The Very Name of Christmas

by Martiele Sidles

  Tim rose shakily to touch the teapot, stir up the fire, add a little more wood and then glance into the hallway for evidence of Albert's return. All was quiet and empty, no cheerful step, no tilted grin. He shut the door, turned slowly back into the room and immediately stepped backward, leaning against the door for much-needed support.

  Filling his sight, and seated comfortably on the divan, was Uncle Ebenezer himself! He looked much the same, save slightly thinner and much younger, although his wide, kind smile was missing, and his face was marked with a soberness that Tim had never seen, even in the final months of his life. He did not rise or greet Tim in any way but only sat staring sadly into the fire.

  "Uncle Ebenezer?" questioned Tim softly. "Is it really you? How could you know I needed you now? Are you real or imagined?" He advanced jerkily into the room, hands outstretched.

  Old Scrooge turned his head, lifted his hand from the arm of the divan and held it out, palm facing forward. He raised his eyes to the strained young face before him.

  "I come to you from across the ages, from beyond Time, as a messenger of knowledge and understanding. I am the embodiment of the Spirit of Christmas Yet To Come and have been chosen in council because of the bond we once shared. I come to teach, to enlighten and to chastise. I come to represent Care and imprint your heart with Love once again." The tall figure rose slowly from the divan, shadowed but solid.

  "I have been given leave to ask you for an accounting. Listen with great care, for all YOUR world depends upon it. Give heed to my words." Ebenezer Scrooge straightened his spine and steepled his skeletal fingers as he had been wont to do. "How have you conducted your business? How are the ledgers writ? Is there aught to your credit side or just great withdrawals in your debit column? How have you advanced the business of mankind? Think on this." Scrooge's countenance was stern.

  "But Uncle Ebenezer," Tim began eagerly, "I have . . ."

  Scrooge shook his head solemnly. Tim stopped abruptly as Scrooge held out one hand and motioned Tim beside him with the other.

  "You must come with me, Timothy, to travel the road I once journeyed so many Christmases ago. We go where few ever imagine and many never dwell. Take my hand and hold to it tightly. Do not let it go, for I am your connection to the past, AND the present AND the future, and if you lose my touch for even a moment, you are lost, irretrievably lost." His glance swept Tim fiercely.

  "Watch and listen, speak not to the shades of the time that is Yet To Come. As the ledger is now writ, you have no right to their companionship. Direct your questions to me, only to me." Scrooge held out his hand, gazing into Tim's face with sharply penetrating eyes, all trace of warmth erased from his countenance.

  "Uncle Ebenezer, I cannot go with you. I have no need to see what lies ahead. I am begun on a path that I cannot alter; that which is Yet To Come lies inexorably in my way. There is no future for me that I have not yet devised. I am my own ambition, my own destiny, and there is none who can change the tenor of my days, the flight of my soul. I must find some measure of peace in my profession, for there is none to be had in the emptiness of my heart." With a bitter glance, he turned from Scrooge, adding, "If you cannot offer simple comfort, go from me. I have no faith in your chill embodiment of Christmas Yet to Come. No magic abides in this cheerless season of selfishness; nothing is to be gained by it, and there is nothing here for me." Tim turned away, his body stiff with determination.

  Ebenezer raised his eyes heavenward, nodded briefly and moved forward to touch Tim gently on the shoulder.

  "Young sir, I fear it is much worse than I thought, and we can spare little time for this maudlin self-pity and soul-destroying arrogance. Your bitterness diminishes you. Come with me you will, now, and at this very moment. Let us be gone." He raised his right hand, securing Tim's left hand in his own.

  Light and shadow trembled wildly in the room, and before they solidified once again, Ebenezer's image flickered, and in the instant it did so, Tim felt a cold, racing wind engulf him. Chimneys and chimney pots moved by under his feet, scrawny cats seeking midnight warmth fled at his passing, and misty clouds rolled by and around him, their dank tendrils clutching damply at his clothes.

