“You nincompoop!” I cried. “Now what are we going to do? I shall have to try to swim to the bottom of the Bay to find it.”
Gibear gave me a dreadful look and slinked back into the boat, but I had no time to tend to his hurt feelings. Clapping on a rather ingenious little glass and rubber mask I had crafted for myself, I took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface.80 I swam down along the trunk of this underwater tree, its bark black with undersea silt and barnacles. The thickness of the tree’s trunk and gnarled branches showed me that it was very, very old; upon examining it, I decided that it must have been alive tens of thousands of years ago. My ax glinted dully among the tree’s roots, which appeared to spring from some sort of giant oyster shell on the Bay’s bottom. I snatched the tool off the floor, min-nowed up to the surface, and began hacking away at the branches.
Then the oddest thing happened.
As I chipped through the tree’s algae-and-barnacle crust, a pale glow came from within the branch. I chiseled out a piece of this soft white material and held it up to the sun, and my heart skipped a beat.
Underneath the crust, this underwater tree was made of solid pearl.81
I swam about the area and found many more such trees: Gibear and I had bumbled into an ancient, underwater pearl-tree forest.
Each magnificent tree indeed stemmed from an enormous oyster on the Bay’s floor, but instead of taking the shape of a simple round pearl, these pearly structures stemmed up toward the surface in the shape of a tree. Little round pearls hung from the lower branches like delicate fruit. This was certainly the most incredible example of mollusk creativity I have ever seen.
But then, as I finished making my notes and sketches, my heart began to sink. Once my discovery was made public, surely people from all over the globe would descend upon this precious forest and harvest it into extinction.
So I did something rather controversial: I chopped off the treetops, so the pearly branches would never again snare another boat—leaving this archaeological treasure to dwell undisturbed in perpetuity. I even burned the map on which I had recorded the forest’s coordinates; its location is known only to myself, Gibear, and the deep blue sea.82
And, for the record, my pet forgave me for calling him a nincompoop, but only after I made him a little pearl crown from the chopped branches and wrote him another little song:
Gibear, Gibear, my pet so true—
It matters not if you’re red, green, or blue—
A heart like yours will never grow old—
You’re worth more to me than pearls or gold.
79. The Bay of Bengal—the largest bay in the world—forms the northeastern part of the Indian Ocean.
80. These goggles might seem quite innovative of Dr. Wiggins, considering that diving suits that allowed underwater breathing were still in very primitive stages of invention—but divers had already been using such masks for hundreds of years. For example, as early as 1300, Persian divers were making basic goggles from thinly sliced and polished tortoise shells.
81. At this time in history, pearls were considered more valuable than diamonds; they were among the most coveted riches in the world. This makes Dr. Wiggins’s discovery one of nearly unheard-of value.
82. To this day, no one else has been able to locate this forest in the Bay of Bengal.
April 1876
Australia
In Which I Discover … Diva Opera Ostriches
(Cantor Struthio Camelus)
At first, I had not known quite what to expect from Australia.
(“I’ll tell you what you’ll find there,” carped Mother Wiggins in my mind when Gibear and I docked our sailboat on this country’s shores many months ago. “Riffraff and scalawags.83 Why you would want to go to a continent of outlaws is beyond me.”
“I do not expect you to understand, Mother,” I retorted as I heaved myself off the boat. “You always see the worst in everyone. A lot of these people are likely quite reformed by now.”)
Yet as much as I hated to admit it, she had a point: after all, last century, England had taken over half of this continent and used it as a faraway jail. Now, I agree with her that shipping outlaws halfway around the globe is not the most efficient idea, but no one ever accused humans of being sensible creatures—even British humans. In any case, I was here to inspect the animal wildlife, not the human wildlife—and Gibear and I quickly scurried off into the outback.84
Well! As it turns out, Australia’s contemporary animals appear to be no better behaved than their human predecessors: on our first night of camping, a gaggle of pig-footed bandicoots85 scavenged in my rucksack and made off with some of our provisions. And then, on the second night, a band of Tasmanian devils86 looted our camp and stole nearly every jar of my treasured Gum Tree Wax. Will Nature never fail to conduct assaults upon my precious wax supplies? But the worst was yet to come: on the third night, I awoke to behold a western gray kangaroo rummaging through my tent. Just as I sat up to shoo it away, the kangaroo grabbed Gibear (!!!!), shoved him into its pouch, and bounded away!
