A Ponified rendition of Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol
Old Collection Notice was known far and wide as a stern and shrewd moneylender, he held his clients to standards as stiff and unwavering as the very stones that made up the city.
He put every ounce of his being into his business and considered anything that didn't play some role in said business to be a needless waste of time and resources, including the holidays. There was absolutely NOTHING that would change his mind...or WAS there?
To begin this story, I must make mention of one fact, that Old Moneybags was dead. How Dead was he? Why he was more dead than the brains of the parliament. Nevertheless, he was most indisputably dead. It is imperative that this be recognized or else all that follows will be for naught.
Moneybags was dead.
In life, he had been business partners with a shrewd, hard-nosed moneylender by the name of Collection Notice, who was known far and wide for his harsh and unrelenting business practices. He spared no sympathy for clients late with their debts, no compassion for the so-called charity workers, and no patience for the street urchins. His countenance was that of a perpetual winter cold, bitter, and no little bit cruel.
Once Upon a Hearth's Warming Eve, Canterlot was busy with the sounds of carolers and shoppers making a not unpleasant music against the frost and snow that covered the city like a greyed-out blanket. Not all ponies, however, were taking part in the revelry of the season. Old Collection Notice sat hard at work in his place of business, a small set of offices deep within the financial sector of Canterlot, home to the banks and various supporting organizations. His office was a drab establishment of plain old stone and mortar its interior being given to plain walls covered in a multitude of shelves and cabinets where voluminous account-books and receipt logs and the other minutiae of the industry. Where neighboring offices were bedecked in wreaths and other emblems of the season, Collection held no truck to such foolish frivolity. He was a sensible stallion and considered such things to be a waste of precious time and resources. He had in his employ one clerk and general stooge, an unremarkable fellow by the name of Ten Pence. A diligent worker, but with him as the master, that was a foregone conclusion as he would not tolerate any slacking of duty.
It was at this moment when the front door flew open with an enthusiastic bang making Collection Notice's ears perk up in mild startlement. He grumbled several dark words that I shan't repeat when that was followed by the insufferably cheerful voice of his Nephew, Golden Heart cried out "A HAPPY HEARTH'S WARMING, UNCLE!"
Rolling his eyes, Collection Notice snorted peevishly and retorted ""
Laughing merrily as if he had just heard a good joke he replied with a teasing smirk upon his lips and a twinkle in his eye "Oh ho ho, you surely jest dear uncle, for I thought that I heard you say that Hearth's Warming was
Collection Notice lived in a spartan set of chambers within a dreary old townhouse that he and his partner had once used as a rental property for various offices. It had gotten only colder and bleaker since he left his office that evening and the looming buildings and sparse street lamps made it particularly dark. Not that he cared one whit about the dark. As he reached his home, he levitated out his key ring and trod slowly up the drive that had icy patches that he wanted to avoid for the sake of his old bones, the path only just visible in the darkened courtyard. He reached the front door which I should note had a peculiarly large knocker on it from the days when there had been people coming and going from the offices within, it was set in the shape of a manticore head with the knocker bar held within its fang-toothed maw.
I only note its appearance, for as Collection Notice put the key in the lock, the knocker resembled not a manticore but his dead partner looking pensively at Collection as he was wont to do back when he was alive. Blinking his eyes, it was the same knocker as he had seen day and night for as far back as he could remember. Snorting at what had probably been the result of his dinner (which had tasted a little off) or perhaps he was just tired after a long day of work he went inside and shut the door with a resounding thud. Lighting a candle, he, on a whim turned back to the front door wondering why he wouldn't have been surprised to see Moneybags' ponytail that he always wore, but instead he saw the same old screws holding the same old door knocker in place. Scoffing, he ambled up the wide front stairs, so wide in fact that you could have ridden a buckboard sideways up it with room to spare, and perhaps that is why for the briefest of seconds Notice thought he saw in the looming shadows a black hearse led by four jet-black ponies.
He was not a stallion to be frightened by shadows, but the door knocker AND a phantasmal hearse were a little much for his nerves. So, before settling in for a nightcap in front of his very small fire, he checked out each room in his chambers which to his relief (although he would never admit to as such) were quite empty. He changed into his nightgown, cap, and robe (in response to the chill of winter that permeated every nook of the old building) and sat down to warm his old bones by the guttering flames and enjoy a little bit of warm broth.
