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The plan worked! Unfortunately, the last image of the sequence reveals that the Tinkerer—or, as I shall call him henceforth by his true identity, Doctor M__ K___, a noted entomologist and amateur horologist—became aware of my spy and attempted to destroy it. The katydid returned to its point of release quite damaged, and I’m afraid my prototype is unrecoverable. Luckily, the captures themselves were themselves recoverable, or all would be lost.

Ahh—A knock at the door. My heart leaps in my chest. It can only be Dr. K___ himself, come calling. He must have followed his creation back to me—

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K___ barged past me into the room, his voice a harsh whisper of recriminations and accusations. I was quite flustered at first, and it was all I could do to take my eyes off the silver-headed cane he waved around. He was an older man, but the stick cut through the air like a weapon.

He paused for breath, and I counter-attacked, first explaining in unmistakable terms that violent acts on his part would be useless, but still explaining that I had no interest in ruining the career of a gentleman of his advanced age.

Of course, he took offense to this and spat insults and foul words, some of which I had never heard before. My ears turned quite red, but I did not let his crassness distract me from my plan.

I made my offer. I would not publish his identity if he would modify his works to function as an independent ecosystem on their own, never interfering with the natural struggle of fairy and living insect.

He seemed surprised at this idea, and remained quiet for nearly a minute in consideration of my deal. I will confess that I looked around desperately for something with which to defend myself should he fly into another rage.

Thankfully, he nodded at last, and agreed to the bargain. I made it clear that I would continue to trap and test his creations, and if I discovered predatory behavior on their part, I would release my information. He had no choice but to agree. He was clearly quite unhappy with this, and he departed quickly while muttering angrily.

Our agreement will have to do, for now, although I fear that it will be temporary. I must say, I still look forward to discovering K__’ creations in the wild, and witnessing how they will interact with one another. An artifical ecosystem would be something never before witnessed by a naturalist, and I am in a very unique position to carry out research on the subject. I believe this whole incident has worked out far better than I could have hoped! At least for the moment.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. Please leave any comments there.

My fears are confirmed. Other species of insect have been enhanced with clockwork innards. I discovered this lady bug showing its modifications in a patch of flowers in one of the more civilized pockets of the Park. Its clockwork pieces have transformed it into a faery-devouring apparatus. I observed it chew up grazing aphid-analogues at three times the speed the moth pixies can. A dozen of them could cause a complete ecosystem collapse in favor of the clockwork bugs over the moth pixies. Not that I am fond of the biting, foul little things, which spread the aphid-analogues, farming them into gardens on the edges of the Park.

Perhaps the tinkerer responsible for these transformations is a disgruntled gardener whose protections have gone wild? I will publish my findings and captures in the next issue of the Neo-Urbana Natura and hope that someone can provide more clues to this mystery.

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A month later
I received an anonymous letter today, postmarked from within the City, but with no return address. The handwriting is neat and meticulous like you would expect from someone whose hands have been trained by placing microscopic gears into place and winding miniscule mainsprings. Here I reproduce the contents of the letter:</p>

Dearest Dr. Roundbottom,

I read with great interest your latest paper in Natura. I cannot express how delighted I am that someone as talented in the natural sciences as yourself has discovered my creations in the wild, serving their purposes without failure.

I have heard of your reputation as a scientist, and I will admit to have taken strides to ensure that you would encounter my creations. I’ve had my agents seed them among your mail, for instance. For whatever reason, you never discovered them, I take it? Alas! But no matter. You found them in the wild, which is far more interesting a setting.

I wish to correct you on one issue; you have ascribed to me motives greater than the reality, I am afraid. I build my creations not out of favoritism or hatred for your warring factions. I simply create to add to the mix, and you might discover that my creations have no more love for insects than faeries. They are something entirely new, and I am inordinately proud of them.

Good luck in your future research. I hope you can appreciate my creations for the miracles that they are.

Yours in Mechanis,
The Tiny Tinkerer

I have tested the Tinkerer’s suggestion that the clockwork insects will prey equally upon real insects as they do the native faeries with an experiment involving test tubes and the clockwork lady bug that I captured previously. His claim holds true.

Each time I begin to understand the greater picture of the workings of nature here, I discover some new complication. I hadn’t expected the complications to come so directly from other scientists. It’s a very troubling idea, and one that will haunt my thoughts frequently in the coming months.