  As snow began to sift through the air, Scrooge and Tim were set gently down onto the steps of The Children's Hospital in Great Ormond Street. Just inside the door, Drs. West and Jenner were conversing quietly.

  "Do we call Cratchit or not?" asked Dr. West. "It is, after all, his card in the boy's pocket."

  "Matron said she saw him rushing out just an hour past as if all the imps of Hades were after him. I wonder what occurred? He must have attended the two Burnside boys. He cannot seem to gain control of his professional objectivity. A brilliant physician but too tender a young man. We will either lead him to an acceptance that he is not the Almighty, or this will break him into an hundred pieces. I think we had better send word to him, the boy may be a relative." Dr. Jenner motioned to a porter. A few moments later the man left to recall Tim to his duties.

  Scrooge pushed Tim further into the hospital reception area and then stood silently, waiting. Tim stood by his side, subdued and calm. Only a very few moments had passed before Tim saw himself enter the front doors of the hospital. He called for Matron and was ushered to a small 4-bed room where young Albert lay, quiet and pale, his head swathed in thick white bandages.

  Tim saw himself conferring with Matron, making notes on a chart and moving slowly toward the bed where Albert lay so still. After checking the boy's pulse and respirations, Tim began to unwrap the bandages on Albert's head to check the extent of the injury. Albert stirred, opened his eyes and smiled painfully up at Tim.

  "I knew you'd come, sir. I wanted to thank you for all your kindness to me and mine. I'm just sorry I won't be seeing his lordship about that position and the training he promised. Please tell my mam I'm sorry. Tell the boys that I'll be watching. See to them for me; I'll not be far off." He gave a small sigh, closed his eyes and, before Tim could respond, passed beyond Tim's mortal assistance.

  Shocked and devastated, Tim stood quietly by the bedside gazing at the still figure so quickly gone from the world he loved. A child of poverty, a boy of resilience, soon to have become a man of ability and stature gone, and all his promise with him.

  Dry-eyed, his heart cramped and heavy, Tim turned to Scrooge, who said, "So much a child of the streets, so much an angel of God. He loved the old city well, found joy in its dirty alleys and mews, found sustenance in its generosity and strength in its power and indifference. Here is your child of Want and Ignorance, blessed with integrity and graced with tolerance and compassion. He never lost Hope, Timothy, and never, never gave himself up to Despair. He contented himself with caring for his family and seeing to those less fortunate. He was a physician of the streets, and you, Timothy, are one of his more unfortunate patients. He gave to you unstintingly and received from you when he had need. He was a gift to you, and now he is gone. Beware Timothy. Beware."

  Scrooge settled his woolen scarf more securely inside his coat and turned from the room. Instantly Tim felt the dankness of the night air once more against his skin. Snow swirled about furiously, and bitter cold struck him. Then he found himself in front of a large, prosperous-looking building upon whose doors were etched the names Timothy R. Cratchit and Jonathan A. Babbington. Scrooge, still holding Tim's hand, passed through the door and beyond a large chair-filled foyer into an expensively decorated inner office. Beautifully polished mahogany paneled the room, diplomas fully covering one wall. A large leather chair stood imposingly behind a massive teak desk. Books and papers littered the desktop while a large inkwell constrained a mass of patient notes under its silver feet. Lamps burned warmly in the room, and great ferns flanked the desk. A large portrait of a reddish-haired man hung behind the desk, looking out through solemn green eyes. Another large comfortable chair sat in front of the desk for personal consultations. The room was quiet, welcoming and quite empty. Off to one side of the desk another door led int
o a gleaming, well-appointed surgery and a tiny dispensary. Looking into the dispensary, Tim saw Jonathan Babbington pouring a quantity of laudanum syrup into a small brown bottle. Before corking the bottle, Jonathan took a large gulp of the bottle's contents and then placed the bottle in his pocket. Stumbling slightly, he made his way toward the door into the mahogany-paneled office.

