The Thackery T Lambshead Pocket Guide To Eccentric & Discredited Diseases

by Unknown

  I will not detail the methods by which the Jivaro shrink the heads of their enemies, as this knowledge has since been widely recorded elsewhere. But Thwack and I were soon venturing deeper into the rainforest in search of the shadowy off-shoot tribe the Jivaro called the Kakaram, which our guides advised us translated as “the Powerful Ones,” or “the Killers.”

  I will say straight off that we never did meet the Kakaram, except for two brief and regrettable exchanges. During the first, one of our guides was killed with a poisoned dart from a blowgun, and one of our porters beheaded by an unseen assailant, before we drove off the attackers with rifle fire. The head of the porter was not recovered—at that time. Fortunately, the Kakaram are feared more for their reputation than for their numbers.

  While the bodies of the slain were carried back by those porters who did not wish to continue, the remaining five of us pushed ahead the following day and came upon the first specimens of a remarkable plant that not even our guide had encountered before. It consisted of a short, wooden trunk or caudex, surmounted by never more or less than eight broad, waxy leaves. The tallest of these stunted trees came only to my shoulder, though the trunks of the larger ones could become quite thick and bulbous. We began to encounter these larger specimens at the same time that we began to find the human heads affixed to their scaly bark.

  Though these heads were not shrunken, we could not help but assume the practice of sewing their necks onto the bark of these mysterious plants must be a mutation of the tsanta-making practice. On one plant alone we counted a dozen heads in various states of decay, several of them little more than skulls in a thin sheath of skin. We had no idea how long they had been attached to the plant’s hide.

  Thwack made use of his machete to sever one of these trophies from its base, and thus came upon a gruesome discovery. Thick filaments or tendrils had grown out of the bark where a hole had been bored or drilled, prior to the neck being sewn over it. These tendrils had then grown up into the severed head itself. They proved tough to cut through, and leaked a milky sap. We had hoped to bring home samples of the sap and photographs of the trees, but we were soon set upon by the unseen Kakaram again, this time losing another porter. For several minutes, the fighting grew quite desperately frenzied, and Thackery and I were briefly separated from our fellows.

  As we crouched down behind one barrel-like plant for cover, bullets and darts whizzing over our heads, we both thought we heard a low murmur and exchanged looks. When the soft groan was repeated, we looked instead to the still-fresh head of the porter who had been murdered the previous night, attached to the very tree we took shelter behind. We saw that its eyes were open, and in fact moving, though they did not seem to focus on either of us, instead rolling as if drugged in their sockets. But the poor devil’s jaw began to work, and a flat, monotonous voice issued through his lips (though in its deep, muffled tones it seemed to have its origins within the very trunk of the tree that somehow sustained him).

  A mad, jumbled ranting issued forth. Thackery and I were too terrified to think of scribbling any of it down at first, though at last Thwack fumbled out his pad and got a scrap of it down: “. . . war with Korea 1950 war with Vietnam 1965 Marilyn must die like a suicide two bullets will be one magic bullet Sean and Madonna will divorce Orenthal is the ripper . . .”

  It was only much later, of course, that Thackery and I felt the full impact of these words. Through our continued correspondence over the years, we matched up the events that the porter had foretold. We realized that the Kakaram affixed the heads of their enemies to these extraordinary plants so that they might use them as oracles. We also suspected that the sap within the tendrils delivered a powerful hallucinogen to the brains, a hallucinogen whose life-sustaining properties kept the disembodied heads alive for an unknown period of time.

  The intensity of the fighting forced us to flee, and we could not convince our guides to bring us back to that place. In addition, by the next morning both Thackery and I were gravely ill; we suspected it was due to our close exposure to the mysterious plants, as we both suffered high fever and the most nightmarish delirium. Some time later I read that there was a terrible fire in that region, though whether it occurred naturally or through the intervention of neighboring tribes, we do not know. Thackery and I were severely disappointed, as we had been hoping to organize a second full-scale expedition in search of the elusive Kakaram and perhaps even more elusive stunted trees. We may never know what medical miracles might have resulted from their study.

