The minute the peals of the bell faded, Scrooge felt a presence looming behind him. He turned, slowly, trepidatiously, to face the third, and final spirit. This one too was taller than Scrooge, though shorter, and slighter than it's predecessor. It was unmistakably male, but it wore a dark robe that hid it's entire body, save some of it's face, and it's hands. In which it held a massive tome.
The book was old, but in perfect condition. At the angle it was held, Ebeneezer could not see the writing within it, and it was secured by a chain, to the spirit's wrist.
“Am, am I in the presence of the, spirit of Christmas Future?”
The spirit nodded, without speaking. The silence was what frightened him the most. But in the shifting of the shadows in the hood, Scrooge had glimpsed it's eyes. Blind, sightless eyes that nevertheless stared intently at him. That was a close second.
He swallowed, steeling himself. “Lead, lead on spirit. The night is passing quickly, and the time is precious I know. Lead on.”
Silently, the specter turned the page in it's book. As he did so, Scrooge and his companion moved. Yet he did not have the sense of moving, so much as, the world moving around him.
He recognized the courtyard immediately as a place where men of business would gather between meetings and deals. He'd always found the practicality of the place comforting. Stolid faced men bustled here and there, with an occasional nose in a ledger, somehow navigating without looking very often.
“No I don't know much about it.” a man was saying. A small group had stopped to gossip. He knew the men, and drifted closer to hear what they were saying. “I only know he's dead.”
“What happened? I thought he'd never leave.”
The speaker shrugged. “Died in the night I heard.”
“What's to become of his money?” another asked.
Another shrug. “I would imagine he left it to his company. Not to me, that's all I know.”
“Well I expect it will be a cheap funeral. Which would probably please the old miser. I can't think of anyone who'd go. Maybe we should.”
One of them laughed. “Well I don't mind. If there's to be food. I must be fed if I make that effort.”
Scrooge scowled at the men, and looked back at the Spirit uncomprehendingly. But it had already shifted it's attention to another meeting.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“So old Scratch finally got what was coming to him.”
“So I've heard. Cold isn't it.”
“Well it's seasonal for Christmas isn't it. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
With a confused blink, Scrooge watched the two men go on their way. Why had the spirit showed him this? The conversations were so trivial. People died in London every day. He turned to question his guide, but as he watched, the Ghost's finger, moved down the page. As it did, once again the world moved, until they stood in a dirty, disgusting shop.
Ebeneezer recoiled in revulsion from something lying on a table that he didn't care to identify. The smell wasn't much better. The proprietor of the shop didn't seem bothered by the state of things in the least. And though he was dressed almost as shabbily as Bob Cratchitt, he held himself as if he were the lord of a manor.
The door, or what passed for one in that place, opened, and a stooped old woman carrying a bundle entered. Very soon after her, came another woman, and not long after her a tall man dressed all in black.
The trio stared in amazement at each other, and then the stooped woman began to laugh. “What odds eh Joe? If we haven't all arrived here at once without meaning to.”
“You couldn't have come to a better place Hettie.” the man, who Scrooge now knew was called Joe smiled lazily. “Come in, all of you, let's see what you've got for me.”
“You dearies go on ahead.” Hettie smiled, settling herself down. She was content to wait. Her plunder was superior to the others, both in worth, and in shock value to the unseen audience, which only she knew was there.
The first woman produced a few kitchen utensils. The Undertaker's assistant had cuff links, a watch, and some other various odds and ends. Joe appraised them, and bought them. For much less money than he could resell them for.
Finally, it was Hettie's turn. She smirked as Joe unrolled her bundle and found...
“What the-bed curtains?”
“Bed curtains.” she confirmed. “He's not likely to need them now is he?”
“You took them down, rings and all? With him still lying there?”
She shrugged. “They wouldn't have gone to any good use.”
“He didn't die of anything catching I hope.”
Another cackle. “Oh don't you worry yourself about that dearie duck. I'm not so fond of him that I'd have lingered about if he had.”