For now, I will commit myself, for now to cataloging the creations of this “Tiny Tinkerer.” And I will collect specimens, and I will examine them for weaknesses. I do not trust the claims of this letter. Something far more sinister may be afoot. I will write a letter to the editor of Natura posthaste encouraging my colleagues to do the same.

Regarding the stowaway in my shipping container from some weeks ago—I believe it now to have been planted among my things, a clockwork creation of the Tinkerer. At least that is one—albeit tiny—mystery solved. Not that it provides me much comfort.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

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Someone in this City is working an unsavory science. While searching for my little invader, I instead discovered this vicious creature in the tall grass of the Broad Meadow.

Tiny biting gnat pixies flew in a cloud around me as I crawled along the ground searching. I heard a tinny snapping sound, and suddenly, the gnat pixies had vanished. It took my quick eyes to spot the little arachnid devouring the last remains of the gnat pixie.

Before taking the capture, I stunned it with a blast of compressed air, and to my surprise, a hinged cover blew open on its back, revealing delicate and impossibly tiny clockwork gears. Only a master tinkerer could tune such work, and only in the City could one combine the machine with the flesh of the spider.

Note the unusual marking of gears that clearly confirm the arachnid’s manufactured nature. I have read in my research of the many unusual forms of life here, but I cannot find anything like this in any of my bestiaries, and not surprising, given how few of my fellow naturalists show interest in the animalia smaller than a closed fist.

The spider recovered from my stunning and scrambled back up the stalks of grass to wait for gnat pixies. I watched as it devoured a dozen more of the poor creatures. It became clear to me that whoever built the spider was taking sides in the struggle that was one of my areas of research, and I felt my bile rise.

The natural ecosystem of the City Park contains few insects; nearly every ecological niche is filled by a native faery species. Within the past century, due to arrivals such as the carry-on in my shipping container, insects have begun to compete for survival here. If I had to make a wager for one side over the other, I would pick the faery population winning out in the end. Their viciousness and intelligence have always put them at an advantage. But now, I discover that someone has taken it upon himself to improve the invasive species! Interfering in this way goes against every naturalist ethic I hold dear.

I attempted to collect the spider for further inspection, but it was unusually quick and it escaped my net. Luckily, I made a respectable photonic capture of the marking on its abdomen. I will share it with my collegues in an upcoming paper, but I fear I will soon find other creatures marked in such a manner.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

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I am not unaccustomed to my subjects inspecting me in turn as I make my captures, but not by eyeballs growing from the pileus, or cap, of a mushroom. It is these kinds of discoveries that led me to the City Park and its unique ecology.

The eye appeared to be functional, tracking me with the iris. No eyelids to speak of, and the iris was remiscent of that of a reptile, such as a lizard or snake. I was hesitant to take a sample for dissection, thinking it might be a singular specimen. I made a photonic capture for examination at a later date.

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Four Days Later

I returned to the site of the first eyeball mushroom to find that, thanks in part to the excessive rain, it had doubled in size to nearly twelve inches in height. Scattered through the surrounding underbrush, I discovered literally hundreds more of the fungi. It was quite unsettling how each and every eye managed to track me simultaneously, no matter where I stood.

I brought out my specimen kit to collect one of the smaller individuals. Astonishingly, as soon as my scalpel bit into stipe near the base, the entire mushroom withdrew violently into the soil with a soft popping sound. The air filled with an echoing of the sound as every other mushroom vanished into the loam. I dug with a small spade for quite some time, uncovering a network of mushroom-sized tunnels that I could have spent days exploring, but alas, the rains struck up again and made digging far too difficult.

I suspect that whatever organism I had discovered, it was not in fact a species of fungi, but something with a clever form of camouflage, perhaps a subspecies of the lower faery endemic to the Park. I won’t be able to know for sure until I have collected a specimen for dissection. I will put out word among the park urchin gangs that I will pay a dime for a live specimen. Mrs. Dowd claims that the auspices call for clear skies in the coming week. I hope to search the surrounding area for any sign of my little invader, should the auspices prove true.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

A package arrived at the boarding house today while I was out for a stroll through bramble edge of the park. No pickpockets out today, thanks to the rather dreary weather, rain coming in drizzles alternating with frightful torrents. I haven’t lived in the City long enough to know if this weather is typical. Mrs. Dowd, my land lady, complains about the weather regardless of its nature. It was she who received the package and held it until my return.

