A Hearth's Warming Carol

by Professor_Blue

Chapter 2

Chapter II. THE FIRST OF THREE SPIRITS

He slept soundly and quietly, although demented thoughts bothered him from it being a completely still slumber. His mind reeled with what had transpired, although it resulted in not a stir of motion. Eventually he was forced upright in the bed to look around and comprehend the status of his night, while in some faint distance the rumming of a bell faded away. The pocket-watch of his which sat on the small table nearest his bed read the third quarter past midnight. The ring he heard must have been the quarter's chime.
Still astounded by the things the ghost's mouth, and frustrated at the very notion, McCrooge elected to return to the space of his bed and return to slumber, angry with the message he remembered. Hooves clenched and eyes screwed shut he was determined to fall back asleep, when he recalled with a start-

"The first ghost."

Frozen at himself, he sat upright unmoving, conflicted by his temperament that he was convinced it would be nothing, and convinced that he should be so curious as to remain awake to seek out the hour and see what would happen. He remained, consternated for several minutes, until he resolved to wait until the hour.

The hour struck, with the chime, and followed by a One. The one faded, but up and not out. Louder and louder the One resonated, until he couldn't bear to hear the sweet ring of the time, shutting his eyes and putting his hooves over his ears. And as soon as it came, it faded. He opened his eyes and saw that his bed-curtains were as dawn, a brilliant light shining all around the room just out of sight. He pulled away the curtain to gaze into whatever source it might be, until the glare summarized itself into a tiny dot, which flashed again and became a small, paled pegasus, the complexion of the fairest glass sand's color, but beautifully smooth. The tenderest bloom of a surface it wore, as if to simultaneously hold the weathering of many a century, yet as fresh as a newborn. Her pinkish hair flowed by its own volition, held out of the eyes by a single sprig of holly and mistletoe arranged into a tiny crescent. She was adorned by a flowing pink dress that needed no ruffles, as it ebbed and waved as her hair did, as if the two were one medium. The expression upon her face was patience, understanding and more than all, kindness, evoked in mountains-full by just by the merest glance, and she stared as intently and deeply as the Ghost of Hoovton had done, but so much grace and unstoppable happiness beheld were they. The gaze of her eyes was as piercing as the glacial color they bore. McCrooge could barely tolerate the feeling of gladness that soaked him so, that he tried mightily hard to shut out, with little avail.

"Are you the Spirit whose coming was foretold to me?" He said.

"I am!" The voice was soft and gentle, caressing concern and adoration with every word, spoken almost as lyrics to some unspoken song of peace.

"Who are you then? What are you?" Asked McCrooge.

"I am the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Past."

"Long past?" Inquired McCrooge. He became aware in that moment that the Ghost was very small, although she looked a full mare, she was naught but the size of a filly.

"No. Your past." Said the Spirit.

McCrooge knew not what to think. If mayhaps this being only existed because he did, or mayhaps the creature would assume different forms to suit different indications of others pasts. But either way it mattered not.

"What purpose has brought you to me, oh Spirit?" asked McCrooge politely.

"Your welfare."

"My welfare is of my own concern," said McCrooge. "That much I would like to be, if it's all the same to you, Spirit."

"Your salvation, then." she amended. "Take heed." She extended one of her legs as she floated there, pointing out and away from the bed, and McCrooge followed her. They came to one of the windows, which opened at once by itself. McCrooge needed not to look down to know that it was a perilous drop of two flights of stairs all the way to the ground from his bedroom window.

"Forgive me spirit, but I am mortal, and liable to fall." He said, withdrawing from the opening. The cool of the night suddenly struck him.

"A touch of my hoof, and you shall fly." Said the Spirit. She extended one of her hoofs and McCrooge took it, lifting away from the space of his room, out the window and up away from his home. Immediately he was far above the city, looking down upon cobbled streets, tree tops and chimneys, and he felt none of the freezing of the sky, yet there was still snow falling. A bright light seemed to approach from the horizon beyond the mountains, and do so with terrible speed.

"Spirit," asked McCrooge. "What is that light? It can not be dawn."

"It is the past." Said she, and they were soon enveloped by the bright light. They appeared to somehow come out of some trees onto a small dirt road nearest a stone-built building. Small ponies darted this way and that in the nearby courtyard and onto the road, throwing snowballs at each other and various excitations of little fillies and colts.

"This is my old school! I was young when last I tread here!" exclaimed McIntosh. Thousands of smells and sights flooded back to his recollection, and a tear emerged into his eye, as he covered his mouth with his hoof looking at all the wonderment he had forgotten. The Spirit noticed but McIntosh tried to hide it by turning his head as if to look off in another direction.

