nodded uneasily, feeling the woman's hands—hands usually clumsy in her natural excitement—as they smoothly and gently unstrung the strings through the little holes that line the back of the thing called a corset.
"Care to tell me what all the hullabaloo's about, hm?"
". . . James." Tarzan admittedly quietly.
"Oh, isn't it just? I figured, you know, with your newfound interest in aesthetics. But what, specifically, is wrong with James?
Is he neglecting you?"
"Neglecting?" Tarzan asked.
"You know, issues in the boudoir? Trouble in paradise? Running out of candle wick?"
When Tarzan was still confused, Porter-Mum sighed, "Is he failing his duties as a husband, er, as a mate?"
Tarzan shook her head quickly, "No, James is good. Very good." she assured her, smiling.
Porter-Mum coughed, smiling a bit herself, finishing the cross-lacing, "Well, glad to hear that, I suppose. What's wrong, then?"
"England." Tarzan sighed, then her breath hitched slightly as Porter-Mum tugged on the strings a bit, feeling the corset start to close on her ribs.
"Don't panic, dear, just testing the give. This's an old piece, you know. What about England?"
Tarzan felt embarrassed, but Porter-Mum listened, "England ships with things, nice things," Tarzan growled, "Nice, England females."
"Ah, but those women are in England, not here, and certainly not with the ships. Bit of a silly thing to worry about, isn't it?"
"But James—" Tarzan squawked and nearly snarled at Porter-Mum when she yanked at the cords, "Ur-r-rk! J-James will m—snarl—miss England, and-and its females who aren't Tarzan, and will want another mate!" she gasped when Porter-Mum gave a particularly fierce pull. She underestimated the strength of England females, another thing she had to surpass.
"I don't...don't want to share him..." she panted.
"I see." Porter-Mum 'hmm'ed, sounding oddly cheerful, but her teeth were bared.
"Oh, this thing is so difficult to close properly, I fear. We'll need you to stand up, now."
Tarzan swallowed, which was difficult, given it felt like this thing was a snake or a gorilla male trying to crush her.
"Tarzan," Porter-Mum continued, standing on a stool while she made Tarzan brace her hands on the wall, "We explained to you about how our 'mating' process works, hadn't we? The engagement, the meaning of the wedding and the ring you wear, and so on?"
". . . Yes." Tarzan admitted.
"And what does it mean, Tarzan?"
"That I am James'," she nearly heaved as the corset tightened even more, "A-and that James is mine. Only his. Only mine. A promise."
"And do you think that my son would so easily forget his promise?"
Tarzan was quiet, "I-I don't..." but her voice was a grudging mumble.
Porter-Mum 'tsk'ed, "Dreadful ties, these. When had it last been worn? Well, if you have any doubts with the promise, we can take care of that simply enough. You can take off that ring you wear and throw it on to the next ship that heads to England."
"What?!" Tarzan roared, but the hold of the corset didn't let her round on the female, who gave it a hardy yank to stop her.
"Think of it, Tarzan, if you find that James would be an unwilling mate who would fall for the next Englishwoman he sees, what better way to spare the both of you than leave that ring for the next Englishwoman who finds it, and let her bear the burden of a poor mate easily swayed?"
"James is not—"
"Then do not dare to presume that he would be, for you'd be performing a gross hypocrisy, darling." Porter-Mum said calmly.
When Tarzan was silent, having learned the word 'hypocrisy'. Porter-Mum sighed and tied off the top.
Tarzan staggered back, trying to catch her breath.
"You are a fantastic female, Tarzan. An incredible representation of the science of natural humanity, and a very beautiful young woman by any standard. You are unique, exotic, healthy, and very much desirable to James, and dare I say many other males. But you are also quite human, which I understand very much now, given your actions today. I do not judge you for that, Tarzan, understand?"
Tarzan nodded, feeling desperately around the shell that held her. Where were her ribs?!
"I understand that you still think in the ways of your original family. But I do judge you for doubting James and yourself. He left his England for you, Tarzan, and has clearly taken you as the ideal female, proving it with the ring he wears and the vows you both took before God, by Jove!"
The woman walked in front of Tarzan to glare up at her, hands on her hips, every inch the fearsome matriarch.
"Do you still feel doubt after that?!"
Tarzan shook her head quickly, too cowed and too much out of breath to speak.
Porter-Mum nodded firmly, "Good! And, to further prove my point, Englishwomen have nothing on you. Look in that mirror, Tarzan, and tell me whether you'd think all that war paint and corsetry and submission to vanity is what you wanted. Is it worth it?"