Joe swallowed. This was a bit mercenary, even for him. Still and all, the goods were promising. And Hettie had a point. Everyone had a right to look after themselves, and the old man didn't need these things. If they hadn't taken them, someone else would have. Now they might even go to someone who really did need them. Not that that was the point of course. He just needed the money.
But all such thoughts fled in the face of what he held now. “That's...”
“You'll not find a spot of dirt or threadbare place on that shirt.” Hettie declared with pride, as if she'd made the garment herself. “It's the best one he had. They'd have wasted it, silly blighters.”
“What-what do you mean, wasted it?”
“They put it on him to be buried in. But I knows the proper use of such things.”
Scrooge, was properly disgusted. He could not have been more repulsed if they had been selling the bits and pieces of the man himself. He backed up towards the Spirit, as if seeking comfort, and bumped his leg against...a bed.
It was difficult to make out anything in the room, as a single light shone down on the bed, leaving the rest in darkness. But he could hear rats under the hearthstone, and a cat scratching at the door. No doubt seeking, that which lay in the bed.
There was no one there to mourn the man, covered but haphazardly with a single white sheet. No one to watch over the body and make sure the rats and the cat did not get to it. Or to keep vultures from looting the corpse of it's possessions.
His guide stood just inside the circle of light, pointing to the sheet. Though it still had yet to speak, Scrooge knew what it wanted. And he shrank away, cringing. “I-I know what you want me to do.” he said. Clearly it wanted him to look upon whoever was on the bed. “And-and if I could, I would, but...I cannot. I cannot.”
The finger lowered, returning to marking it's place on the page before the specter. It seemed to have relented for the moment. “Spirit I beg you, is there no one who feels anything at the death of this wretch? If there is, show it to me I implore you.”
The only response, was for the spirit to turn the page once more. Now they were in a small home, not too different than Bob Cratchitt's house, where a young woman paced nervously. Her children watched on, confused and anxious. A young man, whom Scrooge took to be the man of the house entered, looking somber, yet, hopeful.
“Well?” the woman asked, breathless. “What news? Good? Bad?”
“Bad.” the man said honestly. “But there is hope Coraline.”
“Oh well of course there's hope, if he's relented. If a miracle like that has happened nothing is past hope.”
“Well, he's past relenting. He's, well he's dead.”
“Oh thank God!” Coraline exclaimed. Her hand went to her mouth in horror. “Oh Lord, forgive me. That was a horrible thing to say.”
Scrooge couldn't agree more. She had begged forgiveness, but the utterance was the reaction of her heart. And her husband did not reprove her. “I don't know who will take up our debt.” he went on. “But by the time that's decided, we will have the money. We can sleep easy tonight my darling.”
Ebeneezer, wanted to vomit. Whoever this man had been...and he was having his suspicions, he had been such a monster that the only emotion the spirit could find regarding his death, was relief.
“Show me, show me tenderness, remorse Spirit, please. Connected to a death, any death.”
The cloaked figure was as implacable as ever, it's finger moving down the page. And once more, Scrooge found himself in Bob Cratchitt's house. He gasped in dismay, guessing why they were here.
The woman of the house and her children were gathered around the fire. There was none of the vim and vigor that had possessed them last time. They were very quiet, and subdued.
Pinching her nose, Mrs. Cratchitt put aside her embroidery. “The color hurts my eyes by firelight.” she explained to her youngest daughter. “And I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father. Not for the world.” She looked expectantly towards the front door. “He should be home soon, but I think he's walked a bit slower these past few days. I've known him to walk-” At that moment, her voice choked off, and she struggled to keep her composure. “I've known him to walk with Tiny Tim on his shoulder so quickly.
“He was so small, and your father loved him so...” She was rambling now, telling the children things they already knew about their father, and their baby brother. But they were things she needed to say. To keep it bottled up would have been too much for her.