"You recollect the way?" asked the Spirit.

"Remember it!" replied McIntosh. "I could walk it blindfold and bound I could. So many days…" he reminisced.

"Strange that you might have forgotten it so well, if so warm you recall it." observed the Ghost. "Let us go on."

Every gate post and tree, every plant and every stone harkened a memory for McIntosh, and no doubt of it that it all was real. He then realized how close a colt came to dashing him about the leg as he ran by. McCrooge felt spited by the action in conjunction with the laughter in the air and mirth of the place.

"That imp-!"

"These are only shadows of the past, they are not conscious of us." said the Spirit.

The door of the school sat idly closed, but definitely not neglected, and a light still yet emanated from inside.

"The school is not deserted. A solitary young one, neglected by his friends, remains there still." Said the Spirit. McCrooge knew all too well of whom she spoke, his eyes wetting again with painful memory. The door opened before them, and in the far corner of the schoolroom sat a small red colt, nose entrenched in a book.

"It is I! Myself as a child!" expounded McCrooge. "And I remember that book!"

A mystical form suddenly took the shape of a ruffian-looking stallion with a peg-leg and parrot atop its mane, and an eyepatch and thick tangled beard.

"Treasure Island! And it's Long Latch Silver, the pirate!" Other apparitions appeared and danced around in their piratey dance as the young McCrooge read on. The old stallion looked on as the colt's imagination fed on and on from the words of the pages, until interrupted by a bark of joy amongst the laughter of the foals outside, and punctuated by a snowball hitting a window pane. The young McCrooge looked up at the window, and the stallion could not read his expression but knew the animosity of its confusion once more, tearing up again. He was about to utter

"I wish," before the scene dissolved, and they were in some lightless place.

"Please Spirit…" Said McCrooge, unbecome by grief.

"What is the matter?" Asked the Spirit. McCrooge said nothing for a moment as he tried to collect himself and hold back his tears.

"Nothing." Said he.

The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hoof, saying as it did so.

"Let us see another Hearth's Warming!"

And the room returned, looking slightly dirtier and faded, one of the windows having been boarded up, preventing entry of air through a broken pane. Still, sat a young McIntosh, but older than before, writing on a paper with a quill.

Suddenly from the opposite end of the room ran a little filly with a pale yellow tonality and hair as strongly red as the coat of,

"Brother McIntosh!"

"Bloom!" said both the shadow of the young McIntosh, and the present stallion McIntosh in unison. The filly jumped and hugged the colt.

"I have come to bring you home, dear brother!" said the foal, clapping her tiny hooves and barely containing herself with mirth. "Home!" She repeated.

"Home, little Bloom?" replied the colt, his state of mind changing.

A terrible voice in the hall spoke up with the care of stone.

"Bring down Master McCrooge's box, there." And there appeared the schoolmaster, with stoic condescension in his eyes. He shook hooves with the young colt McIntosh, which in unison with the appearance of the schoolmaster's face threw his emotions in a confounded spin. He conducted them both to a small parlour just aside from his office, which was attached to the main study room. There he gave them a surprisingly heavy cake that was not much larger than a bread roll. He picked up a bottle of some sort that had a clear liquid and a greenish label in friendly letters, and ushered the young ponies out of his parlour and to the door, giving the bottle to his assistant who was pulling the trunk. The schoolmaster's expression had not changed, but nonetheless he bade them farewell and waved as they set on their way to a carriage on the road. The assistant loaded the trunk onto the carriage, which then traveled down the road, leaving the assistant alone with his bottle, and he returned inside the schoolhouse.

"Home for good and all, McIntosh! Father is so much kinder than he used to be, and home's like heaven! He spoke so gently one night that I felt I could do: I asked if we could be having you home for Hearth's Warming, and he said yes!" she was beginning to melt from feelings that seemed to pain her so, into exuberance again as she continued. "Now we shall be together all season long, and you shant have to return here."

"You are quite a filly, little Bloom!" exclaimed the colt.

She clapped her hooves together and laughed, and tried to rub his head but ended up pulling him down by the neck and embracing him, as the carriage rode on.

"Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the Spirit, "But she had a heart ever so large."

"So she had," cried McCrooge, looking on, the car of the foal's transport disappearing into a faded memory again.

"She died a wonderful mare," said the Spirit, "and as I think, she had foals of her own, did she not?"

"One colt." Returned McCrooge.

"True," said the Spirit, "Your nephew."

