I hadn’t been left alone for more than half an hour, when I heard the approach of someone or something. I say something because the primary sound that I heard coming toward me was a low guttural growling. It became louder, and as it did, I could tell that it wasn’t the simple sound set of an animal, but a language unlike anything I had ever heard before. Minutes later the foliage at the edge of the clearing parted, and out sprang what I could only assume were the Tumukua.

It was a party of about twenty men, but the Tumukua were very different from the Tokayana, the Chikuyana, and the other inhabitants of Elizagaea. They were shorter, stockier, and heavier, with thick brow ridges and lantern jaws. Rather than the copper skin of the other natives, theirs was a deep umber color. It took me a moment, but at last I recognized them from the Boston Society of Natural History. Fossils of just such people had been found in Europe near the Neader Valley. They were cavemen!

While one of the new arrivals began untying me, another spoke to me. I didn’t understand the low growls and grunts any better than I had understood the language that the natives had used in Abbeyport on the coast. My hands were retied in front of me, and then were attached to a rope used as a leash, and I was led on into the thick forest.

We hadn’t gone far before it started raining. It continued raining the rest of the day. As darkness fell, I realized my new captors were not of a mind to stop and make camp. I wasn’t sure if this was just their custom or whether they just decided not to bother stopping in the rain. Either way, I couldn’t keep up. My body had reached the limit of its endurance. One moment I was walking as the world turned sideways. The next, I was on the ground in the mud and everything went black. For just a moment, I saw Trudy’s face, looking down at me and laughing. Then I passed into consciousness just long enough to realize that I was being carried over one of my new companion’s shoulders, like a sack of wheat.

Suddenly I was on my back on the stony ground. My face was turned to the sky and a torrent of water was still falling. I opened my mouth and drank. Raising my hands to protect my eyes and keep the rain from going up my nose, I found them still tied. I just stayed where I was and continued to drink. The water was so good I drank too much. When rough hands jerked me to my feet, I vomited up a good deal of what I had swallowed. This was met by coarse laughter from the Tumukua.

Looking around, I saw that I hadn’t been lying on the bare ground at all, but a platform of fitted stones. My eyes followed these stones as they formed a bridge, which connected to a road, and which then led through a great gate and into a vast city. The sheets of rain made it difficult to get a complete view, but what I could see filled me with wonder. It was like looking on the splendors of Rome or Athens as they had been two thousand years ago. But the architecture wasn’t quite the same. Still, I realized where I had seen similar stonework before. The style exactly matched the ancient construction of Kanana’s fortress, jutting up near the border between the savannah and the jungle somewhere to the east.

“I suppose I’ll never see you again,” I said to myself.

The only answer I received was a jerk on my leash, as I was guided the rest of the way across the bridge.

“I hope you’re safe, Kanana.”

“Kanana!” hissed one of the Tumukua. The others repeated her name in hushed tones, looking around as if they expected her to appear out of the torrential mists. “Kanana. Kanana.” After a moment, they continued on into the city. It could have been my imagination, but it didn’t seem as if they tugged quite as hard.

An hour later, we stopped to rest beneath a small tree that sat out on the grass away from the rest of the forest. The sun was warm, but the little tree provided enough shade. I was just starting to feel drowsy, when Kanana got up and stepped over to a small green plant growing amid the brown grass. Kneeling down, she dug into the ground with her knife. I stepped over to watch her. About twelve inches below the surface, she uncovered two large tubers. Cutting them away from their roots, she pulled the vegetables out and peeled them.

“Henry eat,” she said, handing me one.

I took a bite to find something very much like a mild radish, but with a much greater water content.

“This is good,” I said, feeling my thirst quenched more than my hunger abated. “I’m getting hungry.”

“Kanana say eat harbi-togo. Henry not eat.”

“We don’t eat bugs where I come from.”

“Not in Boston,” said the jungle girl. “In Boston we eat what Henry say. In Kanana’s land we eat what Kanana say.”

A loud bellow a short distance away brought all conversation to a halt. We looked up to see a great shaggy form lumbering toward us. It looked like a frightening cross between a bear and a horse, and though it wasn’t quite as big as Giwa, it was fully as large as the bull elephants of Africa. Though I had never seen one alive, I knew from my visits to the Boston Society of Natural History what it was. It was a megatherium or giant sloth. I also knew that it was a plant eater.

