Lazarus Taxon

“It was December 1929 when I met him,” continued Wiseman," on a hot, clear Summer’s evening in Mananjary. Never shall I relish and lament any moment more than I do that brief, fortuitous, tragic chapter in not only my life, but in life itself as we know it - or thought we knew it."

I regarded Wiseman with interest (and dare I say, a hint of scepticism,) sat back in my chair and prepared for what portended to be a highly intriguing account of the events unfolding from this first meeting between Charles Wiseman and the mysterious Jérôme Lazare.

The credibility of his tale as yet remained uncertain, but for now he had my most unflinching attention.


Wiseman's Account

I had arrived a few days earlier on a trading ship from Durban. In those days the most reliable form of long-distance transport were the trade lines commissioned by the large import-export companies. Far from luxurious, I’m sure you understand, but every effort was made to ensure the safe passage of the merchandise, and thus of the crew and any passengers aboard, albeit in rather uncomfortable conditions.

On the evening in question I had dined in one of those French colonial affairs, and was languidly sifting through notes and drawings before preparing to retire, when I became aware of his presence. In a far corner of the dimly-illuminated pergola, his image flickered in the golden glow of the oil lamp before him. In retrospect, he appeared almost comical. Münchausenesque, one might even say, as if Doré himself had been inspired by this enigmatic individual. The very epitome of a well-to-do French nobleman, superlatively bohemian of countenance, yet bronzed and weathered as the experienced explorer that he later proved (or at least claimed) to be. He absent-mindedly preened his impossibly huge Imperial moustache, staring in no particular direction with a distinctly triumphant air, amid slowly dispersing cloudlets of richly-scented pipe-smoke. Even from those several yards away, his eyes gleamed with an inherent fire unfitting with his age-marred visage.

“Paraguayan,” I called over to where he sat. “With a definite hint of Latakia.”

“You know your tobacco, Monsieur,” he replied, pausing briefly before glancing over towards me. “Would you care to join me and offer your esteemed opinion of my blend?”

“It would be my pleasure, Monsieur –“

“Lazare. Jérôme Lazare, à vôtre service.”

“Charles Wiseman,” I extended him my hand in greeting as I approached his table, though I could not help but feel I should be bowing in such aristocratic presence. He stood and shook my hand warmly, and fixed his gaze upon me with dark, piercing eyes that seemed to unsettle, assay and becalm me all at once.

“S’il vous plaît, Monsieur,” he gestured that I be seated, and did so himself. “What brings you to Madagascar, might I enquire?” He glanced over to where I had left my papers on the table behind me.

“I am a zoologist, of sorts,” I replied, bringing my chair closer to the table. “I docked from Durban two nights ago. My research has led me to believe that on the island I will find some of the species that I desire to study, if indeed they do exist.”

“Ahh, the trésor par excellence!” Exclaimed Lazare. “I trust you have already sought out the elusive Tokoloshe?”

“I beg your -– oh, no, no,” I laughed, somewhat nervously. “The species to which I refer are indeed real, or at least they were once. My task is to trace these species to their points of origin, in the hope of uncovering evidence that will disprove their extinction.”

Lazare gave me a look of pleasant surprise and at once a knowing glint lit up his onyx-like eyes. He rolled the tip of his moustache between thumb and forefinger in a pensive manner.

“I leave the Loch Ness Monster and unicorns to researchers of the paranormal,” I continued, trying to exude a more jocular air. Again, though, a knowing smile. “These last few months in South Africa have proved unfruitful in my search for the Quagga, the Blue Antelope and the Serval, amongst others. All I came up with was a handful of red herrings and tales of the Tokoloshe and the Impundulu!”

Suddenly, a mild gust of wind blew the papers from my table onto the floor of the pergola, and in unison Lazare and I moved to pick them up.

“An honourable undertaking, Monsieur Wiseman, but alas one in which history does not avail you. These creatures that you speak of, they – how does one say – went the way of the dodo a very long time ago.” He chuckled, apparently quite pleased with his use of this English idiom.

“That,” I smiled, “is precisely what I seek to prove, Monsieur Lazare. That they did indeed go the way of the dodo, but that the way of the dodo was not the path to extinction. My next port of call – though perhaps months away – is in fact Mauritius, where I intend to seek out evidence that the dodo is indeed extant, albeit in severely decremented numbers or even having evolved into a new species.”

Jérôme Lazare looked nonchalantly at a few of my sketches, and appeared to be suppressing the urge to enquire further as to their purpose. I obliged him forthwith, but not before subtly reminding him of his invitation to savour his most excellent tobacco.

The night proved long, and at around two o'clock in the morning the rich, heady smoke and lack of sleep began to take their toll. We had pored over my sketches and briefly touched upon some of my writings, and my esteemed new friend turned out to be no ignoramus on such subjects as palaeontology, taxonomy, and others more unfamiliar to myself such as anthropology, botany and even some occult practices of the region. We talked long and at times laughed heartily like old friends. I felt honoured to be in the presence of a man who could not only converse at my level on these matters, but also seemed to be able to enrich my own knowledge of them. He made me feel respected as a professional (something not common amongst my cynical zoologist peers) and at the same time humbled as an apprentice with so much to learn from his mentor.

