“Spirit,” I said, questioning the figure before me for a third time, “tell me, please, before we proceed—do I even have a future to witness? I must know; I beg you—will I have any more Christmases, or is this the last one?”
For the third time, the spirit did not deign to answer my question; instead, this time, it pointed forward with an outstretched arm.
The limb before me appeared as if it belonged not to man, nor even to a spirit, but to a corpse, freshly dug from the grave by Burke and Hare. I trembled at the sight of it; but I swallowed my fear and quelled my shaking hands. “Lead on, spirit!” I cried. “Where you go, I shall follow.”
The spirit departed in the same manner it came, and I fell in step behind it. As I stepped into the shadow of its garment, I felt myself carried along, and suddenly we were in the city. We were near the edge of Camden Town, where the ward bordered Regent’s Park, a familiar haunt to me.
It was daylight; morning, judging by the position of the sun and the manner in which the people around me stirred. Nothing here seemed wholly out of the ordinary, but the spirit pointed toward two men who huddled together on a street corner, conversing. Their dress indicated them to be members of the London police, and prompted by the specter, I moved forward in order to hear their talk.
“I don’t know much about it, either way,” the first man was saying. “I only know he’s dead.”
“When did he die?” inquired the other.
“Last night, I believe.”
“Was it the cold?”
At this, the first man shook his head. “No, he was set upon by some assailant. More than one, likely, judging by the looks of him.” At this, the first man shuddered, as if remembering some horror he would rather forget. But then, uncharacteristic to the gravity of their conversation, he yawned. “My apologies,” he said to the second man. “It was rather a long night.”
“I am sorry for it,” the second man replied. “And on Christmas too.”
“It is of little consequence,” the first man rejoined. “But I thank you for your sympathies nonetheless.” I found it astonishing that these two men, who served the public and sought justice, would demonstrate more compassion over a shortened night’s sleep than a lost soul.
“Well, it’s no surprise, truly,” the second police officer was saying. “The way he lived, filthy, dirty, whoring around.”
“Indeed,” the first police officer responded. “Boys like that never come to a good end.”
So. This was it. My future. For who else, in this corner of the city, could they be discussing but me? The spirit brought me here to show me my own demise. I felt fear and anguish lock my throat in their iron grip. Oh, what I would give to do it all over, or for another year, a day, or even one hour more!
“And he always was a mouthy little blighter,” the second police officer said. “Had a few go-arounds with him on the beat, I did. He never knew to leave well enough alone.”
My ears perked up at this. Mouthy? I could be described as many things, but in this current manifestation of my existence, I rarely spoke to or saw anyone, and I avoided the local constabulary as if they carried the plague. I certainly had never seen either of these men before. Could I truly be described as mouthy?
Perhaps this poor soul was not me after all. Perhaps the spirit was merely showing me an example, an instance, an illustration of what my ultimate end could be, if I did not reform my ways. Perhaps this was not damnation, but salvation.
“He was presumptuous, that’s for sure. Ill-mannered and bold. Not good qualities for his kind, especially in a place like this. Good people on one side, rabble on the other.”
I would that I could say that my heart beat only with sorrow for this poor lost soul, but the continuing conversation of the two policemen seemed further proof that this was not me. This was not me! It could not be me! I was reprieved!
“Were you able to learn his name?”
“No one seemed to know it. If they did, they wouldn’t hardly admit to it, would they? No matter. No one will come looking for him.”
“That’s true enough. Though, if they do, they can always ask for the wagtail with the twisted leg.” At this the two men began to laugh, before exchanging farewells and parting company.
Twisted leg? The glad in my heart was suddenly replaced with a palpable sense of dread and sorrow. A twisted leg, a mouthy boy…Tetch. This must be Tetch they are discussing.
I bounded back over to where the spirit stood, wholly and coolly detached from the surrounding scene. “Is Tetch the boy they are talking about?” I hotly inquired. “Answer me!”
But the spirit said nothing, and instead, motioned for me to follow him once more.
The scene changed again, and we stood in front of a small barrow croft located on the Scottish shore.
“There must be some mistake, spirit,” I said. “My Uncle Scrooge has already brought me to this place.”
But the spirit only motioned me forward, and so, reluctantly, I stepped into the little house.
My ears were assaulted with the sound of wailing before my eyes adjusted to the dim of the room. The house looked very much as it did before, though the evergreen boughs were less in number, and the few odd decorations of holly and polished stone seemed dusty and worn and haphazardly placed around the room.
I saw the two women I had been shown before, whom I had presumed to be Augie’s mother and sister. It was the elder of two who was wailing, weeping uncontrollably as she rocked her daughter back and forth on their shared bed. I did not need to take more than a cursory glance to know that the daughter was dead. By what malady she had met her end I could not say, but both women were drawn, and pale, and emaciated, and I could spy no mark nor morsel of food anywhere in the little hut.
Again, I angrily rounded on the spirit. “Why do you bring me here?” I asked. “What have I to do with this? I do not know these women. I have never met them before. Why is this my future?” I looked back helplessly at the old woman. How long would it be before she joined her daughter and her son in the world beyond this one? “What has this to do with me?” I begged the spirit. “Show me!”
