Scrooge’s niece was not one of the blindman’s buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her. Seizing upon the discomfort of her guests, she rounded them up to play forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet. Likewise at the game of How, When, and Where, she was very great, and, to the secret joy of Scrooge’s nephew, beat her sisters hollow: though they were sharp girls too, as Topper could have told you. There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge; for, wholly forgetting, in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed right, too, for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge; blunt as he took it in his head to be.
The Ghost grew displeased to find him in this mood, and looked upon him with such a greedy eye, that Scrooge gave off any idea of to be allowed to stay until the guests departed. But this apparently was the Spirit’s aim.
“Here is a new game,” said Scrooge. “How will you fare!”
“Quite well, I dare say,” the Spirit answered with one of his too-many-teeth smiles.
It was a game called Yes and No, where Scrooge’s nephew had to think of something, and the rest must find out what; he only answering to their questions yes or no, as the case was. The brisk fire of questioning to which he was exposed elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal, an animal that growled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes, and lived in London, and walked about the streets, and wasn’t made a show of, and wasn’t led by anybody, and didn’t live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or an ass (though sometimes resembled), or a cow, or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged to get up off the sofa, and stamp. At last the plump sister, falling into a similar state, cried out:
“I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!”
“What is it?” cried Fred.
“It’s your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!”
Which it certainly was. Admiration was the universal sentiment, though some objected that the reply to “Is it a bear?” ought to have been “Yes”: inasmuch as an answer in the negative was sufficient to have diverted their thoughts from Mr. Scrooge, supposing they had ever had any tendency that way.
For himself, Scrooge felt a wave of sadness sweep over and try to pull him into a familiar gloom. The Spirit eyed him, knowingly taking in his reaction and revelling in it.
“He has given us plenty of merriment, I am sure,” said Fred, “and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is a glass of mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and I say, ‘Uncle Scrooge!’”
“Well! Uncle Scrooge!” they cried.
“A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is!” said Scrooge’s nephew. “He wouldn’t take it from me, but may he have it nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge!”
“Bah!” said Scrooge, but the ‘humbug’ died on his lips as the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again upon their travels.
And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place or giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed; or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse, rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and, frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.
“What place is this?” asked Scrooge.
“A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth,” returned the Spirit. “Their ways are simple and yet they know me. See!”
A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their children and their children’s children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmas song; it had been a very old song when he was a boy; and his voice faltered as the memories of that long ago youth and the dreams that had been dispatched along the way threatened to overwhelm him. Roundly the young children grew uncomfortable and the older children chided them and quite soon, every voice raised to a howl in disagreement.
The Spirit did not tarry here, but bade Scrooge hold his robe, and, passing on above the moor, sped whither? Not to sea? To sea. To Scrooge’s horror, looking back, he saw the last of the land, a frightful range of rocks, behind them; and his ears were deafened by the thundering of water, as it rolled and roared, and raged among the dreadful caverns it had worn, and fiercely tried to undermine the earth.
Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some league or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse. Great heaps of seaweed clung to its base, and storm-birds--born of the wind, one might suppose, as seaweed of the water--rose and fell about it, like the waves they skimmed.
But, even here, two men who watched the light had made a fire that through the loophole in the thick stone wall shed out a ray of brightness on the awful sea. Over the rough table at which they sat, they wished each other Merry Christmas in their can of grog; and one of them, the elder too, with his face all damaged and scarred with hard weather, as the figure-head of an old ship might be, struck up a sturdy song that was quickly snuffed by a clout from the younger counterpart.
Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them muttered darkly, ill to be away from home on such a day. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a mutinous word for one another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in idle violent fantasizes that would land them home all the quicker; delighting in what the likely outcome of such an event would be for the captain.
Filled with dread for what the Spirit held next to show him, it was with some surprise and no small pleasure that the recalcitrant Spirit delivered him to the door of Scrooge’s clerk’s; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and, on the threshold of the door, the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit’s dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. To watch it froze Scrooge’s bowels, for he had a thought to what the purpose of such a torch might be and no good would come of it.
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and, getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar (Bob’s private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these youn
g Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.
“What has ever got your precious father, then?” said a cross Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim? And Martha warn’t as late last Christmas-day by half an hour!”
“Here’s Martha, mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
“Here’s Martha, mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’s such a goose, Martha!”
“Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, trying to smile and giving away her annoyance with a tightening of the jaw.
“We’d a deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl in placating tones, “and had to clear away this morning, mother!”
“Well! never mind so long as you are come,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!”
“No, no! There’s father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. “Hide, Martha, hide!”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of the fringe, hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!
