Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A METALOCALYPSE CHRISTMAS CAROL CHARACTER CAST

Ebenezer Scrooge, a grasping, covetous old man, the surviving partner of the firm of Scrooge and Marley. MAGNUS HAMMERSMITH
Ghost of Jacob Marley. WILLIAM MURDERFACE
Ghost of Christmas Past. SKWISGAAR SKWIGELF
Ghost of Christmas Present. PICKLES THE DRUMMER
Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. NATHAN EXPLOSION
Bob Cratchit, clerk to Ebenezer Scrooge. CHARLES FOSTER OFDENSEN
Peter Cratchit, a son of the preceding. EDGAR JOMFRU
“Tiny Tim” Cratchit, youngest Cratchit son. TOKI WARTOOTH
Mrs. Cratchit, wife of Bob Cratchit. ABIGAIL REMELTINDRINC
Belinda and Martha Cratchit, daughters of the preceding. TRINDLE AND RACHEL
Mr. Fezziwig, a kind-hearted, jovial old merchant. ROY CORNICKELSON
Mrs. Fezziwig, the new wife of Mr. Fezziwig. SERVETA SKWIGELF
Dick Wilkins, a fellow apprentice of Scrooge's. SETH MCCORMICK-KNUBBLER
Fan, the sister of Scrooge and wife of Dick Wilkins. AMBER KNUBBLER (FORMERLY HAMMERSMITH)
Fred, Scrooge's nephew. DICK (RICHARD) KNUBBLER
Scrooge’s niece by marriage; Fred’s wife. CHASTITY KNUBBLER (FORMERLY MCCLEAN)
Chastity’s sister: SUSAN MCCLEAN
Mr. Topper, a handsome and flirtatious bachelor. MELMORD FJORDSLORN
Belle, an old sweetheart of Scrooge's. LAVONA SUCCUBOSO
Joe, a pawn shop owner and receiver of stolen goods. METAL MASKED ASSASSIN
Mrs. Dilber, a laundress. LIZ BANE
A housekeeper. CAROLINE BSIJLDFJO
Two Charitable Gentlemen. DETHKLOK’S SCIENTISTS/INVENTORS
Christmas Singer/Goose Boy. KLOKATEER #216 (Dwarf)

Chapter Text

William Murderface was dead, to begin with.  Dead, deceased, pushing up daisies, gone to the Great Beyond, whatever you’d like to say.  There was no doubt that the man was one hundred percent, beyond a shadow of a doubt… DEAD, and everyone knew it.

The person whom Murderface’s death affected most of all was Magnus Hammersmith.  Magnus and he were partners for many years. Magnus was his sole business partner, his sole beneficiary, his sole friend, and sole mourner, although not a very tearful one at that.  To him, the funeral was an alteration to his Friday schedule.  But he was pleased he was able to organize it to be very quick and very cheap.  A pine coffin, a half-hour church service, a procession to the cemetery, and into the ground Murderface went.  Done.

To circle back, there was no doubt that Murderface was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come from the story that follows. 

Magnus (who insisted on being called “Magnus,” never “Mister Hammersmith” – it reminded him too much of his stuffy, estranged magistrate father) never painted out Old Murderface’s name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the office door: Magnus Hammersmith and William Murderface.

Magnus was as sharp and demanding a taskmaster as any slave-driver in history.  He pinched, he demanded, he pried, he squeezed, he took by force whatever he liked, whenever he liked, usually as cruelly as possible.  “Please” was not a word in his vocabulary, and warmth was not a temperature he enjoyed.  Icy cold he kept his office, just as chill as his miserly heart and demeanor.  He embraced the cold and his twisted features reflected it: His left eye looked like a frozen pond, his hair seemed streaked with frost.  No one dared to approach him – much less greet him – on the street.  This suited Magnus, who reveled in his solitude.

One foggy Christmas Eve, Magnus busied himself in his lending office.  His shabbily dressed, bespectacled clerk Charles Ofdensen shivered in the main room.  Ofdensen pulled his threadbare coat on to ward off the cold.  With every breath, he exhaled a small cloud.

Though Magnus had a very small fire, the clerk's fire was practically one guttering coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Magnus kept the coal supply in his interior office and was, of course, miserly and cruel and bitter about that, as well. So Charles sat at his desk, rubbed his hands together as he blew on his fingers, and stared at the candle for a minute or so, imagining a roaring fire.

Suddenly, the door flew open and a cheery voice exclaimed, 'Uncle Magnus!  Merry Christmas! God bless you!' It was the voice of Magnus’ nephew, Richard Knubbler, who came upon him so quickly that Magnus spilled ink on his papers.

'Bah!' said Magnus. 'Humbug!'  He reached for a rag to sop up the ink, even gruffer now that he had been all day.

Richard’s face was rosy and handsome from being outside and dressed in so many layers.  His mechanical eyes flashed red and green, in keeping with the festive season.  He wore a long grey wool coat, a modest black top hat bedecked with a bright green ribbon and a sprig of holly. A red scarf was draped around his neck and his across shoulders.  He stamped the snow from his boots.

'Christmas a humbug, uncle!' said Knubbler. “You can’t serious!'

'I am,' said Magnus. ‘See what you’ve done - you made me spill ink all over Mr. Stampingston’s documents.’  He looked at his nephew with a snarl, still trying to blot up the ink.  ‘Merry Christmas! What right or reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough, Dick.'

'But, Uncle Magnus,' returned Richard gaily. 'What right have you to be so grumpy and grim? You're rich enough.'

Another exasperated 'Bah!' again; and followed it up with 'Humbug!'  More furious blotting on the papers.

'Don't be such a crab, uncle!' said the nephew.

'Better a crab than a fool,' returned the uncle, ‘Like the rest of the world. What's Christmas-time to you but a time for spending on credit without money; watching your debt pile up; finding you’re getting poorer and poorer, finding yourself one year older and that much closer to the grave, and looking at the rotting carcass of another year gone by. If I had my way,' said Magnus indignantly, 'Every moron who says "Merry Christmas" should be cooked alongside his own Christmas goose, and served to his horrified loved ones with a stake of holly through his heart!'

'Jesus, Uncle!' exclaimed the nephew.

'Christ, Dick!' spat Magnus, 'Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.'

'Keep it!' repeated Richard. 'But you hate it.'

'Let me hate it then,' said Magnus. 'Much good may it do you!’

'But Christmas IS a wonderful time – not just because of the faith aspect.' returned young Knubbler; ‘I see it as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant, festive time.  A time for parties! There’s a feeling of unity and goodness in mankind that is special and only comes once a year.  And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!'

Charles, who had been listening to the drama unfolding, applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked at the fire, with a startled, ‘AH!’ and unfortunately only managed in putting it out entirely.

‘Another noise from you, and you can count yourself unemployed, Ofdensen,’ snarled Magnus at the quaking clerk.

'Relax, Uncle Magnus. Come have dinner with Chastity and me tomorrow.'

Magnus stared at his unsinkable nephew. 'Why did you get married?' he growled.

'Why?’ Knubbler chuckled. ‘Because I fell in love.'

'Because you fell in love!' cajoled Magnus, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. 'Good afternoon!'

‘You never stopped in to visit before.  Why not tomorrow?'

'Good afternoon,' said Magnus through gritted teeth.

‘Well, at least I know I tried.  We’ve never fought, but you won’t hear me out. All the same, Merry Christmas, Uncle Magnus!'

'Good afternoon,' growled Magnus.

'And A Happy New Year!'

'Good afternoon!' spat Magnus.

His nephew left the room without an angry word, cheerily wishing Charles a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.  Though Charles was freezing cold, he returned the greetings in a warmer manner than Magnus had.

As Knubbler left, two kind-looking senior gentlemen stepped in, taking their hats off. They held ledgers and pencils and bowed to Magnus as they approached.

‘Hammersmith…” said the first. 

“And Murderface’s,” continued the second.

“We believe,' the gentlemen said together, referring to their list. 

'Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Hammersmith, or Mr. Murderface?' asked the first.

'William Murderface has been dead for seven years this very night,' the bearded man replied. ‘You will refer to me as Magnus.'

'At this festive season of the year, Mr… Magnus…,' said the second gentleman as he took up a pen. 

‘It is a charitable custom that we ask businesses to make a contribution to the poor,” said the first.

‘So they might spend Christmastime in comfort,” continued the second.  They both grinned at Magnus.

'Have the prisons shut down?' asked Magnus.

'Oh, unfortunately, they take in more people every day,' said the second gentleman sadly.

‘How about the workhouses?' demanded Magnus. 'Still functioning?'

'Sadly, yes.'

‘Unemployment office still giving out money?' said Magnus.

'Yes, sir.'

'Oh! What a relief nothing happened to them,' said Magnus. 'I am very glad to hear it.'