He took a particular interest in my drawings and theories relating to cladistics and taxonomy of ‘extinct’ species, and how I believed they could have evolved over the last two or three hundred – or thousand – years (assuming that they were still in fact extant) and means to track down these species by looking for them as they could be now, rather than basing my search on historical, no doubt equivocal records and images.

“I myself harbour certain theories regarding some of these species, Monsieur Wiseman,” said Lazare at one point, “theories on which I would be most honoured to receive your professional opinion, should you deem it convenient at some time during your stay.”

“It would be mon plaîsir.” I replied amicably, and we agreed to meet again in a couple of days’ time. Little did I imagine the nature of these ‘theories’ which Jérôme Lazare spoke of, or the catastrophic consequences of our liaison.

As I trudged through the dusty moonlit streets of Mananjary among rice lofts and lean-tos, heading for my accommodations, a sense of melancholy detachment overcame me. The world took on a watery monochrome hue like that of a postcard. I felt at once distant and yet that I was closely and fixedly watching myself, as if I was not really there; this was not happening to me. I put it down to fatigue and perhaps to some mild effect from the pipe-smoke, and thought no more on the matter. The morrow would be an important day of preliminary research in Mananjary, and this was no time for self-appraisal and introspection. I barely undressed before retiring, and scarcely had my head touched the pillow when a dark, dreamless sleep engulfed me.

The next day was spent (or perhaps wasted) following up leads I had established prior to leaving London all those months earlier. My intention was to interview a number of French officials, scholars and labourers, all of whom could purportedly enlighten me to some greater or lesser extent as to the nature and whereabouts of certain archaeological and zoological trouvailles. Alas, most of these leads led to nought; many officials were loath to acquiesce, some scholars had moved on, and several labourers had met with untimely demise. Even when I did manage to glean snippets of information from those few who acceded to my questions, I had trouble concentrating on their answers. My senses opaqued and I scrawled blankly at my notebook, jolting back to reality to find that all I had been thinking was of Jérôme Lazare and my future meeting with him. It was as though my journey to Madagascar had indeed been to fulfil this unexpected rendez-vous, and that every moment spent attending to other affairs was frittery and procrastination.

I resolved to put paid to the matter immediately, and sent a message to Lazare via the local errand service, requesting audience with him the next day. I in fact wrote it out several times before deciding on a version that was neither excessively supplicant nor flippant:

M. Lazare,

Owing to my entirely fruitless endeavours to-day, I have decided to take a couple of days’ rest before resuming my labours. I will therefore be in Mananjary, and more than happy to meet with you at your convenience.

Be so kind as to reply via this errand boy.

Your friend, Charles Wiseman


Within an hour I had received a response:

Mr. Wiseman,

It would be a pleasure to enjoy your company on the morrow. Meet me at the wharf as soon as you are able. Breakfast well.

Your friend and colleague,

JL


A boat trip was not what I had had in mind, but it would nevertheless prove a necessary distraction from my work. Far more so than I could possibly imagine.


"Heureuese reencontre, Monsieur!" exclaimed Jérôme as I neared the jetty. The morning sun was still low in the eastern sky as I shook his hand with my right, shielded my eyes with my left.

Upon my approach I had become aware of a large aeroplane at the end of the jetty, thirty yards out into the golden-hued water. We ambled hastelessly along the jetty, and came to an aircraft some fifty feet long - a hideous monstrosity of a contraption, made entirely of wood, with two huge motors atop its fuselage. As we approached, the thing coughed and spluttered its way to life.

"The CAMS 53 flying boat. A beastly contraption, but indispensable in my line of work!" Lazare echoed my thoughts over the roar of the engines.

I had never flown before, but was only vaguely aware of my apprehension through the haze of awe and intrigue. An eerie fear came over me, and I felt strangely detached from my surroundings, like a child who joins a new school half way through term - not quite sure what to make of everything, nor whom to trust, yet resigned to following blindly though devil be his guide.

"Lamentably, Monsieur Wiseman," said Lazare as we boarded the aircraft, "I must blindfold you for the duration of the flight, as I could not allow our destination to become known to the outside world. I am sure you will understand."

I assented somewhat dubiously, and contented myself with the fact that what I could not see would not disturb me. After a decidedly harrowing takeoff the vehicle settled into a rough purr for what seemed an interminable time (but was probably no more than three hours) in what I can only guess was an eastward direction. I know now that this could situate our destination anywhere in a three-hundred mile hemi-radius of Mananjary, and my disorientation was further exaggerated upon disembarking on the tiny islet, from where to my discomfort no sign of mainland could be descried on any side. During the flight Lazare spoke little (and I less) but what he did say only heightened my sense of apprehension, and his attempts at allaying my fears were all but futile. We were travelling to a highly confidential location to see his collection de trésors, and under no circumstances would he allow this location to be revealed.