As I watched, it stood up on its hind legs, stretching to a height of twenty feet, and bellowed again. Kanana grabbed me by the sleeve and jerked me almost off my feet.

“Run,” she hissed.

“It’s a sloth.”

The gigantic monster shifted from its slow walk to a sort of jog. Still holding onto my sleeve, she turned and ran toward the trees, pulling me along with her. I stumbled a few steps, but regained my footing and ran along with her. Looking over my shoulder, I could see that we were easily outdistancing the megatherium, and I wasn’t running as fast as I was able, so I knew that Kanana wasn’t.

“It’s big and all, but it’s a herbivore, isn’t it?”

“Utuga bad all the time. Utuga kill lion. Utuga kill Giwa. Utuga eat plants, trees. Sometimes eat meat.” She slowed to a brisk walk as we reached the tree line. “Henry eat what Kanana say. Henry run when Kanana say.”

“River not good,” said Kanana, and then she stretched her arms out and made a scissors motion with them.

“Crocodiles?”

“Croc-o-diles. Crocodiles eat Henry.”

“What about you? Won’t they eat you too?”

“No. Kanana is lion.” To add emphasis to her statement, she once again gave a throaty and very realistic lion’s roar.

Kanana started gathering large stones and placing them in the path of the stream, and as soon as I realized what she was doing, I followed suit. Soon we had dammed up the little trickle and made a small pool. It wasn’t more than eight inches deep at most, but it allowed us to sit and bathe. The jungle girl was finished first, having been already really naked. I had never been overly shy, so I quickly disrobed and washed myself. By the time I was clean and dried and had begun to dress, I noticed that my companion was gone.

Deciding that the best course of action would be to return to the tree house and wait for Kanana, I started back the way we had come. The jungle trees were alive with life, from buzzing insects to howling monkeys and squawking birds. Either the sights and sounds distracted me, or I just lost my way, but just when I thought I should be arriving at the arboreal dwelling, I stepped out onto the shore of a large river. It was as large as the river I had navigated on my steamer trunk. It could have been the same river for all I knew.

I didn’t want anything to do with the river, knowing the dangers, especially since I had already washed and drunk from the little stream. As I turned to leave however, a huge form shot out of the water and a great reptilian mouth snapped down. The crocodile’s jaws closed, missing me, and for a split second, I congratulated myself on my luck. Then the beast jerked its head to the left and clamped down on my leg just below my knee. It had me, and it immediately dragged me into the water. I tried to grab at something on shore, but I could no more stop him from taking me than a trout, once hooked on a lure at the end of a rod and reel, could have prevented me from pulling him into a net.

Suddenly, a form fell from the sky. Kanana had flown from the branches of a nearby tree, dropping right onto the crocodiles back. Before the beast, which had to weigh well over a ton, could move, she jammed her knife through its thickly armored skull and into its brain. The crocodile stopped moving and just floated. The jungle girl grasped its snout and pried the jaws apart, freeing me.

“River not good!” she growled at me.

We left the shoreline and she guided me back to the little pool. My heart was still pumping and I felt as though I could have run back to Abbeyport. Such are the effects of discovering one is still alive after having been sure of the reverse. When I sat down though, not only did I feel light-headed, I noticed my trouser leg had a large bloodstain. Kanana lifted it to examine my calf. There were a dozen round tooth marks, all bleeding.

“Henry Goode not listen,” she said angrily. “Henry stay.”

My jungle girl was nowhere to be seen but it was obvious that she made this her home, at least sometimes. The mat where I had slept was on one side of the room, covered in a mattress I now recognized as savannah grasses. On the other side was a similar bed, along with several pieces of ancient luggage. Opening them up I found clothing that might have come from America or Europe but that was some ten or fifteen years out of style, not that I kept up with such things. There were a few very nice pieces of gold jewelry and a small personal journal.

I couldn’t read the book. It was in a foreign language that I was able to identify as Russian only by the peculiar additions to the alphabet. From the inside cover I determined that this was the journal of one Aleksandra Christyakova-Romanov. I scanned the pages and found the names Robert James Haldane and Aleksandra Haldane. From this scant evidence I pieced together a picture of a Russian woman who married an Englishman. Perhaps he had visited Russia on business or in some diplomatic capacity, had met the young woman and married her. I knew of course that Romanov was the family name of the Russian monarchy, but surely there were others as well with that surname.