‘What we are trying to do is help the local homeless shelter…” said the first gentleman.

“By donating money for a special Christmas dinner and lodging for five hundred people,” said the second. 

‘What shall we put you down for?' they asked together, although not in perfect unison.

'Nothing!' Magnus snapped.

They blinked at him, questioning. 'You wish to be anonymous?'

'I wish to be left alone,' said Magnus. ‘I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make lazy slobs merry. My taxes support the places I have mentioned—they cost enough: and those who are badly off must find help there.'

'Many can't go there!’ protested the first gentleman.

‘Many would rather die!' said the second with a gasp.

'If they’d rather die, they’d better do it,’ said Magnus, ‘and decrease the surplus population! Good afternoon, gentlemen!'

Seeing they were fighting a losing battle, the gentlemen withdrew. Magnus took to work again in a rather smug, self-satisfied way.

Outside, it grew foggy and bitterly cold.  Amidst the gathering gloom, a young caroller dared to knock on Magnus’ door.  As soon as the door opened, Klokateer #216, a hooded dwarf, sang brightly and boldly.

'God bless you, merry gentleman, may nothing you dismay!' 

Magnus seized a ruler from his writing desk and brandished it with such menace that the singer fled in terror through the frost and darkening fog.

Closing time came. With an ill-will, Magnus got up from his chair, and Ofdensen took this as a cue to blow out his candle and swiftly put on his hat.

'You'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?' said Magnus.

'Ah, if it’s quite possible, sir.'

'It's possible' said Magnus, ‘but it's not fair.’ Magnus glared at the bespectacled younger man.

The clerk smiled faintly.

'And on top of that,' said Magnus, ‘You also expect a day's wages for no work.'

The clerk pointed out that it was only once a year.

'A poor excuse for robbing a man every twenty-fifth of December!' said Magnus, fastening his double-breasted coat to his chin and fixing his beard, ascot and hair. ‘Take the day.  You’d better be here early the morning after.'

Ofdensen promised he would be; and Magnus stalked out with a growl, putting his black top hat on. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk went slipping and sliding back home across town, in hopes of taking his children for a skate at the frozen pond nearby.

Magnus went home to dinner and bed. He lived in a flat that Murderface had once lived in. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in an ugly, dreary brown and grey building. It was old and dismal enough; for nobody lived in it but Magnus, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was pitch black and even Magnus, who knew his way, had to grope with his hands. The fog and frost hung about the black old iron gateway of the house.

It is a fact that the knocker of Magnus’ door was very large, but also very plain. It is also a fact that Magnus had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that building; also that Magnus didn’t have much of an imagination or belief in the supernatural. He also hadn’t thought about Murderface’s passing since his last mention of his seven-years'-dead partner that afternoon. But somehow it happened that Magnus, having his key in the lock of the door, saw the hum-drum knocker one moment and the very next instant, it had changed into Murderface's face.

Murderface's face. It was somehow luminous, lit from within by a cold but dim light. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Magnus as Murderface used to look; that somewhat puzzled and irritated expression. The hair was stock still, as it had been in life; and, though the greenish eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. It was a curious and startling sight, to be sure.

As Magnus stared pointedly at this wonder, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not shaken, or that his heart-rate had not skyrocketed, would be untrue. But he turned the key, lit a candle and proceeded into the small entry hall.

He paused, and after checking behind the door, he closed it with a bang, which echoed through the building, sending another unwelcome shiver up Magnus’ spine.  

He scanned his dim surroundings, half expecting to see the sight of Murderface’s unkempt triangular hairdo sticking out farther into the hall.

Up through the gloom Magnus and his candle went. Darkness was cheap, and Magnus liked it. But, before he shut his heavy door flat’s door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. Murderface’s door knocker face was still burned into his mind, and it made him paranoid.

Den, bedroom, privy room. All as they should be. Nobody under the table, nobody behind the sofa; a small fire in the fireplace; washbasins ready; and the little saucepans of gruel and beef stew upon the hob – his dinner. The housekeeper had set them out for him a half hour before, as she always did. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Privy room was in order.

Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and double-locked himself in, which was not his custom. Feeling secure, he changed into his sleepshirt and pants, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to have his stew and gruel, which were mercifully warm.

It was a very small fire; practically nothing on such a bitter night. He had to sit close to it for a bit before he could feel the warmth from such a scant handful of fuel. 'Humbug!' said Magnus, settling into his chair and glancing at a little-used bell on the wall.  He ate his stew and tried to recall the last time he’d heard the bell ring and what made it do so.

As soon as he dropped his sightline back to the fire, he thought he detected movement.  It was THAT BELL, suddenly coming to life. It rang softly, then louder, and Louder, and LOUDER, until he realized every bell in the building was ringing along with it!  Magnus was filled with dread at such a cacophony.  His eyes went wide and he gripped the bowl of gruel close to himself as if it could be a powerful weapon against whatever came next.

The clanging only lasted a bit more than half a minute, but to Magnus, it seemed like hours. The bells silenced suddenly together, and now Magnus’ ears were the only things that were ringing! The building quieted for a moment. Magnus’ ears recovered, only to be met with another sound, albeit faint and very different than the bells. 

There came a clanking noise deep below, as if someone was dragging a heavy chain over the barrels in the wine cellar. Magnus once heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.  His grip on the gruel bowl tightened.  His knuckles were bone white.

The wine cellar door flew open with a crashing sound, and then he heard the noise much louder on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

'It's… humbug still!' said Magnus, on the verge of petrification, willing himself to say the words out loud. 'I won't… believe it!'

His terror consumed him when, without a pause, the THING came through the heavy door and passed into the room before his eyes. The dying flame in the fireplace leapt up at THE THING’S arrival, as if crying, 'I know him! Murderface’s Ghost!' 

And indeed it was. William Murderface with that strange pyramid-shaped haircut, usual waistcoat, unfashionable short breeches, stockings, and boots. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Magnus observed it closely) of cash-boxes, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy money-bags of steel. His body was transparent: so that Magnus, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Though he looked the Phantom through and through, and saw it – him? – standing before him, though he felt the chilling influence of Murderface’s death-cold eyes, and marked the very texture of the folded kerchief bound about his head and chin, he was still incredulous, and losing his composure, which finally snapped.

'What the FUCK?!' Magnus practically screeched. 'What the fuck do you want with me?'

'Mutsch!'— Murderface’s voice; no doubt about it.  Even Death could not silence his prominent lisp.

'Who are you?'

'Asschk me who I wassch.'

'Who were you, then?' said Magnus, in a voice he wished wasn’t so damn shrill. He tried hard to narrow his eyes, which were as wide as saucers at such a sight.

'In life, I wassch your partner, William Murderfacsshe.’  He paused, looking at his still-living friend. ‘You’re afraid of me,' observed the Ghost, in an almost mocking way.

'N-nope,' stammered Magnus, trying to get a grip. ‘You’re not real. You CAN’T be real. You’re DEAD. Dead and rotting for seven years.’

'Why do you doubt your sschensschessch?' asked the Ghost of William Murderface in a stronger, more commanding voice.

'Because,' said Magnus, surprised and delighted that he hadn’t soiled his sleeping pants in fear. He tried hard now to bluff at being brave and aloof, saying, 'A little thing may affect them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats.’ He pointed at the Ghost. ‘You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese. There's more of gravy than of grave about you... whatever you are!'

Magnus was not much of a jokester, but he wanted to put up a bold front. The truth was he tried to be witty, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down his terror, for the Ghost’s voice shook him to the bone.

To sit staring at those fixed, glazed garbage-green eyes in silence, for a moment, Magnus felt, would screw him up royally.  There was something very awful, too, in the Spirit being provided with an infernal atmosphere of his own. Magnus could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for the Ghost of William Murderface floated; his hair and coat tails were still agitated as by the hot vapor from an oven.

The Ghost continued to look at Magnus a long while, studying his face. Presently the Spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook his chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Magnus held tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a faint. But how much greater was his horror when the Phantom, taking off the bandage round his head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, his lower jaw dropped down upon his chest!

Magnus fell upon his knees and clasped his hands before his face. His composure slipped away once more.

‘Oh, GOD!  Don’t hurt me!' he said.  He tried saying the Spirit’s earthly name.  ‘Murderface… Willy… William?  Why do you trouble me?'

'Ha-haaa!! Sschmall-minded mortal!' crowed the Ghost, 'Do you believe in me now?'

'I do,' said Magnus; ‘I mean, I have to. But why are you visiting me?'

'It issch required of every man,' said Murderface, 'that the sschpirit within him sschhould walk abroad among hissch fellow-men, and tchravel far and wide; and, if that sschpirit goessch not forth in life, it issch condemned to do sscho after death. It issch doomed to wander through the world and witnessch what it cannot sschare, but might have sschared, and turned to happinessch!'

