Chap­ter 3 – The Call of the Jun­gle begins with Tarzan, stirred from rest by an instinc­tu­al yearn­ing that pulls him from the secu­ri­ty of his camp into the dark heart of the jun­gle. The famil­iar sounds and scents awak­en some­thing deep with­in him, a pri­mal force stronger than rea­son. With­out hes­i­ta­tion, he slips through the trees, his move­ments grace­ful and pre­cise, each leap a reflec­tion of years spent among the apes. His sens­es sharp­en as the night deep­ens, draw­ing him into the rhythm of the wilder­ness. The air car­ries the scent of Bara, the deer, trig­ger­ing a focused hunt that reignites his bond with the land. He tracks silent­ly, his every motion guid­ed by instinct and expe­ri­ence, until, with one sud­den pounce from the canopy, he brings down his prey. This moment of tri­umph is both nat­ur­al and nec­es­sary, rein­forc­ing his dual iden­ti­ty as both preda­tor and pro­tec­tor.

The cel­e­bra­tion is brief. Numa, the lion, lured by the scent of fresh blood, enters the clear­ing with unmis­tak­able intent. Tarzan sens­es the chal­lenge before the lion even appears. Rather than risk an imme­di­ate con­fronta­tion, he offers part of his kill to Numa, an act that reflects not weak­ness, but wis­dom earned from years in the wild. The jun­gle oper­ates on a code, and Tarzan knows the bal­ance must be respect­ed. How­ev­er, when Numa over­steps, growl­ing with increas­ing bold­ness, Tarzan’s response is swift. With­out fear, he asserts his dominance—not through force, but by strik­ing the lion with fruit from above. The jun­gle under­stands such lan­guage, and so does Numa. This unspo­ken nego­ti­a­tion is less about the meat and more about the peck­ing order. In the end, Tarzan keeps what he needs, main­tain­ing his role as king of a domain where strength and intel­li­gence rule togeth­er.

Their tense stand­off is soon inter­rupt­ed by a new presence—a man unfa­mil­iar to this cor­ner of the jun­gle. The rus­tle of leaves and scent of unfa­mil­iar herbs alerts Tarzan to the arrival of a native witch-doc­tor. He watch­es from above, his instincts curi­ous and alert. When Numa catch­es the same scent and gives chase, Tarzan reacts instant­ly. In a dis­play of fear­less­ness, he inter­venes, engag­ing the lion in a sec­ond con­fronta­tion. The fight is sav­age, fueled by reflex and rage, but Tarzan’s skill pre­vails. With each blow, he reminds the jungle—and himself—of his place with­in it. The witch-doc­tor, stunned by the spec­ta­cle, watch­es as the beast falls, eyes widen­ing at the sight of this myth­ic fig­ure.

As silence returns, the witch-doc­tor approach­es, awe replac­ing fear. He mut­ters ancient words and kneels, rec­og­niz­ing Tarzan not just as a man, but as a liv­ing legend—a for­est god said to walk with beasts. This recog­ni­tion is more than rev­er­ence; it is con­fir­ma­tion that Tarzan belongs to both worlds. The man is no stranger to tales of the ape-man, and now, face to face, he sees those sto­ries brought to life. Tarzan does not rev­el in the atten­tion. Instead, he lis­tens as the old man speaks of omens and warn­ings. The jun­gle may crown Tarzan as its own, but dan­ger stirs beyond the trees. The witch-doc­tor’s words car­ry weight, even if Tarzan pre­tends not to be swayed by prophe­cy.

With the ris­ing sun cast­ing light on the bro­ken leaves and blood­ied earth, Tarzan departs, his thoughts con­flict­ed. The jun­gle called, and he answered—not just with tooth and claw, but with pur­pose. What began as a hunt became some­thing greater: a con­fronta­tion with him­self, with fate, and with the del­i­cate line between sav­agery and sov­er­eign­ty. As he van­ish­es into the trees once more, the read­er is left with a sense that Tarzan’s jour­ney is far from over. The call of the jun­gle is not mere­ly a sound; it is a sum­mons of iden­ti­ty, pow­er, and des­tiny. And Tarzan, lord of both man and beast, must walk the line between them, one breath, one bat­tle, one instinct at a time.