The Thackery T Lambshead Pocket Guide To Eccentric & Discredited Diseases

by Unknown

  COUNTRY OF ORIGIN:

  United States

  FIRST KNOWN CASE:

  Initially observed and reported during the summer of 1948 in Evanston, Illinois by Doctor Owen Tuning, a General Practitioner whose practice was uncomplicated by the bizarre save for his brief association with the Spasm.

  CASE HISTORY:

  The patient afflicted was Charles Harding Durwood, a 45-year-old male who was the proprietor of a highly successful store dealing in stationery supplies and happily married for 23 years. He had heretofore only suffered from ordinary illnesses and up until this presentation all his visits to Tuning’s office had been for a routine yearly checkup.

  The Doctor was surprised therefore to see how pale and oddly haggard Durwood looked when he turned up at his office after an urgent telephone call. A brief examination revealed no particularly alarming symptoms. The pulse rate was slightly higher than usual but that was to be expected since Durwood was obviously upset and distracted.

  The patient was in the midst of a rambling, suspiciously evasive description of his symptoms when he suddenly broke off to turn his back on Doctor Tuning and stare silently and intently at an empty chair in the examination room.

  Tuning gazed politely at the rear of his patient’s head for a long moment before quietly asking if something was wrong. There was yet another patch of unresponsive silence before Durwood hoarsely cleared his throat and answered, still facing away from Tuning and continuing to stare at the empty chair.

  “I’m just a little surprised to see you have one of them here,” Durwood said with a decidedly breathy voice which trembled in spite of clear attempts at control. “To be honest it never occurred to me that there might even be another one!”

  Then he turned back to Doctor Tuning and the physician found it required all of his professional discipline to conceal the sudden shock of horror he felt at seeing that both of his patient’s eye sockets had become empty red pits.

  Tuning cleared his throat and was attempting to form some sort of reply when Durwood abruptly turned back to look at the empty chair once more, gave a little start of surprise, said: “Ah, but now I see it’s gone,” and turned round again to face the doctor only this time with his sockets once more containing the same blue, intelligent-looking eyes they had on all prior occasions save for that last horrid moment.

  Of course Tuning immediately gave his patient a thorough examination of the ocular area, but he failed to find anything whatsoever out of the ordinary.

  There were no more spasms on the part of Durwood — it appears to be a short lived, if highly disturbing, illness — but Tuning reports that several days later, while sitting in his home at the dinner table with his wife, Madge, he stopped with a forkful of food lifted halfway up to his mouth and found himself gaping wide eyed and appalled at a gelatinous entity which — in spite of the complete lack of anything one could actually describe as a mouth — was smiling at him in the friendliest way possible from the open kitchen door.

  He turned to his wife and received another severe shock when he saw her stare at him with absolute horror and then softly slide from her chair to the floor in a dead faint.

  It was then he realized two things almost simultaneously: Tuning’s Spasm was contagious and he’d caught it.

  SUBMITTED BY

  Dr. Gahan Wilson

  THE SIXTIES (1)

  1960: DR. RIKKI DUCORNET’S VARIOUS HEAD DISEASES • FORMAT: SOFTCOVER, 8.5 x 11

  PUBLISHER: JOLLY BOY PUBLISHING & SOAP COMPANY, BOMBAY, INDIA

  Dr. Rikki Ducornet’s pioneering work in the fanciful illustration of actual diseases provided an auspicious beginning to the Guide’s “Jolly Boy Era.” Her research in Europe and Southeast Asia led to a radical change in medical opinions on rapid mutation. At the time Dr. Lambshead published her famous selection of head diseases, she was traveling by caravan and horseback across some of the more desolate parts of North Africa, hunting down various microorganisms. By the time she returned to London, she had become a celebrity.