"On arrive, Monsieur, à Tarasque." declared Lazare as the clamour jittered to a halt. "Please, remove your blindfold and again accept my apologies for such crudity. I am sure you will presently comprehend my motives." I blinked slowly as the door to the craft swung open, and the pilot (whose name, I later learned, was Manus; a burly mute of perhaps Hispanic origin) beckoned me to dismount.

We were 'moored' (if one may term it so) a few yards from a rocky overhang which appeared to be at one extreme of a small island, and which obscured the rest of the island from view. The three of us walked along a short jetty, and thence followed a dusty foot-trodden pathway which skirted the foot of the outcrop. The trail rose sharply and doubled back towards the top of the rocky prominence, from where at last I beheld a breathtaking panoramic view of our destination and the infinite aquamarine void on all sides. I recall that I at once felt limitless and trapped, myself an island; awestruck by the sheer endlessness of the ocean around us, and walled in by the minuscule pinpoint of terra firma which I now surveyed. A feeling of great solace came over me, and again I felt that odd disassociation, as if I viewed this scene passively from within a bell-jar.

The islet can have been no more than a few hundred yards from one extreme (where we now stood) to the other, and perhaps a hundred wide. The rugged land sloped gently away from us towards the north (the sun was past its zenith and hung to our left) and was made up of light sand and dark basalt lavishly punctuated with colourful flora. The dusty track meandered downwards and disappeared amongst igneous outcrops. In the distance I could make out the golden-white brushstrokes of a nameless beach.

"Come, Monsieur Wiseman." Lazare's voice broke my daze, and as Manus led the way my host versed me briefly on the botanical rarities which lined the way. Being no botanist, much of it meant little to me but I do recall that I was particularly impressed by the Acalypha rubrinervis, the Tyranicius rastimolous and the most singular Silphium. A number of times the silence of the island was momentarily disrupted by a deep, raucous cawing, followed by a rat-ta-tat like the percussion of hollow sticks.

The entrance was just the other side of an elevated mound. Pushing aside the fronds of a large creeping bush, Manus revealed an opening in the rocks which, after some clambering, led us into an underground passage. Dim electric lanterns lit the way down and to the east, along a passageway hewn roughly from the living rock, and I had to stoop to avoid scalping myself.

After some minutes the passage widened, and before me I beheld the subterranean kingdom of Jérôme Lazare! A labyrinthine network of gangways and bridges, iron walkways and brass-banistered stairwells in a vast, sprawling, vault-like cavern of immemorial volcanic creation. At its heart lay a dome of bluish glass and polished brass, connected to the surrounding gangways by four iron footbridges. At regular intervals around the cavern wall and along the walkways hung more lamps, pulsating dully in unison, which were in turn mirrored dimly in the dark water ten feet below.

I rubbed my eyes and blinked, half-certain that I must be dreaming; this was evidently some figment of my imagination, inspired by Verne or even Poe, and could not feasibly exist in waking. Yet awake I was, and here I stood in awe of Lazare's creation. Again that childlike resignation tugged at my conscience - once again accompanied by a distinct fear of lurking danger. Why had I been brought here? Who was this Jérôme Lazare, and what were his intentions? Moreover, why and how had he constructed this Leviathan observatory beneath a nameless island in the middle of the Indian Ocean? The mounting sense of fear knotted in my throat and in my mind I began erratically to devise a means of egress. But escape was futile. Where could I go from this uncharted speck of dust in the endless oceanic void? I started violently as something touched my shoulder.

"Allay your fears, Monsieur Wiseman," Lazare's voice was reassuring, his expression genuine and serene. "This is something of a novelty for me, also. Never before have I received visitors unto my secret domain. Please understand that I am taking a great risk in allowing you to behold such a sight and, as you will soon see, this is merely the tip of the iceberg."

"What is this place?" I could barely speak, and had to swallow awkwardly. A bead of sweat rolled off my brow.

"Bienvenu, mon ami, au Royeau des Trésors Perdus! Welcome to the Kingdom of Lost Treasures! No, Monsieur Wiseman," he chuckled, "not pieces of eight and 'X' marks the spot! I refer to the trésor par excellence. That which you seek is mine to share - or at least to show. Come!" And he set off at surprising speed across one of the bridges towards the central dome.

Manus was already there, checking and adjusting a spectacular byzantine array of dials and instruments in what could have been the control room of the very Nautilus. Brass gauges, levers, meters, rods, pipes and handles lined the far wall of the cupola, while the other three quarter-segments housed the enormous blue-tinged windows I had seen from the gangway. Control panels replete with still more intricate-looking instrumentation stood waist-high around the dome, and the four access bridges led off in all directions through doorless openings. Manus lumbered off and returned some minutes later with a tray of meagre refreshments - salted fish, unleavened bread and a jug of greenish juice. I ate and drank as heartily as I might without appearing uncouth (I had not eaten since breakfast,) and felt somewhat more myself. Meanwhile Manus continued his checks and adjustments.

