MANIFESTING THE MULILO - A RAINBOW-SUMMONED HILL-DRAGON, OR A LOATHSOME BLACK SLUG-SNAKE?

 

Might the mulilo – if it exists – look something like this? (created by Dr Karl Shuker using Dream Lab)

In more than 40 years of cryptozoological researches and writings, I have been proud and privileged to introduce to the cryptozoological community and beyond a considerable number and notable diversity of cryptids whose details had been hitherto consigned to obscure, overlooked periodicals, books, and other passed-over publications. One such mystery beast is the mulilo, whose details I uncovered in a long-since-forgotten Empire Review article, but which I duly documented and discussed in one of my own books, From Flying Toads To Snakes With Wings, first published in 1997, and which was the very first crypto-themed publication to include it.

 

My book From Flying Toads To Snakes With Wings (© Dr Karl Shuker)

Today, conversely, numerous online websites have also documented this creature, but as far as I can tell their coverages are merely paraphrasings  of my book's original version, with no new, additional content  Yet my book is seldom referenced as their source, sadly.

Consequently, coupled with the regrettable fact that certain of these online paraphrased coverages are far from accurate iterations of mine anyway, I've decided to present on ShukerNature my book's original, concise account of the mysterious mulilo – so here it is.

Dream a dream of a mysterious dragon that only appears when a rainbow is resting upon the vivid, viridescent hillsides of Zaire [now the Democratic Republic of Congo] and Zambia – a creature whose reality is widely accepted by many native people in these tropical African countries. One might expect such an Arcadian, picturesque scenario to inspire images of a bright, evanescent entity with sparkling opalescent scales, a proud noble head of classical profile, and sweeping, polychromatic butterfly wings – a golden, glittering creature of Faerie, of heady sunlit reverie.

Yet nothing could be further from the truth, because the image that these people do visualize when contemplating this creature is an evocation of much darker dreams. According to their belief, Central Africa's rainbow-summoned dragon, known as the mulilo, is a gigantic, coal-black, slug-like beast of loathsome form, almost 6 ft in length, over 1 ft in width, and leaving death in its wake – the deadly legacy of its poisonous breath.

 

Could the mulilo be a giant black slug? (created by Dr Karl Shuker using Grok X1)

One could certainly be forgiven for considering the mulilo to be nothing more than a fanciful folktale. Yet as reported in 1940 by W.L. Speight within an Empire Review article on African mystery beasts, a living, corporeal animal is apparently involved, because pieces of blackened flesh said to be from dead mulilos are worn by some natives as fertility charms.

There is no known species of slug that attains the size attributed to the mulilo; in any event, the bodies of slugs are relatively insubstantial, little more than slender gelatinous sacs - hardly the likeliest of materials to remain intact for utilization as charms. Perhaps, therefore, the blackened flesh is really from a slug-like snake, or even a serpentine salamander (like the sirens of North America).

Even so, the thorny question remains as to whether this corporeal creature is truly the mulilo, or whether its flesh is merely used by the natives to vindicate their belief in what is actually a non-existent, wholly mythical beast? If the flesh is from a mulilo (regardless of what species it may belong to), how do the natives obtain it?

 

Another giant black slug-inspired mulilo representation (created by Dr Karl Shuker using Grok X1)

According to Speight, they set a trap – building a secure cage, lined internally with sharp blades, and baited with a living cockerel. Then they simply wait each night, and listen. On the morning that no cock-crow is heard, the natives celebrate and journey joyfully to the cage – for they know that inside it they will find the mulilo, dead, impaled upon the blades during its capture of the cockerel.

Yet despite this apparently successful method of obtaining mulilo remains, the mulilo is as mysterious and unidentified today as it was when documented by Speight over half a century ago [almost a full century ago now]. Moreover, it does not even seem to have been reported again. Perhaps rainbows have been rare in Zaire and Zambia lately?