  THE SIXTIES (2)

  1962: MACCREECH’S DEMENTIA • FORMAT: SOFTCOVER, 8.5 X 11 PUBLISHER: JOLLY BOY PUBLISHING & SOAP COMPANY, BOMBAY, INDIA

  The following account was the first of several “anecdotal episodes” that Dr. Lambshead published for the sake of variety. “I find,” he wrote in the introduction to the 1962 Guide, “that sometimes the layperson, or scientist from another field, has valuable insight into eccentric and discredited diseases. Certainly, I find them more credible than the work, of, say, such an accredited physician as the near demonic Dr. Wexler.” Dr. Baker’s work with whelk flukes has been praised by such luminaries as Stephen Jay Gould and Rachel Carson.

  ■■■ maccreech’s dementia

  Fifteen Case Histories in the Population of Binscarth, 1931. A personal reminiscence. Originally published in the Santa Cruz Sentinel on August 25, 1961.

  Sirs,

  The recent inexplicable behavior of flocks of Puffinus griseus in the skies over Branciforte calls to mind certain remarkable incidents taking place in Scotland some years ago, which I thought might interest your readers.

  Having matriculated from California Polytechnic at San Luis Obispo with a degree in splanchology in 1919, I made a particular study of rare marine diseases of the spleen. In the summer of 1931, I arranged my holidays to combine business with pleasure, and traveled to the remote outer isles of Scotland to collect and observe Maturin’s Cysted Whelk Fluke (Opisthorchis busycon).

  (Formerly a decimator of the local crofter population, who harvested the indigenous Pink Whelk [Busycon rosaea] at low tide as a valuable source of protein, but long since brought under control by the introduction of modern sanitation and readily-affordable commercial seafood establishments, Maturin’s Cysted Whelk Fluke infested the spleen rather than the liver, causing a variety of pernicious splenic disorders. But to continue:)

  How vividly the events of that holiday spring to my mind! Not only was my search for Maturin’s Cysted Whelk Fluke successful, yielding several prime samples residing to this very day in formaldehyde in my parlor—one is before me as I write, in fact, smiling out from its little glass jar—I was further edified by the fascinating customs of the natives, varying as they did from island to island. I have enclosed copies of photographs taken that summer, though I am uncertain whether your offset lithographer will be able to reproduce them properly.

  The first (I have indicated the order in pencil on the back of each picture) was taken at a May Day Festival on, I believe, Greater Sleart, where local antiquarians had recently sponsored a charming revival of bygone folk rituals. The young men with lath swords are of particular interest; they appear to be wearing the traditional kilt of the islanders, though in fact this is a brilliant effect achieved solely through the use of elaborate tattooing, as you will see if you examine the picture closely As you can imagine, they were literally blue with cold, though it was explained to me that the sporran mitigates their discomfort somewhat. The towering figure at the rear is a kind of human effigy made of wicker, filled with papier-mâché creatures and set ablaze at the end of the day’s festivities, in imitation of the sacrifices of the ancient Celts as described by Julius Caesar. Note the look of comic consternation on the face of the local police sergeant being dragged toward the ladder by several locals who had imbibed well of good single malt! I was assured it was all in fun of course.

  In the second picture you will see your correspondent and her escort, Sergeant Angus MacCreech, dining at the Three Hanged Men in Puig. The local delicacy before us was the pudding course to our meal of herrings and clapshot. It consisted of almond nougat dipped in batter and fried in deep fat, and was memorable if nearly indescribable, as you may be able to infer from our expressions.

  The third picture shows the police station and infirmary on Binscarth, Sergeant MacCreech’s domain, and the irregular dark building beside it (slightly obscured by the hearse) is the Hotel Metropole, where your correspondent was staying at the
time of the events that I shall now describe.

  Sergeant MacCreech and I were enjoying a leisurely conversation, comparing death rates from endemic splenic failure, when Treadle (his second-in-command) appeared in the doorway of the bar to inform us that grave mishap had befallen one of the islanders and he “had better come take a look” (though I will not attempt to reproduce the dialect of the region, as it is well-nigh unintelligible to the American ear). Sergeant MacCreech served as the island’s amateur medical authority as well as its representative of Scots Law; and, thinking that another case of Splenic Fluke had been diagnosed, kindly invited me to accompany him as we set out across the island on foot, Binscarth being no more than four miles across at any point.