It contained my long anticipated Model LZ-34 photonic capturer (P.C.) with interchangeable lens package and chroma plate option (although I sadly cannot afford the plates right now). I immediately set up the P.C. in the lounge, with Mrs. Dowd’s permission and even assistance, and took a photonic capture of myself.

The reproduction of shadow appears adequate, and in fact, I am quite pleased with the exposure times and quality of the grinding in the lenses. I have been unable to discern any of the flaws inherent in the glass of my previous P.C..

We were so engrossed with the operation that we scarcely noticed the small animal that scurried from the packing material, spread wings, and took flight out an open window. It was an insect of some sort, foreign to these parts by its very nature.

I took chase, but was unable to locate the creature once outside, and the rain began to fall in buckets once again. I’m afraid I may have inadvertently released an invasive species into the native ecosystem. I am very much troubled by this possibility. The invasive insects are an area of my study, but it goes against the ethics of my profession to contribute to the issue.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

An associate of mine by the name of Mr. Daniel Mortlewood sent me this excellent capture along with the following letter:

My dear Dr. Roundbottom,

It truly is the delight of both my wife and I, to gaze with interest upon your photonic captures. So taken were we that after much faffing and pondering, I have crafted my own device and my wife has delighted in spending the days amongst the flora. She returned with a curious image today. At first I thought it was a common leather-berry but of course, here in the southern hemisphere ’tis not the season and my interest was piqued.

She assures me that this tiny beast reared up and hissed with great agitation. The anger of this tiny beast, she said, was like nothing she had ever seen. I request this of you good Doctor. Do you know what this creature is and whether there is any danger in having them near the residence?

Yours sincerely, Mr. Daniel Mortlewood

As I’ve pointed out in a private letter to the Mortlewood couple, the creature they were so fortunate to have captured on the above plate presents no harm to them, and in fact, I envy them the climate that the beast prefers.

No, it is a common mistake to fear the common terrestrial mimic, which is distantly related to the aquatic octopus. (I should point out that while only five limbs are apparently present in the capture, due to its body-morphing abilities, the creature does bear eight arms in its natural state). As a soft-bodied cephalopod, essentially a mollusk with no shell, the mimic relies upon ever-changing camouflage as its primary defense, and sheer bluster should it be caught unwares, as it was here. And in addition to being no threat to humans, they can actually be quite beneficial to gardens, feeding on the small arthropod pests that can make gardening so difficult in the south.

Land-dwelling mimics are quite rare except in the warmer, damper climates, and it is believed by my colleague and mimic expert Dr. Erwin Raggleswain that the terrestrial mimic is a recent evolutionary offshoot of the mimic family. As supporting evidence, he points out that even the terrestrial mimics return to water to lay their eggs. Only four terrestrial species have been identified, while sixteen aquatic species are on record.

I would very much like to obtain a live specimen, so if you should encounter one, please notify me and we shall see if I can arrange to have it shipped here to the City.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

Today, I discovered the sun-bleached remains of a park crab. I profess that the remains brought a tear to my eye. I am not generally a sentimental man, but the loss of an entire species is an atrocity that I cannot bear.

The park crab, Cardisoma hortus, a terrestrial species twenty-five centimeters across on average, was hunted to extinction twenty years before I arrived in the City. According to back-issues of Neo-Urbana Natura, Cardisoma hortus was never a common sight, and was widely considered a relic of a time when the Park was wetter and warmer.

Twenty-two years ago, a dabbler in natural sciences named Horatio Clank discovered the delicate flavor of the park crab’s leg meat when his house cook mistook Clank’s specimens for the evening’s main course. News spread among the wealthy residents of the south Burroughs as such news does, along with the rumor (never proven scientifically) that the meat also stimulated the–ahem–baser energies of eldery gentlemen. One might say that the park crab was dealt a very bad hand indeed.

I’ve examined census data from a much more respectable naturalist, and the decline in the crab’s population is heartbreaking to witness even on paper. In four short years, the roving hordes of urchin children trapped and sold an entire species for mere nickels. It must be said that the crab did not help matters much with its habit of hanging from the low limbs of trees and swinging in the breeze as part of their mating rituals.

