The Very Name of Christmas

by Martiele Sidles

  As he started up the steps to his rooms, he thought he heard his father's voice calling to him, voicing his name gently, over and over. He turned quickly at the sound, almost falling in his rush to locate the voice. No one was behind him, and no one near enough to have spoken. Shrugging to ease his neck, he continued on up the stairs, stopping at the doormat to set his key into the lock. As he looked down to step into the room, he saw his father's face on the doormat beneath his foot. He shook his head, and to eradicate the image he knew he did not see, he carefully wiped his feet.

  "I'm just tired," he said out loud. "Too tired. Such imaginings must be the beginning of a brain fever. I sound very like Uncle Ebenezer. I'm just so very tired." He stood staring at the fire, unable to gather the strength to take off his coat. After he stood so for several minutes, a sound caught his attention.

  Tim's roommate, the Honorable Jonathan Babbington, swung into the parlor from one of the back bedrooms. "Timothy, old fellow, you look the very devil! Have you been at it all night? Come and sit down. You look like you could do with a cup of tea and a bit of brandy." Jonathan's face creased into a deep frown, quite foreign to his usually smiling countenance. He hurried to move the fireguard and settled Tim before the warming blaze.

  Jonathan Babbington, called "The Carp" for carpe diem by his friends, was the house physician at Great Ormond Street Hospital to Tim's house surgeon position. He was an energetic man, black-haired, blue-eyed, 30 years old, unmarried, educated in England at the expense of his uncle, the Earl of Drummond, ever ready for any immediate and prolonged good time (hence the nickname), and best-suited for a lot less work than his fellows. Far from shirking his duties, however, he spent as many hours working as he did indulging himself. He was kind and generous, thoughtful and intelligent, but he firmly believed in what he laughingly called "living beyond his years and his means." An altogether delightful fellow and a very good influence upon our serious young Mr. Cratchit.

  Indeed, young Jonathan was a very good physician, responsible and dedicated, but he learned early to separate himself from the rigorously demanding work and the eternal, grinding hours of hospital service. His L35 annual salary could not, in any instance, fund his myriad and innocent pleasures but since his uncle, the Earl, dispensed endless largess from a bottomless wallet, he had no restricting concerns, numerous friends and an abundance of happy activities. His charm was endless, and his charity knew no bounds.

  Used to lighthearted merriment and the optimistic outlook of the upper classes, Babbington was forever trying to tease Tim into attending a play, taking a walk, visiting a museum or gathering a group together for country sleigh rides and skating parties. He had even organized a "musical" country weekend at the Earl's estates in Buckinghamshire, hoping to entice Tim into a well-deserved rest. All to no avail. Unusually tired and immoderately driven, Tim had grown ever more reluctant to socialize and ever more snappish as autumn had dwindled into the colder winter weather. He was taking old Mr. Scrooge's death very much to heart, and Jonathan was worried, not an emotion common to his ebullient nature. He saw, he fretted, and when Jonathan fretted, one should be worried! What WAS he to do? He wanted the old Tim back, with the old sparkle and joy. Where was the old Tim to be found these days? Jonathan continued to fret. Must look to today's Tim for the moment.

  After seeing that Tim had his tea and toast, Jonathan explained that he was off to hospital. "I shan't be gone above three hours, and when I return, I'm taking you off, bodily if I must, to Julianne's for dinner. Sir Humphrey is expecting us both and said he would be most unhappy if he did not see us at table this evening. So rest up now, old fellow, and be ready upon my return. Sir Humphrey's table is a byword among hungry physicians, and I myself would do him proud!"

  He swirled his cloak jauntily about his head, settled it securely and glanced at his friend. Tim's head had fallen back, his eyes closed, weariness etched into the carved planes of his face. Jonathan surveyed his friend carefully for several quiet moments, then patted the thin shoulder, tossed a bright woolen rug onto the chair and slipped quietly out the door, frowning as he went. "I shall find a way to fix him right up, so I shall," Jonathan muttered to himself. "He needs time for rest and renewal." Babbington could not be unhappy for long, and Tim heard a happy whistling burst from his friend before it faded away.