No sooner had I finished that awful-looking (but delightful-tasting) beverage, than Jérôme sprang spiritedly towards one of the exits and beckoned me to follow.

Crossing the footbridge, we rounded the gangway to a tunnel leading off into the rock and downwards towards the northern edge of the island.

"I must forewarn you, Monsieur, that what you are about to see, no-one has laid eyes on in the last two-and-a-half centuries, and even then not in such 'intimate' circumstances. I have brought you here because I believe you are worthy of such an honour, and that this singular secret will be safe with you. Voilà!" he exclaimed as we reached a cul-de-sac in the tunnel, and pulled aside a heavily woven curtain to reveal a thick glass oeil-de-beouf to the outside world.

Peering through the glass, mere murmurs of sound filtered through from outside. To the left rocky mounds, surmounted by that now familiar vegetation, formed the backdrop to a tiny patch of beach, gently washed by the fading celestine sea. The sun, now lower in the sky, cast long shadows eastwards across the cove. We were at the far northeastern tip of the island, looking out from a bell-jar.

Then I heard it: a hurried scurrying and mildly raspy breathing. A hollow tapping. A raucous caw.

What I then saw defied all logic. Into view shuffled a large, cumbersome-looking birdlike creature standing some two feet tall. Its huge greyish bill held a fish which it at once swallowed whole. Almost immediately another arrived, this time three feet tall, considerably more corpulent and with slightly darker plumage around the neck. Facing each other, they flapped their comically short wings, squawked ungainly hoarse-voiced squawks and chattered their bills together. They were playing, petting. They were raphus cucullatus. Dodos! And they were definitely not extinct. I understood immediately. But, of course, I understood nothing. I recall that I wept.

For what seemed like hours I gazed awe-smitten through the glass at the gradually darkening vista beyond. The pair of dodos came and went from view, but were never far from our hideout. A surreal, ineffable joy came over me. I had travelled back two, maybe three-hundred years and was observing the legendary dodo at ease in nature, unmolested by Man and his club and blunderbuss - his insatiable need to destroy and take for his own all that he surveyed. Even the last men on Earth to see the dodo alive had never witnessed it on such terms.

They had laughed at its clumsy lope as it squawked and flapped its useless wings, cast it as dumb (its name may originate from the Portuguese word for fool,) and above all mercilessly hunted it. For what? Its meat was vile, its song was vulgar and its plumage no finer than that of a common gull. How many stuffed dodos have you ever seen? Even that false perpetuation that is taxidermy could not further its memory and it dwindled beyond recovery - dumb and dead as a dodo.

They were territorial creatures, explained Lazare, hence they never strayed far from their home. Their decline, he said, was due as much to changes in their habitat as to outright slaughter. Monogamous, sociable and above all intelligent beings - a trait hitherto contrary to popular belief. They ate fish, fruit and even insects, though I could not establish whether this had always been the case. The last surviving pair of dodos in the world may have been forced to adapt and evolve in ways both physical and psychological as the world around them grew harsher and more cruel, and these, as Lazare proceeded to inform me, were but two of thirty surviving examples on his island - the twelfth generation since the decline of their Mauritian kin.

Later, back in the observation room, my eminent host related to me how he had, many years earlier, brought a single pair of dodos from Mauritius - the last surviving pair - and how, after very nearly losing them, he had managed to have them settle, feed and mate here in their new home. It was at this point that I questioned, as no doubt you are now, the feasibility of such a declaration. "Many years ago? Many, as in over two hundred?"

Lazare laughed and preened his moustache. "Monsieur, I am sure that you are already aware that there is more to Jérôme Lazare than meets the eye, and all will become clear in due course. But first, a promenade, Monsieur Wiseman. May I call you Charles?"

And we again exited the machine room, heading this time for the western wing of the observatory. I positively leapt to my feet. What new marvels awaited me this time? My fear had utterly left me, replaced by a childlike excitement. I cursed myself for thinking ill of Jérôme's intentions. I withheld the myriad questions I yearned to ask, and made way for another undoubtedly astonishing revelation. I was not to be disappointed.


A Side Note.

Wiseman's account was compelling, to say the least, but compellingness was not necessarily denotative of veracity. While there were no conflicting statements, he had yet to offer up any real evidence that his claims were not merely the rantings of a half-starved castaway. A secret island, hitherto unknown to mankind? An ageless collector of extinct plants and animals in a hidden underground laboratory? Surely the man was out of his mind? Days, maybe weeks adrift at sea must have addled his senses and left him delirious. But I again reclined in my easy chair, intent on hearing Wiseman out. I needed to be sure...



Deeper

The passageway was better-hewn than the one to the north, and opened out into a spacious, well-lit room with a white tiled floor. At the far end stood a large white screen, and opposite this was a splendid-looking twin-reeled moving picture projector. Clinically spotless white tables lined the walls, and on them lay several other contraptions. Being something of an ignoramus on such artifices I took very little notice, but my attention was drawn to a remarkably modern-looking cinema camera and a number of polished brass diving helmets, suits and cylindrical canisters.

"Please, do be seated, Charles." Jérôme said calmly.