  When Thackery published his report of our discovery, he came under attack from the usual crop of half-envious, half-intimidated detractors for a number of reasons: the death of the three porters, what was considered a “brusque, ill-prepared and impulsive” approach toward his ends, his inability to back up his claims with anything more than my own words, and a local disruption so violent that it may have inspired the Jivaro toward the genocide of an endangered tribe. But I resoundingly defend his actions, not just for having been a partner in them. Should we not explore, not discover, leave the leaves unparted, as it were? Thackery had no way of knowing that the Jivaro might act against the Kakaram, or that the Kakaram would murder porters who had survived previous encounters with the Jivaro. As for our not having physical evidence to support our claims...that omission continues to haunt both Thackery and me more than it does his most vocal of critics, I am certain.

  1961: DR. XUE-CHU WANG (AS RELATED TO DR. ERIC SCHALLER)

  This story comes from my parents as well as from me, and is more theirs than mine. My parents were born, raised, and married in Da Wang Cun, a name of little consequence in China because there are dozens of villages with that name and this one may no longer even exist. My mother was three months pregnant with me when my future grandmother succumbed to the Clear Rice Sickness. As a result, my father lost all faith in Chinese medicine. He feared for the health of his unborn child and, in 1957, using the family’s hidden savings for bribes and boat fare, my parents immigrated to the United States and took a small apartment in San Francisco.

  All was well for a while. My father worked at a newsstand during the day and unloaded fish at the docks in the evening. My mother stayed home with me the first year after I was born, but then took a kitchen job at a nearby restaurant, leaving me in the care of an elderly neighbor during the day. My parents would both come home at night smelling of fish but excited about their prospects. One of my first memories is of my father acting the puppeteer with a fish he brought home from work. He supported the fish by use of two chopsticks thrust into its gills and manipulated the chopsticks so that the glistening silver form danced before my eyes. “When you get older my dear Niu Niu,” he made the fish prophesize to me, “you will be rich, rich, rich.” Both of my parents believed that such dreams could be made true by hard work.

  But something went wrong when I was four years old. My parents came home to find the neighbor lady wringing her hands.

  “It is not my fault,” she said. “At first I thought it was just a rash. Many children get rashes. Then I saw that she had a fever. But this fever was so slight, you would have to be very sensitive just to detect it. So I put her to bed. The blisters only began an hour ago. Two hours ago at most. Perhaps she will be better in the morning.” The lady ran across the hallway and bolted her door.

  My parents did not have money to pay for a regular doctor, but another neighbor gave them the number of a clinic that had helped him in the removal of a superfluous toe. My father called from a pay phone in the street. A voice on the other end identified himself as Lambshead and said he would be right over.

  Indeed, in less than ten minutes, barely time for my father to make it back up the stairs and into the apartment, there was a knock at the door.

  My father opened the door.

  A man stood in front of him, partially bent over and panting heavily, one arm braced against the wall for support. He was overweight and wore a sweat-stained khaki shirt and pants. These might have fi
t once but were now too small. He straightened, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. He then wiped the hand on his pants and extended it toward my father.

  “Dr. Lambshead,” he said.

  Dr. Lambshead had a full white beard and spoke around the stem of a pipe that, it soon became apparent, was not lit.

  They shook hands and my father escorted Dr. Lambshead to the rear of the room where my mother sat beside my bed. She dabbed at my forehead with a moistened towel, but set the towel and basin of water aside to greet Dr. Lambshead.

  “Let’s see the wee one,” he said. He found a pair of glasses in his shirt pocket and twisted them into place about his ears. Viewed through the lenses, his eyes appeared twice their normal size, like those of an owl.

  He took a seat beside the bed and leaned forward to examine the fever blisters on my face; he did not touch them. He then poked at the larger blisters upon my neck, arms, and chest with the eraser-end of a pencil. The blisters dimpled from the pressure, then reverted to their original dimensions when he removed the pencil.

