A Hearth's Warming Carol

by Professor_Blue

Chapter 4

Chapter IV. THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS

McCrooge only sat for a few minutes thinking, before the time struck Three in the distance, and his heart jumped up into his throat. He turned around and found himself gazing into blackness, and he jumped backwards in surprise. At the small distance his leap registered, he took greater stock in the apparition, although his sight was inhibited by the shadow cast by his body from the hearth of the fireplace.

The ghost was in the shape of a pony, yes. But it was covered in a black cloak from eartip to heel, registering nothing but a silhouette, and the hood overhung atop the snout, letting no light upon its face. The shroud permitted only visibility of the tiniest tip of one of its front hooves, showing a grisly grayed surface that seemed to have treaded on nothing good before. Growing used to being afraid at these things, but more accustomed to their strangeness, McCrooge felt courage to be able to speak to the opening where a face should have been.

"Then I must be in the presence of the final one that was foretold to me. You are the Ghost of Hearth's Warming of Yet to Come?" asked he.

The Spirit slowly nodded but said nothing.

"You are about to show me shadows of things that will be?"

The Spirit answered not. It pointed with the leg that showed the tip of the hoof, outwards away from the chairs. McCrooge stood and walked to where it pointed, and then noticed that the only remainder in addition of visibility from the cloak was the bare pastern of its leg. The Spirit wore no flesh over the bone, and he quickly distracted himself from staring at the fearful instance by looking forwards at the wall which the Spirit had beckoned him to. It began walking forwards, and McCrooge followed step, not knowing what was to come. The world of the bedroom around them seemed to bend and twirl like it were the surface of water going around a drainpipe, before they found themselves walking down a forsaken cool street in some part of the city McCrooge recognized well from business he conducted from his work. It seemed to be morning, but as usual the sky was overcast.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, McCrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him. The Spirit paused for a moment, giving him time to recover. But McCrooge was all the worse for this, knowing with uncertain horror that behind the shadow of its cloak were ghostly eyes looking upon him, yet to his utmost effort he could see nothing inside the shroud.

"Ghost of the Future." Said McCrooge. "More than any Spectre I've seen yet, I fear you the most. But I know your purpose is to do me good, as I hope to live as another stallion come these shadows to pass. I'm prepared for your company and bear it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"

It said nothing, and then pointed down the street to continue straight. McCrooge made the best of himself to continue any sound except the wind.

"Lead on then, Spirit. The night is waning fast and time precious to me and us,

I know. Do lead us, Spirit."

They continued for some time down the street, and various ponies seemed to be of the seasonal nature, although more attentive to matters of their work or trade. The buildings seemed quite well to do and adorned stately. The city's clock tower jetted out from on top of a tall building with a great silver dome on top, but McCrooge could see beyond its dome and behind the building, a great steepled cathedral still cast its shadow upon both the domed building and the street below it. The hustle and bustle soon were quite pronounced in his notice, for as they walked, the crowds seemed to become denser, until they reached an open square near the domed building, with an obelisk in the middle, surrounded by benches. Around them were marketers, bankers and merchants of every kind in the financial concern of the city. All over, coin chinked, watches sat either bestowed in pockets or upon the gaze of someone's need of information. Gold seals and letters exchanged in the bustle of business. McCrooge recognized some of the faces of owners, traders and proprietors of enterprises similar to his own.

"No," he overheard a fat stallion say, one with a large chin. "I don't know much about it, either way. I only know he's dead."

"When did he die?" Inquired another. The small assembly of buisnessponies stood in a corner of the square near a post box, roughly in a circle amongst themselves.

"Last night as I understand." said a gentlepony, making use of a snuff-box. "I thought he'd never die."

"Luna knows. Pathetic gripe he was." said another with a yawn.

"What has he done with his money?" said the second stallion.

"I haven't heard." said the first. "Left it to his company in all likelihood. All I know is he didn't leave it to me."

The pleasantry was met with a general laugh.

"Likely to be a cheap funeral. I don't know anypony who would attend, do you?"

"I would-!" said one of them, to which slightly confused looks returned. "If lunch is provided!" the jibe was met with haughty laughs and snorts, before the discourse fluttered as the assembly of the few dispersed amongst other groups of financially minded mares and stallions in the square of the marketplace. Their frivolous banter cut into a hypothesis that McCrooge held. Such cruel conduct upon the soul which they referred to, whoever it was they were referring to.

McCrooge knew most of the stallions there, and looked to the Spirit for an explanation, but none came. The phantom glided onto a street and down it, and shadows grew long as the sky changed. Snow seemed to find itself poured onto surfaces but only lightly, and then stopped. In reverent silence McCrooge still set his mind about the matter of the spirit rather than the distortion of the world around him, for McCrooge's consideration led him to believe that anything may become of the world, and what he personally would make of it would be of more importance.

