The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

“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!”