  Back in the rooms Babbington had just left, the fire flickered and crackled bravely behind the fireguard, trying to dispel the cold of a sober winter's day. Shadows gathered thickly, like gray cotton wool, to fill in the empty corners, and the clock ticked mercilessly into the air: tick tock, no time; tick tock, no time; tick tock, no time. Tim's weary body relaxed, and he slid into a deep, enfolding slumber, fraught with shadowed dreams and the hungry, vacant faces of London Town.

  Mortal sound evaporated as the clock stuttered softly to a stop, and the fire's flames died slowly to pale, glowing ash. Larger shadows gathered and dipped blackly, rose and fell, dissipated and thickened. Now one smaller, lightly grayish shadow detached itself from the silent gloom and advanced soundlessly into the room to stop beside Tim's chair.

  When it stood at his elbow, the shape resolved itself into the opaquely transparent figure of Mr. Bob Cratchit, still clad in his tailcoat and the tall hat he had loved to wear. A shadowy hand reached out hesitantly, drew back slowly, then reached forward again and brushed Tim's cheek. The voice, thin as woodsmoke on an early autumn breeze, whispered ever so softly, "Tim, my son, Tiny Tim. Awake and greet thy father."

  There was little response from the still figure in the chair, apart from an almost imperceptive sigh and a slight movement of the head.

  The misty specter seemed to gather deeper shadows to itself. Leaning forward once more, it whispered gently, "Tiny Tim. Son. I have been allotted but a little time to spend with you. Awake to my voice. Hear me again as you have heard in years gone by. Spend this time in listening to your father's voice with your ears and hearing it with your caring heart." A tiny movement in the air ruffled Tim's hair and brushed his face.

  Coming awake from the fearful world of his night mind, Tim's eyes focused slowly on the room around him. He noted the star that topped the little fir tree; Scrooge's gift, as yet unopened, lying on the mantle; and the motionless shadows of the room. Warm and secure, and he began to drift again. Suddenly a sound at his elbow caused him to turn toward it. The tired green eyes widened with shocked disbelief! What was it that stood so silently beside his chair, dressed and smiling, for all the world looking like Bob Cratchit, but not really like Bob Cratchit at all? What new horror was this?

  Tim shifted his weight from his weak leg so that he might rise to confront the misty vision his mind had conjured up out of despair and longing. On his feet, he turned unsteadily and spoke softly, peering calmly into the gloom, "What are you that you have disturbed my rest and stolen the image of Bob Cratchit, a man of goodness and charity? My mind rebukes your presence though my eyes perceive your shape. How come you here and to what purpose? Speak to me, and then be gone!" Tim stepped backward fearfully.

  "Tiny Tim. Tiny Tim, my son. It is I, your father, old Bob Cratchit come to plead your case with you. `Tis true, my shape is altered, but my heart is steadfast in love. Hear my words, dear son. Hear now as never before, with all your heart and all your strength. I was sent to bring you solace and to lead you back. I come to you in the guise of the "Spirit of Christmas Past." I come only to bring the peace of a heart filled to the brim with the satisfaction of living and the business of man. I would have you find the peace you seek, giving and taking, healing and being healed. Your heart must see the past to live in the present and walk toward the future. I am a guide, a messenger. Turn not from me, I beseech you." The spirit of old Bob Cratchit held out an imploring hand.

  Unconvinced, and inadvertently echoing Ebenezer Scrooge, Tim lifted his hand and replied, "I hold starving, dying children in my arms and help to deliver their wretched mothers of tiny, malformed corpses. The plight of mankind determines my business: their te
ars and pain, their blood and despair, their putrid flesh and dying bodies. Seek not, Spirit, to tell me my business. MANKIND is my business." He drew himself up, sternly and with pain.

  The spirit before him shimmered slightly.

  "Tim, my son. Hear my voice, remember with your heart the days of the past. Think ye on the smiles of your mother, the laughter of our house, the joy in the warmth of your kitchen corner. Think of other days and other times. Hear other sounds, see other scenes. Watch now with me."

  As he spoke, the spectral figure of Bob Cratchit stretched out his right arm, lifted it slowly and pointed to the wall above the mantle over the fireplace. The wall, the mantle and the fireplace wavered and blurred to a large, opaque white surface on which pictures began to appear, slowly at first. The sounds emanating from the pictures above the mantle caused Tim to turn. What he saw left him speechless with awe and dismay.