But the relentless phantom only pointed me onward. Having little choice in the matter, I obeyed his command.
The scene unfurling before me was staged at a grand London house, grander, by some measure, than that of Uncle Fred or anyone I knew. It was a strange place to me. There was a great commotion outside, anxious neighbors and passers-by looking on as various members of the local police force, including one or two quite high up in the ranks, judging by their uniforms, huddled together. Some were talking to one another; two or three kept the assembling crowd back with their outstretched hands. Tetch had earned the efforts of one constable, at most two; whatever had transpired here had brought out a great number more. One of them, an older man sporting a rather prodigious mustache, was speaking to a distressed, middle-aged woman. “I am quite sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sewell, truly I am.” Despite his obvious high rank he seemed ill at ease in the situation. “It can happen in the best of families, it can.” His words offered the woman little succor or comfort. Instead, she dabbed her eyes repeatedly, almost compulsively, with a smart handkerchief, attempting to maintain her composure in such a public venue, though I could tell that her sense of self-control threatened to burst with each passing moment. There was a younger man beside her, a youth around my own years, whom I imagined to be her son. The arm he placed over her shoulder seemed to offer more comfort than the policeman’s words, though I suspected that whatever it was that distressed this poor woman would allow her little peace on this Christmas Day.
“What is this place, spirit?” I asked, but the dark figure only motioned me to follow it into the house.
As I moved through the residence I spied more police officers milling about. There seemed very little for them to do, so I accounted the number of their presence more to the finery of the establishment and not for whatever unpleasantness may have occurred here. The h
ouse was beautifully decorated for the holidays, but it was certainly void of all cheer now. Though well lit, it felt dim; though there were fires blazing in almost every room, it felt improbably cold.
The spirit motioned me to mount the stairs.
I was guided to a room at the top of the stairs. It was a bedroom, with a large, sumptuous bed and a handsome walnut writing desk inside. The room had no fire, or if there had been one, it had been quenched through neglect. Two men were inside. One was an officer of the law; the other a doctor of some sort, likely a police surgeon, judging by his dress and the way he inspected what was on the floor before him.
It was another body, covered in a sheet that had evidently been ripped from the bed. “More death,” I said to the spirit. “You bring me to witness more death. Is this my future? What lesson is it that you seek to teach me, spirit?”
But the still, dark phantom only pointed at the body on the floor.
I moved to its side. The face was covered with the sheet; from my current position, I could only ascertain it was a man.
“Was it an accident?” the policeman was asking. The badge pinned to his chest identified him as an inspector.
“Hard to tell,” the police surgeon replied. “Any previous history of laudanum use?”
“The family says not, but they are often the last to know.”
The police surgeon removed the sheet to more closely inspect the body. As if compelled against my will, I also examined the shape lying prone on the floor. It was the figure of a young man, younger than me by some three or four years, I would say. He was pale, and thin, and had a handsome face save for a scar on the left side of his forehead that, in shape, almost mimicked a lyre. “I do not know this boy,” I said to the spirit, which had reposited itself, like a shadow, in the corner of the room closest to the door.
The police surgeon had pushed up the young man’s shirt sleeves and was busy inspecting his arms. “No sign of syringe marks. How much did he take?” The inspector held up an empty bottle.
The police surgeon shook his head ruefully. He examined the boy’s face, opening first one of his eyes, then the other. “No signs of habitual use at all. Did you find any other laudanum vials in the room?” The inspector shook his head. “This doesn’t seem like an accident to me.”
“Suicide?” the police inspector asked. “Will that be your official report?”
“I’ll need to conduct a proper examination, but that would be my best guess for the moment.”
The inspector nodded. “Hard for the family, what with it being Christmas Day and all,” he said. Their business concluded, the two men stood and left the room, leaving me alone with the spirit and the remains of the unfortunate young man.
“Why did he kill himself?” I asked the spirit, though by this juncture I knew I was unlikely to receive any answer. “He seems so young. He seems to have everything. Why should he wish to leave this world?” I began to sense something, some fragment of understanding. “Is this why you brought me here?” I asked the spirit. “Because I, too, am killing myself? Not with laudanum, as this poor boy, but in my own way?”
As if providing an answer, the scene before me changed once more.
We stood before an iron gate. I inspected the area closely before entering.
It was a churchyard.
I was unsure who lay here: the wretched boy whose corpse I had just examined, or Tetch, or Augie’s relations, or… My last, best guess remained unspoken.
The specter pointed forward.
I walked as slowly and carefully as time would permit me. “Tell me, spirit, before I bear witness to what you intend for me to see here,” I said. “Answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”
The spirit pointed toward the center of the churchyard.
“May I change these shadows you have shown me, spirit? May I help Tetch, and Augie’s relations as well? May I help my fellow man? Or are we all doomed to die? Tell me, I beg of you.”
But the spirit only pointed toward the center of the churchyard, toward a large crypt penned in by two bare copper beech trees.
“Why show me these tragedies if I am helpless to overcome them? Why show me the future if I have no time left on this earth?”