  "Well, Cratchit, old man," said Jonathan sneeringly into the empty room facing the portrait behind the desk, "I guess you got what you wanted: fame, glory and an unshakable place in medical history. You brought me with you, a partner to your ambition, but at what cost! I used to be a good doctor, in fact better than good, but your ambition ate at my soul. My wife and children have left me, my family has disowned me, and while the medical community applauds my work, my only recourse to our all-consuming profession is my `little brown bottle.' Tears clouded his vision.

  "The opiate brings me oblivion for a time and respite from the soul-eating practice you created. I have come to despise you, Sir Robert, and your great empty heart. I have sacrificed my life to your god, Medicine, and I have lost my soul. Be it on your head." Jonathan turned from the portrait, eyes wild, and staggered from the room to escape the hard green eyes of the portrait above the desk.

  Tim, head bowed, asked querulously, "Is this true? Will this be as I have seen? Have I, in truth, destroyed Jonathan's life and family?"

  Scrooge motioned for him to be still. Another wave of Scrooge's hand and the now familiar feel of dampness touched Tim's face. The weather had grown colder, the night darker, and Tim's heart heavier.

  The journey seemed much longer this time as they traveled over shadowed moors and fields delicately powdered with hoarfrost, past forests and so near the edge of the sea that the air smelled strongly of salt. On and on they went until Tim lost all awareness except for the chill around him. His mind grew weary and empty, but still they traveled. Finally the mournful sound of church bells caught his attention as they moved slowly toward the snow-covered ground.

  Suddenly Tim was standing at the edge of a small churchyard in the heart of a small Cotswold village. The church at Tamber's Green was tiny and filled with a soft light. Tim heard the sounds of solemn singing, muffled slightly by the keening of the wind. Two men stood silently in the churchyard, shadowed wraiths in the moon's ghostly light.

  Moments later, a tall minister, following three holly-draped coffins, led the congregation outside the church and into the tiny burial ground. A young man stumbled, weeping, next to the open wounds in the earth. Small groups collected themselves around the graves, dazed, shaken, frightened.

  Closing his Bible, the minister spoke into the now still air. "Our gracious Father takes not but what He gives even more generously. We must accept that He has need of our beloved daughter and her two small babes, even more than we. So swiftly was she removed that none could take their leave of her, none could ease her last moments. We must pray for the consolation of her soul and those of her children. We must ask God's pardon for the sins of our people and beseech His care that this sickness will not fall upon others of our village. And we must say to our beloved Doctor James, `Physician, heal thyself.' She was taken but is with us still, in her goodness, her service and her beauty. We offer our thanks for her time here with us and wish her a joyous reunion with the angels."

  The minister motioned to the two silent men to lower the coffins into the earth. The grieving husband dropped a handful of dirt into each of the three graves and was led away, supported by friends.

  Scrooge and Tim stood and watched as the graves were filled, no sounds in the air but those of earth on wood. As the task drew near its end, the small groups dwindled, except for a large, unconnected group of children, poorly clad against the winter's cold. They shifted themselves but remained standing around the graves. Finally the gravediggers laid down their shovels and began to prepare the ground for the headstones, one large and two small pieces of lifeless, smoky granite.

  As they settled the stones securely into the earth, Scrooge stepped forward to watch them finish. The scattered children moved with him, shifting as the flame of a candle might waver, and pressed forward anxiously around the graves. Ebenezer's spirit pointed to the now secured headstone and beckoned Tim to step forward. Tim glanced down at the stones and read:

  Beloved Wife and Mother

  JULIANNE VICTORIA NEVINS JAMES

  1840 - 1865

  Gone to Live With the Angels

  We Are Bereft

  The two smaller headstones listed daughters with the starkest of words:

  Abigail Julianne James 1862 – 1865

  Victoria Louise James 1864 - 1865

  Tim looked despairingly into Scrooge's face and fell to his knees next to Julianne's grave. Questions tumbled from his lips. "How," he whispered, "how did this happen? What brought her to this place? How did she die? Who is her husband, and how could he bring her here, away from all she knew, all she loved? Who are these pale children? They push too close; tell them to be gone." Tim's despair left him lightheaded, heartsick.