  As we progressed across the barren and windswept isle, however, Treadle elaborated on that which had occurred, and it soon became evident that this was a matter for Sergeant MacCreech in his capacity of policeman. It was nothing more or less than a case of domestic murder!

  As you may well imagine, homicide was an infrequent occurrence on a remote island populated by God-fearing Christian fisherfolk and shepherds; indeed, there had been no such incident in Binscarth since an unpleasant event in 1880 that I need not go into here, other than to state that model railway enthusiasts have never been welcome at the Hotel Metropole since.

  The scene of the crime was a humble cottage, one of several in a row overlooking Hitchcock Bay These were the traditional crofter’s cots, built low to resist the wind, and thatched with coarse sea-grass. Picturesque indeed; though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that objects which I took to be curiously-shaped turves of peat were stacked against the wads as high as the eaves. On closer examination, they appeared to be firewood, which puzzled me, as Binscarth is quite treeless; but on looking closer still I discovered that they were in fact desiccated corpses of the common Northern Gannet (Morus bassanus). The fishermen net these pelagic birds in summer by the hundreds, skin them, smoke them, and stack them to dry; and they serve as an important supplement to the crofter’s winter diet, especially when storms keep the fishing boats in harbor and edible protein is scarce. I was assured that, when boiled, battered, and fried in deep fat, the overpoweringly fishy taste of the Northern Gannet is reasonably mitigated, though I declined to sample this regional delicacy for reasons that shall shortly become evident.

  We entered the cottage in question—small, dark, and redolent of a pungent smoke I supposed was peat—and beheld the deceased, sprawled on his own hearth. A tea-towel had been hastily thrown over the corpse’s head out of respect for my feelings, but the pooled blood on the hearthstone beneath was enough to make plain that the unfortunate Mr. Magilside had been severely beaten about the head and shoulders with an object both sharp and weighty: In fact, the murder weapon was a particularly large and well-cured specimen of Morus bassanus, still firmly clutched in the fist of Mrs. Magilside, who sat guarded by a rather shamefaced policeman. She was a matronly and respectable-looking woman of some 60 years of age, the last sort of person one would suspect of bloodlust; and she glared at us defiantly as we entered.

  Sergeant MacCreech asked her at once what she thought she had been about; to which she replied that she had been driven to her rash act, and would never have done such a thing but that Magilside had flagrantly and repeatedly broken the Commandment against Adultery despite her earnest entreaties to desist.

  She added further that she had been prepared to excuse and overlook even so grave a sin, had it been committed with (for example) the barmaid at the Seven Heretics; but it was Magilside’s dalliance with Cleopatra that had finally pushed her over the edge.

  Following a stunned silence, Sergeant MacCreech asked her who this Cleopatra might be; whereupon Mrs. Magilside replied that it was the whoring Queen of Egypt, of course, the one who had broken up Mark Antony’s domestic happiness as well.

  It seemed a clear case of Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity so after a few stern admonishments on self-control, Sergeant MacCreech sent for the hearse, which did double duty on the island as police van. There seemed nothing left to do but consign the deceased to the morgue and the living to the asylum, and the Sergeant and I left the cottage in the full expectation of an afternoon’s fruitful tidepooling for specimens of Busycon rosaea.

  However, as we emerged into the bitter air, we were approached by one of Mrs. Magilside’s neighbors, a stout woman of about the same age as the murderess, who sidled close and slyly intimated that there was more to the murder than met the eye. When asked to elucidate, she replied that while it had been true enough that Fat Tammy had been dancing adultery’s reel with Cleopatra, nonetheless a man must keep his self-respect; and everyone in the street knew that he’d never have done it if Mrs. Magilside hadn’t been entertaining Robert the Bruce as her fancy man for close to a month now.

  It was at this moment that I intuitively grasped that we were dealing with some remarkable shared delusion.

  Sergeant MacCreech questioned the neighbor (a Mrs. Beamish) delicately and was astounded by her assertion that there was not one cottage in the row that did not shelter some celebrated person. Mrs. Beamish herself admitted that she let her spare room to King Darius of Persia, though that was a different affair entirely from Mrs. Magilside’s immoral goings-on; for King Darius, though foreign, was a decent sober individual and in any case she herself was a widow; the late Mr. Beamish having succumbed to Splenic Distortion some five years previous.