Again, the relentless, beckoning finger of the spirit only compelled me forward.
“Why show me all of this if I am past all hope?”
Again, beckoning, the spirit bade me forward.
“I will remember the lessons I have learned tonight. I will not forget what I have seen. Take pity, great spirit, and let me live!”
We had reached the small clearing behind the sepulcher. I half expected to see a gravestone with the name “PETER CRATCHIT” emblazoned upon it awaiting me there.
What I saw was far worse.
There lay, to one side, an open grave. Ahead of it rested the small, unmarked stone of Potter’s Field. Of course. This is where I would rot, in a shallow mound of earth without even a proper memorial to note my presence to any passers-by.
And yet, on the other side, the tableau seemed far worse. There, lying on a tomb of gray slate, was the boy I had seen earlier in the house.
I felt the wind begin to whip around me. It lashed at me angrily; though I could not sense its cold, I could hear its whistle and could feel it buffeting me unremittingly. “What am I to do?” I shouted above the din of the gale.
In answer, the spirit only stood before me, gesturing, this time, with both hands.
These were my choices, then. The grave or the tomb. Unlike my Uncle Scrooge, I was not to be offered another chance. Perhaps I had not earned it. Perhaps I had already squandered the many great opportunities in my life, opportunities for love, for family, for happiness. I set my countenance in stone and faced my two choices. The wind whipped ever more furiously; it became an effort even to stand still in the churchyard.
I measured my two ill options. Perhaps the grave was where I should go; perhaps it was where I belonged. It would offer some measure of respite from the relentless wind that buffeted me and the relentless world around me. But the boy looked so alone and forlorn on his tomb. There was no one here to mourn him, and his pale figure radiated a palpable sense of loneliness and isolation that, even in this condition, I could detect. If I am to choose my eternity, I thought, perhaps I could finally be of use to someone. Perhaps the only good that was left for me to do in this world was to prevent this poor young man from being alone for all time.
Making my choice, I strove forward against the driving wind, settling on top of the tomb against the forlorn youth, kissing him once on his forehead, and then once again on his lips, for good measure. We were bound now, forever, in death. Then, wrapping my arms around him, I steeled myself to whatever fate had in store.
But the wind would not yield its incessant howling. Soon, I had to remove my arms from around the boy’s thin body in an attempt to brace us both against the slate-gray rock. I squeezed my eyes closed and held on with all my might. It was of no avail. As the wind grew ever more furious, first the body of the boy, and then finally, my own self, were carried off by the howling gale, and into the tempest of the night.
I was next conscious of a sound, one quite unlike the wind, which had grown suddenly silent. This was the sound of lapping water, of the sea gently hitting the sandy shore. I opened my eyes, and the intensity of the sunlight that hit them blinded me momentarily. As they adjusted, I inspected my surroundings. I saw the blue waters of the sea, and the sway of palm trees, and smelled the scent of sweet dates. I knew this place. I knew this place.
And there. Over there. With his back to me. A tall man. A tall, husky man with carrot-colored hair.
“Augie.”
He turned. I had seen him every day since his death, his gray skin and hollow eyes and accusing face. But this was not the ghoul who haunted my days and my dreams. This was Augie as I knew him—handsome, smiling, tender and warm, with his arms outstre
tched to me.
“Augie, my love,” I said, collapsing into his arms. “Is this—is this heaven?”
“My little prince,” he said, with more than a hint of smile in his voice, “this is a beach in Tangiers.”
“I’ve missed you,” I said plainly.
“I’ve missed ye, lad,” he echoed.
“I am to be with you, now, Augie? Are we both—?”
“No, lad. This is but a moment. When ye wake, ye will be back where ye were. And I’ll—I’ll be able to move on.”
I felt tears sting my eyes. “I thought you hated me, Augie.”
“I could never hate ye, lad.”
“I thought you were haunting me because I caused you to die.”
“Ye didn’t kill me, lad. And I was never haunting ye.”
“But—but I saw you, every day, Augie, every minute of every day…”
“Aye, lad. And remember what I said to ye?”
I thought of all those parroted, back-and-forth conversations we had had. Why are you here? he’d said to me. And, Will you not leave me in peace? He’d said that too.
“I don’t understand, Augie. If you were not haunting me, then…”
“Ye wouldn’t let me go, lad. Ye wouldn’t let me be at peace.”
I thought of something else. Why must you haunt me? he’d said. But it was not he who was haunting me. It was I who, who…
“Oh, Augie, I am so sorry,” I said, realizing that it was my desire, my great and selfish desire that anchored him to this world. It was not he who was hounding me to the grave, but rather I, in my own great yearning to punish myself, who had prevented him from moving on.
“Ye needed me, my little prince,” he whispered. “Where else would I be?” He held my face in his hands. “But ye got to let me go now, Peter.”
“I understand, Augie,” I replied.
“I’ll always be here,” he added, placing his brawny hand on my heart. “And, Peter?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Ye know what ye need to do now, right?” His eyes stared into mine, and all of the gravity of this world and the next was contained in his gaze. “Ye learned the lessons well, didn’t ye?”
Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol Page 9
