The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

1943: A Brief Note Pertaining to the Absence of One Olivaceous Cormorant, Stuffed By Dr. Rachel Swirsky

It was some sort of stuffed sea bird. A pelican or puffin or penguin . . . I’d never been good at birds. It stood with its feet awkwardly splayed and its wings raised in a threat display, neck curved and beak hissing. Black glass eyes shone murderously.

Dr. Lambshead (Thackery T.) thrust the dead thing forward. “This is it, you see! What did I tell you?”

“Doctor, I don’t understand,” I said. “What makes you think this seagull is the source of the phoenix mythology?”

“Gull? This is no gull!”

“I don’t really do birds . . .”

“Note the slender body and long tail. This is a Brazilian olivaceous cormorant.” He paused meaningfully. “Or looks superficially like one.”

It was late 1943. I prickled in my cardigan suit and d’Orsay pumps; Dr. Lambshead looked breezy in his linen jacket and geometric tie. We stood in the basement of his Whimpering-on-the-Brook home, where he’d received me for the weekend, temporarily abandoning his post tending war wounded at the Combustipol General Hospital of Devon.

Readers who recognize me as a contemporary science fiction writer may be confused by my claims of visiting Dr. Lambshead in 1943. It’s true, my body has only aged twenty-eight years at the time of this writing. This seeming contradiction is the result of a rare biological ailment, the nature of which Dr. Lambshead had been secretly helping me investigate, this comprising the bulk of our acquaintance.

You see, when I experience particularly extreme emotional states—sometimes joy, though usually pain or fear—my condition triggers a painful chemical process wherein I stiffen, contract, and shrink in on myself until I am reduced to infancy, and must re-embark upon the tiresome process of growing.

You must not take this for some airy supernaturalism. The matter is simple biology.

I maintain strict secrecy about my affliction; the world has always been hostile toward the unusual, and for centuries I’ve feared the historical equivalent of “alien autopsies.” For this reason, I pressed Dr. Lambshead to keep his research confidential, which is why my affliction does not appear in any edition of his rare disease guide.

Dr. Lambshead was well aware that my condition had made me obsessed with legends of immortality, particularly those relating to the mythical phoenix, who—like me, and unlike the equally mythical vampire—must suffer periodic rebirth (with its loathsome necessity of periodic adolescence). Therefore, he had been sure to include the word “phoenix” in his invitation, knowing I would hasten to meet him immediately.

With this background, you may understand my disappointment as the distinguished scientific gentleman did nothing more dramatic than wave about the avian corpse while lecturing me on taxonomy.

“Of what possible interest,” I asked with exasperation, “is this dead, grey thing?”

“That’s just it!” he replied, excitement undimmed. “It’s not grey at all!”

He pulled me nearer. Despite my natural disinclination toward being in such proximity to a corpse, I gasped—the feathers shone a strangely inorganic, metallic silver. Dr. Lambshead plucked one feather loose and held it to my eye. Even more remarkable! It shimmered with intense, beautiful colors that did not merely change in reaction to the light, but seemed to alter of their own accord. Gold, white, orange, rose, violet, and crimson danced together like the heart of a flame.

“Where did you find this?” I murmured.

The cabinet had a Victorian stiffness and eclecticism; I expected an answer in keeping with the air of pith helmets and mosquito nets. However, I must also report that I later felt that this was just a front or disguise of some sort for a more profound and eclectic collection.

“Some sprog found it in Gurney Slade. Sold it for thruppence.”

“It’s beautiful . . . but surely only superficially related to the phoenix mythos.”

“You might think so! But my experiments have yielded other data . . .” Here, he digressed into such specialized, technical vocabulary that I cannot hope to repeat his lecture. At the completion of this torrent of obscurantism, he said, “I’ll go fetch my notes.”

Without further niceties, the doctor withdrew, taking the bird’s corpse with him. Abruptly, I found myself alone in Dr. Lambshead’s cabinet of curiosities.

A great deal of wordage has been spent describing the cabinet, but I will add my own. I’ve already mentioned that the rooms exuded a dark, musty air, crowded as they were with objects ranging from exquisite to disposable. A large number of preserved animal parts were affixed to brown velvet drapes that hung from the ceiling: malformed antlers, jagged horns, monstrous fish, paws and pelts and glowering heads. Bookcases crowded the walls, some filled with actual books, others piled high with specimen jars and music boxes and inscrutable devices.

My meandering took me to an archway blocked by a heavy, green-gold curtain. I admit I should not have swept it aside, but curiosity overcame my sense. As the fabric shifted, I saw a gleam in the shadows—something enormous and mechanical.

It will not surprise you that Dr. Lambshead attracted a great deal of gossip. In my social circle, it had long been suspected that Dr. L. was building some sort of war machine with which to aid the British effort. None of us doubted he could build such things; it was clear his genius extended beyond the medical.

It was such an armored monstrosity I expected to encounter when I stepped into the room. Imagine my surprise when I found myself nose to nose with a mechanical bull.

Don’t mistake me. I don’t mean the sort of crass rodeo relic on which inebriated young people struggle to maintain their equilibrium. This was a colossal bronze and silver construction, so large that its wickedly curved horns swept the ceiling. It was worked in excruciating detail, from muscular neck to powerful haunches. Only on close examination did I discern the evidence of clockwork mechanisms beneath its metal “skin.”

I found myself drawn to the creature. I extended my hand, longing to stroke that vast, smooth muzzle.

At that moment, I heard Dr. Lambshead’s returning footsteps. I snatched back my hand and turned toward the entryway. I expected him to be angry; instead, Dr. Lambshead seemed thoughtful as he looked between me and the bull.

