Humbug Holiday (9 page)

“And will you show me my backpack?” I asked.

Again, the spirit made no answer.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but we're talking here. Are you going to answer us?”

The phantom was deadly silent under its hood.

“Not exactly a chatty sort of guy,” I whispered.

The folds of the ghost's cloak trembled slightly as if it heard that and turned its head toward me for a second. As creepy as the spirit was, it was even creepier thinking that it was looking at me. I had goose pimples all over. Even my goose pimples had goose pimples!

“So you're not going to speak at all?” asked Frankie

The spirit only turned and pointed its awful hand into the dark streets ahead.

“We'll take that as a
no
,” Frankie said.

“Ghost of the Future!” Scrooge cried. “I fear you more than any spirit I have seen! But as I know your purpose is to do me good, I follow you with a thankful heart. Lead on, Spirit, lead on!”

The phantom moved away, and we followed it. And even though we had been in a deserted section of London, bustling streets and big buildings suddenly surrounded us. Well-dressed men with top hats and long coats were chitchatting at each corner.

“These are men of business,” said Scrooge, looking every which way. “I see them every morning before work. I know them.”

The spirit stopped and pointed to one little group of men standing under a stone arch. We listened to them.

“No,” said a great big chubby guy with several chins, “I don't know much about it. I only know he's dead.”

“When did he die?” asked another.

“Last night, I believe,” said the first.

A third man chuckled heartily. “I thought he'd never die! What has he done with his money?”

“He hasn't left it to me, that's all I know,” said the man of many chins. “I'll go to the funeral, as long as there will be lunch. But unless I'm fed, I don't go!”

The others nodded and went their separate ways.

Scrooge looked at the spirit. “Why did we listen to that? Were those men talking about someone I know?”

Without answering, the phantom glided on into another street. Its finger pointed to two men meeting outside a big stone bank.

“Maybe these guys will give us a clue,” said Frankie.

“Yes, yes,” said Scrooge. “I know them, too. They are wealthy men. They know me. Let's listen.”

“How are you?” said one man.

“Good. And you?”

“Fine,” said the first. “I hear he finally died.”

“So I am told,” said the second man. “Cold, isn't it?”

“Seasonable for Christmastime,” said the first. “Do you like to ice-skate?”

“No, no. I can't afford to break anything! See you!”

“See you!”

The guys waved to each other and wandered off.

“That was it?” I said. “It didn't sound too important.”

Scrooge blinked. “What was that about? Were they talking about Jacob Marley?”

“Probably not,” I said. “This ghost is all about the future, and that happened way in the past.” I turned to Frankie. “Maybe we should crack open the book again. It might give us a clue, because right now I'm feeling fairly clueless.”

“Same old feeling, huh?” Frankie opened to the page we were on and immediately rubbed her eyes. “Whew, the words are pretty blurry, but it looks like we're heading into another part of London. A not nice part. I think things will get worse.”

Scrooge frowned. “I never go to the bad parts of the city. Even so, it must all mean something. I shall especially observe the shadow of myself when it appears. What I say and do will be clues to sorting this out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Okay, Spirit, next stop!”

Like the book said, we did move quickly into a part of London we hadn't seen before. The first thing that hit us was the smell. It was a cross between garbage and locker room mixed with sewers and old basements.

“Whew!” said Frankie, holding her nose. “Stinky!”

But that wasn't the worst part.

The whole place felt dangerous.

The streets were narrow and winding, the shops and houses were crooked and dark. The street beneath our feet sloshed with thick mud and puddles. The few people we did see were dressed in rags and kept to the shadows.

“What is this terrible place?” asked Scrooge.

“The nineteenth century at night,” said Frankie.

The spirit moved along the street, passing before a low-roofed building, a sort of shop. A smear of yellow candlelight flickered from inside its greasy windows.

“Yuck,” I said. “I'm glad we're not going in there.”