McCrooge felt uneasy with this truth all of a sudden, when he answered briefly,

"Yes…"

The shadows faded into a new location, being a festive party at a barn, all manner of surfaces, from the deckposts to the joists with all manner of decorations and adornments, candles and lights and shining things gleamed all over, and oh how many ponies there were, enjoying a fantastic party. Mostly guests of young mare and young stallion's age were present, all in fine clothing. Outside the night governed but none could tell, the jubilation and brightness of lanterns and dancing carried on as if it were day.

"Do you know this place?"

"Know it!" said McCrooge. "I was apprenticed here!"

They went in, seeing two large stallions, inexplicably even larger than the old McCrooge himself, each almost spitting images of each other with curly manes and thick glasses, their faces the very idols of cheer, one holding a modest glass of some brown sparkling drink which was dwarfed by his face and moreso by their grand auras of charismatic happiness. They were almost overwhelming gentleponies.

"Why it's old Fezzdale! And Clydeswig! Bless their hearts, they're alive again!"

One of the two enormously gracious hosts noticed a stallion approaching. It was McIntosh, again older than before, and alongside another, of nearly the same size in a deep green coat and matching blazer.

"Clydeswig!" recognized the youngish McCrooge.

"Yo ho, there, McIntosh!" his voice was oily, rich, fat and jovial as could be.

"Limback! It's Griswald Limback to be sure, my old friend!" said McCrooge to the Spirit, pointing out the friend adorned in his sheen-covered blazer that made him stand out yet fit in with the evergreen tree near the barn door.

"My handsome colts! Set about keeping the party and come back." said Clydeswig to the two young apprentices. "Then we'll set ourselves about enjoying this holiday, hmm?"

Before you could say Jack Robinson, the two young stallions dashed away all over the nearby square and all over the barn, closing shutters from the cold, trimming and filling lamps, cleaning anything that had managed onto the floor and forming the party spick and span, putting their youthful energy to service impeccably and with wonderful agility and politeness. Fuel packed on to the fire, drinks provided to the musicians on the band stand and anything that could be done from turning a growing party into the best there could be of a ball-room upon a winter's night.

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away with Clydeswig or Fezzdale looking on, and anything that could possibly have removed the attention from the festivity was gone in the bat of a lash and packed away from public eye.

The Master of Ceremonies and head of the business, Fezzdale, continued to entertain the guests with his hearty talk of his farm and the town where they lived. In a corner still stood Clydeswig, remaining as inconspicuous as he could be, managing the provisions and food as the night went on. Limback and McCrooge returned to him, no less dirtied or upset by their chores and entirely excited to soon be part of the soiree of their own maintaining.

Before they could come within any short distance of the stallion from behind a table, Clydeswig exhorted them.

"Gentleponies, be off with you and have fun with the night!"

At that, the fiddler in the band began playing a dizzying song that opened up the middle of the crowd into a large circle as couples began dancing therein. More mares and more stallions began joining into the flurry of movement and rhythm.

In a curt gesture of humour and hope, Limback gave McCrooge a shove and the young stallion found himself among the other dancers, suddenly taken by a partner and in the harmonious flow of the dance. McCrooge did his best to give an irked glare at Limback, who simply laughed as the shoved stallion and a young mare sank deeper into the cloud of mirth and passage with a spin. It was not long before the looks from the eyes of the mare that the young McCrooge found himself embraced and chivalry-bound to by the dance, less and less resistant to the continuous suggestion of "just one more song".

The night went on and the gaiety seemed to never end. Even when the fiddler, who saw himself spent even after several hiatuses of slower songs, and slowly trod out of the barn to rest, he was replaced by another pony who was obviously intent to do him one better, or die trying. Even more than anypony ever was at the party, a real sight to see was Fezzdale and his petite wife the Mrs., whom seemed to outshine anypony at any dance, with grace and speed and strength that seemed to best any resort of nature. The sight was as ridiculous as it was eloquent and graceful.

The clock struck eleven, and the domestic ball began to dissolve. Fezzdale, Clydeswig and their wives stood on either side of the door and shook hands with everypony that departed, their smiles beaming and infatigued, personally wished all a Merry Hearth's Warming. When all had gone, Limback had begun to clean things up, and with no small protest of delight, McCrooge separated himself from the young mare by making some sort of quiet promise, and joined Limback in beginning to sweep the floor, until Fezzdale and Clydeswig approached them.

"My little ponies," said Fezzdale, ironically with their mutual bodily enormity and a tad fuzzed by the humour of the drinks and night, said "go about your Hearth's Warming, go home!"

McCrooge and Limback consented and it was long before the cheer of the night faded away, the two bachelor stallions walking off into the night.