Suddenly all the lights went out, and the projector flickered and whirred its way to life. On the screen was pictured a bleak yet beautiful landscape of tundra-covered islets. The seemingly impossibly-positioned camera circled the archipelago and homed in on the far side, where to my surprise and delight was an entire colony of great auk! Again, a tear of joy welled in my eye.

"This island is not my only, shall we say, project, Charles." said Jérôme quietly, so as not to disturb the birds, it seemed. "Long ago, I took upon myself the titanic task of preserving life - of taking that which was in danger of dying out, and ensuring its survival. Today you bear witness to some of the fruits of this labour, both here and on the other side of the world."

Again I realised that all attempts at questioning him were useless. It would take a lifetime to explain how he had achieved so impossible a feat, and I contented myself in the knowledge that I, of all people on this fair Earth, had been privileged with the chance to see these things with my own eyes. I simply gazed enthralled as the great auks went about their business and the cinema reels fluttered to an eventual halt.

The lights returned with a buzz and a dull hum, and I now saw that Manus stood just beside us, poised as if awaiting orders from Lazare. At a nod from my host, his aide unhooked a whitish overall from the wall, and handed it to his master. Another he gave to me, and I rose tentatively to receive it.

“You may use the vestiary over there." Jérôme indicated a small door on one side of the room.

"Where are we going?" I enquired nervously.

"I wish to show you one of my most audacious projects, but I assure you it is merely a precaution. Don the protective suit, but do not concern yourself with the scaphandre. Manus will see to that for now.

I did as I was bid, and as I exited the changing booth I saw Jérôme dressed likewise, and Manus holding two brass schaphandres, one in each hand. They must have weighed a hundredweight each! He lumbered (though seemingly unperturbed by his load) along the gangway to the dome, turned right and through the southern entrance therefrom. Here, overhanging the water to our right, was a large semicircular metal platform inlaid with brass pattern-work. Here Manus laid down the helmets, shuffled back to the dome and began busily pulling levers, cranking handles and checking dials.

Loud hisses as of released pressure were heard, and suddenly from the depths came an eerie moan and a tremendous bubbling. The water seemed to boil beneath us and I could but gaze in terror as a monstrous, gaping-eyed head emerged and surfaced before me!

"Do not look so shocked!" laughed Jérôme as the water shed from the thing, exposing it to full view. "You look like you've seen the Kraken! Behold the Bathysphere!”

I checked myself and felt decidedly foolish as I realised that the thing was in fact a large spherical contraption, not unlike those diving helmets in form, yet quite tarnished and well over two yards in diameter. A number of flexible tubes and cables protruded from its top, and several foot-wide portholes were positioned around its body, each surrounded by small electric lamps which throbbed dully in unison with those of the cavern walls.

"I apologise, Jérôme, for my foolishness, yet I fear all this is rather bewildering. I am not a man of machinery and engineering, and despite being a scientist - and your revelations to-day have proved beyond doubt the credibility of my chosen science - I am quite a-loss for any rational explanation as to the things I have seen. All these contraptions and artifices are quite beyond my comprehension! Before we continue any further, I beseech you, enlighten me as to how all this is possible?

"Climb aboard, Charles," Jérôme said reassuringly as Manus unclamped a hatch atop the orb, and during our short journey I promise to answer with absolute frankness any questions you see fit to ask."

Like a trembling child I clambered into the Bathysphere and sat opposite Jérôme Lazare. The sense of detachment now overwhelmed me, leaving me numb and dizzy. Lazare briefly explained that the device was completely watertight, and that a constant air supply was maintained by inlet and outlet tubes. We would be descending to a depth of some eighty fathoms by means of a sturdy winch, and would be in permanent contact with Manus via a voice transmission system as an additional safeguard. He himself had made the descent on numerous occasions, and had never experienced so much as a hiccough. All machinery underwent stringent maintenance, and there was absolutely nothing to fear. I myself was not so easily convinced, but by now I was well past worrying.

Manus clamped down the hatch and readied himself in the control dome. At Jérôme's command he released a lever and the vessel jolted downwards. The descent was slow, and after the initial realisation that I was indeed still breathing a few minutes into our journey, I began to feel a little more at ease, and endeavoured to learn all I could about Jérôme Lazare's impossible past and present.

He told me that he had been born into a humble yet comfortable family in a small town in Israel. Having been taken gravely ill, he was saved from death by a benefactor of undisclosed identity, and thenceforth became strangely 'immune' to all ailments - including death itself. You may deem it strange that I did not disbelieve such a claim, but as I you can imagine I was ready to believe anything at all or cast off as hallucination all I had seen. Lazare had left his home and travelled across the sea to Cyprus, where he first began his work.