Trying to catch it was out of the question: kangaroos can tear along at terrifying speeds, leaving a man in the dust.87 But the moment the sun rose, I gathered my possessions and tracked the Gibear thief across the plains.
Kangaroos leave highly specific marks on the ground: when they are not hopping at great speeds, their tails and front legs balance the creatures out as they sort of crawl-walk along. The Gibear thief must have tired fairly quickly, and I easily tracked it to a nearby cave. I could hardly believe what I saw.
Inside, the kangaroo coddled Gibear like a little baby, tickling his face and cooing. Zoologists will say that I am lying—that kangaroos do not coo—but I know what I saw and heard, and it was practically a lullaby. I was appalled. Gibear, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. In fact, he looked almost resentful when I—his gallant rescuer—materialized in the doorway.
“Look here,” I thundered. “Give me back my pet this instant.”
The kangaroo stamped its foot at me and squashed Gibear down into its pouch. I feared that a fistfight was in the cards! With a kangaroo! Sometimes I simply cannot believe how absurd my life has become.
Just then, I noticed an array of long ostrich feathers littering the cave floor. Very few people know this extraordinary fact: kangaroos are terribly ticklish creatures. They practically melt at the slightest tickly touch. So I grabbed one of those feathers and darted toward the animal, tickling its belly and armpits. It kicked up quite a fuss and made deafening whooping noises; then it bounded toward the cave entrance—and I managed to snatch Gibear out of its pouch just in time.
“Well!” I said gruffly, staring down at Gibear, who sulked in a most petulant manner. “You needn’t expect any cradling and lullabies from me, but I am pleased to have you back.”
Now that the emergency had passed, the walls of the cave caught my attention. They appeared to be covered in wallpaper, with a curious pattern of ostrich feathers. I dusted them off and looked closer, and, to my delight, I discovered that feather fossils festooned every inch of the walls and ceiling.
The Gibear-thieving kangaroo had actually done me quite a favor by leading me to this very interesting archaeological site. Once I began inspecting and digging, I uncovered the fossilized remains of another animal habitant of this cave, except this one dwelled here millions of years ago.
Not many people today realize that birds are direct descendants of dinosaurs.88 They share many anatomical similarities, from feathers to skeletal structure. The type of creature I uncovered in this outback cave may be by far one of the most unusual dinosaur birds ever discovered. I suppose that it most closely resembles today’s ostrich, except for two distinguishing characteristics:
1. Lavish bursts of feathers covering its body, spouting ten feet into the air from its head and trailing ten feet behind from its tail.
2. Huge lungs and complex vocal cords.
Most animals and bird
s tend to live in herds or flocks or some sort of community—but these Australian ostriches appear to have been solitary creatures. This might seem rather odd, when one thinks about the fact that physical flashiness is designed usually to attract mates. And evidence shows that the creatures did involve themselves in all sorts of mate-attracting activities.
First of all: using their feathers, the Australian ostriches created very beautiful habitats as a lure. They plucked out their own feathers and arranged them on cave walls and ceilings; they also lay down long, winding feather carpets leading up to their cave entrances.
On to the second characteristic: thanks to those big lungs and highly developed vocal cords, each of these ostriches would have been able to sing as beautifully and powerfully as a modern opera singer. Every day, the ostriches would emerge from their feather-filled homes and sing beautiful, fetching songs that would carry across the land, in the hope of baiting a suitor.
But, needless to say, it appears that none of these glorious gifts did the least bit of good.
