All of the items were cooking implements of some sort: tongs for cooks lacking thumbs; an exceptionally large corkscrew; a strainer that, to all appearances, was solid but whose label indicated it could sift out bacterial particulates if given several days to work. There was also a fine Dutch oven, rather plainly enameled in white, whose lid had been securely tied with twine, then glued-and-papered over at each knot, then clamped with three vices, each of which appeared to have been welded so as not to turn. Like all the scions of Pandora who encompass my sex, I was most tempted to peel back at least one of the taped-over bits. My hand was stayed not by prudence, however, but by greed and impatience; the oven was not what I had come for.
At last I found it, behind a half-melted waffle iron: the Singular Taffy Puller.
Not much to look at, after all the effort I’d expended! The thing resembled nothing so much as an old-fashioned box iron of the sort my mother used when she took to laundering, after my father grew tired of keeping a placée. But where irons had a flat, tapered plate on the business end, this device had an irising cover that could be retracted by means of a clever mechanism on the handle. With the iris closed, the device was inert. When I opened it, however, and looked within the Puller, I beheld . . . nothing. No surface. Nothing that I could see, as I turned it to the light, save an unblemished, undifferentiated deepness of black. It was rather like a yawning, shadowless hole—but as I brought my free hand near it, I felt the powerful tug of the Puller’s force. It was, for one moment, as though the Puller, not the ground beneath my feet, exerted the greater force of gravity. . . . Per my researches, I knew better than to move my hand much closer. And every journal I’d read on the object contained large-writ, dire warnings against ever breaching the horizon of its opening.
You may ask: of what use is such an item in taffy pulling? Well, as any confectioner can tell you, taffy must be pulled to achieve its proper consistency. When air bubbles are incorporated into the sugar matrix—yes, yes, science is of great relevance to cooking, but let us return to the matter of taste—the taffy becomes lighter, softer, chewable rather than a jawbreaking knot. Unfortunately, when one pulls taffy with hands or even a standard machine, it is almost impossible to keep contaminants from affecting the resulting substance. One of my best batches of Atlantic City Strawberry was utterly ruined when the stupid young potager of that damnable restaurant next door made a batch of gumbo with too much garlic. Just the scent of the stuff invaded my shop, but that was enough: invisible particulates of garlic worked their way into my candy, which I had flavored with real dried strawberries, and . . . Well, preventing such disasters was precisely why I had come all this way.
The Puller was capable of removing such particulates from the air. It would remove the air itself, if one pressed a different button on the handle, but as I fancied breathing, I resolved to test that one later. More important, my researches intimated that the Puller might improve my taffy in other ways. For the Puller did not just draw in. As I tilted the device, I noted a small glowing light near its tip. This was not part of the device, strictly speaking; rather, it was a sort of vent, covered over with leaded glass for safety’s sake. However the Puller worked—and the books I’d found were as vague on its mechanics as they were regarding its origins—the by-products of its internal processes were said to include a peculiar form of emission, which appeared here as radiant light. If one could remove the glass and find a way to safely harness the emitted energy . . .
I make other sweets besides taffy, after all, and unique heat sources make for unique flavors. I would have to be careful regardless, as the Puller had had many, many owners over the years, some for ominously brief periods. One fact stood clear through all its shadowed history, though: those who mastered the Puller’s secrets ranked among the greatest chefs and innovators of our art.
So I would test, and take great care in the testing. I would use every bit of knowledge and skill that I possessed, and some that I did not yet, to determine how best to employ this marvelous device. And if that thrice-damned potager next door ever again abused a bushel of garlic . . . Well, then I would have myself a fine new guinea pig.
So. When next you visit the city of the crescent, be certain that you come to the Vieux Carre, Toulouse Street, and ask for my shop. You will find the finest taffy in the city, to be sure—but if you find new desserts, then you will know my experiments have been successful. I shall owe it all, or at least its beginnings, to the good professor.
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.
The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities Page 30