Again the Specter raised a cry, and shook his chain and wrung his shadowy hands. As if for extra drama, he added, “Oh, woe issch meeeee!”

'You’re chained up,' said Magnus, trembling, but a snide grin crept onto his face. 'You dog, I always knew you had a kin-'

'I wear the tchainssch I forchted in life!' the Ghost said, cutting him off. He glared at his still-living business partner and then seemed to straighten up. 'I made it link by link, and yard by yard of my own free will, and of my own free I wear it. Do you recognizssche it?'

Magnus trembled more and more.

‘Magnussch,' pursued Murderface, ‘You wear ssuccch a tschain yoursschelf. It wassch full, heavy and assch long assch this sscheven Christmassch Evessch ago. It only growssch eatch day!”

Magnus glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty yards of iron links; but he could see nothing.

‘William!' he said imploringly. ‘Murderface, tell me more! Maybe something… positive!'

'Hah! Dream on,' the Ghost replied. ‘I’m not here to give you good newssch! All I can give you issch a tchanssche at redemptchion. A tchanssche I never had. I cannot resscht, I cannot sschtay, I cannot linger anywhere. In life my sschpirit never roamed beyond the narrow limitssch of our money-tchanging hole; and only eternal journeyssch lie before me!'

'Seven years dead,' mused Magnus. 'And travelling all the time?'

'The whole time,' said the Ghost. 'No resscht, no peassche. Incesschant torture of remorssche.' He shrieked again and clanked his chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the watchman would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance.

'Oh! Captive, bound, and double-ironed,' cried the Spirit, 'Not to know that no sschpace of regret can make amendssch for one life'ssch opportunitiessch misschussched! Yet sschuch wassch I! Oh, sschuch wassch I!'

'But you were always a good man of business, William,' faltered Magnus, who now began to apply this to himself.

'Businessch!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. 'Mankind wassch my businesssch. The common welfare wassch my businesssch; tcharity, mersschy, forbearanssche, and benevolenssche were, all, my businesssch. Do you remember the time when we evicted the nunssch from Sschaint Rose’ssch Convent? Or when we kicked that sschtarving family of nine out of their tenement twelve winterssch ago? Or refussched a loan to Mr. Sschalasschia when he needed sschurgery for his sschick wife? Thingssch like that add up.”

Murderface held up his chain at arm's-length, as if that were the cause of all his unavailing grief, and flung it heavily upon the ground again. 'Hear me!' he wailed. 'My time… issch nearly gone.'

'I will,' said Magnus. 'But don't punish me!’ He tried one of their favourite sayings on his business partner, ‘Don't be a dick, Murderface.  Be a dude!'

‘I’m being a dude by appearing assch a sschape whitcssh you can recognisschze. I have sschat invisschible besschide you many timessch.'

That was not a pleasant idea. Magnus shivered, and wiped the perspiration from his brow.  “You’ve SHAT?  Oh… SAT.”  Still and all, an upsetting notion.

'I am here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chanssche and hope of esschcaping my fate. Merry Chrisschtmassch, Magnussch.'

'You were always a good friend to me,' said Magnus. 'The only one I had.'

'You will be haunted,' resumed the Ghost, 'by Three Sschpiritssch.'

Magnus’ jaw fell almost as low as the Ghost's had done. Seeing Murderface’s ghost was enough – now he had to endure three more? 'Is that the redeeming chance and hope you… mentioned, Murderface?' he asked in a halting voice.

'It issch.'

'I—I think I'd rather not,' said Magnus, grimacing.

'Without their visschitssch,' said the Ghost, 'you cannot hope to avoid the path I tread. Exsshpect the firsscht tonight when the bell tollssch One.'

'Couldn't I take 'em all at once, and have it over with?' hinted Magnus.

‘Exshpect the sschecond at the sschtrike of two. The third, at three. You will sschee me no more. But you musscht remember what I have told you! Don’t sschrew this up, buddy.'

When he had said these words, Murderface took his wrapper from the table, and bound it round his head as before. Magnus knew this by the sharp clack his teeth made when the jaws were brought together by the bandage. He cringed at the sound and looked down.

Presently, there was a shuffling and clanking noise and Magnus ventured to raise his eyes again.  Suddenly, Murderface and his chains leapt out the open window and disappeared into the foggy, frosty night without another word.

Magnus closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say 'Humbug!' but stopped at the first syllable. And being exhausted by an eventful day and a harrowing evening, Magnus went straight to bed, and fell asleep upon the instant.

Chapter Text

When Magnus awoke it was so dark, that, looking out of bed, he could scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his bedroom. He was trying hard to pierce the darkness with his one good eye, when the bells of a neighboring church struck the four quarters. So he listened for the hour.

'Ding, dong!'

'A quarter past,' said Magnus, counting.

'Ding, dong!'

'Half-past,' said Magnus.

'Ding, dong!'

'A quarter to it.' said Magnus.

'Ding, dong!'

'The hour itself,' said Magnus triumphantly, 'and nothing else!'

He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.

It was a strange figure that stood before him.  A tall, statuesque man with long hair and brilliant blue eyes stared down at him.  He was GLOWING, as if viewed through some supernatural medium.  His hair, which hung about his neck and down his back, was hues of light golden yellow and white, and his face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom was on his skin. The Spirit’s arms were very long and muscular; the hands the same, as if his grip was of uncommon strength. His legs and feet, most delicately formed, were, like his arms, bare. He wore a tunic of the purest white; and round his waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful.   Magnus could see a Swedish flag emblem, glowing in platinum and diamonds.  The ethereal Swede held a branch of fresh green holly in his hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had his outfit trimmed with summer flowers.

'Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?' asked Scrooge.

'Yuuh, I ams!'

The voice was soft and gentle, but deep.

'Who and what are you?' Magnus demanded.

'Ams the Ghost of Christmas Pasts.'

'Long Past?' inquired Magnus, observant of his tall stature.  

'Nos. Your pasts.'

“And what brings you here?” Magnus asked.

'Your welfares!' said the Ghost.

Magnus expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for he said immediately—

'Comes heres!'

He put out his strong hand as he spoke, and clasped Magnus gently by the arm.

‘Gets up and walks with me!'

It would have been in vain for Magnus to plead that the weather and the hour were not to his liking; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing gown, long nightshirt, light cotton sleeping pants and a nightcap.  The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose; but, finding that the Spirit made towards the window, clasped his robe to stop him.

“I don’t think so,' Magnus drew back. ‘You want me to splatter on the sidewalk?'

'Puts your hands heres,' said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, ‘Shuts ups and trust me!'

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and fog had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow upon the ground.

'This is incredible!' said Magnus in shock, clasping his hands together, as he looked about him. 'I was born – I was a kid here!'

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. His gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the middle-aged man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand smells floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten!

'Your lips ams shaking,' said the Ghost. 'And what ams that on your cheeks?'

Magnus muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that his eyes were sensitive to the cold wind; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.

'You remembers the way?' inquired the Spirit.

'Remember it!' cried Magnus with fervor; 'I could walk it blindfolded.'

'Strange to haves forgottens it for so manys years!' observed the Ghost. 'Let’s go.'

They walked along the road, Magnus recognizing every gate, and post, and tree, until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in ramshackle carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits and shouted to each other cheerfully.

'These ams but shadows of the things that ams been,' said the Spirit. 'They ams not noticinks us.’  He pointed to a simple one-room building at the edge of a copse of trees.  The school ams nots quite deserted.  Some lonely loser ams still there.'

Magnus said he knew it. And he sobbed.

They entered across the hall, to a door at the back of the schoolhouse. It opened before them, showing a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain benches and desks. At one of these, a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; Magnus sat down upon a bench, weeping as he watched his poor forgotten self in the silent schoolhouse.

The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading.

Magnus, pitying his former self, felt a wave of emotion and blurted out, 'Poor boy!' He felt something burning in his eyes - tears.  'I wish,' Magnus muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff; 'but it's too late now.'

'What ams the matters?' asked the Spirit.

'Nothing,' said Magnus. 'Nothing. There was a young man singing a Christmas carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him something: that's all.'

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved his hand, saying as he did so, 'Lets us sees another Christmas!'

Magnus’ former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and dirtier, aging before his eyes.  But there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had gone home for the jolly holidays.

He was not reading now, but walking up and down dejectedly. Magnus looked at the Spirit, and glanced anxiously towards the door.

It opened; and a teenage girl, much older than the boy, came darting in, and, putting her arms about his neck, and kissing him, addressed him fondly.

'I have come to bring you home, dear brother!' said the young woman, clapping her hands, and bending down to laugh. 'To bring you home, Mags!'

'Home, Amber?' returned the boy.

