Disclaimer: Characters from Tarzan belong to Edgar Rice Burroughs & Disney. Any other characters and/or descriptions belong to me.

Chapter 3 – A Dream

That following night was cold and dark. The wind whistled through the leaves of the city trees and blew past the houses. I shivered a little and wrapped my arms around myself, stepping over and shutting my own window before the infernal draughts came in. Clayton was right about one thing, the weather this week had not been the most pleasant.

Ugh, Clayton! I banished all thought of him from my mind, our meeting returning to memory. He certainly had not been the politest of men. In all honesty, I had felt rather disgusted with his behaviour – I didn't care if he and Daddy had been acquainted professionally on business matters, it still was no way to treat a guest!

And to think, he's coming with us after all, I thought, with disappointment. I would have preferred he forwarded us to someone with more...enthusiasm - more passion on the subject. After all, it was not every day an opportunity like this came about. I'm just relieved that Daddy let me go, in the end.

I sat down slowly onto the four-poster bed, letting myself sink into the sheets. I was still thinking back to Daddy's words from earlier before. He had said that I was far too young, in his opinion, for this journey. If he were as strict as a grumpy buffalo he would never hear of it. Perhaps I was lucky then, that he wasn't.

But it still didn't make me feel any better. All I was reminded of was the day of the funeral, and the things that he had told me, then. Memories didn't help me much around this house. Mother was the firmest glue that held this family together, I told myself, glumly. Now that she's gone, I feel as though I have to take that responsibility upon my own shoulders.

I hung onto one of the wooden knobs of the bed and placed my cheek against it, thinking. I was not the same person I was three years ago, although I tried to be. I never used to let my mind wander to any tragedy or danger in the future. Now that my mother was gone, I seemed forever cautious around those I cared about.

I stood in front of my mirror, brushing my hair, and looking back at my reflection.

A worried reflection. Even when I was smiling, it showed. No wonder the gentlemen stayed away.

To be honest, the latter thought had not entered my mind for a long time now. Mother was always the one to bring it up – in my view, it made me feel a little uncomfortable talking about it. The new fashions were invented to make the men's eyes wander, onto the hair and face and clothes. Secretly I wondered if Daddy and Mother were undeniably leading me into this trend, to gain more attention towards my appearance – and perhaps, although I dreaded mentioning it... to sign myself off as a likely candidate to be wed.

In my personal view, it was too soon.

Not age-wise, of course. It was only... I didn't feel ready. I didn't feel my love was strong enough. I was not the type to fall into delusions of hopeless romances. I was no longer a child.

I placed the brush back onto the table with a groan and sat there, in front of the mirror with my chin in my curled fists. Now that I thought back to it, Mother and Daddy often brought home new presents after their journeys... new hats, new boots...new corsets. I had still not managed to relieve myself of the ache in my ribs the first time I gave one of those a try.

It was all for my own benefit, they would say.

I sidled a look across the counter, staring at the flickering flame of the candle. How I wished things could be different. I knew that eventually I would grow used to the way people walked, and behaved around London...including holding the little tea cakes and china plates between my fingers. I had grasped the basics...but it all seemed rather pressuring. I liked having the feeling of escaping into one of my books or paintings, and letting my imagination run wild...and free.

Not trapped, nor withering...drowning in a river of cobblestones.

London, I thought, with a roll of the eyes, where smoke was fresh air.

I caught a glimpse of my nose in the mirror – a little turned up, it was. It was just something else to spite me turning into a proper lady.

"You have the perfect nose of posture, Jane. Indeed a grand woman."

Sighing, I banished Mother's words away from my mind (something I rarely did), turned away from my reflection and softly blew out the candle.

-xXx-

Monday, 24th January 1909

Over the few days that had passed since the arrangement had been settled, Clayton had arrived every other morning to discuss the details through with Daddy. Although I was going too, I had decided to stay out of the way...for the better. I felt that whenever I sat there and asked questions, or had my say, Clayton would shoot me an impertinent look and curl his lip in a sneer.

