My consolations for your loss—and thank you for the bird.
1963: The Argument Against Louis Pasteur
By Mur Lafferty
Is it odd that my clearest memory about Dr. Lambshead, world traveler, collector, and chronicler of the obscure, was his hatred of Louis Pasteur? I suppose when you connect a gastronomically violent reaction to a memory, that particular recollection sticks longer than others do.
It was 1963. I remember because I was to have been in Dallas to cover Kennedy’s visit the following week, but I was unable to go because I was too weak due to my visit with Dr. Lambshead.
I had gotten a choice assignment to interview Dr. Lambshead, who agreed to meet me in his own home. I brought three notebooks and three pencils, but never thought to bring my own cream.
The doctor was polite yet distracted, as he poured my tea and added a dollop of cream without asking me if I preferred it (I didn’t). I was focusing on my books and idle chitchat with Lambshead (I don’t remember what about; that was erased by the next forty minutes), I took a large gulp of the Earl Grey. When the curdled cream hit my system, my skin broke out in a cold sweat and I found myself in the profoundly embarrassing position of needing, if not a toilet, a chamber pot where I could be politely ill.
The doctor took my request in stride, pointing me to the head and saying through the door that it was “only a bit of food poisoning, [I] should get over it posthaste and we can start the interview.”
Louis Pasteur, 1822–95
I’m sure I would have enjoyed looking at the fascinating drawings and pieces of art, including an odd anatomy chart that hung, water-wrinkled, in the curtainless shower, but I was too busy voiding the very fine salmon I’d just had for lunch. And the tea. And the wretched cream. And possibly some stomach lining.
When I returned to him, shaky and pale, but confident I could at least finish this rarest of rare interview opportunities (Lambshead was not often at home in the sixties), he started talking, not about his research but about Louis Pasteur. He derided the French scientist, saying that the world honored him for pasteurization, but Lambshead could easily name fourteen strains of bacteria that could figure out how to maneuver Pasteur’s innovative S-shaped flask.
“You can’t even call that a maze,” he said, laughing.
I glanced at my teacup, with little lumps of curdled cream floating in it, and asked if that was why he refused to use pasteurized milk.
He waved me off, not answering, and motioned me to stand. “If you want to see a way to battle bacteria, come with me.”
He led me back to the kitchen (the cream bottle sat on the counter, the cream clearly separated. I looked away) and out the back door. A cellar door sat flat in the lawn, surrounded by odd purple plants and prickly flowers. I was no botanist, but I was pretty sure they weren’t native to England. I had no chance to ask about them, as he quickly hefted the door open and led me to the basement.
“There’s no light right now, so just give me a second,” Lambshead said. “Pasteur would have killed to see this. He would have eaten his hat.”
There was indeed no light, but the basement was oddly dry and warm, something you didn’t really see in an underground, English room made of stone. The dim daylight that dared to follow us into the basement tentatively touched a couple of shelves, and I gasped. The doctor had taken me to his cabinet, and I could see almost nothing! I could make out a large table in the corner with a single chair, both table and chair covered with various books, maps, and, I think, a taxidermed three-legged platypus.
One shelf had stuffed (although I could swear I saw one move, but it was dark) tropical birds. I tried to make out what was in some glass globes that looked as if they were full of mist and fireflies. Lambshead rummaged in a corner, murmuring to himself. I could make out, “If he’d just held out five years, we could have done so much together, but he died a moron.”
(I later checked on this: Lambshead was born in 1900, and Pasteur died in 1895. I knew Lambshead was a child prodigy, but what he thought a seventy-eight-year-old man would have learned from a newborn, I did not ask.)
I reached out my finger to touch what looked like a finely crafted wooden horse, but then pulled back. Something had shifted, almost imperceptibly, inside.
An ancient spear sat propped in the corner opposite the door, and I peered at it. The spear was filthy, still bloody from the poor victim that had been pierced last. I shook my head. On the floor next to the spear lay at least twenty pots, most of them closed, but one on its side, shattered, with dust spilling out everywhere.