'Yes!' said the teen, brimful of glee. 'Home for good. Home forever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be. Magnus, home's like heaven! Father spoke so gently to me one night when I was going to bed, that I asked him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And you're to be an apprentice!' said the young woman, brightly; 'and are never to come back here; but first we'll be together for Christmas, and have the merriest time in all the world.'

'You are quite a commanding lady, dear Amber!' exclaimed the boy.

She clapped her hands, laughed, and embraced him. Then she took his hand and led him to the door.

'An excitables youngs woman,' said the Ghost. ‘With joys in her heart!'

'So she has,' cried Magnus. 'You're right. She is always cheerful and sociable. And always writing letters to her friends and family.'

'She ams living in Cambridgeshire with hers husband now,' said the Ghost, 'and ams a mother.'

'They have one child,' Magnus returned.

‘Yuh, true,' said the Ghost. 'Yours nephew!'

Magnus seemed uneasy in his mind, and answered briefly, 'Yes.'  He regretted not writing to his beloved Amber and her husband Seth in recent memory.  But every year, they never forgot to send him a beautifully written Christmas card.

Soon enough, they were transported to an urban area.  It was obvious, by the dressing of the shops, that here, too, it was Christmas-time again; but it was evening, and the streets were lit up.

The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse office door, and asked Magnus if he knew it.

'Know it!' said Magnus. 'I was an apprentice here'

They went in. At the sight of an old gentleman with short grey hair, sitting behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller, he must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Magnus cried in great excitement – 

‘Oh!  It's old Cornickelson! Best boss I ever had!'

Old Cornickelson laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his decorated waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his feet to his head; and called out, in a jolly voice—

'Hey, there! Magnus! Seth!' He stamped his boots on the wooden floor.

Magnus’ former self, now grown into a tall, handsome young man, came briskly up from a basement storage area, accompanied by his fellow apprentice.

'Seth McCormick, to be sure!' said Magnus to the Spirit.  ‘There he is. He was my best friend, old Seth.  And he fancied my sister!  Ah, Seth and Amber!  They were engaged not long after this dance!'

'My boys!' said Cornickelson. 'No more work tonight. Christmas Eve, Seth. Christmas, Magnus! Come on, boys!  You shouldn’t be late for the dance,” cried old Cornickelson, with a sharp clap of his hands and a twinkle in his eye.

He opened the door to show the warehouse had been transformed into as bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.  The two young men ran to their quarters to get into their formal attire and were back within minutes.

In came “Serpents in Casks” – a threesome of jolly, stylish, handsome bards who set up tuning and playing their instruments merrily on a raised platform. In came the newly-married Mrs. Serveta Cornickelson, with a dazzling smile, brilliant blonde hair and an ample amount of décolletage on display in a scarlet gown. In came the three Miss Cornickelsons, beaming and lovable. They eyed the trio of musicians up and down, giggling and pointing and whispering. In all the guests came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling. And the dancing began.  Reels, waltzes, pavanes, polkas, marches and everything in between. 

After an especially energetic quadrille style dance, Old Cornickelson, clapping his hands, cried out, 'Well done!' and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of chilled cider, especially provided for that purpose.  The rest of the band quaffed their drinks heartily too, and the three began another song.

There were more dances, and there was a game of Blind Man’s Bluff, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was a guessing game, and there was a great piece of Roast Beef, and there was a hearty chunk of Spit-Roasted Pig, and there were breads of all kinds, crisp apples, pies, and plenty of beer and wine.  Everyone paid their respects to Chef Jean-Pierre, friend of Old Cornickelson, who had been kind enough to prepare and arrange all the food and drinks. The charming French chef smiled as the party cheered and toasted to his health.

After the food and a rest, old Cornickelson stood out to dance with his new wife, the fair Mrs. Serveta Cornickelson. They waltzed together, clearly deeply enamored with each other and meaning every well-placed step. And when old Cornickelson and Mrs. Cornickelson had gone all through the dance, he bowed low to his beautiful new wife, and then embraced her and dipped her into a passionate kiss.  The spectators cheered and clapped and gave a toast to both gracious Cornicklesons.

When the clock struck eleven the ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Cornickelson took to their stations, one on either side 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 apprentices, they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the lads went to their quarters for rest.

Throughout all this, the older, observing Magnus acted like a man out of his wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He commented on and remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright faces of his former self and Seth were turned from them, that he remembered the Spirit, and became conscious that he was looking full upon him, while he glowed so brightly.

'A smalls matter,' said the Ghost, 'to makes these silly dildoes so fulls of gratitude.'

'Small!' echoed Magnus.

'Why! Ams it not? He ams spendinks a fews pounds of your mortal moneys: three or four, perhaps. Ams that so much that he ams deservinks these praises?'

'It isn't that,' said Magnus, stung by the remark, and spoke defensively. ‘Cornickelson had the power to make our jobs easy or hard.  And to encourage us or belittle us.  But he always built us up and let us know we were valued.  And because of that, even though the pay was little, working for him felt like gaining a fortune.’

The Ghost smiled at Magnus’ epiphany.

Magnus felt his glance and suddenly got nervous, looking down at the floor. He shoved his hands into his bathrobe pockets.

'Whats ams the matter?' asked the Ghost.

‘Ummm,' said Magnus.

'Somethink, I think?' the Ghost insisted.

‘I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clerk Charles just now. That's all.'

'My times grows short,' observed the Spirit. 'Quick!'

Again Magnus saw himself. He was now a man in the prime of life. His face had definite structure, but not the deep wrinkles, worry-lines and crow’s feet it would have later.  Only a few grey hairs mingled with the dark chocolate locks. But in his eyes was a restless, almost greedy look that aged him a decade. One eye was now cloudy; a souvenir from a nasty encounter with an armed pickpocket.

He was not alone, but sat by the side of a striking dark-haired beauty in a charcoal-colored dress trimmed with delicate cream lace: the young German woman was weeping, and her tears sparkled in the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.  

'It matters little,' she said softly. 'You just don’t care for me anymore. Another idol has replaced me, and you have cast me aside.'

'What idol am I worshipping instead of you, Lavona?' the younger Magnus asked.

'A golden one.'

'This is what we both must be after now!' Magnus said. ‘No plague is as great as poverty and I mean to fight it tooth and nail!'

'Ach, Magnus. You fear the world too much,' she answered, her German accent growing more apparent due to her emotional state. 'All your other hopes have merged into the search for wealth. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master passion, Gain… it  engrosses you. Ja?'

'What’s wrong for wanting to provide for myself?’  

She sniffed, looked away.

‘For us?' he added as a rushed afterthought. Then Magnus paused, trying to say something meaningful. He grasped her hands gently. 'I have not changed towards you,' he said, albeit lamely.

She stared at him, and it felt as though she was staring into his soul.  She shook her head and drew her hands away from his.

‘Have I, Lavona?'

'We got engaged three years ago, when we were very young.  And poor.  We wanted to wait until you got a good job and made enough money to support us both.  You had another mind-set back then and you have changed so much.  I hardly know you anymore, Magnus.'

'I was a kid,' he said dismissively.

‘You no longer love me and our relationship is no longer a priority for you.  You do not work to gain my love or take interest when I try to discuss our future together. I believe you have stopped loving me.  Admitting this is difficult but I want to move on.  So I can be happy. So you can be happy…. I must release you.'

'Have I ever asked to be apart from you, Lavona?'

'In words? Nein. Never.'

'In what, then?'

'You have changed and no longer try to win my love or please me!  You have grown complacent and all you think about is money and your business.'

Something inside Magnus crumpled at this truth.  He yielded, saying with a struggle, 'You think so.'

‘The love I once felt from you is gone, pure and simple.  I want you to live your life, and I want to live mine.  In our best interests, we must go our separate ways.’ She removed her glove from her right hand and, for the first and last time, took off the dainty diamond engagement ring Magnus had given her years ago. She pressed it into his hand.

‘Lebewohl,’ Lavona said, tears streaming down her face as she bid her beau goodbye forever in German.  She ran out of the winter garden.

‘Spirit!' said Magnus, 'Show me no more! Take me home. Why do you delight to torture me?''

'I tolds you these ams shadows of the things that have been,' said the Ghost. 'That they ams what they ams; don’ts blames me!'

'Take me back!' Magnus exclaimed, 'I can’t take this any longer!'

There was a bright flash, and then a lingering, blinding white light.

Magnus was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own bedroom. He practically fell into his bed and swiftly sank into a heavy sleep.

Chapter Text

Two o’clock was soon upon him and the bells sounded the hour.  Magnus opened his eyes to see a gentle, warm glow issuing forth from the gap beneath his door.  It was coming from his den.  Supposing it was the second Spirit, he took his leave of his bed, pulled his dressing gown tight around him, adjusted his sleeping cap, shuffled into his slippers and opened the door. 

