The Very Name of Christmas

by Martiele Sidles

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SECOND SPIRIT

  Dawn crept with ashen visage, over the rooftops of London as if to prohibit its release from warmer climes. Profound grayness echoed in the wisps of sullen fog that hung round the spire of St. Paul's, and in the early morning faces of the fishmongers and flower sellers making their way slowly to the great predawn markets. Lights appeared in various establishments one by one, but none were bright enough to cast away the monotonous pall from around the doorways and windows in the cruelly chill December morning. Those who could stayed within doors.

  Albert, Tim's street urchin friend, waited hopefully outside the doors of Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children. A handout was the last thing on his mind, and anyway, nothing that good could happen twice in as many days, Christmas or no. Something else had nagged him all through the night as he tried to get comfortable in the back alley of the baker's shop, hard by the ovens.

  A streetwise child in Victoria's London, Albert found it difficult to recognize the emotion that had left him wakeful and anxious. Fear had not been his companion for many a day, but he found it beginning to walk with him again on behalf of the kind doctor from yesterday. While he could not define what he had seen, Albert understood what registered in the young doctor's eyes: fear of loss, fear of not achieving the mark, the desperate fear of losing oneself in the need of others. Whether one failed at stealing enough for food for his younger brothers or saving the life of a sick baby, failure was all the same. It ate at your heart, stole away the happiness you could feel inside whether you were a rich man or a poor undernourished brat working the streets.

  Albert knew well that the young man who had given him sixpence and admonished him to "eat it all before he went home" was in the direst of consequences. Having met with this kind of generosity so rarely in his young life, the boy determined to find a way to repay the doctor, more for his compassion than his sixpence. Jimmy and Joe had eaten their best dinner in many hungry weeks, and their joy in the care of their big brother had reduced him, the man of the family, to tears! Didn't seem right somehow when he was only doing his bit. Now it was time to pay for the happiness given.

  Albert Porter had positioned himself on the steps of the hospital. He had been there since the freezing night had given way to a cold, smoky dawn, but there was no sign of the young doctor. With little else to do, he sat watching the street and waiting calmly.

  Inside the hospital, in Sir Humphrey's office, the great man himself, friend to West and the Jenners, stood over Tim, who slumped dispiritedly in a tall chair. Anger and outrage were visible in every movement of the older man's body, but not perceived by the exhausted young man was the compassion filling his heart. Sir Humphrey's voice was soft, but his words were not.

  "Timothy, this must stop, and it must stop immediately! I cannot, and I will not, have one of our most promising young surgeons abusing his talents, destroying his health and endangering his career! It is unthinkable, absolutely unthinkable. You have forgotten or ignored invitations to my home, and my daughter moves through her day with a brave face and a sorrowing heart. Just look at yourself. You are gaunt from lack of food, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and you move about as if pursued by avenging spirits!" The big man glared down at the disheveled hair, the stooped posture.

  Startled into motion, Tim jerked his head up, eyes wide, and spoke softly, "But sir, there is so much to do, so many lives to save, so many people to cure, so much despair that must be assuaged! There is so little time, never enough time. I give little thought to my own comfort, little time to anything but my work. Look around you, sir. See the degradation of poverty, the dehumanizing capacity of disease, the faces of the children. Just look about you! Can you not see that there is much to be done? That I must . . ."

  Sir Humphrey held up a restraining hand. Turning away from Tim and glancing at a portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall, he urged quietly, "Timothy, if you bankrupt your soul, your concerns and talents may be sold to the highest bidder. West and Jenner have given their lives to their work and still managed to visit friends, spend time with their families, beget children and even go for a day in the country. That they work for the poor in public and weep for them in private is to their credit. If either of them behaved in the manner you have chosen, they would long ago have destroyed the very work that captured them, heart and soul.