Something that looked like a bouquet of dried scorpions stuck up from another urn, and I decided I would not try to touch anything else.
Then Lambshead made an “aha!” sound, and I heard a crash as he tried to extricate something from a pile. He looked down at the floor and frowned. He said, “That was unfortunate, I should get Paulette to clean that up before it spreads,” and then took my arm. I followed him reluctantly out to the sunny afternoon and watched as he closed the door.
But then I saw what he held, and the mysteries under the floor seemed unimportant. It was a most curious item; a flask, like Pasteur had created, but that was like saying a Chevy Sedan is a carriage much like Maximus Creed from Rome had cobbled together in 200 B.C. A large bulb at the bottom held a clear, broth-like liquid, but the neck of the flask swooped down in Pasteur’s S shape, and then split in three, one swooping back up into a spiral that nearly reached two feet high, and then ended at a sealed glass nipple. Another branch of glass wound round itself, creating knots and curlicues; I counted at least three different sailor’s knots and one Celtic knot, and seven more I couldn’t identify, some seeming to actually have glass tubes entwined with it that started nowhere and ended nowhere. This whole complex mess wound round the bulb in a spiral, swooping back up to form the open mouth of the flask. The third branch was the strangest, stretching up and then coming back down to go back into the bottle, and, as far as I could tell, back out the bottom, only to fold back and actually form the bulb of the jar itself. This made it a Klein bottle (named for Felix Klein, d. 1882, and, unlike Pasteur, apparently a man not to be derided by Dr. Lambshead), sharing its inner and outer side.
I stared at it, flabbergasted by the sheer mastery of workmanship. It could have been my previous unfortunate upchucking situation, as I rarely find myself at a loss for words, but I simply looked from the flask to the doctor, and waited.
“You see, Pasteur managed a reasonable solution for everyday basic bacteria, proving that they can’t pass a normal S bend. But you know he was killed by bacteria? Some say it was a stroke, but it was a bacterium with skilled navigational instincts, the kind of thing that laughs at the S bend, and is capable of trekking the fine capillaries, avoiding white blood cells, to attack at the most vulnerable areas in the brain. If he’d developed and learned about this flask in the years before I was born, he could have flummoxed the bacterium and lived longer.” He pointed to one of the sailor’s knots in the flask. “Here’s where they usually get caught, in the Figure of Eight Stopper. Just get outright lost. They rarely make it to the Angler’s Loop,” he pointed to the final knot.
It was true, the open tubes had varying amounts of grime near the opening, with dead bugs caught in the knots, and some even having followed the dead-end tube and gathered in the nipple, but all of the glass near the bulb to the flask was perfectly clean. It was even clean on the outside.
I pointed to the bulb. “What do you have in there?”
He waved his hand again, and I wondered how many of my interview questions he would brush away. “Something pure, I can tell you that, untouched by neither smart nor ignorant bacteria. I’m saving it for a special occasion.” He winked at me.
He took the flask with us inside and then offered me more tea, which I politely refused. We went on with the interview, not mentioning the cabinet again.
When I heard of his death in 2003, I wondered if he’d ever used what was
in the flask, or if any of his journals would detail its contents. I also wondered if, perhaps, the flask died the same death as whatever crashed to the ground during my visit, and went from “something pure” to “something Paulette has to clean up before it spreads.”
Regardless, in perusing the recent auction catalog for the few unearthed cabinet items that survived the fire, I was struck by the following description: “Glass abstract sculpture. Unknown origin. Composed of several curving and circular parts. Badly scorched and melted.” Unfortunately, the item had already been bought, and I could not act on my sudden impulse to own it.