Stuck between the pages in the back of the book were five photographs. They were of people I could not know, of course. Nor could I identify the locations where they were taken. Three were snapshots of people standing in front of unidentifiable buildings. All that I knew was that they had not been taken in Elizagaea—most likely somewhere in Europe. The fourth was a baby picture in an opal shaped vignette. The child was curly-haired and swaddled and could have been a boy or a girl. The final picture was a studio portrait of three people—a distinguished looking man with a thin mustache, a beautiful woman in a long white dress, and a pretty little girl of about six or seven. None of the pictures but this last was labeled. It had on the back, written with a very light touch of pencil in small delicate letters, “Robert, Me, Katarina, 18 April 1895.”

Had I discovered the origin of my jungle girl? Was she the child in the picture—this Katarina? Kanana could have been about twenty-four years old, though it was difficult to judge from what I had seen of her mud-covered form. But if this was true, what was she doing here? I could well imagine the route taken by the Haldanes—across the Atlantic, riding the rails of America’s transcontinental railroad, and then across the Pacific by ship. But why? There was no way to know, unless I could translate the journal or if Kanana/Katarina could remember and tell me.

As consciousness returned, I could easily detect the smell of my own blood, which covered me. As this registered in my mind, I became aware of something else—the feeling that something, something big, was moving very close to me. I opened my eyes to see a lion. It was gigantic, far larger than its African cousins. Tawny brown with a thick black mane, it stood not more than a dozen feet from me, panting in the heat of the late afternoon. It made no move to attack. It simply watched me with a sort of casual detachment. I slowly reached for my pistol, only to find an empty holster on my belt.

Then it made a noise. I would have expected a lion to roar and I would have expected the roar from this particular lion to be a mighty and a frightening one because of its size. It didn’t roar. It made a series of moaning sounds. “Mmwuugh. Mmwuugh.   Mmwuugh.” It seemed to wait expectantly, and when nothing happened it made the same series of noises again. This time it was answered from somewhere nearby. “Mmwuugh. Mmwuugh.   Mmwuugh.” Obviously this lion was the leader of its pride and having found helpless prey was calling the others to feast on me.

I was far less surprised to find myself the probable meal of a pride of lions than I was at what happened next. The figure of a human being dropped from the tree above to land right next to me. It was a female, though it took me a moment to recognize her as such because of her appearance. Naked but for a loin cloth, she was covered from head to feet in a layer of thick brown mud, which also caked her hair, leaving almost nothing of her humanity visible except for two bright green eyes staring into mine. She was thin and athletic, with well-tone muscles that flexed with every move. Paying no attention to the lion, she ripped open my shirt and pressed a handful of leaves onto my wound. I winced as the foliage poked the swollen and tender injury, but froze again when the lion took a step toward me.

The strange mud-covered girl lowered her face to just in front of mine and stared into my eyes with a look of wonder in her own. I could see now, not only the brilliant green of those eyes, but could also see just around them, where the thick coating of mud had been wiped away before it dried. Her skin, revealed only in this tiny area, was very light. It was in fact, at least a shade lighter than my own.

“Mmwuugh,” the lion moaned again. Then it took several steps toward me. I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the huge fangs in the panting mouth.

“Mmwuugh.” To my surprise, the girl answered the lion with the same sound. It must have been her that I heard before from a distance. She stood up, crossed over to the lion, and gave him a shove. I expected her actions to be met with a full-on attack. But the lion, who must have possessed seven or eight times the weight of the girl, allowed himself to be pushed away. He turned and wandered away into the nearby jungle.

The girl sat down beside me again and graced me with a broad smile full of perfect white teeth. She pressed the poultice she had already applied with the palm of her hand, and reaching behind me, placed a similar poultice on the entry wound. Handily ripping a good portion of my shirt off, she tied it around my stomach in a crude bandage. Then she left me for only a moment as she walked to the river ten feet away, and brought back a drink for me, using a very large leaf curled into the form of a cup. She sat cross-legged next to me as I drank.

“Kanana,” she said when I was finished, placing her hand upon her chest.

“Kanana,” I repeated. “You’re supposed to be a legend.”

