The Beasts that Hide from Man (17 page)

Furthermore, there is another major problem when seeking to reconcile this controversial entity with
Rafflesia
. Far from releasing a pleasant, alluring fragrance capable of enticing humans to their doom,
Rafflesia
releases a hideous, stomach-churning odor redolent of rotting flesh—thereby repelling humans, but proving irresistible to blowflies, which crawl upon its unappealing form in a futile search for decaying meat. In so doing, they become covered in pollen, which they subsequently transfer to other specimens of
Rafflesia
when similarly lured, thus effecting pollination of this grotesque giant.

The identity of the death flower (if ever more than a traveler’s tale to begin with) thus remains unresolved. And so too, incidentally, does that of an unconfirmed, but equally sinister, slumber-inducing plant reputedly known as
el juy-juy
to the natives inhabiting the Chaco forest on the border of Argentina and Bolivia. In his above-cited book
Secret Cities of Old South America
(1952), Harold T. Wilkins included the following account:

Such a chillingly intelligent plant would make a spellbinding star of some imaginative science fiction film or novel, or even—as is most likely to be its true origin—a traditional jungle legend, but as a plausible plant of real-life botany, it leaves a lot to be desired!

In an article contemplating cryptozoology and its
raison d’etre (Cryptozoology, 1987)
, Russian biologist Dr. Dmitri Bayanov opined that there is no botanical equivalent, i.e. a science of “cryptobotany” nor would there be one in the future, because whereas animals remain hidden by virtue of being actively able to hide themselves, plants cannot do this.

However, this attitude is at variance with the definition of cryptozoological subjects as coined by Dr. Bernard Heuvelmans—who has stated that such animals are ones that are known to local inhabitants (natives or colonists) of their territory, but have so far remained undiscovered by science (despite specific searches in some cases).

As shown by the controversial organisms discussed in this chapter, there may also be some notable plants that fit this description. To my mind, the search for these is surely no less important, and their ultimate disclosure no less exciting, than the seeking and discovery of unknown animals. So perhaps there is scope for a sibling science, that of cryptobotany, after all—with its controversial plants of prey unquestionably among its most intriguing and compelling prizes on offer.

CERTAIN THINGS IN CONTEMPORARY ZOOLOGY ARE comfortingly consistent. Birds have feathers, and mammals have fur, but reptiles and fish have scales—which is why reports of hairy reptiles and furry fish are decidedly disconcerting!

Take, for instance, the seemingly lost hairy lizards of Papua. The fol lowing intriguing excerpt appeared in Charles A.W. Monckton’s book
Last Days in New Guinea
(1922):

Regrettable indeed, but hardly unprecedented, unfortunately, in the frustrating world of cryptozoology! Assuming that these animals were genuinely reptilian, and not some form of marsupial, monotreme, or other mammal (and I cannot think of any known New Guinea mammal that could be readily confused with a lizard), they would surely have been new to science.

So would a hairy snake, and one or two of these have been reported over the years too. Some, of course, were hoaxes, albeit highly ingenious ones, but others can be less readily discounted. How, for instance, can the following example be explained? This report appeared in London’s
Observer
newspaper during January 1852:

Orders or no orders, their agents clearly failed in their appointed task, because no one seems to have heard anything more about Algeria’s uniquely hirsute vipers. Perhaps it really was nothing more than an enormous caterpillar, but, if so, I can only presume that estimates of its size were greatly exaggerated. At least I hope that they were—any butterfly or moth metamorphosing from a 22inch-long caterpillar would be a fearsome sight!

As for furry fish: There are at least five different sources of data on file concerning supposed fish sporting a conspicuous covering of hair, fur—or something very like it.

Most mystifying of these is the Japanese hairy fish—a truly bizarre beast whose details were kindly supplied to me by David Heppell, formerly Curator of Molluscs at the Royal Museum of Scotland. According to an early-19th century work,
The World in Miniature: Japan
, edited by Frederic Shoberl, there is said to be a river in Japan that is plentifully populated by a strange amphibious species of creature measuring four to five feet long and possessing a scaly fish-like body but with human-like hair on its head. These animals can apparently come out onto the banks of the river, where they fight or engage in boisterous games with one another, emitting loud cries as they disport in a singularly rowdy, unfish-like manner. However, their rumbustious behavior swiftly transforms into savage aggression if they spy any people, unhesitatingly attacking and killing their hapless human victims by disemboweling them. Yet they do not devour their bodies afterwards. What could have inspired such a strange account?