Still… I can’t help but hope that I might one day happen upon a living park crab, hidden somewhere deep within the brambles where the threat of bears and other dangers keep all but the most determined naturalists at bay. The Park is vast. I cannot say with absolute certainty that such a discovery is impossible.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

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I’m afraid I’ve been slow in accomplishing any actual research due to the nasty, impish creature captured above. I collected an unusual egg casing for examination several weeks ago, and while I was at a dinner party two evenings ago, the case hatched and released dozens of black hobs into my laboratory. They remained there only so long as it took them to chew their way through the walls and into the rest of Mrs. Dowd’s boarding home. One was discovered by the other guests at quite a late hour, and Mrs. Dowd sent for me from the party immediately.

A quick examination of my laboratory revealed the nature of the trouble. Hobs are a very primitive form of faery, extremely low of intelligence, and much closer to their insect-like common ancestors. Seen above, quite clearly, that their hand-analogues are actually highly developed antennae (without which, I suspect they could get into considerably less trouble). None of the usual poisons work against hobs. They’ve been around long enough to develop quite a few resistances.

All as I begged Mrs. Dowd for her forgiveness, I set about building a series of traps that could be placed throughout the boarding home. I gave my golem, Beta, instructions to herd the brutes into them, as it could slip between the walls and go places that I could not.

The tiny hobs were not so easily persuaded, and after a tussle that left Beta with very unsightly scratches that will cost me an unreasonable amount to have repaired, I decided that live capture was out of the question.

While hobs are immune to most poisons, they are still highly allergic to sea salt like most of the faeries of the Park. I mixed up a concoction of glue and sea salt and coated Beta with the crystals. Then, I prepared a large syringe of highly concentrated salt water. Armed and armored, I sent Beta back into battle, which, oddly, it seemed to almost enjoy.

The scuffling and screeches kept the other tenants awake through the night. I now owe many favors, and I have promised Mrs. Dowd that I won’t allow such an infestation to happen again. If I do, I will soon be looking for another place to live, and that would be difficult to find with my current lack of funds.

Still, there is a positive side to this incident. It has left me with a very nice collection of hob specimens, and I can begin a line of research into their physiology, to examine for supporting evidence that my theories regarding their place on the faery evolutionary tree hold water.

But that work is for later. Now, I must to catch up on my sleep.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

I have been very busy researching very unusual insects that have recently invaded the environs of the Park, but I had to stop and take a photonic capture of this common maned sprite. These are not uncommon sights in the Park, and in fact, are quite a nuisance at times. They’re normally quite shy, but, and I suspect this is because they exist on a diet of the whisps, they are attracted to shiny objects. Such as my tools!

One afternoon while I was making a capture of a new species of tree lichen, a maned sprite snatched several probes from my tool pouch. I caught a glimpse of the creature fleeing with the tools in its arms and gave chase. Luck was with me, and I startled it with a blast of compressed air from my trusty air gun (a tool no microcosm researcher should ever be without–never underestimate the ability of a heady burst of carbon dioxide to stun a subject). I only recovered two of three tools, however, as it took to the canopy after recovering. They have no use for tools and no doubt it soon discarded it. If you happen to be on the eastern edge of the park and you find a small silver-plated spoon engraved with my initials, you would have my eternal appreciation if you would post it to me.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

I have recently made it known to the park urchins that I will pay a nickel to anyone who makes me aware of unusual occurrences within the Park. Tonight, this offer once again paid off in the form of a magnificent sight.

A young girl, probably not much older than ten years, was found loitering on the step of my boarding house by Mrs. Dowd. With much cajoling on her part, my land lady was able to encourage the girl to express herself in a terrible stutter, but it was eventually made known that she wished to collect a nickel for showing me something. Mrs. Dowd drew me down from my laboratory with this news, and I met with the child.

I made it plain and certain that I would only pay the nickel upon delivery of whatever oddity she had discovered. This was acceptable to her, so I gathered my equipment and we set off, despite the approaching nightfall.

“B-b-beautiful,” was all the girl would say, shaking her head and twisting the hem of her dress, which was not much more than rags.

She led me on merry walk through a section of the Park much more domesticated than I had been spending my time in recently, and it wasn’t long before I spotted our destination. Just below a hill, within a copse of trees, I saw a singular tree glowing brightly as if lit from within by electricty. By this point in time, the sun had set completely. A glowing tree alone would be quite marvelous indeed, but this was only the beginning of the show.