1972: The Lichenologist’s Visit
As Told to Ekaterina Sedia by S. B. Potter, Lichenologist
As many readers of my novels know, I am also a professional lichenologist, and as such also part of a select and small community of fellow researchers. A few years back, when lichen taxonomy was revised based on new molecular data, it caused quite an upheaval—meaning that among fifteen people who’ve heard about it, ten cared. One of more vocal critics of the new taxonomic system was one S. B. Potter (not his/her real name), who has been active in the field for years, and who vigorously objected to redefining of some lichen genera. After one particularly heated Internet discussion, I received a snail-mail letter from S. B., containing the following story about a visit to Dr. Lambshead back in the 1970s. I’m afraid Potter has not communicated with me since, and I have no further information to offer. Although I do often wonder about the hand.—E. S.
I first visited Dr. Lambshead under a purely professional set of circumstances: I was recommended to him as the main lichenology expert of the area. At the time, Dr. Lambshead was just beginning to acquire a reputation for his acumen in the unusual diseases, and, like most men who are out to establish themselves, he was particularly impatient with anything that threatened to thwart his progress.
He called on me in secrecy, as if sharing his befuddlement would somehow diminish his stature: he had sent his letter with a messenger, the red wax of the seal reflecting the monogram of his signet ring, pressed with unnecessary vigor.
“Dear Dr. Potter,” he wrote in his meticulous, small and square letters, “I loathe to impose on your time, but I suspect that I’m in need of your expertise. I have a patient, one Mrs. Longford, who has developed a persistent cough, and then, a week later, strange greenish-grey splotches on the backs of her hands. I took a sample of the tissue and subjected it to microscopic examination, and to my surprise, the tissue appeared to be of a plant origin. I sent samples to my friends in Oxford, and they confirmed that the sample is indeed a lichen. They also forwarded your name and address to me, and in that regard I am now seeking your advice.
“Would you be able to identify the specimen, and possibly suggest the ways to alleviate my patient’s suffering? As time goes on, she is getting worse, with lichen now covering most of her extremities and spreading to her neck. Her cough has become rather fitful as well, and the sputum contains blood as well as lichen tissues. Yours sincerely, Dr. Thackery Lambshead.”
At the time, I had just begun to stumble toward the discovery of the link between seemingly innocuous lichens and the disease, but I was still ignorant of the darker nature of this connection; despite my ignorance, however, I had developed a sense of foreboding, as if the part of me that was more perspicacious than the rest was trying to warn me of some unknown danger. However, being a man of science, I had dismissed such irrational thoughts and decided to travel to Dr. Lambshead’s abode.
Lichen or Lambshead’s new fingerprint?
He resided in a large house, old and broad, fitting for a family doctor, I thought. The stones that composed its walls bore green and grey splotches, familiar to me—out of the habit, I gauged the age of the house by the lichen size. You see, lichens grow so slowly that many only increase their diameter by one millimeter a year; a lichen blemish the size of a penny is usually a hundred years old. The lichens on Lambshead’s home, however, were enormous—if I was to believe them, his house was much older than Hadrian’s Wall. Or at least the stones that composed it were—which was rather easier to believe, and I accepted this supposition as truth, reluctant (or unable) to continue thinking about the alternatives.
My next (unnoticed, unheeded!) warning came when the door swung open—it was a massive iron contraption, painted russet-red—and revealed a small man, his grey hair crusting over the dome of his variegated skull. His small eyes looked at me dully.
I asked to see the master of the house, and the man who answered the door turned, exposing the same powdery, unhealthily greenish aspect on the back of his neck as I had previously noted on his head.
Dr. Lambshead himself didn’t seem to belong in the foreboding and dark atmosphere of the house—he, as you would well know, was a jovial, hearty man, and his appearance dispelled any doubts I might have had about coming there. He had not a trace of the sickly pallor about him, and at once I scolded myself for my overly active imagination.
I looked at the samples and was able to confirm that they were indeed soredia (asexual reproductive structures) of a lichen; I was even able to guess its genus as Caloplaca, but the species eluded me. I promised to conduct additional chemical tests to tease out the exact nature of the specimen, and, with the business concluded, agreed to join my host for tea.
