The Scalpel and the Spade

 

Content Warning / Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

This story contains dark themes, including implied violence, crime, injustice, prison hardship, and mature subject matter. It is intended for adult readers only (18+). Reader discretion is advised. If you are sensitive to such topics, please proceed with caution or skip this content.

The Unforgiving Frost

It was a brutal winter that year, a winter no one had ever experienced. The ground was frozen hard by the cold; even the grass grew stiff. Everyone could be seen wearing triple layers of clothes, gloves, and nose masks, because breathing the cold air would make your lungs freeze. It was the kind of winter that made many people wish they lived in a warmer country.

A Shiver in the Cell

Pascal was in his cell trying to get warm. He nearly cried when he saw his breath misting. He huddled in his bunk and tried to use the thin blanket to cover his body, but it was no use. He kept rubbing his hands together to create warmth, but for all his effort, he knew it was useless as he kept shivering.

"This is beyond ordinary," he thought. He tried to flash back on his life, but the cold was too much for him to even think. He was brought back to reality when the guard banged on his cell door.

"Time to get up," the guard said as he opened the door.

"What for?" Pascal asked the guard as he tried to stand.

"How would I know? I was asked to get your sorry ass over to the yard."

"What! It is cold out there," he protested.

"Do I care? No. Just doing my job, now move it."

"But that weather would kill me," Pascal said, trying to put on a coat.

"The coat is not needed," the guard said. "Just your shirt and pants. No gloves, but wear boots."

"What! Are you trying to kill me?" Pascal asked him.

The Weight of Memory

"You're on death row and you're afraid to die, eh? Move it now."

Pascal froze as the memory rushed back to him. He had been trying to remember after spending ten years in prison, but it had been like a blur in his mind as he tried to recall the day he was sentenced and what had led him to prison in the first place.

A Surgeon’s Pride

He had been a surgeon, one of the best. He had been a proud man back then, appearing on the front pages of top magazines and newspapers for his prowess in the operating theater.

He remembered performing an operation on a pregnant woman who had twins in her womb. It was a very complicated procedure, and he had been proud when he emerged successful. The woman had been six months pregnant when one of the twins died inside her. He had performed surgery by bringing both twins out, removing the dead one, and putting the living one back in. If his memory was correct, that child would be twenty this year.

He was jostled out of his memory by the guard, who shouted in his face, "Move it! Or are your balls frozen, too?"

The Yard

Pascal was taken to the prison yard, which acted as a playground of sorts with recreation facilities and a basketball court at the far end. All the way there, he was harassed and mocked by the guard.

"Think you’re better than me?" Tim asked. "Just because you were a big shot back then doesn't mean I’m not a big shot now."

"I never said I’m better than you or anyone," Pascal said.

"So, because you’re educated, you think I’m beneath you?" the guard asked with a scowl.

"No. But if it pleases you, just know we are both in prison."

The guard snarled. "I’m not a prisoner, and I can go home whenever I want."

"Yeah, and that is just twice a week," Pascal replied. For that, he earned a slap to the back of his head.

"Shut it, murderer."

"I’m not a murderer."

"The court says so."

"I was framed."

"Yeah, and you were sent here to die."

The Task at Hand

They arrived at the yard to see three other prisoners and the warden waiting. "Took your time, eh, Tim?" the warden said to the guard.

"Sorry, boss. This one here caused the delay."

"No matter, he’s here now," the warden said, looking at them all. "Now that we are all here under this freezing weather—to be honest, I’d prefer to be home drinking hot coffee with a brunette by my side. Not too far, just a little perky."

The guard, Tim, laughed, but the four prisoners stayed silent. "You guys are no fun," the warden said as he handed a spade to each of them. "Clear the yard and dig a hole for a dais to be raised."

"What! Under this cold weather with no protection?" Pascal protested.

"Well, what do you think the spade is for?" the warden asked him. Pascal said nothing, only shrugging his shoulders. "That, my condemned friend, is your tool to keep you warm as you work."

Tim couldn’t hold back his laughter, slapping his knee with tears in his eyes.

"Boss, the ground is frozen. It’ll be difficult to break through with just a spade," one of the prisoners said.

"Ha! Too bad. I hope you’ll find a way."

"This is not right," another said as he struck the ground with the spade and watched it bounce.

"What isn't right? 'Silent Foot'—yeah, that was your moniker as you went about murdering people. Was that right?"

"Get on with your task, boys, and don't get frostbite while you’re at it," Tim said, chuckling.

Cruel Irony

The four condemned men watched the warden and Tim go. They looked at each other, no one saying a word, as they started the work.

It was hard and brutal labor. The ground was solid, and no matter how hard they struck with the spades, it was useless. They struggled to remove even a few inches of soil. It was a task none of them had ever performed, and soon their unprotected hands were bleeding. Silent Foot could feel the cold numbing his feet; he swore part of his lungs had already frozen.

Pascal couldn't penetrate even an inch of soil. No matter how he tried, the ground remained like solid rock—frozen and unyielding.