The phantom stopped and it pointed to two persons meeting under a lamppost. Their faces were earnest, ones was almost fearful but they both had ample hope in their eyes. The appearance was underscored by their cheap-looking scarves and tattered hats. One of them was a stallion, and he looked to be wearing his best clothing if of anything.

"Is it good news," she said. "Or bad?"

"Bad." He answered. She raised her hooves to her mouth in frightened consternation, but he moved to steady her.

"There is hope yet, Caroline."

"If he should relent, or give extension to-"

"He is past relenting." interrupted the stallion. "He is dead." If her face marked a true identifier of her soul, she was an honest and mild creature, and thankful for the hand of fate that brought the words of her husband, and merciful in pity for the forgiveness that such gratitude demanded of those dead.

"To whom will our debt be transferred?" said the mare.

"I don't know. But before the time which we'll know, we shall be ready with the money. Even if we aren't, any successor of a creditor should be a bad fortune to be anything but more merciful than the one who's passed. We may sleep tonight with light hearts, Caroline."

Their faces softened, and in the gentle lean of love, they walked down the street concerned only with themselves and the tenderness of that moment. Their household, happy because of a stallion's death! The only emotions that seemed to be able to be presented by the Spectre's shadows were ones of pleasure in the spite of death. McCrooge felt slighted by having such a bizarre presentation come before him: tenderness because of pony's mortality. He opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent as the Phantom led them on down some more streets, twisting and turning past boulevard and alleyway. Every face imaginable seemed to present itself to the eyes of McCrooge. Miners, whose lot in life was to dig in the ground with no bearing of night or day until told to stop. Fishing ponies, trading their freedom over the waves for the attending to capture small things in water, and peddle it to the passerby. Bakers who crafted the glean of grain into food to eat, assuming their art could be appetising to look upon. Locksmiths who tuned and cracked intricacies of metal to safeguard what wasn't trusted to the world.

"What life and what death they all led?" pondered McCrooge. The only landmark which he had recognized on their travel since the clock tower was the viaduct that spanned the harbour. Even so, it was from a side he had never been on before.

The streets now looked destitute and grungy. The Spirit directed them wordlessly into a shop on a corner. On the floor were stacked up high iron, old rags, bottles, heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights and all sorts of whatnot of various value. The room was of red brick but the walls were covered in dust and oil, and the ceiling was hidden by cobwebs and broken lanterns strung from spikes in the wood beams. No indication seemed to be present whatsoever of Hearth's Warming at all. Out from the back of the shop was a shifty-eyed stallion with a suspecting chip of a mouth, wearing a black and egregiously well-appointed bicone hat upon his dishevelled mane. He was pacing and looking outside occasionally with a minor agitation, before he grabbed a bottle from one of the shelves and took a swig from it, placing it back with a thud. The floor about his feet seemed frosted but it was apparent the creature cared not.

Two mares in housekeeper's adornments entered into the shop, seemingly experienced in knowing how to enter through the space without tracing themselves with grease or dirt from the haphazard placement of assorted junk. As they did, the stallion looked up and grinned a curious grin from ear to ear. He beckoned them with a simple hoof-gesture to behind a small screen of rags that obscured a thick wood door. Inside the space of the door was a small lit chamber, illuminated by a kerosene lamp which showed several different trunks with locks on them. The stallion sat on a stool and gesticulated broadly.

"Ms. Wilber, Ms. Force!" said he. "Welcome, what have we for me this time?"

"I trust you'll do us well, Joe. A sporting lot we have." Said the first mare.

"Aye, fair more than just a bit of sport." Replied the second.

"Let's have it then, let's have it." Said Joe.

The first mare that entered brought forth a bundle wrapped in a gray sheet, which she undid and presented. Inside it were a pair of boots, some silver candlesticks, a folded blanket and a pair of green cufflinks. Joe examined the boots with a sneer before placing them on a small wood box just beside the outlaid sheet. He did similar to the candlesticks, although he seemed to be enjoying holding those more than the boots. He procured an ill-fitting monocle as he examined the cufflinks in one hoof with a leering eye, the other closed.

"Em'rald it is. Fine find, Ms. Force. Very fine indeed." Said Joe, placing the cufflinks on a napkin. Ms. Force's smile grew as she heard this, but both of the mares seemed happily confident.

"Who's doing wers it?" erred Joe, as he extracted from another box a small chalkboard and began writing something. "The sour goat was it?"

"Sour goat was he ever such a state." Said Ms. Wilber.

"If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked screw," continued Ms. Force. "Why wasn't he natural with 'em in his lifetime? Graspy coot he is."

"Truest word that ever was spoke." said Ms. Wilber. "Judgement' that be on him."

