Humbug Holiday (8 page)

Finally Bob raised his glass and said, “A merry Christmas to us all, including our guests! God bless us!”

The whole family echoed the toast.

“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, last of all.

When he said it, Bob held Tim's small hand tightly, as if he feared it would be taken from him.

Scrooge, who had been hovering over the table, finally spoke. “Spirit, tell me about Tiny Tim.”

The ghost turned. “I see an empty seat by the fireplace. And a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If what we see now goes unchanged by the future, the child will die.”

I felt as if I'd been punched in the stomach.

“Ghost, tell us Tim will not die,” said Scrooge.

“If these shadows remain unchanged, he shall!”

“But Spirit, no, please tell me—”

“We move on!” said the ghost sharply.

Frankie and I barely said our good-byes to the Cratchits, when we were suddenly far outside the city in a dark, lonely valley sunk between high jagged hills.

“Where are we now?” I asked.

“This is a place where miners live,” said the spirit. “They work in the dark and dangerous depths of the earth. But they know me here. Listen!”

There was a faint sound of someone singing.

“They sing carols to me!” said the spirit. Touching his cloak, we flew across the valley and through the walls of a small hut, where a cheerful bunch of folks were huddled around a glowing fire.

We clung to the shadows in the corner, which was okay, because there wasn't really room for anyone else around the fire, and Frankie and I didn't know all the words to the songs they were singing.

They finished one old carol, laughed, wished Merry Christmases all around, then sang another.

It was nice, but before long—
whoosh!
—we were on our way again. This time, the ghost flew us straight out over the water, far away to a sailing ship that crashed and dipped on the waves.

“Even far out here, they know me,” said the spirit.

There were a few men on deck, and every one of them hummed a Christmas tune or told a Christmas story.

“The Christmas spirit is everywhere,” said Frankie. “This is so cool.”

Actually, not so cool.

The ship rocked suddenly, and the awesome Cratchit dinner jiggled in my stomach. I groaned. “Big meal—lots of stuffing—about to be unstuffed—Spirit, I don't do ships—or sea stuff—can we leave—”

“Very well,” he said. “But it means we fly again.”

“Anything but ships!” I said, as the ship rocked again. And away we flew, away through the dark and cold of the night, soaring over the ocean and back over land.

“We should be able to get our pilots' licenses after all this flying!” said Frankie, stretching her arms wide and enjoying herself.

Finally, descending into the thick darkness and biting cold and yellow fog of London once again, we heard the most sudden and unexpected thing.

Someone, very near us in the darkness, gave out a big, hearty, booming, echoing laugh—“Ha, ha! Ha, ha,
ha
!”

Chapter 13

“Ha, ha!” came the bright laugh again.

“Hey, I'm pretty sure we've heard that laugh before,” said Frankie. “Who is it?”

The ghost waved his torch over us, and with a breeze that smelled like roasted turkey, the black air evaporated, and we found ourselves in a bright, gleaming room.

“Isn't this better than some smelly old boat?” I said.

All the walls and halls around us were decked with holly, every candle in the place was lit and blazing, and right there in the middle of everything was Scrooge's nephew Fred, bent over, laughing his head off.

And so was the pretty woman next to him.

“Ha-ha-ha! Ha-
ha
!”

“Scrooge, behold your nephew and his wife,” said the spirit, “your niece by marriage, whom you've never met! They have no great wealth, but they know how to celebrate Christmas!”

They sure did! In that dazzling room were a dozen other jolly, fresh-faced people, and all of them had plates or glasses, and all of them were laughing, too.

The nephew turned and spotted Frankie and me by the door. “Dear, dear!” he said. “The two children from Scrooge's office! Well, come in, you two! Come in!”

Frankie grinned, then whispered to me, “Isn't it strange how so many people around Scrooge know how to have a good time, but he doesn't?”

“Good one,” I agreed. “Let's hope Scrooge puts that on his list of things to fix. But in the meantime—let's party!”

The nephew introduced us all around. “As these two can tell you, Uncle Scrooge said that Christmas was a humbug. And he believed it, too!”