My view concerning the mulilo that I held back in the late 1990s remains unchanged today, almost 30 years later. Namely, that if it is indeed a real, flesh-and-blood entity, it is most likely to be some form of black-scaled snake, possibly a fairly thick-bodied or sturdy one, perhaps even a melanistic variety of a species already known to science.

Over the years I have documented a number of times with a variety of different examples that in the culture of many indigenous peoples from around the world, aberrant animal specimens, such as melanistic, albinistic, or extra-large individuals, for instance, are often categorised by them as being fundamentally (rather than merely superficially) distinct, wholly separate creatures from normal specimens of the same species, and are even given wholly separate names by them.

 

Is the mulilo based upon an unusual melanistic variety of snake? (created by Dr Karl Shuker using Dream Lab)

So if the mulilo were indeed nothing more than an all-black form of a known snake species but deemed special by the locals on account of its unexpected colouration, this would not be in any way surprising.

In addition, certain snakes, especially large meat-eating constricting species such as the African pythons, are notorious for the foul stench of their breath. So if the mulilo is simply a melanistic version of one such species, this could plausibly explain native testimony (conceivably somewhat exaggerated or embellished if retold to the more ingenuous of Westerners?) relating to its allegedly poisonous exhalations.

 

A large and sturdy melanistic specimen of constricting snake might inspire superstitious fear among local people encountering it (created by Dr Karl Shuker using Magic Studio)

If only further details could be obtained. So if anyone reading this ShukerNature article is aware of any addition information appertaining to the mulili, I'd love to hear from you, so please comment below with your news – many thanks indeed!

Excerpted from my book From Flying Toads To Snakes With Wings (Llewellyn: St Paul, 1997).

 

An intriguing image generated by Dream Lab, combining the serpentine scaly body of a melanistic snake with slug-like cephalic tentacles – the perfect mulilo? (created by Dr Karl Shuker using Dream Lab)

 

A GREEN MAN OF NOTTINGHAM, AND A PURPLE WINGED CAT? A SHUKERNATURE PICTURE OF THE DAY

 

The very curious but captivating painting spied and photographed in a Nottingham pub by Facebook friend Kristian Lander (© Kristian Lander)

Today's ShukerNature Picture of the Day dates back to 15 January 2013. That was when longstanding Facebook friend Kristian Lander from Nottingham, England, posted on my Facebook wall the above photograph snapped by him of a very unusual painting that he had recently encountered inside a local public house, because he was particularly intrigued by the mauve but mysterious winged beast lurking in its bottom left-hand corner, and wondered if I knew anything about it.

Sadly, I didn't, but it certainly elicited my curiosity, and when Kristian's post containing his photo reappeared recently in my Facebook's Memories section, I decided to document on ShukerNature the sparse details that have come my way during the intervening years concerning it. So here they are, exactly eight years after Kristian first brought this perplexing painting to my attention, in the hope that someone who reads them will be able to provide further data.

Kristian informed me that the painting was hanging high above an archway inside a pub at Bulwell, Nottingham, named the William Peverel (which had opened in 2012 and is currently part of the famous JD Weatherspoon chain). Consequently, he'd had to use the zoom attachment on his camera in order to obtain his close-up photo of it, but there was no signature visible, nor was there any artist information available.

 

Three of my own Green Man exhibits (© Dr Karl Shuker)

However, Kristian had noticed that there was a description of the painting on a nearby wall plaque. This stated that it was a picture of the man after whom the pub had been named, one William Peverel, apparently giving homage to the Green Man – a longstanding symbol of fertility and rebirth in English folkloric tradition, and usually represented as a human figure covered in green, leafy foliage. As for the purple winged creature beside Peverel, however, its identity was merely referred to in the description as "unknown".

Now for some interesting facts concerning the real-life person after whom this pub is named – William Peverel. It turns out that he was a Norman knight who was a favourite of William the Conqueror, i.e. King William I of England, who famously defeated the Saxons' King Harold II at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and thus founded the Norman dynasty in England. Peverel was specifically listed in the Domesday Book as a builder of castles, and also owned several, including Nottingham Castle. Before he died in 1114, he had sired two sons, both of whom were also named William.

