A Zombie Christmas Carol (7 page)

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up “Sir Roger de Coverley.” Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who
would
dance, and had no notion of walking.

Mr. Fezziwig’s Ball

But if they had been twice as many—ah, four times—old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to
her
, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig “cut”—cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

As the party danced gleefully, a stranger entered from the darkness outside.  He wore a long, scruffy coat and his face hidden in the shadows as he moved closer. Mrs. Fezziwig squealed with excitement as she ran from the dance to embrace the man.  The old man looked as though he would be knocked backwards by the tumultuous force of the lady, but he managed to regain his balance after much effort.  Separating just a fraction the man pulled down the hood from his coat to reveal the face of a hardened and toughened man.  His eyes softened his face, he was immediately recognised by Mr. Fezziwig.

“Mr Jenkins!” he cried in joy as he also moved closely to shake the man.

“What a splendid surprise, we had no idea you were back,” he said.

The visitor moved to the side of the room, chatting with the pair whilst the rest of the party continued their dancing.

The Ghost beckoned Scrooge to follow as it moved closer to the little group, allowing them to overhear their discussion.  Scrooge raised his hand in protest but the Spirit pulled him with a force that drained his ability to stand away from his legs.

“The regiment has returned to England and I have leave for several weeks and I just had to spend the time to see my sister in this wonderful holiday,” explained the man.

“You are always welcome in our home, sir,” said Mr. Fezziwig as he beamed with pleasure.

“Thank you, it is good to be away from the barracks and in the company of civility once more,” replied Mr Jenkins with wry grin.

The Ghost turned back to Scrooge, watching him intently as Mr Jenkins explained his recent activity on the continent and the progress of his regiment’s campaigns.

“Mr Jenkins was a well-respected officer, when he died his funeral was attended by many, many people.  He died with honour and respect.”

“I know, I know,” said an irate Scrooge, “I read his obituary in the newspaper.”

“Yet you failed to attend his funeral even though it was held such a short distance away from your own home,” said the Spirit dismissively.

“Did you have no feelings or consideration for this man?  Had you never spoken?” he asked, though Scrooge was convinced he already knew the answer.

“Of course I knew him, Mr Jenkins was the man that showed me a sword for the first time,” said Scrooge.

As he spoke the room spun and swirled, Scrooge felt he must have been drugged or injured in some frivolous manner.  As the walls slowed, he noticed the party was still going on, but he was now off to the side and watching the young Scrooge talking to the old man.  It was of course him and Mr Jenkins, the old soldier.

The old man held in front of him a vicious looking sword, it was dulled and pitted from a hard life in Northern Europe.  It reminded Scrooge of the swords he had read about as a young boy in Arabia with its curved blade, much like a scimitar.  It certainly looked far from the weapon of an Englishman.

“This is my old friend, my trusty cavalry sabre.  We call this the 1796 pattern sword, designed for use by all the light cavalry, including my old regiment. It has served me well these many years. Here, do you want to hold it?” he asked whilst looking at the young man.

The young Scrooge pushed out his hands in excitement towards the weapon and then stopped just before touching the steel.  The soldier moved it towards Scrooge and then stopped just shy of a few inches.

“Before you touch it I want you to remember this is a sword of war and not to be trifled with.  I have carried that sword in many countries and used it in anger of several occasions.  The marks on its blade are from training and war. It is a weapon that deserves your respect.”

The young Scrooge nodded, asking but one question. “Is it sharp, sir?”

The soldier laughed loudly as he handed the sheathed sword to Scrooge.

“Indeed it is, though I am told even a dull blade will cut open a Frenchman!” he guffawed.

Scrooge pulled the weapon slowly from its scabbard to reveal its blade and sharp edge.  He placed the scabbard to one side and held up the tip towards the wall.  Next to Scrooge, the weapon looked large and cumbersome.  He lifted it up and tried to swing the weapon but he clumsily moved and nearly embedded it in the floor, much to the amusement of the soldier.