  Holding out his hand to the children to bid them be still, Scrooge looked down at Tim's bent head. His eyes stern and his countenance filled with pain and reproach, Scrooge remonstrated, "When you left her on that Christmas Eve, without disputation or explanation, she buried herself in work. She exacted a tremendous price from herself that she might forget you, though she wished you success and happiness. Her work at the foundling hospital drew the attention of a kind young doctor, Everett James, who fell in love with her, married her and brought her here to his practice in Tamber's Green.

  “While a gentle and loving husband, he had no mentor, no one to see him on his way and very little money. He spent unnumbered hours comforting the sick and needy. She supported his work to her own detriment, paying with her life and those of her children. She contracted pneumonia from a patient of her husband, and her children took it from her. She was content with her lot though she was never truly happy, for that which had given her real happiness went from her without resistance - you, Timothy, YOU. Her life became one of small joys, small comforts, and while she never did without the necessities, she loved merely with kindness instead of the great shining love she felt for you. Her children became her heart, and she is blessed that they are now with her, for she could have never borne another such parting. Her spirit lived in want, Timothy, her gifts denied because of your ambition and arrogance. Look you here, Timothy and take heed."

  The children who had crowded around Scrooge now moved silently beside Tim, wide-eyed, their frail bodies shimmering in the moon's silvered glow. Small hands reached out to touch him, and though no sound was heard, he felt the intense pain of their constant suffering.

  "These are the souls of the children that you denied when you offered yourself on the pinnacle of medical history, when you went from Great Ormond Street and the children to the halls of government and councils of the rich, where you gathered honors and certificates. When the programs to educate the mothers of poor children about proper nourishment and cleanliness were never established at St. Bart's and the Foundling Hospital, and when legislation was not carried out, you took another path - more speeches, more money-gathering and no helping hand to see them prosper. These are the children that died unnecessarily from want of care, your care; these are the children you abandoned, these and countless others." Scrooge pointed at a small, tear-streaked face.

  Tim's eyes moved slowly over the small rows of faces, his eyes wet. "I didn't mean…" he stammered.

  After Scrooge held up his hands and clasped them quietly together, he and Tim were suddenly alone in the dark, ghostly churchyard. Tim rose to his feet, but before he had a chance to speak, he felt the now familiar damp clutch of the wind on his face for what seemed like only moments. He then found himself standing at the edge of another grave. The headstone bore the inscription:

  TIMOTHY ROBERT CRATCHIT

  Our Beloved Son

  1866 - 1867

 
Gone Too Soon

  Timothy stood silent for a very long time, staring at the stone, his grief one of wrenching desolation. Scrooge stood beside him, remembering another night many years hence when he himself had stood beside another spirit on just such another frozen Christmas Eve.

  "You were not there the night he died. His mother was with him, but you had a speech to deliver to impress your more important colleagues. Here lies your heart, here and again with Julianne. `The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint.' Here it ends, Timothy, or here it begins. The choice is yours."

  The tall gentleman's hand reached out to touch the face of the young man, sorrow written plainly on his face. "Look to love," he breathed softly. The spirit burst into a chalk-gray shower of dust motes and vanished on the mournful sighing of the wind. "Uncle Ebenezer," Tim whispered into the bleakness of the night, "Oh, Uncle Ebenezer." He put his hands over his eyes to shut out the sight of the tiny grave and the reproach in the faces of the silent wraiths crowding his heart. At his shoulder Scrooge's voice uttered gently, "Young sir, The Good Book tells us that `now is the accepted time; be not wise in your own conceits, but always remember that the fruit of the Spirit is Love'..."

  Tim turned swiftly to the voice, felt the familiar rush of wind and found himself once again standing in the doorway to his lodgings, the door but slightly ajar.

  As he moved to use the doormat, he noted the faces of his father, Bob Cratchit, and Ebenezer Scrooge smiling up at him. He felt, rather than heard, Big Ben enumerate the lateness of the 5 o'clock hour, the tolling somehow softening this Christmas Day. Smiling now himself, Tim stepped over the mat and entered his door.