“Shame on him, Fred!” said Scrooge's niece. She had curly hair, bright eyes, and was really kind of cute.

“He's a comical old fellow,” said Fred.

“He's very rich, for sure,” I said.

“What of that?” said Fred. “He may have a million pounds, but he doesn't do anything good with it.”

“He hates to give any away,” said Frankie. “I bet he never gave any to you, for instance.”

“Ha!” Fred exploded. “Quite right about that!”

“I have no patience with him,” said Scrooge's niece.

“Oh, I have,” said Fred. “I feel sorry for him. I couldn't be mad at him if I tried. He really only hurts himself. And misses out on a truly delectable Christmas dinner.”

“The more for us!” yelled someone in the back.

At that, Scrooge's niece began to play on a harp, and sang a nice old-fashioned song in a pretty decent voice.

“Ah!” said Scrooge, tucking himself behind the spirit. “I remember that tune. My sister, Fan, knew that song. I heard her sing it often when I was young.…”

He paused, then began to cry. “Oh, dear, dear, Fan!”

The ghost looked closely at Scrooge. “The memories of a sister … yes, yes, she was a tender soul.”

Frankie let out a deep sigh. “You know, Devin, Scrooge was mean, really mean to his nephew, but I sort of feel sorry for him now. I mean, he really did love his sister a lot.”

I nodded. “Yeah. It makes you wonder if he had been with her more, and had heard her sing more often, maybe he wouldn't have grown up so mean, you know?”

I suddenly wondered, What if things were different, and there were no Frankie to have fun with? How would I be? No Frankie? Now that's a scary thought!

“Come, there is more yet to see,” said the ghost.

“Not yet, spirit, please.” Scrooge wiped his eyes, and began tapping his feet. “I want to stay just a little longer. Look, they are playing games!”

The first was called Yes and No. Fred started by thinking of something, and the rest of us had to guess what. He could only answer our questions with
yes
or
no
.

“I know this game,” I said. “We call it Twenty Questions where I come from. Okay. Think of a hard one.”

With a twinkle in his eye, just like Mrs. Figglehopper gets, Scrooge's nephew laughed, then nodded. “All right, I have one. Ask away!”

Frankie and I and the other guests asked a bunch of questions. It turned out the thing was an animal that lived in London, that grunted and growled but wasn't in a zoo and wasn't a horse, a cow, a bull, a tiger, a dog, a pig, a cat, or a bear.

At last, Scrooge's niece jumped up. “Oh, Fred, I know! It's your Uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge!”

“Yes, it is!” cried Fred, nearly falling on the floor.

I protested. “Hey, that's not fair. I was thrown off when you said it wasn't a bear!”

Scrooge scowled at me for an instant, then laughed.

Finally, Fred raised his glass. “A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to the old man—whatever he is!”

Scrooge himself seemed as jolly as I'd ever seen him, but soon, and despite his protests, the ghost waved his arm and whole scene passed away as if it were nothing but clouds.

After that, the ghost took us on a whirlwind tour of what seemed like the whole world of 1843. We visited hospitals and jails. We went to the front lines where troops were fighting in a distant war. We visited rich people and poor people, kids and old folks, in the country, and in cities. Every place was different, but they were all the same, too. Because wherever we went, we heard bells chiming and songs sung and people cheering “Merry Christmas!” to one another.

And all the while, the ghost grew older, clearly older.

With each new scene, the spirit's brown hair and beard were turning more and more gray, and his plump red cheeks were thinning and pale. He didn't seem so huge, either, but walked more slowly and hunched over.

“Oh, no,” I whispered to Frankie, “Christmas is getting old. That must mean the holiday is ending.”

Scrooge noticed it, too. “Spirit, tell me, are your lives so short?”

“My life on this earth is very brief,” said the ghost. “It ends at midnight tonight. And my time is coming near.”

In fact, it must have been the very end of the whole Christmas season. The street he brought us to was lonely and deserted. He walked slowly for a bit, then stopped and turned to us.

