Dr. Willard and the Unorthodox Cure

Dr. Willard
and the Unorthodox Cure
a SteamPunk Victorian Era fantasy

It was a foggy night in old London towne.

One would gather that this atmosphere, with the air dense and nebulous, was the perfect sort of night to concoct such an escapade as one Dr. Thaddeus Willard had in mind. I had first met Dr. Willard years ago during a symposium discussing the finer arts of cycling. The man had an odd attachment to his safety bicycle and had the preposterous notion of introducing to the London countryside a quad-cycle. I remembered his proposition finely, and it was his outlandish thoughts and ideas that had driven me to seeking him out when my own health had begun to fail.

My lungs were the cause of much pause and pondering from every physician I had attempted previously. The length of my remaining days seemed to vary depending on whether the physicians felt generous or not. So it was that I scribed a letter to Dr. Willard expressing my interest in a proper diagnosis from a proper physician with certain unconventional methods and ideals.

You see, Dr. Willard tried a multitude of treatments before we found ourselves out in London’s Cheapside on the aforementioned foggy night. Everything from a foul tasting, unusual side effect inducing alchemist’s potion – and I will not go into great detail of the sudden onslaught of warts or the unusual placement thereof – to a rather bulky and unorthodox steel lung I would lug around behind me, tearing up the cobblestones in my wake.

So it was during our foggy night that Dr. Willard pulled me out of bed in nothing more than my night dress and a frock coat and hobbled me along to Cheapside.

“I have it this time, Henry,” Dr. Willard exclaimed, a rather peculiar look to his eye. “Your cure, my boy, lies within the palm of my hand.”

Now it was that Dr. Willard withdrew his hand from his petticoat pocket and displayed to me a set of dice like none other I had come across in my meager years of existence. They were of bronze make, with beaded jewels to symbolize the numbers on each of their six sides. They sat, illuminated by pale lamplight, in the palm of his hand and I could not help, mind you, but wonder how it was my cure would lie in these dice. Dr. Willard, though unconventional, had never led me astray before. Normally, I am a man of good faith. But I could not see reprieve from an expiration date written on the sides of these dice.

Pausing in my steps, I straightened the nightcap on my head and cleared my throat. “I do say, Thaddeus,” as I called him by his informal name in times of informal matters, you see, “If it were not for the lack of smell on your breath, I would not hesitate to guess you have been drinking.”

Dr. Willard, being the good man he was, huffed and clapped my back with his free hand before pocketing the dice again. “Never you mind, Henry my boy,” he said. “After tonight, you will be a healthy, strapping man.” If Dr. Willard saw the doubt in my eye, he chose wisely not to comment on it.

Leading us deeply into Cheapside, Dr. Willard paused when we reached a darkened alley. Men of all sorts and statures crouched about the brick enclave, turning cards and rolling dice and even betting on the length of leaping toads, of all things. “How peculiar,” is how I voiced my confounded state of mind at the sight of these sinful gamblers.

Standing among them all was a dark clad man in top hat and jacket. A cane hung from one arm, hooked into the crook of his elbow. A mask hid his face, eyes invisible behind pale gold lenses, a grate over his nose and mouth. He looked rather odd to me, in my sleepy state, but there was no doubt he was the ringleader of this gambling carnival. Dr. Willard was aware of this as well, apparently, as he pulled me straight over to the man and presented me like I was a fine catch or find.

“Hallo, fine sir!” Dr. Willard exclaimed to the man, just a mite too loud and excited for the group of ruffians and, most probably, drunkards gambling in the enclave. “I am Dr. Thaddeus Willard and this here is my young cohort, Henry Miles.” Here, he held his hand out to me and I gave the strange man a foolish, lopsided grin. The man dipped his head, slightly and slowly and the grin faded from my face. The motion was both unnerving and awful.

Dr. Willard cleared his throat. “Well,” he huffed at the silent greeting and clapped me on the shoulder again. “Henry here would like to play you in a game of dice.”

I blubbered a little bit, floundering for a moment before looking at Dr. Willard’s face. “I am?” I asked, for this was news to me.

Dr. Willard nodded. “Yes, Henry,” he said, as if he were teaching a lesson to a child. “Quiet now.” He turned back to the masked man. “Though, it isn’t coin he wishes to bet.” Dr. Willard chuckled at some inside joke here and I got the impression he had been here before, perhaps for other ailing patients he’d brought out this way. “What say you, my good man, to a bet of years?” The masked man turned his golden lenses to me, appraising me for a moment before nodding his head again, a slow and downright bloody creepy motion. Dr. Willard let out a laugh, pulling the dice from his pocket. “Spot on!” he called, handing the dice over to me.

Crouching down, I glanced at the masked man and gave a nervous tic of a laugh. “I am chagrined to admit, I am unaware of how this works, rightly.”

The masked man tipped his head to the side and then, with the cane on his arm, traced an unusual looking number into the dirt on the ground. It read “25” and I wasn’t sure just what I was betting. The concept of years had sailed straight over my nightcap and I glanced up at Dr. Willard, who nodded vigorously at me.

“Take the bet, boy,” he urged me, pointing a stubby finger at my face. “You will not get a better one.”

I shrugged. “My next step is to roll?” I asked, looking up at my dear mentor.

“Have you never played a decent game of dice before, Henry,” the man asked, pointing to the dice in my hand. “Three rolls. If you roll a seven of any of the three, you win. If not, you lose and you pay the man.”

I scratched at the morning stubble against my chin. “I am afraid I do not quite comprehend the bet…” I started.

“Just roll the dice!” Dr. Willard crowed, shoving my shoulder. I clucked my tongue and let the dice loose. They clicked and clanked over the dirt and the brick and settled down with a five and a six facing upwards. I squared my jaw and grabbed the dice up again, looking to the masked man. I gave another nervous laugh, a tic of mine, you see, and rolled again. This time, it was a two and a three. Sighing, I grabbed the dice a third time, thinking I was at a loss.

As the dice left my fingers, I felt a strange prickling sensation and I watched as they rolled awkwardly along the ground before settling onto a five and a two. I let out a small whoop, quite unsportsmanlike, I must admit, but one that could not be helped.

The masked man nodded his head, ran his hands along the dirt, smearing out the number before he stood, moving on to a different game. I quirked an eyebrow and Dr. Willard helped me up, before guiding me out of the enclave.

“Success, Henry!” he exclaimed, as we rounded the corner.

I shook my head. “I am afraid I’m unaware of our success,” I told him.

Henry clapped my shoulder, pulling a small numbered controller out of his pocket. “Magnetic dice,” he said. “It works every time.”

I frowned, a peculiar sense of dishonesty coursing through my chest. “We cheated,” I said.

“Tell me, Henry. Does your chest hurt?” I opened my mouth to tell him it didn’t matter, I was not a cheater, but I realized that no, in fact it did not hurt. I rubbed a little at my chest and looked back at the doctor, who was grinning like the amazing mad man he was.

“I am at a loss, Thaddeus,” I told him. “What did we just do?”

Dr. Willard laughed, pocketing the dice and their controller. “Henry, my boy, we’ve just cheated death.”



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Word Count: 1,472
Written for "The Steampunk Boiler Room"   by Beck Firing back up!