Scrooge felt his legs give out at the sight of the child. Tiny Tim. He had dreamt about the child on occasion for the last seven years, but had never imagined that permanent damage had been visited upon the boy. Cratchit had never mentioned it.
“Damn Cratchit and his pride,” Scrooge muttered, unable to tear his eyes from the boy.
“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming!” said Bob with a sudden declension in his high spirits; for he had been Tim’s blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. “Not coming upon Christmas-day!”
Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.
As Scrooge watched the boy hobble out, he became aware of the Spirit studying him. His eyes held a malicious twinkle and Scrooge did not desire to hear the cause of the wicked creature’s delight.
“The boy is the cause of Marley’s death, is he not?”
“No.”
“Oh-ho!” The Spirit crowed. “Have you not blamed him? Have you not cursed him in the dark o’ night?”
Scrooge, refusing to give the Spirit the satisfaction, returned silence instead.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow, he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas-day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.”
Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
The Spirit taunted, “The father fools himself. The boy was touched by evil, his strength will wane young.”
“Marley’s death was his own, born out of hubris and pride. We both missed the warning signs.”
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs--as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course--and, in truth, it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows!
Scrooge saw this all and yet paid attention not a whit. His eyes were diverted to the memory of Marley, and letting his feet go to wander, relived in his mind the scene that had played out seven years to the day in these very rooms.
The creature had entered through the back room, slipping in like a tom cat, bold and insolent. Marley had thrown his lot headfirst in pursuit of the prey, not thinking much to his own neck. Scrooge had been only heartbeats behind, but before he had gained admittance through the window, a terrible wail let out from the room beyond. His feet and limbs refused to cooperate and Scrooge had tumbled in with a great crash. When he gained his feet he found frightened children scrambling for the door and Marley engaged in a violent confrontation with an unexpected creature.
Scrooge and Marley, having pieced together evidence and rumour, had anticipated making short work of a Wendigo, a starving creature; having grey complexion, taut skin, protruding eyes and bones and therefore much resembling a disinterred corpse. What stood in the room, holding a wailing babe certainly looked dead, but not wraith-like, nor did Scrooge expect his eyes to glow or fingers to curl into talons. What Marley made of the creature and their folly, Scrooge could never know.
Marley launched himself at the beast, holding his iron and silver weapon high but staying his hand lest he strike the babe. The child, Scrooge had time to note, had bites about its limbs and the breechclout was attempting (and failing) to absorb the resulting gore. Scrooge felt a wave a sickness, which he endeavored to set aside in favour of the work at hand.
Working in tandem, Scrooge and Marley would turn and turn about to feint and strike. One would advance while the other retreated only to advance again but their weapons did not seem to have their desired effect. The beast did not scream or shrivel from their instruments and what was worse, sensing their reluctance to imperil the child, it used the babe as a shield to deflect the worst of their advances. It was at this moment, when the creature was violently shaking the babe in their direction that the good man of the house entered the room in complete confused panic, followed quickly by the good wife who promptly screamed, “Tim!” before fainting at the sig
ht of her imperiled baby.
“Mother!” cried the eldest child’s voice from the room beyond.
“Martha! Grab your brothers and sisters! Barricade the door!” the man cried before launching himself directly at the beast, attempting to wrest his child from its grip. Realizing, in the face of blind parental rage, the creature was out numbered, it took the tactical maneuver to throw the babe away thus ridding itself of one adversary and one squalling distraction. The babe hit the wall with a sickening thud and the resulting silence was worse than the wailing. Like a magnet to the lodestone, the man went to the child, leaving the two hunters alone with their prey.
The creature bolted from the room, Marley being faster, was out the door after it before Scrooge could blink. Over it turned the table and knocked over the chairs, trying to pull Marley off its trail. It launched itself at the door and finding it barred and latched by a mechanism it had never seen before, knew itself to be trapped. Cornered, like any wild animal, it turned and charged, taking Marley by the throat. Scrooge advanced and was knocked back upon his head by stroke of the thing’s arm. In a daze, Scrooge watched as Marley thrust with his dagger only to have it ripped out of his hand. Marley reached for his last weapon, digging the rune-covered fob watch from his pocket and thrusting it against the creature’s face. It smiled in return before summarily ripping Marley’s jaw from his head and dropping him to the floor to drown in his own blood.
Scrooge’s eyes lingered on the spot under the table. He fancied he could still see a stain that had not been scrubbed away by Mrs. Cratchit’s industry after all of these years. By now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda and Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.
Ebenezer Scrooge Page 7