As he sat, his eyes happened upon the mantle clock which read just shy of 11:30, and from there, his eyes slid over to the bell-board which was only good for collecting dust for as often as he used it, how it happened then I cannot say, but one of the bells began to swing, and with a feeling of dread that was all that more keen from the earlier circumstances, he watched and listened as one and then two and then four and within seconds every bell in the house seemed to be clanging with unwarranted abandon as like a foal let loose in the scullery with a wooden mallet. And then, one and all they ceased to ring, only to be replaced by a sound that seemed to be coming from deep below in one of the wine merchant's cellars, the sound like that of a huge chain being dragged slowly across the stone. Louder and louder with each passing second, the chains seemed to draw ever nearer, fearing an imminent attack, Notice levitated the fireplace poker like a sword from one of the adventure books he used to read as a colt. With the sound of one final tug, the sound of chains ceased. With his heart all but beating in his throat, he called out with only the slightest quaver in his voice (a fact that he could take pride in later on) "Who's there?"
As if, in answer, a figure stepped into the room...straight through the heavy door. The figure was that of a middle-aged stallion who stood or perhaps floated would be more precise as it seemed to float on a bed of mist that rose around its hooves. Collection Notice swallowed and forced himself to ask the figure whose pale eyes never once focused on him "who or what the devil are you?"
The figure continued to stare in silence before saying in a voice that carried a strange rasping echoing quality to it as if he wasn't in the same room but at the end of a long tunnel "Do you not recognize me?" Collection Notice took a closer look at the figure, he was dressed in a long black tailcoat, a starched white shirt, and an emerald green cravat all of which were clearly the finest quality. His eyes were the color of Ice, a pale cold greenish-blue, terribly bloodshot as if he was suffering some ailment. His mane was tied back in a style that hadn't been fashionable for some years. His entire being was wrapped in a long chain that was studded with a multitude of heavy boxes and safes and Purses all having the appearance of being forged of cold iron.
Collection Notice shook his head and said defiantly "No, no I don't"
The Spirit returned "In life, I was your Partner, Money Bags"
Collection Notice's eyes widened at that and said hesitantly, not out of fear mind you, but the very idea of spirits walking abroad was entirely new to him "Can you sit down?" nodding to a plush chair across from his own
Money Bags gave a silent nod of assent and proceeded to move towards the offered seat and passed straight through it and settled quite comfortably on the
The Spirit brought Collection Notice to the outskirts of the village on which lay an old sprawling home, a fine country mansion in its youth but now its dismal façade gave off an ever-present gloom. With shuttered windows and dead ivy clinging to the walls as a foal clings to her mother's skirts. A deep sonorous bell tolled the hour and the Spirit turned to Collection Notice and asked "Do you know this place?"
With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Collection Notice said "Aye, this was my school." The Spirit said "Come" and pulled Collection Notice through one of the walls which surprised him to some degree not being quite used to the ways of spirits. In the dusty room that held numerous small desks with individual inkwells sat a young colt, no more than ten winters of age. The lad was curled up in front of a small fire burning in the old pot-belly stove that gave off the only warmth in the dismal chamber. With him was a great tome, nearly as large as his own head, and Collection Notice could have sworn he saw the pictures leaping off of the very page; Wise Zebra sages, Wicked Dragon magicians, Brave Kirin warriors in their strange cut armor that seemed to be a type of tree-bark unfamiliar to him. Letting out a quiet sigh, Collection Notice turned to the spirit and said "Alas, the poor lad, wherever are his friends?"
The spirit said nothing and pulled Collection Notice forward to another vision, the room around them seemed to grow even more dismal, several of the windows developed cracks and the plaster on the walls gave way to the bare boards beneath. The colt grew in front of them becoming a handsome young stallion of about 15, He was sitting at a larger desk that normally would be off-limits doing what appeared to be arithmetic worksheets. The room was quiet aside from the creaks and groans of the old house settling into its foundations.
The quiet was broken suddenly by a jubilant cry of "BROTHER! BROTHER!" A young hibiscus-colored filly came racing into the room her woolen traveling dress causing the everpresent dust to billow around her like a great cloud. Undeterred she fairly well tackled the startled young scholar, giggling with abandon. "What?! Who?! Oh my, it's you, Charity!" "Whatever are you doing here?" giggling as she climbed off of her older brother, she reached into a little pouch hung about her neck and pulled out what appeared to be an oddly shaped Golden Bit coin "I came to bring you your Hearth's Warming present silly, it's a letter seal I made all by my very self" "It's wonderful, thank you ever so much little sister"
The filly stuck her nose up in faux indignation and said in her snootiest of voices "I'm not little, I am nearly ten" Bowing theatrically, Collection Notice replied in great solemnity "Oh Forgive me my blunder, young madame" "That's better." They stood for a moment holding these poses before the ridiculousness of it all caused them to burst with laughter that ever so nearly rattled the windows in their frames. "It is ever so good to see you Charity" "And you as well, brother". They hugged and nuzzled each other with so much love that it caused Old Collection Notice to sniffle.