The JD Wetherspoon website includes a page of details for Nottingham's William Peverel pub (there is actually more than one pub in England with this same name), which can be accessed here. Sadly, however, they contain no mention of this painting (though they do include one interior photo that shows it in place upon one of the walls), but what they do state is that this pub's namesake was a son of William the Conqueror. Yet according to lineages for William I that I have checked, only one of his ten children was named William, and he became King William II following his father's death, so he was certainly not William Peverel. Moreover, according to The Royal Bastards of Medieval England (1984) by Chris Given-Wilson and Alice Curteis, William I is not credited as having any illegitimate children. Ditto for his entry by Charles Cawley in the Foundation for Medieval Genealogy, Medieval Lands Database – click here to access it. So I'm not sure where the Wetherspoon claim regarding Peverel being William I's son originates.

 

Interior photograph of the William Peverel public house in Bulwell, Nottingham, England, showing the William Peverel 'green man' painting hanging upon one of its walls directly over an archway (© JD Wetherspoon/The William Peverel – reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use basis for educational/review purposes only; please be sure to click here to visit this very popular pub's webpage for full details concerning its facilities, menus, location, etc).

Peverel's parentage contradictions notwithstanding, let's turn now to the painting itself. As commented upon by another Facebook friend, Scott Wood, the face of William Perceval as depicted in it is unmistakably based upon a much earlier but very famous, and decidedly idiosyncratic, painting entitled 'Vertumnus' (Vertumnus being the Roman god of seasons, plant growth, and change), which was produced in 1591 by Italian artist Giuseppe Arcimboldo (1526/27-1593). Here it is:

 

'Vertumnus', painted in 1591 by Giuseppe Arcimboldo (public domain)

As can be readily seen, his subject's face is actually composed of various fruits, flowers, vegetables and other botanical offerings, which is nothing if not apt, given that Vertumnus was a plant-associated deity. Yet in spite of the name that he gave to this painting, Arcimboldo did not actually intend it to be a depiction of Vertumnus, but rather a portrait of the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II.

Moreover, this phytologically-influenced illustration was not an artistic sui generis either – on the contrary, Arcimboldo was well known for this highly imaginative, albeit decidedly quirky, mode of depiction, having painted a number of other portraits in which its subjects are composed of intricate, exquisitely-arranged collections of horticultural produce as well as fishes and even books. Having said that, Arcimboldo did also prepare many far more conventional artistic works too (including the self-portrait presented at the end of this ShukerNature blog article), but his unique botanically-themed portraits are his most familiar paintings nowadays.

As for whether the clear similarity between the face of William Peverel in the pub's 'green man' painting of him and Arcimboldo's 'Vertumnus' painting indicates that the former is definitely a modern-day painting, or merely one that was painted at some undetermined time within the 400+ years that have passed since Arcimboldo painted the latter, this is of course impossible to determine without the Peverel painting being subjected to a rigorous examination by expert art historians.

 

Comparing the face of William Peverel in the pub's 'green man' painting of him (allowing for it having been unavoidably photographed both at a distance and at an angle) (left) with Arcimboldo's 'Vertumnus' painting (right), showing the great similarity – please click to enlarge for improved viewing (© Kristian Lander / public domain)

Incidentally, despite the descriptive plaque alongside the William Peverel painting in Nottingham's eponymous pub stating that it depicts Peverel apparently giving homage to the Green Man (albeit with a suit of armour protruding very visibly beneath his Green Man attire!), it is possible that there is an entirely different explanation for what  - and even who – this painting depicts. My first clue to this unexpected yet undeniably plausible possibility came from a seemingly source-less but thought-provoking quote made known to me by another Facebook friend, Caitlin Warrior, and when I pursued it to discover its origin, this is what I uncovered.