"Why are they making us do this?" one of the prisoners asked as he wept. It was bad enough being frozen, but adding blistered and bloody hands was a death sentence on its own.

"Don't you know?" Silent Foot asked the man, using all his willpower just to stay standing.

"Know what?" Pascal asked, breathing hard as he struggled to stay conscious.

"Why we were asked to build a dais."

"No idea."

"I overheard them saying it was for spectators," Silent Foot said with a grimace. "So they can watch from the platform as they finally carry out our sentences."

"Wait... are you saying we are building a dais for people to watch us get killed?" one of the prisoners asked, horrified.

"What an irony," Pascal said, as he...

The Weight of the Past

Pascal slumped to the floor, weeping.

A Surgeon’s Miracle

After he had saved that woman’s baby and the news had broken out, he had been on constant call. There was no day he didn’t perform a complicated surgery, and he had never failed.

He remembered a day he performed an operation on a woman who was seven months pregnant and suffering from fibroids. She claimed she had visited many clinics, but all had said they couldn’t do it; they were afraid and told her neither she nor the baby would survive. She had come to him as her last hope.

He had performed the operation by removing the child from her womb and placing it in an incubator. He then removed the fibroids, and once he was sure all the growths were gone, he put the baby back into her womb. Two months later, she delivered a healthy baby boy.

It was a painful memory. As he lay on the frozen ground weeping, he remembered the night it all crashed down on him.

How It Started

He had been working constantly and never had time for a social life. One day, he was coaxed by his friends to take a break and have some fun. They visited a club, but he couldn't remember the details because he had been so high.

He was woken up by the police in his own bed. Lying next to him was the body of the prostitute he had brought home that night—cold, dead, and with several of her vital organs missing. He was arrested and charged as an organ dealer. The police claimed they had received a distress call about screaming and shouting coming from his apartment; the caller insisted they could hear a female voice pleading for her life. All the evidence had been perfectly planted. His defense team tried their best, but he was fighting powerful beings.

The Offer

Before the tragedy, he had received a letter from an unknown group claiming he belonged to them. They claimed no one could be successful without their blessing, and those who defied them would regret it with their lives. The letter read:

Pascal,

Your exploits in the medical profession have been a great source of pride to us, The Bloody Raven. We are a secret society founded thousands of years ago, and we recruit people of your caliber into our ranks. Denying us comes with hard consequences. We reward those who are loyal; come join us by taking the blood covenant and see what true prosperity is like.

It had been signed with a single raven’s footprint at the bottom. He had simply laughed and torn the letter up. That was how his trouble had started.

The Executioner’s Stage

It was brutal work in the yard, and Pascal could no longer feel his feet. He cried, knowing he was building his own execution platform. He wondered how the spectators would feel, knowing the very boards they sat upon were erected by the men they had come to see die. It was a hard job; they had only managed to dig two holes in the ground before Silent Foot’s left hand froze. They had called the warden about it, but he had simply said, "He is already a condemned and dead man. I can't waste medical supplies on the dead when those who need them are still living."

There was nothing they could do but keep going. At one point, Pascal grew so angry he prayed the weather would simply take him—letting him die so his suffering could end.

After a few more hours, they were bundled back to their cells. Pascal slumped onto his bunk, weeping. He had done nothing wrong, but the system had condemned him. He had been a lifesaver, yet the system hadn't noticed his past service to humanity. They didn't care about the miracles he had performed in the theater; they saw only a murderer, an organ harvester. He cried harder, wondering how this could be happening to him.

He was distracted by a loud bang on his cell door. He looked up to see a guard beckoning him. Shivering and groaning, Pascal stood up and stumbled toward him.

"You the condemned doctor?" the guard asked, grinning.

Pascal remained silent. That was when he felt a sharp pain in his empty stomach. He groaned, clutching his midsection as he doubled over. They hadn't been given dinner even after the hard labor; the warden claimed they didn't need food anymore. "They just need motivation to finish the job," he had told them before sending them back. "If I were you guys, I’d make sure that platform is world-class. Make it look like a stadium. It would make you feel important and leave a lasting memory for the spectators if you decorate it well." He had laughed as he said it.

"I asked you a question," said the guard who had hit him.

"Yes, I am he," Pascal said, his teeth clenched tight.

"Now, that wasn't so difficult, eh?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Seems like you’re learning. Now, you’ve got a visitor. I’ll advise you on this: just agree with him, and your troubles will be over."

The guard pushed him toward the visitors' room. Pascal was shocked—a visitor this late at night? He had no one, so he wondered who it could be. And what did the guard mean by "agree with him"?

He kept silent as he was ushered into the room. He spotted a man he was certain he had never met before. The stranger was tall, wearing dark spectacles and a dark suit. Even his hands were covered in dark gloves. He wore a hat that made it difficult to see his face under the poor lighting. Pascal moved toward the man, who looked at him and sighed.