  He extracted a small flashlight from a pants pocket, held it about an inch from one of the largest blisters and stared for a full minute at the pink-lit interior.

  He chewed vigorously upon his pipe stem.

  “You did right to call me,” he said. “Buboparazygosia is not common in these parts and I doubt that a local doctor would recognize the symptoms, particularly at this early stage. Lucky that you called me when you did.”

  “Now,” he continued, “I don’t want to alarm you but the traditional treatment, if one can call it such, requires purging with fire.”

  My parents started. Their command of English at this point was sufficient to indicate that they should be alarmed.

  “You cannot hurt our girl,” my mother said. My father moved closer to her and me.

  Dr. Lambshead held his hands up apologetically. “Not to worry,” he said. “Please. My researches among the Ojibwe indicate that in many cases tobacco can substitute for fire.” He pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Something I just happen to have upon my person at all times. Do you have a small cooking pot, a sauce pan perhaps?” He gave my mother a helpful nod in the direction of the kitchen.

  He tapped the contents from his pipe into the pot my mother brought, then handed the pot back to my mother. “Now, add two cups of water and heat this just to boiling on the stove. Be careful not to overheat it.” My mother did as requested and Dr. Lambshead applied this mixture to each of the blisters, administering it from a cloth briefly wafted in the air to cool the mixture.

  He had almost finished this application when there was a sudden and emphatic rapping upon the door to our apartment.

  My parents were surprised, but Dr. Lambshead less so.

  He carefully set the pot of tobacco-infused water on the floor, leaving the rag draped over the handle. “Do you have a back door or a fire escape?” he asked. There are some in the medical profession who do not wish me well.”

  My father moved to the rear of the room and levered the window open partway with his forearm.

  “They believe we are undercutting their prices. Taking away potential patients.” Dr. Lambshead squeezed through the opening onto the rickety wooden structure that served as the fire escape. “They are right, of course. But that is rather beside the point.”

  Then he disappeared from sight. The ladder clattered a few times against the building to indicate his downward progress. The last words any of us heard him say were: “Apply twice a day for the next three days.”

  The rapping at the door had not abated during this time. My father opened the door to reveal a thoroughly disgruntled man with cane upraised as if to strike him. The man was wiry and tan, with sandy hair and a trim beard. His clothing was clean but nondescript. His cane, on the other hand, was elegant although eminently serviceable, composed of a dark hardwood and banded with silver. The head of the cane was cast in the shape of leopard springing at some unseen prey, potentially the observer.

  “Hello,” said the stranger. “I am Dr. Lambshead.” He brushed past my father. “I understand that you have a sick girl. I must see her at once. It is a matter of urgency and I apologize for the delay. There are many patients. Many patients.”

  “What did you say your name was?” My mother interposed herself between the man and me.

  “Dr. Lambshead.”

  “But you were already here. Not you, but a man with your name. Was the earlier gentleman your father?”

  The new Dr. Lambshead stopped. He looked at me, at the pot and the rag on the floor, and at the upraised window. “Ah,” he said. “I think I understand. Another Dr. Lambshead visited you earlier?

  My mother nodded.

  “He examined the girl?”

  Nods from both my mother and my father.

  “What was his diagnosis?”

  “Bubo . . .” my father said, and then paused, unsure of the next syllable.

  “Para . . .” my mother added.

  “Zygosia,” the new Dr. Lambshead finished. “A misdiagnosis, I am sorry to say. Obviously made by a rank amateur, a charlatan who did not get past ‘Bub’ in his studies. Otherwise he would have recognized the symptoms of Burmese Dirigible Disease.” He made a derisive gesture with his cane at the tobacco-smeared blisters on my face.