During this whole time, McCrooge had interposed the entire scene with what he remembered, and every moment corroborated perfectly, enjoying every sight and sound and smell, and he underwent the strangest agitation. Only after gazing a long time at the faces of himself, the young mare, and his friend Limback, that he noticed a light seemed to burn on the back of his head, and he turned to see the Spirit still looking upon him and his reaction.

"A small matter," said the Spirit, "to make these silly folk so full of gratitude."

"Small!" echoed McCrooge.

The Spirit signed him to listen to the apprentices, how they poured their hearts out in praise of the service and generosity of Fezzdale and Clydeswig, and when he had done so, said,

"Why? Is it not? They had spent but a few bits of your mortal money, and otherwise paid themselves in time and due of attention to their fellow pony, that most might offer themselves and their own charity to the creation of the party. Is that so much that they deserve this praise?"

"It can't be that," said McCrooge, heated by the remark and speaking unconsciously like his former miser, "It isn't that, Spirit. They had the power to make us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or toil. Say that their power lie in their words, and then his charity costs a- - fortune…" McCrooge stopped speaking, suddenly considering his words more carefully. He felt the Ghost looking on him intently.

"What is the matter?" Asked the Spirit.

"Nothing particular." Said McCrooge.

"But something nevertheless?" The Spirit insisted.

"No," replied McCrooge, "I think I should like to be able to say a word or two to my clark just now. That's all."

"My time grows short." Said the Spirit. The scene of the barn and celebratory square were suddenly as smoke, and disappeared from sight. Soon the lightlessness melded into the scene of a bridge beset by fog, near a knoll and stone wall. On the bridge stood a mare, identical to the one which he remembered from Fezzdale's Party, but her gown was not jovial or gay; it bore dark, mourning colors. Near to the bridge, the miser could see himself again, older than his last self, and showing the lines of his face that identified him being of his prime years in the middle of his life. They were not wrinkly but they seemed to have the grasp in them of the seeds of avarice and his newer shape, eyes containing a motion of restlessness.

The mare's eyes were wet with tears, streaming down her face, and moonlight shone through them, more brilliantly than the eminence of the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Past, and it was evident to McCrooge that his younger self did not see it. The sight was agonizing to behold, that the young McCrooge was so blind to the pain of the weeping mare.

"It matters little," she said, softly, "To you, very little, that an idol has replaced me and that you find such great satisfaction with it- as I would have tried to fulfill. Were it not, I would have no cause to grieve!"

"What idol has displaced you?" he rejoined.

"A golden one."

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

"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the concern to be above the threats of the world. I have seen your other aspirations wither and die from the strangling of your hunger from that which you think will protect you!"

"What then?" he retorted sharply. "Even if I have grown much wiser, I am not changed towards you."

She shook her head.

"Am I?"

"Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor, and content to remain so, until time would grant us blessing, which we would be patient for even if it never came because we had each other. You are changed. When it was received, you became a different stallion entirely."

"I was just a foal," He said impatiently.

"What if we had never been in love now? Would you still have sought me out? Would you still have pursued me as you once did? Ah, no!" she cried.

He seemed to yield to the justice of the supposition in spite of himself. But he said with a struggle, "You think not."

"I would gladly think otherwise if I could." she answered. "Celestia knows! When I have learned a truth like this, how irresistible it can be with the reproof of money. Compared to that of the longing after a dowerless filly- -you, who in your very confidence, weigh everything by gain, or choosing her, risk all for something you don't understand and cannot measure. I see you well enough to know that regret has replaced the consideration and you with a full heart choose away from mine; and I release you, for the love of him who you once were."

He was about to speak, but she continued facing away.

"I pray that some day you might recall this and have pain by it. Either be it a very, very brief moment and you waive it as unprofitable, or some hopeful other consideration of it. May you be happy in the life you've chosen!"

She threw down a small silver ring which she had been holding, and ran away crying, blinded by tears off into the night. The mature McCrooge walked up the bridge and picked up the ring, but before he could see what became of that action, the sight disappeared into nothing again. McCrooge and the Spirit were alone.

The miser was without words, and the Spirit looked upon him, seeing his eyes wetted dreadfully.

"We shall go on." Said she. McCrooge had a mind to protest but did nothing.

They found themselves in a darkened room, where they could see Bloom, lying quite infirmed upon a bed, presided over by a doctor and another pony whom McCrooge could not recognize. The door was pushed open and in came McCrooge, not very much older than he was at the bridge. Immediately he removed his hat and sat down at the bedside of his sister. Her breath was weak and pitiable, and her eyes stayed closed, but her head turned towards the arrival.

"I'm here, Bloom. I came at once when you summoned me, I'm here." Cooed McCrooge softly.