  The wall's surface glimmered with the light and laughter of Christmas morning, the one before Uncle Ebenezer had descended on them, bearing gifts and a very large, and very bare, turkey. All the family was present: Martha, Belinda, Peter, Mary, John and Tim himself, still getting used to his new crutch. He had been terribly ill all that summer and autumn, only regaining some strength in the early days of the cold wintertime. When he finally felt like entering into his family's activities it was found his leg had stopped working, so he dragged it behind him painfully, unable to run, or even walk, with his fellows.

  Silent with shock, Tim wept heartbrokenly for days. Mrs. Cratchit held him and patted him, crying when he slept and could not see her. But his father, with the kindest heart and best practical sense, went out to find branches that could be cut and lashed together to make the best crutch in London. Bob Cratchit had worked tirelessly after dark, cleaning and polishing those branches, to make the crutch for Tim, and he had showed Tim how to use it so that he could still move more quickly than all the other boys and defend himself as well. Tim was overjoyed but still gladly accepted a jolly pick-a-back ride whenever his father offered it. The blackest days had lightened, and Tim began to be ever so grateful for the blessings that remained.

  Now, as the shadows lessened around him, the older Tim could see the family gathered around the table, sipping Christmas punch which was "the envy of the old Queen herself!" as his father was fond of saying. His mother was smiling as usual, with a special smile somehow for each child and another for Bob himself. Little sustaining food burdened the table, but a very tiny gift for each child lay near the small Christmas wreath. No great green trees for the Cratchits. No sir! But next to each plate was a penny-bag, to be opened at table right after the blessing was said. Jack Grocer sold them to Bob each year for the bargain price of seven for fivepence, one for each child and one filled with nuts for Mrs. Cratchit. There were a few nuts, usually a whistle, a ball or cracker for the boys, and thread, a tiny doll or a few beads for the girls, with two sweets for fun, just enough to keep everyone occupied for the meal and the anticipation running high. Bob Cratchit's benevolent and loving face had smiled upon them all, happy, comfortable and well-satisfied. Mrs. Cratchit smiled up at him, her eyes filled with love and pride.

  Tim observed that long ago Christmas Eve, inhaled the smells, tasted the punch and felt his mother's lips on his forehead. He could hear the crackle of the penny-bag under his fingers. A tiny smile began at the corner of his mouth, traveled slowly up his face and finally reached his eyes. As he turned to the specter once again, his attention was waved back to the wall.

  Uncle Ebenezer's happy face mingled with that of his nephew, Fred, and his nephew's wife and their three lovely daughters. Tim had accompanied Scrooge, on his only Christmas home from university, to visit his nephew's home and distribute handsome gifts to all that loving family. He remembered the joy on Fred's face when he welcomed Scrooge into the house. He saw again the tears on Fred's wife's cheeks and the way she lifted it for Scrooge's kiss, her lovely gray eyes shining.

  "Uncle Ebenezer!" Fred had cried. "A very Merry Christmas to you, Uncle, and none of your humbug this year!" Fred had laughed delightedly with his merry eyes wide, and Alicia, his lovely wife, had hugged Scrooge to her joyously. The three girls swarmed over Scrooge like bees over spring heather, planting kisses while he laughed "Humbug!" at each and every one of them. The girls nestled close to his side the entire evening, laughing, telling stories and sharing their lives and hearts with him. It was a jolly evening, filled with laughter and good cheer. Uncle Ebenezer had been so very happy, held close in the heart of the family he loved and cherished.

  When they finally left, Fred, Alicia and the three girls had followed them to the door, laughing and talking and wishing them a Merry Christmas. They then proceeded to watch them out the window until they were lost from sight, waving and laughing all the while. Scrooge had smiled hugely all the way home, occasionally chuckling at a childish confidence kindly remembered.

  As the scene shifted to the last Christmas he had celebrated, Tim heard the spirit say, "Take heed. Take heart."

  Julianne's face stirred into life on the white disk of the wall. She was wearing a deep emerald green gown with a matching ribbon wound into her glowing hair, standing close to the large Christmas tree in her father's booklined parlor. Her hand tilted the diamond ring on her left hand this way and that near a fat red candle fastened to the tree. The stone shone catching the warm glitter of the Christmas atmosphere. Turning as if to look at someone near her, she gazed directly into Tim's eyes.