In the compendium Medieval Outlaws: Twelve Tales In Modern English Translation, edited by Thomas H. Ohlgren and published as a revised, expanded edition in 2005 by Parlor Press, there is a Romance story entitled 'Fouke le Fitz Waryn', which is known from a single manuscript in the British Library that dates from c.1330 and is written in Anglo-Norman prose. How much of its content is based upon real events and real people and how much is folklore and heroic fantasy, however, is difficult to determine.

Translated by Thomas E. Kelly, and beginning not too long after William the Conqueror has become England's monarch, it tells of how William Peverel proclaims a tournament at which the knight who performs best and wins the tournament shall receive as his prize the hand of William's beautiful niece, Melette of the White Tower. Waryn de Metz (Metz being in Lorraine, France), a valiant but unmarried, childless nobleman, decides to take part, attended by a company of knights sent by his cousin John, Duke of Brittany, to assist him. When they arrive in England, Waryn and his company pitch their tents in the forest near to where the tournament is to be held.

 

Front cover of Medieval Outlaws (© Thomas H. Ohlgren et al./Parlor Press – reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use basis for educational/review purposes only)

What interests me, however, is not the tournament itself, nor even Waryn's participation in it. Instead, I am very intrigued by the following short but very tantalizing excerpt from the story's description of the tournament's second day (and which turned out to my delight to be the hitherto source-less quote to which Caitlin had previously alerted me):

The following day a joust was proclaimed throughout the land. Thereupon Waryn came out of the forest and went to the joust clad all in green with ivy leaves, like an adventurous knight, unrecognized by anyone.

Waryn went on to win the tournament and marry the fair Melette, so could it be that the figure in the pub's Peverel painting is not Peverel at all, and has nothing to do with the Green Man either? That in reality it is actually a depiction of that portion of the early story 'Fouke le Fitz Waryn' when Waryn de Metz steps forth "clad all in green with ivy leaves" at the tournament of William Peverel, and that somehow this has all become confused, until the figure in the painting is now wrongly thought to be Peverel himself?

After all, why should William Peverel dress up as and give homage to the Green Man anyway? I've always found that supposed explanation of the painting to be as baffling as the painting itself. Also, his outfit looks far more like a leafy modern-day jacket than the full head-to-foot traditional costume normally worn by Green Man impersonators or personifiers - and isn't that a black bow-tie at his neck? Plus, as noted earlier, a suit of armour is clearly visible protruding below the jacket. Hardly typical Green Man accoutrements! In fact, the more I look at it, the less inclined I am to believe that this ambiguous artwork has anything to do with either William Peverel or Waryn de Metz – more an original work of fantasy or even satire, in fact, created by the artist's own imagination, in which he has combined elements from a number of different sources or inspirations. Curioser and curiouser, as Alice would surely have said if she'd encountered anything so abtruse during her dream journeys through Wonderland and Looking-Glass World.

 

Close-up of the painting's purple winged cat, or cat-like mystery beast, as photographed by Kristian Lander (© Kristian Lander)

Yet as if all of this is not bewildering and contentious enough, we now turn to the painting's biggest mystery of all. Namely, what on earth is that bizarre creature squatting alongside Peverel (or Waryn de Metz?) in the painting, and why is it even there?

Inevitably, when the photograph of this painting is enlarged, the creature becomes decidedly blurred as it only occupies a small portion of it. From what I can discern, however, it resembles a cat, with dark purple fur, and a pair of large white wings, as revealed above.

As loyal readers of my writings will know, winged cats really do exist, and I have documented many examples in various of my books and articles. Moreover, many years ago I discovered the explanation behind their bizarre appendages. In fact, such cats suffer from a rare genetic condition known as feline cutaneous asthenia (FCA), in which the skin on their body is abnormally stretchable (or friable, to use the strict scientific term). Consequently, if they rub their shoulders against an object, for instance, or stroke themselves with their paws, their skin readily stretches to yield fur-covered wing-like extensions, which can even be raised or lowered if they contain muscle fibres (click here for more details regarding winged cats on ShukerNature).