Having witnessed centuries (centuries!) of war, death and destruction, Lazare had set about selecting endangered species, harbouring and nurturing them to prevent their inevitable extinction. Every single species of flora and fauna on his island had been technically 'extinct' for hundreds of years, sometimes longer. But Jérôme Lazare had dedicated his entire life to their furtherance and conservation, away from the murderous eyes of Man. Some he had personally saved from extinction - as was the case of the dodo - and others he had merely discovered in such remote places as this, in the fathomless depths of the sea. His tale would seem impossible, but I had seen the evidence with my own eyes! What alternative did I have but to believe him? A two-thousand-year-old immortal altruistic genius on an interminable mission to stay the destructive hand of Man against nature? Surely the man was insane, as you think I am! But there I was in a cast metal orb in the depths of the Indian ocean, on my way to witnessing who could tell what further wonders of Jérôme Lazare's magnificent opus! Believe it I did.

A muffled grinding noise interrupted his account, and the vessel ground to a halt. The lamps within pulsated and faded to black, and the external lamps sent a faint light struggling through the murky depths.

"La pièce de résistance," whispered Lazare almost inaudibly, "is alas unreachable even by these means, but to-day you shall witness one of my personal favourite discoveries. Attends!"

Silent minutes passed like aeons, and as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I felt I descried dark shapes moving through the surrounding gloom. Tricks of the light perhaps, or swirls of murk. The submarine globe cast a tenuous glow throughout what revealed itself to be an underwater cave some fifty yards in diameter. I recall an odd sense of twofold claustrophobia as I strained to see the surrounding cavern walls through the lugubrious blue-black murk. The bell-jar analogy had never been so poignant. Just then my breathing stopped as I saw, mere feet from my porthole, the icy stare of the coelacanth!

It had been extinct for millions of years, yet here it was before my very eyes, feeding in its natural habitat! Even in my wildest conjectures I could not have begun to imagine such a possibility. My work revolved around creatures which, although apparently extinct, I believed to be still extant - all I had to do was prove it. But the coelacanth had died out at the end of the Cretaceous Period, and now two, five, perhaps a dozen of them swam before me, unchanged and unmarred by millions of years.

Lazare relayed to me the peculiar habits of these ichthyic marvels of prehistoria. Cave-dwellers, territorial and fiercely independent, these coelacanth were in fact not the same species as those discovered fossilised, but rather one of only two species of a sole surviving genus, distantly related to its Devonian forefathers. Shunning daylight, they dwelt in caves by day, and rose to shallower waters by night in quest of sustenance. Cunning hunters, they fed upon fish, eels, squid and even small sharks. They were very sensitive to changes in temperature, and any attempt - Jérôme interjected - to bring a specimen to the surface for examination would prove fatal. Thus the only means of study was in-situ as he put it, and even so detailed study was impossible 'until later technologies become available'. We were to be thankful that the temperature in this cavern was idoneous for the coelacanth, for otherwise they would have fled even the faint light emitted by the Bathysphere. They would wait until past nightfall before venturing outside for the hunt.

Despite their territorial nature, the coelacanth would instinctively move on to more favourable environs should temperatures or food supply become inadequate. Unthreatened by other predators at this depth, they had presumably been at the top of the food chain for several million years, but my remark to this effect was met with a mischievous glint from Jérôme's eyes, strangely piercing despite the almost absolute darkness within our bell-jar. I refrained from further comment.
What I shall most clearly remember of these fascinating specimens is the twinge of latent fear instilled in me by their stare. Within those expressionless eyes lay countless aeons of predatory instinct, of existence immemorial, and yet something deeper - something not of this world, as if this denizen of the deeps had been put here not by our god, but by some other, more ancient entity. It was as though this was the last tenuous link between our world and the distant, unimaginable, godless time before life as we know it, like staring into the eyes of a dinosaur. I knew that I did not belong in its world.

Immersed as I was in this train of thought, all the more shocking was the deep, occluded throb that suddenly pervaded the lugubrious cavern, as the very walls seemed to tremble with some almighty force. A groan of metal, and we were thrown violently sideward. The Bathysphere had come loose! A seaquake had struck, and now one of the support cables had snapped, leaving us dangling by the other. Panic seized me.

"Manus, adopt emergency surfacing procedures!" called Jérôme urgently through the communication tube. "Charles! Don your scaphandre and I shall clamp you in. Manus! Pull up! We have lost a cable. Pull up!" He struck a lever and light returned to our chamber. I was frozen with fear. Was this bell-jar to be my doom? I fumbled with the helmet, but all strength had forsaken me. I could not lift it!

Hope, too, soon left me as Lazare's unerring composure now faded from his face, usurped by fear and dismay.

"The communication tube," he sighed, peering through the glass. "Look."

I looked out to see the communication tube drifting laxly downwards through the gloom, and fell to weeping.

"Charles Wiseman, don your scaphandre or you are doomed!"

But still I wept.

Lazare snatched up my helmet with unnatural strength, clamped it firmly over my head, engaged its clamps and moved to take up his. Just then, some enormous force shook the Bathysphere, throwing us violently sideward. The metal support structure had crashed down upon the Bathysphere, and complete detachment from the cables was surely imminent.