It was indeed his own den. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove; bright gleaming berries glistened from every part. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney as that dull little hearth had never known in Magnus’ time, or Murderface’s, or for many, many a winter season gone. Piled up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, meat pies, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, hot pots of cider that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. The room looked and smelled incredible. In easy state upon this “couch” there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in the shape of a cornucopia. The spirit shed his light on Magnus as he came peeping round the door.

'Dood, come in!' exclaimed the Ghost. 'Come in an’ know me better, man!'

Magnus entered timidly, looking around in wonder, amazed at the sight and wary of this new Spirit. 

'I’m da Ghost o’ Christmas Present,' said the Spirit. 'Dood, look at me!  Lookit all dis freakin’ food and booze!'  He bit into a juicy, steaming turkey leg.  ‘Wanna bite?’ He gestured to the sea of deliciousness.

Magnus did so with wonder.  He picked up a brilliant yellow and scarlet Honeycrisp apple and bit into it.  Sweet juice and crisp, tart flesh burst into his mouth.  Magnus stared at the Ghost of Christmas Present.  The jolly Spirit was clothed in one simple deep green velvet robe, bordered with white fur. On his bearded head, he wore a holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. His fiery red dreads were long and free; free as his genial face, his sparkling emerald eyes, his open hands, his cheery voice, his unconstrained demeanor, and joyful air. 

'You’ve never seen anyt’ing like me before!' said the Spirit, smiling warmly.

‘Uh-uh,' Magnus agreed, still awestruck. He bit into the apple again.

'Haven’t ya walked aroun’ wit’ my older brothers born in dese later years?' pursued the Ghost.

Magnus finished chewing and swallowed. 'I am afraid I haven’t. Do you have many brothers, Spirit?'

'More’n eighteen hundred,' said the jolly Spirit, quaffing from a big bottle of claret wine.

‘That’s a lot of mouths to feed,' muttered Magnus, continuing to chomp his apple.

The Ghost of Christmas Present stood.

‘Spirit,' said Magnus submissively, ‘Lead on. The Ghost of Christmas Past took me into my own history and it had quite a memorable impact.  I want to learn from you, too.'

'Sure, Chief - dat’s what I’m here for! Touch my robe!'

Magnus finished the apple and did as he was told, gripping the green velvet tightly.

The room of plenty vanished and they were met with the bright, bustling streets of Christmas Morning.  Grocers called out what they were selling, even on such an abbreviated business day.  Children played in the streets, bedecked with freshly knitted holiday hats, scarves and mittens.  Everyone was jovial, friendly and happy to see one another, calling out Christmas greetings left and right.  People were dressed in bright jewel tones and festive patterns. Tafetta and silk skirts swished in the streets. Crushed velvet gleamed and satin shone in the sun. With the celebration of Christmas imminent, everyone was in their finery, from the grandest clergyman to the most nondescript fishwife. Embraces and kisses and gifts were exchanged right there on the busy avenue.  The feeling of joy, humanity and excitement was in the air.  Magnus felt his own spirit lift and smiled at the color and mirth surrounding him.  

On and on they travelled, soon hearing the merry peals of church bells calling parishioners to worship.  Soon, the grocer’s carts closed up and the congregants filed into Anglican, Methodist, Presbyterian and Catholic sanctuaries to hear the Christmas story.  The bells silenced, but the hymns sung within the churches flowed out in melodic waves.

And perhaps it was the goodwill the Spirit had in his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Magnus’ clerk's house. On the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and touched the door with his glowing cornucopia in blessing.  They entered, invisible and silent to the occupants.

Up rose Mrs. Abigail Ofdensen, Charles’ wife, dressed in a simple but well-kept grey, blue and white gown made festive with ribbon rosettes.  She and her daughter Trindle, clad in her sister Rachel’s hand-me-down brown and teal dress bedecked with ribbons laid the tablecloth. Edgar, the portly eldest son of Charles and Abigail, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, seeing how much longer they had to cook. He blew on the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

'Where on earth is your father?' said Abigail, looking about and peering out the window, straight through Magnus and the Ghost of Christmas Present. 'And your brother, Tiny Toki? And Rachel is missing, too!'

'Here's Rachel, mother!' said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

'Oh, thank goodness!’ Abigail said, taking Rachel’s green shawl and hanging it to dry on a chair by the fire.  She hugged her daughter.

The door opened again.  In came Charles, the father, with his tattered coat, and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable, and Tiny Toki upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Toki, he bore a little crutch, and iron braces supported his legs.

Edgar gently helped Tiny Toki down and helped him wash up for dinner.

'And how did Tiny Toki behave?' asked Abigail after Charles had hugged his daughters to his heart's content.

'As, ah, good as gold,' said Charles, 'And better. Somehow, he gets, ah, thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because of his, ah, frail condition, and it might be pleasant for them to remember upon Christmas Day who made, ah, lame beggars walk and blind men see.'

An active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Toki before another word was spoken, escorted by Edgar and Rachel to his stool beside the fire; and while Charles quickly made hot toddies for himself and his wife, Edgar went to fetch the goose, with which he soon returned in high procession.

The goose was praised highly for being roasted and seasoned and stuffed to perfection.  Abigail made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Edgar mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Trindle sweetened up the apple sauce; Rachel set out the hot plates; Charles took Tiny Toki beside him in a tiny corner at the table.  Soon, all the food was at the table, the dishes were set, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mother Abigail, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all around the board, and even Tiny Toki, excited his siblings, beat on the table with the handle of his knife and feebly cried, ‘Oh, wowee!’

There never was such a goose. Charles said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Supplemented by steamed carrots and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family, and they cleaned every plate. Yet everyone was easily able to eat their fill.  But now, the plates being changed by Trindle, Abigail left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to bring the pie in, which was thankfully done to perfection and cooled so that it had just a hint of warmth left.  The latticework she’d carefully laid on top was a shiny golden brown, thanks to an egg wash she’d brushed it with.  She proudly and carefully brought it into the dining room.

Oh, a wonderful cinnamon apple pie! Charles said that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Abigail since their marriage. Abigail, blushing, said that, now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour in the crust. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pie for a large family.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. A hot jug of cider sat by the fire, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Ofdensen family drew round the hearth in what Father Charles called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Charles Ofdensen’s elbow stood mismatched teacups.

These held the hot spiced cider from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Charles served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Charles proposed:

'A merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!'

Which all the family re-echoed.

'God bless us, everys ones!' said Tiny Toki, the last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. Charles held his withered little hand to his, for he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

‘Spirit,' said Magnus, with an interest he had never felt before, 'tell me if Tiny Toki will live.'

'I see a vacant seat,' replied the Ghost, 'in da poor chim’ney corner, and a crutch wit’out an owner, carefully preserved. If dese shadows remain unalter’d by da Fyooture, the kid’ll die.'

'No, no,' said Magnus. 'Oh no, Spirit! Say he’ll survive.'

The Ghost turned to Magnus, suddenly cold. 'Whut den? If he’s gonna die, he’d better doo it, and decrease the surplus population.'

Magnus hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.

'Magnus, who’re you dat you decide what folks’ll live, what folks’ll die?'

Magnus felt truly awful for being formerly so judgmental.  Not wanting to look the Ghost in the face, he peered at the happy family again.

'Mr. Hammersmith!' said Charles. 'I give you Magnus Hammersmith, the, ah, Founder of the Feast!'

'The Founder of the Feast, indeed!' cried Abigail, reddening. 'I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d choke on it.'

'My dear,' said Charles, 'The, ah, children…. Christmas Day!'

'Why should we toast the health of one who is such a greedy, miserly, cruel, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Hammersmith?  You know he is, Charles! Especially on the holy day of Christmas!'  Abigail gave a mighty huff and almost spilled her cider.

'Abigail!' was Charles’ answer. 'Come now, it’s, ah… it’s Christmas Day.'

'I'll drink to his health for your sake and the Day's,' said Abigail, 'Not for his. A merry Christmas and a happy New Year and he'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!' She finished the toast in a grumble.

The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their traditions that had no heartiness in it. Tiny Toki drank it last of all, but he didn't care twopence for it. Magnus was the Ogre of the family. Reflecting on his name and what he meant to them cast a gloom over the room.

After it had passed away they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Magnus the Malevolent being done with. Charles told them how he had a watchmaker’s apprentice position in his eye for Edgar, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly.  Rachel talked about working long hours as a milliner’s assistant, and Trindle, being only ten years old, listened raptly to her elder sister.  Tiny Toki drank in every word from his parents and siblings, happy for all of them.

A poor family?  Yes.  But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, they looked happier yet in the bright glow of the Ghost’s torch. Magnus had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Toki, until the last.

By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Magnus and the Spirit went along the streets, the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlors, and all sorts of rooms was wonderful.  They saw families dining together, couples cuddling on loveseats in front of a roaring fire, and children playing games.