Of course, we went in there. As if the walls were nothing, we passed into a room filled with rags, bottles, and giant piles of rusty metal keys, nails, chains, and broken hinges. You could hardly put your foot down without crunching on something. In the next room were chairs stacked one upon the other, most of them broken, piles of wood, shattered jars, and busted lamps.

“Uckh! This is so disgusting!” Frankie gasped.

“It's even worse than my bedroom,” I muttered.

And there in the middle of it all, next to a charcoal stove made of blackened bricks, sat a man.

He was old and fat, with gray hair that hung down his face in ragged strands.

He tossed away a chicken bone, burped loudly, then picked up a pipe and blew out a smelly puff of smoke.

“Um, okay,” said Frankie, still pinching her nose. “If I wasn't grossed out before, I am now!”

“Yeah,” I added. “I feel Mrs. Cratchit's wonderful supper making another return visit—”

Just then, a woman with a heavy bundle crept into the room, creaking across the floor right through us, which, if I needed to feel yuckier, sure did the trick.

Another woman, also with a bundle, followed her in.

The floors creaked a third time when a man in a faded black coat entered.

The fat man with the pipe jiggled as he sat, then burst into laughter. “Well, all three at once! What a surprise! Open the bundles, then. Let me see what you've brought me today. Come, come! What have you got?”

The first woman laughed. “Things a dead man won't miss. I say, if he wanted to keep them after he died, he'd have made more friends when he was alive—”

“A truer word was never spoken,” said the second woman. “There he was, gasping out his last breath all alone. It's a judgment on him, I say. Open the bundles Joe, and tell us what you'll pay for them.”

“Who is this poor dead man they speak of?” said Scrooge to the spirit. Of course, the spirit said nothing.

Out of courtesy, the guy in black went first. He produced a small bag. Old Joe plunged his greasy hands in and came out with some buttons, a handful of pins, and a watch on a chain.

“Not much,” said Joe. He came up with a number, and paid the man out of a tin box. “Who's next?”

The second woman had a few bowls, some towels, two shiny spoons, and a couple of pairs of boots.

Old Joe looked them over, then cast his eyes to the cracked ceiling, closed them, and came out with a number. “Don't ask for more, or I'll lower my price!”

“Now undo my bundle, Joe,” said the first woman.

Joe went down on his knees and untangled knot after knot, finally dragging out a large and heavy roll of dark cloth.

“What's all this then?” he asked. “Bed curtains?”

“Bed curtains!” the woman replied.

Joe coughed. “You don't mean to say that you took them down, rings and all, with him lying there dead?”

“I did! And look at this!” She held up a long nightgown. “They would have wasted it, if I hadn't taken it.”

“What do you mean, wasted it?” asked Joe. “Do you mean you … er … took it off … er … his
body
?”

“I did!” she exclaimed.

The four of them had a creepy round of laughs at that.

I pulled Frankie and Scrooge back. “Okay, this is, like, the completely grossest thing ever. But I think I know what's going on. These people stole stuff from the dead guy, whoever he was, and they're selling it for money.”

“Poor man!” said Scrooge. “Perhaps the spirit is showing me these things because I might end up like this poor dead fellow, whoever he is.”

“Harsh lesson,” I said. “Not quite as much fun as being at Fred's happy, clean, safe Christmas party—”

The people laughed again, and then all began to share Joe's pipe, quickly filling the room with blue smoke.

“Spirit, take me away from this dreadful place,” said Scrooge, pinching his nose. “Show me some tenderness about a death. Yes, tenderness and love!”

With a wave of the ghost's dark cloak, old Joe and his guests were gone, and so were we.

Dark, cold mist rolled over us.

All of a sudden a soothing voice spoke out of the fog.

“‘And he took a child and set him in the midst of them.…'”

It was a voice we knew.

Chapter 15

The words seemed to come from the darkness itself, but when the spirit lowered its robe, we found ourselves in a small room.

“We've been here before,” said Frankie.

I knew it, too. It was the Cratchits' house. It was Christmastime, again, and there was snow falling outside the window. Only there was a difference.