So I had left the situation to come down to examining the details with my father afterwards, leading to less frustration. From the sound of it, we were to set out this weekend, on the Saturday morning by carriage to the docks. There, we would take the boat that would lead us to Africa. If all went accordingly, we would arrive on Monday night – Tuesday at the latest.

Just as Clayton had said.

I sat in a simple reading dress, by the fireplace in our living room. It was not lit, as the sun shone from the windows, causing the frost on the sill to sparkle. The cold still lingered here...I wondered if it would be strange at all to feel the heat on my skin in the winter months.

Africa suddenly opened up many prospects I had never considered.

"Good morning, Miss Porter," I heard Esmeralda say as she passed through the hallway.

I looked up and smiled. "Oh! Good morning!"

Esmeralda was our household maid, and had remained in the Porter family name for some years. She was a gentle soul, but stern when it came around to it. As a child she made sure I understood how to darn my own wears and tears, and how to write my calligraphy correctly. Being of some Spanish heritage, she had once tried to introduce me to the language, with no such luck.

I was never the best at learning new tongues. I had basically floated around, tweaking and fiddling with my own until I was positive that my grammar was to its best. But Esmeralda was a decent soul, and was almost like a second mother in the house.

It was some comfort now to have her around. Over the years that had passed, she had provided such support to us both that I could not imagine how we would be without her. She had been a great aid to us in our suffering.

The book I sat with contained a decent amount of information about Africa and its rare delights, opening up new facts about the animals and locations. I felt as though I should be filling in as much as I could before we left. At least then I would feel greatly prepared if we ever ventured into the jungle.

"Anything interesting, perchance? Miss Porter?"

I snapped the binding shut with a jump and stared into the features of Clayton. He stood over the chair, leaning his arm against the headrest, smirking down at me from above.

Goodness! He did startle me so! I thought. I did not expect him until this afternoon...it's a little soon, isn't it?

I choked on a giggle and swallowed hard. "You shocked me, Mr. Clayton!" I half-whispered out, shaking a strand of hair out of my eyes and asking, "What are you doing here?"

Not exactly blunt, Jane, I said to myself, rather sarcastically.

Clayton chuckled to himself, continuing to grin down at me as though he found my presence amusing. "That's not a very friendly welcome, now, is it?" he asked, a dry, dull sound in the pit of his throat. He clicked his fingers together, rather annoyingly I might add, and smirked.

I sighed, changing my position in the chair to a more comfortable one. I hid the book down the side of the armrest, though I was unsure why.

"I'm sorry," I apologised stupidly. "I had no idea that you were here...this early."

"Oh, well that's easily understandable, sorry about the scare. I decided to come along a little... sooner than recommended. I thought your father could use some extra assistance; after all...he's such a busy man. He has so much work to do all by himself...and you are obviously preoccupied with your own...business." His sneering eyes caught sight of the book squatted down the side of the chair, clearly unimpressed with how I was spending my time.

Well, that's a nice implication, I thought crossly. Thinking that I do nothing worthwhile!

I hid a tiny scowl on my face, now having the freedom to pick up the cover and place it on my lap.

"How thoughtful of you," I said, rather sarcastically and my throat tight with unwelcome tones. I opened up the book back to the previous page I was reading, but continued to hold my stare with his. His small, beady eyes bored into mine.

"Well, yes, I thought so," he replied casually, pretending as though he had never noticed my negative comment. I knew that he had, by the way he was pulling at his thin moustache with a pursed, bitter glare.

Quite frankly, I was abashed that his mood had not changed at all since the time I had first been introduced to him. What made it worse was that he hardly seemed to try and be courteous. How was I ever going to learn to get along with him? If I had to travel halfway across the globe with someone, I at least wanted to hold decent conversation with them. Otherwise, I could not even imagine how I was going to cope.