  ”Mark my words, and mark them well, young Timothy. You cannot take the work of God from God and expect Him to approve your plans. I wonder what has given you the arrogance to assume that His work needs your hands. You may not, indeed cannot, assume the burdens of Divinity. As a mortal man, you are only capable of so much, no matter how brilliant the talent or great the potential. On your present path you can never achieve anything more than pity and pain. You would do well to gain friends and colleagues who by their stature might command the powers in this city for the funds to change the laws to right the wrongs you repudiate so strongly. Why suffer all alone, young man, when proper use of your talents can bring you peace and rally others to your cause? The mire of your emotion has prevented you from thinking." Sir Humphrey turned back to Tim, his face stern and uncompromising, his own tender heart stricken by the pain and exhaustion before him.

  "But sir," Tim cried, past caring, "our business supposes improvement in the lot of mankind. I . . ."

  "Seek not to tell me my business, young Timothy Cratchit. Mankind IS my business. YOU are part of my business. Drink a large glass of brandy and sit by the fire until you are sleepy enough to doze. Then go to bed. Do not, I repeat, do NOT return here tonight, and do NOT come here tomorrow. I shall expect you for dinner tomorrow on Christmas Eve WITH a gift for Julianne in hand, six o'clock sharp. After you have slept, I expect you to spend sufficient time pondering our conversation. When next I see you, we shall have cause to speak again. Think hard on my words, Timothy," he said, pointing to the door. "Consider them well. Your future may depend upon them."

  Tim raised his head, his passion spent, and took a breath, preparing to defend himself more rationally.

  "NO!" said Sir Humphrey with finality, "No more from you now. Just go." He turned his back on Tim to extend his perusal of the Queen's portrait.

  Tim arose slowly and painfully, turned and moved quietly out into the hallway. A nursing sister, stopping to ask if he required a cab home, admonished him to get some rest so he would be prepared for the Christmas festivities ahead. She craned her head to observe his pale young face.

  "Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Cratchit, a very Merry Christmas!" Patting his arm gently and checking the small timepiece pinned to her collar, she made a soft huffing sound, smiled and went on about her duties. Such a kind young man, she thought, but perhaps a bit too dedicated? None knew better than she that respite was needed from their daily rounds; she just hoped the young doctor would find the time for some rest. He was immediately forgotten as she made her way into a large room filled with sleeping children. Tim plodded wearily down the hall, through the doorway and out into the street.

  Albert shot off the step and leaped forward, landing squarely in front of the young doctor.

  "You're looking right poorly, sir. Mind if I see you home? I've been waiting for you these two hours past and wondering if I might be of service? I've a bit of time on my hands, and I'm strong." Albert grinned up at the him, his grin fading when he noted Tim's white face and blank stare.

  "Here, sir," said Albert worriedly, "are you sick? Let me help you." He moved to take Tim's arm.

  Tim looked through Albert for a long moment before his eyes focused on the boy's concerned face. The eyes registered nothing.

  "I'm so very tired. I must get home. I must rest." He looked wildly in the direction of Oxford Road and staggered forward erratically.

  Grimly, Albert took his arm and began to talk quietly about his own life in London, all the while inserting queries for directions to Tim's lodgings. He moved slowly, conscious of Tim's limp and air of vague preoccupation. Had our young docto
r Timothy been in a more conscious state, he would have learned about Albert's seamstress mother, who worked all through the hours of precious daylight to earn enough money to rent lodgings and occasionally feed her children; of his younger brothers, one a sweep's apprentice and one a mudlark, a child of the Thames' varying tides of fortune. He would have learned of Albert's struggle to find odd jobs to help with the family's earnings and would have found that Albert was one of the best London guides around the city. But Tim learned nothing of the story; he simply answered all questions put to him with a nod or shake of his head. Albert moved doggedly onward, clutching Tim's arm more tightly.

  Before long they reached Swallow Street. Slate gray and heavy with cloud, the morning sky lowered. It had begun to snow -- small, delicate flakes at first, and then large, thicker ones, faster and colder. The wind fluttered and died as the temperature dropped once again. Albert shivered. Tim stopped suddenly and looked up to a stairway on his left. Eyes querying, the boy tilted his head and motioned upstairs. Tim nodded. Slowly they ascended the stairs together.

  Albert took Tim's key, and as he unlocked the door, he firmly grasped Tim's arm to steady him. After pushing the door open and gently guiding the man through it, he settled Tim into a chair.