All of the ostriches we discovered had died alone; in fact, their solitary remains were found in relatively shallow graves, for no one had been on hand to bury them properly. My theory: once a Diva Opera Ostrich, as I have named them, succeeded in luring another Diva Opera Ostrich into its home, neither could tolerate the other’s presence. Let us be honest here—in most marriages, one person needs to dance in the center of the stage, while the other one waits patiently in the wings. One is foreground, and the other background. Rarely does it work to have two stars in the same show.
And in the case of the Diva Opera Ostriches, both of them invariably wanted to be the center of attention—I imagine that this led to the most beastly tantrums and fights. Instead of singing contented duets into the dusk, these divas would have let out shrill, deafening shrieks and pecked each other silly. (Why, the number of nips and scars on the carcasses defies belief!)
Eventually, one of the Diva Opera Ostriches would move out, and the one left behind would bellow out woeful songs of loss and sadness.
But in due course he or she would recover, fluff up his or her feathers, redecorate the den, and sing songs of hope across the plains once again, until the next Diva Opera Ostrich mate came along—and inevitably went.
(“You had to go halfway around the globe to learn the moral of this story?” squawked Mother Wiggins in my mind. “Everyone knows that you have to stash a show pony in the stable along with a donkey.”)
Once again, barnyard common sense reigns supreme.
83. “Riffraff” means “a group of people regarded as disreputable or worthless.” Scalawags are rascals or scamps.
84. Back country or remote settlements; the bush.
85. These small, mouse-like creatures are now believed to be extinct; the last recorded sightings took place in the 1950s.
86. Tasmanian devils resemble dog-sized rats; they eat livestock and are known for their horrifically loud screeches.
87. Kangaroos can hop up to forty-five miles per hour over short distances.
88. Today many researchers agree that birds are a group of theropod dinosaurs that evolved during the Mesozoic era.
September 1880
Western Mountains, China
In Which I Encounter a Dragon Flying Machine and Discover … Balloon Dragons
(Follis Draconis)
I hardly expected to like China this much—but I really do adore it. Gibear, on the other hand, far preferred the Pacific Islands, which we visited on our overseas journey here from Australia. Since we arrived, he has been quite moody.
“Just try it,” I told Gibear, holding a bowl of sweet Chinese tea below his snout. We sat in a snug little teahouse in the mountainous countryside. “This country is terribly famous for its tea. It is quite delicious.”
Gibear sniffed at the dish and turned his head away.
“Well!” I exclaimed. “That is most unadventurous of you—not to mention rude. We must adapt to other customs when we are in other countries.”
The elderly owner of the teahouse, Mr. Fang, tottered over to our table, leaning on a cane. A mustache drooped from his upper lip; his glasses were as thick as the bottom of wine bottles.
“What is the problem, noble Dr. Wiggins?” he asked. He had once owned a tearoom in Piccadilly89 and spoke impeccable English. I explained that my pet only drinks coffee, and implored him not to take offense.
“Why did you not say so?” said Mr. Fang. “Please come with me.”
Gibear and I followed Mr. Fang through a curtain into a very compelling room in the back of the house. An unusual array of objects, wires, and tools filled the shelves and lay on the tabletops. Mr. Fang produced a coffee grinder and some coffee beans and set to work, making Gibear’s lunch.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It is my workshop,” replied Mr. Fang. “I am an inventor.”
“Indeed!” I said, holding up a funny device attached to a dangling knot of wires. “And what is this?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Fang. “I call that a Messenger of Words. You would have one hanging on a wall in your house, and suddenly a bell rings. When you pick it up and hold it to your ear, you can actually hear my words coming from inside. For I am speaking to you from another device just like it in my house, and my voice comes to you through those wires.”90
“Ha ha ha!” I cried. “What a far-fetched notion. You have quite an imagination, Mr. Fang.”
Mr. Fang boiled some water on a small stove in the corner of the room, and told me that he was working on “his greatest invention”: a flying machine that can carry man from one city to another.