My helmet had taken the brunt of the blow to my head, but my friend, host and only chance of survival lay motionless before me. In hindsight I should have attempted to revive him, but just as strength and hope had forsaken me, so too had science and common sense, and I was again that accursed child, helpless and pathetic in the face of overwhelming fear and certain doom.

I was briefly aware of a coelacanth that paused outside a porthole as if to scorn me, and as I met its gaze a chill traversed me like a rapier - a huge black shape lurked just behind it, just out of view, and both were gone.

But I now faced a more imminent danger. The impact had rent a crack in the husk of the Bathysphere, and water was slowly invading the chamber. Grasping frantically at some levers, I noticed something break away beneath me, and a feeling of buoyancy came to the sphere. By degrees, I felt the Bathysphere begin to rise!

Aeons passed as we drifted gradually upward, amid intermittent temblors and hunks of rock and debris. Some at times seemed to endanger its very integrity as they struck the hull of the sphere. The island was coming down around us! Then one almighty crash sent us reeling through the depths as our final lifeline was smashed from its anchoring, leaving the Bathysphere to float aimlessly upward with scarce minutes of air with which to do so. Peering upwards through a porthole, I descried a glimmer of light that crawled its way down through the murk. But was it too far? The sphere was rapidly filling with water, leaving moments of breath at best, and hampering our progress with every passing second. Only one course of action remained. I had to escape the Bathysphere!

Tinkering madly with the clasps on my scaphandre, I managed to free myself of it, and proceeded to tug at the fixtures on the hatch. All the while, Lazare’s unconscious form lay slumped against the side wall, and I did all I could to keep his head above water. I would have to haul him up with me when I opened the hatch. But was he not immortal? My natural instinct was to vie for his life as well as my own. Finally, the water level rose so high that I could barely keep my own head above water. I gasped desperately as the last few seconds of air were shunned and I could push open the hatch.

A gloopy silence engulfed me as I wriggled through the hole into the watery void. I kicked frantically and grabbed Lazare’s hand in an attempt to pull him out. But as I did so, he must have become snagged on something, and my attempts were futile. My tragic moan was lost to the depths, and valuable air with it, as the Bathysphere slipped silently down whence it had come. I struggled blindly upwards and prayed. At the end of all things, when science and hope had forsaken me, I prayed.

The last thing I recall was waking momentarily amid a vast oceanic wasteland, grasping a piece of floating debris. Not a trace of land could I descry, nor any sign of life. My world fell black.

--

Charles Wiseman's account was certainly harrowing, and recounting his tribulations had obviously taken its toll on his nerves, as the old man fell to sobbing like a frightened child. True, too, that while far-fetched (or perhaps more aptly ludicrous) his tale held a certain consistency that could not be struck off as the machinations of a common-or-garden raconteur. Veracious or not, Wiseman firmly believed every word of it. But the issue at hand was not whether he was lying, but rather whether it was true, and not the twisted concoctions of a mind insane.

The odds were by no means in his favour: one the one hand - and perhaps most importantly - no physician, judge or layman in his right mind would even begin to entertain the possibility of this undying French scientist of which he spoke, but this aspect was in no way conclusive. Such a statement would cast serious doubts upon the sanity of its claimant, Monsieur Lazare, but not so of the listener, Mr. Wiseman.

The clinical evidence brought little to light, save the repeated references to what could have been the beginnings of Dissociative Disorder. Wiseman had stoically maintained his story since he was found floating off the coast of Madagascar all those years ago, but otherwise displayed no symptoms of mental illness. This too was insignificant, as most paranoid delusionals are (at least on the surface) of sound mind and body. The most tangible argument against Wiseman's "fantasy" was the absolute inexistence of any proof in its favour. No records had been found of any such island between Madagascar and Réunion, nor anywhere in the Indian Ocean.

In the 1920s and 30s, sending out a reconnaissance party to investigate the area would have supposed prohibitive expenditure on what at the time were laughed off as the rantings of a lunatic, and as such no search was ever made. Nor had anyone endeavoured to establish the veracity of Wiseman's claims to have witnessed extinct species of flora and fauna on that islet.

The historical evidence had been conclusive enough to commit Charles Wiseman: the dodo was extinct; the great auk was extinct; some of the botanical species he mentioned had not flourished on the Earth since pre-Roman times. And the coelacanth? Next he would be claiming the rebirth of the dinosaurs! For forty years the sheer incredibility of Wiseman’s tale had been enough to keep him in a secure establishment where he would receive the care he needed, although this was indeed doubtful, given the "prehistoric" methods employed by some institutions. But Charles was a threat neither to himself nor to others, and doctors and fellow patients alike enjoyed hearing of his adventure - up until the moment when he broke down and wept like a shivering wreck, at which point hospital staff would have to calm not just him, but a dozen other patients who would wail uncontrollably as collective hysteria reigned in the dayroom.

Not all, however, had been decided. The discovery, some years after Wiseman's ordeal, of a coelacanth off the coast of South Africa, had gained worldwide acclaim as a Lazarus Taxon - a species which disappears from fossil records (in some cases for millions of years) only to reappear as if "back from the dead". And now with the growing trend for "cryptozoology" some specialists had again begun investigating the possible extancy of other species, the dodo among them. One such specialist had heard of Charles Wiseman’s story, and decided to track him down to interview him regarding his experience, with the inevitable consequence that his mental health was again in doubt - but this time in his favour.