  Tim's coat hung, his slippers on and a warm rug tucked over his legs, Albert set about preparing tea. As he did so, his gaze swept the room, amazed at what he saw. As a poor child of the streets, Albert had rarely seen a healthy fire, real teacups, a carpeted floor or a parlor without a bed. He could barely comprehend the luxury of it all, but it was the little fir tree that held him spellbound. How it glittered and shone in the firelight! Still looking his fill, he absently sliced bread from a loaf on the table, buttered it, added fruitcake and two biscuits to the plate, and placed it and the tea on the table beside Tim's chair.

  "You must eat, sir," he pleaded. "It's a very nice tea." He waited until he saw Tim pick up his cup, then wandered to the Christmas tree. He had heard of such things. It was said that the Prince Consort had brought this tradition with him from his faraway home and that the Queen had one put up each year, but Albert and his brothers had never believed it. Trees were for parks, not for houses.

  Yet here it was, a little tree all decorated with sweets and stars, angels and bells and little candles all ready to light. And the smell, it was truly wonderful! The whole tree shined so, standing proud and joyful. Christmas WAS a celebration, not just another day of too little to eat and too cold to sleep. This was Christmas! Albert walked around the large room, admiring the tree from every advantage point it: behind the divan, near the fireplace, by the front door and all around the tree itself, noting every new and different ornament for its own splendor.

  However, he had been so occupied with the small tree, its fragrance, color and shape, and the warmth of the room, that he had failed to notice Tim's silence. Moving noiselessly toward the chair, he noted the empty teacup on Tim's lap, the empty plate on the table and the lined, exhaustion-marred face of the young doctor. Lifting the cup away from Tim, the boy sighed.

  "He looks right tired to me," he remarked loudly, sympathy coursing through him. "I wonder what he does to make him look like this. He's ever so tired and ever so unhappy. A little rest will do him good. I'll just sit with him awhile. I wouldn't mind resting my legs and having a bit of a warm right here by the fire. Well that I should, he might have need of me." Albert moved slowly about the room, stirring the fire, checking the windows, drawing the drapes and then stopping at the tea table.

  Touching the teapot and finding it still warm, he helped himself to a cup of tea and the few remaining biscuits on the tray. Settling himself on the divan, not far from Tim, he determined to sit watch throughout the rest of the day and late into the night if need be. He watched stubbornly at first, but the tea and the food and the warmth of the room caused his rigid body to relax and his eyelids to droop. He shook his head several times and sat up straighter each time, but his eyes grew heavier and the comfort of the room seeped into his body and soul. It was so very peaceful, he thought.

  Finally, with only a slight gesture of defiance, his head slipped to a soft, embroidered pillow, and he slept. The fire crackled softly, as if in deference to the two sleeping forms, and the ticking of the clock whispered solemnly into the warm air. Inside, all was still.

  Outside, banks of casket-gray clouds blocked the sunlight, and winter shadows blanketed the old city. Moaning forlornly up and down the streets, the wind mourned the golden summer days and made its way through every crack and cranny between wood and window, door and frame. Tiny snowflakes stuttered to the ground and found their way onto doorsteps and into doorways. Shoppers hurried homeward, intent on warmth and companionship.

  Lamplighters, wrenched away from warm bread and butter and hot cups of tea, shivered in the chill and, in defense of the light, carefully lit the small globes to mock the missing sun. Big Ben struck the hour, his clear notes ringing out majestically across the city and fading sonorously into the spectral gloom of the evening.

  Albert and Tim slept on, oblivious to cold, requiring nothing. Several hours passed and still they slept - Albert, deeply like a weary child and Tim, fitfully like someone recently stricken ill. Albert's dreams were gentle and joyous; Tim dreamed of a broken clock and a candle that would not stay lit. He mumbled in his sleep, "Time, so little time. Always it escapes me, always it haunts me."

  There was a timid knock at the door, a soft rapping that, at first, did not penetrate the fathoms of sleep surrounding the young doctor. Still soft, yet more insistent, the rapping would not go away. Tim roused, slept and roused again. Swaying to his feet, he stumbled to the door. As he reached for the doorknob, it turned slowly by itself and opened inward.

