Of all the eccentricities I have witnessed in the many years of my medical career, none were

more memorable than that of Mr Schuster and his dice. At the time I was stationed at a clinic in
the then small town of Orange, a job acquired through the knowing ears of my aunt. Gardened
by flowering plums and bordered by acres of crops, living and dead, it was the perfect
placement for a middle-aged doctor struggling through life. The clinic consisted of half a waiting
room, my desk, a small room stockpiled with various medical goods, and a lonely window
looked out at the scenery. The size didnt bother me at all, for the already small population of
Orange barely required my services, mainly leaving me in peace.

I had spent three months at the clinic when I was first approached by a Mrs Schuster. The
leaves had reddened, the weather had cooled, and I was writing a letter to my aunt in
Queensland when I was interrupted by a knocking at my clinic door. Come in, I had said,
quickly, yet not hastily, storing my letter in my desk drawer. A lady had walked in, short stature,
streaks of grey hair, heavy eyebags, and a limp, perhaps caused by articular osmosis.

Youre the new doctor in town. Not a question, a statement. Spoken firmly. I was just
wondering if you could take a look at my husband? Hes been down with a cold for a week now,
and hes been looking sickly. I nodded affirmative. Theres just one thing. My husband Tim
doesnt really believe in doctors. Believes in natural recovery. So I was wondering if you could
come under a different pretence, perhaps to inspect the walls of our house? A strange request,
but not one outside of my capabilities. Thus I had agreed, and as the door clinked shut, had
peacefully returned to writing my letter, all the while wondering what kind of a man Mr Schuster
was.

The next day, after a stroll through the town, I found myself at the requested address, briefcase
in hand, scenarios in head, fully prepared. The house was nothing remarkable, just like the man
who answered the door. Ah, you must be Mr Carlton, to look at the walls? a warm, gruff voice
had answered. Slight throat blockage. Sinuses didnt appear to be inflamed. Cheeks a bit paler
than normal. I was lead into the house, under the pretence of checking the walls for mould.
Soon, Mrs Schuster had called Tim to the backyard, and not a minute too late, for I had no
knowledge on the subject of walls or their various impairments. And thus I was left alone in the
dining room, to quickly, and hastily, write up a doctors report for a low level abraxame
acetanine, even though I doubted from his wifes assertions/descriptions that Mr Schuster would
partake in the medicine.

As if by a sixth sense, I knew that I was being watched. Looking upwards, I saw a child, under
10 years of age. Hi he had said in a small voice. Not sure how to reply, I had returned the
greetings accordingly. Hi. A padding of the steps announced the return of Mr Schuster. This
time I had a proper look at the man. A head taller than I was, solid but not muscular, clean
shaven. And most noticeably, had six dice strung around his neck by a strong sinew of cord.

Ah, I see youve met our son Martin. Shy one, doesnt talk much eh. So what about the walls,
any need repairing?
 I struggled to gather my thoughts. Nothing much, I had responded, and as much out of curiosity
as just simply attempting to avoid the topic of walls, I inquired as to the reason for the dice
around his neck.
Ah, thats a trade secret that is He answered. But I will let you know, that these are the last
dice to be cast in this game of chances known as life.
Before I could enquire any more into the strange customs of the man known as Mr Schuster,
his wife had returned. Ah, Doct- Mister Carlton. Allow me to escort you out, if you have finished
your inspection that is? A nod sufficed as a response, and soon we were out in the open air,
sky having darkened over the procession of the afternoon. He is alright, isnt he? Yes, should
be fine for now. If the symptoms dont leave, then call me up again, I had said, handing her the
doctors report.

It was not long before I was contacted again by Mrs Schuster again. Oh doctor, Tim really isnt
looking any better, he hasnt been out of bed for the past few days, and I bought the medicine
but he refuses to take any. Please talk to him. Again, for the second time, I had found myself
within Mr Schusters house. But try as I might, the man would not take the acetanine I had
brought with me. It disrupts the order, the order! he said Life is a game of chances, you play
by the rules, let life carry me where it deems fit! As the sun set, casting shadows through the
house, I had no choice but to leave and continue my persuasions another day, passing a silent
Martin on my way out.

In time however, it seemed the illnesses had passed naturally. Mr Schuster was up and about,
as energetic as ever before, as if the illness had invigorated his sense of purpose. Then,
disaster had struck. For the third time in my station at Orange, I was contacted by Mrs Schuster,
her hair flowing in the wild array known as disorder. Please, help. Two words were all that
were needed.

The instant I entered the house, I felt it, the air of a dying man, borne from a sense developed
from witnessing hundreds of medical cases. No time to waste, I was lead to the master
bedroom, in which Mr Schuster lay immobile, an almost serene environment. I began my
diagnosis. The man simply lay there, let my probing fingers inspect his condition. There was no
use lying. The man was dying. I told Mrs Schuster the diagnosis with a clenched stomach. Tears
fell. As if arising from a coma, Mr Schuster flung off his blankets with what energy he had, and
ripped off the dice around his neck. And in one fluid movement, as if he had practised his entire
life, cast them upon the table. I forget now the exact numbers they had shown. But as soon as
the fit of energy came, it passed, and Mr Schuster collapsed back into bed, sweat trickling down
his face. And the one who watched the scene from the corner of the room, padded away
silently.

Towards the end, it was if the house itself sensed the demise of its owner. Every day, I would
bring pain relief medicine, but every day, Mr Schuster refused. This was the natural order, he
would say. This was the way life was meant to be. Every day after I left, Mrs Schuster would
thank me for coming, and inevitably I would hear the clinking of dice as I stepped out. Twice
more I noticed the presence of Martin, each time however he would slip off before I could
properly observe him.

The day finally arrived when Mr Schuster was laid into the ground. The sky was covered with a
blanket of clouds, casting a miserable ambient light upon the scene. People who knew him
came up one by one to talk. And Martin stood in the shadows in a suit much too big for him,
observing the whole procession.

I wonder where he is now.