"Whatever is the matter?" said the Spirit. Trying vainly to disguise his sniffle as some other ailment, Collection Notice said "Nothing, just, some of this damned dust" The Spirt looked on with its customary bland physiognomy but one could tell that it didn't believe him. "Remember, this world has no Consciousness of us" Turning back to the scene at hoof, the Spirit said in a nonchalant tone as one uses when discussing such things as the weather "She died a Married Mare...and had foals of her own" "One foal," Collection Notice said in a strange distant tone. "Ah, yes, your Nephew...Goldheart if I am not mistaken" "No, you are not mistaken," Collection Notice replied.
From outside, in the snow-crusted yard, the sound of a jingling harness was heard as the driver called up to Charity saying that it was getting late. "I've got to go now brother, but next year we will take you away from this dreadful place forever and all and we shall have the happiest Hearth's Warming the world has ever known" The younger Collection Notice laughed warmly at the emphatic statement and said "That sounds perfectly lovely, I will count the days" Charity gave her brother a warm nuzzle and a small kiss on his nose before dashing out the door calling out one last farewell. Heaving a fond sigh tinged with melancholy he strode over to one of the uncracked windows and waved to the small Cabriolet as it departed the school grounds.
The Spirit said, "Come, we haven't much time and there is yet more to see". Grasping Collection Notice with their magic, the twosome vanished from the old schoolhouse with a quiet "pop!"
With another "pop!" Collection Notice and the Spirit found themselves in a city much more like the Canterlot Collection was familiar with. Shaking his head rapidly for a moment to dispel lingering dizziness, Collection Notice looked around and saw many massive factories and warehouses. One such warehouse, in particular, stood out to him "By the Sun," he muttered to himself "it cannot be".
The Spirit quirked an eyebrow, or at least gave an expression that resembled said gesture, and inquired "What cannot be?" Collection Notice gave no response and fairly raced to the door of the warehouse and looked up at the heavy wooden sign hung proudly from the eaves, Stouthearth Shipping Co. "Why it's Old Stout's place" Scrooge crowed gaily with a gleam in his eye, "I was but a greenhorn here". The Spirit
With a loud snort, Collection Notice found himself awake in his chamber, it was quite dark and chilly on account that the fire had long since burned itself out. Rolling to his side in a bid to get more comfortable, his mind gnawed on what he had witnessed with the First Spirit. He hadn't thought of his past in a verylong time.
As he lay there in silent contemplation the city bells rang the hour
He winced in fearful anticipation, a few seconds passed and he dared to open one eye and saw...nothing. His chamber was exactly the same as it had always been. He let out a feeble chuckle It was then that he smelled something coming from the adjoining sitting room, it was the smell of...pudding?
Creeping to his door which was lit underneath by a warm flickering glow, he opened the door and fearfully peered into the room beyond. It was the same sitting room as it had been the day? night? before, except that it was not. For the room before him had undergone a transformation of a most remarkable nature. The room was alight with a great blaze that crackled and roared in the stone fireplace, and the walls were bedecked with every sort of winter greenery known to ponykind from sharp-edged holly to fragrant pine and many others that he couldn't immediately identify. Letting his eyes trace the walls of this veritable grove he came to the corner which sat a massive cornucopia that gave off the luxurious scent that had beckoned him in the first place.
It was stupendous in every sense of the word, pies, puddings, and cakes galore; tall gallant bushels of winter wheat and imperious stalks crowned with plump ears of corn, and a smorgasbord of dishes both familiar and exotic. enormous barrels of what could only be wines and spirits of every conceivable variety completed the bounteous scene. And speaking of Spirits, astride the enormous horn was a glorious figure whose size would have made the very Princess herself look like a mere foal. His coat was a brilliant living green contrasting with a mane and tail of red and brown that brought to mind one of those holly cakes he saw in the bakeshop window. Astride his brow was a crown bedecked in candles and flowers and icicles. Laughing merrily he looked down on Collection Notice and said in a voice as warm as the sun and as powerful as a gale "HA HA HA HA, I SEE YOU THERE, DO NOT HIDE" as that is exactly what Collection Notice had been trying to do "LOOK AT ME, I DOUBT YOU'VE SEEN ANYTHING LIKE ME BEFORE? HA HA HA HA HA" In a voice that did NOT tremble Collection Notice replied "No, no, I can't say that I have"
Mist crept across the cold ground and the air filled with a ghastly chill. The clock had ceased to vibrate and Collection Notice for the first time in a very long while felt a dreadful fear grip his heart whose beat seemed to echo in his ears.
Looking around at the fog that warped and twisted around him like so many drunken serpents he saw a shadow that was deeper and blacker than even the bleakest Canterlotian night.