  At this point, Treadle volunteered that he thought it was a damned shame, the way the island had changed since the celebrated dead had moved in; and that a man used to be able to enjoy a quiet dram in the Seven Heretics without having his elbow continually jostled by the likes of that French ponce Napoleon, and that if something wasn’t done about it soon, he, for one, would consider emigration.

  Sergeant MacCreech and I exchanged alarmed glances at this, for it was now evident that the delusion was, perhaps, widespread. Treadle was told to report to the infirmary; though he protested that he was perfectly well. We then thanked Mrs. Beamish for her insights and proceeded along the row of cottages, systematically interviewing the inhabitants under guise of gathering evidence concerning the murder.

  By tea time we had determined that no less than 15 individuals were quite convinced that any number of historical personages had taken up residence on Binscarth, for no apparent reason. It appeared, moreover, that these visitors were for the most part sadly lacking in moral character. Joan of Arc and Alexander the Great were particularly notorious, evidently; though the Queen of Sheba and Robespierre were also doing their share of wrecking marriages; and I myself witnessed one grim-faced fisherman saying that if the price of gunpowder were not so high, he would shoot Socrates full of holes for carrying on with his daughter, who was now in a delicate condition, and Socrates a married man as everyone knew.

  It would be imprecise to say that the interviewees appeared to be in good health, for they suffered variously from heart disease, hypertension, dental caries, and, of course, splenic insult to a greater or lesser degree, due to their habitual diet. Beyond these conditions, however, I could find nothing wrong with any of them, at least on the cursory examination that was all I was able to perform. Nor did the dementia otherwise hinder their thought processes. I was particularly struck by a pleasant grandmother, rational in every respect, save when she paused whilst displaying photographs of her American grandchildren to swat at a phantom hand on her bosom; and then blushed, explaining apologetically that Lord Nelson had only the one hand but it wandered something awful.

  Moreover the delusion was shared and consistent; for the postman, stepping in a moment later to deliver a copy of the London Illustrated News, observed sourly that wee Horatio was clearly up to his tricks again.

  Sergeant MacCreech at last ventured to inquire when the dead had become so troublesome, and the general consensus seemed to be that they had first made their presence known shortly after the supply ship from Thurso had foundered, or about the time
that Sergeant MacCreech and I had been visiting Greater Sleart. This, had we but known it at the time, was our second clue in solving the medical mystery; the first being the reek of peculiarly acrid smoke noticeable in each of the cottages we visited.

  We returned to the hotel, baffled, though I was already striving to cab up a half-buried memory of a similar epidemic of dementia in Finland in 1905. Moreover, the occurrence of shared and consistent delusion is not unknown, especially under the action of certain vegetable alkaloids. Imbibers of the Wumbo Root, native to Tasmania, invariably complain of the threatening behavior of little yellow men made of sponges, who only they seem to be able to perceive.

  It was only after several whiskies, as we wandered in the long northern twilight, that the third clue came in the form of the new supply ship, steaming proudly up to the Binscarth jetty; her decks laden with crates of goods for the island’s shop. We watched the crates being brought ashore and loaded into a waiting wagon; and Sergeant MacCreech remarked that there seemed to be an unusual quantity of them. I pointed out that the previous ship had foundered, presumably with the loss of all its cargo, and that therefore the present shipment must be larger to compensate.

  One of the stevedores, heaving ashore a crate marked MACBAREN’S PLUMCAKE CAVENDISH, remarked familiarly that Binscarth “was a greetin sair for its baccy”, which Sergeant MacCreech translated for me, giving me to understand that tobacco lovers on the island had suffered nicotine privation as a result of the lost shipment.

  “Then what can they be smoking?” I wondered aloud, remembering the noxious fume common to every cottage we had visited. Sergeant MacCreech’s eyes met mine, and we instantly knew that the solution to our mystery lay just within reach. Indeed, before noon of the following day we had nearly solved it, thanks to further patient and discreet inquiries.