They happened on a house on the outskirts of town.  It was a great surprise to Magnus, while trying to get his bearings, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much greater surprise to Magnus to recognize it as his own nephew's and to find himself in a bright, tastefully decorated room, with the Spirit standing smiling by his side, and looking at that same nephew with approving affability!

'Ha, ha!' laughed Knubbler, his mechanical eyes flashing merry bursts of green. 'Ha, ha, ha!'

Good humor is infectious! When Richard Knubbler laughed in this way—holding his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his face into the most extravagant contortions— Magnus’ niece-in-law, Chastity, laughed as heartily as he. And their assembled friends roared out lustily, too.

'Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!'

'He said that Christmas was a humbug, can you believe it?' cried Richard. 'He believed it, too!'

'Shame on Uncle Magnus, Richard!' said Chastity indignantly. She was very pretty; exceedingly pretty. With shiny brunette hair, wide brown eyes, a saucy-looking, pouty face; a mouth that seemed made to be kissed—as no doubt it was!

'He's a funny old fellow,' said Richard, 'that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be. However, even though he seems to make himself quite miserable, I have nothing to say against him. I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner.'

'Oh, I think he loses a very good dinner,' interrupted Chastity. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to have been competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and with the dessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamplight.

'Well! I am very glad to hear it,' said the nephew, 'because I haven't any great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say, Melmord?'

Melmord Fjordslorn had clearly got his eye upon Susan, Chastity’s sister, for he answered that a bachelor was a wretched outcast, who had no right to express an opinion on the subject. Whereat beautiful blonde Susan blushed.

'Do go on, Richard,' said Chastity, clapping her hands. 'He never finishes what he begins to say! He is such a ridiculous fellow!'

'I was only going to say,' said Richard, 'that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it—I defy him—if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, "Uncle Magnus, how are you?" If it only put him in the vein to leave his poor clerk a thousand pounds, that's something; and I think I shook him yesterday.'

It was their turn to laugh now, at the notion of his shaking Magnus. But being thoroughly good-natured, and not much caring what they laughed at, so that they laughed at any rate, he encouraged them in their merriment and passed the bottle in good spirits.

They played a game called Yes and No, where Richard had to think of something, and the rest must find out what, he only answering to their questions yes or no. 

Soon it was to be concluded that he was thinking of an animal, rather a disgruntled animal, an animal that snarled and grunted sometimes, and talked sometimes and was native to the area, and went where it pleased, and was never killed in a market, and was not a horse, or a dog, or a pig, or a cat, or a bear. At every fresh question that was put to him, this nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was had to get up off the sofa and stand. 

'I know what it is, Richard! I know what it is,' Chastity practically screeched.

'What is it?' cried Richard.

'It's your Uncle M-a-a-a-a-g-n-u-u-u-s.'

'Ah, Uncle Magnus will never know how much fun he’s been this evening,' said Richard, 'and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Raise your glasses to Uncle Magnus!"'

'To Uncle Magnus!' they cried.

'A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to the old man, whatever he is!' said Richard, sipping his warm mulled wine. 'He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Magnus!'

Uncle Magnus had imperceptibly become so happy and light of heart, that he would have toasted them, too, if the Ghost had given him time and if he had physically been there. But the whole scene passed off in the breath of the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and the Spirit were again on their way.

Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Ghost stood beside sick-beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In every less fortunate place, where vain man in his little brief authority had not locked the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing and taught Magnus his principles.

It seemed long hours that he conversed and traveled with the Ghost.  Magnus noticed that his Spirit comrade grew older as the night wore on.  Soon, his once-fiery red dreadlocks were white, looking for all the world like snow-covered icicles. 

'Are spirits' lives so short?' asked Magnus.

'My life here’s veery brief,' replied the Ghost. 'It ends t’night.'

'Oh, no.  Spirit!' cried Magnus in despair.

'Yeah, chief. Da time is drawin’ near.'

The chimes were ringing the three-quarters past eleven at that moment.  Magnus looked down.

‘Uh, Spirit… sorry if I’m hallucinating, but I see something strange.  What’s that beneath your robe?'

From the foldings of the robe the Ghost brought two children, gaunt and drawn, looking like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.  They were frightful to behold, and downright miserable looking.  They knelt down at the Spirit’s feet, and clung upon the outside of his garment.

'Oh, Man! Look down ‘ere!' exclaimed the Spirit, as if in pain.

They were a boy and girl. Their eyes were sunken, their lips were shriveled. Flesh covered sticks were their limbs, and their fingers were grey twigs.  Where graceful youth should have filled their features out and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and decrepit hand, like that of age, had pinched and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. They looked like the living dead.

Magnus drew back, appalled. He had no words except, ‘Spirit! Are they yours?' 

'They’re Man's,' said the Ghost, looking down at them. 'And dey cling to me, wantin’ the blessin’s I give out. Dis boy is Ignorance. Da girl is Want. Beware ‘em both, and all dey represent, but most of all watch out fer dis boy, for on ‘is forehead I see Doom written, unless dat writing’s erased!'

Don’t they have a place to go?  Someone to care for them?' cried Magnus.

'Are dere no prisons?' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with Magnus’ own words. 'Are dere no workhouses?'

The bell struck Twelve.

Magnus, jarred, looked about him, and saw the Spirit had vanished. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old William Murderface, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground towards him. 

Chapter Text

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When he came near him, Magnus bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved, he seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

He was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed all of his features but his height and one outstretched hand. Upon his short fingernails was pitch-black polish.

So cloaked in black was the Phantom that it would be difficult to separate him from the very darkness that surrounded him.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, tall, stoic and silent, stood beside Magnus, and his mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

‘You are... the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?' said Magnus.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with his hand.

'You are about to show me shadows of the things that haven’t happened, but will happen in the future,' Magnus pursued. 'Is that so, Spirit?'

The Phantom made as if to nod his head.

'Ghost of the Future!' he exclaimed though gripped with terror and uncertainty, 'I fear you more than any specter I have seen. But I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to better myself from my lessons with you, for which I am thankful. Won’t you speak?'

The Ghost gave him no reply. His hand was pointed straight before them.

‘Lead on!' said Magnus raggedly.  He wished for all the world that the Spirit would speak to him; give him his name.  A simple name, Magnus felt, would humanize this foreboding specter that went before him.

Before Magnus could think of anything else, there they were, in the heart of the city.

The Phantom paused beside some businessmen and pointed.  Magnus listened to what they were saying.

'No,' said a tall, skinny man with an impressive auburn beard, 'I don't know much about it either way. I only know he's dead.'

'When did he die?' inquired a frail-looking older man with an Italian accent.

'Last night, I believe.'

'Why, what was the c-c-c-matter with him?' asked a third garishly dressed man loudly. He took a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. 'C-c-c-cause I thought he'd never die.’ 

'God knows,' said the first, with a yawn.

'What has he done with his money?' asked a retired army veteran.

'No news,' said the man with the large beard, yawning again. 'Left it to his company, most likely. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know.'

‘Guess that means ol’ Mags’s got his way…. c-c-c-yeah!' said the loudly dressed man with the massive snuff box.

This quip was received with a general laugh.

'It's likely to be a very cheap funeral,' said the man with the Italian accent, 'for, upon my life, I don't know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?'

'I don't mind going if a lunch is provided,' observed the sturdily-built veteran. 

‘Maybe they’ll be givin’ out… c-c-c-cocaine!’

Another laugh.

Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Magnus knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation.

Magnus thought it a bit strange that a somewhat trivial conversation about a moderately wealthy man’s death and subsequent funeral should be so notable, but he tried to take it in as another lesson to be learned, vague as it was.  The mention of ‘Ol Mags’ jarred him a bit – it sounded so similar to his own name….

And there they were at his office, but he didn’t see himself through the window.  The furniture looked different.  The rest of the city bustled around them, still in a holiday hub-bub amidst the light rain falling.  Magnus felt it was nowhere as cheery as the Christmas Day he’d experienced with the previous Spirit and the uneasiness he felt continued to build. People were drably dressed and looked downright gloomy.

Soon, Magnus and the Phantom came upon a run-down pawnshop in a filthy, crime-ridden part of town that Magnus had never visited.  Garbage overflowed cans.  Old papers, cans and wrappers skittered about in the breeze.  The buildings looked shabby and dirty, and as Magnus and the Phantom stepped into the pawnshop, conditions only got grimier.

On the floor of the pawnshop were piled scraps of metal, old appliances and tools, bedding and material balled up and barely wrapped, and a few chests of drawers with sundry items – jewelry, mirrors, pocket knives, money clips, watches, silverware and about twenty other odd categories of daily items.  Musical instruments hung on the wall and were piled in cases.  A coal stove sat squatly in the back center behind the counter. A black safe had been pushed into in a corner.