“Goodness—does it work?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I would be most honored if the noble Dr. Wiggins and his particular pet would join me for a ride in it tomorrow. Arrive right before dawn, and do not be late.”
The next morning, an hour before sunrise, Gibear and I returned to Mr. Fang’s teahouse and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Mr. Fang whispered. “Please be quiet. I do not want my neighbors to know about my invention. They already think that I am mad.” We tiptoed through the corridors until we reached a big, open-roofed courtyard behind the house. A large, cloth-covered shape hulked in the courtyard’s center. We whipped off the cloth near the front and saw Mr. Fang’s flying machine. It resembled a giant bathtub, with a propeller sticking out on top and a fearsome dragon painted on its sides.91 The Chinese are very interested in dragons: apparently they are symbols of good luck. I asked how the contraption worked.
“We sit inside the belly of the dragon, and I press a button,” explained Mr. Fang. “Then we go straight up into the sky.”
The three of us hunkered down in the “dragon,” and soon the blades above our heads began to whir. Just when I had decided I was about to be beheaded and that this was the stupidest decision I had ever made, the tub lifted off the ground and hovered in the air. I could hardly believe it!
“It is a miracle, Mr. Fang,” I yelled.
Soon we floated above the teahouse, and then the whole neighborhood looked like toy houses below. We rose higher and higher until the town below disappeared and white clouds wrapped around us.
“Where are we going?” I shouted.
“To the Sacred Mountains,” yelled Mr. Fang.
The ride was pleasant, although it was quite chilly at that altitude; I wrapped Gibear around my neck like a scarf. We floated along in the fog and clouds for a very long time.
“How do you know when we have arrived at the Sacred Mountains?” I asked. “We cannot see anything.”
“Oh, we will know,” said Mr. Fang mysteriously.
I was just about to inquire further when suddenly the dragon flying machine hit something with a thud, and next thing I knew, Mr. Fang, Gibear, and I spilled out of the tub and found ourselves rolling down a hill. We had collided with the side of a mountain!
“We have arrived,” Mr. Fang announced grandly, picking himself up
off the ground. The dragon flying machine lay in bits and pieces. I asked despairingly how long it would take to repair, but Mr. Fang cheerfully assured me that it would only take “a few weeks at most,” and told us to enjoy the splendid scenery. That was, after all, the purpose of our visit, he added.
Well, you can imagine how disgruntled I was! After all, I am no tourist, but nothing could be done: we were stuck. Gibear and I explored the area. We immediately noticed strange patches of thin, flat stones covering parts of the ground; when the clouds lifted, each stone shone like a patch of oil in the sunshine.
“Why, these stones are connected,” I observed as I dug around the patches with my hands. It was true: the R.O.I.s appeared to be part of a great, thick animal hide of some kind. Fortunately, I had brought along my rucksack filled with tools; I went to work on the area right away. Shortly afterward, I concluded that I could no longer be annoyed at Mr. Fang.
After all, he had accidentally led us to discover a creature from China’s very ancient history.
As I have said before, legends often have roots in reality. It is not entirely clear how China began its worship of dragons, but many scholars believe that early totem carvings of snakes and crocodiles had been exaggerated to resemble what we think of today as dragons. If I had not been stranded in the Chinese mountains by Mr. Fang’s strange flying machine, I likely would have thought the same thing.
But now I know that dragons were once quite real. And the dragons I have uncovered are far more interesting and intelligent than the conventional, fire-breathing fare usually dished up by folklore. Many years ago—140 million, to be exact—a large family of dragons lived in this area, their hides made of rainbow-colored scales. While dragons are usually thought to be surly and evil and forever munching on the bones of men, the skulls of these dragons reveal them to have been herbivores. In fact, they probably grazed like cows all day long, likely never giving a thought to setting local fortresses on fire with their breath, terrorizing nearby damsels, and so on.
The Wondrous Journals of Dr. Wendell Wellington Wiggins Page 13