This shadow loomed out of the mist as some ancient primordial creature, huge beyond sensible measure and ever so dangerous. It took the form of a winged pony, near that of the alicorns but distinctly not. It was as if some cruel deity took the idea of an alicorn and twisted it's very nature into a horrifying mockery. Bony wings as of some giant beast and a horn that was seemed to slice the very air with its unusual length and sharpness. It wore a ragged cloak and saddle made of some material that was woven out of the purest black that even the finest tailors and haberdashers could scarcely dream to replicate. It was also silent. Where the other two spirits cajoled him with messages of wisdom or cheer or knowledge, this dark entity just stood without uttering even the slightest of sounds, not even that of breathing.
With a gulp Collection Notice took an timid step forward and asked "Do I stand in the presence of the future?" The Spirit, for it could be nothing else, did not answer. Instead it lifted a foreleg that gave off the impression of leather bound around willow switches and pointed into the distance. Collection notice shuddered and replied "Ghost of the Future, I know you mean me well from how I was, but your presence carries about it a sense of foreboding and doom that I am scarce able to acknowledge what with my mortal senses. But as I know you do indeed mean well I implore you to begin your lesson." The ghost flapped its wings and seemed to gather the mist around them into a choking cloud and with Collection Notice in tow, vanished into the night.
To Collection Notice, the sudden transport left him feeling dizzy and lightheaded and was glad to have not eaten for some time. They stood in a great avenue that reminded him of the fiduciary establishment that was but a block or so from his own business. Around him he could see the well-dressed stallions and to his surprise a few mares going about with bulging purses and books of accounts. One small knot of these business ponies stood near enough by that with a subtle nod from the Spirit Collection Notice took in the animated discussion.
"So the old buzzard is dead is he?" said a rather pursy mare with a face turned up at the nose and a sneer all but engraved on her features. A stallion with thin mustachios and a mane the colour of unpolished metal yawned widely in clear boredom "So I've heard, but what does it matter to us? he's dead and gone and I am doubtful of any sort of residuary benefits. A rotund stallion with a voluminous moustache replied with a sharp angry sounding bark of laughter "Pah!" A weedy stallion with pointy knees spoke fourth in what Collection Notice thought was supposed to be humorous but couldn't tell because of his flat countenance "What say we go? To the funeral I mean, The rotund stallion laughed again with the dangerous mirth of an angry drunk "I'll go if supper is provided." The sneering mare shot back snidely "A beached whale likely needs that supper more than you do".
Collection Notice thought on this seemingly arbitrary exchange as the Spirit ventured further into the city. It was clear that someone had died, and from what little he could infer wasn't the most respected personage.
They turned at a corner Collection Notice hadn't ever gone down before and the buildings quickly lost the polished glow of the business district. Here in this alley where brick and stone prevailed, the buildings were all in various forms of disrepair, crooked shutters and more than one window stuffed with oily rags to keep out the dank air. There was a foulness that leached into the very soil beneath the poorly hewed excuse for a road. It was at a juncture between two crooked houses a large tent that was patched over again ten-fold. In this tent for it was here the spirit led, Collection Notice saw a positively bony stallion with a crooked buck-toothed grin and a long greasy mane and tail. He called out into the alleyway upon which with a start Collection Notice was, had he been anywhere near corporeal, pushed aside by a sickly green ZEBRA mare of all things who said in a deep voice stained by years of smoking "I return my friend with some exceptional odds and ends" The bony stallion, with a gravely phlegm coated voice cackled "Oh ho, Mz. Mwizi, you always did have an eye for aesthetics" The mare smiled an ugly smile that was all teeth but no warmth "Watch your tongue you flirtatious
Collection Notice swivled around in a bewildered state trying to make sense of his surroundings. Gone were the bleak churchyard, the blinding snow, and the dark spirit's choking miasma. He was in his room, the same as it ever was, his eyes landed on his bed curtains, still hanging from their rings. At this, a strange sensation began bubbling up from deep within him. It started as a raspy noise that grew stronger with each passing breath until his whole body practically shook with the unfamiliar feeling of...laughter.
He pranced about and around a perfect fool putting hoof and nose to everything within reach, his bed, his chair, nothing in the chamber was: with an energy of someone half his age fairly leapt towards his window grabbing the heavy drapes in his teeth and all but ripped them aside
He became as good a stallion, as good an employer, and as good a friend as Equestria was blessed to know. He lived to uphold his vows both in word and spirit. May this be strived for by us all. And so, in the oftentimes uncanny wisdom of youth, Little Timothy noted, "May Faust be with us, EVERY ONE!"
Bony wings as of some giant beast and a horn that was seemed to slice the very air with its unusual length and sharpness. It wore a ragged cloak and saddle made of some material that was woven out of the purest black that even the finest tailors and haberdashers could scarcely dream to replicate. It was also silent. Where the other two spirits cajoled him with messages of wisdom or cheer or knowledge, this dark entity just stood without uttering even the slightest of sounds, not even that of breathing.