Charles seemed unable to speak as he stared at the stingy man.
“Charles?” said Annie.
Jack didn’t know what was wrong with Charles. But he knew he should get him away from the miserable innkeeper. “Let’s leave,” he said, tugging on Charles’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”
Charles looked at Jack. “Yes … yes …,” he said absently. “Indeed.”
“Wait a second,” said Jack. He dashed back into the warm dining room and grabbed his green velvet bag. On his way out, he noticed that everyone had gone back to their dinners. They were eating and talking, their lives untouched by the sad events outside.
Jack joined Charles and Annie on the street. “All set,” he said.
“Mr. Dickens? Please!” Mr. Pinch whined from the doorway. “Pay me before you leave? Please, sir?”
“Yes. Yes … of course.” Charles pulled out his wallet and paid the innkeeper.
Mr. Pinch smiled. “You understand, don’t you, sir?” he said. “It’s not my job to feed all of England.”
“No. Of course it isn’t,” said Charles. Then he walked away from the inn. Jack and Annie followed him.
It was colder and darker now. Brownish fog shrouded the street. A lamplighter was lighting the streetlamps.
“Are you okay, Charles?” asked Annie.
Charles barely nodded. “Yes—uh—did you children get enough to eat?” he said.
“Yes, thank you,” said Annie. “We’re fine. But are you all right?”
“Me?” He let out a long, shaky sigh. “Sorry, but I—I must leave you now,” he said. “Here.” Charles pulled out his wallet again. “Take this. I want you to buy new boots and a week’s worth of food. I’m sorry to leave you, but I must.” His hands shook as he held out the leather wallet.
“No, we can’t,” said Jack.
“I insist,” said Charles, giving him the wallet. “Thank you for your company. And bless you both.” Charles Dickens then walked away from them, disappearing into the brown fog.
“What do you think is wrong with him?” said Annie.
“I don’t know,” said Jack. He put the wallet in his bag. “But so far our mission’s been a disaster.”
“Well, we can’t give up now,” said Annie. “Come on, let’s follow him.”
As Jack and Annie started after Charles, the street was quiet and empty. It seemed the blinding fog and damp drizzle had driven everyone inside.
They hadn’t gone far before Charles looked back and saw them. “Don’t follow me, children!” he called. “Please! I want to be alone now! I must be alone.”
Jack and Annie watched Charles vanish into the mist.
“Maybe we should go back,” Jack said. “We could find our way to his house and wait for him there.”
“Something tells me he’s not going home soon,” said Annie. “I feel like he really needs our help now.”
Jack sighed. “Yeah, I feel that way, too,” he said. “So let’s follow him. But we’d better keep a safe distance from him, so he doesn’t see us.”
As Jack and Annie followed Charles through the fog, they could hear the tapping of his walking stick on the cobblestones. They followed the sound down a sloping street lined with shacks.
In the dingy light of the gas streetlamps, Jack could see garbage in the gutters—cabbage leaves, moldy bread, rotten fish. The poor neighborhood frightened him. But he and Annie kept going, following the sounds of Charles’s footsteps and the tapping of his walking stick.
Then the sounds stopped.
“Wait,” Jack whispered.
Jack and Annie froze. They couldn’t see Charles through the fog, but they could hear the sound of sobbing.
“Oh, no!” whispered Annie.
Jack and Annie moved closer to the sound. Charles was sitting under a streetlamp at the bottom of the hill. His head was resting in the crook of his arm.
“Charles?” said Annie. She stepped closer to Charles. “Are you okay?” Annie sat on the curb next to him.
Jack sat on the other side of Charles. “You want to talk about it?” he asked.
Charles lifted his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve never told anyone this story before,” he said. “Not even my wife or my closest friends.”
“You can tell us,” said Jack.
Charles looked at Jack, then at Annie. He stood and motioned for them to join him. Then he pointed into the fog. “Over there, near the river, was once a shoe polish factory. It was a tumbledown old building, filled with river rats. I went to work there when I was twelve. I sat at a table, pasting labels onto pots of black polish. I worked eleven hours a day, six days a week, yet I barely earned enough to keep alive.”
“You were only twelve?” said Jack.
“Yes. And I lived alone. I had lost everything—my family, my school, my dignity,” said Charles.
“Were you an orphan?” asked Annie.
“No. I had parents,” said Charles.
“Why did they make you work in such a bad place?” asked Jack.
“My father had fallen on hard times,” said Charles. “He was a good man, but he couldn’t pay his bills. So he was sent to a debtors’ prison across the river. My mother chose to live there with him.”
“That’s a terrible story,” said Annie.
“Wait a minute,” said Jack. “You mean your dad was sent to prison because he couldn’t pay his bills?”
“Yes,” said Charles.
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Jack. “How could he earn the money to pay his bills if he was in prison?”
“That’s a very good question,” said Charles.
“That doesn’t happen anymore,” said Jack, thinking of life back in Frog Creek.
“Oh, yes, it does,” said Charles. “Life is still miserable for thousands of poor. Parents live in prisons and workhouses, while countless children work in factories and mines for pennies.”