  “Unfortunately, there are those who find that their own lives lack meaning and choose instead to model themselves upon others,” Dr. Lambshead said. “I have achieved a certain level of celebrity in some quarters, particularly and inevitably, I am afraid, among those who have quarrels with the medical establishment. As a result, I am now besieged by Lambshead mimics. I cannot walk down the street without bumping into a Lambshead-wannabe. Just yesterday . . . but I digress. You have a sick child on your hands and all other troubles pale in comparison.”

  He raised my left arm and hefted it slightly as if weighing it. Then he let it fall back to my side. He nodded, obviously pleased with himself. “Now, Burmese Dirigible Disease is thought to originate from a fungal infection, but I suspect that it may represent instead, at least in some cases, a remodeling of the dermis based on the surrounding environment. Another case of mimicry, if you will, but this time of the external made internal. Children are particularly susceptible because they are still undergoing growth and development. Their body plans are not yet fully laid down.”

  He pivoted slowly on his right foot, taking in the contents of our apartment. “You keep a very clean house,” he said. “That must stop.” He walked over to the bureau and dumped my father’s shirts from the top drawer onto the floor. “Do not pick those up,” he said. He then walked over to a wall and with two rapid swings of his cane punched successive holes through the plaster. “Do not fix those holes,” he said.

  None of us know how far he would have carried his destruction, if another knocking at the door had not interrupted him.

  “Do not fix those holes,” he said again, then stepped out the window and disappeared down the fire escape.

  My father opened the door to see a young boy on the threshold. He was eight or nine years old, and wearing a striped shirt and pants that upon closer inspection turned out to be pajamas. Over these he had thrown an adult’s blue suit jacket. The jacket hung down to knee level and he had rolled up its sleeves to expose his hands. A plastic stethoscope was draped around his neck.

  “Hello,” the boy said. “My name is Dr. Lambshead. I believe that we have an appointment.”

  My father slammed the door in his face.

  As I said, this story is mostly that of my parents. I do not remember three different doctors. In my memory there is but one man who somehow combines the characteristics of all three visitors. He is tan, has a white beard streaked with earthy tones, and has a child-like enthusiasm at odds with his apparent age. But my memory also contains one additional feature not mentioned by my parents: a hat. Or, rather, a skull cap. This is the color of damp straw and patterned around the circumference with fine embroidery. Ye
ars later I would recognize a similar cap in a photograph of Arthur Rimbaud from his years as a trader in Northern Africa.

  But I trust my parents’ recollections, their detailed account of that trying night. I had a fever and faded in and out of consciousness. It is surprising that I remember anything.

  For a while, I wondered which if any of the visitors was the real Dr. Lambshead. I confess that the question was a matter of recurring mental anguish for me, and it took me a long time to realize the unimportance of the answer. The visitors could not have existed without Lambshead, and thus each carried something of Lambshead within them. It is to this essence and not to its quantification that I owe my recovery. For, yes, I did recover. The blisters receded that very night, absorbed so thoroughly back into my skin that I do not even have scars, just memories to mark their one-time presence. Still, that sickness and the resulting visitations marked me in other ways. I am convinced that I was set on a journey that night. I took my first steps down a path too improbable to tell, for no matter how it twisted and turned that path had but one destination: to return me back to where the journey began, to a place that I now once again call home. Today, I am happy to be Dr. Xue-Chu Wang of the Thackery T. Lambshead Institute for Applied Diagnostics, Little Lambs Pediatrics Unit, San Francisco.

  1965– ?: DR. RACHEL POLLACK

  I first met Dr. Lambshead when we were both working on the acute outbreak of vaginal dishonorable discharges among young female officers in Biloxi, Mississippi in the 1960s. One evening, after a strained day of collecting samples from women somewhat reluctant to risk their careers to a young researcher still wet behind the ears, I entered the doctors-only bar set up by the government to give us a break from the epidemic. An extremely tall gentleman with a mass of wild hair in all directions sat upright by a small table crowded with smoky bottles with handwritten labels. Later, of course, I would understand that the tall thin man with the unruly locks was but one of Thwack’s breathtaking range of disguises, but back then I just knew that his frail upright form seemed to pull me to him.