"Are you certain that my father needs your requirements?" I asked suspiciously, remembering that Daddy had not even taken a foot into the study that morning. "Surely you don't need to go over the same issues day after day? A time will come when it will be known inside out from heart!"

I hadn't intended for it to be rude. It must have been, in Clayton's view.

He scowled at me. There was something about his scowl that made me feel rather sick inside – he bared his teeth from under those curled lips of his. I had noticed that whenever he became annoyed a small vein would throb repeatedly in the side of his neck.

"If you hadn't already come to notice, Miss Porter... your father's memory is not exactly Isaac Newton's," he spat, "if you look at it truthfully."

I didn't want to. How boorish he is! Daddy's recollections were I had to admit, a tad...askew at times, but there was no need to go bringing it up like that. The tight grip I already had around the binding of the book suddenly grew tighter. I shut it firmly again on my lap, but never turned around. I honestly did not know what I would have said if I had been in a worse mood.

"Really, do you mind, Mr. Clayton?" I said quietly. "I would appreciate it if - "

Clayton's chuckle completely threw me off what I was going to say. I was left sitting there, my mouth hanging open as he walked before me and smoothed back his hair...not from embarrassment but almost as if he wanted it to be. I wasn't sure whether to frown or laugh along with him.

"Aha-ha, oh, I apologise indeed for my outburst," he mumbled dryly, turning his back to me as he strutted around the room, to hide his expression. That didn't exactly help me at all.

"Really, though...my frustration is to explain the same things everyday, whether I like it or not," he explained. "It does become quite tedious – but because I want to help your father remember, I come back. This last week requires the most urgent information."

In other words, we're going to be seeing plenty of him, I thought with distaste.

"I'm sure Daddy will appreciate your help," I said, trying to be as polite as I could.

"Everyone always does," Clayton replied, lazily looking around the room and the art designs hanging by their tied knots on the wall. "Where would he be, this morning?" An air of negativity followed his direction. He sounded positively bored to be in my company.

Oh, well, Jane. You can't please them all.

I tucked a loose strand of hair back onto my head before slowly turning the page in my fingers. Words I did not concentrate on shot past my eyes – important instructions perhaps that I did not take in. There may have been something vital there, that would benefit on my survival...

Something important...

"To be honest, I haven't seen him," I said, truthfully. "Perhaps he's still sleeping?"

Oh, I hope so, I secretly thought. I can't imagine what Daddy would say if he awoke to Clayton on his doorstep, unexpected. Knowing Daddy, he would perhaps blabber politely and invite him to stay anyway. This was not uncommon. Many times a wormy statement had flown over his head without notice. It was not his fault – sometimes he just didn't catch onto things as quickly as others did.

Clayton remained to stay silent after that. Eventually he did move out of the room, choosing to wait in the parlour. The smell of his pipe floated back through the air.

Somehow I don't think we're any closer than before, I thought, staring after him through the open doorway, my hands stiff on the page. Just an opinion, but still...

There was a crushing pain below my throat; rather like a pressure...it made me want to scream. Inside I was suffocating, and it wasn't just from the smoke of that polished pipe.

It was something else.

-xXx-

The following days and nights left me reeling with a strange sleeping sickness. Although I knew that my energy should be alert and awake considering the circumstances, often I found that my head was splayed out upon the arm of the chair after a short, promised nap.

I had never experienced this type of fatigue before...though I wasn't concerned. I supposed it was just the excitement. Perhaps this was just to stock me up with sleep, as on the night before our departure I couldn't even shut my eyes.

I sighed. How typical. It serves me right for lazing around the house, I suppose. But this week has been so tense and long...Daddy and Clayton have not let me help at all.

"It can't be Daddy's fault," I almost whispered to myself, wanting to draw him out of the blame. I hated it when I spoke to myself sometimes...like I was mad. There was no one around to hear...no one to disagree...

Usually it happened when I was nervous. But I wasn't nervous now...