He tucked the papers from upstairs under his arm. “My latest acquisition,” he said. “More precisely, a loan from the Greek government. They want me to determine how it works.”

“They don’t know?”

“It was found at a recently discovered archaeological site containing a number of items typically used in the worship of Zeus. The bull appears to represent the god himself, who took a bull’s form for seducing maidens. It’s a sophisticated clockwork automaton and seems capable of independent motion, but I have not yet ascertained how to activate it.”

“Archaeological site? This thing can’t be more than a hundred years old!”

“The ancients appear to have possessed a great deal more technology than is commonly understood. For example, consider the Antikythera Mechanism, recovered at the beginning of the century from a shipwreck site. My more radical colleagues hypothesize it’s a sophisticated clockwork-powered calendar, though they lack verification.”

He paused to give me a significant look.

“Don’t you remember?” he asked.

Dr. Lambshead was perpetually trying to discern when I’d contracted my ailment. “I may be old,” I said, “but not that old.”

The doctor gave me another strange look. “Sometimes you look quite young.”

His gaze traveled briefly down my body. With a jolt, I realized the bull’s allure had done more than draw me closer. Without noticing, I’d undone my jacket’s top button. I ran my fingers through my hair; it tumbled untidily from my French twist.

“It’s strangely beautiful,” I said. “It seems so polished, so smooth.” I reached toward its muzzle again. This time, my fingertips connected.

The bull blinked.

It let out an enormous snort. Metal rasped against wood as it pawed the floor. Its head swung back and forth, horns lowered and pointing straight toward us.

For a moment, we stood, stunned and still.

Then Dr. Lambshead screamed: “Run!”

Dr. Lambshead’s papers tumbled to the ground as we bolted past the green-gold curtains, through the crowded rooms, up the basement stairs and out into the road. The bull crashed through walls as he barreled after us, the steam from his nostrils acrid in the air.

Our feet pounded the mud. “What happened?” I shouted, breathing hard as I ran.

“There must have been a chemical catalyst! Tell me, are you menstruating?”

“What a question!”

“I know the trigger can’t be touch, because I’ve touched it. It can’t be a woman’s touch because I asked my cook downstairs for such an experiment. Are you a virgin?”

“An even worse question!”

“Zeus used his bull form to seduce maidens. Some womanly attribute must be key.”

“If the bull seduced maidens, why is it trying to kill us?”

“Now that is a good question!”

We rounded past the hedge maze, pushing toward the chapel on the hill. The bull’s footsteps thundered close behind. And yet Dr. Lambshead continued to ruminate aloud.

“The catalyst must be a complicated chemical interaction. Perhaps pheromonal. I’ve been experimenting with such things for treating Recursive Wife Blindness. I think—”

I was not to know his thoughts, for the bull had finally caught us. It reared, massive golden hooves raking the sky. I knew with sinking certainty that my long life would end there, trampled by those hooves and then gored for good measure by those horribly curved horns—

—as the terror overcame me, I felt the familiar shrinking sensation that meant only one thing.

I was about to be reborn.

Through my narrowing vision, I saw that, against all odds, Dr. Lambshead had rallied, having dredged up a square of red fabric from who knows where. He rounded on the bull with a wide, confident stance, flag rippling behind him.

I laughed. How could I have doubted a man like Doctor Thackery T. Lambshead? But the shrinking accelerated and I knew I would not see his victory, at least not in a way I could comprehend. Oh damn, I was going to have to be thirteen again. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn.

I know not what happened next, only that Dr. Lambshead survived the encounter. That was the last I saw of the Grecian bull.

I have some suspicions, however. It is my belief that Dr. Lambshead bested the thing and then disassembled it, using the intricate technological secrets he derived to begin what’s now known as the Information Age.

Don’t scoff. As I’ve mentioned, Dr. Lambshead was clearly capable of such scientific feats. My explanation is at least as plausible as the traditional one that hypothesizes an exponentially accelerating pace of technological invention.

ALL THIS HAPPENED nearly seventy years ago. I’ve lived two lives since then. Nevertheless, there are two things I wish made known about the incident before I complete my notes.

First: Don’t allow superstitions to cloud what I’ve written. Everything that occurred had a mundane, natural explanation. Honor Dr. Lambshead’s memory. He would not want you engaging in tempting flights of fancy.

Second: There is no way to prove my assertions. I admit this suits my purposes as I remain dedicated to protecting my secrecy. It’s only because of the recent conventions merging memoir and fiction that I can tell this story at all. I hide behind the edifice of literary convention, and its helpful construction of the unreliable narrator.

As for objects that might substantiate my claims, there are only two. One, the bull, was long ago disassembled. Two, the stuffed corpse of a mysterious sea bird, such as the one listed in your exhibit’s inventory as One Tern, Stuffed, Moderate Condition—as to this latter item, I hope you will forgive me. I cannot risk you examining its feathers and concluding my claims are true. Therefore, I’ve relieved your exhibit of one stuffed bird, though I hope you will equally enjoy the plastic flamingo I’ve left in its place.

Of course that’s not my only reason for making off with your treasure. After being reborn in 1943, I was understandably too preoccupied to track down Dr. Lambshead for several years. I was unable to investigate as an adult, either, for reasons too complicated and personal to note here. I did attempt to pilfer both bird and notes after Dr. Lambshead’s death, but the collapsed basement thwarted my attempts.

Thus it was with great pleasure that I received my invitation to preview the exhibit. It was with even greater pleasure that I discovered your security guards to be both affable and susceptible to drugs.

My consolations for your loss—and thank you for the bird.