“Good Lord!  What has the floor done to you?” laughed Mr. Jenkins as he moved closer.

“Here, let me show you something,” he said as he took the sword from his hands.

The soldier held the weapon in front of him with the tip pointing towards Scrooge.

“This sword is designed to be an excellent cutter.  There are some that argue that the point and thrusting are the way to fight but you will be hard pressed to use this sword in that manner,” he explained, as he made several stabbing motions with the curved sword.

  “You see, a good stab may very well kill a man bit it usually won’t be right away.  A man can still move forwards, and hack and stab at you whilst your sword is stuck impotently inside his body. You will observe the curved blade makes it move and cut quickly and effectively.  Watch this,” he said, as he proceeded to make a serious of cuts that were so fast in speed and elegant in movement that it almost looked like a dance.  As he cut, the sword moved in a series of circles so that the edge was threatening almost continually from many angles.

“If I were on a horse I could strike down like this at the man’s arms or face,” he slashed down to one side and then to the other in quick succession.

Scrooge stepped back in astonishment but with a grin that made his mouth look twice as large as it had been just moment before.

The Ghost watched in a form of amusement as the older Mr Scrooge forgot where he was for a moment and moved through a series of cuts whilst holding an imaginary sword.  The movements had returned to his mind and in just seconds, the old Scrooge was leaping from side to side as he delivered horizontal and diagonal cuts with his invisible blade.  With each cut, his movement became more fluid and relaxed and with it, his cuts became stronger, faster and more accurate.  After a full minute of practice, he stopped and looked directly at the Ghost before realising what he had just done.

“Yes?” asked Scrooge, but the Spirit said nothing and simply turned to look back at the room and the dancing.

When Scrooge looked back the old soldier was talking to his sister and the young man was gone, presumably busy dancing with the many others in the room.  Scrooge looked through the group of people until he finally spotted his younger self, using a cane in the corner of the room.  The young man was practicing almost the exact same movements that the elder Scrooge has been trying just moments before though this Scrooge at least had something physical to swing.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two ’prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.

During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. Until today, he had completely forgotten about Mr Jenkins, yet his body obviously retained the memory and skills he had picked up in just those brief moments with the sword.  After that event, he had been required to both train with and sometimes to even use a sword but it was this point in time where he had actually touched and held a weapon for the first time.  In a way, it was a moment of transition for him and the start of his interest in the weapon. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt very clear.

“A small matter,” said the Ghost, “to make these silly folks so full of gratitude.”

“Small!” echoed Scrooge.

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done so, said,

“Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?”

“It isn’t that,” said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. “It isn’t that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count ’em up: what then?  Even Mr Jenkins, the older soldier was able to spread interest and enjoyment at nothing else other than showing off a few moves with his sword.  None of this would be possible without the effort and intention of Fezziwig.  The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune and yet, look at the joy the sight of Mrs. Fezziwig being able to enjoy the company of her brother at this time.”

He felt the Spirit’s glance, and stopped.

“What is the matter?” asked the Ghost.

“Nothing particular,” said Scrooge.

“Something, I think?” the Ghost insisted.

“No,” said Scrooge, “No. I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk just now. That’s all.”

His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open air.

 “My time grows short,” observed the Spirit. “Quick!”

This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could see, but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw himself. He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the shadow of the growing tree would fall.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“It matters little,” she said, softly. “To you, very little. Another idol has displaced me; and if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve.”

“What Idol has displaced you?” he rejoined.

“A golden one.”

“This is the even-handed dealing of the world!” he said. “There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth!”

“You fear the world too much,” she answered, gently. “All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?”

“What then?” he retorted. “Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you.”

She shook her head.

“Am I?”

“Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You
are
changed. When it was made, you were another man.”

“I was a boy,” he said impatiently.

“Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,” she returned. “I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I
have
thought of it, and can release you.”