"Well let's have it then," changed Ms. Force. "What's worth it?"

"Reckon I, twen'y bits and not a penny less." said Joe, finishing up his writing. "Fine, Ms. Force, that's your account."

She bunched together her sheet and collected it into a sack that sat on her belt, as the other mare began to spread out her bundle before the stallion. In it was thick ruffled dark stuff with fine line-work upon it."

"What's this then?" said Joe, holding up the bunch with his hooves. "Bed-curtains!"

"Bed-curtains!" returned Ms. Wilber.

"You don't mean you say you took 'em down, rings and all, with him lying there?" Said Joe, wide-eyed.

"Well why not? Wasn't so hard." Replied the mare. Joe looked at her for a moment in awed humour, before continuing through the bundle and finding a silver teaspoon (placing it among the cufflinks) a clean white sheet and quite well appointed stallion's suit.

"You're born to make a fortune, Ms. Wilber."

"I don't reach any farther than what I can take back with a hoof-full, Joe. And don't be spilling oil onto them blankets, it was deals enough to be getting them out of his place without you bein' fool enough to ruin them."

Joe went wide-eyed more than before.

"You mean these are his blankets and suit?"

"Whose else's do you think?"

"I hope he didn't die of catching anything. Eh?" said Joe, holding still as he stopped examining the suit.

"Don't be afraid of that, Joe. I'd not loiter his things if I knew he did. Ah! You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won't find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. Would'a been wasted on his corpse if it hadn't been for me."

Joe's eyes became as gratefully sneaky as any thief's could be and lept up at Ms. Wilber, giving false dance to her around the small chamber.

"Oh Miss Wilber you'll be me treasure and me death!" he exclaimed in jubilation.

McCrooge listened and watched the scene in horror. As they grouped about their spoil in the scanty light of the lamp, he viewed them with detestation and disgust if they had been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself.

"Spirit!" said McCrooge, shuddering from head to foot. "I see the case of this unhappy man might have been my own. Good is it that I wish to be more liberating of my gains than to monger them, lest it be pecked at by cocked crooks as those."

He looked up and saw the eerie vacancy of the Spirit's shroud, before it looked away from the chamber and pointed. They walked forwards and the scene changed into a slightly more familiar part of the city away from the darkened doldrums. Eventually they came upon a road which he recognized, the same row of townhouses that the Ghost of Hearth's Warming Present had shown him, where Rupert Right lived.

They entered into the room, and saw Rarity sitting by herself sewing a quilt with needle and thread. The quilt looked wondrous for something made of such elementary components and fibres, and McCrooge suspected if the madam sold her textiles for artistic fashion. She seemed intent on focusing on her work, more in the effort to remain distracted from something else than to be zoned in on her craft. Eventually she gave in and looked up at a clock above the door, which read near about midday. Her eyes drifted from the face of the clock to a simple pencil drawing that had been tacked to the wall, with child-like scribbles that inscribed three pony-like figures with large eyes and hats. A stallion, a mare, and a filly, and they were endearable to be sure. The portrayal by a child, although no true masterpiece, was entirely obvious that the strenuous attention of the picture was the sentiment of it, not its technical appraisability. As if insulted, her eyes darted back to her work before closing, lids pressed hard as if to prevent an emotion, which seemed to be welling up in her hoofs, the needle becoming less steady as she wielded it. Soon the effect faded and it seemed as if it was to be cyclic as her posture returned to near what it had been before, fighting some invisible thing to keep her mind on her task.

She longed to gaze upon the picture, but longed still that it were not there, for it was obvious she found it unbearable to both have it existing, and not mourn.

Only then did McCrooge notice the stool, eerily identical to how it had been shown to him earlier. His vision became obscured by tears welling at the base of his eyes but he held his depression down. It bore the dust and disuse as it sat beside the fire's hearth, just as he had seen it before, and it scraped his thoughts.

Presently the door opened and Rupert entered. His hat looked as well-worn as ever and his expression looked like it was tired from the effort of stoicism. He placed his hat on a rack and sat down in front of the fireplace, as Rarity watched on, looking desperate for words as they both uttered a void.

McCrooge and the Spirit stood for a long while; they watched the husband and wife sit, thinking and feeling. The miser had never considered such matters as these before now, and here it was being conflated the thoughts which he so violently protested to, not very long ago.

"You went today then, Rupert?" said Rarity.

"Yes, my dear," returned the husband. "I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green the place is. It overlooks the pond, where the ducks are, and it's in the shadow of a great cherry tree. Wrap-winter we'll go see it, and there will be blossoms…" His mouth quibbled and sank, unable to bear the weight of it no longer.