  "Merry Christmas, Tim, my love," she whispered. "It is true that you are a part of all mankind, but accept that you are only a part. Do all you may, but do not worship at the altar of Dread, for there is the way of despair and madness. Worship not at the altar of Self-Righteousness. Remember me, and remember joy. God rest ye merry. Merry Christmas, my love." The beautiful russet-haired woman smiled sweetly.

  That was the smile he remembered, the beloved face that spoke of love, peace and completion. His heart rested quietly a moment, but perhaps just a moment too long. The picture faded, the wall reappeared, the fire again glowed softly.

  He swung about to the silent spirit of old Bob Cratchit and moved toward him. His face reflected indignation and annoyance.

  "You have not brought me peace, Father, spirit or whatever fell creature you may be. You bring pity, you waste my time, you dissuade me from my work. You mock my calling. I am a realist. I will have no communication with such as you. Seek not to tell me my business; mankind is my business! Now be gone!" He reached out to dispel the shadowed spirit.

  "Touch me only at your peril," whispered Bob Cratchit with infinite sadness. "Whence I am come, you cannot follow. As the ledger stands now, your debit side is full, your credit side soon to be empty. Keep from me. You are not blessed to follow where I go. See to the accounts of those who love you. Balance the ledger; invest the coin of life with those who will better your investment tenfold. Fail herein, and lose everything. No compensation can redeem love lost. Bless you, my son, and it would serve you well were you to greet the next of my kindred with sweeter grace."

  The specter of his father rose upward, slowly gathering height and strength until it touched the ceiling. It reached down one last time to caress Tim's hair, then slowly evaporated into a soft shining mist that settled over the little fir and was absorbed into the light given off by the small gold star on top. Somewhere a clock struck the hour - bong, bong, bong, bong, bong.

  Tim staggered to his chair, sat down abruptly and spoke very clearly into the warm air, "Time, never enough time. Be gone to the stuff of dreams! Benighted time! I must have time! Does no one understand? Time will inspire. Time will heal. I WILL heal them all!"

  He raged at the world, at God, at everyone and everything but himself. In his rage and his despair, he determined to become better, stronger, more knowledgeable. He would persevere, and he would conquer time. He raged until he heard the little marble-faced clock strike the half-hour, then he scooped it up and smashed it in the fireplace. />
  He stood shaking, his hands over his eyes, breath coming in ragged wisps. His heart beat wildly, and the vein over his right temple throbbed. His stomach lurched moments later when, lifting his head, he watched the pieces of the little clock as they fastened themselves back together one bit at a time. Then the clock gave one last little shake and turned its face to him, "Time is Fancy; Time is expendable; Time is redeemable. Love is real; Love is precious; Love is unending. Better to rest firmly in love's realm than slowly die in the wasteland of time." Slowly and solemnly, one hand of the clock was raised to salute him smartly. Time. Time. Time. The clock moved to lie down upon the hearth rug and proceeded to rewind itself, ticking softly as if muttering.

  In shock, completely exhausted and ever more worried that he might be ill and subject to hallucinations, Tim fell back into the chair and listened to the softly emerging sounds of the room and the tiny "tick tock," "tick tock" of the previously battered little clock until he fell asleep once again.

  Final waking words issued from his lips as he moved across the border of wakeful reality and into the land of dreams. "Spirits. Humbug! This is all just humbug." He would go to the hospital tomorrow; he would work and heal and toil for the poor. All this would be forgotten. He would conquer the days and weeks and years ahead, triumphant in this savage war for his reason.

  He turned his face into the wing chair's cushioned arm, his spirit and heart erased of humanity and grace by the very humanity he so loved, and he slept. A loving face shimmered briefly above his chair and vanished.

  Outside his lodgings, brittle snow swirled, completely muffling the face of London. A white-frosted, spectral stillness settled over the city, hastened by the onslaught of winter's bleak destiny. Sluggish and calm, the Thames river froze solid, and the heart of the old city slowed to a standstill, but while all remained quiet outside in the great city, fear and want raged within.