  A small, black-clad woman stood in the dimly lit hallway, a tiny puddle of darkness in the shadowy murk. A great black veil swathed her hat and completely covered her face. She said not a word but stood silently.

  "May I be of service to you, madam? Are you ill?" Tim leaned on the doorframe to steady himself. "Madam, what is it? How may I help you?"

  Soundlessly, the dark figure glided past him into the room. Tim closed the door and stepped to her, placing his hand on her arm. He felt its marble coldness and recoiled. She turned, blending with the shadows, "Timothy. Timothy Cratchit," her voice, the whisper of a sigh, her breath a vapor of shadowed gray mist.

  "Yes," he said, "I am Timothy Cratchit. Who are you? How came you here? Are you a vision, a dream or a nightmare? Perhaps a spirit like the dream who called himself my father? I deny your existence and bid you be gone from me. I have done nothing to merit your wrath or your concern. You have entered here unbidden. You are a symptom of my exhaustion and despair. Go from me!" He sank into the chair and covered his eyes. Many minutes passed, and when he uncovered his eyes and looked about him, she seemed to have evaporated.

  Turning to check the clock, he noticed Albert deeply asleep in the divan. Moving toward the boy, Tim stopped suddenly. The image of the veiled woman began to reshape itself behind the sofa near Albert's head.

  "Heed me," she whispered, her voice trembling on the still, warm air. "Hear me that you may see and perceive and truly learn. Come here to me and take my hand."

  Tim hesitated, remembering that cold marble flesh. This was the stuff of fear and ignorance. His mind refused to answer it.

  "Can it be that such a one as you have never felt the coldness of the dying? Are you afraid, a man of reason, of medicine, of reality? Foolishness all! Come, give me your hand!" Her voice demanded his compliance.

  Moving toward her, he was shocked when she took hold of his hand -- the flesh was warm and vital to the touch! While he could not see her face nor peer into her eyes, he could feel the touch of her glance. Pity. Grief. Sorrow. Suffering. That which he felt touched his heart, and that dark, tight core at his very center stirred and shifted. He took a deep breath.

  "Spirit, my heart is touched, but my head refutes your presence. Convince me if you can."
He inclined his head.

  "I come to you in the guise of the Spirit of Christmas Present, and I come to bring you a gift - the reality of your life and the lives of those you love and who love you - mankind, as you have insisted. The first business of any member of the race of mankind is to the man himself. I come to you to teach you of your self: that substance within that holds itself away, that removes itself from pain, that chides itself for anything less than perfection; that hidden self that cries out for rest and peace but lacks the wisdom to see it before its very eyes. Come now, follow where I lead you. Listen and hear. See and know. Feel with your heart and abandon your reality."

  Shadows darkened to ink, blackness within blackness gathered about her. Without noticeable movement and with no real sound, the sable spectre drifted to the window. With a slight twist of her black-gloved hand, the drapes swept back. It was full night, laden with heavy clouds, murky and dim, but the clear window faded to a milky white surface, gleaming, translucent.

  Clearly, with great detail, Scrooge's laughing face appeared. It was what Tim had expected Christmas to be this year. Surrounded by his great-nieces, the youngest on his knee, and the young Cratchit grandchildren, as well as a dozen young girls and boys from the Great Ormond Street Hospital, all laughing, singing and dancing, Scrooge had tears of joy in his eyes. As if looking out from within a picture frame, Scrooge turned to face him and smiled his warm, twinkling smile.

  "Such is the meaning of the Christmastime. Laughing, loving, giving and, best of all to warm the heart, receiving back in full measure greater than that which you have given. Give with the essence of your being and take in return with the joy of your soul. Give only that which you can give without depleting your own account books, young sir. See for yourself how joy abates ambitious isolation. I know the isolation that withers the heart. Look into the faces of others and find yourself; through their souls' peace find your own. Look clearly, Timothy, look very clearly." Scrooge laughingly turned to the rosy child on his lap, and the picture faded to another room far across town.