 

A report in Strand Magazine for November 1899 featuring a genuine winged cat, from Wiveliscombe, in Somerset, southwest England (public domain)

However, the wings of the anomalous animal in this painting are not furry but feathery, composed of typical avian plumes, thereby rendering it a zoological impossibility. Yet it does not call to mind any known form of mythological beast either. So is it meant to be entirely fictitious, perhaps nothing more than a most peculiar product of the imagination of this painting's unknown artist?

But why should the artist choose to include such an exceedingly odd yet also indisputably eyecatching creature in a depiction of a real, and very eminent, figure from English – and particularly Nottingham's – history? Wondering if it could conceivably represent some heraldic device associated with the Peverel lineage, I have explored this possibility in depth, but have been unable to trace any such representation. Worth noting, however, is that I did discover that the colour purple just so happens to be linked in a heraldic context to the wife of none other than a certain Waryn de Metz. Merely a coincidence…?

So there is the information that I currently have concerning this most enigmatic yet fascinating painting and its depicted subjects, but there is so much more that at present I do not have.

 

A feather-winged cat depicted on folio 174r of a 14^th-Century illuminated manuscript known as Maastricht Hours (public domain)

I know who the human figure is supposed to be (although whether this identity is actually the correct one remains unclear), but not why his face should have been based upon a decidedly bizarre, grotesque portrait by a 16^th-Century Italian artist. I have not the faintest idea what the magenta-furred, moggie-like creature with feathered wings that has also been included in this painting is meant to be, nor even why it has been included in the first place. And I do not know who the artist is who produced the painting, nor how it came to be on display at the William Peverel pub in Nottingham.

Consequently, gentle readers, I am turning to you now, in the earnest hope that some of you may have additional details that can provide answers to the above questions, ultimately yielding the missing pieces vitally needed if this veritable jigsaw of a mystifying illustration is ever to be satisfactorily completed.

My sincere thanks to Kristian Lander for making this extremely interesting painting known to me and for so kindly sharing with me his photograph of it.

 

Giuseppe Arcimboldo, self-portrait (public domain)

Finally: while on the subject of the folkloric Green Man, there is a second mysterious depiction that has intrigued me for even longer than the Nottingham painting investigated here. Back in the late 1980s or early 1990s, during the early days of my writing career, I was planning to prepare an article dealing with the Green Man (three decades later, and I'm still planning to do so...some day), and among the illustrations that I was very much hoping to include within it was a photograph of a sign outside a London pub named Green Man. This was because the Green Man depicted on that particular sign was totally unlike any representation of this entity that I'd ever seen (and still is today). Ditto for the latter's less foliate version, known as Jack-in-the-Green. In fact, what it did closely resemble was a bizarre humanoid insect!

I've only ever seen this particular photograph in a large hardback book entitled Mysterious Monsters, written by Daniel Farson and Angus Hall, and published by Aldus Books in 1978. Unfortunately, however, despite writing to both the authors and the publisher of this book, requesting permission to include the photo in my article and also for any information concerning which particular pub owned the sign in the photo (30-odd years ago, there were a fair few London pubs named (the) Green Man!), I never received any responses. Moreover, even numerous subsequent searches online and elsewhere have all failed to trace any details concerning it.

With pubs all over Britain closing down in great numbers during the past decade or so, it is very likely that this pub is no more, or has at least changed ownership and name – in either case meaning that the highly unusual insect-like Green Man representation on its sign has gone too. Nevertheless, just in case anyone does know which Green Man pub this sign belonged to, I'm including the photo of it below (on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use basis only), and would greatly welcome any information regarding it. Who knows – I may even get around to writing my Green Man article one day!