As loud and bustling as it had been the first time we were there, now the house was quiet. Very quiet.

The noisy little Cratchits were now as still as statues in one corner. Mrs. Cratchit and her older daughters were sewing by the fire. They couldn't see us this time.

Behind us, Peter was sitting at a table with a book in front of him. He was reading from it out loud.

“‘And he took a child and set him in the midst of them,'” he repeated. Then he looked up to see his mother put down her sewing and put her hands to her face.

“The color hurts my eyes,” she said. “And I wouldn't show your father weak eyes for anything. It must be time for him to come home.”

“Past time,” said Peter. “But I think he's walked a little slower than he used to.”

They were very quiet again. At last, Mrs. Cratchit said, “I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Tim on his shoulder very fast indeed.”

“So have I,” said Peter.

“And so have I,” exclaimed one of the daughters.

“But he was so light to carry,” the mother went on. “And his father loved him so, that it was no trouble, no trouble … ah, there is your father at the door!”

The door opened quietly behind us and Bob Cratchit stood there, alone. Mrs. Cratchit and the little ones brought him to the fireplace and sat him down.

“I wish you could have seen the place,” he said at last. “It would have done you good to see how green a spot it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that we would visit him every Sunday. And that we would never … we would never … forget him … oh! My little, little Tim! My Tiny Tim!”

He broke down all at once, and we did, too. Frankie began sobbing. In a flash, my cheeks were rolling with tears. Even Scrooge was shuddering and weeping.

It was the future, and Tiny Tim had died.

We stood for what seemed like forever watching the poor Cratchit family mourn for their little boy. I suddenly felt like those ghosts at the beginning who tried to help the poor woman on the street but couldn't.

“This stinks,” I whispered, trying to dry my face. “I feel so helpless. Isn't there anything we can do?”

As usual, the ghost said nothing, which was really starting to get to me. It knew stuff. It just wouldn't tell us. All it did was turn and point its finger to the door.

“Spirit,” said Scrooge, wiping his eyes, “something tells me that we must part soon. Show me what connection there is between Tiny Tim's death and the other scenes you have shown us. Show us who that dead man was—”

Without a word, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come raised its cloak, and a dark fog rolled over the Cratchit's living room, and the scene changed once more.

We stood before an iron gate.

On the other side was a graveyard.

“Sooner or later, there's always one of these,” I said.

“Now we shall discover who those businessmen were speaking of,” said Scrooge. “And whose possessions were being sold at that terrible shop. Yes, this will be good. I will try to avoid that poor man's fate. Oh, yes, I shall!”

The ghost moved among the gravestones, its long black cloak darker than the darkness of the yard. Over the weeds it walked until it stopped over one grave. Its hand moved slightly, and its finger pointed to the stone.

Scrooge staggered forward slowly. “Spirit, before I draw nearer to that stone, answer me one question. Are these the shadows of things that
must
be? Or are they shadows of things that
may
be?”

The ghost remained silent.

“I know that the way we lead our lives will lead to certain ends,” said Scrooge. “But if we change our lives, the ends will change, too, won't they? Spirit, tell me it is not too late to change our lives. Tell me it's not too late!”

From the depths of the spirit's hood came no sound. It pointed only from the grave to Scrooge and back again.

“Fine, then,” I said. “If you won't tell us, then we'll have to look for ourselves. Everyone together.”

And so, together, Frankie, Scrooge, and I crept toward the cold gray stone.

Following the spirit's pale, bony finger, we read the name chiseled into the rough surface:
EBENEZER SCROOGE
.

Scrooge gave out a wail like Marley's ghost way back at the beginning of the book. “Ohhhhhh! No, no, no!”

The finger still pointed at Scrooge's gravestone.

“Spirit!” Scrooge screamed, clutching at its robe for the first time. “Hear me, now! I am not the man I was! I will not be the man under this stone! Why show me this, if I am past all hope? Why show me, if it's too late to change?”