Or was I? After all, the coach was coming to take us to the docks tomorrow. In twenty-four hours we would be sailing across the Atlantic Ocean, our eyes set on the horizon of Africa's beaches, with a vast landscape to explore. And what was so strange about it all, was that I could not think of a single thing to worry about. If anything, I was excited. Immensely excited.

I wonder if that will change when I actually arrive, I thought, a seed of doubt in my mind.

I fell back softly into the pillows, watching the moonlight cascade across the mirror from the tight gap in the curtains, like a soft ripple across a calm, silver stream. The sight was comforting...soothing. Soon the brightness began to hurt against my eyes... a brightness that when I blinked, an image of a red line was burnt there, a slash across the pupils. I found that closing them helped with this problem well, and it was when I stopped and thought carefully that my mind began to drift away...as soon as I had latched onto it...it flew...

Flying. I was flying.

There was a warm, fresh breeze shining upon my cheeks, as though they were thirsting for the draught like an elixir being poured. My eyes were closed...there was blackness all around me...and yet, there was not. Beyond my sight I could see an open mass of white cloud, reflected in an afternoon sky of blue topaz.

So far in the distance...however I felt so close I could touch it with my hands. I could reach out blindly and grasp a piece of it there, and it would be resting in my fingers...and a poignant feeling then came into my throat, the reason for which I did not know.

No...not flying. I was running.

I was running...but felt nothing below my feet. It was as though I was walking on air...running on air. My body moved swiftly, a light material of a cloth I did not recognise rippling against my thighs, soft and relaxing. My arms did not pump up and down for speed; instead I just let the wind take me, moving in a slow motion...my hair whipping beneath my shoulder blades.

The only solitary sounds I heard around me were the steady breathing in my ears, soft and rhythmic...and faint rustling in all corners of my direction...but perhaps that was only me, rushing past scenery that I could not tell from just brushing past it what it was. The smells...they were unfamiliar to me also. I took them in as I ran...as though they were healing herbs to my senses. I wanted something unique to smell...to taste...

To touch...

The atmosphere felt so cool...so refreshing. I had never felt so...free before. This feeling was magical. I never wanted it to leave me. I never wanted it to leave me...

Never leave me...

Never...

I wanted to fly higher. I wanted to touch the sky. I knew that I could, if I tried. If I reached as far as my height would let me, I would be able to feel the blue brush against my fingertips...soft and gentle as perhaps the clouds themselves...or would it merely be mist? A wave of fog rolling around above my head...

So I jumped. I jumped, but did not fly like I had hoped. I fell.

Like a bird with no strength left in its tiny wings, I fell. I couldn't even locate the hold I had on the air previously...it would not let me run again. That bond was now broken...and gravity had taken complete hold of my body. It was as though it had violently pushed me at my pivotal moment...at my most vulnerable, and now I plummeted back to earth.

I did not open my eyes. I never even screamed. The wind, now instead of being relaxing and calming against my skin, tore past my ears like a spiteful, bitter storm...freezing them. I never knew how far away from the ground I was...I could have been up five feet, perhaps fifty. I waited for the impact of the ground with every beating second. My heart was racing.

Then, a hand fell around mine...a firm, strong grip.

The opposite force jolted me...I almost bounced as though I had landed upon an invisible spring. A sudden, weightless feeling leapt into my stomach, although not one of nausea. I hung there, suspended...the feeling coming back into my legs and throat. For the first time in a long while...possibly even hours ago, I opened my eyes.

I had been rescued. Someone had caught me. I was saved...

I was alive...

The jolt in my dream felt the same as that to the sensation of landing, when one has been imagining that they were falling. I jumped in my bed, gasping, and my eyes quickly opened in shock.

It took me a while to realise where I was for a moment...that unmistakable terror when you feel as lost as a child, in a cold dark prison of mislaid memory. A clammy sweat splashed all over my body...yes, I remember where I am now...my heart was slowly reaching its normal pace...the walls began to look familiar.

I could memorize every inch of the dream. Every detail.

There was no way in Heaven or on Earth that I could forget.