 

Highly unusual insect-like Green Man pub sign, originally belonging to an as yet unidentified London pub named Green Man (© owner unknown to me despite many attempts to discover their identity down through the years – reproduced here on a strictly non-commercial Fair Use basis for educational/review purposes only)

 

UPDATE - 18 January 2022

Today Kristian posted some additional information and photos on my Facebook wall following a recent return by him to the William Peverel pub in Nottingham.

 

The painting forming the subject of this present ShukerNature blog article of mine is still hanging on the wall there, and Kristian was able not only to snap a couple more photos of it but also one of the information plaque concerning it.

Interestingly, this plaque claims that William Peverel was reputedly the son of William the Conqueror as a result of a dalliance by him with the Saxon princess Maud Ingelrica whilst she was in Normany during 1046 AD, prior to her marriage to nobleman Ranulf Peverel. Moreover, I have read elsewhere that she was William the Conqueror's mistress. Conversely, as noted by me earlier here, William the Conquerer (who became William I of England) is not supposed to have sired any illegitimate children. So who is right and who is wrong?

 

 

Information plaque concerning the alleged William Peverel painting on display inside the William Peverel pub at Bulwell, Nottingham - please click to enlarge for reading purposes (© Kristian Lander)

The explanation given on the plaque for Peverel's green jacket is, I feel, decidedly fanciful, especially as it includes a mention of his quite literally fruity face while curiously omitting to point out that this has apparently been lifted in its entirety from (or at the very least directly inspired by) Arcimboldo's 'Vertumnus' painting .

As for the winged mystery beast depicted at Peverel's feet, this is referred to in the plaque as "a griffon, or something very like one". 'Griffon' is an alternative spelling of 'griffin' (so too is 'gryphon'), which is a legendary composite beast combining the body of a lion with the head and wings of an eagle, and appears frequently in heraldic devices too. Yet as far as I can discern, the head of the beast depicted in this painting does not seem to resemble an eagle's.

In short, its information plaque offers more questions than answers as to who and what are depicted in this painting, and why they are so depicted. Kristian, meanwhile, has contacted the pub in the hope of discovering more about the painting, in particular when the pub obtained it and who painted it. So if he is subsequently able to provide me with more details, I'll be sure to add them here.

 

Kristian's latest two photos of the Willliam Peverel painting (© Kristian Lander)

HOW TO LOSE A CHIMAERA, IN ONE EASY LESSON!

 

Vintage picture postcard depicting the famous Chimaera of Arezzo bronze statue; it was originally part of a group, with Bellerophon and Pegasus fighting it (public domain)

How to lose a chimaera in one easy lesson? Simply see it, then promptly forget all about it, until far too much time has passed to make amends. See, I told you that it was easy! Confused? I was too, for a while – but let's begin at the beginning.

The year was 1980-ish, sometime in that decade anyway. It was during an afternoon in the Midlands town of Stratford-upon-Avon, famous not only in England but also internationally as the birthplace of a certain playwright, one William Shakespeare, to be precise. I was there with my family, as this was a favourite visiting locale for us on Sundays, because unlike in many other English towns back then, most shops in Stratford were open on the Sabbath due its huge popularity with overseas tourists.

 

Chimaera fountain at Arezzo, vintage postcard, 1952 (public domain)

And so it was on that fateful afternoon that I found myself in a large two-storey shopping complex in the centre of Stratford's shopping area, a complex that specialized in antiques. Its very spacious interior was divided up into numerous stalls, each stall rented out to a different antiques seller, so it collectively offered a vast range of objets d'art, curiosities, and exotica of every conceivable kind – in other words, a fascinating place in which to spend time browsing, at least for anyone like me with a decidedly eclectic range of interests.