“But at least things are different for you now,” said Annie. “You’re a famous writer. That should make you feel better.”
“How can that make me feel better?” said Charles. “What is writing? Just ink on a page. It’s not food for the hungry. It’s not medicine for the sick. Lately I’ve been thinking I should give up my writing altogether.”
“Oh, no,” said Jack. “You can’t do that.”
“It seems so foolish and vain,” said Charles.
“But—” said Jack.
“No,” said Charles. He let out a shuddering sigh. “I have decided: I shall write no more.”
“Charles, what about—” said Annie.
“Be kind, children, and leave me now,” said Charles. “I need to be alone. My heart dies inside of me.”
“Oh. Okay …,” said Annie. She and Jack stood up. “Bye, Charles …”
Jack started to wish Charles good luck, but the words stuck in his throat. There was really nothing to say. As Charles covered his face in despair, Jack and Annie started back up the hill.
“We can’t just leave him,” said Jack.
“I know. So let’s stay nearby,” said Annie.
Jack and Annie found a stoop to sit on, and they watched over the lonely figure at the bottom of the hill.
“Now I know why Merlin sent us here,” said Jack. “But this really seems hopeless.”
“Look in our research book,” said Annie. “Maybe it can help us.”
Jack pulled out their book and looked up Charles Dickens again. He read aloud:
Charles Dickens was born in England in 1812. He is one of the most famous writers of all time. He wrote many novels, including Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, and—
“Wait, wait,” said Annie. “A Christmas Carol? Wasn’t that the name of the play we saw last year with Mom and Dad and Grandma?”
“Yeah,” said Jack, “on Christmas Eve. Oh, man, that’s why the name Charles Dickens sounded familiar.”
“Look, there’s a picture of Scrooge, the mean guy in the play,” said Annie. She pointed to a picture in the book. I
t showed an old man wearing a nightcap and holding a candle.
Jack read the caption underneath:
A Christmas Carol has been retold again and again in plays, movies, and television shows. To this day, it inspires people to be kinder and more generous to others.
“Wow, remember the three ghosts who visit Mr. Scrooge?” said Jack. “The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Future.”
“Right. They try to change him by showing him his past, his present, and his future,” said Annie. “At the end of the story, he’s like a different person. I can’t believe Charles wrote that story!”
“Well, now it seems like he won’t,” said Jack. “He just said he’s never going to write again. He said his heart has died.”
Annie stood up and brushed herself off. “So get out the violin and the bow,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, I forgot all about our magic violin!” said Jack.
“Me too, until now,” said Annie. “Get it out. I’ll make up a song.”
“What kind of song?” asked Jack.
“I’ll make up my own version of A Christmas Carol,” said Annie. “But it won’t be a story about Scrooge. It’ll be a story about Charles—a ghost story about Charles Dickens.”
“A ghost story?” said Jack. “You mean we’ll make ghosts appear?”
“Yep,” said Annie.
“Um … I don’t know,” said Jack. Ghosts made him nervous.
“I promise this will work,” said Annie.
“But I don’t get it,” said Jack. “A ghost story. How can we change Charles with that?”
“We won’t change him. The ghosts will change him, just like they changed Scrooge,” said Annie. “Our job is just to make the right ghosts appear.”
“But—” started Jack.
“It’s magic, Jack,” said Annie. “We have to trust the magic.”
“But Charles doesn’t even want us around,” said Jack.
“That’s okay,” said Annie. “He doesn’t have to see us. He can believe it’s all happening in his imagination. He has a great imagination, you know. Come on, before he leaves.”
Jack sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But I hope we don’t give him a heart attack.” He unbuckled the green velvet bag and pulled out the violin and the bow.
Jack rested the bow against the strings of the violin. Then he began moving the bow back and forth. The violin’s music was soft at first, but as it grew louder, it seemed to come from every direction.
At the bottom of the hill, Charles lifted his head.
Annie started singing in a soft, whispery voice:
Come, three ghosts,
in a dreamlike swirl.
Help our friend
give his gifts to the world.
The streetlamp flickered and went out. Then a hazy glow surrounded Charles. He stood up and looked around. In the haze, a ghostly figure swirled into shape.
Jack’s heart pounded as he kept playing.
Charles cried out and stumbled back.
The ghost looked like both a child and an old man. He had long white hair, but there was not a wrinkle on his face. He wore a white tunic with a silver belt and carried a holly branch in his hand.
Annie sang on:
Do not fear him, Charles,
stand fast.
He’s come to share
a Christmas Past.
The ghost waved his hand, and a scene slowly appeared in the glowing fog: a small, frail boy was lying on a heap of rags.
“Who are you? And why do you show me this poor child?” cried Charles.
The boy rolled over and sat up. He had big eyes and wavy brown hair.
Charles gasped. “Oh, my!” he said. “Is that … is that me?”
The boy reached under the rags and pulled out a book. On the cover was a picture of a flying carpet. The boy opened the book and smiled.