Assuming that these creatures are more than just a fanciful folktale with no basis in zoological reality, is it possible, as suggested by David Heppell, that they are based upon fur seals? That is to say, could their legend have stemmed from a distorted description or memory of fur seal activity, translocated over generations of retelling from its original marine environment to a freshwater riverine version? Many seemingly impossible beasts of myth and folklore have ultimately been shown to have originated as real animals that were subsequently elaborated by the unsurpassed ingenuity of the human imagination.

In the case of the Japanese hairy fish, we already know that the Pacific waters encompassing Japan are inhabited by the northern fur seal
Callorhinus ursinus
, whose males measure six and a half feet to seven and a half feet long, with females reaching up to five feet. The males possess a hairy head and mane, but with flippers instead of legs they are superficially fish-like, thereby increasing the likelihood that the kind of descriptive liberties routinely employed in dramatic storytelling could readily equip them with that other instantly familiar characteristic of fish—scales.

Scales, conversely, are conspicuous only by their absence from the body of the
lodsilungur
—for this is the legendary hairy trout of Iceland. According to Icelandic mythology, demons and giants specifically create these aberrant fish (often in great quantities, overrunning entire rivers or lakes) in order to punish evil humans, because these creatures are wholly inedible, and are therefore worthless. Needless to say, such a punishment as this would be particularly effective in a country like Iceland, where fishing is of great commercial significance.

Once again, however, such a fanciful fable may have a rather more prosaic core of truth. Perhaps the legend of the
lodsilungur
is founded upon observations of trout suffering from fungal infections, resulting in an external overgrowth of hair-like mycelia.

A hairy trout of a very different kind has become one of the most celebrated specimens in the entire zoological collection of the Royal Museum of Scotland. Resplendently garbed in a profuse pelage of white fur, this unique representative of Canada’s fish fauna is mounted on a wooden plaque whose label records that it was caught in Lake Superior off Gros Cap, near Sault Ste. Marie, in the district of Algoma, Ontario, and was mounted by a local taxidermist called Ross C. Jobe. According to the label, its dense fur is probably an adaptation to living at great depths, where the prevailing water temperature is exceedingly low.

The Canadian fur-bearing trout is of course a complete fraud, a blatant hoax—but a most successful one. The museum learned of its existence when, already mounted on its informative plaque, it was brought in by its then owner, a lady who had purchased it in good faith while in Canada, and was anxious to discover more about her remarkable exhibit. Once she learned the awful truth, however, that it was merely a common trout to which the furry coat of a white rabbit had been ingeniously attached, she presented it straight away to the museum.

Furry fish #4 has a very esteemed source for its documentation— none other than the famous Venetian traveler Marco Polo. Recording his many travels in China, he reported the sudden drying up of a river and the discovery on the parched riverbed of a strange fish: “fully 100 paces long [whose] whole body was hairy/’ Moreover, its internal composition may have been as alien as its exterior, for after the people who had found this extraordinary fish had eaten it, they all died.

Perhaps in reality, however, this “hairy fish” was merely some badly decomposed specimen whose “hair” comprised exposed connective tissue, which can yield a startlingly furry appearance when revealed in this manner. And the deaths that occurred after eating it may simply have been due to food poisoning, resulting from the consumption of a rotting fish.

Unlike the previous quartet, the reality of the fifth type of hairy fish on file is fully accepted by science. Even so, its very existence remained undocumented until as recently as 1956. That was when an amazing new species of fish was formally described from the Azores. Only two and a half inches long, its entire body seemed on first sight to be covered with hair. But when examined more closely, this “hair” was found to be a mass of living body outgrowths containing secretory cells, whose function may be to deter would-be predators.

This remarkable fish was aptly named
Mirapinna esau
(“wonder-finned hairy one”), because not only does it have these curious hair-like outgrowths but also some of its fins’ rays are exceptionally long, so that they are more like wings than fins.

A fish with hair is strange enough—but a fish with wings? Now that’s another story…