In one corner of the downstairs storey was a stall whose lady vendor could usually be found whiling away the hours by knitting as potential purchasers eyed her wares. I can still vividly recall spotting on the floor amidst some other figurines a Jack Russell terrier-sized black sculpture in metal of what seemed to me to be a somewhat odd-looking lion, with a spiky mane, unusually slender haunches, and a long tail that curved up over its back instead of downwards. There also seemed to be something peculiar sticking up from its shoulders, but as I wasn't overly interested in this ostensibly misshaped, confusing creature, I never bothered to peer closer to see what that 'something peculiar' was. Instead, my gaze fell elsewhere, peering at other items in her stall before moving on to various stalls nearby – this complex contained a great many stalls, so in order to visit all or most of them, it paid not to linger or loiter too long at any single one.

 

An inordinately elaborate chimaera, by Jacopo Ligozzi, created between 1590 and 1610 AD (public domain)

I thought nothing more of that strange-looking leonine statue for a long time, some years in fact, until one day I was idly flicking through a Larousse-published encyclopaedia of art that I'd lately purchased, and there, to my great surprise, was a photograph of a statue that looked exactly like the odd, spiky-maned lion that I'd seen during that long-gone Sunday afternoon visit to Stratford – except that it wasn't a lion after all. Instead, it was a chimaera (=chimera), and no ordinary chimaera either, always assuming of course that any chimaera can ever be considered ordinary. But what exactly IS a chimaera?

If you're unversed in Greek mythology, you may not have encountered the stirring legend of Bellerophon, Pegasus, and the Chimaera, so here are its edited highlights. The hideous semi-human monster Echidna had given birth to a number of horrific beasts, including the three-headed hell hound Cerberus, the two-headed monster hound Orthos, the many-headed Lernaean hydra, and the chimaera, which was yet another multi-headed horror.

 

An animatronic large-scale model of the chimaera (© Dr Karl Shuker)

This terrifying beast took the form of a huge lion, but unlike any normal member of the leonine pride, the chimaera bore a second head, in the form of a horned goat's, sprouting forth from between its shoulders or its upper back (recollections may vary, as I believe someone once said recently…?), and a third head, in the form of a venomous snake's, at the end of its long, ever-thrashing tail. Moreover, as if all of that were not already more than sufficiently deadly for anyone to deal with, the chimaera also breathed fire, jetting forth great flames of destruction from the jaws of its primary, leonine head.

In other words, this was an exceptionslly formidable beast for anyone to contend with, but most especially for the poor benighted inhabitants of  Caria in northern Anatolia, Turkey – because this is where the chimaera had taken up residence and was terrorizing the helpless populace, who had no answer to the perilous threat posed by an enormous monstrosity with three different heads and infernal flame-throwing capabilities.

Two vintage engravings of the Chimaera of Arezzo bronze statue (top and bottom); and a vintage b/w photograph of it (middle) – note the dedicatory inscription to the god Tinia carved upon its right foreleg (all public domain)

In such a dire situation, the usual plan of action is for the terrified locals to send out for a hero to dispatch their hideous persecutor, but in this instance they did not have to do so, because just such a man had already been sent there, by his scheming uncle, King Iobates of Lycia in Anatolia, who fervently hoped that his heroic nephew would be killed by the chimaera, thereby foiling a prophecy claiming that his nephew would kill him instead.

The nephew in question was a mighty, fearless warrior-hero named Bellerophon, who arrived in Caria astride his equally mighty, fearless steed. Nor was this just any mighty, fearless steed either – in fact, it was none other than the magnificent winged horse Pegasus, previously untamed, but whom Bellerophon had successfully captured using the goddess Athena's enchanted golden bridle while it was drinking from a sacred spring on the citadel of Corinth in Greece, unaware of Bellerophon's stealthy approach.

 

Bellerophon on Pegasus slaying the chimaera – from Walter Crane's A Wonder Book For Girls and Boys (public domain)

Riding Pegasus, Bellerophon swiftly entered into battle with the chimaera, but even though his winged steed possessed the significant advantage of flight, it was a long and physically grueling onslaught before Bellerophon and Pegasus finally wore down this immensely powerful monster's vast reserves of strength. Doing so, however, finally enabled Bellerophon to slay it, by firing a spear tipped with a block of lead down its throat, whose fire melted the lead, thereby suffocating the chimaera, and freeing the people of Caria from its tyranny forever.

