A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) by Damien Tiller

the dirty
sheets.
    A light shone in the hallway outside and Harold could just
make out the silhouette of another door close by. If that was another
ward then this was not some small practice but could be only one of a
few places. As the darkness lost its power over his vision Harold began
to see in monochrome the room around him. He could tell there were
other beds in the large room and along the walls. Harold could just
make out an assortment of jars, no doubt containing leeches or body
parts in formaldehyde. A small table sat next to his bed and Harold
could see a jumble of shiny tools on it that looked more like something
a carpenter would use than a doctor. The sheet that covered him was
dirty so Harold dropped it to the floor, relieved to see he still had all his
limbs when it fell from him. He was surprised that there were no
candles or gas lamps in the room, the only logical reason Harold could
think of was that he was the only patient in the room and he had been
out cold so there had been little point lighting the room for his benefit.
That did make him wonder if the doctors had actually planned for him
to wake up or had they just left him here until a dead collector came
around.
    At that moment something flickered causing a brief shadow
to darken the light outside in the corridor, it cast a deep phantom that
engulfed the whole ward in blackness. His heart leapt to his throat and
Harold hoped that it was just the wind blowing out a candle. Harold
thought of calling out but his throat was so dry that not even a squeak
escaped. He really needed a drink but the taste of smoke and the awful
smell of the spilt spirits still haunted him. The shadow receded but
Harold could hear footsteps clapping against the flagstones outside in
the corridor. The disturbance to whatever source of light that dimly lit
the walls around him had not been the wind as Harold had hoped.
Someone was coming this way. The light grew brighter as the candle of
the intruder to his thoughts grew ever closer and Harold got a better
look around the shoddy ward.
    A wardrobe was open at one end below a barred window and
inside it hung six pure white nurses’ uniforms, including their silly hats
worn to keep their hair from falling into open wounds. The beds
around him were empty and some had the sidebars up, turning them
into odd-looking cots. The floor was surprisingly clean and partnered
well to a bucket and mop that looked to have had a lot of use. They hid
in the corner next to two peeling, white tables, similar to the one next
to his bed. Being able to see in colour in the light was pointless. Other
than the whites in the room, the only other colour around him seemed
to be gray. The floor was a gray, the walls were plastered gray and the
only hint of colour was a limp plant sitting isolated at the other end of
the ward and the odd stain on another of the beds that Harold didn’t
want to think about. Harold glanced to his right and took a better look
into the tools the surgeon had placed next to him. They were not, as
Harold first thought, just tossed on the table but were displayed rather
neatly. It was their strange shapes and jagged edges that gave them a
cluttered look in the dark. The tools themselves had fine ivory handles.
The fact that each one seemed to end in a point or blade, and a large
wooden hammer around the size of his fist sat next to them, meant
Harold didn’t want to stay long enough to see them being used. His
attention left the macabre tools as the footsteps stopped outside the
room. The door slid open and Harold prayed it was someone coming
to tell him he was fine and would be going home soon. As the door
opened a self-assured man strutted in and made straight for Harold’s
bed.
    The visitor was full of confidence. The only other people
Harold had seen that cocky were the constables. As he got closer,
Harold began to make out the blue of his uniform, confirming his
suspicions that it was indeed the law and Harold