"Sit down, man," the stranger said in a thick New York accent.

The Man in Black

Pascal sat down, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "Who are you?"

The man sighed and shook his head for a moment. He looked at Pascal and said, "Listen very well. I am here to save you. I will do the talking; you are just to answer my questions."

Pascal nodded, but the man was not satisfied. "If you understand me, say: Yes, Raven Claw."

As the word "Raven" came out, Pascal froze. He was visibly shaking. He looked at the man, and all he could think about was jumping him—giving him the beating he deserved for everything Pascal had endured. It was because of this man’s organization that he was facing the gallows for a crime he had never committed.

"It was you?" he said, pointing a finger at the stranger.

"Don’t point a finger at me again," the man said in a voice that made Pascal cringe and wonder if the man was even human.

"Sorry... Raven Claw," he said, fearing the worst. He looked around the room and noticed they were now completely alone.

"Now, that is better. And for your information, I am not the one responsible for your incarceration. I only learned of your plight today, and here I am."

Pascal kept silent, not daring to say another word.

"Have you been treated well?" Raven Claw asked him.

"No."

"I am sorry about that. I am here to make you an offer."

"What sort of offer, sir?"

"Your freedom."

"And the price?"

"First and foremost, I want to apologize for the trouble you have faced. I was out of time."

"I’m sorry, Raven Claw... do you mean out of town?"

The man, Raven Claw, laughed—a silent laugh that echoed only inside Pascal’s head. "No. I mean out of time."

"But that is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible when it involves the Raven. Your profile is a high one; you have the potential for a leadership position in the near future. My subordinates made some nasty decisions, but no matter—I am here to make amends. But then, there is the price... if you are willing to pay it."

"I’m listening, sir," Pascal said. He would be glad to get out of prison and start a new life. He touched his palms; he could feel them throbbing. Despite the cold, they burned with pain, and even a slight flexing of his muscles hurt badly.

"Your soul will be the price."

"My soul?"

"Yes."

Pascal was torn by indecision. How could he give up his soul and condemn himself to eternal servitude? Yet, he had only a few days to live before the platform was complete, and he still had unfulfilled dreams. "Is there nothing else I can give apart from my soul?"

"There is, actually," Raven Claw said, twirling his gloved hands together.

"What is it?" Pascal asked, hope lighting slowly in his spirit.

"The souls of twenty-four virgin women."

"That is impossible! That is like condemning innocent lives!"

Raven Claw merely shrugged. "Your decision. I don't have much time here and must be off soon."

Pascal knew he had been beaten. He knew he couldn't provide twenty-four innocent souls—where would he even find them? It was a harrowing decision, but his life depended on it. He steeled himself and said, "I accept."

"Excellent," the man said, leaning in. "Now, look into my eyes."

The man removed his spectacles. When Pascal made eye contact, he stifled a scream. The man’s eyes were made of actual raven claws. As he stared into them, Pascal felt a searing, burning sensation in the center of his chest.

Once the man replaced his spectacles, Pascal looked down. A raven’s claw had been branded into the middle of his chest.

"Now, that concludes our business. You will be released in the morning, and someone will contact you."

The man looked behind Pascal. When Pascal turned to see what he was looking at, he felt a cold breeze hit his face. When he turned back, the man was gone.

Freedom Is Sweet

Pascal was released the next day just as Raven Claw had said. As he was led out of his prison cell and taken to the gate, he couldn't hold back the tears. Passing through the yard, he saw Silent Foot and the others at work on the platform they were building for spectators to watch them die.

"Life is cruel," he muttered as he wiped his blurry eyes with the back of his hand. The cold didn't affect him as much as it did when he was a prisoner.

"You are lucky, you know," the warden said as he personally led him out.

"What do you mean I'm lucky?" Pascal asked him.

"Well, you won't be a stiffy anymore, and I have some nice instructions for you."

"From who?" Pascal asked.

"Don't play dumb with me, or do you want to go back there?" the warden asked, pointing his thumb behind him.

"No."

"Then listen very well, buddy. You're free from prison, but not from your soul, and you have a duty to Raven Claw."

"Isn't it too early?" he asked.

The warden laughed a chilling laugh. "You are truly stupid. Anyway, here is the deal: you will be restored to your former profession, but there is a catch."

Pascal stopped in his tracks. Back to being a surgeon? He had only ever wanted to be a surgeon and help society. If the Raven was giving him back his identity... wait. He paused. "You said there is a catch?"

"Sure. If you want to be free from your soul obligations, you have to bring in fifty souls."

"That is impossible," Pascal said.

"Do you damn well think I care? I was asked to pass this to you, and however you handle it is none of my damn business," the warden said as he slammed the gate in front of Pascal.

Pascal stood there with his shoulders slumped. He thought he would be free for a bit, and now he had this hanging over his head. How was he going to give Raven Claw souls? He wondered if it would have been worth it for him to have died in prison rather than to be a slave to the devil.

An encounter with a true life divine protector: The Pink Sun