Research into Wiseman's case turned up some curious etymological data. His reference to Doré's bust of Baron Münchhausen (Karl Friedrich Hieronymus Freiherr von Münchhausen) sparked a mild curiosity amongst investigators who realised that the forename Jérôme is in fact the francicised version of Hieronymus - the name by which the eccentric noble was known to his friends. Von Münchhausen was most notable for his extravagant tales of impossible deeds and even immortality. That, coupled with the surname Lazare - Lazarus, whom Christ brought back from the dead - set off a number of alarm bells amongst those concerned. Assuming Wiseman already had a predisposition to mental illness, (manifested by dissociative disorder and its related tendency towards delusionary fantasy) his tainted psyche could quite easily have concocted the fictional character of Jérôme Lazare from fragments of childhood memory and a kind of subconscious word-image association.

Still more controversy, particularly amongst religious groups, was fuelled when one researcher picked up on the name of Lazare's island: Tarasque - the legendary sea-beast from Provence tamed by St. Martha, Lazarus' sister. He also pointed out that Lazarus became the first Bishop of Marseille and of Larnaka in Cyprus, where he is said to have died. Lazarus was of course born in Bethany, a small town in Israel.

The references to certain technological devices in Lazare's "hidden realm" were also the matter of some debate. A self-confessed technophobe, Wiseman had described the artifices in very superficial detail, but from what could be gleaned from his statements these were devices that were not widespread until some years later, and some not at all. Results of further research brought to light that the so-called scaphandre, the twin-reeled projector and the cine-camera were all dated back to the late twenties and early thirties, which would prove the possible existence of some items, while seeming to render impossible that of others. This very hospital, some years later, had been in possession of a projector of similar ilk, which would indicate a possible stimulus for such a description, but Wiseman's testimony predated the acquisition by several years, and had remained unaltered throughout his internment here.

The CAMS53 Flying Boat was indeed in use by French postal services at the time, but the aerial filming equipment suggested by the great auk footage was not available until many years later. All told, doctors and researchers alike were at a loss as to the veracity of Wiseman's account, and thus as to his sanity.

As I watched him through the one-way observation glass, I remarked to myself on the bitter irony of tables turned. Charles Wiseman was now the specimen under the scrutiny of the experts, but he could not see me, and I momentarily mused that I was inside the bell-jar looking out at him.

Meanwhile, things were astir in the adjacent conference room. Two burly nurses took Wiseman back to his quarters and the Hospital Administrator entered the observation room to report their findings to me. He appeared discontent.

"Forty years at this centre, Doctor Lazenby, and I have never met anyone like Charles Wiseman. I was a mere porter boy when they brought him in, and was captivated by his humility and apparent lucidity, not to mention his extraordinary tale!

"Poor old soul never did any harm to anyone, and I've always believed in my heart of hearts that he shouldn't be here at all. But he had no family and nowhere to go. Perhaps he's better off here after all. Apart from a few startling discoveries like the extancy of the coelacanth, forty years have unearthed no concrete evidence to support his story. Not enough to commit a man for, to be sure, but as I said, where would he go?

"I have decided to sign the report reaffirming that Charles Wiseman is clinically insane, and based upon more modern psychological classifications, that he suffers from Delusionary Dissociative Disorder. Though reticent to pronounce such a diagnosis, neither is there any clinical, historical or scientific evidence against it, and I feel that in many ways it is for the best. I'm sure you understand."

"The Health Service is not a refuge for the homeless, Dr. Aldridge." I replied firmly. "We cannot keep anyone here who is not in need of the medical attention the Centre provides. It is a waste of manpower and government resources!"

Aldridge regarded me guardedly, evidently now not so sure that I agreed.

"However, given the circumstances," I continued, "and the lack - as you put it - of evidence conclusive to Wiseman's sanity, I too shall put my signature to your report."

"Thank you, Dr. Lazenby!" Aldridge declared, beaming with delight, yet swallowing a distinct hint of remorse. He obviously held Wiseman in great esteem, as too did I. He placed the report on the table and left, closing the door quietly behind him. A lull of silence pervaded the room.

The decision had not been an easy one for the committee to take, but one that was without doubt "for the best", and they knew not the half of it. When news hit the press that Wiseman's case had resurfaced at the proliferation of cryptozoology, I knew I would have to intercede forthwith. Had Charles been proclaimed sane, the consequences could be disastrous, but now that the casebook had been closed and public curiosity abated, I could sink back into obscurity at least for a time. No matter how unjust and harrowing a conclusion this might be, it was a small price to pay that Charles Wiseman once again be declared by the country's leading physicians as clinically insane.

Only I knew otherwise.

With the merest wince of resignation, I uncapped my fountain pen and signed Aldridge's report.



Dr. Jeremy Lazenby