"McIntosh." Said her feeble voice.

"Yes, Bloom."

"McIntosh… promise me…"

"Yes, Bloom. I promise you anything, I'll promise you anything." He uttered purely.

"Promise…" and her strength failed her, her lips closing and going limp and silent. Impatient and engrossed by his mind, McCrooge's hoof went for hers, and with his other hoof held her head gently.

"Bloom, you'll become well. We'll see to your health, we'll see you live yet. You cannot die, you mustn't die! You're going to be better, Bloom!" his pleas became more and more frustrated, and he cried on her bedside. He wept until a hoof upon his shoulder suggested he relinquish by the gesture of the doctor. McCrooge's eyes burned shut with agony, and violently he shrugged off the hoof, before returning to a stand and storming out of the room in impertinent anguish, taking his hat.

The stallion and the doctor looked at each other with vexed expressions of worry. A small cough by the sickened mare returned their undivided attention to her. Her eyes opened ever so slightly, and she saw that McCrooge had departed, and a trickle of a tear appeared in her eye.

"McIntosh…" she whispered.

"Take care of my colt. Please, promise you'll raise my Cripe." She said at last, before her body seemed to unnaturally relax. And she expired.

McCrooge could bear it no longer as he watched the shadows of his past, and bellowed a horrid wail of mourning.

"Bloom, forgive me! Forgive me my sister, forgive me!" McCrooge cried at the scene, before it ceased to be, and darkness enveloped him and the Spirit once more.

"Spirit." said McCrooge. "No more, I don't wish to see any more, it breaks me so!"

"One more shadow." Said the Spirit.

"No more!" cried McCrooge, his leg held above his head in protest.

They were suddenly in a new scene. A room, not very large or handsome, not particularly fancy or decorated, but charming nonetheless. Near the fire sat the beautiful mare from the bridge, her mane done up with a fine braid and with no finery adorning herself. She sat in a chair across from a filly who looked much like her, and McCrooge had to take a moment to even recognize the probable mother. Terrible sound came from the chaos of many young colts who rummaged around. McCrooge could count but only five or so, but they conducted themselves as fifty. The uproarious brood seemed replete with the joviality of the most chaotic sort that ever manifested itself in young foals upon the eve of such a holiday as Hearth's Warming, Soon the Mare and filly joined themselves amongst the young brigands humor, and all laughed so heartily in the complex.

McCrooge almost cringed at how negligent the fun seemed, with coming so close to crushing the grace that still contained itself in the mare's form, mingling with the younglings. Her eyes seemed to retain the hope and happiness of years past, but they began to look downcast by time robbed by a falsified pursuit.

Knocking at the door came a stallion, buried in himself from carrying packages and boxes, laden with Hearth's-Warming toys and gifts. It was not long before his unbearable load became encased in the eager and insatiable curiosity and excitement of all the young foals, which made him collapse to the floor as they climbed all over. All the colts and the filly began opening the gifts, but the mare tread through them and graced the neck of the stallion, wordlessly expressing appreciation and adoration while they stood in their embrace.

And now McCrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the master of the house, with his daughter fondly resting between his legs as he sat by the fireside, his sight dimmed and face straightened.

"Speckle," said the husband, turning to his wife. "I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon."

"Who was it?"

"Mr. McCrooge."

Speckle said nothing, her face changing to an unreadable expression.

"McCrooge it was. I passed his office window, and it was not closed. He had a candle inside, and I could scarcely see him. His partner lies upon the threshold of death I hear, and he sat alone. Quite alone in this world I believe."

"Spirit!" said McCrooge, his voice cracking from sorrow and losing coherency. "Remove me from this place."

"I told you that these are shadows of the past," said the Spirit. "Blame me not, for they are what they are."

"Leave me! Take me back! Haunt me no longer, you ghastly Spirit!"

McCrooge flailed at the Ghost, with no visible resistance of its own. The shadow seemed intent to carry on but it began to melt and streak as he swung at the aether in front him in the aim of the Spirit's body. The struggle seemed to have no real adversary apart from the growing intolerance of McCrooge and his thoughts. He sought to grab and pull the Spirit into doing what he willed but nothing seemed to hold, and he jumped upwards out of his bed, awarding himself with a light bump on the head. Seeming to have come awake as if he were asleep, he looked around.

It was night still, and nothing seemed to have moved. His sheets seemed disarrayed and night cap was loose, but the bed-curtains seemed even undisturbed.

He considered declaring the instance "Humbug." but it occurred to him not to react to it so, and resolved to resume his slumber, for his eyes grew heavy.