Encouraged by his great success, Bellerophon then decided to attempt an even more daring feat – to fly up through the sky upon Pegasus until he reached the very home of the gods themselves, who had hitherto remained forever concealed from human eyes in their lofty cloud-shielded domain at the very summit of Mount Olympus. This was something that no mortal had ever even attempted before, let alone achieved, but Bellerophon was intent upon doing so, and promptly set off, riding Pegasus ever upwards towards the divine dwelling place of the Greek deities.

 

An exquisite illustration from 1914 of Bellerophon riding Pegasus (public domain)

Zeus, however, was far from pleased about this. He had watched with pleasure as Bellerophon had dispatched the dreaded chimaera, but now his brow was creased with fury, his eyes thunderous with rage, as he witnessed Bellerophon's blasphemous ascent through the skies towards their rarefied Olympian home. Suddenly, Zeus had an idea – he sent forth a biting gadfly, down towards Bellerophon and his winged steed. When it reached them, the gadfly savagely bit Pegasus on his rump – which caused him to rear up in shock and pain, throwing an unsuspecting Bellerophon off his back, who plummeted headlong back down to Earth.

Miraculously, however, Bellerophon survived, by landing on a thorn bush that cushioned his fall, but its thorns blinded him, and he spent the rest of his days wandering the land piteously like a beggar, in abject misery – a sorry end indeed for a former hero and slayer of monsters.

 

Modern-day photographs depicting both sides of the Chimaera of Arezzo bronze statue (public domain / Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 3.0 licence)

Back now to my afore-mentioned Larousse-published encyclopaedia of art, and the photograph that I had seen in it was of a bronze statue of the chimaera, which had been unearthed by construction workers on 15 November 1553 at Arezzo, an ancient Etruscan and Roman city in Tuscany, Italy, and which dated back to approximately 400 BC.

Nowadays known officially as the Chimaera of Arezzo, and widely deemed to be the finest example ever uncovered of ancient Etruscan artwork, this spectacular statue is believed to have been a votive offering to the sky god Tinia – the supreme deity in Etruscan mythology. It stands 78.5 cm (2.5 ft) high, measures 129 cm (4.25 ft) in total length, and after passing through several different owners and holding locations it has been on permanent display at Florence's National Archaeological Museum in Tuscany since 1870.

 

Apart from its bright red colour, this is an identical replica of the Chimaera of Arezzo bronze statue, and was cast by the Ferdinando Marinelli Artistic Foundry (© Piero Paoletti/Wikipedia – CC BY-SA 4.0 licence)

 

Modern outdoor chimaera statue in stone inspired by the Chimaera of Arezzo bronze statue (© Thomas Shahan/Wikipedia – CC BY 2.0 licence)

I now realized that what I had seen in that antiques stall at Stratford was a modern-day replica of this historically highly significant statue, a faithful facsimile of the Chimaera of Arezzo no less. Unfortunately, however, I hadn't realized back then what it was, so I hadn't thought to ask its price. True, the price may have been more than I could have afforded, but I’ll never know, because I never asked.

All that I do know is that in the 30-40 years that have passed since that monumental miss on my part, I have never once seen another contemporary reproduction of the Chimaera of Arezzo statue for sale, anywhere. But I live in hope…

 

My mother Mary Shuker and I being scrutinized by an animatronic chimaera at an exhibition of monsters held in Birmingham's art gallery during August 2008 (© Dr Karl Shuker)

Finally: The 2012 fantasy movie Wrath of the Titans, albeit playing fast and loose with classical Greek mythology as is Hollywod's wont,  contains an undeniably thrilling battle sequence between Perseus (as opposed to Bellerophon) and a winged chimaera - check out its sneaky serpentine tail in the following video clip: