Джефф Вандермеер - The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

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.

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.