It was when he swished his robes around that I noticed something sticking out from beneath it. It wasn't his foot, though, and I couldn't help staring at it.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It looks like some kind of claw,” said Frankie.

“It might be a claw,” said the ghost. “Behold!”

He tugged his robe aside sharply, and there were two small children shivering on the ground at his feet. But they weren't cute little children like the ones you see in magazines and catalogs. They were all skinny and pale. Their eyes were sunken. They looked hungry, cold, and afraid.

Scrooge staggered back. “Spirit! Who are they? Are they … your children?”

“They belong to everyone,” said the ghost, his jolly voice turning sharp and echoing in the deserted street. It sent chills up and down my spine to hear him now.

“And they cling to me—to Christmas—for help. This boy is Ignorance. He cannot learn, and the world fears him. This girl is Want. She is all the poor children in the world whom no one will take care of. Beware them both, but most of all beware this boy. If Ignorance takes over, there is no hope for any of us! Mark me—Ignorance means doom for everyone!”

“But have they no place to go?” asked Scrooge.

“Are there no prisons?” said the spirit, his voice booming now. “Are there no workhouses?”

I gasped. “Those are Scrooge's own words!”

“Are there no prisons?” thundered the ghost, his hair now white. “Are there no workhouses? Prisons! Workhouses! Prisons! Prisons!”

“No more!” said Scrooge. “I don't want to be haunted anymore. No more. No more!”

“Prisons! Workhouses!” boomed the ghost.

“I want to go home!” cried Scrooge. “Ghost, haunt me no more!” He jerked away from the spirit and accidentally knocked the book from Frankie's hands. It struck the street at the same time that a sharp wind barreled between the buildings. The wind took the book with it, tumbling end over end on the rough cobblestones, flipping the pages.

Kkkk!
The sky crackled with sudden lightning.

“Meltdown!” cried Frankie. “Devin, get the book!”

Too late. Even as I ran after it, the wind whipped over the pages of the book wildly.

Suddenly there was an enormous ripping sound, as a big V of darkness pierced the sky.

Even as he called out “Prisons! Workhouses!” once more, the Ghost of Christmas Present vanished into the night air and the two ragged children with him.

“What is happening?” shouted Scrooge, losing his balance as the ground seemed to rush up at us.

“Story—going—haywire!” I shouted, finally reaching the book. “Got—it!”

I snapped it shut, but it had already gone to the next chapter. It was only a few pages, but it was enough to change everything.

The wind stopped howling, the lightning ceased. It was the same street, but the temperature had dropped by about a million degrees. The air was frigid.

And it had begun to snow heavily.

“Uh-oh,” I said, shivering. “This is not good. Where's Scrooge's bedroom? We always go back to the bedroom to start a new ghost. I don't like this. Frankie, this is scary. Frankie—”

“Devin,” she gasped suddenly, “remember what Jacob Marley said? The final ghost will come at midnight. Well, take a look—”

I squinted through the night to see the tower of a church. The hands on its clock were straight up.

Bong!
The clock struck twelve times.

“Midnight,” whispered Scrooge.

And as the last stroke of the clock ceased to ring, we lifted our eyes and saw it coming.

A solemn phantom, draped and hooded, coming, coming, coming, like a mist along the ground.

“N-n-now
that
,” I whispered, “is what I c-c-call a g-g-ghost!”

Chapter 14

We all dropped to our knees as the phantom moved slowly and silently up the street to us.

This spirit wasn't in happy clothes like the last one. It was shrouded in a deep black cloak that hid its head, its face, its feet. Everything, in fact, except one thing.

A long, pale, bony, outstretched hand.

A hand I had seen twice before.

“Frankie, that's—”

“I know,” she said.

“He keeps stealing my—”

“I know!”

“So ask for it back—”

“Are you out of your mind? Take a look at the guy!”

“Okay. But how about later?”

“Devin—shhhh!”

The spirit stopped over us. It said nothing.

Quivering, Scrooge raised his eyes to the hooded creature. “Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?”

The spirit only pointed its bony hand forward.

“And will you show me shadows of things that have not yet happened, but
will
happen in the time to come?”