A Zombie Christmas Carol

by Michael G. Thomas; Charles Dickens

  Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, “Poor boy!” and cried again.

  “I wish,” Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: “but it’s too late now.”

  “What is the matter?” asked the Spirit.

  “Nothing,” said Scrooge. “Nothing. There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that’s all.”

  The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so, “Let us see another Christmas!”

  Scrooge’s former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about, Scrooge knew no more than you do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.

  He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly. Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head, glanced anxiously towards the door.

  It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in, and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him as her “Dear, dear brother.”

  “I have come to bring you home, dear brother!” said the child, clapping her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. “To bring you home, home, home!”

  “Home, little Fan?” returned the boy.

  “Yes!” said the child, brimful of glee. “Home, for good and all. Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home’s like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you’re to be a man!” said the child, opening her eyes, “and are never to come back here; but first, we’re to be together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the world.”

  “You are quite a woman, little Fan!” exclaimed the boy.

  She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied her.

  A terrible voice in the hall cried, “Bring down Master Scrooge’s box, there!” and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of “something” to the postboy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge’s trunk being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.

  “Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered,” said the Ghost. “But she had a large heart!”

  “So she had,” cried Scrooge. “You’re right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit. God forbid!”

  “She died a woman,” said the Ghost, “and had, as I think, children.”

  “One child,” Scrooge returned.

  “True,” said the Ghost. “Your nephew!”

  Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, “Yes.”

  Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battled for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lighted up.

  The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if he knew it.

  “Know it!” said Scrooge. “Was I apprenticed here!”

  They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement:

  “Why, it’s old Fezziwig! Bless his heart; it’s Fezziwig alive again!”

  Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:

  “Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!”

  Scrooge’s former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in, accompanied by his fellow-’prentice.

  “Dick Wilkins, to be sure!” said Scrooge to the Ghost. “Bless me, yes. There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear!”

  “Yo ho, my boys!” said Fezziwig. “No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let’s have the shutters up,” cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, “before a man can say Jack Robinson!”

  You wouldn’t believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into the street with the shutters—one, two, three—had ’em up in their places—four, five, six—barred ’em and pinned ’em—seven, eight, nine—and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

  “Hilli-ho!” cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. “Clear away, my lads, and let’s have lots of room here! Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!”

  Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn’t have cleared away, or couldn’t have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter’s night.

  In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with her brother’s particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them! When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, “Well done!” and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new
man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.

  There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up “Sir Roger de Coverley.” Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

  Mr. Fezziwig’s Ball

  But if they had been twice as many—ah, four times—old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig “cut”—cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

  As the party danced gleefully, a stranger entered from the darkness outside. He wore a long, scruffy coat and his face hidden in the shadows as he moved closer. Mrs. Fezziwig squealed with excitement as she ran from the dance to embrace the man. The old man looked as though he would be knocked backwards by the tumultuous force of the lady, but he managed to regain his balance after much effort. Separating just a fraction the man pulled down the hood from his coat to reveal the face of a hardened and toughened man. His eyes softened his face, he was immediately recognised by Mr. Fezziwig.

  “Mr Jenkins!” he cried in joy as he also moved closely to shake the man.

  “What a splendid surprise, we had no idea you were back,” he said.

  The visitor moved to the side of the room, chatting with the pair whilst the rest of the party continued their dancing.

  The Ghost beckoned Scrooge to follow as it moved closer to the little group, allowing them to overhear their discussion. Scrooge raised his hand in protest but the Spirit pulled him with a force that drained his ability to stand away from his legs.

  “The regiment has returned to England and I have leave for several weeks and I just had to spend the time to see my sister in this wonderful holiday,” explained the man.

  “You are always welcome in our home, sir,” said Mr. Fezziwig as he beamed with pleasure.

  “Thank you, it is good to be away from the barracks and in the company of civility once more,” replied Mr Jenkins with wry grin.

  The Ghost turned back to Scrooge, watching him intently as Mr Jenkins explained his recent activity on the continent and the progress of his regiment’s campaigns.

  “Mr Jenkins was a well-respected officer, when he died his funeral was attended by many, many people. He died with honour and respect.”

  “I know, I know,” said an irate Scrooge, “I read his obituary in the newspaper.”

  “Yet you failed to attend his funeral even though it was held such a short distance away from your own home,” said the Spirit dismissively.

  “Did you have no feelings or consideration for this man? Had you never spoken?” he asked, though Scrooge was convinced he already knew the answer.