Soon enough, the man himself returned. It wasn't until this moment, when Scrooge saw him so hunched, and subdued, that he realized that Cratchitt had always carried himself with optimism, good cheer, and even pride. Gone was the man whom he had just seen standing so tall. Bob's eyes were sunken with grief, his shoulders slumped. His employer noticed all this despite his best efforts to hide it when he came in. He smiled at his wife and his children.
“So, you went today?” Mrs. Cratchitt asked.
“Oh yes.” he nodded. “I wish you could have come too, it would have done you good to see how green it is. And it has a lovely view. But of course you'll see it often. I promised him we would come visit him on Sundays-” But he could not pretend for long. His smile died on his face and his voice broke. It was all he could do to keep standing as sobs forced their way past his composure.
Ebeneezer watched helplessly as his clerk regained himself, and went upstairs to gaze upon the body of his youngest son. Alone, he could allow himself to break down, if only for awhile. And for the first time in years, Scrooge reached out for another human being, seeking to lay his hand upon Bob's shoulder. But of course he could not.
Almost as if he could sense the intended gesture of comfort however, Bob calmed, and went back downstairs. He sat before the fire, by his wife's side, as the smallest of the family clambered into his lap. After a moment, he told them that he had run into Fred, Scrooge's nephew that day.
“He said 'I'm heartily sorry to hear that Mr. Cratchitt.' When I told him what had happened.” he told them. “'And for your poor family.' It almost seemed as if he'd known our Tim, and mourned with us.” His arms tightened around the two children in his lap. “I'm very happy.” he said finally. “Very happy to have you all. And whenever, or however we shall part with each other, I know that...remembering Tiny Tim, we won't quarrel easily.”
“Never father.” the little ones assured him.
“Very happy.” he repeated, a sad smile on his face.
Heartbroken, Scrooge turned from the scene, and found himself facing the spirit, that seemed to stare through him with it's sightless eyes. With a hard swallow, he steeled himself for the question, he dreaded to ask. But he knew he must ask. He suspected the answer already, but he had to know for certain.
“Spirit, who, who was the man...the man that lay on the bed? His name? What was his name?”
Another move of the hand, the finger seeming to impale the words on the page, and they were in the yard of the church they had left only moments, or long ago. Among the stones, one stood out. It almost seemed to glow, though there was no perceivable light around it.
“There.” the spirit intoned. It's voice was not remarkable, but it's silence up till then made the pronouncement ring like thunder. It's hand was no longer holding it's place in the book, but pointing inexorably towards the fresh grave.
With a swallow, he approached the indicated grave. After a few steps, he stopped. “Spirit, answer me this, are these the shadows of things that will be, or of things that only might be?”
He received no answer.
Another few steps closer. And he began to talk, not to the spirit, but to himself. If his guide would not comfort him, it fell to himself to do the job. “A man's life, leads to certain ends, depending on his circumstances. But, but if he changes those circumstances, those actions, the ends will change.” Again he stopped, and turned. “Please, tell me it is thus, with what you show me?”
Immovable as ever.
At last, he reached the stone. And despite the gloom in the yard, he could easily make out, his, own, name.
Ebeneezer, Scrooge.
He had known it. From the first conversation, he had known in his soul that they were talking about him. But until he'd gotten confirmation, he could pretend to himself that it was someone else. But now, the truth of it lay before him, written in stone.
“No!” he cried, falling back. “No, please!” It was not the fear of death itself that spurred him, not only that at any rate. But the attitudes he had seen towards his death. “Spirit hear me! I am not the man I was when Jacob came to me! I have listened and learned from you and the others, I have changed! I will change!” He struggled to his feet, then fell to his knees, clutching at the spirit's robe. “Please, tell me I may yet wipe away the writing on this stone!”
Impassively, silently, the robed figure looked down upon him, and the fabric of the robe, changed. Where it had been the rough cloth of a Monk's robes, it was now smooth, soft, and heavy. Like...bed curtains.
Bed curtains that had not been torn down rings and all in fact.