The proprietor was known only as The Metal Masked Assassin.  He was a white-haired hulk of an ex-military man with a stainless steel mask over his nose, eyes and forehead, nearly fifty years of age.  A heavy brace bound and supported the remains of what used to be his strong right arm. The pale, intimidating-looking man lurked by the stove, smoking a fat cigar.

Magnus and the Spirit came into the presence of the owner, just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered, when another woman, similarly laden, came in too.

'I’m first!' cried the housekeeper in an uncharacteristically deep voice.

The MMA got up to see what the housekeeper had brought.  He groaned. ‘I'm sure there are no such misery-wracked bones here as mine.  It’s the damn weather.’ The masked man puffed on his cigar and raked the fire in the stove together with an old stair-rod.  He turned up his smoky lamp (for it was night) with the butt of his cigar and put it into his mouth again, puffing into the already hazy, pungent air. 'What do you have, Mrs. Bsijldfo?' said the masked man. 

‘Some goodies from a sad old miser; I think they’ll fetch a fair price,’ she said.  ‘He took good care of himself and his treasures in life, but that didn’t stop me nicking them after he bit it.”

'That's true, indeed!' said the meddlesome Liz Bane the laundress. 'No man more so. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man.'

'No, indeed,' agreed Mrs. Bsijldfo, laughing.

'Likely he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, wicked old screw,' pursued Liz, 'If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.'

'Yes ma’am,' said Mrs. Bsijldfo. 'It's a judgment on him.'

Mrs. Caroline Bsijldfo put her bundle upon the counter. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old fashioned silver teaspoons, and a few boots and books. The MMA scribbled in his ledger and handed over some coins to the frowsy red-headed woman with bad teeth.

'I always give too much to ladies. It's the way I ruin myself,' said the Assassin with a puff on his cigar.  The smoke went right into Mrs. Bsijldfo’s face. She grimaced and fanned it away as he showed her the ledger. 'That's your account. If you asked me for another penny and made it an open question, I'd repent of being so liberal, and knock off half-a-crown.'

'And now undo my bundle, Mista A,' said Liz Bane, rather suggestively, as she hefted her bag onto the counter, trying to be provocative as she dragged her long, thin fingers over it.

The Assassin unfastened a great many knots, puffing away as he did. He dragged out a large heavy roll of some dark material.

'Are these his… bed-curtains?' asked the masked man, blowing a smoke ring of approval.

'Yes, sir!' returned Liz, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. 

'So you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?' said the MMA awash in morbid astonishment.

'Yes, I did,' replied the thin woman, a cruel sparkle in her eyes. 'Why not?'

'You were born to make your fortune,' said the MMA, 'and you'll certainly do it.'  He uncovered more. 'His blankets AND nightshirt?' asked the Assassin. He blew another smoke ring.

'Right you are, love,' replied Liz. 'Not gonna catch a cold anymore, is he?’  She noticed the MMA examining the shirt.  ‘You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but it’s as good as new.  No holes, no worn areas. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too. They'd have wasted it, if it hadn't been for me.'

'What do you call “wasting it?”' asked the Assassin, blowing smoke over he countertop.

'Putting it on him to be buried in, of course,' replied Liz, with a laugh. 'Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. It was quite becoming on his body. He was a bit of an ugly bastard, but this shirt made him look a touch nicer.'

Magnus listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the smoky lamplight, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons marketing the corpse itself.

'Ha, ha!' laughed Liz Bane when the MMA, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their gains upon the countertop. 'This is the end of it, you see! He frightened everyone away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead! Ha, ha, ha!'

'Spirit!' said Magnus, shuddering from head to foot. 'I see the case of this unfortunate man might be my own. My life tends that way now. MY, GOD! WHAT IS THIS?!’

He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed—a bare, uncurtained bed—on which, beneath a ragged sheet, there lay something almost all the way covered up, which, though it was silent, announced itself in awful language.

A pale moonlit glow from the window shone upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of this man.

Magnus glanced towards the Phantom who was pointing to the head. Curly dark hair streaked with grey lay protruding from under the cover, so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Magnus’ part, would have unveiled the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and longed to do it; but he had no more power to withdraw the cover than to dismiss the specter at his side.

This corpse of a man lay in the dark, empty house, with not a man, a woman, or a child to say, ‘he was kind to me in this or that, and for the memory of one kind word I will be kind to him.’ A cat was scratching at the door, and there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearthstone. What they wanted in the room of death, and why they were so restless and disturbed, Magnus did not dare to think.

'Spirit!' he said, ‘This place is filled with terror, sadness and dread.  Trust me, I won’t be forgetting my lesson. Let’s go!'

Still the Ghost pointed with an unmoving finger to the head.

'I understand you, Spirit,’ Magnus replied, 'and I would do it if I could. But I… I’m not strong enough.'

Again the commanding Phantom seemed to look down at him.

'If there is any person in the town who feels… emotion… caused by this man's death?' said Magnus, in anguish. 'Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,' said Magnus; 'or that dark room, which we left just now, will haunt me forever.'

They came upon Charles Ofdensen’s house; the dwelling he had visited before; and found Abigail and the children seated round the fire.

Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Ofdensens were nearly as still as statues in one corner, and sat looking up at Edgar, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in stoic sewing.

The mother laid her work upon the table and put her hand up to her face.

'The color hurts my eyes,' she said.

'Past Father’s time to come home,' Edgar observed, looking at his hand-me-down pocket-watch and shutting his book. 'But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.'

They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, attempting-to-be-cheerful voice, that only faltered once. 'I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Toki upon his shoulder very quickly.'

'And so have I,' cried Edgar. 'Often.'

'But he was very light to carry,' Abigail resumed, intent upon her quiltwork, 'and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble at all. And there’s your father at the door!'

Rachel hurried out to meet him; and Charles in his tattered coat came in. Trindle carefully placed Charles’ favorite chipped teacup full of black tea on a saucer and brought it to her father.

Charles tried to put on a cheerful tone as he spoke pleasantly to all the family and drank his tea. He looked at the quilt upon the table and praised the productivity and speed of Abigail and the girls. He remarked at what a fine book Edgar was reading to the family – The Last of the Mohicans.

Abigail saw the churchyard mud and blades of grass upon her husband’s shoes. ‘You went today, then, Charles?' said his wife.

'Ah, yes, my dear,' returned Charles. 'I, ah, wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is – the rain has made the grass grow even in these winter months. But you'll, ah, see it often. It overlooks the pond where I take the children skating in the winter, and where Tiny Toki, ah, and I found the warren of rabbits last spring. Do you, ah… remember how Tiny Toki… how he loved those rabbits?’ Charles sniffed. ‘I promised him that I would, ah, walk there as often as I could. My little, little child!' cried Charles with a gasp as tears started to run down his thin, handsome face. 'My little child!'

He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. 

He left and went upstairs into the room above, which was lit cheerfully, and decorated with Christmas boughs and holly. There was a chair set close beside Tiny Toki’s bed, which was neatly made. Upon the empty bed sat a life-sized patchwork rabbit toy Rachel and Trindle had sewn for Tiny Toki. The little rabbit seemed to stare at Charles with its sad black button eyes. There were signs of someone having been there lately – the smell of candle smoke lingered in the air. Poor Charles sat down by the bed, and imagined the last time he had held his youngest son’s hand not so long ago. He let the tears flow and wept quietly for what would have been a minute but turned into ten. As he cried, Charles took the rabbit from the bed and embraced it close, remembering his youngest son. At last, he sighed and tucked the little rabbit into bed, just as he had once tucked in Tiny Toki. He touched its ears tenderly, collected himself, and went down again with tears wiped away.

They drew about the fire, and talked, the girls and mother working still on their sewing. They were hard at work salvaging, cutting and pinning together Tiny Toki’s clothes into shapes and patterns. They were turning the clothing pieces into a memory quilt.

Charles told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Hammersmith’s nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who, meeting him in the street that day, and seeing that he looked a little sad, inquired what had happened to distress him. 'On which,' said Charles, 'for he is the, ah, kindest, warmest gentleman you ever heard, I told him. "I am, ah, heartily sorry for your loss, Mr. Ofdensen," he said, "and very sorry for your good wife Abigail. If I can, ah, help you in any way," he said, giving me his card, "that's where I live. Please come to me.” It really seemed as if he had known our Tiny Toki, and felt with us.'

'What a kind, thoughtful young man!' said Abigail.

Charles reflected.  ‘But, however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall never forget… ah, poor Tiny Toki—shall we—or this first parting that there was among us?'

'Never, father!' cried every Ofdensen.

'And I know,' said Charles, 'I know, my dears, that when we, ah, recollect how patient and how cheerful he was; although he was a little, little child; we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves, and forget poor Tiny Toki in doing it.'

'No, never, father!' they all cried again.