Over tea, I started to feel mildly ill, and was unable to much concentrate on the words of Dr. Lambshead. Blood pounded in my ears, muffling his voice, and my right hand was throbbing. I glanced at my fingers holding the teacup, and noticed that they had grown swollen and powdery; moreover, small brown fruiting bodies were staring to open on my fingertips, like tiny ulcers.
I kept staring at my hand, paralyzed—the speed with which the lichen was growing was shocking, and I could not decide how I had managed to get myself exposed. I did not handle the specimen; it was presented to me on a glass slide. In fact, the only thing I had touched in that whole house was Dr. Lambshead’s hand when I shook it—and the teacup.
A sudden realization shifted inside me, snapping like a string, forcing everything into focus. The butler, the blotches of lichen on the house itself . . . “Excuse me,” I asked my host then in a trembling voice. “But that patient of yours . . . did you know her before she fell ill?”
Dr. Lambshead nodded. “Yes,” he said, after a brief hesitation that told me that he was acquainted with the woman rather more than he wanted anyone to know. “I am friendly with the entire family.” During this exchange, he looked straight at me, at my disfigured, bloated hand, and there was no possibility that he didn’t see its state. And yet, he didn’t make the slightest show of concern. “Is that important?”
“My hand is bothering me,” I said, and splayed my blotchy fingers on the white tablecloth.
“It seems to be in order,” he said. “Why do you think that my previous familiarity with the patient is relevant?”
His calm tone was the last shred of conviction I needed. I now knew—and I also knew the only reasonable thing to do. I grabbed the bread knife off the table and brought it hard over my wrist, for it is better to amputate one’s appendage than to let the terrible contagion spread. The pain was surprisingly dull, even as I cringed at the impossible cracking of the bone and snapping of cartilage, as my blood stained the tablecloth and my host stumbled backward away from the table, his eyes and mouth opening wide.
I do not remember how I fled—the loss of blood weakened me, and I recovered my memory only a few days later, when I discovered myself in my own bed, light-headed but lucid. A neatly bandaged stump of my wrist proved that the events were not my imagination, and my renewed horror was soon soothed by relief once I discovered that Caloplaca or whatever accursed genus it was had not spread to the rest of my arm—I had acted just in time.
Despite the time that passed and the pestering questions of friends and relatives who wanted to know what happened to my hand, I have kept these events private until now. As much as I wanted to alert others to the danger
, I also feared that my sanity would be questioned, and I did not relish the thought of involuntary commitment to the asylum. My story was as implausible as it was truthful, and really, who in their right mind would believe my discovery—that the man of such knowledge and medical expertise is not what he claims to be at all. You see, that day I realized that Dr. Thackery Lambshead was nothing more than a novel species of lichen, which somehow managed to impersonate a human being. I still believe that it belongs to Caloplaca genus.
1995: Kneel
By Brian Evenson
It should be no surprise that, in addition to his catalog of discredited diseases, Dr. Thackery T. Lambshead’s collecting impulse extended to art, as exemplified by the galleries that form part of his cabinet of curiosities. His taste here ran to the mad and the mystical: at its best, brutists like Adolph Wölfli and William Kurelek on the one hand, symbolists such as Carlos Schwabe and Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis on the other. In his galleries, I noted several pieces likely to cause a connoisseur’s eye to glisten—for instance, a previously unknown minor Einar Jónsson sculpture or a particularly luminous landscape by Lars Hertervig. But for the most part, the work is mystical in a stately, dignified way, rarely shocking or surprising.
Or at least that is the case with the pieces most readily on display. If you navigate the twists and turns of Lambshead’s galleries, if you begin to pay as much attention to your surroundings as to the work itself, you might stumble upon a certain plain white wall. If you take the time, as I did, to look carefully at this wall, you might glimpse a thin filament of light, nearly invisible, crossing it at about the level of your hips. And if you, intrigued, approach this wall and push at it and prod at it, you might well be rewarded, as I was, by the sound of a slight click and the opening of a panel.
The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities Page 31