“Kanana,” she insisted. She had a deep, almost boyish voice.

Reaching over, she placed the palm of her hand on my chest and looked at me expectantly. With a vicious predator no longer looming, I took leave to examine her more closely. She was at that moment closer to me physically that most women I had ever in my life known. Though it was coated in mud, I could tell that her hair was long and had been braided together with shells and other beads, just as I had seen some of the natives do in Abbeyport. I could make out nothing concerning the condition of her skin, as it was completely smeared over, but her perfect breasts were presented directly in front of me, muddied but otherwise bare. Though her arms, legs, and torso were all well muscled they did not appear unfeminine. Quite the contrary, and I couldn’t help but stare. But my fascination was not due to lewdness or unseemliness, but a simple appreciation of beauty. She was like an ancient Greek statue of Artemis come to life.

She pressed her hand again to my chest.

“Henry Goode,” I said.

“Henry Goode,” she repeated. She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Good Henry. Good Henry Goode.”

That evening, decked out in a suit and tie, I walked from the hotel to the home of the Winston-Smiths, who lived in one of the larger colonial homes, set somewhat away from the others. The house and yard were brightly lit with hanging lanterns, and music was playing. Dozens of people wandered in the yard or stood on the veranda and I could well imagine that every white man and woman in Abbeyport was to be present that evening.

“Good evening,” said a handsome and well-dressed British woman at the door. “I’m Charlotte Winston-Smith. Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you. I’m Henry Goode.”

“Oh, you’re an American. How wonderful. Are you acquainted with Mr. Roosevelt?”

“There isn’t an American alive, ma’am, who isn’t acquainted with Mr. Roosevelt, but I have the pleasure of saying that Mr. Roosevelt is acquainted with me.”

“Quite, quite.   Please do come in.” She took me by the arm and led me through the foyer into the parlor where a dozen men were carrying on a lively conversation.

“There you are, Henry.” I immediately recognized Colonel Roosevelt’s patrician voice, though I hadn’t initially seen him in the room. He stepped from behind three men to greet me. “I was just telling these gentlemen that we’ve discovered your reason for being in Elizagaea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Winston-Smith here knows all about it.”

Having seen Mrs. Winston-Smith, I expected her husband to be an older gentleman, but he looked to be at least ten years her junior. A handsome man of about my own age, he was tall and thin and sported a splendid handlebar mustache.

“How do you do?” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “I was just telling Mr. Roosevelt about the legend of Kanana.”

“Kanana?”

“Yes. She’s a legendary jungle goddess: part of the culture of the natives for hundreds of years. Lately though, she’s taken on a new hue, as it were. As the story is told now, Kanana is white-skinned. I would assume this is because of the native contact with Europeans, whom they naturally see as superior to themselves.”

“So you see, my boy,” said Roosevelt. “I’ve discovered your secret plan. You are going to capture this Kanana, this jungle goddess, for yourself.”

“I can assure you, sir, that is not my plan. In fact, I am through with women, whether they be civilized or jungle variety.”

Winston-Smith laughed and Roosevelt chuckled, but I could feel his keen eye taking a deeper look at me.

“I have decided to hunt some of the big game,” I said.

“I heartily enjoy hunting,” said Roosevelt. “There are few sensations I prefer to that of pitting my wits against the forces that nature has to offer. But remember that the hunter is a steward of his land and not the conqueror.”

“This land cannot be conquered,” said Winston-Smith. “The jungle here is untamed and will likely stay that way forever. Why, we lose more than half of those men who head into the bush.”

“That is the fate of the unprepared,” replied the former President. “A toughness and hardy endurance are necessary to contend with the forces of nature, whether it is to resist cold and wintery blasts of the arctic, or the heat of the thirsty desert, to wander away to new pastures, to plunge over the broken ground, or to plow one’s way through jungles and quagmires. But there can be found no greater beauty than lands untouched by human hands. There are no words that can tell the hidden spirit of the wilderness, that can reveal its mystery, its melancholy, or its charm. The farther one gets into the wilderness, the greater is the attraction of its lonely freedom.”

“Why Mr. Roosevelt,” said one of the other men. “I thought you only waxed poetic about navies.”

“Colonel Roosevelt has written a great deal on hunting and the wilderness,” I said. “Every young man should read Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail.”