“I remember that book! It is me!” cried Charles. “I loved to read The Arabian Nights! I felt as if I could ride on a flying carpet myself! Books gave me hope when I had no hope. But why do you show me this now?”
The ghost did not answer. He raised his pale hand in farewell.
“Wait!” cried Charles.
But the ghost faded into the haze. And the vision of young Charles Dickens faded with him.
The glow still surrounded Charles. Jack’s violin music swelled with deep tones. Annie sang on.
Come to Charles,
O second ghost.
It’s your turn now
to be the host.…
The haze became rose-colored. It swirled in the shape of a small cyclone. The funnel of vapor spun wider and wider, until out from its center stepped a giant in a green robe. He had a bushy brown beard and wore a crown of icicles. He held a flaming torch high into the air.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?” cried Charles.
The ghost pointed into the mist and bellowed:
You say you’ll write
not one more book?
Stop your weeping, man,
and look!
Charles stared as human shapes began to form in the mist: a young Victorian couple stood at a bookstall. “I’m getting the new book by Charles Dickens! I love Mr. Dickens!”
“I know you do, my dear! And so do I!”
The couple laughed joyfully, and another scene appeared beside them: a teacher stood in front of schoolchildren. “So what did we learn today from Mr. Dickens’s book?” she asked.
“We learned to be more generous and kind!” a small girl answered.
“Yes!” the class shouted.
As the children cheered, another scene took shape: Queen Victoria was sitting on her throne!
“I say,” the queen said to a lady-in-waiting. “This Oliver Twist book is exceedingly interesting. Poor Oliver. I had no idea children in our kingdom lived such dreadful lives.”
The queen faded away. The couple faded away—and the teacher and the children. Everything faded away except the giant ghost.
“They were all speaking about my books,” Charles said in a voice filled with wonder.
The giant ghost boomed:
Yet writing is nothing
but paper and ink!
A foolish task!
Is that not what you think?
“Yes! No! Yes, but …,” said Charles.
The ghost shook his head sadly. Then he, too, vanished into the fog.
Annie sang on:
Think about all
you’ve been shown by this ghost,
and get ready to meet
your last ghostly host.
The rosy glow faded to an eerie silver light. The air grew very cold. Then, like a dark shadow, a third ghost silently appeared. This ghost wore a black cape with the hood pulled over its head.
Charles raised his walking stick to protect himself. Jack trembled with cold and fear, but he kept playing the violin.
The ghost glided slowly toward Charles.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Charles cried.
A scene swirled into view beside the ghost: a group of people stood in a graveyard. A young woman was weeping near a tombstone.
“Why—why do you show me this scene of grief?” asked Charles.
The ghost pointed a bony finger at the tombstone.
Charles lowered his walking stick and crept closer. He squinted at the writing on the tombstone. He gasped. “It’s my name!” he cried. “My name is on that stone!”
“Poor Papa,” the young woman said to the other mourners. “How sad that he stopped writing when he was so young. So many beautiful words might have been written. So many wonderful characters might have lived. If only he’d given more stories to the world, he might have touched the hearts of millions.” The woman broke down in tears again.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Charles. “I can’t bear it!”
The scene began to fade.
“Wait!” Charles shouted to the ghost. “I’ve chang
ed my mind! Tell her I will keep writing! Wait!”
But the ghost and the mourners and the tombstone had already disappeared into the fog. Charles Dickens stood alone in the cold silver light.
Jack played one long, low note on the magic violin.
Then there was silence.
The gas streetlamp flickered back on. Charles began pacing back and forth.
“Come on, Jack,” said Annie. “Let’s go talk to him! Quick!”
Jack packed up the violin and bow. Then he and Annie hurried down the hill to Charles.
“Charles!” cried Annie. “Hello!”
Charles whirled around. “Annie! Jack! You can’t imagine what just happened!” His voice was shaking. “I had the strangest visions! Three ghosts came to me! They showed me visions of myself in the past, the present, and the future!”
“Really?” said Annie. “That sounds like a scene in a book.”
“Yes, yes, it certainly does!” Charles said, laughing and wiping his eyes. “The ghosts made me want to keep writing. They taught me that I can truly help the world with my books! I—I must go home! I must find a cab and go home and get to work at once! I cannot waste another day! Another hour! Another minute! I must write! I love to write!” He laughed with joy.
“Then I guess we’ll be going home, too,” said Jack, smiling. “Our job is done here.”
“Shall I tell the cab to let you off somewhere?” asked Charles.
“We need to go to Hyde Park,” said Annie.
“Wonderful! It’s on the way. Come along!” said Charles. He took off running up the hill, dashing ahead of Jack and Annie. When they caught up with him, they saw a horse and cab clattering over the cobblestones.
“Stop, sir! Give us a ride, please!” Charles shouted to the driver.
The driver brought his horse to a halt. Jack and Annie followed Charles to the cab. “Hyde Park! Then One Devonshire Terrace! Please hurry!” said Charles.
The driver looked delighted. “Yes, Mr. Dickens, sir!” he said.
A Ghost Tale for Christmas Time Page 4