  “Of course I knew him, Mr Jenkins was the man that showed me a sword for the first time,” said Scrooge.

  As he spoke the room spun and swirled, Scrooge felt he must have been drugged or injured in some frivolous manner. As the walls slowed, he noticed the party was still going on, but he was now off to the side and watching the young Scrooge talking to the old man. It was of course him and Mr Jenkins, the old soldier.

  The old man held in front of him a vicious looking sword, it was dulled and pitted from a hard life in Northern Europe. It reminded Scrooge of the swords he had read about as a young boy in Arabia with its curved blade, much like a scimitar. It certainly looked far from the weapon of an Englishman.

  “This is my old friend, my trusty cavalry sabre. We call this the 1796 pattern sword, designed for use by all the light cavalry, including my old regiment. It has served me well these many years. Here, do you want to hold it?” he asked whilst looking at the young man.

  The young Scrooge pushed out his hands in excitement towards the weapon and then stopped just before touching the steel. The soldier moved it towards Scrooge and then stopped just shy of a few inches.

  “Before you touch it I want you to remember this is a sword of war and not to be trifled with. I have carried that sword in many countries and used it in anger of several occasions. The marks on its blade are from training and war. It is a weapon that deserves your respect.”

  The young Scrooge nodded, asking but one question. “Is it sharp, sir?”

  The soldier laughed loudly as he handed the sheathed sword to Scrooge.

  “Indeed it is, though I am told even a dull blade will cut open a Frenchman!” he guffawed.

  Scrooge pulled the weapon slowly from its scabbard to reveal its blade and sharp edge. He placed the scabbard to one side and held up the tip towards the wall. Next to Scrooge, the weapon looked large and cumbersome. He lifted it up and tried to swing the weapon but he clumsily moved and nearly embedded it in the floor, much to the amusement of the soldier.

  “Good Lord! What has the floor done to you?” laughed Mr. Jenkins as he moved closer.

  “Here, let me show you something,” he said as he took the sword from his hands.

  The soldier held the weapon in front of him with the tip pointing towards Scrooge.

  “This sword is designed to be an excellent cutter. There are some that argue that the point and thrusting are the way to fight but you will be hard pressed to use this sword in that manner,” he explained, as he made several stabbing motions with the curved sword.

  “You see, a good stab may very well kill a man bit it usually won’t be right away. A man can still move forwards, and hack and stab at you whilst your sword is stuck impotently inside his body. You will observe the curved blade makes it move and cut quickly and effectively. Watch this,” he said, as he proceeded to make a serious of cuts that were so fast in speed and elegant in movement that it almost looked like a dance. As he cut, the sword moved in a series of circles so that the edge was threatening almost continually from many angles.

  “If I were on a horse I could strike down like this at the man’s arms or face,” he slashed down to one side and then to the other in quick succession.

  Scrooge stepped back in astonishment but with a grin that made his mouth look twice as large as it had been just moment before.

  The Ghost watched in a form of amusement as the older Mr Scrooge forgot where he was for a moment and moved through a series of cuts whilst holding an imaginary sword. The movements had returned to his mind and in just seconds, the old Scrooge was leaping from side to side as he delivered horizontal and diagonal cuts with his invisible blade. With each cut, his movement became more fluid and relaxed and with it, his cuts became stronger, faster and more accurate. After a full minute of practice, he stopped and looked directly at the Ghost before realising what he had just done.

  “Yes?” asked Scrooge, but the Spirit said nothing and simply turned to look back at the room and the dancing.

  When Scrooge looked back the old soldier was talking to his sister and the young man was gone, presumably busy dancing with the many others in the room. Scrooge looked through the group of people until he finally spotted his younger self, using a cane in the corner of the room. The young man was practicing almost the exact same movements that the elder Scrooge has been trying just mo
ments before though this Scrooge at least had something physical to swing.

  When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two ’prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.

  During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. Until today, he had completely forgotten about Mr Jenkins, yet his body obviously retained the memory and skills he had picked up in just those brief moments with the sword. After that event, he had been required to both train with and sometimes to even use a sword but it was this point in time where he had actually touched and held a weapon for the first time. In a way, it was a moment of transition for him and the start of his interest in the weapon. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear.

  “A small matter,” said the Ghost, “to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.”

  “Small!” echoed Scrooge.

  The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done so, said,

  “Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?”