'I am very happy,' said a tearful Charles, 'I am… very happy!' He sniffed and adjusted the spectacles in front of his watering, sparkling deep green eyes.

Abigail kissed him, his daughters kissed him, and Edgar and Charles shook hands. Spirit of Tiny Toki, thy purest essence was from God!

‘Spirit,' said Magnus, after a long pause and a sigh, ‘I feel like we will be parting soon. Tell me who that dead man was.'

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come conveyed him to an iron gate. He paused to look around before entering.

A churchyard. Here, then, the unfortunate man, whose name he had now to learn, lay underground. It was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds; choked up with too much burying; fat with over-sated appetite.

The dark Spirit stood ominously among the graves, and pointed down to One. Magnus advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as he had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in his solemn shape.  

'Before I get closer to that stone you’re pointing at,' said Magnus, 'answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of the things that May be only?'

Still the Phantom pointed downward to the grave by which he stood.

'Men's choices will lead to certain ends, to which, if continued on, they must lead,' said Magnus. 'But if the choices change, the ends will change. Say it’s true with what you show me!'

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

Magnus crept towards it, trembling as he went; and, following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name: 

MAGNUS HAMMERSMITH

'Am I that man who lay upon the bed?' he cried upon his knees.

The finger pointed from the grave to him, and back again.

'No, Spirit! Oh no, NO!'

The finger still was there.

‘Spirit!' he cried, tight clutching at its robe, 'My friend! I am not the man I was. These lessons from the Spirits; they have changed me. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?'

For the first time the hand appeared to shake.

'Good Spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it, ‘Promise me that I may STILL change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life?'

The kind hand trembled.

'I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall live within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Tell me I may erase the writing on this stone!'

In his agony he caught the spectral hand. The Ghost sought to free himself, but Magnus was strong in his efforts, and held onto him. 

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom’s hood and robes. They shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.

Chapter Text

Yes! The bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

'I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!' Magnus repeated as he scrambled out of bed in a giddy voice. 'The Spirits of all Three will live within me - Past, Present, Future! O William Murderface! I say it on my knees, old Murderface; on my knees!'

He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and his face was wet with tears.

'They are not torn down,' cried Magnus, folding one of his bed-curtains in his arms, ‘They are here—I am here—the shadows of the things that would have been MAY be changed. They WILL be. I KNOW they will!'

'I don't know what to do!' cried Magnus, laughing and crying in the same breath, and attempted to put his clothes on with shaking hands. He felt like he was blissfully buzzed.  ‘A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to all the world!'  He cackled ecstatically to himself.

He realized he didn’t know what day it was; how long has the Spirits kept him away anyhow?

He was checked in his wandering thoughts by the churches ringing out the most beautiful and bold peals he had ever heard. Clash, clash, hammer; ding, dong, bell! Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clash, clash! Oh, glorious, glorious!

'What's today?' cried Magnus into the clear, cold, bright day, calling downward to a very short hooded figure - Klokateer #216.  He recognized him as the caroller who had been at his office door recently.

'Eh?' returned the Klokateer, incredulous.

'What's today, my fine fellow?' said Magnus.

'Today!' replied the little Klokateer. 'Why, Christmas Day.'

'It's Christmas Day!' said Magnus to himself. 'I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night, just as Old Murderface said they would. Of course they did!'

'Sir?' returned #216, puzzled at Magnus’ happy outburst.

'Do you know the poulterer's in the next street on the corner?' Magnus inquired.

'Of course!' replied the Klokateer.

'An intelligent boy!' said Magnus. 'A remarkable young man! Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there – the big one?'

'What?! The one as big as me?' returned the Klokateer.

'What a delightful fellow!' said Magnus. 'It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck!'

'It's hanging there now,' replied the young dwarf.

'Is it?' said Magnus. 'Go and buy it.'

'Oh, COME ON!' exclaimed the Klokateer.

'No, no,' said Scrooge. 'Seriously. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here, Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!’

The Klokateer was off like a shot. 

'I'll send it to Charles,' whispered Magnus, rubbing his hands, ‘It's twice the size of Tiny Toki. Oooh, it’ll be the biggest mystery to them… who sent it?'

He wrote the address with a shaky hand and went downstairs to open the street-door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting for the arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

'I shall love it as long as I live!' cried Magnus, patting it with his hand. What an honest expression it has – a wonderful knocker!’

Klokateer #216 and the poulterer’s assistant (who looked a lot like Cornickelson’s chef friend Jean-Pierre) arrived, turkey in tow.

Still quite giddy, Magnus greeted them with a, ‘Hallo! Whoop!’

He greeted the giant bird itself. ‘How are YOU?!’ It was the biggest Magnus had ever seen, that bird. 

‘Merry Christmases!’ were exchanged all around.

'Why, it's impossible to carry that across town,' said Magnus, extravagantly tipping Klokateer #216 and the poulterer’s assistant. 'You must have a cab.'

He hailed and paid for a cab and over-tipped the driver and sent them all on their way, smiling and humming a merry tune as he went back inside.

Shaving was not an easy task, but he got it done somehow, even though his hands were shaking from all of the joy and excitement he felt.  He dressed himself 'all in his best,' and looked at a happy, dapper fellow in the mirror with satisfaction just before he left.

At last, he got out onto the streets. The people went bustling by in a wide variety of bright and beautiful apparel, as he had seen with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind him, Magnus regarded every one with a genuinely delighted smile. He looked so charming, warm and handsome that three or four good-humoured fellows shook his hand, clapped him on the back and said, 'Good-morning, sir! A merry Christmas to you!' A dozen ladies curtseyed and blushed before him and wished him ‘Happy Christmas,’ too – he was quite tickled with delight by all of it.  And Magnus said often afterwards that, of all the happy sounds he had ever heard, those first Christmas greetings were the happiest in his ears.

He had not gone far when, coming towards him, he sighted the charitable gentlemen who had walked into his office the day before. Magnus took it upon himself to make amends on the spot.

'My good men,' said Magnus, quickening his pace, and taking the first old gentleman by both his hands, ‘A merry Christmas to you both, sirs!'

'Mr…. Magnus?'

'Yes,' said he. 'That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness——' Here Magnus whispered in their ears.

'Oh my!' cried the first gentleman, as if his breath were taken away. 'My dear Mr. Magnus!  Are you serious?'

'If you please,' said Magnus. 'Not a penny less. Many back-payments are included in it, I promise you. Will you do me that favor?'

'My dear sir,' said the other, shaking hands with him, 'I don't know what to say to such munifi——'

'Don't say anything, please,' hushed Magnus. ‘Will you come and see me?'

'We will!' cried the old gentlemen in perfect unison. And it was clear they meant to.

Magnus smiled at them both and tipped his tall top hat. 'I am much obliged to you both. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!'

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows; and found that everything could yield him pleasure. He had never dreamed that any walk—that anything—could give him so much happiness. In the afternoon he turned his steps towards his nephew Richard's house.

He knocked on the door and was met with the smiling and very much surprised faces of his nephew and his wife.  

‘Richard!' said Magnus. ‘I have come to dinner. Will you let me in, nephew?'

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece-in-law Chastity looked just the same. So did Melmord when he arrived. So did lovely Susan, the blonde, buxom sister who Melmord fancied, when she arrived. So did everyone when they arrived. Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning. He wanted to be there first, and catch Charles Ofdensen coming late! That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

The clock struck nine. No Charles. A quarter past. No Charles. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Magnus sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the office.

His hat was off before he opened the door; his tatty coat, too. He was on his chair in a jiffy, driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o'clock.

'Hello, Charles….' growled Magnus in his accustomed voice as near as he could fake it. 'What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?'

'I am, ah… very sorry, sir,' said Charles. 'I am behind my time.'

'You are!' repeated Magnus. 'Step this way, sir, if you please.'

'It's, ah, ah… only once a year, sir,' pleaded Charles, stammering with fear as he walked timidly into Magnus’ office. 'It shall, ah, not be repeated. I was, ah… I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.'

'Now, I'll tell you what, my friend,' growled Magnus, relishing putting on a gruff show of acting, 'I am not going to stand for this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,' he continued, leaping from his desk, and giving Charles such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back—'and therefore I am about to... raise your salary!'

Charles trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Magnus down with it, holding him, and calling to the people in the street for help and a straitjacket.

'A merry Christmas, Charles!' said Magnus, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. 'A merrier Christmas, Charles, than I have given you for many years! I'll raise your salary, and do my best to help your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over some Christmas mulled wine! Make up the fires and buy another five buckets of coal before you dot another i, Mr. Ofdensen!' 

Magnus was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Toki, who did NOT die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old City knew, or any other good place in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and paid them no mind. His own heart laughed, for it had changed for the better, and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further dealings with Spirits, but lived their lessons every day; and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Toki observed, ‘God bless Us, Everys Ones!’