"My little pony, my sweet filly!" He cried, and broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. If he could have helped it, he and his child would have been farther apart perhaps than they were. Rarity put aside her quilt and hugged her husband, joining in his agony. For what seemed an intolerable moment, nothing happened except their sadness in their embrace.

Time went on and they reconstituted themselves and began to prepare a meal for their dinner of Hearth's Warming Eve. Their tears dried and faces reformed to smiles as they began recalling things of days past, dwelling on the cherished memories they still had of their daughter, and in doing so, honouring her. Occasionally the mirth would spout despondency again, but it would direct itself to the joy that still could be had for they still had each other and the holiday of the moment. The topic changed pertaining to other things they had done that day, and Rupert commented on the extraordinary kindness of Mr. McCrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely met a few times.

"He intercepted me in the street today. He seemed somewhat down, you know, but worded himself not so. He is such a pleasantly-spoken gentlepony, my dear. He told me 'I am heartily sorry for your loss and that much moreso for your good wife.' By the bye how he ever knew of that, I don't know."

"Knew what, darling?"

"Why, that you were such a good wife." Replied Rupert. Rarity batted her eyelashes at the flattery, smiling a gesture most dear.

"He said," continued Rupert. "'Heartily sorry for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way, this is where I live. Pray come to me' and gave me his card." The stallion held up a small piece of card paper with a printed identity on it.

"For the sake of anything he might be able to do for us, he offers his kind way. It really seemed as if he felt with us as if he had known our Sweetie Belle."

"I'm sure he's a good soul." Said Rarity.

"You'd be surer of it if you met him, Rarity. If you saw him and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he were to get us a better situation for us." said Rupert. "Maybe more, if we were to try again."

"Plenty of time for that." Said Rarity, seeming hope into her words more than any other thing. They kissed, and sat down at their table ready to begin a prayer for them to eat.

The reproach of their grace in the opposition of continued sadness burned in McCrooge. Their comfort while mourning was a hope far too expensive to be bought by a fight or an anger he realized, and thought hard about what he had seen, almost forgetting the presence of the Spirit. Then the shadows changed again and they found themselves looking upon the front of the office of McCrooge's enterprise, his small office, from the street. Expecting for the Spirit to guide him home (for it was night now), the miser started in one direction, until the Spectre pointed in the other direction, further down the way.

"The house is yonder," McCrooge exclaimed. "Why do you point away?"

The inexorable hoof underwent no change.

McCrooge hastened into the window of his office, but saw nothing through the windows, being far too dark and layered by ice. He turned to see that the Phantom had not moved in the slightest, and still pointed elsewhere. He joined it and walked down the street and wondering why and wither he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate that prevented a churchyard.

Here then, they entered into. Walled by houses and buildings the yard of the church was somewhat large and was overgrown by grass and weeds. The growth obdurate by the fat and worth of that which lay below it, interrupted by gravestones covered in vines. In the distance a crow called out. The darkness of the night only offered so much sight to give McCrooge a safe path to traverse but little farther could he spot detail of anything. The Spirit lead on, blacker than anything ever before by the occlusion of the Eve.

It stopped and pointed down to one grave. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

"Before I draw nearer to the stone which you point," said McCrooge. "Answer me one question. Are these things the shadows of what must be, or are they the shadows of things that may be, only?"

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave which it stood by.

"Ponies courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which if preserved in, they must lead." said McCrooge. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. May it be thus that you show me, Spirit."

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

McCrooge had made a point of distancing himself from where it stood but the demand of the time told him to approach, and he crept closer, continuously slowing until he found himself stopped again. He made hesitant, conscious and intentional strides, shaking more and more until he read the hoof down to a stone covered with snow. He raised his hoof and wiped it, which bore to his eyes the gravestone of his own name, McINTOSH McCROOGE.

"No…" whispered the stallion.

The hoof subtly pointed to he, and then to the grave.

"No, Spirit! Oh no, no!" he cried. "Spirit!" McCrooge clutched the robe of the Phantom. "Hear me! I am not the pony I once was; I shall not, I will not be the creature of this intercourse! Why show me this if I am past all hope!"

The Spirit was unmoved, as if made of bitter rock.

"I will honour Hearth's Warming with my heart and let the Fire of Friendship burn as hot as any star! I shall live in Hearth's Warming by the spirits all three, past, present and future. I will not shut out the lessons they teach. Oh tell me I might crack the words upon this stone!"

In his agony, he sought to grab the hoof of the Spirit, but it repulsed his reach.

"Spirit, I implore you!" he cried. "Have mercy on me!"

McCrooge became unable to speak, weeping and gnashing his teeth in trembling and transition, pulling at the cloak as if it were a rope from which he dangled over a precipice. The Spirit seemed to shake, like it was crumbling. Deep roaring seemed to be all about them. And suddenly, McCrooge fell.