Tarzan obeyed, and stared at the creature in the mirror, comparing it to the pages and the reflection of her 'real' self.
She slowly, firmly, shook her head. "Not worth it." she strangled out.
Porter-Mum sighed happily, reaching up to pat Tarzan's tensed shoulder.
"Do you doubt James?"
"No."
"Do you doubt yourself?"
"N-no."
"Do you think James would find this Tarzan we see here attractive?"
Tarzan looked the image up and down, and made a face.
Porter-Mum laughed, "Good. Let's free you of that dreadful thing, then."
Tarzan growled, curling over and forcefully curving her lean, wiry shoulders forward with a grunt.
The corset tightened in protest, and then the top ties, worn and yellowed, frayed with age and frustration, ripped with a stinging snapping. Tarzan took a deep, relieved breath, and it was then loose enough to tear off.
Porter-Mum clapped happily, "Well done, my girl! Never liked that model, anyway."
She helped Tarzan take it off, and then cleaned off her face.
"Now," she said, while they straightened up the nest-room, "I won't tell James about your little experiment and the reasons for it, you know, the catalogues and corsets and all, and you won't tell him that I had these catalogues. Or that corset. Er, you didn't find the garter belt, did you?"
Tarzan frowned, "The what?"
"Never mind, dear! Trivial matter! What's in the past stays there, what?"
Porter-Mum shooed her out of the nest-room, "Now go find your husband-mate and do whatever it is I have no business knowing what!
Good night!"
"Good night." Tarzan replied, and then crouched down and hugged the smaller woman in a gorilla's embrace.
"Thank you." she said, muffled in the woman's shoulder, and felt Porter-Mum pet her hair, "Any time, love."
Porter-Mum suddenly chuckled as Tarzan went to find James.
"I'd ask you to put on a new top, house rules and all, eh? But I don't think that'd be practical at the moment, would it?"
Tarzan grinned, blushing a little, and vaulted down the stairs with renewed, spontaneous enthusiasm.
James woke in the bed that morning with a quiet groan, feeling with some primal satisfaction the ache of worn muscle.
He looked over to where his wife had curled into him, face half-buried between the sheets and his shoulder.
He chuckled a bit nervously, pleased and still slightly confused at Tarzan's actions that evening.
"Hello, Tarzan! Are you al—nmph?!"
. . .
"Good to—hm—see you too, darling. Oh, you washed your face, er, where are we go—? Can't I just finish this—?"
"We go to nest-room."
"Oh, okay, it can wait."
"Let the ships come." she told him with a slightly unsettling grin.
He laughed, surrendering himself as her not-so-unwilling captive as she dragged him to their room.
"I'm, uh, pleased you're being accepting now, Tarzan, but what is—?"
"The ships won't have James. Tarzan will."
He found quite quickly that he could brook no argument with such a convincing statement.
After that there was no more communication of the verbal sort.
"Good morning, love." he told her, kissing the sliver of forehead showing through her wild hair as she stirred.
She grunted indistinctly, moving closer to him, and he gladly held her.
". . . Tarzan loves James." she mumbled, hiding her face against him.
He chuckled, moving to tilt her chin up and kiss her proper, "And James loves Tarzan." he replied warmly.
She looked at him and looked at his hand, and stared at the ring. She moved her ring-less hand to press it against his, palm to palm and fingers to fingers, and shifted to show her own ring, and they both smiled.
They relaxed a bit more, simply enjoying the comfort of morning, before Tarzan spoke up again.
"James?"
"Yes, Tarzan?"
"What does 'running out of candle wick' mean?"
James frowned, repeating the words again silently. Then he thought about it, and then he flushed.
"MOTHER!"
And then not too much later:
"CLOTHES!"
And then quite soon after that:
"NEVER MIND, MOTHER!"
Mrs. Porter chuckled, flushing a little from her seat in the drawing-room, sipping from her morning cup.
She looked at the catalogue she'd ordered discreetly. It was much more up-to-date.
The materials looked much nicer, certainly, and much more tasteful, more aware of the female musculature.
It was a rather crude interest, she understood, not very scientific at all.
But the young had their hobbies, and interests, and Mrs. Porter had indeed once been young, and was now quite nostalgic, and found herself reminiscing of those days once she discovered her daughter-in-law's insecurities.
She flipped through another page, humming thoughtfully.
Maybe Tarzan could one day appreciate that not all things from England were bad.
But that would be a social experiment for another day.
Author's note: This was probably a bit more 'raunchy' than the behaviors of the time, I might understand. But an open-minded individual would be an open-minded individual, and who am I to not explore such a notion?