Peter Cratchit's Christmas Carol by Drew Marvin Frayne

Author:Drew Marvin Frayne [Frayne, Drew Marvin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: NineStar Press, LGBT, Christmas, romance, fairy tale, businessmen, ghost, prostitution, poverty, 19th century England, pirates, tear-jerker, time travel
Publisher: NineStar Press, LLC
Published: 2019-01-15T16:00:00+00:00

Three

The Second Ghost

I WAS TWENTY years of age when I boarded the Belisama. Having finally left the full flourish of my teenaged years behind, I thought myself a man, master of a ship. I was one year on board, one year of loving Augie, one year of journeys and bargains and battles and betrayals. And it has been another year since, another year of working my way from port to port on board various ships, another year of crossing perilous miles and walking untold lengths to return to the city of my birth, another year of living in squalor and filth and selling what was left of myself to earn my daily bread. One full year of mourning Augie, and being tormented by his shade, one year of failing to save my family, one year of simply going through the motions of daily living. And in all that time, in the entirety of the three hundred and sixty-five days that made up that whole year, I never wept, not once. There were plenty of tears shed, for Augie, for my family, for my failures, plenty of recrimination and wet eyes and self-damnation. But I never wept, not once, not one damn time.

But now, here, bearing witness to the miracle of my own Uncle Scrooge before me once more…I wept. Yea, I wept and fell into his arms almost straightaway, collapsing against the old man’s shoulder. Every sense and moment of defeat and disillusion burst forth from my countenance, every sensation of what had been lost and would never be recovered gushed from my eyes, every iota of pain and anguish in my being poured from me. So yes, I wept hard, bitter tears, and my uncle, my Uncle Scrooge, held me as I did.

“Peter,” Uncle Scrooge simply said, clutching me tightly in his grasp. “My poor boy.”

He was not the wizened, pale invalid I remembered so vividly from the end of his days. This was the Scrooge of my boyhood—skinny, yes, even gangly, but lively and robust and energetic. “I’m so sorry, Uncle,” I said between moans as I sobbed bitter tears against his shoulder.

“My boy, my boy,” Scrooge was saying, still holding me tightly and rubbing his palms across the blades of my shoulders. “Sorry for what?”

His simple question left me momentarily dumbstruck, and despite myself, I grew silent. “I do not know, Uncle,” I finally replied, and, indeed, I did not know, a sensation that resulted in some kind of half sob, half laugh, and a gentle, consoling smile from Uncle Scrooge.

“Peter, my boy,” he said again, wiping my cheeks with his fingers. “Such pain you’ve known.” He took my hand in his. Yes, this was the Uncle Scrooge of my heady boyhood days. He was even dressed for Christmas, in a maroon vest made of crushed velvet and a sprig of mistletoe on his lapel. “Come. We have much to do this day.” And without another word, Scrooge led me out of the tavern and into the world beyond its door.

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