Very shortly, miniscule lights began to flutter in from several directions, but predominantly north, and these lights began to dance merrily in the air in a ring about the tree. They wove wild and amusing patterns in the air, and I was able to make one photonic capture at the beginning, despite the poor quality of light that so often plagues work in the evening.

I paid the urchin and sent her on her way and approached closer. The lights reminded me very much of fire flies, a common insect in other lands, but insects of the ordinary sort were rare in the Park. I soon discovered that they were in fact a kind of luminous faery, of a species I had not yet seen. They were of the typical humanoid frame, but with a luminous and transparent skin. Some sort of white substance just beneath the surface was the source of the bright light, as best I could tell–I had to don my tinted goggles just to make out these details. Adding to the difficulty of my examination was their refusal to remain motionless for very long. You can only imagine the sight of this old fool chasing the little creatures around and round their tree, which was the next object of my examination.

The tree itself was a common species, not unusual in any way except that the fire faeries had deemed it some kind of mating place. Looking at the surface of the tree, I discovered numerous copulating pairs, and many unpaired females. The females gave off a slightly different hue of light. So it appeared that the females had gathered together, instinctually, in a single location to collaborate on drawing in the males, which seemed to be attracted, I assume, over quite a distance in the park.

Most of the park is without lighting in the evening, but I have read in the papers recently that some would like to see electrified lamps placed about the park’s edges. If such plans move forward, I fear there will be many a confused fire faery male. I will have to write a letter to the editors in the morning advising against any artifical lights within the park.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.

A package arrived today, and by luck, I happened to be in to receive it. My landlady, Mrs. Dowd, had nearly gotten the wrappings off of it “by accident” by the time I made it down the stairs into the common room. I initially expected it to be a few bits of equipment I purchased while I was abroad, but I quickly realized that it was postmarked Outer Klall, and I had not been there in some time.

In fact, my sometimes collaborator and friend of the pen, Miss Emily Watkins, had sent me some discovery on her own travels. I recognized her florid handwriting on the addressee label immediately. Abandoning proper decorum, I snatched the small wooden box from Mrs. Dowd and retreated to my laboratory on the second floor. I rent two rooms from Mrs. Dowd—one for my research and one as a personal living quarters.

I set about prying open the box to discover an odd little figurine on two stumpy legs, with a single marvelous glass eye and an odd appendage, like an elephantine trunk, sprouting from what I guessed to be its face. At first glance, it appeared to be made out of damp tan clay. That is, until it twitched slightly. I snatched my hand back, in case this was one of Miss Watkin’s devilish pranks, snapped shut the box, and retreated to my writing desk to read the letter that was also within the box.

My Dearest Dr. Roundbottom,

I hope all is well and that you have returned home to the City from your travels safely. I believe I will be traveling for some months to come myself, and I do hope you will try to remain from trouble in my absence.

To that effect, I purchased this little oddity in an open air market in a village in Outer Klall. It is a genuine golem, made by the locals, usually for the purposes of entertaining children, but I took the liberty of having special instructions inscribed on the miniature scroll kept within its tiny cranium. It should prove useful to you as a miniature assistant in the field, and at your command, will give chase to anything you wish to capture or study. I hope that it can serve you well enough in my absence. Give my love to Mrs. Dowd, assuming she hasn’t read this letter already and received it for herself. Oh, and please see the reverse of this letter for a few commands for your new assistant.

Yours,
Miss Evelyn Watkins

Convinced that she meant no harm with the figurine, I returned to its box and removed it. It stood still and unblinking atop my workbench. I turned Miss Watkin’s letter over and spoke a few of the command phrases written there. I was able to make the golem fetch small tools, and even do a little dance that I will admit amused me greatly.

I’ve attached to these notes a photonic capture I’ve made of my new assistant, which I will name Beta. No doubt Miss Watkins will insist on calling Bertie when she returns. It is a fine gift, and I suspect he will be very useful in flushing out unusual specimens in the brush of the Park. I will write her a letter of thanks immediately.
The late summer rains are heavy now, but I hope to set out in search of interesting subjects soon. We will broadcast more when we can.

Originally published at Dr. Julius T. Roundbottom. You can comment here or there.